Michael JECKS - The Oath

The King looked about him with a look of mild bafflement on his face. ‘Are you all moon-struck? My friends, I am most humbled by your support. I will do all I may to protect you as you have served me. Thank you. Thank you all.’

He strode down the steps and climbed upon his destrier, sitting with a rigidly straight back. His herald mounted too, and set the King’s banner in its rest, and when Sir Hugh and all the others were sitting in their saddles, Edward nodded, and the whole cavalcade moved off and through the gates.

But not many saw, as Baldwin did, the tears that poured down the King’s face as he rode from the yard to the fate which no one could foresee.

Near Llanharry

Simon had already been riding for three hours that morning, and he regretted it immensely.

From dawn, there had been a torrential downpour that seemed to pause occasionally only in order for it to continue its onslaught with renewed vigour. It felt as though the deluge was battering their very souls. The misery of staggering on under that terrible wall of water sapped their energy and it was only by an enormous effort of will that the footsoldiers were able to tramp onwards. Among the Hainaulters, Simon heard many men swearing bitterly in French and other, incomprehensible tongues. For himself, he was too depleted to bother swearing.

Then the clouds cleared again, and he wiped his face on his sleeve before staring about. There were trees on his right, then a clearing off to the left, with pasture or common land ahead. Just more of what they were used to.

‘Enjoying the ride, Bailiff?’ enquired Sir Charles.

‘Loving every minute of it,’ Simon muttered.

‘I do not think,’ Sir Stephen said with deliberation, ‘that I have ever been quite this wet before in my life. Nay, not even in a bath – for then at least my head has remained dry. This,’ he continued, tugging his felt hat from his head and slapping it on his thigh, making it instantly shapeless, ‘this, is sheer, unadulterated wretchedness.’

They were riding a short distance behind Earl Henry of Lancaster; the Earl and his household knights rode in an armoured group bunched together as though they were clustered under a shelter.

And then Simon sat up, staring ahead, just as the rain began to pound at the land all around them again.

‘What is it?’ Sir Charles asked quickly.

‘I thought I saw something,’ Simon said. But he did not add the words that sprang to his lips: Baldwin’s dog Wolf.

There were so few men left that Baldwin despaired.

Along with the King there was Despenser, of course, and Robert Baldock, the King’s Chancellor. Apart from them, there were only the retainers, including Simon of Reading, who had shown himself to be devoted to Sir Hugh. John Beck, John Blunt, John Smale, Tom Whyther and Richard Holden were all there, with Sir Ralph and his two, and the cautious Robert Vyke, who rode like a sack of turnips but had proved himself to be honourable and true to his word. There were some fifteen other servants and men-at-arms, most of them riding dazed, like men in a dream. The King’s Steward in particular looked as if he had suddenly aged twenty years.

He had never believed that this could truly happen, Baldwin thought. He had spent his life in service to this King, expecting to work until the King pensioned him off, buying him a corrody in a priory or abbey, where he would be housed, fed and clothed, and now it seemed certain that his dreams of ending his work at last and finding rest were flown. If the King were forced from his throne by Sir Roger, there would be nothing for his steward or for any others.

For his part, Baldwin only hoped that they were safe from Mortimer’s men. They must be all about Wales now, he was sure. They would have set off in pursuit as soon as they could when the Abbot and the other negotiators rode out of Hereford.

He cast an eye about him, wondering where Wolf could have got to. The damned brute was always wandering off, following his nose. He wasn’t down by Jack this time. It was only when he peered ahead, over the King’s shoulder, that he thought he saw Wolf in between squalls.

And then he caught sight of the men.

‘Your Highness! Ambush! Turn about, turn about!’ he cried.

Simon felt his stomach lurch as he recognised the great black dog with the white muzzle and breast, the brown cheeks and eyebrows. He blinked away the rain, but suddenly it was over, and there was a patch of clearness – and all the men saw the King and his entourage immediately before them.

No one spoke for a second. The King gaped, his horse pawing at the soil, and Earl Henry and his men were equally nonplussed for a moment, until there was a shout from the rear of the King’s men, and with a thrill Simon recognised Baldwin’s voice; and then all was thundering hooves as the Earl’s men set their horses at the King, and shrieks filled the air, while swords slithered from their scabbards and the horses lowered their heads to pound onwards.

Simon found his own mount plunging on ahead, as it careered after the Earl’s group. It was clear that the King’s men were forming a line to hold their enemies at bay. Simon recognised a few faces here and there, but even though they wielded their swords bravely enough, there were too few, far too few to hold back so large a force. The Earl’s men went through them in no time, and Simon felt a fleeting sadness to see the King’s own steward hacked across the neck and shoulder. He fell back in a fountain of blood, and Simon saw his body in the mud at the side of the road as he rode past, blinking and mouth moving, but making no sound as he died.

Then they were past, and up ahead Simon saw the King and Despenser, along with two knights. He crouched lower, to keep up with the others.

To the loud blaring of horns from his pursuers, the King rode with a mad determination. He would not allow himself to be caught, especially not by Lancaster. He had seen Lancaster’s brother executed for his treachery, and the thought of being in Earl Henry’s custody was not to be borne. He spurred his mount onwards, lashing at his charger’s flanks with the rein-ends, teeth clenched, his muscles tensed against the threat of an arrow in the back.

There was none. He rode on, around the first curve of the roadway, the cold rain slapping him in the face like small icicles, his horse lurching and slipping in the mud, almost throwing him at one point. Beside him, his face set in an expression of horror, rode Sir Hugh.

He couldn’t let them take Hugh! Hugh was his only friend in this repugnant world. All the friends he had were always snatched from him. It was so cruel, he could weep, but there was no time for tears. He had to stay on horseback, keep on riding, escape with Hugh. He couldn’t submit, not now!

A shout, a flurry of noise to his right, and he saw a group of fresh riders pelting towards him through the thin woods. The leader was a knight, but that was all he saw before he spurred his brute to greater efforts, and pointed his charger towards a gap in a hedge a short way ahead. Two paces, a bunching of muscles, and he was in the air, over the hedge, twigs and thorns snatching at his shins and thighs, then… down on the ground once more, and thundering over the turf towards the opposite side of a good-sized pasture, sheep scattering in terror as he came. And when he cast a wild eye over his shoulder, he saw Sir Ralph and Sir Baldwin behind him, Sir Ralph’s squire near him, but the second one was gone. His horse was still there, galloping with rolling, terrified eyes and a great smear of blood and gore over his saddle and flank from the blow that had killed his rider.

‘How many more?’ he asked himself.