Michael JECKS: The Oath

Otho said guiltily as Simon walked up to him. ‘I am sorry, sir, that we–’

‘You more than made up for your foolishness with your excellent service capturing the murderer,’ Baldwin said. He held out his hand, and Otho looked from Simon to him, before grasping it.

‘Robert Vyke, how is your leg now?’ Baldwin asked.

‘Not too bad, Sir Knight. Only hurts a little when I use it.’

‘You should be well enough for the journey home, then?’

‘He’ll last it,’ Otho said. ‘I’ll kick his backside if he doesn’t. He failed me on the way here; he won’t fail again on the way home if he knows what’s good for him.’

Robert Vyke gave a smile, but it was thin and his anxiety was plain to both Baldwin and Simon.

‘What’s wrong?’ Simon asked. ‘You look as though you’ve been sentenced to death.’

Otho answered. ‘He’s terrified he’ll be caught by someone who saw him when he was with the King’s men. He thinks his life is in danger still because he stayed with the King and didn’t come to Sir Roger Mortimer’s side.’

Baldwin remembered that feeling all too clearly. He could recall how he had felt smothered by the increasing fear, wondering how he would be treated, expecting to be slain in his turn. ‘Vyke,’ he said. ‘Take this.’ He reached into his purse and took out the small scrap of parchment he had taken from Redcliffe, now stained and blotted. ‘This is a safe conduct for any man. It will guarantee your safety.’

Robert Vyke gaped, and took the note with many bows of his head and expressions of gratitude, but Baldwin waved them away. ‘You behaved honourably enough, man. Get you home to your wife and forget war. Let us hope we may all forget this sadness.’

The men took their leave of each other. At the stables, Jack was waiting with Wolf. The dog was sitting, leaning against him comfortably while the lad tickled his ears. A short way off, Sir Ralph stood watching an armourer running his sword over a spinning stone, the sparks flying in showers for a yard or more.

‘So, Sir Baldwin, you are leaving already?’

‘I think the sooner I am away from here and heading towards my home, the better,’ Baldwin said. ‘I am grateful to you for your companionship, Sir Ralph.’

‘As to that, it was my pleasure,’ Sir Ralph said, taking the sword and peering down the length of the blade with a critical eye. ‘A little more, man. I am only glad that we had just the one fight, and that neither of us was hurt.’

‘Yes. Although others were,’ Baldwin said soberly.

Sir Ralph shrugged. ‘Men live, men die, every day. Some die in a battle. If not, they would have died some other way – fallen into a well or tumbled into a river when drunk, and drowned. The main thing is, we survived. And now Despenser is gone, life will be incomparably better for all of us.’

‘Yes,’ Baldwin said. One image had remained with him from the last weeks: that of King Edward’s face, watching from a high window as his most beloved friend was accused and judged and then executed.

He would never forget that face.

Worcester Castle

He didn’t even know where this place was. They had stopped so often in the days since his capture to allow him some peace, that now he was entirely confused as to where they were.

Edward II, King of England, sat at the window and stared out from eyes ravaged by weeping. It was a vaguely familiar landscape, but he didn’t care. If he had been here, Sir Hugh would have commented on it, would have known where they were.

It was enough to bring on the desperate sobbing again.

‘Dear God!’ he wept. ‘Why have you done this to gentle Hugh?’

Not for the first time, God had decided to punish His poor servant Edward.

‘I will never have another friend,’ he declared, and put his hands to his face. All whom he loved were taken from him. His Piers, captured and murdered by his enemies; now Hugh too. Was there no compassion in God for a simple man who enjoyed the companionship of a few special friends? All he had ever sought to do was to maintain his realm, protect his people and his friends, and rule wisely. The fact that others did not approve of his pleasures was not his fault. He was the King , he should be permitted the pastimes he desired. Swimming was no sin, neither was hedging with the peasants on his estates; if the lords and barons disliked such activities, they could avoid them – but for him, they were necessary distractions from the strains and stresses of royal life. Could God truly seek to punish him for that?

But he knew it was more than just that. It was his intimate relationships with Piers and Hugh that had led to God’s aversion. Yet why punish only them , and leave him alone? He would have preferred to be taken with them. There was no point in life now. Not with his wife become his enemy, and adulterously engaging with the arch-traitor Mortimer. Even his own son had deserted him. All the kingdom was against him. Only a tiny number of men had been there with him at the end. All others had fled.

So now here he was: alone. Without host, without castles, without hope.

He could never know happiness again.

Third Friday after the Feast of St Martin[53] 28 November 1326

Bristol

Roisea Redcliffe walked into her house with a feeling of mild curiosity; she wanted to see if there was anything in there that could remind her of her darling Thomas.

The fool! Thinking he could renew their fortunes by killing the King. Oh, that would have been a magnificent act, that would. What had he imagined he would do? Just draw a dagger and stab him during a meeting? And what would have happened then? Succeed or fail, the first thing would have been that the King’s men would have slain him – and Roisea too, since she would have been assumed to be guilty by association.

She walked through to the hall. The place had been stripped of anything valuable by the men who had encircled the city. The house had been used as quarters. The hallings she was so proud of were gone. Her cushions, the decorative candle-holders, the little crucifix from its niche by the fire – all had disappeared – and in their place were bones, filth, and excrement. The bedroom, she was sure, would be as bad, and when she walked through to the solar, she had to leave in a hurry. From the stench, this whole area had been used as a privy.

Outside, she sat on the step and put her head in her hands, thinking furiously. There was no money, nothing to sell, and she had not eaten for a day.

Then she stood and eyed her horse. It was a good beast, and would bring in some welcome money. That was first: sell the horse and use some of the payment to buy food. And then she would have to clean the house.

That would keep her busy for a while. And meantime, she would have to work out how to make some money.

She looked over at the horse again. He was a well-bred beast, worth several pounds, if she was careful about where she sold him. And then she remembered a man Thomas had used, over towards Berkeley, who could usually be relied upon to sell beasts for a reasonable sum. In recent times the horses all about Bristol had been depleted, but with luck the Queen’s men would not have gone so far as Berkeley. Perhaps she could use the money she made to buy some more horses, bring them here and sell them on to make a little profit, and fund another trade.

Whatever else happened, Roisea was determined that she would not lose her house. She would somehow keep it all together. And if it took time, so be it. She had time and enough to spare.

Bristol Castle

Margaret heard the crying in the darkness, and rose, shivering, to go to Peterkin. There was no candle, and she drew on a robe, trying to find her slippers with her feet to save them from the cold stone floor.