‘That is that, then,’ said the Earl. ‘They will begin to fire tomorrow, I expect.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Banks of the River Severn
As the rain lessened and they could see ahead more clearly, Sir Ralph tried to urge his party into a slightly faster gait. It was not easy. The two friars were unused to riding, and their inability to maintain their balance on slippery leather made the going all the more laboured.
Sir Ralph was reluctant to take an exposed route, because of the ever-present risk of being apprehended by a Hainaulter. While Sir Ralph had a letter given him by the Queen which gave him safe-conduct, he did not wish to put it to the test with an armed group of men, who might decide to try their blades on human flesh and search the contents of his purse rather than listen to him explain what the words meant.
But if for preference he would have taken them along a riverbed, the fact was that the streams were all filled with water, and it was too dangerous.
‘Bernard, you ride on a little before us,’ he said. Alexander and Pagan could ride to the rear of the cavalcade, and with Bernard spying out the way ahead, all should be well. ‘Keep your eyes open for any dangers.’
He didn’t know this part of the country very well. There were bridges up to the north, if he followed the line of the River Severn, but they were leagues away. It was for that reason that he had decided to come here, back to the ferry which had brought them from Chepstow. That was at least a direct route, and it should take them further away from the Queen and her men. With luck, they would not meet any of her mercenaries.
Then Bernard lifted a hand urgently, and Sir Ralph threw a look all about them.
They were riding around a small wood, thick with brambles and thorns. It would be difficult to ride in there, for the horses would balk. To their right was a large pasture, with nowhere to conceal themselves. If they were attacked there was only one option – to retreat.
He hurried forward, gazing at Bernard questioningly.
‘Men. Look!’
There was a fire. Smoke rose and trailed into the sky from a hollow up ahead, and as he stared, Sir Ralph saw a head appear over the edge. A lean man, dark-haired, climbed up and stared at them without flinching or hiding.
Sir Ralph studied him a moment. Then, ‘Wait here with the others, Bernard. I will be back shortly.’
Baldwin had made them ride fairly hard as soon as they were over the river, but he still had reservations about Jack’s riding ability. The boy was sat on his horse like a man with a spear’s shaft stuck in his spine. He didn’t slouch, but instead his manner was one of utter terror as he jolted and lurched. He had fallen twice this morning, and now had a large bruise over his temple that was blueing already. Thomas Redcliffe had muttered to himself at the sight, but the boy’s plight was enough to stir the active sympathy of his wife. She insisted they take a halt to allow Jack to recover himself when he fell the second time, and Baldwin agreed. They had made a temporary camp in this hollow, and set a fire to warm their aching bones.
The sight of the men approaching was initially alarming. The two in front appeared to be wearing armour, which must mean that the Queen’s forces were close, Baldwin thought. These two in particular were professional soldiers, by the way they stopped and looked carefully around them before continuing.
‘Good day,’ he called when the one rider trotted forward.
‘And to you. Friend, you are travelling far?’
‘We ride away from Bristol. We do not wish to be held in a siege.’
‘Neither do we. The Queen’s men are close to encircling the city.’
Baldwin nodded, and now he could see that there were two friars in the other man’s entourage, he felt more comfortable. Friars were rarely involved in fighting. ‘You are welcome to join us, friend.’
‘I have to ride to the ferry,’ Sir Ralph answered.
‘We go there too.’
The knights exchanged a look. ‘I would be grateful for company,’ Baldwin said at last.
Before long, the friars and Sir Ralph were seated with Baldwin near the fire, while Pagan and Alexander saw to their mounts under Bernard’s watchful eye.
Baldwin too kept a careful eye, on the woods themselves, and on the lanes at either side.
But most of all, he kept his eyes on these strangers.
Fourth Saturday after the Feast of St Michael [26]
Bristol
Margaret lay wide awake in their chamber that long, weary night, wishing to Heaven that she was already in the safety of the castle, and not out here in the city, feeling vulnerable.
The sounds of preparation for the siege were all around. Men were hammering on doors, rousing householders and shouting orders, while smiths beat at metal on their anvils. Other men were building obstacles in the streets, taking doors and furniture to block thoroughfares and create killing areas where the invaders could be trapped and slaughtered. There was one shrill scream of agony early in the morning that made Simon stir for a moment and roll over, but apart from that, he slept through it all.
She wished she could do the same. Lying here in the bed, with her husband snoring gently, Perkin whiffling in his little truckle bed, and Hugh grunting and mumbling over by the doorway, she felt restless and exhausted.
