29 - The Oath Page 3

  Today he had been out in the little strip fields with the other villagers. It was a long way away, but the walk did him good. Anything that could help him forget was good.

  He had been fortunate, or so he had thought, to be given the job a few weeks ago of priest here in the little vill near Marshfield. It offered him that element of freedom from the Bishop that a little distance conferred. Marvellous to wake in the morning and hear only the wind in the trees rather than the rattle and clatter of the city. Not that he disliked Bristol itself, but he did not see how the city could ever give a man enough peace in order to consider the more important issues of life. The idea that a man would be able to find his place in the world while living in so hectic and febrile an environment was laughable.

  And then there was the loss which he had suffered.

  The wind was cold, a gust of pure ice that seemed to shear through his jack and chemise to the very marrow in his bones, as though his flesh and blood were no protection whatever. He stood a moment, feeling the weight of the wooden spade, a piece of carved wood with a strip of metal at the bottom of the wooden paddle to help it cut into soil, and the exhaustion that came from a day’s hard work. Exhaustion both mental and physical.

  It was hard to think of her and their babe. The little one should be four or five months old now, and yet Paul had not seen it. Never would, knowingly. That had been made quite clear to him. He had besmirched himself with the sins of the flesh but, what was worse, his Bishop said, he had also tempted a young and immature married woman into adultery. That was unforgivable.

  Yes, it was. He knew that. He knew it as he first met her and felt that magical lurch in his breast at the sight of her smile. That she felt the same was written there in her eyes. He could not have been mistaken. She came alive at the sight of him.

  And it was hardly surprising, after a look at the Squire. A more cruel and inflexible sinner it was difficult to imagine. The man did not deserve to own poor little Petronilla, as he proved that day when he took hold of her wrists and beat her across the back and buttocks. That was why Paul had to save her.

  About him, a few beech trees were hissing in the wind, their little bronze-coloured leaves dancing, and he shuddered as he returned to the present.

  The ferns were all turning, too. Their fronds golden and umber, they had begun to collapse on top of each other, while behind them the dark purple sloes were showing in the blackthorns. It was a lovely time of year, he always felt, but terrifying too, because it was the onset of the death of nature, the beginning of winter. He only prayed that his stock of food would last him. At least now, he thought with a small sigh, all memories of that other life were fading. He was a soul at rest, more or less, once more.

  Continuing to the small single-bay cottage, he set the spade beside the chest where he kept his belongings, and pulled off his thick, fustian overtunic, hanging it on a hook near the fire to dry while he shrugged on a thick robe.

  It was cold in the chamber. He would have to survive without heat for now, for he hadn’t managed to keep his little fire going while he was out. The sticks and logs were still there on the clay hearth, but there was no warmth in the room. It was a miserable reminder of the way that the weather had turned in the last month.

  He blew on his hands and set off for his chapel, crossing himself with some holy water from the stoup at the door and walking towards the altar, bending to his knees on the hard-packed soil of the floor.

  The simple wooden cross was enough. He had made it himself out of two pieces of roughly squared wood, their faces cut and shaped so that they could slot together. It had been the first thing he had done when he arrived here, a kind of penance for the grave crime he had committed.

  Petronilla had been his test, the trial of his faith. And to his undying shame, he had succumbed and failed.

  Still, he reflected, at least he was here now in the peace of the countryside, where all memories of that crime could be forgotten. He was far enough away for his crime to be unremarked. As for the husband, cruel and vengeful as he was, Squire William wouldn’t seek for him here; and Petronilla herself would be safe in her father’s house.

  He was safe; she was safe.

  And that, he hoped, was the end of their story. The woman whom he had adored would live out her life with the joy of her freedom and their child to remind her of their brief time together.

  Second Tuesday after the Feast of St Michael6

  Bristol

  Sir Stephen Siward thrust his thumbs into his sword belt as he left the castle by the great gates, strolling past the carters and sumptermen bringing in additional supplies, and out into the city itself.

  To the city folk who met him, he was an amiable fellow, dark-haired, with blue eyes in a square face that was prone to smiling even when he stood before them in his new position as Coroner of the city. For a knight it was a post of some importance. There was no money in it, true, but a shrewd man could always turn a position like this to his advantage.

  Yes, there was much to smile about. The city suited him well; he had been here only a little while, but there was an atmosphere of opulence about it that he liked, and he could still live well and be comfortable, despite his straitened circumstances.

  Money was not so plentiful as once it had been. His two manors, on which he depended for his livelihood, had each suffered a catastrophe. The barn had caught fire, destroying the stocks of hay and the building itself, and in his panic, his favourite horse had tried to escape from the stables next door. Damned creature broke a foreleg attempting to free himself and had to be killed.

  To add insult to injury, as well as the fire, there had been a outbreak of murrain in his flocks, and his sheep continued to die. He had needed a loan to survive the winter, at ruinous interest. Still, he had just won a small wager with the castellan’s clerk, and with three shillings in his purse, Sir Stephen felt as though life was improving.

