Speaking of the Abbot in such a derogatory way was not seemly, but he knew the peasants here detested the man for his taxes. There was nothing so mean that the Abbot wouldn’t take it. Whether it was the leyrwite, the tax for adultery, or the heriot when a peasant died, the local people were fleeced like sheep. It was cruel to take so much from those who had the least.
There was a sudden crash at the door, and it rasped open slowly, Anna’s little husband entering with a small sack upon his back. He carried a couple of faggots of twigs in one hand, both balanced on a billhook’s blade.
‘Father,’ he nodded, letting the sack fall to the ground. It contained three cabbages which had been badly mangled by slugs, and two little turnips. ‘You staying for some pottage? Anna makes the best in Marshfield, I’ll vow, and with weather like this, you’ll need something hot for your belly.’
‘I thank you, but the ale and the fire are all I need,’ Paul said untruthfully, for the odours from the little pot by the fire had made his belly groan.
‘Really?’ Anna said mischievously. She lifted the lid and sniffed with appreciation. ‘Marrow bones, some meat from a chicken, with all the garbage, and the last of the peas went into that. Sure you don’t want any?’
It was later, when Paul was sitting replete, that the peasant looked at his wife and remarked, ‘Old Puddock was in the vill this morning. He had news of Bristol.’
Paul smiled to hear that. He was still unused to the broad local pronunciation, and the word ‘Brizzle’ made him feel alien, but strangely comfortable too.
‘Puddock is the Abbey’s steward,’Anna said. ‘He often comes on tour to see we’re not living like lords on the money we manage to save from them.’
‘Little enough,’ her husband grunted. He picked up a stick and prodded at the fire.
‘I really should get off to the miller,’ Paul said unenthusiastically.
‘Puddock,’ the other man said solemnly, ‘he was telling of a terrible murder in the big city. An ’ole fam’ly killed.’
‘Terrible!’Anna said, while Paul crossed himself sorrowfully.
‘There are many evil men in the world,’ he opined.
‘Because of that silly maid of theirs, the Capons have all been killed. Even the daughter’s pup.’
Paul felt the blood drain from his face and throat, just before he heard a roaring in his ears, and the ground came up to strike him.
Second Sunday after the Feast of St Michael9
Chapel near Marshfield
The floor’s little ridges and gravel were agony to his knees as Paul knelt, head bent, hands clasped tightly near his nose, but that physical pain was nothing compared with the agony of his spirit.
‘Could You not have let me suffer for them? Why did You let that evil man kill them? There was no need for them to die. And my child was blameless, surely, in all this! Why should You punish him?’
He knew the answer already, of course. The child he and Petronilla had conceived was born out of an adulterous relationship. That ‘petit treason’ was itself an abomination. If another man had committed such an offence, it would be cause for an enraged husband to seek him out, and if he were to slay the offender, he was sure to be released. No man could be expected to endure such shame. Paul was fortunate that he was a priest. Holy Orders protected him.
The child had been born in sin, and was taken to prove to all that such evil behaviour was as obnoxious to God as to all right-thinking men.
He sobbed, his head falling forward until his elbows were on the ground, his brow on the chilly, clay soil. His heart felt as though it had been twisted and torn at the loss of his lovely Petronilla, the gorgeous, winsome maid with whom he had fallen utterly in love. There was no other emotion that had filled him so entirely. Even when he had felt the hands of the Bishop on his head at his service of ordainment, the thrill had lasted but fleetingly, and by the time they had left the great church, his excitement was more or less dissipated.
That was not the case with Petronilla. He had met her one day when she and her husband arrived at his chapel near Hanham, and it had been just as though a dart from Cupid’s bow had stabbed his heart. Instantly he was aware of no one else. Her face radiated perfection: it was like seeing the Blessed Virgin come down from Heaven to his little chapel, filling the place with light and warmth and love.
Of course, then he had had no idea that she might possibly feel the same for him, but there was a sparkle of something reciprocal in her eyes. He was sure of it.
