Michael JECKS - The Oath

‘It is a terrible thing for the Queen to have deserted her husband,’ he said.

‘I am sure that it was not a decision she took lightly,’ Baldwin said.

‘You do not mean to support her in her treason?’ Redcliffe asked.

‘I myself intend to ride to the King’s support,’ the knight pointed out. ‘A man can do no more. But I do not condemn.’

‘There are few who would be so moderate as you, Sir Baldwin.’

‘Perhaps we should talk of happier matters,’ Roisea suggested, seeing their guest’s discomfort. ‘How far is your home, Sir Baldwin?’

‘If we ride well, I suppose three days from here,’ Baldwin said, and tried to block out the noise of falling rain. Wolf sat at his side, shoving his head under Baldwin’s hand. ‘Yes. We should be on our way,’ he muttered.

They completed their meal, and after a short period of leave-taking, Baldwin and Jack were on their way. Redcliffe had advised on their best road. They should follow the great river westwards, and then take the coastal route towards the moors. From there Baldwin would be able to find his own way, he was sure.

It was a relief to be setting off on the last part of their journey, and Baldwin tugged his heavy riding cloak about him as he and Jack trotted slowly up the road which led away from the city, Wolf behind them. Soon they could see the hills rising in front of them, and in the miserable weather it was good, Baldwin reflected, to have such clear, distinct targets to aim for.

The weather had worsened, and the rain had penetrated even Baldwin’s sturdy clothes. Usually his cloak would serve against the worst that even Dartmoor could hurl, but not today. The rain was so heavy it made Baldwin blind. It was simply impossible to keep on peering ahead in such foul weather. Jack, who had no decent clothing, was already soaked through to the skin, his jack and shirt hanging shapelessly from his body, while his hat with its broad brim drooped so badly he was forced to lift it in order to gaze ahead.

It was enough to persuade Baldwin that they should turn back. The roads were grown too slippery and dangerous. The horses were picking their way with care, but it would only take one pothole to break a leg.

‘Jack, we’ll have to make our way back,’ he called through the biting wind. The rain was clattering all about them, and much too loud for he had to bellow just to make himself heard, but when Jack turned to him, his expression was one of sheer horror.

Baldwin followed the direction of his eyes and felt his mouth drop. There, before them, was an army.

‘Back to Bristol, my boy, and quickly!’ Baldwin bawled, pulling his horse’s head around to the north, and clapping spurs to the beast’s flanks.

Bristol

‘Shite. If this was but a little warmer, it would be as miserable as hell,’ a man joked as Simon wandered towards the group.

He could not argue with his sentiment. The rain pattered about the roads, and Simon’s boots splashed in puddles all the way.

He had left Margaret at the inn with Hugh to guard her and Peterkin. Seeing her mood, Sir Charles had set a watchman at the door of the inn to protect them too. Now he and Simon were standing at the edge of a small crowd while the formal inquest began.

‘I had assumed that you would hold this inquest,’ Simon whispered.

‘Me?’ Sir Charles murmured. ‘No. I am no Coroner, only a humble seeker after truth. He is the Coroner: Sir Stephen Siward.’

‘Then why did you call me last night? And why drag me out here now?’ Simon asked with a frown, but Sir Charles merely indicated the tall fellow approaching.

The Coroner was of a similar build to Sir Charles, but had dark hair and blue eyes – a combination that Simon instinctively mistrusted. The man looked too much like a murderous Cornishman. His smile was oddly out of place at such a meeting, too, as he chatted quietly to a clerk sitting with a board over his knees and parchment, reeds and ink set out ready.

He did at least seem to know his business. The jurors were called forward, the men ranging in age from one lad of perhaps thirteen, to the oldest who was at least sixty. When they had given their names and the clerk had enrolled them on his parchment, the Coroner asked who was missing. These names were noted too, so that they could be amerced for their non-attendance later, and then the jury had to swear on the Gospels held to them by the clerk that they would tell the truth on all the points the Coroner put to them. Then the body was studied.

The Coroner had the duty of viewing and feeling the bodies which were found, so that his clerk could record every injury. So as usual, Cecily’s body was unceremoniously stripped and then displayed naked to the Coroner and the jury. Her limbs were moved, her flesh pressed and prodded; the stab wound was measured and her throat studied for signs of throttling. There was remarkably little damage, only a faint path of bruising about her mouth and the stab to the heart, and when they investigated, no sign of rape.

Still, Simon looked away. It felt like a second violation of the woman, for her to be displayed in such a lewd manner before so many men – all of them seeing the parts of her body which only a husband should have known. It was degrading to all of them, he thought.

When he glanced about, he saw that all the jury bar one man were gawping at the body. The last, though, was a rough-looking man, slim, ferrety-faced, with dark, slightly squinting eyes. He was not looking at the body, but instead stared at the Coroner with an expression of fear.

Then his attention was taken by the Coroner again.

‘I, Sir Stephen Siward, find that this maid was killed by a dagger with a blade of about one-inch width at the hilt, and perhaps six inches long,’ the Coroner said. He studied the wound again. ‘The blade was double-edged, I’d say. The wound is diamond-shaped, not triangular. It’s a good-sized blade – a dagger.’

He turned to the jurors after the body had been rolled over and over twice, an ungainly mess of arms and legs without dignity. ‘Well? Jury, do you find that this woman has been slain feloniously, died by misadventure, or that she died of natural causes?’

His tone was ironic, but it was the normal form of the questions, as Simon knew. The jury must answer all to the best of their ability or risk a large fine.

‘Feloniously killed.’

‘Very well. I agree that this woman was unlawfully killed by a person or persons armed with at least a small dagger. Do you all know the woman?’

‘She is Cecily,’ two men called out, and the clerk noted that too.

‘Good,’ the Coroner said, and began to rattle through the other questions: where did she live, had anyone witnessed the killing, had there been any noises in the area before the body was discovered, and had anyone seen somebody in the area.

It was a perfunctory affair, Simon thought, perhaps because the jury and the Coroner himself were distracted. Why concern themselves with one death when at any time an onslaught could be launched that would slaughter hundreds? However, Simon was sure that there was something else in the Coroner’s eyes when he looked at Cecily’s body. Something akin to sadness, as though he had some feeling for this particular woman. It was rare, in Simon’s experience, for most Coroners were immune to sympathy. They saw too many dead men and women for that.

The summary was given, the bill of amercements called out that all in the area should know how much they must pay, and then the Coroner ordered that the body be taken at once to the nearest cemetery for burial in accordance with the law. Soon, poor Cecily was placed upon a cart, and two men began to wheel her away, her clothing bundled separately in order that it should be sold later.