‘Your Highness?’
‘They demand that I surrender, and that I yield up Sir Hugh, and his father, the Earl of Winchester. They say that Sir Hugh is profligate, and that I have taxed the realm too much to support him – when all who know the Treasury are aware that I have ever been careful with the nation’s money! How can they say such things, Sir Ralph?’
‘My lord, I…’
‘No, it is not for you to answer this. You are right. But I fear that the Queen may come to attack us. There are other groups of men on their way here to join us, I believe. Sir Ralph, I would be glad if you could take some men and find them and bring them to us here at Tintern. We must concentrate our forces.’
‘Of course.’
The King’s tone became peevish. ‘Sir Ralph, you will remain loyal, won’t you? You wouldn’t run to them?’
In answer, Sir Ralph knelt again and held up his hands, palms pressed together. ‘I will renew my vow to you now, my lord, if you wish.’
The King smiled sadly. He placed his own hands around Sir Ralph’s, as he had all those years ago when Sir Ralph was made a knight by him. ‘Sir Ralph, good Sir Ralph, I am sorry. Your honour is not in doubt.’
He made Sir Ralph stand, and kissed him.
Sir Ralph went to his horse and mounted, but before he left, he caught sight of the huddle of men again. Earl Hugh of Winchester was next to his son, Sir Hugh le Despenser, and the King himself was alone a few yards away.
There was nothing could soothe that monarch’s fretful heart, Sir Ralph thought as he cantered back to his camp.
Approaching Bristol
The exhausted men were close to collapse that morning. As they struggled onwards, desperate to find the host they were meant to join, they came across a broader roadway.
A good place to rest, Robert Vyke thought wearily. Trees ranged on both sides, and a thick hedge was to his left. There was a small building up ahead, the limewash old and fragile, falling away with old cob in places. It was the beginning of a hamlet, perhaps, or a small farm.
‘Only another four or five miles, boys!’ Otho was calling, entreating them onwards. ‘Then we’ll be in Bristol. We’ll soon be with the King, then.’ Spotting Robert Vyke, he nodded. ‘You all right?’
‘Good as I can be.’
‘Aye, well, forget that tranter. He’s got enough trouble on his hands moving all the gear without a horse.’
‘He deserves it.’
Otho smiled as they continued. He knew the cause of Vyke’s rancour.
It was almost two months since the King’s purveyors had reached their village and made their demands. There were more wagons coming, and the King had need. The village was to be ravaged: food, goods, iron, all were taken and thrown into the wagons, together with all the ale they could grab. And then one of the horses had stumbled and broken a leg.
There was no pause. The purveyors had their orders, and they must fulfil them. So they took Vyke’s only horse, set it in the traces, and were off. The dead brute they dragged with them, for the meat.
The horse was the only valuable possession Robert Vyke had owned. Without it, he was impoverished. His wife Susan would find life more harsh and cruel. A horse meant transport, it mean income when loaned to a friend, it meant barter: ale and eggs and cheese. But the purveyors had taken him.
Before Robert Vyke lay a puddle, and he splashed into it unthinking, unaware of anything but his own misery, but then there was a tearing pain in his ankle and leg, and he felt himself fall, the long shaft of his bill tumbling through his hands to clatter on the stones of the road, his pack of belongings thumping down beside him, while men scattered from the bill’s sharp blade.
‘What is it, you fool?’ Otho demanded.
‘My leg, my leg!’
‘Get up, you hog’s arse! You think we’re going to wait for you?’ the Sergeant demanded, and he hawked long and hard, bringing up a large gobbet of phlegm, which he spat near Robert’s face. ‘On your feet! By Christ’s blood, you make a man want to kick you, you do. First you pick a fight with a poor bastard who’s only gone and lost his pony, and now you want to doze by the wayside. Waiting for a frisky wench to snuggle up to, eh? Maybe a pair? Well, forget it!’
Otho was known for his rough humour, but Robert was not of a mind to laugh. He took a long look at his Sergeant and then, sobbing with the pain, he slowly eased himself upright. Only then did the Sergeant stare down at his leg. ‘God’s ballocks, man! How did you do that?’
‘Mary save me!’ Robert said, as he saw the blood slowly pulsing from the long gash. ‘Otho, I–’
‘Christ’s pain! you’re no good to me like that, you tarse,’ the Sergeant said mildly. He was staring at the men behind them as though Robert was already passing from his mind. ‘No good to us at all. You’d best stay behind and hope the bastards don’t see you. They’ll be after us anyway, not you. You piss off up north of this road, and you may be all right. Understand?’
‘Yes, Sergeant.’
‘No, better than that, lad, you make your way to Bristol after us. It’s only a few miles from here. Can you do that?’ Otho added doubtfully, glancing at the flap of skin hanging loose. He then leaned forward and said in a low voice, ‘Look, if they do catch you, just give yourself up, eh? There’s no point trying to fight. No point any of us trying to fight,’ he added to himself dully. ‘Right – you got a thong or some twine?’
While Robert stretched his leg out before him, Otho bent and bound the wound with a length of linen, then he wrapped a thick leather thong over it to hold it in place. ‘Take care, boy.’
‘You too, Otho.’
‘Yeah. Well, I hope we’ll meet again.’ The Sergeant rested a fist on Robert’s shoulder, and Vyke saw that he was thinking about something. Otho was a man who considered his actions carefully. If he wished to say something important, he would weigh his words. Now, he looked away as though saddened. ‘Look, Robert, if you get home safely, see my Agnes, eh? Tell her… just tell her I wanted to get home,’ he said.
Robert nodded. There was no need to say more. They both reckoned it was unlikely either of them would see the village or their wives again.
Then Otho hefted Robert’s bill on to his shoulder and bawled at the rest of the men: ‘What’re you lazy gits staring at? Taking a rest while you can? It’s going to be a long march before we get to see the King, me boys, so get a bleeding move on!’
Gradually, with many a curse and muttered complaint, the men began to stagger forwards again, while Robert watched from the side of the road with eyes filled with tears. He had no idea where he was, nor how far from his home, and now all his friends were walking on and leaving him. Herv Tyrel broke from the shambling mass and passed him a lump of old bread he had saved, then winked, while others either nodded and gave him a ‘Godspeed’, or looked away, ashamed to be deserting him.
The little party shuffled on past, and if it weren’t for the pain, for the fear of capture, and the desperate loneliness that was engulfing him, Robert Vyke could have enjoyed the exquisite delight of sitting here at the wayside while the others all continued on their way.
‘You’ll be dead in a day.’
The vicious whisper came from his right, and he was about to turn when he felt the dagger at the side of his neck.
‘Who are you?’ Robert Vyke asked, scarcely moving his head.
It was the horse-driver. ‘Walerand the Tranter, most call me. Won’t do that again now I’ve lost my only pony, swyve them all.’
‘Well, Walerand, I am called Robert Vyke. When you have finished serving the King, you come and find me, and I’ll be glad to set my dagger against yours, anywhere, any time. Unless you’re such a coward that you’ll kill me here instead.’