‘Who among you wants to hang?’ Baldwin said.
They tensed visibly, and the boy who’d had the long dagger, whom Jack had knocked down with a timber, looked fretfully at the bearded man who appeared to Baldwin to be their leader.
In the grey daylight, Baldwin saw that this man had brown hair, and his beard was brown and ginger, as though he had carelessly painted a wall and splashed ochre over his chin. He had the narrow, deep-set eyes that to Baldwin indicated that he was untrustworthy. The knight was not keen to make snap decisions about any man, but felt that when someone had attempted to test his blade in Baldwin’s breast, he was entitled to take a dim view. At least the fellow was in less of a position to hurt anyone now, from the look of the blood seeping through the linen wrapping his flank.
‘You,’ he said, pointing. ‘Are you the leader of this band?’
‘We don’t have leaders.’
‘You don’t have a lot, do you?’ Baldwin said. He leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms. Wolf came and stood at his side, head lowered aggressively.
The men were all unrested, he could see. Even without the bruises and injuries it was clear that they were strained. There was a smell of sweat and fear. ‘You realise that I can have all of you hanged? Men who rob by night are the lowest criminals. And in your excitement, you chose to attack a Keeper of the King’s Peace. A word from me, and you will all die.’
Silence greeted his words. The boy looked down and rested his brow on his arm, sobbing without a sound, while another man stared at Baldwin in confusion. He was one whom Baldwin had punched with the pommel of his sword. There was the imprint of the steel on his forehead, and the eyebrow beneath was torn and bloody.
The bearded man said nothing, but his eyes were fixed on Baldwin as though unsure how to respond.
‘You have nothing to say in your own defence?’ Baldwin enquired. ‘In that case, I shall have to ask for the Bailiff to come and take you, then.’
‘What would you have us say, master? You want us to pretend it was an accident?’ the man sneered.
‘Since you ask, I would know this: why did you choose to attack us last night?’
‘We’re going to hang, so why should we answer you?’ the man with the injured brow demanded.
‘Fair enough.’ Baldwin looked at them all, one by one. ‘If there is no mitigating circumstance, as Keeper of the King’s Peace, I have no choice but to hand you to the law.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Simply this: as draw-latches and robbers, you are felons, and you will hang. Of course, if you were motivated by some other . . .’ He let the sentence hang, watching the bearded man again.
The boy lifted his head and began to speak. ‘Sir, I didn’t know we were—’
‘Shut up!’ the bearded man growled. ‘Don’t go speaking when it’s not your turn.’
Baldwin looked at the boy. ‘It is your turn, fellow. If you want to live, you should speak your mind.’
‘I don’t want to hang! We were paid, sir, and I—’
The bearded man turned and hissed viciously at the boy, who paled and withdrew, shuffling his arse towards the wall.
Baldwin sucked his teeth. ‘You, boy, will be taken outside in a moment,’ he said, and then his tone hardened as he eyed the bearded man. ‘I am inclined to hang one of you today as a deterrent to all those who think that they can waylay a knight. So you will die. And then I can learn all I need about you from the boy there.’
‘You can hear what you want from anyone when I’m dead.’
‘If you reconsider, you could all live. Which would you prefer?’
‘You will release us if we tell you the truth?’ the bearded man scoffed. ‘Is that what you’re trying to tell us?’
‘I have no desire to see bloodshed. I only want to know why you chose to attack us last night. You must have seen I had little enough with me. Did you mean to steal my horse?’
‘Not you, sir. We didn’t want to attack you,’ the boy protested.
‘Who, then? The man with us had no money, that much was obvious when you looked at him.’
‘We didn’t mean to rob him,’ the boy said. ‘We were paid to kill him.’
Bristol
That day began much like any other for Cecily. She rose before dawn, and left the house to seek bread for the breakfast, and then began her chores while Emma Wrey set about her board.
