29 - The Oath (32 page)

‘My Thomas did, though. He persuaded them.’

Baldwin eyed her pensively. ‘You say he succeeded in winning money from them?’

‘He told me that he would soon have his reputation and his resources renewed.’

‘He meant he would have money again?’

‘He was quite sure of it,’ Roisea said sadly.

Baldwin looked over at the body of her husband. ‘And he made no mention of being a King’s Messenger?’

There was no need for her to answer, and in any case, Baldwin was as keen as Sir Ralph to pack everything and leave. He left her there, ordering Jack to help her, while he gathered up his own belongings, before going to the body and searching it quickly for a message. There was nothing. Any message he held for the King must have been in his head, not committed to parchment.

They were on their way as soon as Baldwin had finished and Thomas’s body had been set slumped over his own horse. Thomas and Pagan would be given a Christian burial when it was safe so to do. It was the least Baldwin thought they could do for the two men.

Riding to the ferry, they were pleased to see that the boat was clearly visible, and bellowing and waving, they succeeded in gaining the ferryman’s attention. It felt like an age, but at last the vessel landed on the shore and the men could begin to board her. Sir Ralph insisted that the friars and Roisea should take the first sailing, and Baldwin was equally insistent that Jack should be safe.

Jack kept looking at Baldwin with a strangely earnest expression, rather like a lady’s lapdog begging for a treat or to be allowed outside. He was obviously shocked by the suddenness of the fight, the swift deaths of so many men. But Baldwin had no time for the lad’s fears, especially since he was nervous that the party’s disappearance must surely lead to an investigation before too long. He did not want to be caught between the River Severn and the whole of Queen Isabella’s host.

It was a glorious relief to see the boat sail away, and then a blessed age before it completed its cruise to the opposite bank. Baldwin paced fretfully up and down the shoreline all the while, chewing at his inner lip, casting an equal number of glances towards the ship and back towards the woods where the men lay dead.

‘The boat is coming back,’ Bernard stated laconically. Alexander was whittling at a stick with his short dagger, while Sir Ralph sat on his horse saying nothing. The three appeared perfectly easy in their minds, even with their friend and companion tied on the horse a short distance away.

The ship made its slow progress over the water towards them, and after what felt like half a day, ground its way up the shore. Sir Ralph and his men were first aboard, while Baldwin waited, and then he took the reins of the horses with the dead men on their back. As he did so, there was a cry from the ship.

‘Get on board quickly! They’re coming!’

Baldwin snapped his head around and saw a small contingent of horse, perhaps a vingtaine, milling about at their camp. Then the enemy saw the ship’s sails, and there was a flurry of orders and activity as they remounted, ready to pursue Sir Baldwin’s group.

There was little time. Baldwin took his own horse on first, and waited until the beast was aboard and held firmly before returning to the horses carrying the dead men. He had the reins in his hand, but some of his anxiety must have been communicated to Wolf, as the brute gave a bark, and set up such a row, that the two horses became nervous, and one began plunging wildly. There was a crack, and the lines holding Thomas snapped, the body tumbling to the ground, and then the horse was off, leaving Baldwin with a rope burn on the palm of his hand. Alarmed by the plunging of the other, Pagan’s horse too began to rear. There was no time to calm it. Cursing, Baldwin released the beast, and it galloped off after the first.

He was about to run to the ship, when he remembered Redcliffe’s purse. The man had been so proud of it and in any case, it was possible that there was money in it which his widow could use. Whipping out his dagger, he sliced through the laces holding the man’s purse to his belt, and then ran for the ship. It had already pushed away a little from the shore, and Baldwin tumbled into the freezing water, holding the purse aloft, but then he almost fell under from the weight of his mail on his back. He recovered, and Wolf was at his side. On a whim, he thrust the purse into Wolf’s mouth, and the solemn-faced dog took it gently, continuing paddling through the water to the ship.

