Michael JECKS: The Oath

The widow gave him a gracious little duck of her head just then, honouring him with the correct amount of esteem, no more. It was enough to send him on his way smiling, his blue eyes glinting in the sun.

Yes, this city was a good one, although for how much longer it was hard to tell. He had only been away for a couple of days, but the change in atmosphere was marked: the place had a defeated air about it. The King had passed by, but it was the Queen whom all truly feared. She was a matter of days away, if the reports were accurate, and she had with her enough men to encompass this little city. Unless the King managed to magically summon up a host from somewhere, he could not hope to stand against her in a fight.

There was little to be gained by worrying about such things. Sir Stephen was a professional knight, and a professional politician. He kept his feet on the ground, and a foot in each camp wherever possible. So far he had successfully held on to his position with the King by regular doses of flattery aimed at that devious shit, Sir Hugh le Despenser, while at the same time assuring others who sought to give succour to the Queen that he was entirely on her side.

Here at Bristol it was easy to keep in contact with both sides of the debate. The city was, in theory, the Queen’s own, a part of the gift to her on her marriage to the King. The Queen of England must be permitted her own resources and finance to maintain her household and allow her to support those whom she wished from her largesse. And yet the King had chosen to grant the city to his friend and adviser, the ever-acquisitive Sir Hugh. The Despenser would steal the milk from a mother’s breast if he could sell it, Sir Stephen reckoned.

In recent years Sir Hugh had taken over almost all of Wales, robbing some, threatening others, capturing and beating a few. There was no need to wonder why the Marcher Lords, living in the lawless borderlands between England and Wales, had grown to detest him. Well, now he was being chased across the kingdom by those same men whom he had dispossessed.

Sir Stephen had reached the end of the roadway, and was in the middle of the market. Here, he wandered idly among the stalls. There was not a huge amount on display, he noticed. As the threat of war increased, farmers outside the city were keeping their food stores against the day when their price had risen. Those who manufactured goods were staying away from the markets. It was a shocking proof of how the locals felt. There would be a war here, they believed. And the city could go to the Queen in the blink of an eye, even though the castle at the eastern edge of the city was held by the King’s garrison.

From now, things would get tight, and that in itself was a concern. Sir Stephen looked at the rows of stalls selling food. He bought a cold pigeon and pulled the carcass apart in the road, tossing the bones to a hopeful-looking dog.

Yes, money was a problem. He had enough to last a week or two, but after that, he wasn’t sure what he could do. Still, the castle had food, and more came in each day. The barrels of salted meat and fish were already beginning to fill the castle’s undercrofts, but Sir Stephen had no wish to be held there and forced to eat rations of badly salted food.

Well, there was no need to worry. Sir Stephen would not remain inside, waiting to be starved or killed. As soon as he knew which side was likely to win, he would make his move and join them.

Second Thursday after the Feast of St Michael[7] 9 October 1326

Approaching Gloucester

In the mist of the October morning, Sir Ralph of Evesham walked from his tent as the men mounted their horses and prepared for the day’s march. It was late already. If he could have had his own way, they would already be moving. They had need of speed, yet the wagons and carts restricted the entire column to the pace of the slowest among them.

He was a strongly-made man, a little above the average height, and with the thick arm and neck muscles that denoted a man of his rank. Grey eyes that rarely blinked gave him the appearance of perpetual concentration, while his square jaw showed his pugnacity. But there was kindness in his eyes too, and a series of creases at each eye showed that he could be an amiable companion.

Pulling on thick gauntlets, he watched as his squire and two pages packed his armour into a chest and locked it securely. He wore only his tunic, a padded jack stuffed with lambswool, and on his belt, a small riding sword. There would surely be no need to worry about an attack today. His armour would be a pointless weight for his rounsey.

‘Hurry yourselves,’ he said. There was no need to shout at these fellows. He knew Squire Bernard would cajole and berate Alexander and Pagan until they had all the goods packed away, his tent folded and stored on the little cart, and were themselves already moving with the King’s host.

There were so few. So very few – the men about here, and some who had been sent on further west to prepare the way. That was all. Out of the King’s entourage of thousands, only a few hundred had responded to his call.

To Sir Ralph, it had felt a great honour when the King had asked him to join the household. To become one of the King’s own bodyguard was a source of immense pride, for it meant that Sir Ralph’s loyalty was acknowledged. Not that it should need to be – he was old-fashioned enough to think that once sworn to protect the King and his lands, he was bound by his oaths. He was grounded firmly in the feudal tradition. There should be nothing unique in that.

But many were forsworn. They gave different reasons for their dishonour: distrust of the King’s advisers, fear of the King’s jealousy, dread of being asked to fight against the Queen and her son, the Duke of Aquitaine – but, as so often, the truth was more mundane. They wanted money.

In the past, life had been so much easier. A man gave his word to his lord and served him. That was enough.

Sir Ralph felt his rounsey stir beneath him and patted his neck gently. ‘Easy, my friend, easy.’

‘What do you think, Sir Ralph?’ Bernard said.

Bernard was a younger man, of some five-and-twenty years, with long, flaxen hair and blue eyes. He always said that his family were knights from some strange country to the east of the Holy Roman Empire, but that they had lived in England since the days of King John, and from his looks it was easy to believe. He was looking at the older man now with exasperation.

‘Think about what?’ Sir Ralph asked.

‘How far must we keep running?’

‘You shouldn’t speak of such things,’ the knight reprimanded him.

‘Everyone else in the camp is,’ Bernard said reasonably. ‘The ones who don’t are leaving in the night. Look about you!’

‘They are false, then.’

‘Sir Ralph, I don’t care whether they’re false or honourable, I just want them to remain here so that it’s not you, me, Alex and Pagan who have to defend the King on our own.’

‘There’re bound to be more men who come to our aid,’ Sir Ralph said stoutly.

‘In truth? Well, that’s good to hear at least,’ Bernard said. ‘Sir Ralph, you know me well enough. I am not the man to moan and bleat at every twist of a sour fate. But even now, I can sense the men around us leaching into the woods. There are very few who’ll stay for honour’s sake.’

‘Go and help the pages,’ Sir Ralph said shortly.

He watched his squire stride off, bellowing at the two as they tried to take down the tent, and sighed.

There was little he would prefer more than to disappear into the woods himself, but the oath he had given the King had been made before God and was binding. A man was defined by how he behaved: whether he stood by his word or broke it. There might be cowards who were prepared to forswear themselves, but he was not one of them. He had never broken a vow in his life, and if it now cost him even that much, at least he would have lived honourably.