29 - The Oath

by Michael Jecks

  ‘We will be there by noon,’ Baldwin said, gazing at the city.

  ‘It will be an immense relief to be home again,’ Redcliffe said. He had not survived their journey unscathed. His face was more lined and fretful, his complexion more sallow and unhealthful, and now he sat on his horse with his fingers tapping at the reins as though keeping time with music only he could hear.

  The sight of his distress was enough to convince Baldwin. ‘We shall wait here and rest our mounts. We are near enough, there is no need to force the beasts on without account for their health. They have brought us far enough already today.’

  ‘There are more, look!’ Jack called out as the three swung sore legs over their saddles, pointing down into the valley before them.

  Baldwin stared, shaking his head. ‘The sight of so many men marching to their doom is a terrifying one,’ he said.

  There must have been more than a hundred of them. All clad in fustian and other cheap cloths, a mass of brown, green and faded red clothes, walking with their heads hanging, weapons of all types over their shoulders, dangling from slack hands or sheathed. Baldwin could see them as though they were walking only a yard from him: brown faces anxious and alarmed, boys of fourteen, men of fifty, all drawn along by that same responsibility to their lord. All knowing that they must stand in a line and defend each other against the force arrayed against them. Many must die, because with cheap helmets and little steel protection, they were mere targets to the arrows and lances of the professional killers who stood opposing them.

  ‘It is a terrible sight,’ he breathed.

  ‘Nay, Sir Baldwin,’ Redcliffe said, and now he had a gleam of excitement in his eye. ‘These are courageous men, all of them prepared to fight and die for their King! What could be more glorious than that?’

  Baldwin turned to face him. ‘When they have chewed on a battle, and have survived, then you can tell me that they will enjoy their glory. Most will not. War is a hideous grinding of men and bodies, not a cause for celebration. These men will soon face Mortimer’s knights and squires, and when they do, they will learn what it is to endure pain.’

  ‘You have fought, Sir Baldwin. War is sad, I make no doubt, but the fact is, these fellows will have the honour of serving their King and their lord. There is nothing better for a man than that.’

  Baldwin shook his head. He had served, and those were battles which served a purpose, for they were to defend the Holy Land from the depredations of the Saracens. When he had been at Acre, fighting alongside the Knights Templar, he had fought for the protection of God’s holy land, and to serve the pilgrims who wished to visit it. He had seen warfare at close hand, and had killed his foes. Yes, and seen his friends hacked to pieces, pierced by arrows, slammed against the walls by enormous ballista bolts or splashed across masonry by a mangonel’s rocks. There was nothing pleasant, honourable or good about such a death.

  Afterwards, of course, all that sacrifice had been made irrelevant by the self-serving greed of the French King and Pope, who had agreed a pact between them to have all the Templars arrested and all their valuables and treasure confiscated. The Templars had been branded heretics and, worse, accused of devil-worship and other atrocities, and many were tortured and killed.

  ‘Those fellows know they are fighting in a good cause,’ Redcliffe said.

  ‘Perhaps. But many more will not know why they fight, nor for whom,’ Baldwin said firmly. ‘This war, if it comes, will pit brother against brother or father. It will be a woeful battle that seeks to put another’s interest between members of the same family.’

  ‘The answer to that is easy, Sir Baldwin. The foul enemies of the King must surrender, as they did before during the Marcher Wars.’

  ‘I have taken my oath for the King. I do not need reminding of the duty of his knights and men to protect him,’ Baldwin said. ‘Jack, do you bring the food bags. We shall have a little bread and cheese.’

  He was tempted to say more to explain the horror of war, but when he looked at Redcliffe, he thought he saw a cynical twist to the man’s mouth. Baldwin suddenly had the feeling that Redcliffe was jesting, and that thought made him wary. Who would dare to joke about fidelity to the King at a time like this? But no, he told himseslf, he was merely being over-sensitive. To him, warfare was no joking matter.

  He held out his hand and took the satchel from Jack, but his eyes were drawn back to the lines of men marching in the dust.

