29 - The Oath (31 page)

‘I have safe-conducts from the Queen,’ Sir Ralph murmured.

‘You think they’ll care?’ Baldwin said. ‘The Queen isn’t here, and they’ll probably be happy to kill us and steal our swords and horses.’

Sir Ralph nodded. ‘We cannot wait to saddle the horses,’ he said. ‘They’ll have ridden off before we could catch them.’

‘No. We’ll have to trap them here,’ Baldwin agreed.

But any hope of surprise was already lost. Even as they spoke, Baldwin saw one of the men stop and point at them. Immediately, the four began to trot towards them, their mounts spreading out as though understanding that this could end in a fight. ‘They have seen us,’ he said.

‘Pagan! Bernard! To arms!’ Sir Ralph hissed.

Baldwin appreciated the tightness of the training in Sir Ralph’s team. As soon as he spoke, there was a swift rustling, but no shouts, no questions, just organised preparations. For his own part, he took his sword in its scabbard and set it close by, leaning against a little tree.

The men approaching were within thirty yards already, and the leading man had a lance which he pointed at Baldwin as he trotted forward.

‘Godspeed,’ he called, and poured some hot wine from the pot over his fire into a cup. Sipping it, he rose, comfortable that his weapon was easily accessible.

The first man was within ten yards now, and he stopped, looking about the little hollow where Baldwin and the others had slept. He was a rangy man, unkempt, with a thin beard and eyes that moved all over the place quickly, but seemingly absorbing all. ‘Who’re you?’

‘We are travellers. And who are you?’

‘I’m Ivor from Hereford, and we’re with Queen Isabella. What are you doing here? Answer or I’ll have you taken to her to be questioned.’

Baldwin smiled. ‘We are merely travellers, my friend. Now, Ivor, if you would like a little wine, we have some warmed.’ He took up the jug again, welcomingly.

‘You’ll come with us, then,’ the man said, and he trotted forwards. ‘Yield,’ he commanded, his spear’s point close to Baldwin’s breast.

Baldwin eyed the forge-blackened tip with the silver edges where the armourer’s wheel had ground. It was nearly a yard from his breast, and he waited until Ivor was closer, the point a scant foot from him, before bending to set the jug in the flames.

‘No,’ he said, and grabbed the timber, pulling.

The man was seated firmly in his saddle, but his lance was a weight that unbalanced him. By pulling it, Baldwin had removed it from beneath Ivor’s armpit, and now Baldwin grabbed his sword and flicked it free of the scabbard. At the same moment, Wolf came charging over. He had seen the way Baldwin grabbed at his sword, and now set up a baying that alarmed Ivor’s horse, which bucked and reared, and Ivor was forced to drop the lance and snatch at his reins to control the beast.

Baldwin waited until the horse was all but calmed, before slamming the heavy butt of the lance into the side of Ivor’s head. His eyes rolled into his head, and he fell from the back of his saddle, landing with a thud on the soft ground.

Instantly Baldwin was at the horse, grabbing the reins and speaking to it gently. There was a short scream from over to the left, and he saw that the Squire called Bernard was standing and thrusting downwards with his sword, three, four, five times, to make sure of his man. Sir Ralph was further on, standing with his sword ready, while another man slowly moved about in front of him, a long sword in his right hand, his left empty, but already wrapped in a cloak so that he could bat away Sir Ralph’s lunges.

The last of the men, Baldwin could not see. And then he spotted a man pelting away on horseback, and peering hard, he saw another horse in front. That must be Pagan, and without further thought, he mounted the captured horse and set off after Pagan and his intended victim.

Pagan’s man was riding fast. Very fast indeed, Baldwin realised. Pagan’s old palfrey couldn’t possibly keep up, and Baldwin’s beast was finding it hard to make headway, but then their quarry slipped left into a small wood, and had to slow down.

Baldwin spurred his beast on, and he lengthened his stride, neck straining, a snorting coming from his nostrils, as Baldwin gave him his head. The brute was a keen racer, and needed little by way of encouragement.

