Then there was a bellow, and he turned to see three men with the badge of the Earl of Lancaster on their breasts, pounding down the roadway towards him. He rammed his back up against the cart, but the last man was almost thrown as his horse balked at the narrow gap. Snarling with rage, the man-at-arms raked his spurs along his mount’s flanks, screaming abuse in his frustration, and then he slashed down at Dolwyn with his sword.
Dolwyn felt the blow like a punch. He flinched and his horse, unnerved by the man’s fury, jerked onwards. The cart began to judder on sluggishly, and Dolwyn fell beneath it, rolling between the wheels, too surprised even to feel anger yet. The cart moved over him, and when he peered up, he saw that the rider was off.
‘I will remember you, master,’ he said through gritted teeth. In an instant it felt as if his entire flank was on fire, and he put a hand to his side, and met shredded cloth and blood. Lots of blood. He set his jaw and forced himself to his knees, then up to his feet, staring after the man riding off so swiftly.
A tall man, wearing the Earl of Lancaster’s badge, smooth-shaven, with dark brown hair and green eyes set in a square face. ‘Yes, I will remember you – and I’ll cut your ballocks off for what you’ve done to me!’ he swore, writhing as the pain burned at him.
Bishop’s Cleeve
Senchet was already tired out. The weather had been wet and filthy for several days, but yesterday, as though to add insult to their injury, it was suddenly bright sunshine, and while the warmth was welcome after the last days of chill, the sudden dryness made their clothing chafe their throats and armpits. Senchet’s rough hosen rubbed his inner thighs raw, and it was all he could do to forget the pain as he stumbled onwards.
His friend was in no better shape. Harry trudged, head hanging. He sorely missed his horse, especially now his old boots had given up the ghost. The left sole flapped pathetically with every step, and his foot was a mass of blisters. In the wet he had been more comfortable because wet mud was slick, but now dirt and stones cut and scratched his bare sole.
‘Harry, we must find somewhere to rest. And get food.’
‘And how do we buy food? We have no money, Senchet.’
They were in a long lane, with wheel tracks at either side forming a morass of mud with a narrow channel of grass struggling to grow in the middle. Hedges on either side with thick brambles deterred passage.
‘Harry, let us just take a rest.’
With a bad grace his companion agreed, and after another slow, painful hundred yards or so they managed to find a tree that had fallen, and both could at last sit and stretch their legs.
Senchet glanced back the way they had come, then up ahead, and was struck by the gloomy conviction that they had travelled scarcely two miles since their last halt. So far, they had slept out three nights in the last four, and the result, with the cold and the rain, was that Senchet himself felt certain that he was to win little but a fever from this long tramp.
‘My friend, I am thinking maybe we should have stayed back there in the town.’
‘They wouldn’t have let us,’ Harry grunted. ‘You think they’d want two men from the King’s host to be hanging about the town? Any of the garrison which remained would suffer the risk of a short rope and a long drop.’
‘Perhaps better that than this, eh?’ Senchet said with an emphatic gesture at the roadway. He rubbed his brow. ‘There must be a lord somewhere who needs men like us.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘You sound unconvinced.’
‘I am. Now the war is over, the lords will send their men home. What need have they of great forces? Men cost money,’ he added gloomily. ‘Even the lords who distrust their neighbours will seek to disband their feudal hosts. It’s spring. They want their men back in the fields, not standing in armour looking shiny.’
‘We are,’ Senchet observed, ‘not the most desirable of men, are we? Perhaps I should return to my homeland. There may be more work there.’
Harry nodded. He wanted to rest his head, but knew he would fall asleep instantly. They must keep on going, but it was hard, very hard. He was too old for all this. Too many fights had taken their toll and his back was giving him grief – a common complaint after the years of soldiering. There were injuries, too, on his ribs and thighs, but nothing compared with the throbbing misery that was his poor leg. He dared not remove his boot for the thought of what he might find.
‘Why bother,’ he muttered to himself.