Baldwin floundered on, and would have failed, had not Sir Ralph thrown him a coil of rope. Clutching it, Baldwin pulled himself up aboard, falling on his back to gasp for breath.

It was Alexander who reached down, grabbed Wolf by the scruff of the neck and tail, and hauled him bodily from the water.

Bristol Castle

Simon had never seen the host gathered before. He had heard of the massive forces which King Edward II and his father had gathered for their wars in Wales and Scotland, but had never thought he would see such huge numbers of men arrayed outside an English city. It was terrifying – and humbling.

From the battlements he could see north over a broad swathe of land, and everywhere there were men. Tents and canvas shelters covered the farther flat lands, and all about there rose smoke from a hundred fires. No, more than a hundred, he guessed. The sheer scale of it all was incomprehensible. It was like looking at a reflection in a pair of mirrors and seeing the images reflected on and on into infinity. Simon had never been particularly concerned about heights, but today, looking out at all those men, he was suddenly assailed by dizziness, as though he could topple from the walls.

‘They’re serious about taking the castle,’ Sir Charles remarked.

Simon was grateful for his relaxed attitude. When Simon looked at him, Sir Charles was peering at the men scurrying about below them with an air of calm amusement. This was what the knight had been bred and trained for. Not so Simon. As he watched the great siege machines being prepared, their arms being slowly winched down, their cradles loaded with massive rocks, he felt a sinking in his belly. Those rocks would slam into the side of the walls here with devastating effect. Surely nothing could withstand them.

A few minutes later, Sir Stephen and Earl Hugh arrived on the walkways, and the Earl stared out with as much shock as Simon himself had felt. ‘So many! So many!’ he said. ‘What have we done to deserve all this?’

Simon had not been so close to the Earl before. He had grown to detest the man’s son, Sir Hugh le Despenser, because the knight had selected Simon as an enemy, and Simon had been badly tested, but seeing Earl Hugh’s horror, he felt sympathy for him. The scene was enough to rock any man to the core of his soul.

He gazed around at the other side of the river to the south. There too, large numbers of men scurried about, building wooden shields to protect fixed positions. Trees were being felled from a little wood, and hauled to the city by oxen, then cut up and attached to frames to protect archers and artillery from the arrows of the castle and the city.

But when he glanced east over the city itself, he was struck by the lack of preparation. True, there were some barricades in the streets which would serve to slow men attacking along them, but surely they would not stop a force like this, were they to gain entry.

Sir Charles saw the direction of his gaze, and commented, ‘I do not think we can count on the city to halt their attack.’

‘I can see no one trying to save it,’ Simon said.

‘These fellows are merchants and peasants, not warriors,’ Sir Charles said with a chuckle. ‘They saw their city captured only ten years ago, and they felt the indignity of failure, as well as seeing the result of their disobedience. Exile to many, the loss of property to more. It was a disaster. And their city was sorely hurt by the King’s siege train. Why should they wish to see the same happen again?’

His attention was already moving on. Now he eyed the streets below, and Simon followed the direction of his gaze. There was a group of men walking from a large building, and all standing before it, involved in animated conversation.

‘Sir Charles, what are they doing?’ Simon asked, pointing.

The knight shook his head. ‘I wonder.’

While they stood, Sir Laurence had arrived and stood grimly surveying the people down in the street. ‘This is not good.’

Simon looked at him from the corner of his eye, wondering how to broach the subject of Cecily’s murder. But it did not seem the moment, somehow. Not while the city was at risk of being overrun. Instead, he glanced down into the streets again.

Where Simon had seen the little huddle, now there was quite a group, all standing together and talking. Simon could see one man expostulating with another, then three or four who appeared to hurry up to them, listening. After a short altercation, the bulk of the men ran towards the castle, and there Simon could see nothing of them because of the line of the western wall, but the others set off at a run to the northern gate, and Simon watched with a frown as they disappeared behind a building. ‘What are they up to?’ he wondered.

