Michael JECKS: The Oath

She murmured to him as she walked through the passageway to the hall. Little Harry looked up at her with those wide, trusting eyes, and she smiled as he burped.

Cecily had sworn to serve his mother and protect Harry, and she would not break that vow.

That part of her dream was always so happy. She had been content, then, easy in her mind. Before that, while Petronilla was away in Hanham, her life had been empty, her existence anxious, because unnecessary servants were easily discarded. Now, with Petronilla back once more, it seemed that Cecily could count on a secure future.

Later that same morning, Cecily respectfully ducked her head to Petronilla’s parents as she passed through the hall on her way towards the screens.

Arthur Capon sat near the fire, ignoring Cecily as he spoke with his wife who was sitting in the light near the window’s bars and working on a fine cap for her grandson, peering closely with her poor eyesight.

Cecily went to the little pantry near the front door. Here she could dandle the boy on her knee while chatting to the bottler. It was always best to keep a child busy. Just as he needed his arms and legs restrained so that they might grow firm and straight, there were other risks: a child might stare too long at a single bright light, and that would produce a squint in later years. Or a babe set to sleep in a hanging cot might wriggle free of the bindings, and fall and hang himself. There were so many dangers. But at least people tried to protect children. No one would hurt a child on purpose, would they? That would be wicked.

So she had believed, in her innocence.

In her dream, she remembered the knocking at the door, reminding her of her failure, her dishonour.

She had sworn to protect Harry. And instead…

The rapping was insistent. Cecily had remained sitting while the bottler rose from his stool and walked to the screens. There was nothing unusual in visitors coming to the house, for Arthur Capon was a successful merchant, and also a money-lender. Men often called by to speak with him, and so, as the bottler opened the door, Cecily did not look up. It was just a normal morning.

Except then it ceased to be normal.

There was a shout: full of malice, it was enough to startle Cecily and make her look up. The door was suddenly thrust wide, and the bottler remonstrated, only to make a strange noise, a watery, gurgling sound like Little Harry, and then he stepped back, falling hard on his rump. Seeing him, Cecily almost laughed aloud. He was so proud of himself and his position in the world, that to stumble like that would mortify him. But the smile was struck from her face as she saw the blood.

And then the men entered.

She told the jury at the inquest, held that same afternoon, that first inside was the squire, Petronilla’s husband.

Squire William de Bar was like a man made of steel that day, she said. His blue eyes were cold and uncaring, and as he strode over the threshold, his sword was already dripping with the bottler’s gore. He kicked the body aside before marching into the hall towards Arthur Capon and, as the older man demanded to know what he was doing in the house unannounced, he thrust his sword into his father-in-law’s breast. Capon stared at the man disbelievingly, his mouth working, but no words came. He tried to stand, but that merely forced his body further onto the blade, and the blood gushed from his nostrils and mouth as he attempted to cry for help.

The only voice Cecily heard in her dreams was that of Madame Capon. Cecily told the jurors that, as Madame Capon’s husband slumped back in his chair, his arms thrashing, legs beating a staccato rhythm as his soul fled, his wife gave a shrill little cry: the despairing whimper of a creature in the extremity of distress.

The jurors drew in a collective hiss of breath – like a snake’s curse – as Cecily told that part.

Madame Capon’s little wail had been enough for the murderer to turn to her. Pulling his sword free from Arthur Capon’s jerking body, he said in a voice low with rage. ‘You, you lousy old whore, you did this. You and him, you robbed me of my name, you took my honour and shamed me! Are you satisfied now, you bitch ?’ Cecily could remember each word with absolute precision. With that, he punched the woman with his free hand, and she lay sobbing, her hand at her face. It was not sufficient to save her. She was stabbed three times in the breast and throat.

Cecily stood clutching the baby to her, staring in horror. Now she darted to the side of the screens in the pantry, concealing herself and hushing the baby as more men ran inside, through the hall out to the solar and Petronilla’s bedchamber, their boots thundering on the boards. Soon the hall was empty but for the two corpses and the dying bottler. So far, her quick thinking had saved her and the child from attack.

As the steps faded, she darted to the bottler. He was lying on his side, gripping his belly, and she saw between his hands the bulge of blue and pink intestines, the slow seeping of blood through his fingers as he began to shake, speechless with agony. ‘Go!’ he whispered.

With that, Cecily roused herself into action. She ran to her master and took his dagger from the sheath at his belt, turned, and began to run, Harry gripped tightly in her arms. She had sworn to protect him. Not that she repeated that to the jurors. They all knew her, they had seen her with her charge. No one could doubt her love for the mite.

Outside, in the paved court before the house, she heard another woman’s shriek, a rising ululation of torment that gradually faded as Cecily ran farther from that house of horror, clutching the baby to her breast like a woman possessed, hurtling to the gate that led to the road outside.

Yes. She had told the jury all that. Sometimes, when she was fortunate, that was when she woke from the dream, out near the gate before the house. Better that, than to remain asleep and remember the rest.

At other times, she continued in her dream, reliving what happened next.

And always aware of her lies.

First Wednesday after the Feast of St Michael, twentieth year of the reign of King Edward II[3] 1 October 1326

Near Barnwell Priory

There was a chill in the air as the men of the Queen’s host moved down the broad roadway towards the next town, and young Edward, Duke of Aquitaine and Earl of Chester, shivered miserably. He was tired and feeling more than a little sick. Even with the aketon over his shirt, the hauberk and the pair of plates over that, the dampness seemed to soak into his very soul, making the nausea worse.

He was the son of the King, and the idea that he might shame himself and his father by puking in public was not to be considered. Except he was shamed already.

Always in the past the English King had travelled to Paris to pay homage for the lands owned by him in France. Guyenne was crucial to the English Crown, after all. The money from those great wine-producing regions brought in more to the exchequer than England and Wales together. It was inconceivable that the King could allow those lands to be lost.

However, the worst had happened. King Edward II had allowed the French to occupy the whole of his estates in France, and King Charles had declared them forfeit purely because King Edward had refused to pay homage . Edward was in an impossible situation. Were he to leave England, his barons would overthrow his Regent, Sir Hugh le Despenser, son of the Earl of Winchester, just as the Earl of Warwick had done ten or more years ago when he captured Piers Gaveston and had him beheaded. The King dared not leave another close friend to the mercy of his barons.

Queen Isabella, the Duke’s mother, was sister to King Charles, and had travelled to Paris to negotiate a truce and try to win back the English lands. Success seemed close at hand when she wrote to ask that her son be given the English lands in France. That way, she explained, he could travel to Paris, pay homage in his own right, and thereby satisfy the English King’s need to remain in England, while also giving the French King the gratification of knowing that he had procured the confirmation of his subject’s loyalty. It was the ideal compromise.