29 - The Oath (41 page)

He dropped to his knee, bowing his head, urgently motioning to Hugh to do the same.

‘Master Puttock, please rise,’ the Duke of Aquitaine said.

He was only fourteen, Simon reckoned, but from his looks and deportment, he could have been a great deal older.

‘So, Master Puttock, I am very glad to meet with you again. You left France in a hurry.’

‘I had to, my lord. I had a bond of honour to Bishop Walter.’

‘Of course. It was a great shame that he died. You heard of that, of course?’

Simon nodded. It was odd – he could feel that thickening in his throat again at the mere thought of the Bishop’s death. He had been snatched from his horse, along with his squires and servants, and had his head sawn off with a bread-knife in the middle of a London street. Barbaric! ‘He was a good man. I know your mother had cause to—’

Sir Roger cleared his throat irritably. ‘Duke, I think I should continue with my discussion. With your permission, my lord?’

The interruption made the Duke pale. He was unused to being treated like a boy. From the first weeks of his life, he had been the Earl of Chester, and he had maintained his own household for years already, and yet from the look in his eyes, Simon saw recognition of the limitations of his position. In the eyes of the world at large, Edward, Duke of Aquitaine and Earl of Chester, was the King’s son and heir; but here, in this chamber, he knew he was at the mercy of Sir Roger Mortimer. The latter would allow him the feel the power of his position, but not to exercise it. For now, he was still a boy, and Sir Roger had assumed the role of Regent and adviser-in-chief.

The Duke nodded. ‘Bailiff, I look forward to speaking to you soon. You will come and see me.’

‘I am grateful,Your Highness,’ Simon said, kneeling again as the King’s son strode from the room.

‘So, Master Puttock,’ Sir Roger said, sitting at a bench. ‘Tell me all.’

‘Squire William is dead. He died some miles east of here. When we checked the Coroner’s rolls, we learned that there is a priest not far from the scene who was the confessor who ran away with Squire William’s wife. It is surely too great a coincidence that they could be in a similar area without the priest learning of it. If he heard that the woman he loved was dead . . .’

‘It would be natural for him to seek revenge.’

‘That was our thought.’

‘And this first-finder discovered the knife and brought it here. That makes a coherent story, if nothing else.’

‘Sir Stephen threw it in with the body because he felt it was proof that her death was avenged,’ Simon said.

‘Hardly. From what you say, the man was already long dead before this Cecily.’

‘Yes. But that doesn’t mean Sir Stephen didn’t want to honour her.’

‘It means we still have no idea why the woman died, and I do not like that,’ Mortimer said. ‘Find the priest. Question him, and return to tell me what he said.’

A clerk stepped forward with a board, on which were set parchments and ink and a reed. Mortimer picked up the reed and dipped it in the ink, scrawling his name on the papers. ‘So much to do. So many men to speak with. So many to threaten. The King is in Wales, apparently. It’s good. We had feared he could have made his way to Ireland. God is with us, though.’

‘Sir Roger, I would be most grateful if I could leave the castle with my wife and child,’ Simon said hesitantly.

‘Of course you may. As soon as the matter in hand is settled. That is enough. Thank you, Bailiff. You may leave.’

Near Caerphilly Castle

‘You don’t like me much, do you, Sir Baldwin?’

He turned to look at Roisea Redcliffe with an eyebrow raised enquiringly. They were jolting along in the King’s column, heading almost due northwards, on the old road that took them up from Cardiff to Caerphilly. This castle was high in the hills, and had the advantage of providing them with a clear view of the land all about, but Baldwin could not help but think that the King would be better served by remaining near the sea, from where he could take ship either to another English port, or to Ireland. Coming inland here felt like the last march of a prisoner to his cell.

‘My dear lady, I am sure that—’

‘You never have liked me, have you? I thought at first it was just that you considered my husband and I were too foolish, or perhaps too parochial for your refined tastes. But it wasn’t that, was it? It was simple dislike.’

‘No,’ Baldwin smiled. He jerked his head to Jack, signalling a need for privacy, and the lad obediently rode on a short distance in front, Wolf at his horse’s heels. ‘Madame, it was merely anxiety for my own wife, who is all alone many miles away.’

‘No, I don’t believe that. You simply didn’t like me. And since my husband’s death, you have liked me still less.’

‘Why do you think that?’

‘I have seen your looks of suspicion, Sir Baldwin. They are plain enough. But I swear to you, I did not hurt my husband. I woke to find the camp in turmoil, and then realised that my darling Thomas was dead. It was a terrible shock to me. To see his poor, dead body . . .’

It was a scene she would never be able to forget. The sight of her dying husband clutching at his chest, as though he could push back all that blood, as his face blanched, his lips grew grey, and his eyes sought hers desperately. She had knelt at his side, helpless, while his life was leaking from him. All she had known was the overwhelming sense of failure – she could do nothing to save him. And then he was gone.

Baldwin’s words drew her mind from that terrible picture.

‘The men who attacked us that day were the very same men who had tried to kill your husband on the road near Winchester when I was with him. I do not suspect you, Madame. Rather, I blame myself for not being there to help him.’

‘What did they want?’

‘I assumed they wished to find his purse or something else. Or perhaps they simply wanted to kill him. That is what they told me beforehand. I didn’t believe them then – but maybe I was too mistrusting.’

‘I do not see what else he could have had. There was only his purse.’

‘You still have it?’ Baldwin asked. ‘May I see it?’

Roisea reached into the bag she had slung over her shoulder, brought out the leather purse and gave it to him. Baldwin had forgotten how heavy it was. He untied the thong that bound it, and lifted the lid.

