It was enough to make them forget the cold, forget their tortured muscles, and think only of their prey. As soon as they reached the top, they hurtled down the other side like hounds seeing a hare.
Sir Stephen could not escape them – that was clear. He had forced his horse to go too far, too fast, and now the brute was winded.
They reached him as the horse gave up the ghost, and Simon rode around to block his path, his sword out and ready. ‘Sir, stop. If you flog your horse any further, you will have to walk back with us.’
‘Damn your soul, Bailiff!’ Sir Stephen spat.
‘Others have suggested that,’ Simon said easily.
It was late that afternoon when they all returned to the city. Sir Stephen had been silent for almost the whole journey, but as they reached Hereford and rode over the bridge, he gestured at a tavern. ‘You will question me anyway: is there any reason why we could not do so over a pot of wine?’
‘There is no reason to avoid wine,’ Baldwin agreed.
Soon they were all inside the tavern, in a small chamber which had a charcoal brazier to warm them, and jugs of wine set out on a tray with a mazer each.
‘Killed? What is that supposed to mean?’ Sir Stephen said as Baldwin questioned him.
‘You asked those three men to kill us, we know,’ Baldwin smiled. ‘Your attempt failed, although you owe Simon a new cloak for his trouble. Why did you want us dead?’
‘Because you had decided I was guilty,’ Sir Stephen said. ‘I wanted to remove you, Puttock, ever since you mentioned my guilt.’
Simon drew a face. ‘What?’
‘On the way back with the King’s men, you said something about bad debts, and gambling. I knew what you were getting at.’
‘Well, I don’t,’ Simon said. ‘Do you mean when I spoke of the Capons?’
‘Yes. You clearly knew about my debts. That was why I tried to kill you – at the hedge. I saw you were at the back of the column, so I rode across to make your horse shy. I’d hoped you’d break your neck, but oh no, you managed to live, and told this knight.’
‘Of the murder of the Capons,’ Baldwin interjected. ‘I believe Cecily was lying when she declared that Squire William had been there and killed the Capons. I think it was you, with your accomplices, who carried out the murderous deed, because Capon was a moneylender,’ Baldwin said, ‘and you owed him money. Lots of it. So you lured the maid Cecily into helping you. You swore no one would be hurt, and she was shocked when your men went into the house and slaughtered all inside. Perhaps she said then that she wanted nothing more to do with it? I see by your expression that I am right.’
‘She told me that she’d sworn to protect the babe, and as the child couldn’t bear witness against me or my men, so he should live. But I didn’t want some bratchet growing into a vengeful youth and hunting me, so I had him killed, just in case.’
‘I see. And then, of course, you persuaded her that she was as guilty as any, and if she wanted to live, she must point her finger at the ones whom all would believe were guilty: Squire William and his men. Which was why you allowed her to live, of course.’
‘Oh, good. Very good. What else?’
‘This knife which you threw into Cecily’s grave. A good, golden hilt, with some jewels…’
‘That was mine! I found it!’ Robert declared. He drank deeply from his mazer. ‘I found it in the road near the body of the Squire. And then he killed the maid with it.’
‘That’s a lie! I didn’t kill her. You’d take a peasant’s word instead of a knight’s?’
Baldwin motioned to Robert Vyke. ‘Continue. How did you find the knife?’
‘I fell, you see,’ Robert Vyke said, and explained about the pothole and the dagger in the bottom. ‘When Sir Stephen here saw it, he bought it from me.’
‘You bought it,’ Baldwin said, ‘and then threw it into the grave with her? Why?’
‘You ask a lot of questions, Sir Knight, but I fear I have no desire to make your task easier.’
‘Really?’ Baldwin said. ‘Then you will answer to the court. I will have you held for the next Court of Gaol Delivery. And then you will, in all probability, hang.’
‘Damn you. Damn your offspring, your hounds and your home! You have nothing, and you will not keep me here. I am a knight, damn you!’
‘You are being held here under my authority as Keeper of the King’s Peace,’ Baldwin said. ‘And I will convey you to the castle, where you can be questioned by the local Justices.’
