29 - The Oath (12 page)

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.

‘Who among you wants to hang?’ Baldwin said.

They tensed visibly, and the boy who’d had the long dagger, whom Jack had knocked down with a timber, looked fretfully at the bearded man who appeared to Baldwin to be their leader.

In the grey daylight, Baldwin saw that this man had brown hair, and his beard was brown and ginger, as though he had carelessly painted a wall and splashed ochre over his chin. He had the narrow, deep-set eyes that to Baldwin indicated that he was untrustworthy. The knight was not keen to make snap decisions about any man, but felt that when someone had attempted to test his blade in Baldwin’s breast, he was entitled to take a dim view. At least the fellow was in less of a position to hurt anyone now, from the look of the blood seeping through the linen wrapping his flank.

‘You,’ he said, pointing. ‘Are you the leader of this band?’

‘We don’t have leaders.’

‘You don’t have a lot, do you?’ Baldwin said. He leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms. Wolf came and stood at his side, head lowered aggressively.

The men were all unrested, he could see. Even without the bruises and injuries it was clear that they were strained. There was a smell of sweat and fear. ‘You realise that I can have all of you hanged? Men who rob by night are the lowest criminals. And in your excitement, you chose to attack a Keeper of the King’s Peace. A word from me, and you will all die.’

Silence greeted his words. The boy looked down and rested his brow on his arm, sobbing without a sound, while another man stared at Baldwin in confusion. He was one whom Baldwin had punched with the pommel of his sword. There was the imprint of the steel on his forehead, and the eyebrow beneath was torn and bloody.

The bearded man said nothing, but his eyes were fixed on Baldwin as though unsure how to respond.

‘You have nothing to say in your own defence?’ Baldwin enquired. ‘In that case, I shall have to ask for the Bailiff to come and take you, then.’

‘What would you have us say, master? You want us to pretend it was an accident?’ the man sneered.

‘Since you ask, I would know this: why did you choose to attack us last night?’

‘We’re going to hang, so why should we answer you?’ the man with the injured brow demanded.

‘Fair enough.’ Baldwin looked at them all, one by one. ‘If there is no mitigating circumstance, as Keeper of the King’s Peace, I have no choice but to hand you to the law.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Simply this: as draw-latches and robbers, you are felons, and you will hang. Of course, if you were motivated by some other . . .’ He let the sentence hang, watching the bearded man again.

The boy lifted his head and began to speak. ‘Sir, I didn’t know we were—’

‘Shut up!’ the bearded man growled. ‘Don’t go speaking when it’s not your turn.’

Baldwin looked at the boy. ‘It is your turn, fellow. If you want to live, you should speak your mind.’

‘I don’t want to hang! We were paid, sir, and I—’

The bearded man turned and hissed viciously at the boy, who paled and withdrew, shuffling his arse towards the wall.

Baldwin sucked his teeth. ‘You, boy, will be taken outside in a moment,’ he said, and then his tone hardened as he eyed the bearded man. ‘I am inclined to hang one of you today as a deterrent to all those who think that they can waylay a knight. So you will die. And then I can learn all I need about you from the boy there.’

‘You can hear what you want from anyone when I’m dead.’

‘If you reconsider, you could all live. Which would you prefer?’

‘You will release us if we tell you the truth?’ the bearded man scoffed. ‘Is that what you’re trying to tell us?’

‘I have no desire to see bloodshed. I only want to know why you chose to attack us last night. You must have seen I had little enough with me. Did you mean to steal my horse?’

‘Not you, sir. We didn’t want to attack you,’ the boy protested.

‘Who, then? The man with us had no money, that much was obvious when you looked at him.’

‘We didn’t mean to rob him,’ the boy said. ‘We were paid to
kill
him.’

Bristol

That day began much like any other for Cecily. She rose before dawn, and left the house to seek bread for the breakfast, and then began her chores while Emma Wrey set about her board.

Cecily had not expected her new mistress to be quite so accommodating and generous. Bristol was a good city, with many kindly folk, but not many would want the bad fortune of someone like Cecily in their houses. There were too many superstitions about servants from unlucky households bringing bad luck with them for her to expect such a pleasant home again.