Sir Laurence paled. ‘They are going to open the gates! Sir Stephen, Earl Hugh, the city is about to capitulate, I think.’

Earl Hugh spun round and stared. There was a greyness in his features. ‘No! No, they wouldn’t. They must know that they only have to hold faith to the King and he will rescue us. They’d be mad to open the gates now! Don’t they realise the King will exact terrible revenge for a betrayal like that?’’

Sir Stephen said nothing. He had darted to the corner of the battlement, and was staring down at the roads. ‘Leave it to me, my lord,’ he said, and was off into the tower. Soon he was below in the court, bellowing for his squire and servants. In a short space of time, there was a hoarse shout, and Sir Stephen ran from the gates with six men behind him, all armed with axes, knives and swords. A moment or two later, Simon saw them pelting up the roadway in pursuit of the men he had seen before, chasing north towards the city gate.

‘Odd,’ Simon said musingly.

‘What?’ Sir Charles said.

‘I’d thought that the second party were going to guard us here, so that no one could get to the city gate and prevent their opening it.’

Sir Laurence stared at him, and then cupped his hands and shouted to the guard on the gatehouse: ‘Is there a band of men before the castle’s gate?’

The answer came back that there was, but Sir Stephen had passed through them without trouble, and now they stood apparently ready to repulse any force from the castle.

Sir Charles leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, while Sir Laurence set his jaw and glared down at the city. ‘I could get some men,’ he muttered. Bellowing down into the ward, he ordered a party of men-at-arms to gather weapons, and strode to the tower’s door.

Earl Hugh looked from Sir Charles to the city with perplexity. ‘What is happening?’

‘It would seem that Sir Stephen is also about to capitulate, my lord. I think that he is helping the city to open the gates.’

It was as he spoke that they all heard the roaring noise: the sound of a thousand men cheering as they entered the city.

Earl Hugh slumped as Sir Laurence returned. The knight gripped the nearest battlement and stared, but Earl Hugh could not look. He turned and slowly made his way to the staircase, his face waxen, like a man who had already died.

St Peter’s Church, Bristol

The job of fosser at St Peter’s Church in Bristol was not generally an arduous one, Saul thought; mind, it was possible that his duties would soon become more onerous.

As Saul the Fosser hobbled along St Peter Street, he reckoned that it was all to the good. Men tended to die quite often, and if their deaths were hastened for reasons outside his own control, he was content to take the pennies each body represented as his due.

‘Ach, God’s pains,’ he muttered as he came to another of the irregular barricades flung over the roadway to stop horses. ‘Oi! How do I get past here?’

A face appeared at the top, that of a boy aged ten or eleven. ‘You’ll have to go round, Grandad. There’s no path here.’

Cursing all little boys under his breath, the fosser went along an alley as the lad had indicated, and soon found his way to the church.

There was no burial today. He left his spade in the lean-to shed at the side of the church, and instead walked over the long grass of the cemetery. There were three mounds of soil. Two had sunk quite well now, both being a few days old, and only Cecily’s was yet rounded and proud of the grass.

He went to the nearer of the low graves and cast a wary look about him before thrusting his hand into the loose soil. It took no time to find the packet, and he took it out, shaking the muddy soil from it and shoving it into his shirt. Then he rose and strode from the cemetery as quickly as his gammy leg would allow.

It was an ancient wound, that. When younger, he had been apprenticed to a bowyer, but then he had had an accident: borrowing his master’s horse without permission he took part in a race against a friend. His horse put a hoof into a rabbit-hole at full gallop, and crashed to the ground, throwing Saul over and over. His prize was a badly broken leg that left him crippled, and the loss of his apprenticeship. He was lucky that he wasn’t forced to replace the beast, which had to be put out of its misery. That was the end of his aspirations. Now he lived from one day to the next, surviving on the pennies he was given for each burial and a small sum for keeping the cemetery neat.