29 - The Oath (9 page)

It was with good reason that people called this ‘almost the richest city’. Merchants there plied their trade all over the world from Bristol’s good, deep-water port. Many years ago, the city had begun the great work of moving the River Frome, the burgesses excavating the new line of the river in St Augustine’s Marsh, so that access to the harbour was greatly improved. The sea was the source of the city’s power and wealth, and as soon as that great work was completed, the townspeople set out on another ambitious project: damming the River Avon and diverting it, so that a stone bridge could be constructed over the river, giving access from the south.

‘Sir Laurence, there is a messenger.’

The Constable closed his eyes for a moment, cursing all messengers. Since the beginning of this terrible dispute between the King and his Queen, the number of messages had increased to a steady flow. In the past, the Constable of a royal castle would be left to get on with his many tasks, but not now. It seemed as though the King was ever more determined to keep tight control over every aspect of life in the kingdom, especially in places like Bristol. Or was it that he was attempting to maintain the fiction that he had some control of events?

Sir Laurence supposed it was to be expected. A man who was so suddenly overtaken by fate must try to assume command by whatever means he could.

Taking the note, he read down the sheet quickly. Sir Laurence was a man of middling height in his early thirties. His head was almost as bald as a priest’s, with a fringe of yellow hair curling about. His eyes were clear and blue, set in a rather pale-complexioned face with thin lips that gave him the look more of an ascetic than a man of action. The truth was, he was infinitely happier with a sword in his hand than a book, and although he had less time to spare now, he was always more content to sit in his saddle with a lance at the ready, than bent over at a desk.

Not that there was much likelihood of that, these days. Knights were no longer permitted to test themselves in jousts of honour, since King Edward disapproved of such martial displays. He had been very happy to participate in such celebrations when he was younger, but Piers Gaveston had died following a plot conceived during a jousting match, and after the loss of that most beloved adviser, the King had refused to allow any more.

‘Very good,’ Sir Laurence said, and folded the parchment carefully, pushing it into his shirt. The writing was atrocious again – he had scarcely been able to decipher it. The King’s clerks were clearly under a great deal of stress themselves, he thought to himself.

Leaving the messenger and guard, he strolled towards his little chamber in the keep, where he pulled out the message and threw it onto his table. His clerk, David, peered at him with interest. ‘More complaints about the privy?’

‘Silence!’ Sir Laurence snapped.

David was less a clerk, more a comrade against the world. A lean, astute man, his sarcasm was a welcome shield against the foolishness of men, especially those who tried to achieve their will by politicking. ‘Oh, having a good morning, then?’ he responded calmly.

‘No one’s grabbed me about the shit-house this morning, no,’ Sir Laurence grunted.

‘Something else, then?’ The clerk knew all about the many troubles which dogged his master. As Constable, he was nagged about any problems with living quarters in times of peace, and now there was war, for some reason the complaints about the privy had escalated. True enough there
was
a foul stench rising, and guards and servants alike were unhappy that they might inhale some of it.

Sir Laurence himself reckoned it was less a fault with the chamber itself, or the chute into the moat, and more a reflection of the garrison’s nervousness in the face of impending war. They were shitting themselves.

He kicked the door shut. ‘Yes. I reckon the King has lost his mind.’ It was hardly surprising: there was his wife, flaunting her adultery with the man whom King Edward had ordered to be executed, plus she had kept their son with her even when King Edward had demanded his return. Who wouldn’t be made lunatic in those circumstances?

‘Do you really mean that?’ David set down his reed and stared at Sir Laurence, his head to one side.

‘Read this,’ the Constable grumbled, picking up the message and passing it to the clerk. ‘He’s only written from Tintern, demanding that we all hold array and provide at least one centaine of men, along with provisions and horses to equip a force of hobelars. Madness, complete madness! The King must realise that the first city Mortimer will want to take is Bristol.’

He slumped down in his chair. Bristol was the jewel of all the cities in the kingdom, and Sir Laurence loved it with a passion. Even the scars on large portions of the walls, rebuilt after the insurrection ten years ago, were like the birthmarks on a lover. He knew them all intimately.

‘We don’t have a hundred men to spare, and if we did have them, we’d still need them here to protect the city. We can’t survive another siege.’

The last siege had been terrible. Sir Laurence had heard much about it when he first arrived here. A small group of fourteen rich men controlled the city and refused to countenance the justifiable demands of other burgesses to be allowed the same privileges and rights. The matter had come to a head eleven years ago, in the eighth and ninth years of the King’s reign. First, the King was petitioned by the fourteen to have judges listen to their issues, because they were sure that they would win the matter and retain their powers. But when the judges arrived and took up their positions in the Guild Hall to open the case, a mob began to riot, convinced that the judges were biased in favour of the few instead of the majority. Harsh words were spoken, some stones thrown, and it was said that twenty or more men lay dead at the end of the fight.

Many claimed that the garrison was responsible, that the mob was innocent, but it didn’t help the city. Eighty of the inhabitants were to be attached and held for judgement; they would be declared outlaw if they did not surrender themselves. However, they preferred to conceal themselves in the city, and as the situation deteriorated and the fourteen fled the city, terrified of retaliation, the city itself closed the gates and prepared for war.

The townspeople declared that the city was not rebelling against the King, but Edward II would hear none of it. His position was simple: they had rebelled against his Justices, and that meant against him. He sent the Earl of Pembroke to demand surrender, but the city refused, and the fighting began.

