29 - The Oath Read online

  To grip that hilt might take away all the last restraints which manacled him to this church. If Paul took up that knife, he could instantly plunge it into this sleeping man’s heart, for bringing so much danger here to him.

  Because as soon as people heard that Squire William had died, they would want to come and arrest Paul. And this fool could tell them exactly where to find him.

  Inn outside Winchester

  The sound was tiny. A faint, muffled crunch.

  In the dark, Wolf awoke and crouched, instantly alert. His movement stirred Baldwin. He had spent much of his youth as a Poor Fellow Soldier of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, a Knight Templar, and the life of obedience and training had left its mark upon him. His hand closed about the hilt of the sword in his lap, and he opened his eyes slowly, casting about him for any movement.

  There was no moon, and the room was as black as pitch. If a man had moved, he doubted that he could have seen it. However, listening intently, he knew that there was something wrong, and then he realised: the breathing in the chamber was not that of sleeping men, but faster – the breathing of men preparing to fight.

  Baldwin put out his hand and found Jack’s sleeping form at his left. Good, the boy was still there. There was a rustle from his right, just ahead, and Baldwin knew it was a foot stepping on a palliasse. He felt, rather than heard, a low, ferocious growl from Wolf.

  It was that which decided him. He knew that there was about to be an attack, but the darkness meant he might as well have been unarmed. A sword in the darkness was likely to kill the wrong man, and Baldwin had no wish to accidentally stab Jack. Still, Wolf had precipitated action.

  He must protect the boy. Rolling to his right, he slipped a hand under his palliasse and threw it over Jack. Wolf was snarling now, and a man shrieked. Springing to his feet, Baldwin stood with his sword, still scabbarded, in both hands, then stabbed the blunted weapon forward. There was a grunt, a muttered curse, and Baldwin knew where two men were. He slammed his right fist forward, the pommel protruding this time, and felt it connect with one head, as a man cried out in pain. There was a shout and stumbling feet, a muffled protest from Jack, and another man whimpered and screamed as Wolf bit his thigh.

  Baldwin stepped swiftly to his side, away from any retaliation, only to hear the silken whisper of steel, which ended in a wail of terror as Wolf bit the man’s hand. There was a loud clang as a sword crashed to the ground, a shriek as the man fell with Wolf worrying at his throat. Baldwin stamped his foot, feeling the hand beneath his boot, and chopped down with the hilt of his sword. It crashed into a skull, and he heard the man grunt and collapse. Then he was thrusting at the place where another had been.

  There was a rasp, a flash, and he saw his error. In the dark he had moved too far to his left, and now the second man was at his shoulder. Baldwin cocked his elbow and jabbed, felt it crack into the man’s jaw, his teeth clicking together, hard.

  Another flash. Someone was striking a flint. Baldwin ducked as the flare glinted from a sword, and shoved his scabbarded sword upwards into the man’s belly. He gave a short retching gasp and fell back as a red glow appeared. There were two more men, and Baldwin finally drew his sword. The grey blade gleamed wickedly, and as the tinder began to catch light, some rushes flaring briefly and leaving a residual glow, Baldwin saw that both had knives, one small, the other a long fighting dagger of almost eighteen inches. The fellow with the shorter knife was the more practised, though – it was the bearded man he had seen with the innkeeper. His skill with the knife was there in the way he held the knife low, thumb on the blade itself, his other hand gripping a cloak, which he wrapped about his wrist and forearm. He knew what he was about. The other was a mere boy, only a little older than Jack, and held his blade out as though it was a magic wand designed to hurl flames at his enemies. He almost looked scared of it.

  ‘Stay, Wolf,’ Baldwin shouted, before his mastiff could leap and be spitted on the long dagger.