She was wife to Squire William de Bar. That was the harsh truth. She was seventeen on that fateful day when Paul met her, an acknowledged beauty, but still barren. Not for want of trying, the Squire would say gruffly, ignoring, or perhaps not seeing, the pain in her eyes.
Paul could not marry anyway, since he was sworn to celibacy, but that served only to heighten his arousal at the sight of her. She was unattainable, a vision of total perfection: like Guinevere to Launcelot. An angel come to earth.
All would have been well, had Paul not seen her thrashed that day. That was the day he swore to himself that he would not let her suffer in that brutal man’s company. He would rescue her.
It was that resolution which had led to her murder.
And his child’s.
Second Monday after the Feast of St Michael10
Ten leagues from Bristol
The rain fell but they scarcely noticed it any more. On all sides men trudged on through the wet and mud, wretched in the cold. Some were wearing tattered sacking about their heads and backs; others, more fortunate, had leather jerkins, but all shivered as the dampness was flung in their faces by the capricious wind.
These were the men of southern Oxford. Summoned by a King who had lost all support among his barons, briefly arrayed with their unfamiliar weapons, they had been ordered to hurry to his defence – while all others in the land hurried to the King’s enemy: his wife, the Queen.
If it had not been for Otho, most would not have struggled this far.
The Sergeant was a kindly man to those from his village. Thick-necked, with a pepper-and-salt beard and a clump of sandy hair, Otho had two boys back at his home, and Robert knew he would be as worried about them and his wife as he was about his own wife, Susan. But Otho would not allow the men under him to rest and slacken off. He inspired them by his own iron determination, forcing himself on, hour after hour.
A cart hauled by a wretched old nag rumbled past. The beast’s head hung low as it plodded on, beyond despair. The rain began to fall again. Few among the men would spare a thought for its suffering, and when it stopped, shivering, the man at the leading rein stared uncomprehendingly as though he had forgotten he had the animal with him. A spasm passed through the pony’s frame, and its head drooped so low, it almost touched the mud of the roadway. The driver and two others tried to beat it into movement, but it would not budge, whether they hauled on the reins or whipped it until its rump was red with blood.
Robert Vyke heard the low, moaning whinny, and his eyes were drawn to the pony.
‘He can’t pull any more,’ he said.
The driver snarled, ‘So, you want to carry his load on your back?’
Vyke glanced at the light cart with the boxes set over the axle. ‘You can pull all you want, the beast’s done.’
‘Yeah, well unless we get some more like you to pull, we’ll have to rely on this God-damned pony,’ the man said, and tugged again. ‘Come on, in Christ’s name! God’s body, but you’d test the patience of a saint!’
‘Leave the poor brute,’ Vyke muttered. He walked to the pony’s head and scratched it under the chin. The creature was too tired even to whicker, but rested its head on Vyke’s hand. ‘He’s all but done.’
‘Out of the way, you prickle – we have to get on! Come on, you justler, you swiver – move your arse!’
Vyke would have protested, but Otho put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Come on, lad. He’s right, you know that. The horse has his work to do.’
Struggling on,
his eyes rolling in his head, muscles tightening like bands beneath his skin, the horse began to move again, and Vyke turned away in disgust and pity as the driver swore, cajoled and yanked on the beast’s reins.
Then, at the side of the road, there was a sight to drive the horse from his mind. Two young men stood, both dark-haired, their faces twisted with loss, while an older man lay between them, his hair almost white, his face grey and miserable, his lips blue.
Robert Vyke passed them with a short stab of jealousy. He was so tired, the thought of lying down amid the mud and thin grasses, to feel the rain upon his face, the coolness of water seeping into his bones, and know that he need not march further . . . that would be a sublime pleasure.
A memory snagged his mind as Robert glanced at the men. He had seen them before, in Reading, he realised. They had been with another vingtaine. The two were the old man’s sons, but it looked like they’d lost their father now. There was no movement in his breast, and his eyes stared, unmoving.