Cecily had not expected her new mistress to be quite so accommodating and generous. Bristol was a good city, with many kindly folk, but not many would want the bad fortune of someone like Cecily in their houses. There were too many superstitions about servants from unlucky households bringing bad luck with them for her to expect such a pleasant home again.
Emma was different. Perhaps it was the fact that she was responsible for herself. Her husband had been a good man, like some kind of angel. But even angels can die, and eventually he fell dead in the street after an evening’s drinking with friends at an inn.
It was some little while after the murders that Cecily had found herself in this house. Before that, she had been forced to find what she could on the streets again, hawking eggs and flints for whatever she could charge. It wasn’t easy, but at least she gathered in some store of coin.
There had been nothing for her when the murders had been investigated and the men caught. Certainly nothing in Arthur’s will. That was little surprise, but she had hoped that she would be protected by a gift of some silver or a spoon from Petronilla. She had two shillings saved, but that was all she had in the world. The Coroner had offered her money, but she wouldn’t touch it. Instead, she found herself what work she could.
It was the purest good fortune, so she thought, that Emma had heard of her plight and called Cecily to her house. She had been looking for a companion and maidservant for some weeks, she said, and when she hired Cecily soon afterwards, it was a huge relief. Life on the streets was growing alarming. Cold weather meant that selling goods from her basket left her fingers like icicles each evening. Often the only way a woman could survive was by joining the ranks of the prostitutes, and at the age of thirty, Cecily would find that a hard profession.
This morning being a Thursday, she wandered along to the fleshmarket to buy meat for their meal, and spent some time musing over the different cuts before making her selection; she dawdled a little, buying eggs, and some larks from a poulterer. She would cook them with honey later, she decided, and serve them before the main meats. Larks were such tender, sweet little birds.
It was while she was there, packing her purchases into her basket, that she saw the men.
Neither paid her any notice. Not even when she dropped her basket, smashing the eggs, her mouth gaping. Fortunately, she was too far away.
But she knew them. Their faces were all too familiar. They were two of the men she had seen and pointed out at the inquest. The men who had been gaoled for going to her mistress Petronilla and holding her while Squire William stabbed her with his gold-handled dagger. They were the men sentenced to death for snatching the child from Cecily’s arms and dashing his brains out against the wall in the front courtyard of the Capon house.
It felt as though her heart would stop with the horror.
CHAPTER TEN
Inn outside Winchester
Baldwin walked back inside the inn and glanced about him. Seeing Redcliffe sitting at the table still, he closed the door behind him, and then walked over to the innkeeper’s door and closed that too.
‘Master Redcliffe,’ he said, crossing the floor.
Redcliffe saw something in his face as Baldwin strode to him, and stood hurriedly. ‘What? What have I done?’
‘You have lied to me,’ Baldwin said. He pushed Redcliffe back, both hands on the man’s shirt. ‘Those men weren’t here to rob you, were they?’ he continued as he thrust Redcliffe against the wall. He lifted the man and shoved him a little harder against the rough limewashed surface, smiling thinly. ‘You lied, because you said tha
t no one had a reason to hate you, that you had no enemies, didn’t you? Yet someone has paid those men out there to kill you.’
‘I didn’t think—’
‘No, I don’t suppose you did.’ Baldwin was furious to have been lied to, and the thought that he had given his sympathy to this man made him still more angry. ‘I think you should remain here with them, and we should let you explain the position to the local Bailiff.’
‘It would be a mistake,’ Redcliffe said.
‘What – you threaten me? You seek to threaten me?’
‘No, Sir Baldwin. Hear me out, but in God’s name, let me down first.’
Baldwin opened both hands and let him fall. ‘If it were up to me, I would leave you in the gaol here to tell the Bailiff what the reason for this was, and the local Justice of Gaol Delivery might decide whether you or the felons were more guilty.’
‘I am not guilty, Sir Baldwin. Are you a loyal subject of the King?’
