Michael JECKS - The Oath

The old man took the coins and studied them carefully, before pushing them into his purse. Then he climbed down from his horse and studied the cart’s wheel. ‘You’ve got it jammed in there.’

‘Thanks for the information – I’d never have guessed,’ Walerand said sarcastically. ‘Put your shoulder to the wheel.’

It took five minutes of grunting effort before they could move the cart away from the wall and heave it out of the rut.

‘That’s the problem with lanes like this,’ the old man panted. ‘Get your wheels stuck in a rut and you’ve had it.’

‘Aye. Well, friend, I thank you for your help,’Walerand said, wiping sweat from his brow. He jerked at the pony’s halter and teased it onwards.

The old man remounted his horse and stared after him thoughtfully, before riding back the way he had come.

Walerand found the inn at the edge of the next wood, not far from a little ford. There was a patch of scrubby grass, and he left the pony there, nibbling, before stalking inside and ordering himself a pint of strong ale. He sat down at a bench, and drank thirstily, stretching his boots towards the roaring fire. The weather was that cold, it was a wretched time of year for a man to continue with his travels. His passage here had been long, too. At least four-and-twenty miles today. Christ’s cods, but it would be good to get back to Farnham and rest awhile, he thought, bending his right leg and feeling the tightness of his calf.

There was a rattle at the old door, and it creaked open to show the man he had met on the trail. Walerand did not greet him. The fellow had taken him like a cutpurse. Two shillings! Daylight robbery. It would be tempting to hold a knife to his throat and take his money back. In fact, it was more than tempting, it was a damned good idea.

With that thought, he set his cup on the floor, and was about to rise, when a second man entered, glanced about him, and followed Walerand’s two-shilling helper to the bar in the corner.

Too late. Walerand pulled a face and settled back down on his bench. He should have jumped the bastard as soon as he walked in. The two seemed to know each other. Talking together now, they were, and he strained an ear to see if they spoke of anything useful.

Another man walked in, but this one didn’t join the other two as they chatted. He stood staring down at Walerand.

‘What?’ the tranter demanded. ‘Who you gawping at, you prickle? Stare somewhere else!’

The man smiled, and there was something about him that stirred Walerand’s memory.

‘Walerand, I note you have a new pony.’

‘How do you know my name?’

‘A gull never forgets the thief.’

‘Who are you?’

‘He’s forgotten me, Otho,’ the man called out.

The older one was leaning on the bar, his pot of ale in his hand. ‘Forgotten you, Robert?’ he said pleasantly. ‘No, I reckon he remembers you. He was upset that day, though, don’t forget. He’d just seen his horse die.’

Walerand felt the memory like a kick in his flank. He saw the cart, the filthy, rainswept roadway, and a man shouting at him for thrashing his pony. And he distinctly recalled hitting the fellow over the head and taking his dagger.

‘Oh, master, yes, I remember now,’ he said silkily. ‘I am glad you made it to safety – but I did all I could to help you.’

‘You struck me down and broke my head!’

‘Not I.’

Robert sucked at his bottom lip. ‘Very well friend, I think I should take your dagger now, to repay me for your theft.’

‘I stole nothing. You can go to hell with my blessings!’

‘I want compensation for the theft of my dagger, or you’ll find bad luck will befall you.’

He had moved away from the door towards Walerand, and the latter saw his chance. Quickly flinging his ale in the man’s face, he darted out. It was fortunate that he had possessed the good sense to leave his pony in the traces. It was the work of a moment to jerk the pony’s head around, and whip her into movement. He would keep tight hold of his whip, he decided, and if the arses came close, he’d cut them about the face. They wouldn’t get him that easily.

The cart rumbled and squeaked more than usual. It needed grease on the hub, he reckoned, and the pony neighed and complained, but then the thing was moving… and then he heard a rending sound, and the cart lurched. A huge splinter of wood sprang from the wheel, and as he watched with appalled eyes, the whole carriage began to tilt over, the bed moving, and then the wheel fell to pieces. The cart collapsed and shed its load, a bale ripping open on a broken spoke, and all the rest of his goods tumbling out on the muddy roadway.

‘God’s ballocks!’ And in the doorway, he saw the three men peering out and grinning at him.

Robert Vyke raised his pot in a mocking toast. ‘Oh, you can keep the dagger,’ he said. ‘My new one’s got a good enough blade. Shame about your cart, though. Looks like the wheel’s broken.’

And as they watched his crestfallen expression, they began to laugh.

Michael Jecks gave up a career in the computer industry to concentrate on writing and the study of medieval history, especially that of Devon and Cornwall. A regular speaker at library and literary events, he is a past Chairman of the Crime Writers Association and judges awards for the CWA and other literary groups.

Michael lives with his wife, children and dogs in northern Dartmoor.

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pardons

Wandsworth

There were three miles to a league, so two hundred and ten miles.

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the boys who lit the way of walkers in the dark were often called ‘moon-cursers’ because when the moon was bright they would swear at the loss of their trade.

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Court

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