29 - The Oath (58 page)

‘Oh,’ Baldwin said, and the two walked out into the open. Then, as some drizzle began to fall, Baldwin pulled at his cloak’s hood to cover his head. As he did so, he saw the man in the shadows make an urgent gesture, and all his years of training made Baldwin step back again, just in time to avoid the dagger that was thrust forward, almost scarring his breast. He grabbed the wrist with both hands and wrenched it. The man grunted in pain, and Baldwin swung the fellow around in an arc, over his right thigh, to fall on the ground. Instantly he planted his boot on the man’s chin while hauling hard on the knife-hand. ‘Simon!’

Simon sprang to Baldwin’s aid. Then he felt a snatch at his own cloak, and heard the slithering of cloth being cut by a razor-sharp blade. Spinning on his heel, he came face to face with Robert Vyke, who had a knife in his hand.

‘What in God’s name are you doing?’ Simon shouted in fury, looking down. ‘Not my cloak
again
! Do you know how much this cloak cost me?’And then he realised that the dagger had not been wielded in jest. ‘Put that knife away, fellow, or I’ll rip out your liver and feed it to the hound!’

Baldwin looked up at Simon with exasperation. ‘Simon, he’s a footpad. For the love of the Blessed Virgin, just prick him with your sword and be done with it.’ He set his jaw and stared down at the writhing face under his boot. ‘Let go of the dagger, you fool, if you don’t want me to break your arm.’

Otho stared up at him with a look of disdain, but the relentless pressure on his outstretched arm was too much. ‘A’ right!’ he grunted, and released the blade.

Simon was still glaring at Robert Vyke. ‘What is the matter with you, man? Put the blade away or I’ll have to do as my friend suggests. Dear Christ in Heaven, look what you’ve done to my cloak! You will buy me a fresh one before the day’s out, I warn you.’

‘Vyke,’ Baldwin said patiently, ‘drop the dagger or sheathe it. I care little which you do, but if you continue to hold it like that, I will cut your wrist from your arm.’

Robert Vyke had been in battles now. He had fought alongside the King against knights and squires, and he had not died, but that had been a confused mêlée, a mad, slashing battle. If he had been an assassin, he would have killed Simon already, before Baldwin and Otho had come to blows, but it was something he could not do. He couldn’t just stab a man in the back. He closed his eyes, swore to himself and stepped away, thrusting the knife back in its sheath. ‘I couldn’t do it.’

‘Do what?’ Simon demanded.

‘Kill you.’

Simon’s face twisted with incomprehension. ‘Why would you want to do that? What have I done to you?’

‘Not me. Not us. It’s what you’ve told Sir Stephen Siward,’ Robert said. ‘He told us.’

Baldwin took his boot away. It left a raw patch on Otho’s jaw-line. ‘Told you what?’

‘That you two were going to have me arrested – because I’d been with the King. I didn’t want to believe it, but he said you were going to stop me leaving the town, that I’d have to kill you to leave here.’

Baldwin looked at him, then at the crowd gathering in the road, the three faces peering out from the tavern itself, the shock on young Jack’s face, and at Wolf’s bared teeth as he loomed over the now alarmed Otho. ‘You really thought you could murder two grown men in broad daylight and escape?’ he asked, and shook his head at their folly.

The day had started so well, too, and now he was forced to run; it was enough to make a man spit blood!

Sir Stephen Siward finished rolling his blanket, swung his pack over his back, and hurried through the door. The garrison accommodation here was fairly modern, a chamber set above a large hall, where the men could rest in their spare time. Leaving by the door, he gazed about him sharply, before quickly going down the stairs and out to the inner ward. His horse was already waiting, and a hostler with the patient look of a cow chewing the cud, stood holding the reins while Sir Stephen bound his belongings to the saddle. There was a packhorse, but he would leave that for now. Perhaps he could send a message for his servants later, to have them follow him. Perhaps. For now, the only thing of which he was certain was that he should be away from here as quickly as possible.

