Michael JECKS - The Oath

Baldwin was nothing loth. They left their mounts in a stable-yard, where hostlers hurried to groom and feed them, while the three went for a welcome drink.

‘Thomas, how are you?’ was bellowed from the bar at the far end of the room as they entered, and a large bear of a man, with a thick, bushy beard and arms muscled like a string of small ale barrels, came out and strode towards them, wiping his hands on an apron of linen.

‘I am well, God shield you, Matt. And you?’

‘I’m as fine as a summer’s day, Master Thomas. Wine?’

‘Aye, a flagon for me and my friends.’

‘You know this tavern well, then,’ Baldwin said.

‘I come here most days, yes. But there are not as many men here as usual,’ Redcliffe commented, glancing about him. ‘Where are they all?’

Matthew was returning with a stack of four large mazers in one beefy hand, and a quart flagon in the other. ‘They’ve all gone to talk about things, master. You heard who is coming here today?’

‘No, we’ve only just arrived.’

‘The Earl of Winchester. He’s come to take charge of the castle, but they say he’s got control of all the King’s men from Hampshire to Cornwall. Every able man who is held true to his oath to the King is to muster.’

‘So,’ Baldwin breathed, ‘Hugh le Despenser, Earl of Winchester, has come, has he? He was said to be a wily old warrior, but I don’t know that he would best Roger Mortimer. After all, Mortimer was the King’s most successful General until Despenser’s son alienated him and persuaded the King to sign his death warrant.’

The Despenser family had been long-standing rivals of the Mortimers. The Earl of Winchester’s son was the same Hugh who was now the King’s favourite and chief companion, and it was his grandsire, the Earl’s father, who had been slain on the battlefield at Evesham by Roger Mortimer’s grandfather. Since inveigling his way into the King’s affections, Sir Hugh had managed to see his father elevated to the earldom which he himself coveted so greatly.

Baldwin mused on this. ‘I have met the Earl. I believe him to be honourable.’ He was at least, as he reminded himself, far less avaricious and self-serving than his deplorable son.

Matthew the landlord leaned down and beckoned Baldwin and Redcliffe closer. Speaking quietly, he said, ‘He’ll need all his skills and authority to hold the city. It matters bugger all what he’s named. It’s said that the Earl of Lancaster has declared for the Queen, and marches to her aid with all his retainers.’

Thomas Redcliffe shrugged. ‘Even a man so powerful as he would not on his own swing the affair. If the King stands firm on a battlefield, he can win. Remember the battles on the Marches. All the rebels declared that they would fight Despenser, but not the King. Not many would dare to stand against the man whom God Himself has anointed. When the King showed his own banner, the rebels were forced to submit. They wouldn’t willingly break their vows to him. He might manage the same again.’

‘The King won’t be here,’ Matthew said. ‘Word is that he’ll leave the land. He won’t wait here to be caught, you mark my words.’

‘What?’ Redcliffe scoffed. ‘You think the King would desert his own kingdom? And where would he go? Would he sail to France, where the King hates him for refusing to pay homage for the French territories he holds, and hates him even more for the way he has treated his sister, Queen Isabella? No, he couldn’t dare sail there. Where else would he be welcomed?’

Baldwin sucked his teeth. ‘Ireland, I would guess. He has allies there, and the land is pacified. Where better for him?’

Redcliffe frowned a moment. ‘But if he were to do that, surely he would lose the kingdom.’

‘Perhaps he thinks to lose a kingdom is one thing – to lose his head…’ Matthew murmured.

‘That could be considered seditious,’ Baldwin said sharply. ‘Be careful to whom you speak.’

‘Oh, I am, sir, I am. There is more, too. They say that the Queen is only a short way away from here now. Bristol will soon be under siege, and when it is, the King’s commands will carry little weight. This city is independent.’

‘It is a city in the King’s realm,’ Baldwin declared hotly.

‘Sir, it’s only ten years ago we had the King’s host outside our doors hurling rocks at us. They took the city, banished eighty of our people, and taxed us so heavily we could hardly afford food or drink. We don’t forget.’

‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin said, ‘you also remember who was the King’s officer at the time? The man positioning the artillery of war was the Queen’s associate, Roger Mortimer. So you could fight the man who ordered the attack on your city, or the man who actually attacked. The choice is not so easy, my friend.’

North of Bristol

The rain started again a little before noon, and Sir Ralph hunched down so his neck was protected from the drips. They were riding through a small wood, and he could hear the pattering of the heavy drops on his felt cap. The water dripped from the tip of his brim onto his groin, which he knew would become increasingly uncomfortable as he rode on. There was already a cool, damp sensation all down his legs, and he tried to pull a fold of his cloak over himself again, but it wasn’t large enough.

It was dark in among the trees, and he was anxious for a while that they might be waylaid. Everywhere moisture gleamed, from leaves, from bark, from the very mud of the path. And now the rain seemed to ease a little, and suddenly they were in the open.

There was a man on a horse, a man-at-arms, who turned to face them as they trotted out. ‘Who are you?’ he shouted out.

‘Sir Ralph of Evesham,’ the knight growled. Bernard was quickly at his side, and the two of them kept their hands near their swords.

‘Where do you ride?’

Sir Ralph looked at Bernard, and the two began to move towards the man, increasing the distance between themselves to provide better fighting space.

‘Who are you , and where do you ride?’ Sir Ralph asked with an edge to his voice, reining in his horse.

He was suddenly taken by the sight before him. There was a large encampment, with men and horses resting. He saw the Earl of Winchester’s arms on a banner, and felt relief. ‘It’s all right,’ he said to the picket. ‘We’re with the King.’

Bristol

Simon and Margaret had been installed in a small inn a short way from the castle’s western gate, and Sir Charles had visited them the previous evening to ensure that they were as comfortable as they might be. He had done so by the simple expedient of explaining to the innkeeper that these were friends of Sir Hugh de Courtenay, the Baron of Devon, who would have the innkeeper stripped and held by the thumbs for the sport of the entire city if he didn’t see to it that Simon and his lady were fed only the best foods and drinks during their stay.

The quality of their food was certainly good. Simon and Margaret were also taken with the bed, which was the first comfortable one they had enjoyed for many long miles. Even now, unusually for Simon and although it was only close to noon, he felt the need to return to his bed and rest a little, and for once Peterkin expressed a desire to sleep too. Rob was already snoring, curled by the fire in the hall.

‘Simon, when do you think we can go home?’ his wife asked, entering the chamber with him.

Sitting on the bed and pulling off his boots, Simon twisted his face into a grimace. ‘I don’t know, Meg. The roads will still likely be filled with men looking to fight for one cause or another.’

‘I am still keen to return to Exeter, to see Edith.’