‘But Mortimer said he was a trusted friend of his!’ Simon said, confused.
‘Perhaps the man was a friend to both sides,’ Sir Laurence considered. ‘I thought you would be grateful to hear.’
‘I am, and I thank you,’ Simon said.
‘Well,’ Sir Charles breathed as Sir Laurence trotted away. ‘So, was there anyone this merchant was not friendly with?’
Two Saturdays before the Feast of St Martin [33]
Caerphilly Castle
In the end, Baldwin was not sure whether it was compassion or the urge to flee that weighed most heavily in the balance.
The King was almost silent the night before at the evening meal, and left soon after to return to his little portable altar, communing with God as best he might. After he left, the men in the hall were subdued. A couple grew quietly drunk in a corner, but even they were moderate in their language, and neither tried to draw steel. It was as though everyone in the castle realised that their situation had indeed grown hopeless since the departure of Bogo’s men.
Sir Ralph was feeling the strain too, Baldwin saw. The lines at the sides of his mouth were graven more deeply, and there were bruises under his eyes. This was not mere tiredness from lack of sleep, it was the lassitude of a man who had been driven too far. While riding and preparing to fight, a man could retain a semblance of his former fortitude, but when those pursuits were removed and he was left to wait for an attack, even a knight would grow fretful.
Thus it was that the news that they were all to leave the castle came as a surprise – and a most welcome one.
The castle was to be left in the hands of Sir John Felton and Sir Hugh le Despenser’s oldest son, Hugh, who was sixteen years old and would need Sir John’s help. It was stocked with provisions enough to survive a siege lasting many weeks. All the King’s unnecessary belongings, even his chamber book which recorded all his expenditure, were to remain, and he and a small force of men would make their way west to Neath via Margam. King Edward had a desperate hope that he might still meet with some of the men from North or South Wales, and enlist them in his support.
Only a small number of men were to join him – the remainder of his household knights, Despenser, Baldock and some few others. Their intention was to ride away at speed and outrun the slower host of Mortimer, which would almost certainly be hauling large weapons of war with them.
The King appeared in the inner ward when all the others were prepared and ready. At the steps to the hall, he went to the son of Sir Hugh le Despenser and Sir John Felton, offering his best wishes for their security and insisting that they held on to the castle and did not surrender it shamefully. Then he gave his thanks to all the men in the castle for protecting him so well, and reminding them that he was their lawful King, the one who had been anointed with God’s holy oil.
With that, and as the men all shouted their approval, he strode to the mounting block and easily threw his leg over his horse. Always athletic, he looked like King Arthur now in his armour, and Baldwin, for all his usual cynicism, felt his heart thrill a little at the sight.
The King’s standard-bearer hefted his great flag, and the King’s banner opened out, displaying the royal arms of gules, three lions passant gardant in pale or, armed and langued azure. As soon as the bearer’s horse began to move, a little wind caught the flag, and the lions rippled on the bright red material, their blue claws and tongues catching the light.
Baldwin waited in turn until he too was at the gate, and suddenly, as he rode beneath the massive gatehouse, he felt as though some of the worry of the last few days was at last dissipated. He looked across at Jack, who wore a fretful expression, as though wondering whether he would ever stop this aimless travelling about the country. Wolf was at his left foot, his allegiance apparently switched from Baldwin to the boy. And in the distance, Baldwin was sure that he could see a familiar slim figure: Roisea.
Yes, action was enough to remind him that he was a man, not a caged animal, and as his horse’s hooves thundered over the timbers of the bridge across the moat, Baldwin could have sung for joy, just for the fact of being on horseback and free once more.
Over the bridge, Despenser paused and Baldwin saw him look back towards the castle. And in his eyes, Baldwin saw genuine tragedy.
Sir Hugh le Despenser knew he would never see his son again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Two Sundays before the Feast of St Martin [34]
Hereford
After another long ride, they at last reached Hereford in the middle of the day, and Simon was pleased just to clamber down from his horse.