  ‘You feel sorry for them?’ Jack asked quietly.

  Baldwin looked at him, and rested a hand on his shoulder. The boy had also seen battle, and had shown himself valorous. ‘Do you?’

  ‘I feel sorry for all of us,’ Jack said.

  ‘That is good,’ Baldwin said heavily. ‘They serve, and it is good that they answered the summons – but I hope and pray that Mortimer and Isabella will come to their senses and stop before we have more bloodshed!’

  Bank of the River Severn

  Bernard was not happy. It was clear in the way that he scowled ahead, eyes always studying the ground as he searched out any possible dangers.

  They had waited the previous evening with all the other members of the royal household, watching as the King and his closest guards boarded the ship and moved away from the shore into the middle of the River Severn, where the sails began to fill, and the ship rolled slightly as the wind caught at them.

  There they had remained on the banks of the river, Bernard keeping watch, Pagan and Alexander moodily hunkered down beside a fire, casting glances at the two religious until a large boat arrived. Despenser had arranged for it to take them across the river, which was very broad here, and before too long they had managed to get horses, packhorses and friars on board, and were crossing to the other side, where they camped for the evening.

  It was very curious. Over on the Welsh shore, almost as soon as the King had gone, his men began to disappear. When Edward boarded, there had been 200 men there, but when Ralph left to supervise the loading of his goods on the ship, that number had already halved, and when he looked back at the banks from the river as they coasted along, he saw only a few men, all standing about the fire Pagan had abandoned. The others seemed to have faded away into the trees to escape the Queen when she arrived.

  They slept the night on the eastern bank, one standing guard through the watches in case a man from the Queen’s host should happen by, since they had no idea where her forces were yet. All were glad when the sun finally appeared.

  Not that it was visible for very long. The day was dry, which was a blessed relief after the last days of rain and misery, but the sky was overcast before they had broken their fasts, and all wrapped themselves tightly in cottes and jacks before they mounted their horses, Sir Ralph tying his kerchief about his neck to keep the worst of the cold from his throat.

  ‘Where shall we find her, do you think?’ Bernard asked as they set off.

  ‘Last you heard, she was at Gloucester, wasn’t she? I’d wager she was somewhere between there and Bristol,’ Sir Ralph said. ‘The speed she has followed us, she cannot be far.’

  Bernard absorbed this with an expression that matched the skies. ‘So we should walk into her before long.’

  ‘I fear so.’

  ‘Where are we heading?’

  ‘First to Bristol, then we shall see what we can hear of her.’

  Bernard nodded and dropped back a little. They were all riding at a moderate pace now, and Sir Ralph checked to see how the friars were coping with the speed.

  The pair were of a similar age, between eight-and-twenty and thirty, and both had the reputation of being well-versed in the practice of negotiation. One, Brother Mark, was very short and had a goitre that clearly gave him trouble, but his blue eyes were bright with intelligence. His tonsure was very wide, and the hair fringing it was pale brown. The other, Brother Daniel, was a little taller, but his features were marred by a thick scar that cut across his cheek and left his nose broken. His brown eyes were full of merriment, Sir Ra
lph thought.

  Seeing his glance, Brother Daniel grinned broadly. ‘Don’t worry about Brother Mark here. He’ll fall off soon enough, and unless you tie him up, he’ll keep on denting the roadway every few yards, but he won’t feel it.’

  ‘The danger, Sir Ralph, is that this fool should fall on his arse,’ Brother Mark said. ‘It would irreparably damage his brains if he were to do that.’

  For all their banter, the pair appeared perfectly comfortable on horseback, and Sir Ralph guessed that both were quite wellborn. ‘Let me know, Brothers, if you need to take a little rest,’ he said. ‘I would prefer to hurry our pace for we have some distance to cover.’

  ‘The faster, the better,’ Brother Mark said. He had the look of a man who was keen to undertake his task. ‘We should meet Queen Isabella before there is any bloodshed.’

