Michael JECKS - The Oath

Back at home in his own vill, the lord of the manor was a knight who looked rather like this one: a man called Sir Hector who seemed equally amiable. But when you looked carefully into his face, you could see the cruelty in his eyes, a disdain that encompassed all who were not of his rank. It was no surprise to Robert to learn that a knight could be guided by the power that his status gave him. They were trained to kill and maim from an early age, so it was scarcely to be wondered at that they would turn to violence as a first resort rather than a last.

The jury appeared to know the man, from the way that they all avoided his gaze. And yet there was no proof of this knight’s viciousness. Thinking about it, Robert Vyke was unwilling to hold the blow at his gaoler’s mouth against the knight. That, he felt as another twinge of pain shot up from his shin, was entirely justified.

As all were herded off along the lane to the place where he had been struck down again, Robert Vyke had the support of a young peasant who, although he smelled strongly of sheep, was possessed of a strong arm. And then they arrived at the place where the head still lay upon the branch. The knight stood here and stared around him as though dazed. There was no cruelty in his eyes here, only sadness. ‘This,’ he said slowly, ‘is terrible.’

The head was much deteriorated now, with the flesh falling away, the eyes… well, he couldn’t look at them again. They had haunted his dreams for too long. Instead Robert gazed about him at anything else, rather than the face – and that was when he saw a fresh horror.

On the ground, a few yards away, lay a torso, presumably belonging with the head. One arm was almost removed, while the other, the left, was hideously marked. The palm of the hand was scored with great cuts and slashes, and insects and small animals had nibbled and worried at the loose flesh. The belly had been opened, and animals had gorged on the corpse’s entrails. For all that, the victim had been wealthy, from the look of his clothing. A rich scarlet material covered his upper body, and his cloak was of good quality – a thick, emerald-coloured item that had fur at the edge of the collar.

‘You did not notice this, Halt?’ the knight demanded, his face twisted into a rictus of disgust at the smell.

‘I haven’t been this way in a week or more,’ Halt said whiningly. ‘Been working out the fields and hedging with everyone else, these last few days.’

‘Oh, really?’ the Coroner said unsympathetically.

The inquest was brief enough. Standing in the midst of the shaw, the Coroner gazed about him, announced fines for the people there, declared that the body had been slashed and stabbed twenty or more times, and the head removed. Then he asked who the dead man was.

There was a renewed bout of nervous coughing and shuffling before someone admitted that they had no idea. It was not a local, they said. He must have come from some distance, because a man clad in such rich clothing would no doubt be famous to people for many miles about his hall.

The Coroner nodded to himself pensively as they said all this. ‘Yes, very interesting. But I happen to know him. It is Squire William of Hanham, who lived little more than three leagues away, I think. So the vill is fortunate. You will not be fined the murdrum , since you can present Englishry, but will only be fined for the death – and for not reporting it properly. However, because you are not a rich vill, I doubt you will manage to pay it. Which means I shall have to return, no doubt, and seize what I may in order to pay the King’s fee. I am very sorry for all this, but it is the law.’

‘Squire William, you said?’ the clerk confirmed.

‘Yes. And I think his death may be fortunate,’ the Coroner said musingly. ‘He was responsible for the murder of the Capons, and there could have been trouble in the city, were he found there again. We don’t want the folks of Bristol falling into chaos and disorder.’

‘But who would do this to him?’

‘To dismember and behead a man… it implies a punishment for treachery. Perhaps because he killed his own father-in-law? I wonder if the family left any heirs.’

‘Shall I note all that?’ the clerk asked.

‘If you wish, John. Perhaps you would like to see me prosecuted for my behaviour, eh? I do not think it will happen. There are more pressing matters for the King to be troubled by without his concerning himself over my affairs. Right, you, Halt: is there a spare horse or pony here?’

‘No one has any animals to spare, Sir Stephen.’

‘Then I shall require one that you cannot spare. This first finder is coming with me. I will not have him left here to expire from lack of care by you and the others in the vill. Find him a pony or ass, or I will increase the fine on you for contumacy.’

Fourth Tuesday after the Feast of St Michael [21] 21 October 1326

Chepstow

It was another miserable day, Sir Ralph of Evesham thought as he listened to the rain splashing outside. The clouds were all low and rimmed with black, and the views were of greyness in every direction. It was hard to remember a time when the sun had shone, he sighed as he mopped at the back of his neck with a square kerchief. He had been out to squat, his bowels playing merry blazes after too many days and nights with poor food and lodgings, and got a soaking in return.

They had been here in Chepstow for a couple of nights now, and in that time they had heard several reports about the progress of the Queen. It was enough to make a man weep. All were going to her, none coming to support the King.

‘More wine?’ enquired Bernard, his squire, holding up the wineskin.

‘Why not?’ Sir Ralph said, lifting up his cup.

They were seated about a fire in this little chamber. They had not stolen anything, but the owners were not around. As so often happened, the moment a force of men arrived, many householders fled. It was natural enough. No man wanted to wait in order that his daughter could be raped. Troops were always an untrustworthy mob at the best of times, and these were not the best of times.

‘You heard about the Queen’s proclamation at Gloucester?’ his squire asked, poking their fire with a stick.

‘No.’

‘It’s all over the camp. She has said that the King isn’t at fault, she’s not here to harm him; her argument is with Despenser, and she’s come to remove him from her husband’s side for the good of the realm.’

‘That’ll wash well with the people,’ Sir Ralph said.

‘Aye. But it won’t work.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If she is serious about getting rid of Despenser, she’d have to kill him. The King exiled him before, didn’t he – and how long did that last?’

Sir Ralph nodded. Sir Hugh le Despenser had been forced from the realm, but he didn’t go far. Instead, he based himself on the South Coast of England and preyed on the shipping in the English Channel, acting the pirate. To this day the French King had a price on Despenser’s head for the French ships he had robbed, so if he were to appear in France, he would be executed on sight. Then, as soon as the King felt strong enough, he had invited his most favoured adviser back to his court, and launched a war on those who had thwarted him. No, he would never willingly give up Hugh le Despenser, and it was equally unlikely that his Queen would believe him if he promised to do so.

‘There’s a story going round about London, too,’ Bernard added.

‘Oh yes? London has rebelled has it?’ Sir Ralph said dully, staring into the flames and playing with the cloth in his hands.

‘They’ve killed Bishop Stapledon,’ Bernard said quietly. ‘I heard they cut off his head, threw his body in a ditch, and sent the head to the Queen. She received it in Gloucester.’