Michael JECKS - The Oath

Yes, she could discern all the sounds of two forces preparing to kill or be killed. The furious effort of one to make defences strong in the few hours that remained; and the ferocious desire in the others outside the walls to get into the city and rob, rape and pillage.

Margaret had no illusions. She knew that if the enemy got inside the city walls, she was certain to be raped. It was not to be borne.

Rising, she fetched her dagger and slipped the thong over her head so that the sheath with the wicked little blade sat between her breasts.

She was not angry or desperate. Instead she felt cold emptiness. All emotions were pointless. No, she knew her position all too well. If any man tried to take her, she would kill him if she could, and in the last instance, she would kill herself.

Banks of the River Severn

They had reached the river late in the afternoon, and there was no sign of the ferry. It could well have been on the opposite shore, but in the darkness, there was no way to tell; even a large fire could have gone unnoticed.

When he returned to Redcliffe and his wife, he found that Sir Ralph and the others had begun to make camp as best they could. There was no shelter to be had, other than that of a few trees. Jack had been given the task of carefully feeding the fire and making sure it didn’t go out. He had succeeded in keeping it smoking gently until Pagan pushed him out of the way and began to tease a full, hot flame from the glowing embers.

Baldwin made himself a bed of branches laid cross-ways over each other. They would be soggy, but better than nothing in this weather. He eyed Sir Ralph’s simple tent with a jealous eye, but resignedly told himself that in his youth he had been happy enough with a simple mattress of branches and the sky as his ceiling. Not that it convinced him. He had been younger then.

It was not only Sir Ralph who had a tent. Roisea and Thomas Redcliffe had a heavy strip of canvas which they spread out over a bent limb, and used some pegs of sharpened sticks to stab the corners into the ground. It made a simple tunnel, in which the two could sleep. Baldwin eyed his own bed without enthusiasm, and decided that he would see what protection he could achieve from hooking his riding cloak to a bush and draping it over his upper body. At least that way his face would remain drier.

It was a relief when dawn broke and he could rise, rubbing his hips. There was no doubt that he was not the fit and healthy, nor the young man he once had been. The branches felt as though they had moulded his very bones to fit them, and the ridges in his flesh felt permanent. His blanket was a soaked mass of wool, and he experimentally twisted it in his hands. Water ran from it in a stream, to his disgust. That explained why he felt so wet and miserable.

He went to the fire, and set about adding some tinder to the warmer part of the grey ashes, and to his surprise, it caught. Working swiftly with small twigs and some more tinder, he soon had a little fire burning, and he prodded Jack until the boy was awake, ordering him to fetch more sticks while he kept the fire going. Before full light they had a good fire blazing, and a pot of water already boiling, with wine warming beside it.

Sir Ralph appeared soon after Jack had supplied a second load of logs, and the man looked as refreshed and contented as a cat after a bowl of cream.

‘The ferry should be over here before long,’ he said.

‘Where will you go then?’ Baldwin asked.

‘The King should be at Cardiff by now. I will ride to him.’

‘I too,’ Baldwin said. He sighed.

‘You are upset?’

‘I do not wish to see the kingdom at war, but I would not break my oath.’

Sir Ralph stared at the fire morosely. ‘We have the duty of service.’

Baldwin would have said something in reply, but before he could speak, he peered over Sir Ralph’s shoulder. ‘Troops!’

The enemy had not seen the fire or the encampment yet. There were only four men, all on horseback, with cheap helms on their heads and for the most part wearing only boiled leather armour without insignia – and no banner, which made them surely mercenaries or felons, Baldwin thought. ‘We must stop them before they can ride back,’ he whispered.

‘I have safe-conducts from the Queen,’ Sir Ralph murmured.

‘You think they’ll care?’ Baldwin said. ‘The Queen isn’t here, and they’ll probably be happy to kill us and steal our swords and horses.’

Sir Ralph nodded. ‘We cannot wait to saddle the horses,’ he said. ‘They’ll have ridden off before we could catch them.’

‘No. We’ll have to trap them here,’ Baldwin agreed.

But any hope of surprise was already lost. Even as they spoke, Baldwin saw one of the men stop and point at them. Immediately, the four began to trot towards them, their mounts spreading out as though understanding that this could end in a fight. ‘They have seen us,’ he said.

‘Pagan! Bernard! To arms!’ Sir Ralph hissed.

Baldwin appreciated the tightness of the training in Sir Ralph’s team. As soon as he spoke, there was a swift rustling, but no shouts, no questions, just organised preparations. For his own part, he took his sword in its scabbard and set it close by, leaning against a little tree.

The men approaching were within thirty yards already, and the leading man had a lance which he pointed at Baldwin as he trotted forward.

‘Godspeed,’ he called, and poured some hot wine from the pot over his fire into a cup. Sipping it, he rose, comfortable that his weapon was easily accessible.

The first man was within ten yards now, and he stopped, looking about the little hollow where Baldwin and the others had slept. He was a rangy man, unkempt, with a thin beard and eyes that moved all over the place quickly, but seemingly absorbing all. ‘Who’re you?’

‘We are travellers. And who are you?’

‘I’m Ivor from Hereford, and we’re with Queen Isabella. What are you doing here? Answer or I’ll have you taken to her to be questioned.’

Baldwin smiled. ‘We are merely travellers, my friend. Now, Ivor, if you would like a little wine, we have some warmed.’ He took up the jug again, welcomingly.

‘You’ll come with us, then,’ the man said, and he trotted forwards. ‘Yield,’ he commanded, his spear’s point close to Baldwin’s breast.

Baldwin eyed the forge-blackened tip with the silver edges where the armourer’s wheel had ground. It was nearly a yard from his breast, and he waited until Ivor was closer, the point a scant foot from him, before bending to set the jug in the flames.

‘No,’ he said, and grabbed the timber, pulling.

The man was seated firmly in his saddle, but his lance was a weight that unbalanced him. By pulling it, Baldwin had removed it from beneath Ivor’s armpit, and now Baldwin grabbed his sword and flicked it free of the scabbard. At the same moment, Wolf came charging over. He had seen the way Baldwin grabbed at his sword, and now set up a baying that alarmed Ivor’s horse, which bucked and reared, and Ivor was forced to drop the lance and snatch at his reins to control the beast.

Baldwin waited until the horse was all but calmed, before slamming the heavy butt of the lance into the side of Ivor’s head. His eyes rolled into his head, and he fell from the back of his saddle, landing with a thud on the soft ground.

Instantly Baldwin was at the horse, grabbing the reins and speaking to it gently. There was a short scream from over to the left, and he saw that the Squire called Bernard was standing and thrusting downwards with his sword, three, four, five times, to make sure of his man. Sir Ralph was further on, standing with his sword ready, while another man slowly moved about in front of him, a long sword in his right hand, his left empty, but already wrapped in a cloak so that he could bat away Sir Ralph’s lunges.