29 - The Oath (28 page)

‘It’s the way folk are over here,’ Simon agreed. ‘In London a man doesn’t think he’s alive unless he’s rubbing another man’s nose in his wealth. This is a smaller city, so people have to muck in together. Just like home. We don’t have time to have grudges and feuds, do we? It’s more a case of trying to help everyone to survive when the winter’s bad and the sheep won’t lamb and there isn’t enough food to last. In London they can buy what they need always, I reckon, so they don’t care so much about getting on with their neighbours.’

‘Well, Master Philosopher, I don’t disagree, but I think it’s more that the people here are less rushed. They take time to enjoy their lives. Look at that magnificent bridge! London has one too, but theirs is so . . . I don’t know. These people seem to have more pride in their city, while in London all the displays seem intended to show you how mean your life is in comparison. Here, men wish to allow others to enjoy it with them. They want to share it.’

‘Perhaps that’s why the folk of Bristol always need controlling,’ Simon said wrily. ‘Too much freedom of spirit is worrying to a King.’

They were at a neat house now, with limewashed walls and door, and the smell of a good stew emanating from the unglazed, barred window. Simon knocked at the door.

When the door opened, Meg saw a woman a little older than herself, dressed in a tunic of fine green wool, with a red woollen cloth over her shoulders; her hair was decorously covered by a sober white linen cap instead of a wimple. ‘Yes?’

‘I am looking for the lady of the house,’ Simon said. ‘Emma Wrey?’

‘I am she. What do you want?’

‘Did you have a maid working with you? A woman called Cecily, of perhaps thirty, with fairish hair and—’

‘Sir, who are you to question me?’

‘Madame Wrey, I am sorry to bring sad news,’ Simon said, ‘but she was found last night. She’s been killed. I am called Simon Puttock, and was asked to look into the matter by Sir Charles Lancaster.’

Emma Wrey’s face paled. ‘Dead? I . . .’ She shivered and clutched at the door. Margaret stepped forward, but before she could help the woman, Emma Wrey pushed herself upright again.

‘Oh, the poor maid! The silly thing! I did tell her to be careful when she went out. She obviously didn’t take my advice.’

‘When did you last see her?’

‘Last afternoon – almost evening. She was here to eat with me, and when she had finished, she went out.’

‘Would she have visited an alehouse or tavern?’

The woman looked at him. ‘Sir, this city is under siege. All are anxious. Of course she might have visited a tavern. Who wouldn’t?’ She finally gave an ungracious jerk of her head to invite them all inside. ‘I suppose if you are trying to help poor Cecily, the least I can do is ask you in out of the rain.’

‘I thank you,’ Simon smiled and followed Margaret inside.

Hers was a large hall, with a high ceiling and magnificent carvings on beams and panels. As they walked in from the screens, Simon was forced to stop and purse his lips as if to whistle. It was like entering a church, he thought, apart from the great fire that burned in the middle of the floor. The walls were painted and decorated with religious scenes, while there was a great halling over at the far wall depicting a garden with ladies and their gentlemen enjoying their leisure.

‘Please be seated.’

Simon motioned to Hugh and Rob to remain at the door, but Hugh had already decided that it was not his place to walk into a room like this. He stood scowling ferociously in the door to the screens passage, clutching his staff like a man preparing to defend himself against a ravening horde.

It was astonishing to see so many chairs, Simon thought. There were five of them, all comfortable chairs with highly decorated backs to them, and thick, soft cushions. He sank into one with a feeling that he could easily become used to living like this.

The lady had a large handbell, which she rang now, and an elderly man appeared. Sent away, he soon returned with wine in large sycamore mazers with silver bands.

‘Well?’ she said when they were all comfortable. ‘I suppose you have more to ask? I knew something must have happened when she didn’t appear this morning – but I did not expect to learn she was dead.’

‘What can you tell me of your maid?’ Simon asked.