  ‘God willing,’ Brother Daniel intoned.

  ‘God willing,’ Sir Ralph repeated.

  He understood Bernard’s discontent; he felt much the same himself. The idea of riding into their enemies’ camp was not one which appealed to his own sense of self-preservation, and yet the Queen herself was very keen to honour the rules of chivalry. Men who were arrived in order to negotiate should be welcomed with offers of safe conduct. That, at least, was what he hoped.

  They reached a hill overlooking the city of Bristol some time before noon, and Sir Ralph gazed ahead in search of signs that the Queen was near. Certainly the vills outside the city looked dead, and he suspected that the peasants had fled before the Queen’s mercenaries could arrive and begin to lay the area waste. The city itself looked secure for now.

  ‘I think we should go to the city and learn where she is supposed to be,’ he said.

  Bernard nodded. ‘Why not? That’ll put off the moment when we actually have to greet her and hope she doesn’t lop off our heads before she hears us out.’

  ‘Thank you, Bernard. I needed that reminder,’ Sir Ralph said.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Outskirts of Bristol

  Thomas Redcliffe watched as Baldwin and Jack prepared a loaf of bread, breaking it roughly into three large pieces, then cutting wedges from a cheese they had bought earlier.

  It was fascinating to see how the knight worked. He was calm, thoughtful, more intelligent than the usual knights whom Thomas had met, and yet there was that firm edge to his character, a honed quality that could cut a man when he least expected it. Thomas had never met a man quite like this knight before. His presence was invaluable, though. Redcliffe would not have managed to get this close to Bristol without his help, that much was quite clear from the way that the wandering men-at-arms had suspiciously pushed swords and lances in their direction as soon as they had been discovered.

  The last ones had been the worst. There was a particularly unpleasant churl with one eye and a perpetual leer who had slowly drawn a long dagger and walked menacingly to Thomas as though to cut out his heart. It was only Sir Baldwin’s rapid intervention that had stopped the man, and then his Sergeant had heard the noise and come to see what was wrong. Again, the knight’s position had saved them all.

  To think that a warrior so devoted to the King could have saved him . . . Thomas sighed to himself at the thought. There was a time when he would have done all in his power to protect his King without considering his own position. He had been entirely loyal, a true devoted servant.

  Not any more. Such commitment was worth little today. Thomas would have served until death. He had sold horses to the King for less profit than he could have won, and his delicate work taking messages to the Christian Kings of Aragon and Portugal had been singularly unprofitable too. He’d done it to help his King. And now that he was ruined, had Edward helped him? No. Worse still, he had not even deigned to see him. Thomas had been turned away from the gate at the Tower like some beggar demanding alms! The shame had been appalling. He had told dear Roisea that soon they would be saved, without explaining how exactly, and the shock of realising that his King would leave him to starve, and her too, had shaken the wind right out of his sails. His future stretched before him, an endless barren life without possibility of recovery.

  And then he had seen what he might do. A letter, a short ride north, and he had his response. It was all he needed.

  Yes, it was fortunate that Thomas had managed to persuade Sir Baldwin to join him in this journey. Without him, Thomas would have been stopped and searched, and the thought of what could have happened then was enough to chill him to the marrow. No one with messages like the one concealed at his belt would be permitted to live. And if Sir Baldwin had learned of it, he would himself have denounced Thomas. Or run him through.

  Which was why Thomas was so glad the scrap remained concealed. He wouldn’t want to have to kill the knight.

  Bristol

  It was still afternoon as Baldwin and Thomas Redcliffe rode down towards the city and clattered over the stone-flagged way to the bridge.

  Baldwin himself was glad of the sight of the city. ‘Good porter, I am Sir Baldwin de Furnshill, lately come from London.’

  ‘Aye, good, Sir Baldwin. We’ll have need of all the men we can find, I dare say, before long,’ the man said, standing aside for the three to ride in.

  ‘What did he mean by that?’ Jack asked.

  ‘I expect everyone is on tenterhooks about the Queen and her host,’ Baldwin explained. ‘The whole of her force must be riding to us now.’