Emma was different. Perhaps it was the fact that she was responsible for herself. Her husband had been a good man, like some kind of angel. But even angels can die, and eventually he fell dead in the street after an evening’s drinking with friends at an inn.

It was some little while after the murders that Cecily had found herself in this house. Before that, she had been forced to find what she could on the streets again, hawking eggs and flints for whatever she could charge. It wasn’t easy, but at least she gathered in some store of coin.

There had been nothing for her when the murders had been investigated and the men caught. Certainly nothing in Arthur’s will. That was little surprise, but she had hoped that she would be protected by a gift of some silver or a spoon from Petronilla. She had two shillings saved, but that was all she had in the world. The Coroner had offered her money, but she wouldn’t touch it. Instead, she found herself what work she could.

It was the purest good fortune, so she thought, that Emma had heard of her plight and called Cecily to her house. She had been looking for a companion and maidservant for some weeks, she said, and when she hired Cecily soon afterwards, it was a huge relief. Life on the streets was growing alarming. Cold weather meant that selling goods from her basket left her fingers like icicles each evening. Often the only way a woman could survive was by joining the ranks of the prostitutes, and at the age of thirty, Cecily would find that a hard profession.

This morning being a Thursday, she wandered along to the fleshmarket to buy meat for their meal, and spent some time musing over the different cuts before making her selection; she dawdled a little, buying eggs, and some larks from a poulterer. She would cook them with honey later, she decided, and serve them before the main meats. Larks were such tender, sweet little birds.

It was while she was there, packing her purchases into her basket, that she saw the men.

Neither paid her any notice. Not even when she dropped her basket, smashing the eggs, her mouth gaping. Fortunately, she was too far away.

But she knew them. Their faces were all too familiar. They were two of the men she had seen and pointed out at the inquest. The men who had been gaoled for going to her mistress Petronilla and holding her while Squire William stabbed her with his gold-handled dagger. They were the men sentenced to death for snatching the child from Cecily’s arms and dashing his brains out against the wall in the front courtyard of the Capon house.

It felt as though her heart would stop with the horror.

Inn outside Winchester

Baldwin walked back inside the inn and glanced about him. Seeing Redcliffe sitting at the table still, he closed the door behind him, and then walked over to the innkeeper’s door and closed that too.

‘Master Redcliffe,’ he said, crossing the floor.

Redcliffe saw something in his face as Baldwin strode to him, and stood hurriedly. ‘What? What have I done?’

‘You have lied to me,’ Baldwin said. He pushed Redcliffe back, both hands on the man’s shirt. ‘Those men weren’t here to rob you, were they?’ he continued as he thrust Redcliffe against the wall. He lifted the man and shoved him a little harder against the rough limewashed surface, smiling thinly. ‘You lied, because you said that no one had a reason to hate you, that you had no enemies, didn’t you? Yet someone has paid those men out there to kill you.’

‘I didn’t think—’

‘No, I don’t suppose you did.’ Baldwin was furious to have been lied to, and the thought that he had given his sympathy to this man made him still more angry. ‘I think you should remain here with them, and we should let you explain the position to the local Bailiff.’

‘It would be a mistake,’ Redcliffe said.

‘What – you threaten me? You seek to threaten
me
?’

‘No, Sir Baldwin. Hear me out, but in God’s name, let me down first.’

Baldwin opened both hands and let him fall. ‘If it were up to me, I would leave you in the gaol here to tell the Bailiff what the reason for this was, and the local Justice of Gaol Delivery might decide whether you or the felons were more guilty.’

‘I am not guilty, Sir Baldwin. Are you a loyal subject of the King?’

At that, Baldwin shoved Redcliffe against the wall again, while his other hand grasped his sword hilt.

‘No, Sir Baldwin, please, I must ask this: are you loyal to the King or not?’

‘I am his loyal subject,’ Baldwin rasped. ‘Why, do you mean to insult me?’

‘No, but those men wanted to kill me because I am the holder of secret messages for the King. I am a King’s Messenger.’