Michael JECKS - The Oath

The Coroner was a little way ahead of him. He and Robert set off again, along the side of the river, both horses flagging a little. There were men at the banks, watering their own beasts, there were dogs, yelping and snapping at their hooves, and other men, standing with polearms or swords drawn, who scattered as the two men lowered their heads and galloped onwards, and there were the flocks of sheep, no doubt stolen from every homestead and farm along the way for food on the hoof, which bleated and bolted as though the hounds of hell were after them.

And then… then they were through, and their mad career could slow, while they gasped for breath and stared about them wildly.

After that, their journey was less eventful, fortunately. Until now, reaching the gate. ‘What will happen to your clerk?’ Robert asked.

‘Him? He’d smell of roses if he fell in the city midden,’ Sir Stephen said dismissively.‘A luckier man never was born. He’ll be fine.’ But now they were in the city, he bellowed for the gatekeeper. ‘Keep an eye open to south and east, man. If you see anyone approach, lock the gates immediately. There is a host of men out there, and they’ll be here very soon, God save our souls!’

Margaret was angry with herself more than with Simon. She knew as well as he that it was dangerous even to think of leaving for their home, but the sense that they were betraying their daughter was so strong, she felt a powerful guilt, as if their inaction was itself about to put Edith into danger.

The inn’s yard was almost empty at this time of day. Usually it would be full of merchants, traders, hawkers and others jostling for space. There would be carts and wagons arriving every few moments with foodstuffs for the inn, and straw and hay for the stables. The inn was one of the largest in the city and, with its proximity to the castle, often took all the excess visitors from there as well – but right now it was all but silent. There were no travellers to the city.

It was mute proof of the fairness of her husband’s words, but it only served to increase Meg’s bitterness. The realm was falling apart, and the thought that they might soon be snared inside a besieged city was like a needle in her brain. It was a miracle that they had managed to escape the city of London, and doubly frustrating that their freedom had been of such short duration.

Hugh and Rob walked behind her as she made her way out and along the wall of the castle to the river, where she stepped silently, staring at the waters. There was a slight breeze, and clouds were covering the sky, so she had to wrap her arms about her breast to keep herself warm. There was something soothing about the river lapping against the bank, the trickling sounds, the sudden gurgles, that cooled her hot temper.

It was unlike her to be angry, and to respond so fiercely to Simon. It was not his fault, after all.

She had been married to Simon so long ago now, it was hard to remember a time when she had been free. He had come to their farm, and she had been taken by his looks and manner immediately. The son of the steward to the de Courtenay family, Simon was a man of some importance in their county, and Margaret was proud when he asked for her hand. And she had never had cause to regret her choice. He was kind, he was faithful, he was witty, and he had given her and the children a good life. What more could a woman ask from her man than all that?

Yet in the last months their lives had been entirely disrupted, and this last obstacle had been the final straw on the camel’s back. All along, she had coped with the strain of her daughter’s marriage, then the enmity of Sir Hugh Despenser, who had so cruelly broken them by seeing them thrown from their home of ten years or so at Lydford, and then the horrid periods when Simon had been sent off to London or Paris to do the King’s bidding. But like a thread wound too tightly, the tension of the last year or more had finally made her snap.

They had walked on and were near the main bridge to the city from the southern side of the Avon. She stood a moment, gazing out over the waters to the lands in front, wondering how long it would actually take to ride to Exeter, to go to her daughter’s house and make sure that she and her little child were safe. Five days? Perhaps three if she made haste. One hundred miles was not so terribly far, after all.

There was a bellow, and she looked up to see a small group of men riding fast towards the city gates. The man at the head of the group was an older fellow, and he had a herald with him who bore a fluttering standard, while behind him were thirty men-at-arms, all well mounted, and with armour that glittered and shone.

As they approached, a Bailiff of the city stepped forward with his polearm at the ready. ‘Who are you?’

‘Stand aside for the Earl of Winchester, Constable of the Castle of Bristol!’ the herald roared, and the men rode in at the canter, their hooves clattering on the cobbles as they made for the castle.

‘Hugh!’ Margaret said urgently. ‘Take me back to the inn. We have to tell Simon!’

Bristol Castle

He heard the shouting in the yard and hurried to the door of his chamber, pulling it wide open. There was a small corridor before the walkway on the castle’s wall, and Sir Laurence reached it almost before the first riders had swung down from the saddle.

‘Oh, Mary, Mother of God,’ he muttered, and went to the stairs in the tower nearby.

This was not what he had expected. The Earl of Winchester was one of the most powerful men in the country, probably somewhere after the King and his son, Sir Hugh le Despenser. Sir Laurence knew that in the realm there were few who could equal the Earl’s authority. Even Bishops and Archbishops did not have the same access to the King, because Sir Hugh was Edward’s most favoured adviser, and if the King’s adviser recommended an action or sought a specific end, it was highly unlikely to be refused.

He came to the bottom of the stairs and emerged into the courtyard. ‘Earl Hugh, my lord, you are very welcome.’

‘Don’t give me that ballocks, Sir Laurence! You’re wondering what in God’s name I’m doing here, aren’t you?’ the Earl said as he carefully climbed from his horse. ‘Time was, I’d have jumped from my mount. Beware old age, Sir Laurence. It creeps up on you like a draw-latch, and takes away all your abilities. I’ve been riding too quickly in the last few days, and my muscles are all complaining. I didn’t realise I had so many in my backside, in God’s name!’

He stood a moment with a hand rubbing his lower back, and then nodded towards the hall. ‘Let’s go and talk.’

The castle’s hall was a good-sized room, with a fireplace set into the northern wall that was already filled with flames from some small logs. A pair of larger logs lay before it, warming before they too could be set on the hearth. There was little decoration here, apart from some paintings on the wall behind the dais, which showed scenes of hunting: men on horseback winding their horns as they galloped towards a glorious hart, raches and alaunts leading the way. It was a scene which Sir Laurence had always loved, being a keen huntsman himself. Away on the right of the picture was a final scene, in which the alaunts had encircled the hart and were preparing for their final attacks, teeth bared, while the poor creature remained at bay.

For the first time, seeing the picture, Sir Laurence was suddenly struck by this scene. It was as though the artist was depicting the final days of Bristol, the noble hart encircled by ravening foes preparing to rip it to pieces. The thought made him feel chill.

The Earl stomped into the room, glanced about him with a glower, and made his way to the fire. He barked an order to his page, who ran to the dais, snatched up a chair, and brought it to the fireside.