‘Cecily was a good, quiet, somewhat reserved woman. I was her second mistress. Her earlier home was torn apart. A very sad event.’

Seeing Simon’s keen interest, the lady sat back in her seat and eyed him indulgently. ‘Cecily used to live with the family of Arthur Capon. He and his wife were . . . good fellows, very popular in the town, and known for their generosity to charities. But not, perhaps, for their generosity towards their servants. When Cecily was sent back to them from Petronilla’s side, she was sure that come the next Michaelmas fair, she would lose her position. You see, Arthur Capon did not want any hangers-on in his household. But his daughter left her husband before he could throw Cecily from his door.’

‘Their daughter?’

‘I am ahead of myself, I am sorry. Petronilla was their daughter. She married Squire William de Bar. You see, the Capons were wealthy, but only burgesses, and they sought a connexion with nobility. That was their big mistake.’

‘What do you mean?’ Margaret asked.

The widow tried to explain. ‘Poor Petronilla was only fourteen when they married her to Squire William, and for a while, all seemed well. The parents were grateful for access to the nobles of Bristol, Bath and Wells, and Squire William was glad of the money they supplied as dowry. He had a small manor which was sadly dilapidated. His father had made an enemy of King Edward I, the King’s father, and this enmity meant he lost all patronage. The hall itself was in a terrible state, and it wanted but their money to be rebuilt. But you cannot change a man’s spirit by paying him. They had not been married long when the bullying started.’

She drained her wine and beckoned her steward, who refilled all their cups as she spoke. ‘Cecily was there with Petronilla, for she had been the child’s nurse and remained her maid from then on. But she saw terrible behaviour. The Squire was an obnoxious fellow: he would beat his young wife often, and without need. After some time, her parents came to stay, but they were discontented with the household and the way their daughter was treated. I think they had believed that Squire William was moderately wealthy, and when they saw the squalor of his home, it shook them. The reality was a shock. The Squire even threatened his father-in-law with a beating, when Arthur Capon remonstrated with him, would you believe? Cecily was the only friend Petronilla had. Apart from her confessor, anyway.

‘Matters grew worse after her parents had gone, since it was then that Squire William learned that Petronilla was not their natural child. She had been an orphan, and they fostered her when she was a child.’

Simon winced. ‘That must have irked him.’

‘He was furious. If he had been unreasonable and cruel before, now he was ungovernable.’

Margaret shook her head. ‘I don’t quite understand.’

‘Since the child was not their own, her parentage was . . . questionable. Some said she was daughter to a dead prostitute. The Squire threatened a legal action for their misrepresenting her position to him, and the Capons in return threatened to prosecute the squire for misrepresenting his own financial position. I think Capon even started proceedings to have the dowry returned. Squire William refused to discuss it, declaring it was his for the marriage. However, then he began his own case against them for marrying their daughter to him, when they knew she was not of their own blood. It was an awful situation. And he sent Cecily away in an act of spite against Petronilla. The maid was packed off back to Bristol, where Capon wanted to dismiss her, saying she was no longer needed; he told her she was a reminder of his daughter.’

Madame Wrey sighed at the cruelty.

‘All this took some years, and Petronilla was eighteen by this time. She had endured enormous shame, hardship, and beatings. The only friend she had left in the world, once Cecily had been sent from her side, was her confessor. At her husband’s manor, she was hated, not only by Squire William but also by all his family, for she had brought shame to them, and now there was the threat of financial disaster if they must return the dowry. She decided she could not remain there suffering abuse, so, determined to become free, she ran away.

‘As luck would have it, her young confessor was convinced that she had every good reason to escape her husband and commit the act of treason. So he helped her, but not very successfully. She was captured only a matter of miles from her house, and the priest himself escaped by the skin of his teeth. But they had already been alone for a month or more.’

‘I see,’ Simon said.

‘And nine months later . . . you understand.’

‘Of course,’ Simon said. ‘So what happened?’

