Michael JECKS - The Oath

Her concern was entirely rational, of course. He knew that. They had been in the Tower at London when the city began to fall apart in early October, but although there had been the threat of danger there, there had not been engines of war, such as there would be here. The idea of those monsters lurking out beyond the walls was enough to make any man or woman fear for their lives. It was natural. Once those things began to fling rocks at a city, that city must fall. Nothing could withstand the onslaught.

Simon was certainly not happy to be here as the threat of battle loomed ever nearer, yet curiously, he was not afraid. During a siege, terror affected all differently. Some would find the nearest alehouse and consume as much drink as they could, which was why there were so many scared men wandering the streets, bellies filled with wine and ale, and muttering bellicose threats to all and sundry.

No, Simon most definitely did not dare to leave his wife alone. Instead, all four of them set off from the inn in the middle of the rainy morning. Their way took them under lots of buildings whose jettied upper storeys loomed over the streets, so their progress was a series of quick sprints from one area of moderate dryness to another.

Margaret was unhappy to be taken from her chamber, especially in this weather. They should never have come here in the first place, she thought resentfully. They could easily have ignored Sir Charles and ridden on along the coast. Soon they would have been out of the reach of the Queen’s men, and could have taken it more easy as they wandered down to Exeter and beyond. There was no need to be stuck here, in this ridiculous little city. Or the castle, the focus of the coming battle.

However, after a short way Meg found that her mood was lightening. There was something gay and carefree about this journey. None of them could maintain the fear of men on the streets full of ale, because no one else appeared silly enough to brave the elements. The roads were all empty. Instead, Margaret was struck with the urge to giggle helplessly as she saw an enormous wash of water sweep down from a gutter overhead, to soak her husband. Simon stood scowling furiously up at the offending gutter, and turned to his wife with an expression of utter rage, only to be struck again. This made her howl with laughter, and after a moment or two, Simon began to chuckle as well.

After all, they were all still alive, and with God’s help, perhaps the siege would not prove too lengthy or irksome.

Their way took them from a wealthy area, through a part that was clearly very poor, and thence to a section of the city that was not so rich as the merchants’ houses down by the castle, but still clearly well-to-do. Here, Margaret found herself peering in at the windows, where candles were lighted, trying to see what sort of hangings there were, and guessing at what type of person lived inside.

‘It is not like London, is it?’ she said, gesturing at a house with a large sign showing that here lived a glover. ‘In London there is much more ostentation; everyone wants to flaunt their riches. Here the people seem more sober.’

‘It’s the way folk are over here,’ Simon agreed. ‘In London a man doesn’t think he’s alive unless he’s rubbing another man’s nose in his wealth. This is a smaller city, so people have to muck in together. Just like home. We don’t have time to have grudges and feuds, do we? It’s more a case of trying to help everyone to survive when the winter’s bad and the sheep won’t lamb and there isn’t enough food to last. In London they can buy what they need always, I reckon, so they don’t care so much about getting on with their neighbours.’

‘Well, Master Philosopher, I don’t disagree, but I think it’s more that the people here are less rushed. They take time to enjoy their lives. Look at that magnificent bridge! London has one too, but theirs is so… I don’t know. These people seem to have more pride in their city, while in London all the displays seem intended to show you how mean your life is in comparison. Here, men wish to allow others to enjoy it with them. They want to share it.’

‘Perhaps that’s why the folk of Bristol always need controlling,’ Simon said wrily. ‘Too much freedom of spirit is worrying to a King.’

They were at a neat house now, with limewashed walls and door, and the smell of a good stew emanating from the unglazed, barred window. Simon knocked at the door.

When the door opened, Meg saw a woman a little older than herself, dressed in a tunic of fine green wool, with a red woollen cloth over her shoulders; her hair was decorously covered by a sober white linen cap instead of a wimple. ‘Yes?’

‘I am looking for the lady of the house,’ Simon said. ‘Emma Wrey?’

‘I am she. What do you want?’

‘Did you have a maid working with you? A woman called Cecily, of perhaps thirty, with fairish hair and–’

‘Sir, who are you to question me?’

‘Madame Wrey, I am sorry to bring sad news,’ Simon said, ‘but she was found last night. She’s been killed. I am called Simon Puttock, and was asked to look into the matter by Sir Charles Lancaster.’

Emma Wrey’s face paled. ‘Dead? I…’ She shivered and clutched at the door. Margaret stepped forward, but before she could help the woman, Emma Wrey pushed herself upright again.

‘Oh, the poor maid! The silly thing! I did tell her to be careful when she went out. She obviously didn’t take my advice.’

‘When did you last see her?’

‘Last afternoon – almost evening. She was here to eat with me, and when she had finished, she went out.’

‘Would she have visited an alehouse or tavern?’

The woman looked at him. ‘Sir, this city is under siege. All are anxious. Of course she might have visited a tavern. Who wouldn’t?’ She finally gave an ungracious jerk of her head to invite them all inside. ‘I suppose if you are trying to help poor Cecily, the least I can do is ask you in out of the rain.’

‘I thank you,’ Simon smiled and followed Margaret inside.

Hers was a large hall, with a high ceiling and magnificent carvings on beams and panels. As they walked in from the screens, Simon was forced to stop and purse his lips as if to whistle. It was like entering a church, he thought, apart from the great fire that burned in the middle of the floor. The walls were painted and decorated with religious scenes, while there was a great halling over at the far wall depicting a garden with ladies and their gentlemen enjoying their leisure.

‘Please be seated.’

Simon motioned to Hugh and Rob to remain at the door, but Hugh had already decided that it was not his place to walk into a room like this. He stood scowling ferociously in the door to the screens passage, clutching his staff like a man preparing to defend himself against a ravening horde.

It was astonishing to see so many chairs, Simon thought. There were five of them, all comfortable chairs with highly decorated backs to them, and thick, soft cushions. He sank into one with a feeling that he could easily become used to living like this.

The lady had a large handbell, which she rang now, and an elderly man appeared. Sent away, he soon returned with wine in large sycamore mazers with silver bands.

‘Well?’ she said when they were all comfortable. ‘I suppose you have more to ask? I knew something must have happened when she didn’t appear this morning – but I did not expect to learn she was dead.’

‘What can you tell me of your maid?’ Simon asked.

‘Cecily was a good, quiet, somewhat reserved woman. I was her second mistress. Her earlier home was torn apart. A very sad event.’

Seeing Simon’s keen interest, the lady sat back in her seat and eyed him indulgently. ‘Cecily used to live with the family of Arthur Capon. He and his wife were… good fellows, very popular in the town, and known for their generosity to charities. But not, perhaps, for their generosity towards their servants. When Cecily was sent back to them from Petronilla’s side, she was sure that come the next Michaelmas fair, she would lose her position. You see, Arthur Capon did not want any hangers-on in his household. But his daughter left her husband before he could throw Cecily from his door.’