  ‘At least the castle and this city look strong enough,’ Redcliffe said.

  ‘Yes. But the strength of a city like this lies less in its walls, and more in the people who are there to protect it,’ Baldwin said. ‘Will they wish to support the King and Despenser, or will they feel, like the London mob, that they should join to overthrow the Despenser?’

  ‘They will remember their loyalty, I am sure,’ Redcliffe said sanctimoniously.

  ‘Are you?’ Baldwin said.

  They took an eastern road which Baldwin was told was named Wine Street, and a short way along here, Redcliffe took them to a little tavern, where he declared the wine to be the best in the city. He wished to reward his saviours, he said, and when they had drunk their fill, he would take them to his own home outside the city walls.

  Baldwin was nothing loth. They left their mounts in a stable-yard, where hostlers hurried to groom and feed them, while the three went for a welcome drink.

  ‘Thomas, how are you?’ was bellowed from the bar at the far end of the room as they entered, and a large bear of a man, with a thick, bushy beard and arms muscled like a string of small ale barrels, came out and strode towards them, wiping his hands on an apron of linen.

  ‘I am well, God shield you, Matt. And you?’

  ‘I’m as fine as a summer’s day, Master Thomas. Wine?’

  ‘Aye, a flagon for me and my friends.’

  ‘You know this tavern well, then,’ Baldwin said.

  ‘I come here most days, yes. But there are not as many men here as usual,’ Redcliffe commented, glancing about him. ‘Where are they all?’

  Matthew was returning with a stack of four large mazers in one beefy hand, and a quart flagon in the other. ‘They’ve all gone to talk about things, master. You heard who is coming here today?’

  ‘No, we’ve only just arrived.’

  ‘The Earl of Winchester. He’s come to take charge of the castle, but they say he’s got control of all the King’s men from Hampshire to Cornwall. Every able man who is held true to his oath to the King is to muster.’

  ‘So,’ Baldwin breathed, ‘Hugh le Despenser, Earl of Winchester, has come, has he? He was said to be a wily old warrior, but I don’t know that he would best Roger Mortimer. After all, Mortimer was the King’s most successful General until Despenser’s son alienated him and persuaded the King to sign his death warrant.’

  The Despenser family had been long-standing rivals of the Mortimers. The Earl of Winchester’s son was the same Hugh who was now the King’s favourite and chief companion, and it was
his grandsire, the Earl’s father, who had been slain on the battlefield at Evesham by Roger Mortimer’s grandfather. Since inveigling his way into the King’s affections, Sir Hugh had managed to see his father elevated to the earldom which he himself coveted so greatly.

  Baldwin mused on this. ‘I have met the Earl. I believe him to be honourable.’ He was at least, as he reminded himself, far less avaricious and self-serving than his deplorable son.

  Matthew the landlord leaned down and beckoned Baldwin and Redcliffe closer. Speaking quietly, he said, ‘He’ll need all his skills and authority to hold the city. It matters bugger all what he’s named. It’s said that the Earl of Lancaster has declared for the Queen, and marches to her aid with all his retainers.’

  Thomas Redcliffe shrugged. ‘Even a man so powerful as he would not on his own swing the affair. If the King stands firm on a battlefield, he can win. Remember the battles on the Marches. All the rebels declared that they would fight Despenser, but not the King. Not many would dare to stand against the man whom God Himself has anointed. When the King showed his own banner, the rebels were forced to submit. They wouldn’t willingly break their vows to him. He might manage the same again.’

  ‘The King won’t be here,’ Matthew said. ‘Word is that he’ll leave the land. He won’t wait here to be caught, you mark my words.’

  ‘What?’ Redcliffe scoffed. ‘You think the King would desert his own kingdom? And where would he go? Would he sail to France, where the King hates him for refusing to pay homage for the French territories he holds, and hates him even more for the way he has treated his sister, Queen Isabella? No, he couldn’t dare sail there. Where else would he be welcomed?’