It was thoroughly one-sided. The river was blocked by Sir Maurice de Berkeley, while the siege was prosecuted by Sir Bartholomew Badlesmere and Sir Roger Mortimer, who had called on the
posse comitatus
to prosecute the campaign. The castle remained in the King’s possession, and Mortimer’s strategic mind saw how to force the capitulation of the city. It was he who decided where to position the great mangonel or catapult machine in the castle, and it soon started to destroy buildings, while the posse outside the city laid to with a vengeance. Attacked from both sides, there was little the citizens could do, and they surrendered after a few days.

And now this same Mortimer was returned, this time with a large force of Hainaulters, and if the city were to attempt to hold out again, history would repeat itself.

Sir Laurence narrowed his eyes. Yes, but in the years since the last siege, the city had invested a lot of money in rebuilding the walls to make them more secure. So it might just be possible to keep Mortimer at bay. Not an easy task, but one surely worth attempting.

One thing was for certain: there would be no help from the King. All that could be done must be done by the city alone – if the city could do aught to defend Edward’s interests.

David carefully folded the parchment and sat for a long time staring at it. ‘The city will fall,’ he said simply.

Sir Laurence stood, his chair grating over the boards. ‘It will not!’ he growled. ‘While I live, I will keep this city for the King, and protect it as I may!’

‘Sir Laurence, the Queen will soon be here. And she has artillery with her, you can be sure. Think what those machines will do to the city, and to the people. The King wants your men; there will not be enough to protect the city and the castle, will there?’

‘I will not allow it to fall,’ Sir Laurence repeated.

Then he left the room and walked up the narrow staircase to the north-eastern tower, frowning over the town from the wall at the top.

The city was sprawled beneath him, bounded by the two rivers. He was looking down over St Peter’s to the Avon now, a broad, sluggish river today. He turned and stared over the long, rectangular yard enclosed by the outer walls of the castle, and then beyond, musing.

There was one thing he was certain of, and that was, while his King wanted Bristol kept, Sir Laurence would do all in his power to hold it. He wouldn’t give it up willingly to a rebel like Mortimer. It was a matter of honour.

While he held the town’s walls, Bristol was safe even from that scoundrel.

Third Friday after the Feast of St Michael
¹⁴

Near Winchester

As they reached the outskirts of the city, passing by St Katherine’s Hill, they had been riding like madmen for a day and a half already – a man, a youth and a large dog.

Although in his middle fifties, Sir Baldwin de Furnshill rode like a man many years younger. His beard, which trailed about the line of his jaw, was pebbled with white now, and his hair was grey but for two wings of white at his temples. He had been a warrior all his life, and his neck and arms showed that he had kept up his regular exercises. Riding every day meant that his muscles were honed, too, but his companion was only a lad, and at the end of this second day Baldwin threw him an anxious look. ‘You are well, Jack?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You look as though you are about ready to fall from the horse,’ Baldwin said gruffly.

If he could, Baldwin would have left the fellow behind in London, for then he would have been able to ride more swiftly, but it was impossible to find somewhere safe for the boy. With the realm sliding towards war, the city was in a turmoil, with bands of rifflers running over the streets, robbing passers-by, plundering houses, raping women and killing any who argued with them. Even the Tower was to fall to the London mob, Baldwin was sure of that, with the King away, and no one certain whether he would remain King. No, London was no place to leave the lad. And Sir Baldwin was also anxious to ride to his wife and ensure that she was safe in their manor in Devon.

Wolf, Baldwin’s great mastiff, looked up enquiringly for a moment, before following a scent. He was an amiable-tempered brute, with white muzzle, brown eyebrows and cheeks, and a white cross on his breast, but he was as dull-witted as he was handsome, and had an annoying habit of walking in front of horses as the whim, or scent, took him. Baldwin muttered at him as he meandered across the lane again.

The sun was sinking swiftly now as they peered ahead at the city. A warm orange glow illuminated the sky, highlighting the spires, the towers of the Cathedral and the roofs of the Bishop’s Palace. Looming over the city in the south-west corner, Baldwin could see the outline of the castle, a huge monstrosity in comparison with the rest of the little city. Twenty or more years ago there had been a fire in the royal apartments there, and the King and Queen had nearly died. They had been forced to hasten from their chambers as the flames took hold. There was no risk of the King and Queen of today being immolated, Baldwin told himself sadly, and turned to the city gates. They would be unlikely to spend another evening in each other’s company again.

It was already too late, as he had feared. As soon as the sun began to sink, the gates of this, like all the other cities in the realm, were closed and the curfew imposed. For those inside the walls, it meant security and safety; for those outside it meant a night shivering in the cold, constantly fearing brigands, unless they could find a room for the night at a village inn.

Baldwin looked at Jack. The boy was swaying gently as the horse moved beneath him, his face looking much older than his fourteen years. With the dirt from splashes of mud on his cheeks, and the strain of the last few hours etched deep into his skin, he could have passed for a man six years older.

The boy was a responsibility Baldwin could have done without, but Jack deserved his protection. The boy had saved his life. In a short skirmish earlier in the year, Baldwin had fallen and would have died, had not Jack saved him. It left Baldwin with a sense of indebtedness that was not to be easily cast aside.

‘Come, we’ll find an inn for you,’ he said gently.

‘I can carry on,’ Jack said quickly.

‘We cannot,’ Baldwin said. ‘The roads are too dangerous. If our mounts fall into a pothole, we shall lose both. I cannot afford that. No, we shall seek a room for the night. That will be safer.’

On hearing his words the relief on Jack’s face was like a warm beacon in the dark. Baldwin chuckled, for he could see it even in the gloom of twilight. It was no surprise that he should be glad: Jack was a peasant’s son from Portchester who had been taken at the array and sent to help on a raid in France, but he was only a youth, with no experience of fighting and less of riding a horse. Yet in two days he had covered as much ground as a King’s Messenger. His thighs must be rubbed raw, at the very least.