They pounded on the soft grass and mud, occasionally throwing up great gouts of muddy water as they hit puddles, and then the light was eradicated as they entered the woods.

Pagan was up ahead, and Baldwin bent low over his horse’s neck to avoid the branches and twigs that snatched at his hair and shoulders. There was one, a splinter from a snapped bough, that caught his left shoulder and raked along it, ripping the material and making him grit his teeth at the swift rush of pain, but then he concentrated again, and saw the figure of Pagan lift as though by magic, legs flopping, arms reaching ahead of him as though trying one last time to grab his quarry, before slamming down on the ground and lying still.

Baldwin was riding at such a speed, he was already on the body; his horse sprang over it and carried on. The sight of Pagan was only fleeting, but Baldwin saw the stubby crossbow bolt protruding from his breastbone. It made him realise that he could be riding into a trap, but the thought was irrelevant. If there were more men here to ensnare him, he would be no safer if he turned and fled back to his camp.

And then, blessed relief, he was in an open space in the midst of the woods, and the man he sought was attempting to span his crossbow. Seeing Baldwin, he gave a howl of despair and aimed his horse at him, his crossbow raised in his hand like a club. Baldwin charged, and his first sword’s stroke took off the man’s arm at the elbow. The fountain of blood sprayed over Baldwin’s face, arm, torso, and in his hair, where he felt it congealing. Then he was back, and the man was screaming shrilly, staring at his stump, waving it, oblivious to Baldwin and all else.

With one stroke Baldwin took off his head and the body rode on a short distance, the arm still waving wildly, a gush of blood erupting from the neck, until the body could topple slowly to the ground.

Not that Baldwin was watching it. His attention was fixed on the bearded head staring up at him from the grass, jaw slowly opening and closing like a fish’s.

‘You again,’ Baldwin breathed.

Bristol

He knew his wife was unhappy. Leaving Emma Wrey’s house yesterday, Margaret had sunk into a deep gloom, and their journey did nothing to lift her spirits. Returning by a different route, they came to a large barricade thrown up by the city, and that seemed to heighten her anxiety even more.

His Meg, his lovely Meg. He had loved her from the first moment he had seen her, when she was little more than a child, but tall, slender, fair . . . She was utter beauty. They married young, and their lives had been joyous until their first son had died. That had been hard. And it was then that he had last seen her looking like this. All the trials and difficulties of the last years, even when Despenser forced them from their home, had not caused this collapse in her appearance.

She was exhausted. Her eyes looked sunken, and there were shadows beneath them.

‘Come, my love,’ he said. ‘You need to eat something.’

‘No. I want nothing.’

‘Wouldn’t you like an egg, or warmed milk?’

‘I am fine,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t want food.’

It was not the time to try to force her. For now, he would have to hope that he might be able to tempt her later.

A groom arrived and told them that Sir Charles had arranged for them to have a room, so they left the inn and walked the short distance to the castle’s gate, but when Simon asked where they could lodge their horses, he was told there was no fodder for the beasts; they would have to remain in their stable at the inn.

Simon felt that blow keenly. Even as Sir Charles came and confirmed that there was nothing more he could do, since the only beasts allowed inside the castle were those which were needed by the garrison, and those which were to be slaughtered, Simon fretted.

‘I am worried, if they are taken . . .’ he said.

‘I know,’ Sir Charles answered. ‘But there is no point arguing with this command, Simon. In truth, you are better not to comment at all. The castellan is concerned about conserving food, and if you were to make a fuss, and people realised you were here solely to gain food that may not be forthcoming in the city . . .’

He needed make no further comment. Simon knew that if it came to a decision, any castellan in the land would order him and his family out of the castle. There was no room for sympathy in time of siege.

The chamber to which he led them was large, with a good fire already crackling in the fireplace. There were tapestries about the walls to keep the warmth in, and rugs thrown over the floor. Yet there was only one bed, no truckle, and one bench for Hugh to sleep on.

Sir Charles saw Simon’s look. ‘I shall order a palliasse for your servant and your son,’ he said.

