Michael JECKS - The Oath

Simon was not unhappy with the trade. The dried meat was tough as leather, but it was filling to an empty belly.

‘I spoke with Sir Stephen yesterday,’ Simon said. ‘He was most dismissive of Sir Laurence. What do you think of him?’

‘Sir Laurence? About as honourable as they come. Why?’

‘If Sir Stephen is to be believed, Sir Laurence was less so than you would think. He said that Sir Laurence was taking money in bribes, if I understood him aright. If there was work to be done at the castle, apparently he would give it to those who paid him most.’

‘That’s hardly unusual,’ Sir Charles said with a shrug. ‘It is the normal way of things.’

‘Did he strike you as the sort of man who would live by profiting from usurers? That is what Sir Stephen intimated, and yet I would expect most knights to look down on those who make money that way.’

Sir Charles gave him a lazy smile, and Simon was reminded again that this man was not one to baulk at profit by any means. He had been forced to survive as a renegade for too many years when his lord had been executed.

‘Simon, sometimes men are forced to do things they might regret, for reasons of survival.’

‘I make no comment about that. I would probably do the same. But to ally himself to a usurer, surely would be demeaning to a man who did not go through the same trials as you, Sir Charles? This is a man copying Despenser, I suppose, making money from a merchant who was paying him a fee to recommend his loans. To me, Sir Laurence did not seem so bent on profit that he would do something like that.’

‘Who is he supposed to have made money from?’

‘The banker who died.’

‘Capon, the man killed by Squire William?’

‘Yes. Sir Stephen said that Sir Laurence was doing very well out of his relationship with Capon.’

‘And then Capon died,’ Sir Charles said thoughtfully. ‘Did that happen recently?’

‘I think it was as the Queen was invading the country.’

‘If that is true, then he could have sought to prevent any discovery of his actions with Capon,’ Sir Charles said. ‘In God’s name, it would be a bold act – but surely the Squire William was guilty, was he not?’

Simon stared into the flames. ‘That is what all say,’ he agreed. ‘But I am fascinated by Sir Stephen’s attitude yesterday. He was very definite about Sir Laurence’s dealings with Capon.’

‘I daresay the man Capon had similar business dealings with many men in the city,’ Sir Charles said. ‘And if with Sir Laurence as well, what of it?’

Simon agreed, and before long they were mounted and moving away again. But no matter how he tried to put it from his mind, the matter of Capon and Sir Laurence would keep intruding. Especially since Sir Laurence could have been present at the death of Cecily that night… And if the Constable had, in fact, had something to do with the removal of Capon, he would also have wished to silence Cecily, because she might have witnessed his murder of her master.

But no, that was ridiculous, he reminded himself. Cecily had been anxious because of the appearance of Squire William’s men. Simon had heard that himself from Emma, her mistress.

Wednesday, Morrow of the Feast of St Martin [41] 12 November 1326

Near Abergavenny

Simon and the Earl of Lancaster’s men had been riding all that morning, and it was good when they reached a stream to be able to get off and stretch their legs. Sir Charles stood with Simon as their mounts drank from the little brook.

‘The trouble with this land is that it is so perfect for ambushes,’ Sir Charles said.

Simon had noticed that he kept his right hand free, ready to grab his sword, but as they were here with more than fifty men, all well-armed, the likelihood of an ambush against them was surely remote?

But a little of Sir Charles’s wariness communicated itself to Simon and to the other men about. They kept together, and there was less chatter and joking than usual. When one man dropped his helmet with a clatter, more than one reached for a dagger or sword, and he was roundly cursed.

A short while after that, Simon saw one of the younger men freeze and stare ahead at the track. The lad had good hearing, because it was an age before Simon could discern anything, but suddenly, there it was: the irregular thud of hooves.

Sir Charles sprang into his saddle, drawing his sword. ‘ Mount ! By Saint Loy! Mount!’

There was a general rush to horses, and the neighing of alarmed or excited beasts, and then the whole group was ready. Sir Charles grinned at Simon. ‘Here we go – glory, or foolishness when we meet a farmer!’ and spurred his horse on.

They rounded the next bend, and almost rode into Baldwin.

‘Baldwin!’ Simon burst out as he saw his old friend. ‘What in God’s name are you doing up here? Weren’t you supposed to be home?’

‘I could say the same to you,’ Baldwin replied, delighted to see his old friend. ‘You were on your way home, too. But where is Margaret – and Peterkin?’

Explaining to each other why they were here whiled away a large part of their journey, and they were already quite close to Hereford before Simon glanced behind him at the other men in the entourage.

‘Baldwin, you know the King is lost, don’t you?’

He nodded. ‘It is clear enough that he cannot win. No one will go to his banner. Not now.’

‘Then why will you not join us now? It would be a great deal safer.’

‘I serve my King,’ Baldwin said simply. ‘I cannot turn from him now, just when he needs my support most.’

‘Sir Baldwin,’ Sir Charles said, riding up alongside him. ‘I do appreciate your loyalty, but there is another consideration in all this. I do not wish to have to kill you when we finally catch up with him. If you are there to defend him, we shall have to draw steel.’

‘I would regret that too,’ Baldwin said. ‘Let us hope that it does not come to that, for I would hate to have to kill you , Sir Charles.’

First Thursday after the Feast of St Martin [42] 13 November 1326

Hereford

The Duke heard of the arrival of the contingent of men from the Earl of Lancaster’s host when he was at his table with his clerks, and immediately took up his sword and hurried from the chamber, down the passageway towards the hall of the castle where Sir Roger Mortimer was directing the efforts to find the King, stopping only when he reached the doors with the men-at-arms on either side.

This was a quiet hall usually. There were plenty of painted decorations on all the walls, and a set of hangings on one that showed a scene from the life of King Arthur. It was a picture that had caught the Duke’s imagination the first time he had seen it, and he thought how marvellous it would be, to recreate a little of the magic of King Arthur’s time here in England again. Not that it was likely to happen in his lifetime, he thought. His father’s decline in authority and his uncle’s rise to power in France both militated against any such possibility.

By now, Duke Edward could hear the raised voices inside. They were enough to make him stop dead. Standing here outside the closed doors, he was unsure whether he was right to try to enter. He was not a king, he was only the son of a King. Duke he might be, but only in name. If he were to upset the Mortimer…

It was that thought which made him set his shoulders. His chin rose. For the last years, his father had not dared to upset Despenser, as though Despenser himself had some superiority even over Edward. He did not. He was a servant, nothing more. And nor was Mortimer more important than any other. He too was a servant, whereas Duke Edward would one day be King.