He had always prided himself on the fact that he was hardy, and that his common practice of riding each morning, and travelling over Dartmoor to his various duties, made him more resilient than most, but after riding for so long, since the middle of October, he was feeling more than worn: he felt bone weary.
It was not only him, either. As he dropped heavily from the saddle and looked about him, he saw that the others were in a similar state. Even Otho and Herv moved in a lacklustre manner with stiff legs and backs as they set about gathering firewood from some trees at the edge of the roadway. Sir Laurence too was saddlesore, climbing gingerly down from his mount. He had spent too long in the castle dealing with the administration of the place, and was unused to so much exercise, and it was clear that Sir Charles too was ready to drop.
Simon gathered up his few belongings and made a little pile along with Otho and Herv’s packs, before seeing to his horse. The beast was already head down, cropping the grass at the side of the road, and it was difficult to undo the cinch of the saddle and remove the bridle. There were hostlers moving about, but Simon had no idea whether any would be prepared to help him, and it would have been a long job, had not Sir Charles’s groom appeared. He took Simon’s brushes and began to clean the beast. ‘You go and sit, master. I’ll see to this. Sir Charles insists.’
‘I am most grateful,’ Simon murmured, and stumped over to where the knight sat on a log. ‘Thank you, Sir Charles,’ he said, and eased himself down beside him.
‘It did not look as though you were going to be able to stand much longer,’ Sir Charles said with a feeble grin. ‘I wasn’t sure that I could, either.’
Simon took a look around to see if there was a tavern or inn where they could buy some meats or hot broth, but there was nothing nearby.
They were immediately outside the city of Hereford. Sir Roger Mortimer and the leading elements had already crossed the bridge over the Wye and entered, but the force was now so large that there was no space to accommodate so many, and it was clear that Simon and Sir Charles and the others would be forced to remain out here.
Hereford stood on low-lying ground. The River Wye was immediately in front of them, and it curved around, past the bridge and on. Where the river flowed, the town was well-protected, Simon could see, but even where the river did not form a natural defence, the people had recently renewed a system of ditches. The soil in the ditches was dark and stood out clearly, and beyond them the city walls were tall and immensely strong, from the look of them, with a series of huge towers to give more opportunities for the defence to attack an enemy.
However, Simon was less interested in the city, and more keen on the direction he would be taking later. Off to the west he could see the hills rising, thickly wooded, through which he guessed he would have to ride soon, in order to seek the King. With his aching legs, that was a daunting sight.
‘Do you think we’ll have to go today?’
Sir Charles shook his head. ‘I refuse to go anywhere before tomorrow. My backside has been flattened by the shape of that saddle, and I will ride no further until I have allowed it to recover a little. In any case, if we do try to press on at this rate, we will risk the lives of our horses.’
Simon had to agree with that. ‘Have you been to Wales before?’
Sir Charles looked at him suspiciously. ‘Not for a long time.’
‘I just
wondered. You see, I have never been there,’ Simon explained, and a little of the tension in Sir Charles seemed to leave him.
‘It is a hilly country, with many woods and copses, and a lot of rolling moorland. It is good land for farming sheep, but very wet at most times of the year.’
‘How easy will it be to find them, do you think?’
Sir Charles gave a chuckle. ‘If the King has managed to persuade anyone to fight for him, he will be very easy to find, but if, as I suspect, he is learning that he has no friends in Wales, it will be much harder, for he must know he is a wanted man: he will have to hide while we ride towards him.’
‘And what then?’ Simon said more quietly.
‘Then? We find him and invite him to join us here for supper.’
‘If he refuses?’
Sir Charles shrugged once more. ‘Perhaps the Hainaulters won’t understand him. They don’t speak very good English or French, do they? They may just feel that it would be better to bring him here anyway so that he can be protected, eh?’
Simon was tempted to ask what they might do if the King refused their invitation, but there was a look in Sir Charles’s eye that dissuaded him. The fact was, Sir Charles had been a mercenary for some years. He had suffered the loss of his lord, and had become a wandering exile for so long that it had coloured his entire outlook. The man probably had reserves of brutality that Simon could only guess at.
