Michael JECKS - The Oath

When he had reached the ship, he had given the purse to Redcliffe’s wife, Roisea, as the money inside was surely hers. However, he had not checked inside beforehand, and he wondered now whether he should have done. There could have been a message inside that would have explained why one of the men with Sir Ralph could have killed him, rather than one of their attackers. It had happened when Sir Baldwin had ridden off to help Pagan, so he had no proof that one of the bearded man’s gang was responsible. He had not been overly concerned at that moment, though. Uppermost in his mind had been the idea of warm, dry clothing.

When he had an opportunity, he would ask Roisea, he decided. She might be able to cast some light on the matter. In the meantime, he would be forced to keep a close eye on the men.

Sir Ralph was walking up the bank from the ship. When they were all mounted, he gave Baldwin the signal, and they set off at a sharp pace heading westwards, to Cardiff and, they hoped, the King.

Bristol Castle

The castle was filled with urgent activity. The men inside began to rush about, making for the armoury as the alarm rang out, then hurrying back to the walls with polearms and helmets. One lad was tall and lanky, and his over-large helmet rattled and moved as he walked; normally, his mates would have poked fun at him, but not today.

Simon fiddled with his sword in its scabbard, pulling it loose and checking how easily it came free. It was a nervous reaction to the knowledge that there would soon, surely, be a fight. But the tension came from not knowing when, or what form it would take. Whether there would be a sudden assault or a gradual build-up of violence, he didn’t know and couldn’t guess, but he felt afraid.

It was less fear for himself and how he might acquit himself in battle, more that he was fearful for his wife and child. There was a terrible irony in his decision to bring them here inside the castle, since it was now the cause of their danger.

‘They have given up the keys of the city,’ Sir Charles said.

The men-at-arms from the Queen’s forces were striding arrogantly about the city from all the gates already. Some Captains were already standing little more than a bowshot from the castle’s walls, pointing out likely places of attack, while others brought up huge shields of timber covered with leather, and crossbowmen scurried nearer. Soon, from these safer vantage-points, quarrels would be fired at all the guards on the battlements, and there was little the garrison could do to defend themselves, other than keep their heads down.

Sir Charles turned to Simon as he was drawing his sword again. ‘I am sorry, Bailiff. I had not expected the city to give up and throw open the gates with such indecent haste.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ Simon said.

‘It is, though. I should have considered how the city was likely to behave. Why should they risk themselves for the King, when Edward has already fled? Why would anyone try to hold true to him?’

Simon shot a look at him. It was the first time he had heard the knight talking in such a cowed manner; it was most unlike him. ‘We should try to ensure that as few people as possible are hurt,’ he responded.

‘You are not a friend to Despenser, are you?’

‘Not to Sir Hugh, no. But his father, the Earl, is not the same kind of man. I hold no grudge against him,’ Simon said truthfully.

‘Well, one thing is certain sure,’ the knight sighed, peering down over the battlements. ‘If we hold this castle against the men out there, it will not endear us to the Queen or Mortimer.’

‘No. What will happen to us, when they break in?’ Simon said.

‘I don’t want to think about that,’ Sir Charles said.

Bristol

Saul the Fosser felt as though he was carrying a dangerous secret with him as he made his way down the street back towards his own home. He didn’t know any smiths, and the thought of enlisting the help of a man he did not know was alarming. The fellow might just take the rubies and keep them. After all, Saul could hardly run to a law officer and complain. There was no one who could mediate for him if the things were stolen.

The fosser hobbled along with a face like a slapped arse as he considered the position he was in. His dreams of wealth were gone, his hopes for a sudden financial windfall evaporated. ‘Might just as well have left the damn thing in the soil,’ he muttered spitefully. But returning it to the grave was the last thing on his mind.

The broker had suggested one smith who was more reliable than most – a man called David, who lived nearer St Mary le Port, and Saul found that his feet were bending their way in that direction almost of their own volition. The road broadened out here, and the smithy was soon located: a man only had to follow the sound of ringing steel.

David Smith was slim and wiry, with hands callused and grey from the coals he worked with. His face was dark, but his eyes were as bright as a shrew’s. ‘I don’t do horses,’ he declared as soon as Saul appeared.

‘I don’t have a horse.’

‘Didn’t think so,’ was the response, and Saul stood a moment, frowning, trying to work out whether he had been insulted or not.

‘I have something…’ he began hesitantly.

David was gripping a length of steel in a coal forge, working a great bellows with one hand to heat the steel to red heat. Leaving hold of the bellows, he used both hands to pull the bar from the fire and dropped it on his anvil. Grabbing a hammer, he began to beat the metal around into a curve. ‘Best get it out, then,’ he said loudly over the din.

The fosser looked all around, and then pulled the dagger from his shirt. He tugged the wrapping away, and held up the hilt for the smith to see.

David whistled. Reaching out for it, he motioned to the steel which he still gripped. ‘Take this.’

Saul reached for it, passing the dagger at the same time. His hand closed around the end of steel, and he watched as the smith held the item up to the light. Suddenly realising that his hand was burning, he dropped the bar with a little yelp. Seeing the smith’s disgusted face, he hastily picked it up again in a fold of his jack, and held it back on the anvil with his good hand, while he surreptitiously blew on the injured one.

The smith held the dagger up to the light, eyeing the two bright stones in a cursory manner, and then peered at the blade shaking his head and muttering. Then he rubbed at the top of the blade with his rough old thumb, and peered closer. He walked to his anvil and took a fine-graded stone, dampened it, and began to rub at the metal.

Saul, forgetting to blow on his scorched hand, craned his neck. ‘What’re you doing?’

‘Seeing if there’s a mark here. Polish away the old metal at the side, and you’ll see the print more clear.’

The smith stopped, held the blade almost to his nose, and gazed at it. Then, with a nod to himself, he wrapped the dagger in the waxed material once more, and strode from the forge.

‘Hi! Oi! What’s your game?’

His attention split between the disappearance of the valuable blade and the danger of dropping the steel, Saul put down the metal bar and hobbled painfully outside.

He could see the smith up at the top of the alley, and hurried to join him.

‘This is the one,’ the smith was saying to a short, stolid-looking man.

‘Fosser, eh?’ the man said. ‘How would one of them get his hands on a lord’s dagger like this, eh?’

‘Why? Who cares?’ the fosser said spiritedly. ‘That’s mine, that is. Give me back my knife!’

‘ Your knife?’ the smith said. His hand whipped out, and he took Saul by the shoulder. Saul squeaked and tried to dart away, but the grip of a smith is not so easily broken.