‘You will find no one who will stand against me,’ Sir Stephen said. ‘I will be free as quickly as – nay, quicker than – Squire William.’
‘The King does not need you now,’ Baldwin said mildly. ‘He has other affairs to concern him than a knight who committed murder. Especially one who killed a man who was going to fight for him. One who surrendered a city of his.’
Sir Stephen turned, only to find that Herv and Otho were both blocking his escape. ‘Get out of my way, churls, or I’ll cut you down,’ he hissed.
‘By the devil’s ballocks, you have a nerve,’ Simon said, as he put his hand on his sword. ‘I declare, if you try to draw a sword, man, I’ll knock your pate so hard, you’ll not wake until Christmas!’
Sir Stephen looked at him, and then drew his dagger and lunged.
Baldwin gasped as the blade passed by Simon’s breast, missing him by a cat’s whisker, and then Sir Stephen continued, toppling to the ground, while Simon stared down at the body before him.
Otho weighed the stone in his hand. ‘I didn’t hit him too hard,’ he said apologetically. ‘But I’ve wanted to knock down a knight for a good long while now. It’s satisfying.’
CHAPTER FIFTY
Third Wednesday after the Feast of St Martin [52]
Hereford
The Duke of Aquitaine stood as the two men walked into the hall, and waited as they made their way to him.
It was an old chamber, and smoke from the fires had marked the beams with soot, blackening the rafters and staining all the thatch that lay above. There was a comforting smell about the place, a smell redolent of ale, of dried hams and bacon, and of the pleasures of eating and drinking with family and friends during a long cold winter’s evening. The fire was lighted now, and the well-dried wood was burning brightly, sending occasional sparks flying up into the air, where they mingled with the very fine smoke a little higher. Later, as the chamber warmed more, the smoke would dissipate and the air would be cleaner. For the young Duke, this chamber smelled of happiness.
And he detested it.
This was the room he had been in when they had come to tell him that his father had been caught. Caught and brought here like a felon, all power, authority and honour stripped from him like so many garments. If they could go against God’s holy law and do that to one king, they could do it to any.
‘Sir Baldwin, I am glad to see you well,’ he said, forcing a smile as the two men reached him. ‘Master Puttock, your head is recovered?’
‘Almost, Your Highness,’ Simon answered. ‘My back will be sore for a while, though.’
‘You are lucky. Such a fall could have been fatal.’
‘It was intended to be,’ Baldwin said. ‘Fortunately, Sir Charles saw his danger and saved him. Otherwise he would be dead. And all because Sir Stephen attempted to see him thrown.’
‘He tried this?’ Duke Edward said.
‘He has admitted it. He regrets very much, so he says, that his plan failed. Apparently he felt anxious that Simon was coming too close to his secret, and wanted to remove a possible threat.’
‘So many are dead because of him. What did he hope to achieve?’
Simon answered him. ‘The man Capon had been a moneylender. I should have realised it before. So many told me, and Baldwin too, of people who had been to Capon to borrow, and who had suffered for their pains, that I should have taken note. But I failed, I fear, because all told me of the death of Squire William’s wife, and the focus of us all was on his
unique cruelty.’
‘So was he not so bad as he was painted?’
‘Oh, yes. He was a most unpleasant man, by all accounts. But this crime was not his. I am quite sure that the murder of Capon and his family and servants was committed by Sir Stephen, purely in order to conceal a large debt he had accumulated. He had no means of repaying it, so he sought to kill the moneylender who wanted it returned. Redcliffe had told Baldwin about the methods he employed. He was no kindly, amiable merchant, any more than Squire William was a warm-hearted nobleman. Their behaviour towards Petronilla, Capon’s daughter, shows that. Both sought to take what they wanted, and when thwarted, were equally resolute in seeking revenge.’
‘Why would Cecily have agreed to help Sir Stephen?’
