29 - The Oath (26 page)

Their companionship was not the only reason for Baldwin’s reluctance to make a start. From the moment he had woken he had heard the steady thrumming of rain on the roof, and as soon as he pulled open the shutters, he knew that the day would be miserable. It reminded him of the time a decade earlier, when the rain had been so unrelenting that crops failed and famine struck the whole of Europe. People died in such vast numbers that English Coroners could not view all the bodies, and a special dispensation was given to all vills to hold their own inquests –– unless there was good reason to suspect foul play.

Sir Baldwin offered a prayer that there would be no such repetition. None who had lived through the famine had survived unmarked by tragedy.

At the table, while he and Jack ate a large breakfast of thick pottage in which cubes of ham floated, Redcliffe spoke of the trials of the King.

‘It is a terrible thing for the Queen to have deserted her husband,’ he said.

‘I am sure that it was not a decision she took lightly,’ Baldwin said.

‘You do not mean to support her in her treason?’ Redcliffe asked.

‘I myself intend to ride to the King’s support,’ the knight pointed out. ‘A man can do no more. But I do not condemn.’

‘There are few who would be so moderate as you, Sir Baldwin.’

‘Perhaps we should talk of happier matters,’ Roisea suggested, seeing their guest’s discomfort. ‘How far is your home, Sir Baldwin?’

‘If we ride well, I suppose three days from here,’ Baldwin said, and tried to block out the noise of falling rain. Wolf sat at his side, shoving his head under Baldwin’s hand. ‘Yes. We should be on our way,’ he muttered.

They completed their meal, and after a short period of leave-taking, Baldwin and Jack were on their way. Redcliffe had advised on their best road. They should follow the great river westwards, and then take the coastal route towards the moors. From there Baldwin would be able to find his own way, he was sure.

It was a relief to be setting off on the last part of their journey, and Baldwin tugged his heavy riding cloak about him as he and Jack trotted slowly up the road which led away from the city, Wolf behind them. Soon they could see the hills rising in front of them, and in the miserable weather it was good, Baldwin reflected, to have such clear, distinct targets to aim for.

The weather had worsened, and the rain had penetrated even Baldwin’s sturdy clothes. Usually his cloak would serve against the worst that even Dartmoor could hurl, but not today. The rain was so heavy it made Baldwin blind. It was simply impossible to keep on peering ahead in such foul weather. Jack, who had no decent clothing, was already soaked through to the skin, his jack and shirt hanging shapelessly from his body, while his hat with its broad brim drooped so badly he was forced to lift it in order to gaze ahead.

It was enough to persuade Baldwin that they should turn back. The roads were grown too slippery and dangerous. The horses were picking their way with care, but it would only take one pothole to break a leg.

‘Jack, we’ll have to make our way back,’ he called through the biting wind. The rain was clattering all about them, and much too loud for he had to bellow just to make himself heard, but when Jack turned to him, his expression was one of sheer horror.

Baldwin followed the direction of his eyes and felt his mouth drop. There, before them, was an army.

‘Back to Bristol, my boy, and quickly!’ Baldwin bawled, pulling his horse’s head around to the north, and clapping spurs to the beast’s flanks.

Bristol

‘Shite. If this was but a little warmer, it would be as miserable as hell,’ a man joked as Simon wandered towards the group.

He could not argue with his sentiment. The rain pattered about the roads, and Simon’s boots splashed in puddles all the way.

He had left Margaret at the inn with Hugh to guard her and Peterkin. Seeing her mood, Sir Charles had set a watchman at the door of the inn to protect them too. Now he and Simon were standing at the edge of a small crowd while the formal inquest began.

‘I had assumed that you would hold this inquest,’ Simon whispered.

‘Me?’ Sir Charles murmured. ‘No. I am no Coroner, only a humble seeker after truth.
He
is the Coroner: Sir Stephen Siward.’

‘Then why did you call me last night? And why drag me out here now?’ Simon asked with a frown, but Sir Charles merely indicated the tall fellow approaching.

The Coroner was of a similar build to Sir Charles, but had dark hair and blue eyes – a combination that Simon instinctively mistrusted. The man looked too much like a murderous Cornishman. His smile was oddly out of place at such a meeting, too, as he chatted quietly to a clerk sitting with a board over his knees and parchment, reeds and ink set out ready.

He did at least seem to know his business. The jurors were called forward, the men ranging in age from one lad of perhaps thirteen, to the oldest who was at least sixty. When they had given their names and the clerk had enrolled them on his parchment, the Coroner asked who was missing. These names were noted too, so that they could be amerced for their non-attendance later, and then the jury had to swear on the Gospels held to them by the clerk that they would tell the truth on all the points the Coroner put to them. Then the body was studied.

The Coroner had the duty of viewing and feeling the bodies which were found, so that his clerk could record every injury. So as usual, Cecily’s body was unceremoniously stripped and then displayed naked to the Coroner and the jury. Her limbs were moved, her flesh pressed and prodded; the stab wound was measured and her throat studied for signs of throttling. There was remarkably little damage, only a faint path of bruising about her mouth and the stab to the heart, and when they investigated, no sign of rape.

Still, Simon looked away. It felt like a second violation of the woman, for her to be displayed in such a lewd manner before so many men – all of them seeing the parts of her body which only a husband should have known. It was degrading to all of them, he thought.

When he glanced about, he saw that all the jury bar one man were gawping at the body. The last, though, was a rough-looking man, slim, ferrety-faced, with dark, slightly squinting eyes. He was not looking at the body, but instead stared at the Coroner with an expression of fear.

Then his attention was taken by the Coroner again.

