Michael JECKS - The Oath

She made her way to the church of St Peter, a short way from the castle’s bastion, and there prayed with absolute dedication for their journey to be safe. Like many travellers, she would often beg for God’s aid when going on a long journey, but this was more serious and the dangers more clear than at any other time she had set off. And there was the feeling that she needed to beg forgiveness for insisting that they should depart. It wasn’t fair that she should have forced Simon into changing his mind about staying here in Bristol.

When she rose, making the sign of the cross, she felt a conviction that her prayers had been heard, and it gave her a warm glow. With fortune, He would watch over them as they made their way homewards.

It was with this comfort in her heart that she walked from the church and returned to the inn. Here, she found Simon already loading the last of the packs on their horses, while Hugh was testing the saddle-straps and harnesses, glowering suspiciously as usual.

‘Our room is cleared,’ Simon said, seeing her. He did not try to embrace her. His face showed that he was still greatly troubled. ‘Everything is ready.’

She smiled, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, before taking the reins and walking her mare to a series of steps to mount. Once upon her horse, she felt again as though things must now begin to improve. Peterkin loudly demanded to be allowed to walk as far as the bridge, and Margaret indulged him today. The last thing she wanted was a row before setting off. That would be a dreadful augur. She desired calmness, for herself, but also for her husband.

As Simon and Hugh helped Rob to his pony, and then the two clambered aboard their own beasts, she was reminding herself that the further they descended into Devon, the safer they would be. Men who wished for battle and war would all be up here, or in Wales, not in the quiet lanes of Devonshire. With luck, they would be home within five days. That was all that mattered.

The small group walked their horses out of the inn’s gates, past the barbican to the castle, and thence along St Peter Street towards the High Street and the bridge. The sun was fighting hard to escape the clutches of the clouds, but didn’t quite succeed.

As they approached St Mary-le-Port Church, it became clear that there was some kind of blockage ahead, for carts, horses and shouting men thronged the way as far as the High Street itself. Hugh dropped down and, ruffling young Peterkin’s head, lifted him on to his mother’s sadddle, out of harm’s way.

‘What’s the matter up there?’ Simon demanded of a man nearby, who merely shrugged.

‘Probably a cart’s broken a wheel. You know what this place is like.’

Simon muttered a curse under his breath, and began to cast about for a different way to the bridge. However, if there was one, he thought the other inhabitants of the city would surely have availed themselves of it rather than queue up like this.

There was a man shoving his way through now, heading back the way they had come, and Simon hailed him. ‘Friend, can you tell us what is holding us all up?’

‘The gates are closed. The Queen’s host is approaching, and all the city’s gates are barred against her.’

Near Gloucester

Sir Ralph was glad that they had given him a place to lie down inside a tent. The weather worsened during the night, and the misery of trying to sleep on wet ground was not an experience he intended to repeat. He had been forced to do that often enough in his youth.

The Queen’s men were a curious mixture. There were voices from all over the world, with the guttural tones of those from Hainault and Frisia, clear, refined French, rougher Breton, and plenty of English from different parts of the country. She had truly gathered together one of the most cosmopolitan forces ever seen on English territory.

He recognised her as soon as he saw her.

The Queen was a slim lady, perhaps nine-and-twenty years old, and her reputation as the most beautiful woman in the whole of Christendom was not to be disputed. Her dress was black, a widow’s weeds, because she had declared that her marriage was being broken by Sir Hugh le Despenser, ‘this Pharisee’, and until she was avenged on him, she would dress like a widow; however, the black clothing only served to highlight her blonde beauty, as she must surely have known. Sir Ralph bowed low as he entered her presence, remaining bent until commanded to approach.

‘Sir Ralph of Evesham. It is a long time since I have seen you. Please, don’t bow again. You will give me a crick in my neck!’

‘Your Highness is most kind to remember me,’ Sir Ralph said.

She still had that little lilt of a French accent that had proved endearing to so many when she first arrived in England fifteen years ago. Then the child bride had been lonely, installed in this strange country without friends, apart from the few who were allowed to remain in her household. But soon it became clear that the King was more interested in certain among his advisers than a young girl, and her misery was complete. It was only after the barons revolted and forced the King to agree to limits on his powers that Isabella began to come into her own, and at last her husband started to treat her as a woman and wife, not an irritating little child.

That happy time was all too short. Then Sir Hugh le Despenser flexed his own ambition and the Queen started to be sidelined. The King preferred the companionship of his friend to that of his wife. Gradually the snide remarks grew into open hostility, and Queen Isabella lost all. Her lands, her dower, even the income from her possessions, such as Bristol, were taken from her. Then, after years of wrangling, the French King grew furious at the English prevarications about the French territories, and invaded King Edward’s possessions in France.

Malicious courtiers were happy to drip poison in the King’s ear. They pointed out that the Queen was herself French. She would support a French invasion, naturally. And her lands in Devon and Cornwall would provide the perfect location for an invasion force. To prevent this, her lands were sequestered, her income confiscated, her children, all of them, taken from her and placed in the protective custody of Lady Eleanor, Sir Hugh le Despenser’s wife; the Queen’s own worst enemy.

As soon as a chance presented itself, she fled to France, and began to raise her own force to wrest the kingdom from Despenser’s control.

Queen Isabella stood and clapped her hands. A steward arrived with jug and goblets, and soon Sir Ralph was sniffing a good, strong wine that made his mouth water.

She looked to the steward and nodded. Immediately, all the servants left the tent, and there was only the Queen and Sir Ralph. Instantly he felt more endangered than before.

‘So, Sir Ralph. I am glad to know that you are here.’

‘Where are the friars?’

She waved a hand in an impatient gesture. ‘They are safe and comfortable. Doing what they were sent here to do – to haggle. They are like a farmer who seeks the best price for his bushel of wheat, dickering for a day, while other men agree a price in the morning and enjoy the use of the money in the afternoon. Your friars are quibbling over details. Nothing more.’

‘They were to negotiate with you, Your Highness.’

‘They have seen me, and now they see my negotiators. Later, I shall speak with them again, perhaps. For now, they serve me better by meeting with others while I speak with you.’

‘What would you say to me?’

‘These friars, they came from my husband?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘How is he?’

Sir Ralph considered. ‘Hale and hearty. He has the heart of a lion.’

She smiled. ‘So, he is very anxious? Worried?’