Otho and Herv had a fire ready, as did many others all along the roadway. Groups were huddling around them, feeding them with sticks and chatting in a subdued manner as they stared at the flames. Simon and Sir Charles sat with Otho and Herv, and before long they were joined by Sir Laurence and two grooms.
‘Are you to come with us?’ Simon asked Sir Laurence.
‘Me?’ Sir Laurence laughed. ‘I don’t think so. I gave my oath to the King. I would hold to that, and Sir Roger knows it.’
‘I expect he will send a number of us to scout,’ Sir Charles said. He squatted down nearer the fire, his cloak over his shoulders, holding his hands to the warmth. ‘You, Bailiff, me, and one or two other knights. He will have to keep a guard here, and the Queen and Duke will need their own guards for their households, so he will not want to send too many.’
‘He has plenty to keep here and to send off to fetch back the King,’ Sir Laurence observed sourly. ‘He is not short of men.’
Sir Charles glanced at him. ‘I heard he will send Sir Stephen off so you and he don’t come to blows again.’
‘That would be sensible. If I see him again, I may kill him,’ Sir Laurence said bluntly. ‘I would have nothing to do with a man who was so false to his word.’ He threw a look at Otho and Herv. ‘It was your men there who stopped me.’
‘Was this for surrendering the city?’ Simon said.
‘Yes. He is an evil man. A oath means nothing to him. You may believe that he will behave honourably, but unless there is money in it for him, your wishes will be misplaced.’
Sir Charles pulled a face. ‘I know the chivalric ethos as well as any man, Sir Laurence, and I tried to live by it when I was servant to Earl Thomas of Lancaster. But when a man, even a knight, is forced to fend for himself, he will sometimes take a course he regrets.’
‘My friend, I make no comment about you. I am sure you are an honourable knight,’ Sir Laurence said. ‘Sir Stephen, however, is avaricious – he wants money for its own sake. If he were not noble, I think he would have been happy as a moneylender, loaning money for interest like any other usurer.’
‘Sometimes a man must borrow money,’ Sir Charles argued.
‘Yes, but there are some who use it despicably, especially those who should know better – such as Sir Stephen.’
‘In what way?’ Simon asked.
‘In big cities like Bristol, where there are many merchants, you will always find one or two who need additional funds, and they go to moneylenders to raise the sums required. Sir Stephen used them too.’
‘That is hardly his fault,’ Simon said gently. ‘If a man strikes hardship and needs money, you surely wouldn’t blame him, would you?’
‘No. But there are some who like to live an extravagant life, and when those men go to the moneylenders just to finance a new horse or their gambling, I can condemn them. It is wrong to try to improve your status by borrowing. A knight or a squire should enjoy his rewards as a loyal servant to his master. The feudal system works well for all. When a man decides to take money instead, he unsettles the whole system.’
‘You say that Sir Stephen took money?’
‘He gave away a city to his feudal lord’s enemy,’ Sir Laurence said uncompromisingly. ‘And he enjoys ostentation. Do I know that he took money? No. But do I suspect it? Oh, yes. I would not trust that man within the reach of my sword. I would never allow him within my guard.’
Two Mondays before the Feast of St Martin [35]
Hereford
Simon checked the cinch and tugged at the straps holding on his blankets and clothing. Wrapped inside were some dried strips of meat, a few biscuits and a loaf of bread. He wore a new thick jack of padded material over his tunic, with a thinner fustian cotte over the top. A broad-brimmed hat kept his head warm and the worst of the rain from his eyes, while over his back he had a long cloak. The rent made by the felon who had chased his family just before he met Sir Charles had been sewn up. Swinging up on the beast’s back, Simon saw that the men were gathering a short distance away, and he went over to join them.
Sir Charles sat easily on his mount. He wore a simple armour, light enough to allow him movement without being too tiring on a long ride. Sir Stephen Siward was nearby, astride a black destrier which, although it was no larger than Simon’s rounsey, was spirited enough to keep the hostlers away. His flailing hooves spoke of his fighting temper.
