Michael JECKS - The Oath

‘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] 17 October 1326

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.