But their loss was not Robert Vyke’s. He had little room in his heart to feel sorrow for others when he missed his wife and child so very much.
Sometimes, while walking, he had a memory of his home. Of when he was with his Susan, her young face cracking into a smile as she joshed him, or that teasing expression of hers as she glanced at him from the side of her almond-shaped eyes. It was a look that he’d take to the grave, that was. When she did that, he had to follow. He knew what she was offering . . .
He would probably never again feel the warmth of her body against his. That was the thought that made him sigh. And all because his lord had thrown his lot in with the King. ‘Only a few miles,’ they kept saying. The King was only a little way ahead, over the next hill, and then they’d all see his host. There would be thousands there, they said, but no one believed it. They knew no one else supported the King any more.
A sob formed in his breast, near his heart, as he prayed that his Susan was safe and well, their little boy with her – but today, no one could tell. The country was aflame. He would perish out here somewhere, far to the west of the realm. They all would.
It felt as if the kingdom had been teetering on the brink of war for years, and now it had toppled into chaos. Old Otho had been ordered to collect twenty men for battle, and Robert had been one of the first to be chosen. That was just over a week ago now, and since then all he had done was march, first up east towards London, and now back west again. There was no sense in it. He didn’t know what they were doing, only that the King himself was in danger, and Robert, Otho, and the lads from the vill must try to protect him, while others tried to stop or slay them. It made no sense. Nothing made sense any more. All he wanted was to stop, to lie down and sleep.
There was a sudden crack and a shout, then a terrible scream. The pony lay on its side, a bloody froth at its mouth, kicking listlessly with two forelegs, while the cart’s body lay in pieces all about. A wheel had fallen and broken in a hole, and the poor beast had broken its heart trying to continue.
Robert Vyke walked over to the driver. ‘I said the poor brute wouldn’t be able to carry on,’ he told him.
The driver looked at him blankly, then kicked the horse’s head viciously. ‘Bastard son of a sow was useless,’ he burst out.
Robert’s hand was on his dagger – and then the blade was out, and the driver jumped back. There was a shout, a curse, and the driver had his own dagger free in his hand, and was reaching for his whip.
‘Stop that!’ The bellow came from Otho, the Constable of Robert’s vingtaine, and in a moment he was standing in between them. ‘You want the Queen to discuss your argument, boys? You want her here so that you can put your cases to her, wait for her judgement on you? Eh? Because I can tell you what her judgement would be – that you two prickles would deserve a good, tall tree to hang from, since you’re going to her enemies. Your King wouldn’t be too happy to learn you’d held us all up, neither. He’d hang you as an example. Put the blades away, boys, because so help me, if you don’t, I’ll break your pates, both of you.’
Robert and the driver stared at each other a moment, then Robert looked at Otho. ‘You think I can’t cut a fool’s throat like his?’
‘Leave him. He’s a son of a goat, and not worth getting yourself hanged over, Robert,’ Otho rasped.
‘I will do as you wish, Constable,’ Robert said, and thrust his dagger back in its sheath.
It felt as though he had pulled the lever in a mill and turned off the water from the sluice. Suddenly he had no energy again, and he saw that his companions from the village were all near him. He walked in among them, and would have fallen but for a friendly hand at his arm. And then they began their weary trudging again.
CHAPTER FIVE
Third Tuesday after the Feast of St Michael11
Bristol
Cecily reached the house and pulled open the door. Trembling like a leaf, she pushed it closed behind her, then stood leaning against it for a while, her eyes shut.
‘Maid?’ Old Hamo the steward was at the doorway to his buttery, a cloth in his hand as he methodically wiped and polished a maple-wood mazer, a frown of perturbation on his kindly features. He was ancient, at least sixty years, and as bent and gnarled as an old blackthorn. ‘Maid, what is it?’
‘Nothing,’ she said. How could she explain the shock that had jolted through her body out there when she saw the little boy who looked so like baby Harry? The child in his mother’s arms had turned and stared at her with such an intensity, it felt as though Harry himself was there. God in Heaven, the accusation she thought she had seen in those eyes . . .