At that, Baldwin shoved Redcliffe against the wall again, while his other hand grasped his sword hilt.
‘No, Sir Baldwin, please, I must ask this: are you loyal to the King or not?’
‘I am his loyal subject,’ Baldwin rasped. ‘Why, do you mean to insult me?’
‘No, but those men wanted to kill me because I am the holder of secret messages for the King. I am a King’s Messenger.’
Bristol
Sir Stephen Siward wore his accustomed affable smile as he walked from the market, but in his heart he knew that there was trouble brewing – trouble that could affect him personally if it was not nipped in the bud as quickly as possible.
Cecily had plainly been shocked to her core. He had seen her while he stood buying a pie. She appeared moonstruck, as though she might faint away at any moment. Women were prone to such odd humours – it was the womb, he had heard. It was a curious organ, and could move about the body through the month, causing much of their temperamental behaviour . . .
And then, even as she turned and fled, he saw the men, and with a shock of recognition equal to her own, knew where he had seen them before. They were the fellows Cecily had accused at the inquest.
The King, in his desperation to find any man who might support him, had proclaimed that all those in prison for theft or homicide, or those who had abjured the realm, if they would go to the King they would receive litteras de pace16, and could return to their homes as free men after serving in his host.
Sir Stephen had heard that Squire William was to be freed some weeks ago, but he hadn’t expected the men to come back here, not to the place where they had been accused and held, ready for hanging.
As Cecily fled, Sir Stephen eyed the men. If the city grew aware that the killers of the Capons had been released, there could be widespread unrest, he thought. And that maid may just stir it up. Where she had seemed unstable before, now she looked wild, and a woman in her frame of mind could be irrational.
If the men noticed her, they could well decide to take revenge for her evidence against them. They could capture her, torture her, kill her . . .
She might turn to him for protection. She might assume that he would defend her. True, she had thrown his money in his face when he tried to offer her support – but then, she probably thought he was buying her off and was proud enough to be offended. Truth was, she had also admitted to him that she held an affection for him. But her feelings were not reciprocated, and he could hardly waste time with her now. Not with the kingdom on the brink of war.
Sir Stephen sighed heavily. If those men learned where she lived . . .
Near Whitchurch
Simon Puttock looked about him warily as they rode on westwards.
It was two days since they had passed over the great bridge at London, and he had kept a suspicious eye on any who so much as glanced at him or his wife as they trotted down into the Surrey side of the river, away from the great city. That first day of travel had been one of intense anxiety at all times. After witnessing the mobs wandering London’s streets on the rampage, seeing so many deaths, no one could be unaffected.
The lanes of Southwark stank, filled as they were with the Bishop of Winchester’s brothels, tanneries, and other more noisome businesses which were not wanted in London itself. It had been a relief to escape to the orchards and fields just outside. By the time they had reached a little village called Wandelesorde17, Simon had already felt a little safer.
Yesterday they had made better time, travelling from dawn to dusk, and getting as far as a small village outside Farnham, where they had been able to sleep in a friendly peasant’s barn; today they had already made good progress, and with every mile that they put between themselves and the city, Simon grew more content.
‘I never want to see that place again,’ his wife breathed.
Simon was not surprised to hear her say so. They had both been shocked by the sudden explosion of violence as the King fled his capital and the Queen approached.
‘Nor me, neither,’ he said. ‘Nor Westminster.’
In the last months he had been forced to travel here too often, mostly supporting his friend Sir Baldwin, but also on the King’s own business. This last time, he and Baldwin had witnessed the hideous slaying of so many people, including their good friends . . . but he wouldn’t dwell on it. He would have gone to their rescue, but luckily Baldwin had stopped him. There was no courage or cowardice involved. It was simple mathematics: there were so many men in the crowd that anyone attempting to divert them from their prey would himself become the target of their uncontrollable rage and immediately be killed.
‘We shall soon be home,’ he said. ‘A week, no more, and we’ll be away from all this.’
