Michael JECKS - The Oath

‘Here, my lord.’

Still scowling, he took the goblet and drank off a half in one gulp. When he looked up at Sam Fletcher, he saw something in the man’s eyes. ‘What?’

Speaking very quietly, Sam Fletcher walked around until his back was to the door. No one could see his face through the keyhole or gaps in the planks. ‘My lord, you must listen carefully,’ he whispered. ‘I dare not speak loudly in case we are overheard. Do not shout or exclaim, I beg. It would bring you trouble, and cost me my life.’

The Duke nodded slowly.

‘I have a friend in Sir Roger’s household. He tells me there is a plot to seek out the King your father and see him murdered. A man has been hired to assassinate him.’

First Saturday after the Feast of St Michael [5] 4 October 1326

Marshfield near Bristol

Father Paul stepped back towards his church as the light began to fade, the old spade in his hand.

Today he had been out in the little strip fields with the other villagers. It was a long way away, but the walk did him good. Anything that could help him forget was good.

He had been fortunate, or so he had thought, to be given the job a few weeks ago of priest here in the little vill near Marshfield. It offered him that element of freedom from the Bishop that a little distance conferred. Marvellous to wake in the morning and hear only the wind in the trees rather than the rattle and clatter of the city. Not that he disliked Bristol itself, but he did not see how the city could ever give a man enough peace in order to consider the more important issues of life. The idea that a man would be able to find his place in the world while living in so hectic and febrile an environment was laughable.

And then there was the loss which he had suffered.

The wind was cold, a gust of pure ice that seemed to shear through his jack and chemise to the very marrow in his bones, as though his flesh and blood were no protection whatever. He stood a moment, feeling the weight of the wooden spade, a piece of carved wood with a strip of metal at the bottom of the wooden paddle to help it cut into soil, and the exhaustion that came from a day’s hard work. Exhaustion both mental and physical.

It was hard to think of her and their babe. The little one should be four or five months old now, and yet Paul had not seen it. Never would, knowingly. That had been made quite clear to him. He had besmirched himself with the sins of the flesh but, what was worse, his Bishop said, he had also tempted a young and immature married woman into adultery. That was unforgivable.

Yes, it was. He knew that. He knew it as he first met her and felt that magical lurch in his breast at the sight of her smile. That she felt the same was written there in her eyes. He could not have been mistaken. She came alive at the sight of him.

And it was hardly surprising, after a look at the Squire. A more cruel and inflexible sinner it was difficult to imagine. The man did not deserve to own poor little Petronilla, as he proved that day when he took hold of her wrists and beat her across the back and buttocks. That was why Paul had to save her.

About him, a few beech trees were hissing in the wind, their little bronze-coloured leaves dancing, and he shuddered as he returned to the present.

The ferns were all turning, too. Their fronds golden and umber, they had begun to collapse on top of each other, while behind them the dark purple sloes were showing in the blackthorns. It was a lovely time of year, he always felt, but terrifying too, because it was the onset of the death of nature, the beginning of winter. He only prayed that his stock of food would last him. At least now, he thought with a small sigh, all memories of that other life were fading. He was a soul at rest, more or less, once more.

Continuing to the small single-bay cottage, he set the spade beside the chest where he kept his belongings, and pulled off his thick, fustian overtunic, hanging it on a hook near the fire to dry while he shrugged on a thick robe.

It was cold in the chamber. He would have to survive without heat for now, for he hadn’t managed to keep his little fire going while he was out. The sticks and logs were still there on the clay hearth, but there was no warmth in the room. It was a miserable reminder of the way that the weather had turned in the last month.

He blew on his hands and set off for his chapel, crossing himself with some holy water from the stoup at the door and walking towards the altar, bending to his knees on the hard-packed soil of the floor.

The simple wooden cross was enough. He had made it himself out of two pieces of roughly squared wood, their faces cut and shaped so that they could slot together. It had been the first thing he had done when he arrived here, a kind of penance for the grave crime he had committed.

Petronilla had been his test, the trial of his faith. And to his undying shame, he had succumbed and failed.

Still, he reflected, at least he was here now in the peace of the countryside, where all memories of that crime could be forgotten. He was far enough away for his crime to be unremarked. As for the husband, cruel and vengeful as he was, Squire William wouldn’t seek for him here; and Petronilla herself would be safe in her father’s house.

He was safe; she was safe.

And that, he hoped, was the end of their story. The woman whom he had adored would live out her life with the joy of her freedom and their child to remind her of their brief time together.

Second Tuesday after the Feast of St Michael [6] 7 October 1326

Bristol

Sir Stephen Siward thrust his thumbs into his sword belt as he left the castle by the great gates, strolling past the carters and sumptermen bringing in additional supplies, and out into the city itself.

To the city folk who met him, he was an amiable fellow, dark-haired, with blue eyes in a square face that was prone to smiling even when he stood before them in his new position as Coroner of the city. For a knight it was a post of some importance. There was no money in it, true, but a shrewd man could always turn a position like this to his advantage.

Yes, there was much to smile about. The city suited him well; he had been here only a little while, but there was an atmosphere of opulence about it that he liked, and he could still live well and be comfortable, despite his straitened circumstances.

Money was not so plentiful as once it had been. His two manors, on which he depended for his livelihood, had each suffered a catastrophe. The barn had caught fire, destroying the stocks of hay and the building itself, and in his panic, his favourite horse had tried to escape from the stables next door. Damned creature broke a foreleg attempting to free himself and had to be killed.

To add insult to injury, as well as the fire, there had been a outbreak of murrain in his flocks, and his sheep continued to die. He had needed a loan to survive the winter, at ruinous interest. Still, he had just won a small wager with the castellan’s clerk, and with three shillings in his purse, Sir Stephen felt as though life was improving.

Seeing Emma Wrey, he bowed slightly. The widow was rather beneath his standing as a King’s Coroner, and he had no desire to have other people seeing him show her respect as though she was the widow of an equal. Her husband had been merely a goldsmith and merchant, who had built a profitable business by loaning money, ignoring the Gospels’ strictures against usury.

There were some other bold fellows in the city who were money-lenders too, not only Wrey. Such men had their uses: there were occasions, such as during tournaments, when a knight needed to ransom his horse and armour from a more successful opponent – or when a man’s manors failed – but in the general run of things, it was better to avoid them. And it was best to avoid this widow, because Cecily worked for her, and Sir Stephen had no desire to meet that maid again. He knew she had held an infatuation for him. It was a relief that his involvement with her was ended, he reflected.