  Baldwin always believed in removing the worst threat first. He held his sword up in the hanging guard, the point of his sword aimed at the knife-man’s belly, and waited a moment. In the gloom it was hard to see anything, but he was sure that his opponent flashed his teeth in a snarl. It looked as though he was preparing to launch himself, and Baldwin gave him no more time to think. Instead he sprang forward himself, thrusting down with his sword, and had the satisfaction of feeling his blade sink into the fellow’s flank, before batting away the little knife with the scabbard. He jerked the sword back and out, punched the man on the chin twice, hard, dropped the scabbard, grasped the man’s wrist, and held the knife safely away. There was a loud crunch behind him, and he turned to see the boy with the long knife collapse slowly, falling to his knees with a shocked expression on his young face, and then his eyes rolled up into his head and he toppled sideways to reveal Jack behind him with a splintered baulk of timber in his hands.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Third Saturday after the Feast of St Michael15

  Inn outside Winchester

  The innkeeper was wonderfully apologetic, and at least Baldwin and Jack did not have to pay for that night’s lodging, although Baldwin secretly wondered how much of that was due to the fact that he had not cleaned his sword’s blade; to the innkeeper’s eyes, he must have looked very bloodthirsty.

  After the attack, Baldwin had bound the remaining men with thongs, and they were being held in a storeroom at the back of the inn. He himself sat at the stool near the inn’s fire, wiping down his sword. After the care of his horse, the most important aspect of a warrior’s routine was preserving the life of his weapons. Until earlier in the year, Baldwin had owned a beautiful little riding sword with a perfect peacock-blue blade, inlaid with inscriptions and decorations, but during a fight it had fallen into the sea, and he had been forced to buy this rather inferior piece of work from a London armourer. There were many better swordsmiths in Exeter, and he was looking forward to purchasing another on his way home, but for now, this would have to do. True, the grey steel blade had shown itself adequate last night, but now, as he peered along its length, he could see that there was a slight bend in it already, and there were four nicks in the fine edge.

  With a stone he had found in the yard, he sharpened and honed the edge of the blade until it shone again. Jack was sitting nearby on the floor, watching him avidly.

  The keeper was a stolid man, broad of shoulder, but with a girth that more than matched it. His heavily bearded face was prone to smiling, but Baldwin distrusted him. There was a shrewd calculation in his eyes, and the knight sensed that he was keen to make profit, no matter what. He was reluctant now to admit to anything he might know in case Baldwin demanded compensation, he reckoned.

  ‘I am very sorry that such footpads could find their way into my inn,’ the man was saying as Baldwin eyed his blade and ran the stone along its length one more time. The slithering sound seemed to unsettle the man, Baldwin saw. He ran the stone along it again, more slowly this time.

  ‘I am sorry too. I should report the whole matter to the local Sergeant.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure there’s no need for that.’

  ‘Really? And yet I am equally sure that it would be a most excellent idea to do just that. One should never attempt to conceal a crime, should one?’

  ‘But everyone can become tainted by such news,’ the innkeeper protested. ‘After all, some may think that the villeins came in with others who are still here, mayn’t they?’

  Baldwin’s sword flashed and the point came to rest near the keeper’s throat. ‘You are suggesting that a man might consider me to be connected with draw-latches and felons? Think carefully, good fellow, before you answer.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to insult you, Sir Knight, no. Not you, I was thinking of the other man in the chamber with you,’ the man said, his tone a little higher.

  ‘And I should hate to insult you, too. It may prove to be all too painful for you.’

  ‘I . . . I understand, sir
.’

  ‘Now, good fellow, tell me: did you know any of the men who were here?’

  ‘No. Certainly not!’

  ‘I saw you talking to one of them.’

  ‘It is my job, Sir Knight. I have to be polite to my customers.’

  Baldwin said nothing. In his mind was the question of how polite it was to accuse knights, however elliptically, of fraternising with criminals. He ordered the keeper to bring them eggs and some ham to break their fast and scabbarded his sword.

  ‘So, Master,’ Baldwin said when the innkeeper had hurried away to find their food, ‘would you like to repeat what you said to us last night?’

  The scrawny man Baldwin had seen on entering the sleeping chamber the previous night pushed himself away from the wall. He was very wary still, but at least his suspicion appeared to be concentrated on the innkeeper rather than Baldwin. However, Baldwin had great faith in the judgement of another. As the man approached, Wolf lowered his head and gave a low rumble deep in his throat until Baldwin rested his hand on the mastiff’s head.