  Seeing Emma Wrey, he bowed slightly. The widow was rather beneath his standing as a King’s Coroner, and he had no desire to have other people seeing him show her respect as though she was the widow of an equal. Her husband had been merely a goldsmith and merchant, who had built a profitable business by loaning money, ignoring the Gospels’ strictures against usury.

  There were some other bold fellows in the city who were money-lenders too, not only Wrey. Such men had their uses: there were occasions, such as during tournaments, when a knight needed to ransom his horse and armour from a more successful opponent – or when a man’s manors failed – but in the general run of things, it was better to avoid them. And it was best to avoid this widow, because Cecily worked for her, and Sir Stephen had no desire to meet that maid again. He knew she had held an infatuation for him. It was a relief that his involvement with her was ended, he reflected.

  The widow gave him a gracious little duck of her head just then, honouring him with the correct amount of esteem, no more. It was enough to send him on his way smiling, his blue eyes glinting in the sun.

  Yes, this city was a good one, although for how much longer it was hard to tell. He had only been away for a couple of days, but the change in atmosphere was marked: the place had a defeated air about it. The King had passed by, but it was the Queen whom all truly feared. She was a matter of days away, if the reports were accurate, and she had with her enough men to encompass this little city. Unless the King managed to magically summon up a host from somewhere, he could not hope to stand against her in a fight.

  There was little to be gained by worrying about such things. Sir Stephen was a professional knight, and a professional politician. He kept his feet on the ground, and a foot in each camp wherever possible. So far he had successfully held on to his position with the King by regular doses of flattery aimed at that devious shit, Sir Hugh le Despenser, while at the same time assuring others who sought to give succour to the Queen that he was entirely on her side.

  Here at Bristol it was easy to keep in contact with both sides of the debate. The
city was, in theory, the Queen’s own, a part of the gift to her on her marriage to the King. The Queen of England must be permitted her own resources and finance to maintain her household and allow her to support those whom she wished from her largesse. And yet the King had chosen to grant the city to his friend and adviser, the ever-acquisitive Sir Hugh. The Despenser would steal the milk from a mother’s breast if he could sell it, Sir Stephen reckoned.

  In recent years Sir Hugh had taken over almost all of Wales, robbing some, threatening others, capturing and beating a few. There was no need to wonder why the Marcher Lords, living in the lawless borderlands between England and Wales, had grown to detest him. Well, now he was being chased across the kingdom by those same men whom he had dispossessed.

  Sir Stephen had reached the end of the roadway, and was in the middle of the market. Here, he wandered idly among the stalls. There was not a huge amount on display, he noticed. As the threat of war increased, farmers outside the city were keeping their food stores against the day when their price had risen. Those who manufactured goods were staying away from the markets. It was a shocking proof of how the locals felt. There would be a war here, they believed. And the city could go to the Queen in the blink of an eye, even though the castle at the eastern edge of the city was held by the King’s garrison.

  From now, things would get tight, and that in itself was a concern. Sir Stephen looked at the rows of stalls selling food. He bought a cold pigeon and pulled the carcass apart in the road, tossing the bones to a hopeful-looking dog.

  Yes, money was a problem. He had enough to last a week or two, but after that, he wasn’t sure what he could do. Still, the castle had food, and more came in each day. The barrels of salted meat and fish were already beginning to fill the castle’s undercrofts, but Sir Stephen had no wish to be held there and forced to eat rations of badly salted food.

  Well, there was no need to worry. Sir Stephen would not remain inside, waiting to be starved or killed. As soon as he knew which side was likely to win, he would make his move and join them.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Second Thursday after the Feast of St Michael7

  Approaching Gloucester

  In the mist of the October morning, Sir Ralph of Evesham walked from his tent as the men mounted their horses and prepared for the day’s march. It was late already. If he could have had his own way, they would already be moving. They had need of speed, yet the wagons and carts restricted the entire column to the pace of the slowest among them.

  He was a strongly-made man, a little above the average height, and with the thick arm and neck muscles that denoted a man of his rank. Grey eyes that rarely blinked gave him the appearance of perpetual concentration, while his square jaw showed his pugnacity. But there was kindness in his eyes too, and a series of creases at each eye showed that he could be an amiable companion.

  Pulling on thick gauntlets, he watched as his squire and two pages packed his armour into a chest and locked it securely. He wore only his tunic, a padded jack stuffed with lambswool, and on his belt, a small riding sword. There would surely be no need to worry about an attack today. His armour would be a pointless weight for his rounsey.

  ‘Hurry yourselves,’ he said. There was no need to shout at these fellows. He knew Squire Bernard would cajole and berate Alexander and Pagan until they had all the goods packed away, his tent folded and stored on the little cart, and were themselves already moving with the King’s host.

  There were so few. So very few – the men about here, and some who had been sent on further west to prepare the way. That was all. Out of the King’s entourage of thousands, only a few hundred had responded to his call.

  To Sir Ralph, it had felt a great honour when the King had asked him to join the household. To become one of the King’s own bodyguard was a source of immense pride, for it meant that Sir Ralph’s loyalty was acknowledged. Not that it should need to be – he was old-fashioned enough to think that once sworn to protect the King and his lands, he was bound by his oaths. He was grounded firmly in the feudal tradition. There should be nothing unique in that.