It was an old purse, battered and worn on the outside – but inside, the lining could have been brand new. As he jolted along on his rounsey, Baldwin studied it with a frown. In the most part, the lining was sewn together with a plain dark thread. However, at the bottom of the purse, he could see a paler, creamy-coloured thread.

Working on impulse, he took his little eating knife from about his neck and used it to attack the thread. It was good, waxed linen, and he found it hard to cut, especially on horseback, but at last he managed it, and the lining came apart. Forcing a finger inside the little gap he had made, the knight found a strip of something, and managed to tease out the tiny shred of parchment.

‘What is it?’ Roisea asked, suddenly anxious at the sight of his face.

Baldwin could not answer for a moment. The crabbed, uneven writing on the scrap of parchment was too shocking.

Bristol Castle

Sir Laurence of Ashby was glad that he was not imprisoned immediately, although he knew that it could happen at any time. The Mortimer appeared content to have him remain here a little longer, and did not seem to fear that he might prove a danger to the Queen or her son.

And he was not, of course. He could no more hurt either of them than he could the King himself. It was galling to have failed to keep the King’s castle for him, but equally impossible for any man of honour to have held it against the King’s own wife and his heir.

Now that the castle was passed over to the men whom the Queen had installed, his main duty now, as he saw it, was to help the men of the garrison who had been arrested and were now held in little cells near the gates. It was cold in those chambers, and several of them were damp, which inevitably meant that the men within would succumb to illnesses. Sir Laurence saw to it that there was good pottage and broth taken to them to try to guard against the worst of the chills, and now, at last, he had an order for their release.

It was good to see the poor fellows stumbling out into the daylight. The weather was overcast, but at least it was dry today, and they could walk about on their stiff legs, blinking in the light without fearing the rain.

While he was there, a shout came from the gates, and a pair of riders cantered in. They rode past the guards, and then Sir Laurence saw that there were two bodies bound to a third horse. The beast was wild with the scent of blood, his eyes rolling, and he would scarce calm down long enough to allow the hostlers to grab his bridle and keep him steady, while others slashed the ropes holding the two corpses and lifted them down from the animal’s back.

Sir Laurence strode across the yard. ‘Take that brute away and calm him!’ he bellowed, before turning his attention to the two bodies. ‘Who are these?’ he demanded.

One of the riders was a man he vaguely recognised as belonging to Mortimer. ‘These two are known to my lord Mortimer. One was a trader he has used – Thomas Redcliffe – while the other was a page in the service of Sir Ralph of Evesham. They’re both dead.’

‘I can see that, you fool,’ Sir Laurence snapped. ‘Why? Did they get into a fight with each other?’

More horses were arriving with other men draped over them, and Sir Laurence stared at them in astonishment.

‘What’s all this?’ Sir Roger Mortimer had arrived and was standing in the doorway of the hall, glowering into the courtyard at the huddle of men. ‘Who are they?’

The man shouted out who the two were, and Sir Roger marched down the steps and crossed the yard. He pushed the bodies over with his boot, then shook his head thoughtfully. ‘This man was known to me,’ he said, reaching down to Thomas Redcliffe’s belt. ‘Who had his purse?’

‘Not us, sir,’ the man on the lead horse said. ‘Could it have fallen from him while we rode here?’

‘Where did you find them?’ Sir Roger rapped out, his eyes going to the gate as though to hurry out even now.

‘These two were by the ferry over the Severn, sir. They were lying almost
on
the ferry. These others were in a camp, and one in a forest.’

‘Were these two alone?’

‘No, there were other men there, but they managed to get on the ferry. They’d been going to take these two on board, I think, but us turning up stopped that.’

‘This is important,’ Sir Roger said. ‘I want to know who was with these two, and who could have killed them. Especially this fellow, because he was robbed.’

‘I don’t know if it’s right, sir, but I thought I heard someone calling out to “Sir Baldwin”.’

‘Really?’ Sir Roger said. Baldwin was not an uncommon name, and he wondered which knight this could be. ‘Search. Someone must have seen or heard something. If the worst comes to the worst, find a boat and go to ask the ferryman.’

The men glanced at each other, then nodded, before whirling their horses about and thundering out through the gate again.

Sir Roger Mortimer grunted to himself, and then caught sight of Sir Laurence. ‘Yes?’

‘You are very concerned about this one man?’

‘I have known him for some years. He used to buy horses for me.’ Then Mortimer continued quietly, ‘He had something of value to me.’

Sir Laurence shrugged. It was none of his business.

‘Sir Laurence, do you want something?’

Sir Roger Mortimer’s eyes were on him now, slightly wide, unblinking, and in that moment, Sir Laurence knew real fear. This man was perfectly capable of killing in an instant.

‘No, Sir Roger. I have work to do. Please call me if I can help you, though.’

There was no answer. He turned and walked back towards his chamber, and all the way he dreaded the blow that must come upon his hideously exposed back, until he had entered his chamber and closed the door behind him.

David was at his board writing. ‘Are you all right, Sir Laurence? You look shaken.’

The knight eased himself into his chair. It creaked as he tilted it back and rested his boots upon the table-top.

‘You know, David, I think there is something very odd about Sir Roger Mortimer,’ he said in a low voice.

‘I could have told you
that
a while ago,’ David snorted.

‘You are a most perspicacious fellow,’ Sir Laurence said. ‘And you have good contacts in the city, don’t you?’

‘What of it?’

Sir Laurence considered a moment. He had an urge to learn all he could about this friend of Sir Roger’s.

‘Find out all you can about a man called Thomas Redcliffe. But David?’

‘Yes?’

‘Your enquiries: make them with subtlety, old friend. We do not wish to arouse Sir Roger’s ire.’

Riding to Marshfield