‘You are very kind, Sir Charles,’ Simon said. ‘I don’t know what I’d have done without your assistance.’

‘There is no need to thank me yet, my friend. Wait and see what happens before you do that,’ Sir Charles said. On hearing a bell, he spun about, startled. ‘That’s the alarm bell. I must go. Simon, would you come too?’

Simon threw an anguished look at Margaret, who was sitting on the edge of the bed with Peterkin on her lap. She nodded, almost without meeting his eyes. Peterkin did, though, and as Simon ran along the corridor and out onto the upper battlements with Sir Charles, all he could see was his son’s petrified expression.

It set a new thought racing through his mind. He had lost one son. He
couldn’t
lose this boy too.

Banks of the River Severn

Baldwin left the body in the clearing, but brought the man’s horse back, leading it through the woods and out the far side, then over the grassy plain towards the camp. There was no sign of Pagan’s horse. Baldwin assumed it must have bolted, and he struggled to lift Pagan’s body on to the captured mount. It was enormously hard work, for the body would keep slipping and sliding off, but at last he had Pagan thrown over the saddle and lashed in place.

The others had finished off the men from the reconnaissance. The one who had been knocked from his horse by Baldwin was dead. Stabbed once in the heart and once in the eye, he would never rise again. Sir Ralph had taken his own man, too, and the fellow lay with a great slashing cut in his neck, while the last was pierced many times by Alexander’s sword. Bernard too was injured, with a terrible cut along the line of his shoulder and down his right arm, but he swore it was only a scratch and hardly worth looking at. Baldwin did try to clean it, and bound it in an old cloth he found among Bernard’s clothes. With luck it would heal.

But when he spoke to Sir Ralph, he learned that the intruders had done more than kill Pagan and wound Bernard. They had succeeded in finding Thomas Redcliffe too. One of the men had slipped into his makeshift tent and run him through several times with a dagger. The man who did it had been chased away by Pagan, a sobbing Roisea said, so Baldwin was at least happy that he had avenged her husband.

Sir Ralph was pleased with his own victory. ‘The fellow was a good swordsman,’ he said appreciatively. ‘He had a fair amount of training, I’ll be bound, to be able to hold his own so effectually against me.’

Baldwin shook his head as he saw the body. ‘The men who came here were determined, I’ll give them that,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The leader who killed Thomas was in charge of a group which tried to kill him in Winchester some days ago. I was there, and that was why I decided to come up here to Bristol in the first place. I’d intended going straight home, but seeing that Thomas had been attacked, and because he admitted to me that he was a King’s Messenger, I thought that joining him was my duty.’

While they had been talking, Roisea had joined them. Her face was streaked with tears and dirt, and she wiped at her eyes with hands that were stained with blood.

‘What do you say about my Thomas?’ she asked. Her voice was broken with despair.

‘Madame, he was a messenger for the King, so he told me,’ Baldwin said.

‘No – he cannot have been. He has never travelled much.’

‘Perhaps he was given a message to bring to the King when he was on pilgrimage.’

‘Pilgrimage! I find it hard to believe that story,’ she said. ‘He told you that, didn’t he? When he left home, he said he would walk to St Thomas’s shrine, but I was ever doubtful. I never saw him try another pilgrimage in his life. Why should he suddenly begin now?’

‘What did you think he was doing, then, madame?’ Baldwin said.

‘I thought he travelled to London to speak with other merchants, men who did not know him and were not aware of is failure, to seek his fortune with them somehow.’

‘Why should he mislead you?’

‘I don’t know,’ she admitted sadly. ‘I think because he did not want me to grow hopeful. He felt as though he had failed me when his business folded, but it was not his fault all his lenders demanded their money back. Especially old man Capon. He was the most insistent.’

‘But Thomas would not have found it easy to get money from the merchants of London,’ Baldwin said. ‘He must have known that. They are the most hard-nosed, unpliant businessmen in the world. Prising money from their coffers is harder than getting it from the purse of a tax-collector!’