Michael JECKS - The Oath

‘Dear Heaven, Sir Baldwin!’ Redcliffe said, starting in amazement when Baldwin and Jack were brought dripping into his hall. ‘What is all–’

‘The Queen is here already,’ Sir Baldwin said tersely. ‘You must tell me, how may I cross the river, for there is no escape on this side of the Avon.’

‘The Queen? With her host? Dear God!’ the man gaped.

Baldwin knew that Redcliffe was now faced with the prospect of being overwhelmed in fire and warfare, with all his remaining possessions being ransacked and stolen.

‘I am deeply saddened to bring such news to you,’ he said, ‘but my need is urgent. How can I escape?’

‘There is a ferry which crosses the river to the west of the bridge, Sir Baldwin. But if you take it, there will be little possibility of your coming back. No man will wish to cross the river again until the siege here is over.’

‘I don’t intend to cross it again,’ Baldwin said grimly. ‘I ride to the King – I have my oath to fulfil. I swore to support him and his realm, and I will not fail in my duty.’

Redcliffe swallowed, then said, ‘Sir Baldwin, I have urgent news for the King. May I travel with you? I will take you to the crossing myself.’

Bristol

‘It makes little or no sense,’ Simon frowned.

They were back at the inn, and he and Sir Charles sat side-by-side before the fire, sipping warmed wine as they considered their morning’s work.

‘Why would he ask you to investigate the killing, Sir Charles, when he is Coroner?’

‘When the murder was reported he was busy discussing the defences with Sir Laurence.’

‘And this Sir Laurence is castellan, you say.’

‘He gave me the impression that he thought the city was more important than one death,’ Sir Charles said. ‘But then I spoke with that man from the jury, and realised that Sir Laurence could be the murderer, but I don’t want to accuse him without evidence. That is the last thing we need at the moment – to have the castellan under suspicion. If a king’s official was thought to be guilty of murder, the city would rebel and there could be a riot.’

‘And you think Sir Stephen did not expect you to learn anything?’

‘No. And I shall not learn anything.’

‘Eh?’

‘Simon, my friend, there is no point in my trying to seek for the woman’s killer. If I do, Sir Laurence may learn about it and use his influence to stop me accusing him. It would distract him from the matter of our defence, which could be disastrous. Also, I have duties here to help in the protection of the city. Whereas a man without responsibility…’

‘I see,’ Simon said heavily.

‘It need not take you long. But if you could learn whether Sir Laurence has any connection to the dead woman, and whether he had any reason to wish to see her dead, that would be a great help.’

He smiled at Simon. ‘That isn’t too much to ask, is it?’

Sir Stephen finished his cup of wine and stepped out into the rain. There were four men at the end of the street, all drunk and shouting incoherently at each other.

It was a sign of things to come. Sir Stephen had not endured a lengthy siege before, but he knew men who had, and was aware that the first thing to fall apart was law and order.

He walked towards them, and felt the usual tingle of excitement in his belly as he saw two of the men stare at him, one unfocused, the other with a look of malevolence. It was he who picked up a stone from the roadway.

His voice was slurred, but his meaning was clear: ‘Look, a lazy, thieving knight, just like the others who got us into this mess. Sod the lot of them! Gits who argue, and when things go wrong, who do they use to try to get them out of the shit? Us, that’s who! Let’s get him!’

Sir Stephen did not slow his footsteps. Soon he was within striking range, and then, as a stone was flung, only to miss him by a foot, he sprang forward. His gauntlet caught the bold man about the mouth, and the steel plates cut him badly. Then Sir Stephen shoved hard, and the drunk fell back onto his rump, while the knight stood contemplating the rest. ‘Any more?’ he said pleasantly.

The three picked up their bleeding companion and were off in a hurry. It was pathetic, but the mob could not be permitted to gather about a ringleader like him, Sir Stephen thought as he walked on.

He found the place a few moments later. The church had a small gate, and he walked inside, bowing at the altar.

The priest was already holding a small service, and Sir Stephen stood at the rear of the great empty space, listening to the monotonous droning of the man’s voice, wondering how long the fellow could last. But finally all was done, and the body was carried outside into the rain. Sir Stephen walked along after it, and as it was lowered into the freshly dug hole, he saw that the water had already pooled in the bottom, and mud was soaking into the winding sheet. It was a sad end to an unhappy life, he thought.

At his side the priest muttered the ritual words quickly, in a hurry to get back inside his church and hide from the rain. A man should take a little time over a burial, Sir Stephen thought, giving him a frown, especially when the corpse had no family to mourn her, no husband or child. No one but himself.

The priest slowed, scowling, before reluctantly bending over, grabbing a handful of sodden soil, and babbling on in his uneducated Latin, hurling the mud at the body. Soon he was finished, muttering the last lines, and then he made the sign of the cross, before turning and almost running inside.

‘Cover her,’ Sir Stephen said to the fosser, who nodded, took up his spade, and began to shovel the earth into the hole. The first throw slapped wet soil onto her face, and the damp linen took on the lines of her mouth, nose, eyes. It was almost as though she was watching Sir Stephen through the gauzy material. A fresh shovelful landed on her belly, making the points of her breasts stand out, and the next smacked into her shoulder.

It was enough. He looked away, and then he reached inside his jack and pulled out the little bundle. He hefted it in his hand a moment, looking at it sadly, before glancing into the grave, and throwing the pack in.

Turning, he left the cemetery and went out into the road.

The fosser had buried more than a hundred people here in this graveyard, and he had often seen people throw in little trinkets of no value as he covered the bodies. And more than once he had seen those people return, peering in to make sure that he had actually left their gift to the dead and had not stolen it.

This time, he was not going to take any chances. He carried on piling in the soil at the foot and at the head of the woman’s body, until it was not possible to continue without burying the gift. Only then did he crouch quickly, slip the edge of the shovel under the packet, and slide it up the side of the mound of soil at Cecily’s feet. Taking it from the grave, he whistled in surprise as he slipped the wrapping from it to reveal a golden hilt and two rubies.

He quickly covered it in the waxed linen again, shoved it under his shirt, and finished his work.

It had taken Simon little time to decide to visit Emma, the mistress of the maid killed the previous night. The idea of leaving poor Cecily’s body unavenged did not sit well with him. He was not a sentimental man, he told himself, but the notion of a man taking a woman and then slaying her as though she was nothing more than a toy to be discarded was repellent. He loved his own wife and daughter too much to be prepared to let it go.

However, it was unthinkable that he should leave Margaret alone in the city when she was already so scared.