Michael JECKS - The Oath

Their beasts were well-rested, and Margaret had slept better than for many weeks past in that little inn. It was not too busy this morning, for most people were sensibly keeping close to home at this time of trouble for all. The alehouses in the villages, by contrast, would be making plenty of money as the locals gathered to swap stories about the progress of the Queen in pursuit of her husband, for men enjoyed gossip as much as women, but the amusement ended as the men left the ale behind and went home. None of them was certain what the future would hold.

This part of the country appeared to have little enough reason to fear battle, Margaret thought. The crops and apples in the orchards had been harvested, and the peasants were out in their fields preparing for winter, trimming hedges and collecting faggots for their fires, and dealing with the numberless little jobs which had been put off during the harvest. None had suffered from the ravages of violence in the same way as the people about London, or the folks of the Welsh Marches in the last four years. The Despenser had enraged other barons to the limit of endurance, and they had risen against him, rampaging over the Despenser territories, killing, looting, pillaging wherever they went, and finally marching on London itself, where they held the King hostage until he agreed to exile his favourite.

But King Edward had had no intention of honouring his promise. While Despenser agreed to take to his boat and leave the kingdom, in reality he based himself on the coast, while the King prepared to bring him back. The resulting war devastated swathes of peasant lands, and Despenser returned, only to bring ferocious revenge upon those who had dared to try to curb his ambition.

Here, thank God, there was little evidence of such violence. Margaret cuddled her son closer to her and began to relax, but in the middle hours of the morning, trouble arose once again.

They had ridden into a large village not far from a place called Basingstoches, when they were accosted by a man riding fast from the south.

‘Beware! Stop! There are men up there who’ve clubbed others for what they can steal! Don’t head that way, friends, as you value your lives.’

Margaret could see that her husband was on his guard immediately. Hugh was the same; he trotted on his little pony up to Simon, his large staff in his hand, to listen carefully, while motioning to Rob to join them. Rob appeared not to notice, and despite the situation, Meg had to stifle a giggle to see Hugh’s scowl as he prodded the boy sharply with his staff.

Unaware of their antics, Simon was asking, ‘Where have these men come from, fellow?’

‘They’ve just appeared in the last day or two. Bastard thieves, the lot of them. There’s a tale told that a poor widow backalong was found in her house when they passed by, and they made play with her. Sorry, mistress, but the truth can be shameful.’

‘I don’t know,’ Simon said. ‘We are on our way homewards, and that means Exeter.’

‘You’d be best served to take a wide circuit of Basingstoches, friend. I’d not see a family attacked if they can be saved.’

Simon nodded, his eyes staring back the way the fellow had come from. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

The scene was pleasant, the sun breaking through the clouds and sending shafts of golden light stabbing at the ground to the south. A natural curve of the land gave them a view past two gently undulating hills, and through the pass between them. There were woods on top of the hills, but the lower-lying ground was all pasture and field. In among the trees there was a fire, seemingly, and the smoke rose in a thin stream. It appeared to climb a little above the trees, only to be whipped away by the little gusts of wind that licked at his face moments later.

‘Oh, God’s bones, it’s them!’ the man said with a gasp of horror. ‘They’ve come nearer than I realised. Master, you must ride from here.’

‘How many are they?’ Simon said.

‘Thirty, perhaps? Too many for you to protect your family against them.’

Simon shot a look at the rest of his party, and reached out to his wife. ‘Meg, give me Perkin. I can carry him more easily than you. Hugh, you stay with her, and Rob – keep up . This is no time for whining about bloody horses, boy! Now, ride!’

Margaret gave him Perkin, and then leaned forward impulsively to kiss him. She cast a swift glance towards the smoke, and then he saw her mouth fall open. Two men were approaching at the gallop, and then behind them he saw another – and then another. ‘Meg: ride !’ he shouted, and slapped her horse’s rump to get it moving.

Looking over her shoulder, Margaret saw him turn to face them, assessing the threat, his horse springing up on its hind legs, sensing the excitement.

If it were only the two, and he hadn’t already taken Perkin, she knew he would have chanced his luck. One rider could hold two at need; but there were more and more appearing, tumbling out of the trees on horses that appeared fresh – six… no, eight. Margaret could see that Simon’s own mount was not exhausted yet, but they had covered some miles and hadn’t yet taken a rest, for they had been planning to stop and take some food shortly. She saw him curse their bad fortune as he wheeled his horse round to follow the others, and clapped spurs to the flanks, one arm about their wailing son’s waist, the other gripping the reins tightly.

Margaret could not watch, for her mare was always likely to stray too close under a tree, forgetful of her rider. It was all she could do to cling to the beast, head low over her neck, trying to avoid the mane as it whirled about in front of her, and shoving her face into the horse’s coat every so often as a branch flashed past. Only when they had ridden into a patch of more open roadway did she look back once more, and see that her husband was falling behind.

‘Simon!’

Bristol

Emma had been waiting in the gatehouse for an age, or so it felt, when the damned man deigned to come down and see her, and her mood was not of the best. Christ’s bones, but she was a woman of some position in this city! The fact that she was clad in her richest clothes, the bright crimson cloak with the squirrel fur trimming, the green velvet tunic, sewn to taper in at her waist and show off her bosom – all was designed to prove that she was wealthy enough to be taken seriously. Yet she was left waiting here like some common petitioner at a lord’s doorway. It was outrageous!

When the figure appeared, she remained on the bench where she had been sitting, so that their roles were subtly reversed. She eyed him contemptuously from his boots to his head. ‘You are Constable here?’

‘I am Sir Laurence Ashby, Constable of Bristol under the King,’ he acknowledged, and gave her a bow.

He at least appeared to have some manners, she conceded. Still, his voice showed that he was a foreigner, and as such, not to be trusted. She could tell he was not from Bristol.

‘I am here because of an error,’ she said stiffly.

His eyebrows lifted. ‘Yes?’

‘Some weeks ago, a man and his wife, the Capons, and their daughter, Petronilla, along with her child, were all killed, with their bottler; they were murdered by their son-in-law, Squire William de Bar of Hanham.’

Sir Laurence nodded, a slight frown at his forehead. ‘I have heard of the case. It was most distressing.’

‘But the curious matter is, my maid saw his men in the city, and after asking at the gaol, I learn that he has been released with them. Is this so?’

‘I fear it is.’

Her voice hardened. ‘Then I respectfully ask that you have him taken into custody once more, sir. He is an enormously dangerous man, and should be held in the gaol until the Justices can listen to the case and see him executed.’