Baldwin answered. ‘Sir Stephen has already told us that she was exceedingly upset to have been sent away from her mistress’s side by her new employer Squire William. Suddenly, Cecily was thrown back on the charity of Capon – except that Capon was not sympathetic. He was about to evict her from his house, when Petronilla returned with her lover, and needed a maid again. And then, presumably, Capon found it convenient to keep Cecily on as a dry-nurse. The experience had scared Cecily, and she wanted revenge on Capon. The thought of helping someone to rob him was appealing; Sir Stephen vows that she had no idea that Capon was to die. She must live, so that there was a witness to declare that it was Squire William, and she played her part well. William was accused, arrested, and found guilty.’
‘But then,’ Simon continued for him, ‘the Squire and his men were released. Learning of this, Sir Stephen ambushed Squire William on his way home, slew him, and pointed the blame at the priest. He even disembowelled and beheaded him, making it look like an act of revenge for his woman and child. And then Cecily saw the other men in the city.’
‘Which made her fear for her life,’ the Duke said.
‘Sir Stephen said that, in fact, Squire William’s men were very unlikely to risk committing a crime when they had just been pardoned for one of which they were innocent. True, they had been wrongly accused and it is not surprising that she feared they would seek to punish her for her false witness. However, Sir Stephen laughed at her. He held out the dagger, I think to threaten her, and she took it and killed herself. He couldn’t remain there with her, so he took back his dagger and ran. And in case someone had seen him there, and would remember, he refused to return, instead asking Sir Charles to hold the inquest in his place.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘In your gaol at the castle, my lord,’ Simon said. ‘But I think he should be sent back to Bristol to be tried there. If I may suggest it, Sir Laurence would be an excellent guard to take him. He would like to return to his city, I am sure.’
‘Yes. Certainly,’ the Duke said.
There was a little additional business. He had letters to be taken to Bristol, and Simon and Baldwin asked for safe-conducts signed in his name for their journey, for the roads were still hazardous. Soon their business was over, and he took their farewells, offering them ‘Godspeed’ on their way.
‘You go home now?’ he said.
Baldwin bared his teeth in a smile. ‘I have not seen my daughter or son in months, Your Highness. I am desperate to see them, and my wife.’
‘Me as well,’ Simon said. ‘My daughter is a mother now, in Exeter, and my wife and son are incarcerated in Bristol. I would ask one last boon.’
When they left him, the Duke wandered over to the large table where his clerk sat, and leafed idly through the parchments on the desk.
Two men, he thought. Two men with wives and families whom they adored. Their children would never know how terrible it felt – the wrenching guilt of a son who was the source of contention between his parents.
For Duke Edward, the future King of England, such a peaceful, amiable family existence would never be his lot – and it made him heartsick, to think of the comparison between his life and that of Baldwin and Simon’s sons.
Otho said guiltily as Simon walked up to him. ‘I am sorry, sir, that we–’
‘You more than made up for your foolishness with your excellent service capturing the murderer,’ Baldwin said. He held out his hand, and Otho looked from Simon to him, before grasping it.
‘Robert Vyke, how is your leg now?’ Baldwin asked.
‘Not too bad, Sir Knight. Only hurts a little when I use it.’
‘You should be well enough for the journey home, then?’
‘He’ll last it,’ Otho said. ‘I’ll kick his backside if he doesn’t. He failed me on the way here; he won’t fail again on the way home if he knows what’s good for him.’
Robert Vyke gave a smile, but it was thin and his anxiety was plain to both Baldwin and Simon.
‘What’s wrong?’ Simon asked. ‘You look as though you’ve been sentenced to death.’
Otho answered. ‘He’s terrified he’ll be caught by someone who saw him when he was with the King’s men. He thinks his life is in danger still because he stayed with the King and didn’t come to Sir Roger Mortimer’s side.’
Baldwin remembered that feeling all too clearly. He could recall how he had felt smothered by the increasing fear, wondering how he would be treated, expecting to be slain in his turn. ‘Vyke,’ he said. ‘Take this.’ He reached into his purse and took out the small scrap of parchment he had taken from Redcliffe, now stained and blotted. ‘This is a safe conduct for any man. It will guarantee your safety.’
