Michael JECKS - The Oath

It was a great problem that horses could not cover more than a man on foot in a day. The King’s Messengers were aware of that: a man on foot was expected to cover thirty to thirty-five miles, which was the same as a man on a horse. It was only at times of extreme urgency that a messenger would be given free passes and the right to demand a change of horse at every twenty miles or so. Other men had to accept the fact that if they wanted their mounts to survive a long journey, they must allow the beasts to rest at regular intervals.

Their journey had not been easy for the last day or so. From Salisbury, as they pressed on, they had come upon a number of men who were being arrayed and counted for the King. More and more were filling the streets and lanes, no matter which road they took, and it was growing dangerous. Baldwin could understand the quizzical looks he received from some of them, but it was unpleasant nonetheless. Many of them clearly wondered where he was going, and why. Some believed he could be a messenger for the Queen and Mortimer, and would have had him arrested and held, and it was only his belligerence as he demanded to speak to their commanders that ensured his release at the various stopping points.

‘We will be there by noon,’ Baldwin said, gazing at the city.

‘It will be an immense relief to be home again,’ Redcliffe said. He had not survived their journey unscathed. His face was more lined and fretful, his complexion more sallow and unhealthful, and now he sat on his horse with his fingers tapping at the reins as though keeping time with music only he could hear.

The sight of his distress was enough to convince Baldwin. ‘We shall wait here and rest our mounts. We are near enough, there is no need to force the beasts on without account for their health. They have brought us far enough already today.’

‘There are more, look!’ Jack called out as the three swung sore legs over their saddles, pointing down into the valley before them.

Baldwin stared, shaking his head. ‘The sight of so many men marching to their doom is a terrifying one,’ he said.

There must have been more than a hundred of them. All clad in fustian and other cheap cloths, a mass of brown, green and faded red clothes, walking with their heads hanging, weapons of all types over their shoulders, dangling from slack hands or sheathed. Baldwin could see them as though they were walking only a yard from him: brown faces anxious and alarmed, boys of fourteen, men of fifty, all drawn along by that same responsibility to their lord. All knowing that they must stand in a line and defend each other against the force arrayed against them. Many must die, because with cheap helmets and little steel protection, they were mere targets to the arrows and lances of the professional killers who stood opposing them.

‘It is a terrible sight,’ he breathed.

‘Nay, Sir Baldwin,’ Redcliffe said, and now he had a gleam of excitement in his eye. ‘These are courageous men, all of them prepared to fight and die for their King! What could be more glorious than that?’

Baldwin turned to face him. ‘When they have chewed on a battle, and have survived, then you can tell me that they will enjoy their glory. Most will not. War is a hideous grinding of men and bodies, not a cause for celebration. These men will soon face Mortimer’s knights and squires, and when they do, they will learn what it is to endure pain.’

‘You have fought, Sir Baldwin. War is sad, I make no doubt, but the fact is, these fellows will have the honour of serving their King and their lord. There is nothing better for a man than that.’

Baldwin shook his head. He had served, and those were battles which served a purpose, for they were to defend the Holy Land from the depredations of the Saracens. When he had been at Acre, fighting alongside the Knights Templar, he had fought for the protection of God’s holy land, and to serve the pilgrims who wished to visit it. He had seen warfare at close hand, and had killed his foes. Yes, and seen his friends hacked to pieces, pierced by arrows, slammed against the walls by enormous ballista bolts or splashed across masonry by a mangonel’s rocks. There was nothing pleasant, honourable or good about such a death.

Afterwards, of course, all that sacrifice had been made irrelevant by the self-serving greed of the French King and Pope, who had agreed a pact between them to have all the Templars arrested and all their valuables and treasure confiscated. The Templars had been branded heretics and, worse, accused of devil-worship and other atrocities, and many were tortured and killed.

‘Those fellows know they are fighting in a good cause,’ Redcliffe said.

‘Perhaps. But many more will not know why they fight, nor for whom,’ Baldwin said firmly. ‘This war, if it comes, will pit brother against brother or father. It will be a woeful battle that seeks to put another’s interest between members of the same family.’

‘The answer to that is easy, Sir Baldwin. The foul enemies of the King must surrender, as they did before during the Marcher Wars.’

‘I have taken my oath for the King. I do not need reminding of the duty of his knights and men to protect him,’ Baldwin said. ‘Jack, do you bring the food bags. We shall have a little bread and cheese.’

He was tempted to say more to explain the horror of war, but when he looked at Redcliffe, he thought he saw a cynical twist to the man’s mouth. Baldwin suddenly had the feeling that Redcliffe was jesting, and that thought made him wary. Who would dare to joke about fidelity to the King at a time like this? But no, he told himseslf, he was merely being over-sensitive. To him, warfare was no joking matter.

He held out his hand and took the satchel from Jack, but his eyes were drawn back to the lines of men marching in the dust.

‘You feel sorry for them?’ Jack asked quietly.

Baldwin looked at him, and rested a hand on his shoulder. The boy had also seen battle, and had shown himself valorous. ‘Do you?’

‘I feel sorry for all of us,’ Jack said.

‘That is good,’ Baldwin said heavily. ‘They serve, and it is good that they answered the summons – but I hope and pray that Mortimer and Isabella will come to their senses and stop before we have more bloodshed!’

Bank of the River Severn

Bernard was not happy. It was clear in the way that he scowled ahead, eyes always studying the ground as he searched out any possible dangers.

They had waited the previous evening with all the other members of the royal household, watching as the King and his closest guards boarded the ship and moved away from the shore into the middle of the River Severn, where the sails began to fill, and the ship rolled slightly as the wind caught at them.

There they had remained on the banks of the river, Bernard keeping watch, Pagan and Alexander moodily hunkered down beside a fire, casting glances at the two religious until a large boat arrived. Despenser had arranged for it to take them across the river, which was very broad here, and before too long they had managed to get horses, packhorses and friars on board, and were crossing to the other side, where they camped for the evening.

It was very curious. Over on the Welsh shore, almost as soon as the King had gone, his men began to disappear. When Edward boarded, there had been 200 men there, but when Ralph left to supervise the loading of his goods on the ship, that number had already halved, and when he looked back at the banks from the river as they coasted along, he saw only a few men, all standing about the fire Pagan had abandoned. The others seemed to have faded away into the trees to escape the Queen when she arrived.

They slept the night on the eastern bank, one standing guard through the watches in case a man from the Queen’s host should happen by, since they had no idea where her forces were yet. All were glad when the sun finally appeared.