Michael JECKS - The Oath

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.

Baldwin spurred his horse on, calling to Wolf, and they trotted around the city’s wall, following the old road. It was no great distance: the total circumference of the wall Baldwin reckoned to be less than a mile and a half. On the way they met with a carter, who warily kept out of sword’s reach as he listened to their questions, and then told them that there was an inn at the southern gate of the city, which was where most would settle for the night if they missed the gate. It was to this that Baldwin led Jack, and before long the two were standing before a great fire that crackled and glowed in the middle of the room, while Wolf slumped to the floor with relief.

Jack looked about him with eyes dulled by exhaustion.

The innkeeper was reluctant to let them in at first, but that was normal at such an hour. Most inns would prefer to err on the side of caution and bar their doors after dark. As it was, the keeper brought them ale and then returned to speak with a strongly-built man with dark hair and beard who sat on an old barrel, watching Baldwin mistrustfully.

‘Do not worry,’ Baldwin said soothingly, only partly to reassure Jack. ‘We shall be safe in this place.’

Near Marshfield

Robert Vyke peered at his leg. The wound was not smelling foul, which was a relief, but there was plenty of pus leaking out and turning the linen bandages yellow.

‘It hurts?’ the priest asked.

‘Very much, Father.’

‘I have heard it said that this leaking fluid is the “laudable pus”. It means that you should have a fully healed leg in a little while.’

‘It is feeling stronger. And there is less fluid.’

‘You can stay here as long as you wish, my friend. There is no hurry for you to leave.’

Robert Vyke couldn’t help but glance at the door. ‘Have the Queen’s men been here?’

The priest was sitting on his stool, a wooden board on his lap containing some old cheese and bread. He had been about to push a lump of the bread into his mouth, but now he stopped and fixed an eye on Robert. He had a shrewd look about him, for all that he was no older than Robert himself. He would have been a good-looking man, with his fair hair and blue eyes, were it not for the sadness that seemed to lie on him. ‘Have you cause to fear her?’

‘I was here because of the King. I was arrayed, and marched with him.’

‘I think that there will be many like you,’ the priest said, shoving the bread into his mouth and chewing. Crumbs flew from his mouth as he spoke. ‘There is no need for you to fear, my son. She and her army may pass here, they may not. The most important thing is that they won’t be stopping here to find you. Do you think she will seek out all those who have ever shown themselves loyal to their King? No. It is not as though you are a wandering felon, is it?’

‘No!’ Robert protested.

‘I did have to ask, my son. Your leg will heal, so far as I can tell. I have washed it with egg-white, and there is no poisoning of your flesh. Perhaps in a week or a little more, you will be able to walk again.’

‘A week or more?’

‘If you will rest it and behave sensibly, yes.’

Robert stared at his leg. He had hoped to be able to return home to his Susan. She would be so happy to see the… Where was the knife?

‘Father,’ he said tentatively, ‘when I fell, there were belongings of mine in a bag, and…’

‘Yes, of course,’ the priest said. He stood, set his board on his stool, and came over to the bed. Reaching beneath Robert, he withdrew the old pack. ‘The dagger is a strange device for a man of such lowly upbringing,’ he noted.

All at once the memory of the face returned to Robert. ‘I found it…’ he began, but was cut off by the priest holding up his hand.

‘I am sure you came by it honestly, my friend. After all, who could have wished to keep a weapon in that condition?’

‘It was lying in a pothole, with the blade pointing up, and it was that blade which so injured me.’

‘A great misfortune,’ the priest said. ‘I wonder whose it could have been?’ His voice held a strange note, and when Robert looked at him, his posture was that of a priest, awaiting a man’s confession.

‘There was a man there,’ Robert said. ‘I was trying to straighten the blade, and he was in there. In the trees. His head – it was sitting on a fork of two branches, and that was when I fell. I can remember now.’

‘Where was this?’ the priest asked, frowning.

‘In the trees.’

‘Can you describe the place?’

‘I…’ He stopped. He might recognise it if he saw it again, but it was just a bit of roadway. ‘There was a road, with a pothole, a hedge, and trees behind it.’

‘My son, you were found in the field behind my church here. Did you walk here from the wood?’