Michael JECKS - The Oath

There was the sound of steps approaching, and then the Sergeant walked in again. He had Vyke’s pack with him, and opened it on the floor near the Earl.

Earl Hugh took the dagger when it was offered to him, and Vyke saw him shake his head. ‘A valuable piece. I would think any man would rue its loss. You have done well to discover it, Vyke.’

‘I was going to see if I could straighten it,’Vyke said.

‘You mean to keep it?’ Sir Stephen asked.

‘Well, I don’t know whose it is, so…’ Vyke said, flustered. It seemed to him that Sir Stephen was planning to take it from him, and he was alarmed at the thought after all he had endured because of this damned blade with its pretty hilt.

‘I would think you would be better served to sell it,’ Sir Stephen said. ‘It is a valuable piece of metalwork, and if you were found with it, it may go evilly with you. Give it to me, and I will pay you a fair price for it. Six shillings?’

Vyke was about to take it gratefully when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye. It was the look on Sir Laurence’s face, an expression of sadness.

‘You know whose dagger that was, don’t you?’ Sir Laurence said. ‘It belonged to Squire William de Bar, who murdered Arthur Capon.’

‘You knew Capon?’ Sir Stephen said.

‘Many knew him. He was a useful money-lender to many nobles. I had reason to use him a few times – but I never expected to hear that he could have died at the hands of a man like that. Squire William deserved his end, for killing him and his family.’

Bristol

That afternoon, there was a bad feeling in the air as Cecily walked about. It was not only her and the weight of the guilt that bore down upon her shoulders, it was the atmosphere of the whole city.

There was no sign of the besieging force as yet, but the traders were already closing up as though they had sold all their wares. In reality, all knew that they would have to be more careful with their food and money.

Cecily had endured the siege here ten years before, and knew how people would change. Those who seemed happy-go-lucky could suddenly become depressed; others, who were rude, quarrelsome and argumentative could suddenly discover their Christian kindness and start to help their neighbours. Most, though, just tried to keep their heads down and survive.

Women, of course, were the most fearful of all, for when men were convinced that they were soon to die, they often lost all shame and fear of justice. During the last siege, Cecily had known women who had been raped by those who sought a momentary escape from the fears of death. She herself had been pulled into an alley by a neighbour, but had drawn her little knife and he had immediately slunk away, to stand sobbing at the alley’s entranceway.

It had shocked her more than anything, because he had always seemed a pleasant old man: thoughtful and amiable. To see someone like that suddenly turn into a monster who sought to rape her had been more terrifying than the thought of strangers attacking her, somehow. Perhaps, she wondered, it had been her fault? Maybe he had seen her so often, he had assumed she would welcome an advance from him? Or had he thought that she lusted after his body, just as he lusted for hers? Was it possible that she had, in her friendship with him, given him the impression that she would welcome his natural desires? Perhaps. But he had used the siege as the excuse. Yes, that was it: he was glad to have a reason which he could use for blame, rather than his own lustfulness.

Later, she had heard he had killed himself, taking a razor to his throat, and she felt sorry for him, although she couldn’t forgive him.

So now, as the mood of the city turned to fear and uncertainty, she walked in the wider roads, her head downcast beneath a hood, avoiding the eyes of passers-by.

It was when she passed along Peter Street that she felt the terror strike her again, and had to stop and breathe carefully so that her heart did not leap from her breast.

The two were lounging at the side of the street, chatting as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Anyone looking at them would think that they were normal men doing normal things. Only she, of all the people walking past, knew the truth about them both. They were murderers .

‘Come on, maid, you want to come and play?’ one called, seeing her and making an obscene gesture.

She could not look them in the eyes. Her loathing would be too clear, if she did that. She was no pretty young maid, but these men were drunk, and would go with any woman. She must walk on past them… if she could.

‘Maid, didn’t you hear us? Come here, let’s play the afternoon away.’

There was an edge to his voice; a hint of threat. If she could only walk on, simply placing one foot before the other, she would survive. Her knife was no match for these two.

‘Are you deaf? Or is it that you don’t want to lie with us, maid? Come on, you can say that. No? Ah, then you do want to?’

A loud laugh, a high giggling from the other, and she was aware of them both approaching her. She had to run, get away from here, as swiftly as she could, escape to the house where she lived now with Mistress Emma. But Cecily was frozen with panic.

‘Leave her, you men!’

There was a hand on her arm, and she squealed, wrenching it free, as Sir Stephen Siward smiled and said, ‘Come, Cecily. Do you not know me, then, that you look so fearful?’

Near Gloucester

It was already growing dark as the group was shepherded to their horses, and Sir Ralph mounted his beast with a feeling of enormous sadness.

‘Your Highness, I hope to meet you again in happier circumstances,’ he called.

She was standing some distance from him, but her pale face was fixed on him, and he saw her hold up a hand in farewell.

‘They’re ready, Sir Ralph,’ Bernard said, nodding towards the friars, and they set off, weaving their way past the unnumbered men.

The camp was enormous. From here, Sir Ralph could see tents stretching off into the distance, while many slept in the open, wrapped in cloaks and blankets, huddled close to the fires that burned fitfully. There were some houses with men inside, the peasants fleeing, and doors and furniture had already been thieved for firewood. The places all about here had lost everything. Only shells remained.

Any optimism on the faces of the two friars was gone now. They rode silently looking downcast.

When Bernard asked how they had fared, the younger friar shook his head sadly. ‘There are no guarantees. The only thing they would say was that the body of the King would be respected. He is inviolate, naturally; not so the others with him. Those who have committed the most manifest crimes must pay for them. There is no humility there, you see.’

‘Who was negotiating with you?’ Sir Ralph asked.

‘It was Sir Roger Mortimer,’ the friar answered. ‘He is a most resolute man.’

‘And his soul will burn in hell,’ the other friar added. ‘The devil himself could not have been more inflexible.’

Sir Ralph rode on without listening as Bernard asked what Mortimer looked like, what sort of character he had, how he held himself – those things didn’t matter to him. All he could see in his mind’s eye was the King’s few friends and retainers, struggling on, while the great mass of the Queen and Mortimer’s force swallowed them up.

‘We shall take a rest soon,’ he said, interrupting Bernard. ‘There is no hurry to bring news of this sort. I weep to think how the King will react to it.’

Bristol

The hammering on the inn’s door in the middle watches of the night was enough to make Simon curse loudly.