‘There was a great noise at the time. In the end, the priest was taken away and put in a convent, I believe. He was certainly punished. The girl was also taken and held in a nunnery, although not as punishment. I think there was some fear that her mind was being harmed. She was so young, and had married so young, that I think the Judge wanted her to have a time to herself. So she was placed in the nunnery until she was considered sufficiently recovered, and then she was returned to her family. However, one terrible day her husband and some friends broke into the house and slaughtered the entire family. They killed her parents, they took her and stabbed her more than thirty times, and then they took her child too, and dashed the little babe’s head against a wall. Poor Cecily saw it all. She was there.’

Margaret gave a small gasp. ‘The baby too? Dear God in Heaven. This Squire, he was captured?’

‘Oh, yes. He was captured,’ Emma said. ‘And now he has been released. Like so many, he has been pardoned so that he might fight for the King.’

‘That is disgusting,’ Margaret said. ‘Was there no outcry?’

‘There was some, but what would anyone do against a friend of the King?’

Simon sucked at his teeth. ‘Did she know Sir Laurence at the castle? I’ve heard she knew him.’

‘I doubt it,’ she said. ‘A knight? However, Sir Laurence could, so we hoped, have the Squire taken to gaol again and overthrow his release. But although I went and asked him, the man refused our petition. I will not speak with him now.’

‘She too could have tried to talk to him about that,’ Simon considered. It was possible. ‘And Cecily came to you after all that sad tale with her past employers?’

‘Yes. The poor woman was still very shocked. She had been without work for a while when she came here. I wanted to give her a home where she could feel safe, and . . . and I suppose I failed her.’

To Simon’s surprise, the woman suddenly collapsed, sobbing, covering her face with her hands.

Margaret rose and went to her side while Simon exchanged a look of embarrassment with the steward. Neither was comfortable in the presence of a woman in tears. They resorted to conventional male behaviour. Simon looked all about the room except at Emma or his wife, while the steward stared at his jug as though willing it to fill itself.

Bristol Castle

It was a foul morning, Sir Laurence Ashby thought as he gazed over the surrounding lands through the heavy rain.

He had been brought up near here, and the weather was no surprise, but it did add a mournful aspect to the day. Bad enough, surely, that the city was about to be attacked, without these stormy skies. Ach, God’s ballocks! There was never a good day to fight; never a good day to die. He slammed his fist on the wall and went back inside.

The last few weeks had been dreadful. Sir Laurence was old-fashioned enough to believe in the oath he had given the King so many years ago. Then he had been a young man, one of the first whom the new King had knighted after his accession, and Sir Laurence had remained staunchly loyal, although his loyalty had been sorely tested in recent years.

When he marched into his chamber at midday, he stopped just inside the doorway. Sir Stephen Siward was sitting on his desk’s edge, teeth bared in a grimace as he fumbled with a splinter of wood. ‘Damned piece of meat stuck in my tooth,’ he said.

Sir Laurence nodded and walked to his seat. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Planning. We have to try to get our plans ready for when the bastards arrive. Won’t be long now.’

‘I think that the plans are well enough advanced already,’ the castellan said.

‘What of the citizens? I don’t trust them beyond an inch. They’ll give up the city soon as fart. None will support us and the King. They recall the King’s siege ten years ago.’

Sir Laurence smiled thinly. ‘I do not fault your summary. They will doubtless enjoy giving up their houses to the Queen’s men. There are too many stories already about how she is stretched to keep most of her forces under control.’

‘We have to be able to spoil the confidence of the town somehow. Can’t we point out that most of her men are mercenaries? No one likes a damned mercenary – whether it’s a soldier or a banker. Bastards are too keen to make money all the time instead of sticking to their oaths.’

Sir Stephen coughed and went on, changing the subject: ‘You knew the man whom William of Bar killed, didn’t you? Capon. Arthur Capon. Did you know that his maid has been killed?’