‘I, Sir Stephen Siward, find that this maid was killed by a dagger with a blade of about one-inch width at the hilt, and perhaps six inches long,’ the Coroner said. He studied the wound again. ‘The blade was double-edged, I’d say. The wound is diamond-shaped, not triangular. It’s a good-sized blade – a dagger.’

He turned to the jurors after the body had been rolled over and over twice, an ungainly mess of arms and legs without dignity. ‘Well? Jury, do you find that this woman has been slain feloniously, died by misadventure, or that she died of natural causes?’

His tone was ironic, but it was the normal form of the questions, as Simon knew. The jury must answer all to the best of their ability or risk a large fine.

‘Feloniously killed.’

‘Very well. I agree that this woman was unlawfully killed by a person or persons armed with at least a small dagger. Do you all know the woman?’

‘She is Cecily,’ two men called out, and the clerk noted that too.

‘Good,’ the Coroner said, and began to rattle through the other questions: where did she live, had anyone witnessed the killing, had there been any noises in the area before the body was discovered, and had anyone seen somebody in the area.

It was a perfunctory affair, Simon thought, perhaps because the jury and the Coroner himself were distracted. Why concern themselves with one death when at any time an onslaught could be launched that would slaughter hundreds? However, Simon was sure that there was something else in the Coroner’s eyes when he looked at Cecily’s body. Something akin to sadness, as though he had some feeling for this particular woman. It was rare, in Simon’s experience, for most Coroners were immune to sympathy. They saw too many dead men and women for that.

The summary was given, the bill of amercements called out that all in the area should know how much they must pay, and then the Coroner ordered that the body be taken at once to the nearest cemetery for burial in accordance with the law. Soon, poor Cecily was placed upon a cart, and two men began to wheel her away, her clothing bundled separately in order that it should be sold later.

‘So why
did
you bring me here?’ Simon asked Sir Charles once more. ‘If you have no authority in this case, I cannot understand why you asked me to join you last night and today.’

‘I did not wish to see that woman’s homicide go unreported. If her death was felonious, then I wanted to make sure that the Coroner recorded the fact and that she had a proper enquiry into her murder. You see, Bailiff, I don’t think that he would have done so, had I not forced him.’

‘Why? He seemed perfectly competent and obedient to his duty,’ Simon argued.

‘Come with me. I will show you.’

North of Bristol

When the news had spread of the Queen’s forces approaching the city, there had been an immediate panic, and it was felt not least by Robert Vyke as he had hurried to gather up his belongings and shove them into his little pack, before going to the northernmost gate of the city, where he was told by Sir Laurence that he could best make his escape.

He had not bothered to walk far in the gathering gloom, but took his rest in the meagre shelter of an old shepherd’s hut, where the roof had fallen in. This morning it was the rain that had woken him, landing on his face.

Eating a little bread with cheese, he stared back at the city through the rain. His thick cloak and hood were enormously heavy, now that they were soaked in water. There was no point in trying to keep dry in this weather, he decided, and hefted his pack again. At least the rattle of the coins in his purse was comforting. He couldn’t remember ever possessing such wealth in his life before, and the thought of the look on his Susan’s face when she saw the money was wonderful. It would make her so happy, she would be unable to speak for a long time, he thought with a smile. Six shillings was untold wealth for a peasant.

The way was fairly steep here, for he had left the road to continue on his own path. The main road was bound to be filled with the Queen’s men, and he had no intention of being caught. No, he would continue on his way here, towards the King. He was supposed to be in Chepstow or somewhere near. Robert would just keep on going until he found him. It couldn’t be too difficult to find a King, after all, he told himself. You just had to look for the big standard flying. If you could in this weather, he added miserably.

He clambered his way to the top of a hill among some trees and peered out. There was no sign of anyone. Here, so he had heard, the land began to drop down towards the great river, and he must cross it to reach the town. There were many boatmen at that point, even though there was no bridge, so he was moderately confident that he could reach the other side without difficulty. Once there, he must find the King and pass him the little sealed document in its leather tube, stoppered with thick wax, and await his answer.

It was not a task he had thought himself capable of in the past, but he hoped he would be rewarded. Surely a messenger who braved the weather and his monarch’s enemies to bring him news of the garrison of Bristol would be given at least some shillings, or even a golden ring.

With thoughts of still more astonishing wealth shortly to come his way, he emerged from the trees and found himself in a little lane. Looking up and down, he turned right, as being the direction to take him further away from Bristol, and continued on into the thick greyness.

Bristol

The man in the jury had turned to leave when Simon and Sir Charles reached him.

Simon did not like his face. There was something about the squint that implied a shifty nature, and his habit of shuffling his feet did not inspire confidence either.

‘Tell this man what you saw,’ Sir Charles said encouragingly.

‘I don’t know, sir, mayhap I was wrong. It was dark and—’

Sir Charles’s smile broadened, and then he snatched out with his hand and gripped the man about the throat. ‘I hope you don’t soil my glove, fellow, because I don’t want to have to take your money to buy new ones. They are expensive.’

The man’s eyes popped wide, and he gulped. ‘I’ll talk, I’ll talk!’

‘I know,’ Sir Charles said pleasantly.

‘That woman Cecily – I saw her yesterday. With a man,’ the fellow said desperately, his voice weakened by the pressure on his neck.

Simon felt coldness wash over his body. ‘You lied? After you swore on the Gospels? You
lied
to the Coroner?’

‘I couldn’t tell!’

Sir Charles turned to Simon with that smile still on his face, but in his eyes there was no humour. ‘No, he couldn’t tell the truth, Simon.’

‘God’s teeth! Why not?’

‘Because the man he saw, the one with whom she left, was another knight – a man called Sir Laurence Ashby. And a mere churl like this would never dare accuse a noble knight.’