And then he saw them. ‘Damn their cods!’ he swore viciously under his breath as the Bailiff and that damned knight from the ditches of Devon walked in through the doors. He moved around behind his horse as the two entered the ward and crossed to the stairs which led up to the hall, and then he swiftly mounted, snatched the reins up, spurred his beast, and was off, across the ward and out through the first gates.

They were doddypolls, the pair of them. Unandgitfull
⁵¹
, buzzards. Why they had to chase him down, pursuing him for no purpose, he had no idea, but he was not going to make their capture of him any the easier, if he could help it.

Lashing his horse’s flanks, he spurred the beast on, past the last gate to the castle and out into the busy streets. Here he must bellow and roar to have people move from his path. He did not want to hit someone, since it would hold him up, perhaps even injure his horse. A hog stood in the middle of the road, snuffling amid the faeces and garbage of the kennel, but he merely aimed his horse at it and leaped over, the horseshoes striking sparks from the cobbles where he landed. There was a pair of men chatting in the road, but they bolted when he came past although, from the shriek, one was caught by a flailing hoof.

It did not affect his mount. The beast thundered on, blowing heavily through nostrils that were opened wide, chest filling and emptying, and Sir Stephen felt sure that they would escape. Those two mopish fog-brains would find it hard to have a horse mounted with speed, and by the time they had, he would be a league away.

He hurtled down the last stretch to the bridge, and was over it in an echoing hammer of boards. And then he was onto the softer, safer road surface, and here he gave a loud cry of exultation, lashing his mount to greater efforts as he took the road south.

Simon heard the rattle of hooves and went to the door just as the knight shot out through the gates.

‘Baldwin! He’s gone!’ he shouted, and then ran out, down the stairs, bellowing as he went, ‘My horse! The bay rounsey, and Sir Baldwin’s too, saddle them now!
Now
!’

Gripping his sword, he pelted over the ward, and then watched keenly while two hostlers hastened to his horse, four others standing and gaping. ‘In the King’s name! Fetch Sir Baldwin’s horse and saddle him!’

Baldwin was at his side now, swearing as he stared at the gate whence Sir Stephen had escaped. ‘We should have realised he might do that,’ he muttered.

Even as he spoke, Otho and Robert ran in, Herv panting a short way behind them. Otho ran past Baldwin, calling, ‘We saw the bastard. We’ll come with you.’

‘I don’t think we need
your
help,’ Simon said pointedly.

Otho looked at him. ‘Really? We have more need to catch him and prove we’re not felons than you, Master Bailiff. We’re coming.’

Simon was not prepared to argue. As he stood irritably tapping his foot on the ground, waiting for his horse, Otho and the others grabbed their own horses from the stable, saddled and bridled them in little time, and were ready to mount almost before Simon and Baldwin.

Shoving his foot in the stirrup, Simon sprang up, calling, ‘Which way did he go, did you see?’

‘Towards the river, I think. Down to the south,’ Otho shouted back, and was already moving off before Simon had his other, sore foot firmly located.

Baldwin was away, and Simon after him, wincing, with Robert and Herv in their wake.

The town was full, and it was terrifying to rush headlong down the narrow alleys and streets towards the bridge, with men and women scattering and shouting, one hurling imprecations, another a stone, which fortunately missed. Then they were into the darkness between some hugely tall houses, and Simon heard the dread call of
‘Gardez l’eau!’
but a concerted roar from him, and from Otho, who appeared to have heard as well, prevented the chamber-pot from being emptied over them. Instead a shocked maid stared out at them as the five men pounded down the cobbles, and out into a broader thoroughfare, where they all turned left towards the bridge. Simon felt his mount slip a little, a rear hoof sliding on a smooth cobble, and then there was a shout behind him. He daren’t throw a look over his shoulder yet, but when he did, he saw Robert and Herv still on horseback, and thanked his stars that no one had fallen. Behind them, Wolf pelted along on his great paws, tongue hanging out.

Over the bridge, and he felt the thrill of the open country fill his heart and belly with fire. Here there was no need to ride so cautiously. They could all go at full speed. And with luck, since they had no heavy packs, and Sir Stephen was carrying all his belongings, they should be able to overtake him.