‘It all comes down to money. I wish it grew on the trees that we might reach up and pluck what we needed.’
‘Only the rich would take it.’ Harry looked at his friend pityingly. ‘You dream about money, but me, I’ll dream about a solid meal, a warm chamber and a dry palliasse.’
‘With money, you could buy them all.’
Harry shook his head. A bite of food, that was all he needed, but both finished their meagre rations two days ago. ‘What I wouldn’t give for a loaf of bread,’ he said sadly.
‘What’s that?’ Senchet said, alert.
From the road ahead there came a rumbling of hooves. Mingled with the squeak of leather was the clatter and rattle of metal, as of pots and pans.
The two men exchanged a look.
‘Shit!’ Harry forced himself to his feet. ‘I can’t run like this, Sen. You get away while you can, and leave me to them.’
‘I will not leave you to the mercy of some vagabond of the roadway,’ Senchet said firmly. ‘Hah! You think I should give up my companionship with you so that we can both be cut down on our own? No, I prefer to make a stand together.’
Harry hissed with pain, teeth gritted, but set his hand to his sword’s hilt and tested the blade. ‘Come on then. Let’s see what these bastards are like in a fight,’ he said, and grinned weakly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
North of Exeter
They had left by the east gate of the city on the Sidwell Road, riding out into the broad, flat expanse of farmland, and immediately turning north on the Longbrook Street, past the rows of cheap hovels scattered about, the roadside dotted with trees and little strips of fields in which the peasants were bending and working. Some stopped and watched as they rode by. Simon knew that as they passed out of the environs of Exeter, and began to ride along roads where they were strangers, there would be danger not only from outlaws but from suspicious locals as well. Many a traveller had been attacked by crowds wielding stones because his face made someone fearful. There were many primitive little vills on the way from here to Bristol.
The weather was at least clement, but although the sun shone, it meant that before long Simon was feeling the sweat soaking into the collar of his tunic. His hat was intolerably warm, and he was forced to remove it after a while, holding it in his left hand, occasionally lifting it to shield his eyes from the blazing sun as he peered ahead at the road.
It was the duty of the Keepers of the King’s Peace to see to it that the verges of roadways were kept clear of all brambles, trees and shrubs, so that there should be less risk of ambushes. These roads had recently been surveyed, but it did not help Simon. He felt foul, from the soles of his sweating feet to the stickiness under his armpits. His mouth was disgusting and dry, his tongue felt woollen and revolting.
By contrast, Sir Richard was enjoying his ride. ‘Magnificent weather, eh?’ he trumpeted. ‘What more could a man ask for in this beautiful kingdom of ours than an open road, sunshine, and the promise of a pleasant journey.’
‘A bed,’ Simon said, and belched acid.
Behind him, Hugh said grumpily, ‘And a pot of ale.’
‘Come now, Simon, Hugh. The sun has been up for an age. Only a child would wish to sleep through a day such as this. Or a poxy monk sitting in his scriptorium. No, Simon,’ he said, warming to his theme, ‘this is the way to live. Not hiding away in a warm room, but out in the open air.’
On any other morning, Simon would have agreed – but this day he was not inclined to support the knight. ‘How far is it?’ he m
umbled.
‘To Kenilworth? Oh, less than seventy leagues. Up to Bristol, thence to Gloucester, Evesham, and on up to the castle.’
‘Seventy leagues?’ Hugh asked. He had never enjoyed riding, although some years ago he had grown accustomed enough to the distances that he must cover with his master. But in recent weeks he had not travelled so widely, and it was plain from his expression that he would have been happy not to have to renew his acquaintance with this saddle.
‘Two hundred and ten miles,’ Sir Richard said. He lolled back against the cantle and sighed happily. ‘And if it’s all as pleasant as this, we shall have a wonderful time. Tell me, Simon, did I ever tell you the joke about the man who borrowed a horse? Eh? He—’
‘Yes, I think you did tell me.’