  ‘As I said, Sir Knight, the fellows were all together. I saw the keeper talking to a lot of them at different times, and I think they guessed that I might be carrying something valuable. I wasn’t, but they weren’t to know that.’

  ‘You were not?’ Baldwin asked shrewdly. ‘You will not mind my saying, sir, that you are not clad like a successful merchant, nor a Bishop. Why should they think you so fabulous a catch?’

  He listened carefully, watching the man as he spoke. For many years Sir Baldwin de Furnshill had been Keeper of the King’s Peace, and as well as chasing felons with the full might of the posse behind him, he also had been called to sit as Justice of Gaol Delivery on occasion. Listening to a man’s voice and assessing where lies existed was a key part of his function.

  This man showed no signs of concern, though. He spoke easily, maintaining a relaxed stance that was the opposite of a man bent on guile or deceit.

  ‘Sir Baldwin, once I had the life of a wealthy man, and perhaps those characters saw that aspect of me and thought that I was a rich merchant in disguise, but I swear to you I have nothing. On my oath, I have only my clothes and a few other belongings.’

  ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘Just the usual sad tale. I am called Thomas Redcliffe, a merchant from Bristol. Until a year ago, my business was good. I have often imported wine and oils to England, and I have grown to be well-known in my city. But last year my ship was attacked by Breton pirates, and I lost all. She was on the return voyage, and all my money was invested in her cargo, so when it was taken, and my ship as well, I was ruined. I hoped to stave off the end by prayer, and took steps to protect my business while I went on pilgrimage to Canterbury, but . . .’ He sighed. ‘You know what the roads are nowadays. I was set upon outside London, at the place called Black Heath. All my money was taken, everything. I continued on to the shrine of Saint Thomas, but it appears to have done me little good. When I get home, I daresay my business will be no better, and I have suffered a broken head into the bargain.’

  ‘It is a long way for a man to go for prayer,’ Baldwin noted.

  ‘A pilgrim must make an effort, surely? I thought if my misfortune was caused by some insult I had given to God, perhaps my journeying all that way might appease Him. At least I would have Saint Thomas to intercede for me.’

  ‘I am sure Saint Thomas would be glad of the opportunity,’ Baldwin replied.

  He eyed the man thoughtfully. There was little about him that showed he was lying, and equally little to give the impression that he might have money on him and thus warrant an attack.

  ‘I have no idea why they should attack me.’ Redcliffe shrugged with every appearance of honesty. ‘I am not clad in furs or silks, I don’t have jewels draped about me. In truth, Sir Baldwin, it would be easier to understand that they had made an attempt upon you. You look rich, with all your expensive clothes.’

  Baldwin glanced down at his new tunic, wondering if this was a subtle insult. It was only a matter of a few months old, but there were worn and faded patches at his knees and thighs, while the careful embroidery which Jeanne, his wife, had sewn at the hem was already pulled and ruined. Still, Redcliffe was right. It was more likely that felons would try to rob Baldwin, for a knight would be likely to carry something worth stealing: if not money, then pewter plate or good armour to pawn.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he agreed after a moment. ‘What of enemies? Is there someone who could wish to assault you: a woman’s husband, a jealous competitor in business?’

  ‘I have no enemies,’ Redcliffe said with a little smile. ‘A poor man cannot afford such luxuries. And my wife is a good woman to me. Beautiful and obedient.’

  The innkeeper returned, and the smell of cooked food made Baldwin’s mouth water. For all the years of fighting and serving as a warrior, he was forced to accept the fact that he was no longer young, and the disruption of his night’s sleep after a day’s hard riding had left him feeling less than alert. The wooden trencher with the eggs and thick slices of dark ham were surely going to help him wake, and he broke off a lump of bread and dabbed at the eggs with it.

  ‘Where are you going now?’ he said after a little while, and drank from the jug of ale which the innkeeper had set at his side.

  ‘I am heading for my home. My wife will be wondering what has happened to me already, and I would fain leave her wondering whether she is a widow.’