‘I hope so,’ his wife said.
He had fallen in love with his Meg the first time they had met. She was tall, slender, and blonde as a ripe cornseed, while he was heavier, squarer of feature. He hadn’t expected to be able to win her heart, but she had succumbed to his charm, and they had soon been married.
‘Don’t suppose it’s time for lunch yet?’
This was Rob, a whining, malcontented lad whom Simon had acquired when he was Keeper of the Port at Dartmouth under Abbot Champeaux at Tavistock. Such a short while ago, that seemed, and yet so much had changed. The Abbot had died, the post at the port was taken from Simon while the Brothers at Tavistock bickered over who should take the reins of power, Simon’s own home had been stolen from him by the Despenser, and now he had only his farm for his livelihood. Yes, much had changed.
‘Shut up, boy!’ Hugh, Simon’s servant, snapped.
‘Are you sure it will take a week to get home?’ Margaret asked.
‘I am afraid so,’ Simon said.
‘A whole week of that fellow complaining,’ Margaret said wonderingly. She knew her man too well, and his concerns were apparent to her now. He was worried about their son, Peterkin. She hugged her son to her belly. Peterkin was already yawning, and while he was safe enough here, she didn’t want to drop him. The boy was not yet four years old, and very precious to them both. He was their second son – their first-born son died when only a baby, of some foul wasting disease that took him gradually over several days – and both were ever wary of danger to this, their second. Meg had suffered miscarriages and had fallen pregnant only after many attempts, which made Peterkin still more important to them both.
‘He may improve,’ Simon said, glancing at Rob without enthusiasm.
Margaret nodded. ‘A week . . . I had not realised it was so far.’
‘When we came from Porchester, that was a shorter distance,’ Simon agreed. They had been forced to stay at the coastal town for some time, helping search for spies, whose messages were rumoured to be sent by ships. The King had ordered that all men with experience in such matters should monitor all shipping and capture the letters. As Simon had said, it was about as effective as searching for a needle in a field of corn. An utter waste, in fact, of his time.
‘I believe that as the crow flies it is
some seventy leagues18,’ he said, peering ahead. ‘We should be home again in a little over five days, with fortune.’
They had asked directions as they left Farnham, where they halted to buy provisions, and were told to find their way to Winchester, and thence to continue west.
‘Are we likely to be waylaid?’ his wife asked in a lower voice.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said, and grinned at her. ‘And the Queen’s riding north of us.’
‘We hope.’
‘The King’s been gone for two weeks,’ Simon said. ‘He’s probably in Wales by now.’
‘Why would he go there?’
Simon shrugged. ‘From his point of view, he needs friends. He hasn’t many, but at least Despenser is still with him, and Despenser owns the whole of South Wales. It’s his power base, so I suppose the King thought it would be the best place to install himself. From one of the great castles he can begin to form a host so he can stand up to his wife and son.’
‘What a terrible position,’ Margaret murmured, pulling her cloak about her shoulders and tightening her grip on her son. ‘To know he has the enmity of his wife and child.’
‘He should have kept closer to them,’ Simon said without sympathy. ‘It was his choice to ignore them and turn to Despenser in their place.’
Margaret nodded, but her thoughts were far from the King and his wife.
Simon cast an eye at her. ‘You are thinking of Edith, aren’t you?’
Their daughter Edith had married only the last year, and had given birth to her first child, but before the birth, her father-in-law became estranged from Simon. The Despenser had decided to make use of Edith and her new husband in an attempt to force Simon to his will, and as a result the newly-weds had been separated and forced to suffer greatly. Edith’s father-in-law swore after that that his son would have nothing to do with Simon and his family, and that if Edith wanted to maintain her marriage, she must renounce her father and mother, and agree never to see them again. It was a terrible act, and one that made Margaret and Simon desperately sad, for they had not been able to see their grandson. The only contact they had was through Baldwin’s wife, who managed to keep in touch with the girl.
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