‘Ah, well, then, Hugh, you will like this: the man spoke to the stableowner and paid for a beast, and the stableman said, “You are a very clever man to pick that fellow. It’s the best in my stable. You must be like Ben Bakere”.
‘ “Who?” asked the man.
‘ “Ben Bakere. If he went to a stable, he always picked the best mount. He had an infallible eye, that man.”
‘ “Oh,” said the man.
‘ “Yes, and if he went to the wine merchants, he always got the best wine. A perfect nose.”
‘ “Oh,” said the man.
‘ “If he negotiated to buy hay, he always got the best deal. If he needed harnesses, he could find the best quality at the finest price. He was clever, was Ben Bakere. The cleverest man who ever lived in jolly old England. The wisest, shrewdest, kindest and pleasantest.”
‘ “You said ‘was’ – has he moved away?”
‘ “No, he died.”
‘ “I’m sorry. It’s hard to lose a friend,” the man said.’
Sir Richard chuckled richly, glancing at Simon to ensure he appreciated the full perfection of the tale.
‘ “Friend? he’s no friend to me.”
‘ “But from what you said, I thought he was a close friend?”
‘ “No. I never met him. But I married his damned widow.” Ha! You understand, eh? Talking about his wife’s first husband, you see?’ And the good knight laughed without affectation, delighted with the simplicity of the joke.
Simon smiled thinly. Seventy leagues of this . . . His headache grew suddenly much worse.
Bishop’s Cleeve
The noise grew, and Senchet was aware of the hair on the back of his neck standing up on end. There was still no sign of the source. He glanced at Harry, and the two men edged closer together.
‘Senchet,’ Harry said quietly. ‘I’ve not said it before, but I’ve been glad of your company.’
‘Friend Harry, I have been grateful for your companionship also.’ Senchet pulled his sword out with a slow slithering of metal. ‘I do not like this phantasm, though. How does a man fight with a wraith? It is not to be borne.’
‘It’s no wraith,’ Harry said suddenly, and pointed.
There, before them, a cart with one tired nag pulling it, crossed the road.
Senchet felt relief flood his body. ‘For a moment . . .’
‘Never mind that, let’s ask him if there’s somewhere near,’ Harry said urgently.
It was astonishing what hunger could do to a man’s feet. Senchet lurched into a trot and stumbled off along the roadway after the cart, hallooing and waving his arms wildly.
The cart was large, and in the back were sacks and blankets. The carter himself was a shortish man, hooded, who lolled and nodded as the wheels bounced and rattled over the ruts and holes. Ranged along the outer side of the cart were pots and pans, which clattered so much it was a miracle that the driver could doze, Senchet thought to himself.
‘Hi! Hey there, fellow! Wake yourself, and listen to me! Wait!’
Although the man didn’t react, the horse heard him, and drew to a halt so that Senchet could hurry to catch up. Senchet was surprised to see that the horse itself was close to collapse. It had been forced to carry on long after it should have rested.
‘Sir,’ he panted. ‘Do you know how far to the nearest village? My friend can hardly walk, and we are both famished.’
The man on the board gazed at him listlessly, then shook his head as though trying to waken himself. ‘Village?’
‘Where are we?’
‘I . . . don’t know . . .’ the man said, and closed his eyes again.
‘Listen, we need to find our way to a place for some food. Do you—’ Senchet suddenly saw that the man’s flank was soaked with blood. ‘You are injured?’
‘Jumped on – men from Earl of Lancaster few miles back. Got lost. Don’t know where I am,’ the man mumbled. His eyes closed again and he slowly toppled over. Senchet caught his body, grunting with the effort.
There was one good thing. The man might be in a bad way, but Senchet had a strong conviction that there was food in his wagon.
Friday following the Feast of the Annunciation30
Willersey
All had been . . . satisfactory, Agatha supposed.
The coroner had arrived yesterday afternoon – a pasty-faced young knight who coughed and sneezed all over everyone, sneered and shouted at the jury, and swore at his clerk, an inoffensive little man at least double the man’s age. The conclusion of murder was hardly surprising, since the axe was still in Ham’s head.