Robert Vyke gaped, and took the note with many bows of his head and expressions of gratitude, but Baldwin waved them away. ‘You behaved honourably enough, man. Get you home to your wife and forget war. Let us hope we may all forget this sadness.’
The men took their leave of each other. At the stables, Jack was waiting with Wolf. The dog was sitting, leaning against him comfortably while the lad tickled his ears. A short way off, Sir Ralph stood watching an armourer running his sword over a spinning stone, the sparks flying in showers for a yard or more.
‘So, Sir Baldwin, you are leaving already?’
‘I think the sooner I am away from here and heading towards my home, the better,’ Baldwin said. ‘I am grateful to you for your companionship, Sir Ralph.’
‘As to that, it was my pleasure,’ Sir Ralph said, taking the sword and peering down the length of the blade with a critical eye. ‘A little more, man. I am only glad that we had just the one fight, and that neither of us was hurt.’
‘Yes. Although others were,’ Baldwin said soberly.
Sir Ralph shrugged. ‘Men live, men die, every day. Some die in a battle. If not, they would have died some other way – fallen into a well or tumbled into a river when drunk, and drowned. The main thing is, we survived. And now Despenser is gone, life will be incomparably better for all of us.’
‘Yes,’ Baldwin said. One image had remained with him from the last weeks: that of King Edward’s face, watching from a high window as his most beloved friend was accused and judged and then executed.
He would never forget that face.
Worcester Castle
He didn’t even know where this place was. They had stopped so often in the days since his capture to allow him some peace, that now he was entirely confused as to where they were.
Edward II, King of England, sat at the window and stared out from eyes ravaged by weeping. It was a vaguely familiar landscape, but he didn’t care. If he had been here, Sir Hugh would have commented on it, would have known where they were.
It was enough to bring on the desperate sobbing again.
‘Dear God!’ he wept. ‘Why have you done this to gentle Hugh?’
Not for the first time, God had decided to punish His poor servant Edward.
‘I will never have another friend,’ he declared, and put his hands to his face. All whom he loved were taken from him. His Piers, captured and murdered by his enemies; now Hugh too. Was there no compassion in God for a simple man who enjoyed the companionship of a few special friends? All he had e
ver sought to do was to maintain his realm, protect his people and his friends, and rule wisely. The fact that others did not approve of his pleasures was not his fault. He was the King, he should be permitted the pastimes he desired. Swimming was no sin, neither was hedging with the peasants on his estates; if the lords and barons disliked such activities, they could avoid them – but for him, they were necessary distractions from the strains and stresses of royal life. Could God truly seek to punish him for that?
But he knew it was more than just that. It was his intimate relationships with Piers and Hugh that had led to God’s aversion. Yet why punish only them, and leave him alone? He would have preferred to be taken with them. There was no point in life now. Not with his wife become his enemy, and adulterously engaging with the arch-traitor Mortimer. Even his own son had deserted him. All the kingdom was against him. Only a tiny number of men had been there with him at the end. All others had fled.
So now here he was: alone. Without host, without castles, without hope.
He could never know happiness again.
Third Friday after the Feast of St Martin [53]
Bristol
Roisea Redcliffe walked into her house with a feeling of mild curiosity; she wanted to see if there was anything in there that could remind her of her darling Thomas.
The fool! Thinking he could renew their fortunes by killing the King. Oh, that would have been a magnificent act, that would. What had he imagined he would do? Just draw a dagger and stab him during a meeting? And what would have happened then? Succeed or fail, the first thing would have been that the King’s men would have slain him – and Roisea too, since she would have been assumed to be guilty by association.
She walked through to the hall. The place had been stripped of anything valuable by the men who had encircled the city. The house had been used as quarters. The hallings she was so proud of were gone. Her cushions, the decorative candle-holders, the little crucifix from its niche by the fire – all had disappeared – and in their place were bones, filth, and excrement. The bedroom, she was sure, would be as bad, and when she walked through to the solar, she had to leave in a hurry. From the stench, this whole area had been used as a privy.
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