Michael JECKS - The Oath

‘No, I was beside the road with my friends,’ Robert said.

‘Which road? Do you know which vill you were near?’

Robert shook his head slowly. ‘All I know is, we were close to Bristol. We stopped there to rest, for our company was passing through on our way to the King. I hurt my leg and had to be left behind – and then a damned sumpter-man struck my head because I remonstrated with him for his cruelty to his beast. He killed it,’ he added as an afterthought.

‘There was no party came past here,’ the priest said. ‘I’ve heard of the King’s host passing by a few miles to the north, but none down here.’

‘We were only one vingtaine,’ Robert said tiredly. His head and leg were throbbing. ‘And it was very early in the morning when we came past.’

‘You think I’d have missed you?’ the priest chuckled. ‘Not here, my friend. There is no concealment for a vingtaine, I assure you. I sleep lightly, so I would have woken at the sound of a force riding past.’

‘I didn’t see a church,’ Robert admitted. ‘The road was tree-lined, and there were hedges, and a little cottage: I saw it.’

‘Well, not here, my friend,’ the priest said, and there was a kindly look in his eye. ‘Don’t forget, you have seen the skull rise before you several times over the last day, in your sleep. Perhaps you should lie down again?’

‘I am not mad!’ Robert said, but he could feel the onset of a kind of panic. Had he dreamed the whole incident – the fall, the discovery of the head? Was it all just a fiction planted in his mind by a mare?

Inn outside Winchester

Baldwin and Jack were shown into the main bedchamber. Palliasses were thrown higgledy-piggledy over the floor, and some had already been taken. Their occupants were curled up or lying on their backs, and there was little noise, apart from one man, who was snoring so furiously it was as though he was fighting for every breath. There was a boot lying by his head – perhaps someone had thrown it to silence him. The shutters were pulled tight, Baldwin noted, to prevent any thieves entering during the night, but he still looked about him cautiously.

By the little rushlight it was hard to see much. He could make out six men on the floor, of whom only one appeared to be awake still, and he was hardly a threat. He was a short fellow, scrawny as a man who’d fasted for a fortnight, and he lay watching the two of them from dark, suspicious eyes that raked over Baldwin, from his green tunic to his sword.

Baldwin undid his sword belt with slow deliberation, staring back at the fellow as he did so. Then, choosing the least noisome of the spare palliasses, he rested his back against the wall and placed his sword at his side, motioning to Jack to lie nearby. Wolf padded to his side and lay down.

There were no safe inns in the land now, he knew. The kingdom was too unstable. King Edward II was running for his life. Throughout his reign, from the earliest days, Edward appeared to have been doomed. His wars to protect his lands against the Scottish had all foundered against the resolute tactics of that devil Bruce, while the one war he had finally won, against the Marcher Lords, had been fought not for his own benefit, but for that of his adviser and friend, Sir Hugh le Despenser.

His choice of friends and advisers had been disastrous, since he had selected those who were more keen to enrich themselves than work for the good of all and govern wisely. First it had been that cretin Piers Gaveston, and more recently Despenser. There were few in the realm who did not loathe Despenser; even those who protested their affection for him were often lying. His avarice and insatiable hunger for power were despised by all who believed in chivalry and honour.

Baldwin himself detested the man. He had seen how Despenser had persecuted his friend Simon Puttock. A good, decent man, Simon had been hounded from his home and forced to give up his offices working with the Abbey at Tavistock, returning to his old home near Sandford and taking on the mantle of a simple farmer. Yet compared with others who had endured the enmity of Despenser, he was fortunate. He was at least still alive.

There were many within the King’s circle in past years who had inspired such hatred, but few could have attained such heights of influence. For Baldwin, it was a cause of conflict and frustration since, although the Despenser represented all that was hateful to him, yet Baldwin must fight to protect the man – because to refuse would be to disobey his King. And he could not do that.

The rushlight was dying, and Baldwin snuffed it between dampened finger and thumb. Instantly the room was thrown into darkness, and he listened carefully. There was no apparent difference in the sounds of quiet breathing and snoring, but he would take no chances. Reaching for his sword, he placed it on his lap, his right hand ready on the hilt.

Shutters could be closed against burglars and draw-latches, but sometimes they could seal in a victim.

Chapel near Marshfield

As the sick man began to murmur and moan in his sleep, Paul knelt beside his bed and gently mopped his forehead with a cloth.

It was expensive having this man here. He had already eaten much of Paul’s store of food, and his logpile was sadly depleted, all gone to keep the room warm for the invalid. At least his leg did appear to be healing.

But it was worrying, this story he told. His descriptions were vague, but as soon as news was abroad that he had been out this way, the chances were that his story would take on a new meaning.

‘God help me,’ the priest muttered under his breath.

This fellow was probably the most profound danger to Paul of all the men who walked upon the earth. As soon as his story became known, everybody who had heard of the Capons and Petronilla, the faithless bride, would flock to gawp at him – her lover. It would be impossible to remain here. What would his congregation think?

Squire William had slaughtered his Petronilla and her family, even a babe who could never have hurt anyone. They had all died for nothing. Petronilla and Paul had been foolish, perhaps, but that was no reason to murder the Capons. If anyone, it was Paul who deserved that.

He closed his eyes as the tears came once more. It was hardest now, in darkness, to hold back the terrible misery; the shame that lay so heavily on his soul.

As he opened them again, the rushlight flickered and almost blew out. He glanced across. It was only a gust coming in through one of the many holes in his walls. A rat had gnawed its way through a beam at ground level, and the big hole there was one of the banes of his life. Every so often he would try to fill it with clay, but at this time of year it wouldn’t hold. It would dry out on the inside from the fire’s heat, then wash away outside.

Something glinted temptingly, and he turned to look around. There, in the rushlight’s warm glow, lay the knife with the warped blade.

He reached down to pick it up, but something made him stop. He recognised it.

This knife had been the Squire’s, he was sure. He had seen those gemstones so many times, prominently displayed at the man’s belt. He suddenly realised, with a horror that almost stopped his heart, that this blade might have been the one that ended poor Petronilla’s life. And here, in his bed, lay a man with his leg cruelly harmed by it – more proof of the weapon’s malevolence.

To grip that hilt might take away all the last restraints which manacled him to this church. If Paul took up that knife, he could instantly plunge it into this sleeping man’s heart, for bringing so much danger here to him.

Because as soon as people heard that Squire William had died, they would want to come and arrest Paul. And this fool could tell them exactly where to find him.