‘Hamo!’ she said, and then began to sob, her hands over her face as she slid down the door to the floor.
‘What is it, Cecily?’
She tried to turn away, but the tender concern in his eyes made her feel the guilt again. She saw Little Harry’s face, and as though in a nightmare again, saw the skull shatter, the blood and brains exploding out. ‘Oh, Holy Mother, save me!’
‘Speak to me, Cecily,’ the steward said, now seriously concerned. ‘You’ve been getting more and more fretful these last days – what is it?’
Cecily wept, head covered in her hands. She was aware of tears pouring down both cheeks, and gave a choking sob. But it was no good. Even behind her hands, she could still see the hideous events of that bloody day: the accusing death stare of Arthur Capon, the cold, calculating expression in the murderer’s eyes as he stood and slid his sword into Madame Capon’s breast. The baby . . .
She must carry her guilt with her to the grave.
Emma Wrey had heard the weeping, and it was enough to make her put her needlework aside and walk to the doorway. She watched for a moment, frowning as she considered her maidservant. Curious that Cecily had broken down like this. It was the first time she had been so distraught during the day. At night she had often cried herself to sleep, and woken with a yelp of horror or pain, but Emma had assumed that the dark memories would gradually fade.
It must have been a God-awful shock. Emma didn’t know how she herself would have reacted, seeing her master and mistress cut down before her, the daughter of the house dragged from her bed and stabbed to death, then the child who was her charge slammed against a wall and killed. Those were the sort of things that no one could witness with impunity. They would change a soul. Poor Cecily, she had thought.
But this recurrence of the maid’s terrors was alarming. There were stories of people who were dreadfully affected by such things, who lived normally for a while and then were prey to fears that drew their lives to an untimely end. Perhaps Cecily was so badly marked by her experiences that her heart would give out.
No! It would not do!
‘Hamo? Hamo?’
‘Mistress?’
‘I think a jug of strong wine would be a good idea. Cecily needs fortifying.’
‘Of course, mistress,’ Hamo said, walking stiffly from the room.
‘Make it good wine. Not the sour
stuff, mind.’
He smiled and nodded.
When Emma married Master Wrey, she had been alarmed by the sight of this paragon. He was tall, suave and elegant, and had impressed her with his cool appraisal of her before he gave a nod, as though telling himself that while she was not perfect, she was at least young enough to be moderately malleable.
And perhaps she had proved to be for the first years, until her husband died. When that happened and she found herself thrown into the management of the business, Emma had grown harder and more uncompromising, but still, every so often, she would catch that same measuring look in Hamo’s eyes, and she would see him occasionally give a sign of approval, as if pleased that she had turned out so well; not in a patronising manner, but almost with pride.
Not that she needed such recognition now. She was content with her position in Bristol and her standing in the financial community. Since Arthur Capon’s death, her business had become one of the leading finance houses in the city.
‘Come with me, Cecily,’ Emma said, walking over to the fire and patting the stool beside her. ‘Maid, I’ve heard your tears often enough. What is it that upsets you?’
Cecily’s eyes were red-rimmed, and at the question, they brimmed with tears again. ‘Mistress, I’m sorry, I didn’t think to upset you. I—’
‘Enough, my dear. With all the angels as my witness, I declare I only want to help you. Now, ah . . . Thank you, Hamo. Put the wine there, and then you may leave us.’ She waited until he had left the hall, and then herself poured two cups from the jug.
When Emma passed her a cup, Cecily took it and sipped, but sat with her eyes downcast.
‘Look, the attack on the house was not your fault,’ Emma said patiently. ‘Squire William was a thoroughly evil man. He and his men were foul to commit such a dreadful crime.’
‘I know.’
‘You mustn’t blame yourself. I imagine you feel a little like me – guilty, because you survived. I felt that after my husband died, but . . .’
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