Yet in the last months their lives had been entirely disrupted, and this last obstacle had been the final straw on the camel’s back. All along, she had coped with the strain of her daughter’s marriage, then the enmity of Sir Hugh Despenser, who had so cruelly broken them by seeing them thrown from their home of ten years or so at Lydford, and then the horrid periods when Simon had been sent off to London or Paris to do the King’s bidding. But like a thread wound too tightly, the tension of the last year or more had finally made her snap.
They had walked on and were near the main bridge to the city from the southern side of the Avon. She stood a moment, gazing out over the waters to the lands in front, wondering how long it would actually take to ride to Exeter, to go to her daughter’s house and make sure that she and her little child were safe. Five days? Perhaps three if she made haste. One hundred miles was not so terribly far, after all.
There was a bellow, and she looked up to see a small group of men riding fast towards the city gates. The man at the head of the group was an older fellow, and he had a herald with him who bore a fluttering standard, while behind him were thirty men-at-arms, all well mounted, and with armour that glittered and shone.
As they approached, a Bailiff of the city stepped forward with his polearm at the ready. ‘Who are you?’
‘Stand aside for the Earl of Winchester, Constable of the Castle of Bristol!’ the herald roared, and the men rode in at the canter, their hooves clattering on the cobbles as they made for the castle.
‘Hugh!’ Margaret said urgently. ‘Take me back to the inn. We have to tell Simon!’
Bristol Castle
He heard the shouting in the yard and hurried to the door of his chamber, pulling it wide open. There was a small corridor before the walkway on the castle’s wall, and Sir Laurence reached it almost before the first riders had swung down from the saddle.
‘Oh, Mary, Mother of God,’ he muttered, and went to the stairs in the tower nearby.
This was not what he had expected. The Earl of Winchester was one of the most powerful men in the country, probably somewhere after the King and his son, Sir Hugh le Despenser. Sir Laurence knew that in the realm there were few who could equal the Earl’s authority. Even Bishops and Archbishops did not have the same access to the King, because Sir Hugh was Edward’s most favoured adviser, and if the King’s adviser recommended an action or sought a specific end, it was highly unlikely to be refused.
He came to the bottom of the stairs and emerged into the courtyard. ‘Earl Hugh, my lord, you are very welcome.’
‘Don’t give me that ballocks, Sir Laurence! You’re wondering what in God’s name I’m doing here, aren’t you?’ the Earl said as he carefully climbed from his horse. ‘Time was, I’d have jumped from my mount. Beware old age, Sir Laurence. It creeps up on you like a draw-latch, and takes away all your abilities. I’ve been riding too quickly in the last few days, and my muscles are all complaining. I didn’t realise I had so many in my backside, in God’s name!’
He stood a moment with a hand rubbing his lower back, and then nodded towards the hall. ‘Let’s go and talk.’
The castle’s hall was a good-sized room, with a fireplace set into the northern wall that was already filled with flames from some small logs. A pair of larger logs lay before it, warming before they too could be set on the hearth. There was little decoration here, apart from some paintings on the wall behind the dais, which showed scenes of hunting: men on horseback winding their horns as they galloped towards a glorious hart, raches and alaunts leading the way. It was a scene which Sir Laurence had always loved, being a keen huntsman himself. Away on the right of the picture was a final scene, in which the alaunts had encircled the hart and were preparing for their final attacks, teeth bared, while the poor creature remained at bay.
For the first time, seeing the picture, Sir Laurence was suddenly struck by this scene. It was as though the artist was depicting the final days of Bristol, the noble hart encircled by ravening foes preparing to rip it to pieces. The thought made him feel chill.
The Earl stomped into the room, glanced about him with a glower, and made his way to the fire. He barked an order to his page, who ran to the dais, snatched up a chair, and brought it to the fireside.
‘Well!’ the Earl said as he allowed himself to fall into the seat with a grimace. ‘We are in a pretty pickle. What’s the status of the castle?’
‘The outer walls are all strong. No weaknesses in the towers. It seems the foundations are all well-laid, and the undercrofts are provisioned. We have enough, with the full garrison, to last three months or more. The men are in good heart, and all are loyal to the King.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ the Earl said, and wiped a hand over his face. Suddenly he looked more grey, as though he had become enfeebled. His eyes were watery as he looked into the fire, and he gave the impression of immense sadness.
Sir Laurence told his steward to fetch wine, and waited while the Earl sat thinking.
He took the wine when it arrived and lifted his mazer to Sir Laurence in a mute toast of appreciation, then drained it. ‘Well, you will know already that the Queen is outside your city. She has a force of thousands. The King has a few tens remaining. His reign is in trouble. If we can just hold the city for a little, we may yet prevail. She cannot sweep past us and hope to be safe. I would immediately order an attack on her supply-lines, and try to raise enough men to attack her flanks, if I may. We could destroy her, with only a little luck. Mortimer’s a shrewd devil, so he’ll know that. They’ll do their best to reduce us to rubble. That’s my feeling. Do you disagree?’
‘No, my lord.’
‘So, we must hold the place. The King has placed me in charge of all the west of the country: Somerset, Devon, Cornwall, Dorset, Hampshire, Wiltshire – it’s all mine. While he attempts to raise his own forces, it is our duty to hold the Queen and her rabble here for as long as we can.’
‘Very well.’
‘What is the mood of the city?’
‘Generally good, I think. The people here are a contrary lot. They tend to hate Mortimer more than the King, though.’
He went on to discuss the stores within the city, the different city walls and the options for defence. It was not overall a bad situation. ‘With a strong garrison, we can maintain the castle without problem even if they break into the city.’
‘I see.’ The Earl looked at him. ‘I know, Sir Laurence. It’s not a bad position for us. We must only pray for God to look over us – and over our families,’ he added quietly, staring into the fire again.
That was when Sir Laurence realised the truth: that the Earl did not expect to be able to hold the city. He only hoped to keep it long enough to allow his son and the King to escape.
Sir Laurence’s eyes flew back to the picture of the hart, but now, in his mind’s eye, he saw the city encircled, while bloodthirsty demons laughed and gibbered about it, ready to crush the city for ever.
Simon was relieved when Margaret arrived back. She sent Peterkin out of the room with Hugh to find Rob.
‘The Earl, eh?’ Simon said. There was a note of hope in his voice. ‘That’s better news. He’s a fair man, I reckon. His son is a prickle of the first rank, but the father isn’t so bad – and he’s had some experience of warfare. Perhaps he can hold things together here.’
‘What will we do, Simon?’ Margaret could feel the onset of tears in her eyes, and there was a panicky feeling in the pit of her stomach. ‘I can’t stay here and suffer another siege, not after all that we went through in London.’