She felt her heart constrict at the sight of her husband’s naked body, lying there as all the vill’s men and women stared at him, the coroner measuring each wound, wincing at the insects buzzing about and then deciding on the fines to be imposed, noting the names of the ‘First Finder’, the nearest householders, the members of the jury and all the others who could be forced to pay for the breaking of the King’s Peace. He made a perfunctory enquiry about who could have been responsible, but there was little he could glean. No one had known Ham was back in Willersey, after all.
Everyone knew Ham had left the vill with the purveyor almost two weeks ago. The only motive that could be inferred was based on the fact that his cart and horse were missing, but no one in the jury mentioned that in case there would be a further fine imposed for the theft. Nor did anyone there trust this cunning-looking knight with the streaming nose. He was not of a mind to be accommodating or kindly.
Walking back to the vill yesterday, with her husband’s body pushed in a handcart by two farmers, all Agatha could think of was the injustice. Ham had been so late coming back, yet there was no money. If only there had been a little to help her and Jen. Just the coins promised by the purveyor would have helped, let alone those the priest had mentioned. She had no choice now: she would have to depend on the charity of the Church. While there were alms, she and Jen should not starve. And given time, a man would be found for her. She could not expect to depend upon the others in the vill for the remainder of her days. When a local man lost his wife, Agatha would be prevailed upon to make an arrangement with him, and marry. Any widow who refused would find herself without friends. Men needed women, and to fight against the natural way of things was a certain way to make enemies.
Yesterday they had undressed Ham, she and Jen, and washed away the worst of the blood about his face. His jaw was broken, and when she saw his teeth had snapped off, it made her stomach lurch. The axe-wounds were less horrific; they were merely broad cuts in his flesh, but the sight of what had happened to his face was appalling. It was a relief to be able to wrap him in muslin and cover his sad eyes.
Jen was pale, slightly greenish, as she helped her mother. She worked methodically, concentrating on the wounds she was cleaning. It made Agatha’s belly knot to see her so distraught.
Agatha sat up all night with his body, Jen beside her. Ham wasn’t there: this corpse wasn’t him. The man she had known was gone, his soul flown, and there was nothing of him left behind, only a husk. After the cleaning and washing, even his odours were gone. She could scarcely believe this was him. All her life was in turmoil, and she knew only utter emptiness.
If she met him, she would kill him.
Close to Warwick
The carter’s wound was at least clean. Senchet and Harry were trained in dealing with injuries of many types.
‘It must have been a sword wound,’ Harry guessed. A bad cut, but not septic. Last night he had washed it and placed some linen over it, but this morning, when he saw it in daylight, the man’s flank was bloody again. Harry frowned. The carter was losing too much blood.
‘We must place him in his cart and take him to the nearest vill,’ Senchet said.
Harry shivered. His belly was better after he and Senchet had eaten some of this man’s food yesterday, but he was still suffering from the after-effects of their enforced starvation. ‘We can’t leave him here,’ he agreed.
‘He needs hot food, or I’m a Saxon,’ Senchet said.
Harry was already gathering more sticks and pieces of wood for a fire. The two men worked together quickly, collecting enough to make a small pile, and Senchet struck sparks from his flint until his tinder caught. Before long the two men were setting a pot over the flames to heat some water. In the man’s pack they had found some dried sticks of meat, and they placed these in the pot with some herbs and leaves they found about the area.
Harry broke bread into a bowl, and then they spooned the gravy over it. The watery pottage thickened well, and both had a little before they tried to feed some to the injured man. He moved his head as they attempted to pour a little of it into his mouth, but then he started to swallow, and soon his eyes flickered and opened.
Senchet held up the spoon so he could see it. ‘You need this, my friend. Can you open your mouth?’
The man nodded, and soon he was eating hungrily. Only when the last of the gravy had been wiped away did he settle back again, eyes closed.
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