  Baldwin nodded, considering. The men who had tried to rob Redcliffe the night before were locked away safely, but this was no time for a man to be wandering the countryside alone. There were many others who would be happy to rob a lone traveller.

  There was another point at issue: he had no desire to be stuck here, a witness to the attack on Redcliffe, but if he was to arrange for the arrest of the men in the innkeeper’s shed, he would be held up for at least a day. Better to avoid that. He wanted to get back to his own wife.

  ‘Do you intend to charge the felons?’

  ‘I would rather they were kept in a gaol until I was out of the county,’ Redcliffe admitted. ‘I don’t want to be delayed here waiting for a Justice to listen to their tale.’

  Baldwin nodded, then beckoned the inkeeper. ‘Master, I wish to speak with the captives.’

  Marshfield

  When Robert Vyke woke next morning, for the first time his dreams had been untroubled and free of memories of that damned head. The pain from his leg had thankfully abated somewhat, and was now little more than a constant throbbing with an occasional stab of anguish if he knocked it by accident. In truth, his head hurt a great deal more than his leg, and that was when he remembered vaguely that his poor skull had suffered a second blow. Who had attacked him, after he found the body?

  Slowly lifting himself from the bed, he pushed the rugs away and gently eased his feet to the ground. It was not a pleasant sensation to have his weight upon the injured leg once more, but he saw a large staff in a corner of the chamber, hopped over to it, and used it as a crutch.

  Getting to the door was a lengthy process, but once there, he opened it and peered out. Immediately, his feeling of disorientation was increased.

  Where he had expected to find a road, with deep potholes, mud and a hedge or shaw running nearby, instead he found himself gazing out over a flat landscape with one solitary track, and that so under-used that the grass grew thickly all over it.

  ‘But . . .’ he gasped, desperate to find anything that could even approximate to the scene he had expected. Hobbling out into the thin sunshine, he stared about him wildly. Behind him was a little church, and there were some trees in the small graveyard, but not enough. He was sure that as he and the vingtaine approached that latest vill, there had been trees lining at least one side of the road. As he had fallen, looking up he had seen their branches against the sky. He couldn’t have dreamed that. There had been branches framing Otho’s head when the Sergeant bent to him. And when he found that head, it was in a little
wood. He couldn’t have dreamed it all!

  ‘You are awake, then? Good. How is your leg? It must be a little improved for you to be out here,’ the priest said. He was walking towards Robert from the open church door. Seeing Robert’s look, Father Paul gestured back to the building and said, ‘There are so many strangers travelling the country, peasants who were arrayed and deserted, felons who will take advantage at any opportunity, as well as warriors who are seeking whatever plunder they may discover, that I have to keep a wary eye on my altar in case one of them steals it to sell. Thieves are no respecters of the House of God, you know.’

  But Robert paid little heed. ‘This isn’t where I was,’ he lamented.

  The priest looked at him oddly. ‘It isn’t?’

  ‘No. When I fell and hurt myself, I was in a little wood, on a busy roadway.’

  ‘I found you about thirty yards down there,’ the priest said, calmly but firmly. ‘Would you like to see?’

  ‘Yes,’ Robert said eagerly, and carefully followed him. It was hard going, even with the tall staff to cling on to, and Father Paul had to point out holes and puddles as they went so that the injured man didn’t fall again.

  ‘It was just here. You can see,’ the priest added helpfully, ‘where you have flattened the grass here.’

  Robert looked around at the flat lands, the treeless pastures and low hedges. He felt confused, weak and sickly. Like a small child who has lost a toy.

  ‘No, this wasn’t it,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t here!’

  Inn outside Winchester

  Baldwin walked into the little shed and eyed the men held inside with disfavour. The innkeeper had argued against it, but Baldwin and Redcliffe had insisted that the prisoners should be bound. It would be too easy for them to escape if they had their hands free, which was one reason why Baldwin suspected the innkeeper was in league with these fellows. At least there was no fight left in them. They were all sitting sullenly, their wrists tied securely, and probably painfully.