There were a good number of Hainaulters and Frenchmen with them, but the majority were the men of Henry of Lancaster, and they were all keen to catch the King and his diminishing circle of supporters.
‘Sir Charles!’
A short man with a gait like a barrel on a rolling ship swaggered up to the knight’s horse and clouted him on the knee.
‘Simon, this reprobate is Sir Giles of Langthwaite. An old friend of mine.’
‘I knew this fellow before he could hold a sword,’ the short man said, but by the grin he gave the other knight, Simon could see that he was fond of Sir Charles. ‘So, sire, you are with us to hunt the King?’
‘Aye,’ Sir Charles nodded. ‘And all his friends.’
‘Yes. The King, Despenser, Arundel, Baldock and any others who ride with him. Well, we’ll soon have ’em. Can’t leave things as they are.’
Before long, the men had been arrayed in groups. The Earl of Lancaster’s men were to the fore, with some Welsh behind them, and the Hainaulters brought up the rear. Simon and Sir Charles rode with Sir Stephen, not far behind the Earl himself.
‘Sir Charles,’ Simon said as they rode, ‘the Earl of Lancaster was your master before, was he not?’
‘That was Thomas of Lancaster, the Earl’s brother, yes,’ Sir Charles said.
Simon knew that Sir Charles had lost his home, position and status when his master had been executed. Because Earl Thomas had been judged a traitor, many of his servants were forced into hiding or exile. But even though the family of Lancaster had a stain on its reputation, clearly the King had seen fit to maintain the earldom and not simply destroy all memory as he had tried to do with the Earl himself.
‘It was quite wrong,’ Sir Stephen said. ‘The Earl Thomas was a decent man, and to treat him in such a manner was disgraceful.’
‘You mean his execution?’ Sir Charles said.
‘Of course,’ Sir Stephen said, his round face serious. ‘The Earl was the King’s own cousin, in God’s name! That is taking ruthlessness a step too far. And as I said, the Earl was a good man. You know that there have been pilgrims to his grave? They say that astonishing miracles have been seen there.’
&nb
sp; ‘Yes,’ Sir Charles said languidly. ‘They say as much at any church where they need money.’
‘That is an appalling slur!’
‘Yes. And it’s true, as well.’
Simon had to look away before his amusement could be seen by Sir Stephen.
‘What of you, master? Did you get to the truth of the murder of that woman in Bristol?’
Simon felt a quick shame. He had forgotten all about Cecily in her lone grave. The last days had been so filled with excitement and fear, that the poor woman was driven completely from his mind. ‘No, I fear not. I learned about Squire William’s death, though, and the priest you told me of – Father Paul, the man who ran away with Squire William’s wife.’
‘It was a terrible event, that,’ Sir Stephen said. ‘Dreadful to think a man like William could stoop to such a killing. But you haven’t found whoever it was who killed the maid?’
‘Cecily was killed without witnesses, it would seem,’ Simon said. ‘She died quickly, with the one stab, so that is good, but as to who did it – I do not know. Perhaps one of Sir William’s men?’
‘Not “Sir” William: he was only a Squire,’ Sir Stephen said sharply.
‘My apologies, Sir Stephen. I meant no offence,’ Simon said quickly. A prickly knight was not a pleasant companion. ‘Squire William had several men with him when he stormed the banker’s house, so perhaps it was one of them who slew Cecily, in revenge for her giving evidence against them.’
‘Perhaps so. They would have been released as soon as he was, so they would have had the same opportunities. And while Squire William’s home is some miles away from Bristol, and thus beyond Cecily’s reach, his men would be more fearful of being denounced in the streets.’
Simon could not disagree with that. The men who had been paid by Squire William would already have a reputation, and if a woman was to point to them and accuse them of being the source of her fear, others in the street might decide to do her the honour of setting about them. It would be hardly surprising if one of the gang reckoned it would be better to kill her as well, before that happened.
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