  But many were forsworn. They gave different reasons for their dishonour: distrust of the King’s advisers, fear of the King’s jealousy, dread of being asked to fight against the Queen and her son, the Duke of Aquitaine – but, as so often, the truth was more mundane. They wanted money.

  In the past, life had been so much easier. A man gave his word to his lord and served him. That was enough.

  Sir Ralph felt his rounsey stir beneath him and patted his neck gently. ‘Easy, my friend, easy.’

  ‘What do you think, Sir Ralph?’ Bernard said.

  Bernard was a younger man, of some five-and-twenty years, with long, flaxen hair and blue eyes. He always said that his family were knights from some strange country to the east of the Holy Roman Empire, but that they had lived in England since the days of King John, and from his looks it was easy to believe. He was looking at the older man now with exasperation.

  ‘Think about what?’ Sir Ralph asked.

  ‘How far must we keep running?’

  ‘You shouldn’t speak of such things,’ the knight reprimanded him.

  ‘Everyone else in the camp is,’ Bernard said reasonably. ‘The ones who don’t are leaving in the night. Look about you!’

  ‘They are false, then.’

  ‘Sir Ralph, I don’t care whether they’re false or honourable, I just want them to remain here so that it’s not you, me, Alex and Pagan who have to defend the King on our own.’

  ‘There’re bound to be more men who come to our aid,’ Sir Ralph said stoutly.

  ‘In truth? Well, that’s good to hear at least,’ Bernard said. ‘Sir Ralph, you know me well enough. I am not the man to moan and bleat at every twist of a sour fate. But even now, I can sense the men around us leaching into the woods. There are very few who’ll stay for honour’s sake.’

  ‘Go and help the pages,’ Sir Ralph said shortly.

  He watched his squire stride off, bellowing at the two as they tried to take down the tent, and sighed.

  There was little he would prefer more than to disappear into the woods himself, but the oath he had given the King had been made before God and was binding. A man was defined by how he behaved: whether he stood by his word or broke it. There might be cowards who were prepared to forswear themselves, but he was not one of them. He had never broken a vow in his life, and if it now cost him even that much, at least he would have lived honourably.

  To distract himself, he urged his rounsey into a slow walk across from their tent so that he could look out over the men in the camp.

  In the past he had ridden with the King’s host from Leeds in Kent up to Scotland, and over all the lands between. He had seen enthusiastic forces gathered; he had seen the shattered remnants of all-but-destroyed ones. The cheery, the furious, he had seen them all. But never before, not even when he had ridden back with his men from the north, when they had been roundly defeated by The Bruce, had he seen their mood so sombre.

  Here the men moved about the remains of this village like lost souls. Such a small number . . . When they left London there had been hundreds. Now, perhaps one hundred remained. No more. They stumbled as they walked, exhausted. Cold and wet, they had taken every item of wood from this vill, even down to the cottage doors, in order to feed their fires, but the flames would not give them any cheer. This force was defeated before a single sword had been drawn.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Second Saturday after the Feast of St Michael8

  Near Marshfield

  Paul yawned as he came out of his little cottage. He had run out of bread and had to walk down to the vill, as the Abbot was most insistent on maintaining his rights here.

  It was the Abbot of Tewkesbury who owned the benefice of this vill, the manor, and the mill; all those who lived here must take their grain to his mill down near Marshfield. The miller, generally a hated individual and viewed by all with suspicion, would take his
tenth of the flour after milling, and from his efforts each year, a due was given to the Abbot.

  Paul had only a small sack with a few pounds of grain in it, but he hoped it would be enough for two or three loaves. With fortune, he would be able to acquire some more flour before long, but there was no doubt that this would be a very thin winter. Not so bad as when he was a youth and the great famine had struck at the kingdom, but still not good.

  It was almost noon when he set off on the short walk to Marshfield. It was only some three miles to the mill, and he was in no hurry, but the act of walking did at least keep him warmer. He had to loosen his neckcloth after the first mile or so.

  The lands here to the north of Marshfield were uniformly flat and tedious, he always felt. His little church was in the midst of them, and while there were excellent pastures, there was no protection from the wind that came from the north and east. He had already grown to hate that wind. It cared nothing for obstacles, whether flesh, clothing, or even wattle and daub. Whatever it struck, it chilled.

  South from the vill, the land was more pleasing to his eyes. It was rolling farmland, leading to good woods, and hills undulating into the distance. This scene never failed to please him as he took it in.

  On his way, he had to pass a cottage with a blackthorn bush tied into a bundle and bound to a pole above the front door – the universal sign of a home with ale to sell. Paul went to the door and knocked.

  ‘Yes? Oh, Father, do you want a drop?’Anna asked.

  She was a short, plump woman with a cheery face and thick, powerful hands. Paul smiled as Anna fetched him a large earthenware jug, and he drained a cupful in a moment standing by her fire.

  ‘Come, Father, you can sit. You’re an honoured guest for us here, you are. Please, take the stool.’

  ‘Anna, I spend my life sitting and kneeling. Do you want me to grow as fat as the Abbot?’