In the background was the steady rumbling of heavy machines, the slow, inexorable journey of the enemy’s massive engines of destruction being levered and hauled into position so that they might pound the city into dust. For that was what they wanted, surely: to demolish this city without counting the cost to the people inside.
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.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
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 y
oung 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.
The last of the men, Baldwin could not see. And then he spotted a man pelting away on horseback, and peering hard, he saw another horse in front. That must be Pagan, and without further thought, he mounted the captured horse and set off after Pagan and his intended victim.
Pagan’s man was riding fast. Very fast indeed, Baldwin realised. Pagan’s old palfrey couldn’t possibly keep up, and Baldwin’s beast was finding it hard to make headway, but then their quarry slipped left into a small wood, and had to slow down.
Baldwin spurred his beast on, and he lengthened his stride, neck straining, a snorting coming from his nostrils, as Baldwin gave him his head. The brute was a keen racer, and needed little by way of encouragement.
They pounded on the soft grass and mud, occasionally throwing up great gouts of muddy water as they hit puddles, and then the light was eradicated as they entered the woods.
Pagan was up ahead, and Baldwin bent low over his horse’s neck to avoid the branches and twigs that snatched at his hair and shoulders. There was one, a splinter from a snapped bough, that caught his left shoulder and raked along it, ripping the material and making him grit his teeth at the swift rush of pain, but then he concentrated again, and saw the figure of Pagan lift as though by magic, legs flopping, arms reaching ahead of him as though trying one last time to grab his quarry, before slamming down on the ground and lying still.
Baldwin was riding at such a speed, he was already on the body; his horse sprang over it and carried on. The sight of Pagan was only fleeting, but Baldwin saw the stubby crossbow bolt protruding from his breastbone. It made him realise that he could be riding into a trap, but the thought was irrelevant. If there were more men here to ensnare him, he would be no safer if he turned and fled back to his camp.
And then, blessed relief, he was in an open space in the midst of the woods, and the man he sought was attempting to span his crossbow. Seeing Baldwin, he gave a howl of despair and aimed his horse at him, his crossbow raised in his hand like a club. Baldwin charged, and his first sword’s stroke took off the man’s arm at the elbow. The fountain of blood sprayed over Baldwin’s face, arm, torso, and in his hair, where he felt it congealing. Then he was back, and the man was screaming shrilly, staring at his stump, waving it, oblivious to Baldwin and all else.
With one stroke Baldwin took off his head and the body rode on a short distance, the arm still waving wildly, a gush of blood erupting from the neck, until the body could topple slowly to the ground.
Not that Baldwin was watching it. His attention was fixed on the bearded head staring up at him from the grass, jaw slowly opening and closing like a fish’s.
‘You again,’ Baldwin breathed.
He knew his wife was unhappy. Leaving Emma Wrey’s house yesterday, Margaret had sunk into a deep gloom, and their journey did nothing to lift her spirits. Returning by a different route, they came to a large barricade thrown up by the city, and that seemed to heighten her anxiety even more.
His Meg, his lovely Meg. He had loved her from the first moment he had seen her, when she was little more than a child, but tall, slender, fair… She was utter beauty. They married young, and their lives had been joyous until their first son had died. That had been hard. And it was then that he had last seen her looking like this. All the trials and difficulties of the last years, even when Despenser forced them from their home, had not caused this collapse in her appearance.
She was exhausted. Her eyes looked sunken, and there were shadows beneath them.
‘Come, my love,’ he said. ‘You need to eat something.’
‘No. I want nothing.’
‘Wouldn’t you like an egg, or warmed milk?’
‘I am fine,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t want food.’
It was not the time to try to force her. For now, he would have to hope that he might be able to tempt her later.
A groom arrived and told them that Sir Charles had arranged for them to have a room, so they left the inn and walked the short distance to the castle’s gate, but when Simon asked where they could lodge their horses, he was told there was no fodder for the beasts; they would have to remain in their stable at the inn.
Simon felt that blow keenly. Even as Sir Charles came and confirmed that there was nothing more he could do, since the only beasts allowed inside the castle were those which were needed by the garrison, and those which were to be slaughtered, Simon fretted.
‘I am worried, if they are taken…’ he said.
‘I know,’ Sir Charles answered. ‘But there is no point arguing with this command, Simon. In truth, you are better not to comment at all. The castellan is concerned about conserving food, and if you were to make a fuss, and people realised you were here solely to gain food that may not be forthcoming in the city…’
The Oath aktm-29 Page 22