‘Meg,’ he said, rising and putting his arms round her. ‘Where can we go? The way home is bound to be dangerous, with armed men wandering about at will. The only safe place for us is here in the city. Would you really be prepared to leave Bristol if it meant you were putting Peterkin’s life at risk?’
‘Simon, if the city is besieged, the first thing the locals will do is throw all the useless, foreign mouths from the gates. That would mean me and Peterkin.’ She pulled away from his encircling arms. ‘If we stay here, are you prepared to watch as Peterkin and I are forced out of the city and left as a barrier between the wall and the army? That’s what you said happened in sieges before now, Simon – that the women and children were evicted and left to starve so that the besieged and besiegers didn’t have to feed them. They’d keep you here because you can handle a sword, but us? No. We’d be thrown from the gates.’
‘I don’t think it’ll come to that,’ Simon said.
She tore from his grasp. ‘Don’t say that! Don’t try to calm me, when you have no idea what may happen! You don’t know that we’ll be safer here in the city than on the road, do you? You don’t know that Bristol won’t be fired and pillaged, with many people inside slain, which means all of us! How can you stand there and try to be so rational when it’s our lives you’re gambling with?’
He was infuriating her! Did he mean to insult her? She was intelligent enough to manage his household when he was away, and yet now he was treating her like a child!
It was only then, when she had spat the last words into his face, that she saw his own despair. He was not arguing because he seriously believed that one choice was better than another: both had strengths and pitfalls – and he was confused and desperate. He needed help to choose the better option. In his face she saw her own anguish reflected. He was disheartened by this latest proof of his inability to serve his family.
‘Oh, Simon,’ she said, and felt the tears beginning to flow as she put her arms around his neck again and held him close. She was relieved to feel his arms about her waist, his head resting on her shoulder.
‘I’m sorry, Meg,’ he said, his voice curiously quiet. ‘I had thought we would be safe here, and I had thought all our problems were over, but no decision I take ever seems to work in the manner I intend. I didn’t want Edith to marry when she did; I didn’t want to work in Dartmouth; nor did I want to become stuck in the King’s arguments with the barons or upset Despenser – but it’s all happened. I’ve lost our treasure, our daughter, and now we’re in danger too. I no longer know what to do for the best!’
She shushed him, stroking his head as she would a weeping child’s. ‘You are a good man, Simon Puttock. Be strong for me. Don’t let my complaining offend your good sense. You make the decisions based on your reason.’
‘My “reason”,’ he repeated bitterly, and pushed himself from her, walking to the window. ‘My “reason” told me we would be safe here because no one in their right mind would want to harm the second city in the realm. And now the Earl of Winchester is here to defend it with all his might. Well, every choice I have made so far has turned to disaster. So no, Meg, I won’t choose this time. This time, I will follow your judgement. It is always better than mine. So we shall pack and leave the city, and make our way as swiftly as possible to Exeter.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Fourth Thursday after the Feast of St Michael[23]
Bristol
Next morning was dry, but the clouds were hanging low in the sky, and Margaret thought they looked like dirty muslin dangling from a line. But there was nothing could spoil her mood today. They were leaving. They were going home at last!
It had been a horrible evening, with Simon quiet and introspective, and she tormented with the thought that she had brought him to this pass. It was her task, as his wife, to support him in all he did, and make him content with his lot. She knew that. It was how she had been brought up, how her mother had taught her, how people expected a woman to behave – not to carp and argue and force her husband to change his mind, no matter what the provocation. And this time, surely he might well be correct.
She made her way to the church of St Peter, a short way from the castle’s bastion, and there prayed with absolute dedication for their journey to be safe. Like many travellers, she would often beg for God’s aid when going on a long journey, but this was more serious and the dangers more clear than at any other time she had set off. And there was the feeling that she needed to beg forgiveness for insisting that they should depart. It wasn’t fair that she should have forced Simon into changing his mind about staying here in Bristol.
When she rose, making the sign of the cross, she felt a conviction that her prayers had been heard, and it gave her a warm glow. With fortune, He would watch over them as they made their way homewards.
It was with this comfort in her heart that she walked from the church and returned to the inn. Here, she found Simon already loading the last of the packs on their horses, while Hugh was testing the saddle-straps and harnesses, glowering suspiciously as usual.
‘Our room is cleared,’ Simon said, seeing her. He did not try to embrace her. His face showed that he was still greatly troubled. ‘Everything is ready.’
She smiled, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, before taking the reins and walking her mare to a series of steps to mount. Once upon her horse, she felt again as though things must now begin to improve. Peterkin loudly demanded to be allowed to walk as far as the bridge, and Margaret indulged him today. The last thing she wanted was a row before setting off. That would be a dreadful augur. She desired calmness, for herself, but also for her husband.
As Simon and Hugh helped Rob to his pony, and then the two clambered aboard their own beasts, she was reminding herself that the further they descended into Devon, the safer they would be. Men who wished for battle and war would all be up here, or in Wales, not in the quiet lanes of Devonshire. With luck, they would be home within five days. That was all that mattered.
The small group walked their horses out of the inn’s gates, past the barbican to the castle, and thence along St Peter Street towards the High Street and the bridge. The sun was fighting hard to escape the clutches of the clouds, but didn’t quite succeed.
As they approached St Mary-le-Port Church, it became clear that there was some kind of blockage ahead, for carts, horses and shouting men thronged the way as far as the High Street itself. Hugh dropped down and, ruffling young Peterkin’s head, lifted him on to his mother’s sadddle, out of harm’s way.
‘What’s the matter up there?’ Simon demanded of a man nearby, who merely shrugged.
‘Probably a cart’s broken a wheel. You know what this place is like.’
Simon muttered a curse under his breath, and began to cast about for a different way to the bridge. However, if there was one, he thought the other inhabitants of the city would surely have availed themselves of it rather than queue up like this.
There was a man shoving his way through now, heading back the way they had come, and Simon hailed him. ‘Friend, can you tell us what is holding us all up?’
‘The gates are closed. The Queen’s host is approaching, and all the city’s gates are barred against her.’