They did not pause until they came to a small bridge, where the hoofprints of a single horse stood out clearly. Simon reined in briefly to glance down. The prints were very distinct: one of the shoes, he saw, was cracked and should be replaced. He only hoped it would break and make the horse slow, but then he was riding on again, bending low as he let the horse have its head. The knight would surely not be able to keep on forcing the pace like this. He would have to slow before too long, or risk killing his beast.

Rushing past a little village, Simon saw that the land rose from here. And suddenly he saw Sir Stephen! Up ahead, on the brow of the next hill, perhaps a third of a league away, was a man on a large horse, who stopped and stared back.

‘It’s him!’ Simon roared, and lashed his mount again, all thoughts of care for his own beast suddenly flown.

‘I see him,’ Baldwin shouted back, urging on his horse.

Trees whipped past, and the wind snatched and tugged at Simon’s shredded cloak. The hood billowed out like a sack, and every so often he pulled at it ineffectually. It was freezing, too; the wind reached in through the gaps, chilling his spine all the way down to his buttocks. Every part of him throbbed and ached, burned or froze, and he hoped that the knight would soon be forced to slow his mad onward rush.

And then they were down a hill, fording a rushing torrent, splashing their legs and gasping with the icy water, and then up the other side into a small wood and thence past another hamlet, where the road split. Baldwin and Otho pointed where the hoof-prints had gone – and there was Sir Stephen, up ahead, lashing and spurring his poor mount with abandon, a scant 150 yards away, and riding over the crest of a ridge.

It was enough to make them forget the cold, forget their tortured muscles, and think only of their prey. As soon as they reached the top, they hurtled down the other side like hounds seeing a hare.

Sir Stephen could not escape them – that was clear. He had forced his horse to go too far, too fast, and now the brute was winded.

They reached him as the horse gave up the ghost, and Simon rode around to block his path, his sword out and ready. ‘Sir, stop. If you flog your horse any further, you will have to walk back with us.’

‘Damn your soul, Bailiff!’ Sir Stephen spat.

‘Others have suggested that,’ Simon said easily.

It was late that afternoon when they all returned to the city. Sir Stephen had been silent for almost the whole journey, but as they reached Hereford and rode over the bridge, he gestured at a tavern. ‘You will question me anyway: is there any reason why we could not do so over a pot of wine?’

‘There is no reason to avoid wine,’ Baldwin agreed.

Soon they were all inside the tavern, in a small chamber which had a charcoal brazier to warm them, and jugs of wine set out on a tray with a mazer each.

‘Killed? What is that supposed to mean?’ Sir Stephen said as Baldwin questioned him.

‘You asked those three men to kill us, we know,’ Baldwin smiled. ‘Your attempt failed, although you owe Simon a new cloak for his trouble. Why did you want us dead?’

‘Because you had decided I was guilty,’ Sir Stephen said. ‘I wanted to remove you, Puttock, ever since you mentioned my guilt.’

Simon drew a face. ‘What?’

‘On the way back with the King’s men, you said something about bad debts, and gambling. I knew what you were getting at.’

‘Well, I don’t,’ Simon said. ‘Do you mean when I spoke of the Capons?’

‘Yes. You clearly knew about my debts. That was why I tried to kill you – at the hedge. I saw you were at the back of the column, so I rode across to make your horse shy. I’d hoped you’d break your neck, but oh no, you managed to live, and told this knight.’

‘Of the murder of the Capons,’ Baldwin interjected. ‘I believe Cecily was lying when she declared that Squire William had been there and killed the Capons. I think it was you, with your accomplices, who carried out the murderous deed, because Capon was a moneylender,’ Baldwin said, ‘and you owed him money. Lots of it. So you lured the maid Cecily into helping you. You swore no one would be hurt, and she was shocked when your men went into the house and slaughtered all inside. Perhaps she said then that she wanted nothing more to do with it? I see by your expression that I am right.’

‘She told me that she’d sworn to protect the babe, and as the child couldn’t bear witness against me or my men, so he should live. But I didn’t want some bratchet growing into a vengeful youth and hunting me, so I had him killed, just in case.’