Baldwin had already stabbed the bearded man who had led the attackers in Winchester. He had followed them all that way. Baldwin thought about it. It was very curious. He had never known of footpads showing such determination before. What’s more, the fellow was with different companions, too, which implied that he was a leader of men, who was prepared to hire others to help him as he planned his attacks. Why attack Thomas Redcliffe? There would have to be a significant reason, to persuade a fellow to hunt a man all the way from Winchester, let alone from London.
The alternative, that he was trying to catch a King’s Messenger, was more likely. Perhaps Redcliffe was thought to carry some dangerous message that must be stopped? Or perhaps it was more simple: he was killed because he had taken some business from a London merchant who resented his interference. The merchant could have paid someone to hunt him down and execute him.
But there was little point speculating. Better to leave such hypotheses to others.
Their way took them down a grassy bank to the road itself, a stony track that pointed like an arrow to the castle. Baldwin almost unhorsed himself riding down a particularly steep part, and he glanced back with a grin on his face, only to see Alexander a short distance away, gazing about him with caution.
It reminded him that even this close to the King, they would not be safe until they were inside the castle’s wall – and with that thought, he spurred his rounsey on again.
Bristol
The hall was filled.
Sir Stephen Siward was one of the most powerful knights in the country, one of only two thousand men who could call themselves members of the Order of Chivalry of England – and yet he had never seen a gathering like this. The Bishops of Ely, Hereford, Lincoln, Norwich and Winchester, the Earls of Kent, Lancaster and Norfolk, as well as barons, bannerets, knights and squires, thronged the large chamber, all presenting themselves before the Queen and her son as the new rulers of the country – and that itself was shocking.
It was the sort of gathering that a man would see once in his lifetime. The prominent nobility of the realm and the Church were never usually to be found all in one place like this. It was a proof of the importance of the matter, and yet it was profoundly wrong. Sir Stephen knew it, and despite his part in helping bring it about, this gathering was enough to make his flesh creep, for all these people were here in order to change God’s decision. His anointed King was being forced from his throne. In King Edward’s place sat the Queen and her son.
A steward bellowed, and his staff struck the ground. The people in the chamber fell silent and the meeting began.
Sir Stephen knew that he would never again witness such an event, but it passed like a dream, and afterwards, also as in a dream, there was little he could recall. The main part was the declaration being read out: the King had deserted the realm. He was extra regnum. That phrase somehow remained fixed in Sir Stephen’s head when so much else was gone. Extra regnum, outside the kingdom, and leaving the kingdom without a Regent.
That was not going to continue. Before the assembled nobles, Edward, Earl of Chester, Duke of Aquitaine, was declared Regent during the King’s absence.
Watching him closely, Sir Stephen felt the Duke’s mood was less joyous than he would have expected. A man who was presented with a kingdom should be glad, and the Duke would know that the people wanted him. There was near-rapture in the city when he entered, and Sir Stephen felt certain that his reception would have been no less enthusiastic wherever he had gone.
But as Sir Stephen watched him cast an eye over the men before him, he realised that the boy could see only rats gorging themselves. Edward had been held in France by his mother and her lover for the last year; since returning, he knew that his was the authority that allowed Queen Isabella and Mortimer to take over the kingdom. It was he who was being used to topple his own father, a distressing position in itself, but with the added irony that it would set a precedent for a future King – for Edward himself.
By destroying his father, he could well be planting the seeds of his own destruction.
Bristol Castle
When Simon left Margaret in their chamber with Peterkin, he was scarcely able to think straight. His wife was distraught with terror about the siege, and nothing would comfort her.
‘Come, Bailiff,’ Sir Charles said, seeing him in the corridor, and taking him to the Constable’s chamber. ‘You and I should witness this.’
Sir Laurence was at his table, which was piled with documents and scrolls, but his attention was not on them or his clerk, but on the man who sat before him.
Simon could scarcely recognise this ravaged figure as the man who had only yesterday been so sure of himself. There could hardly be a greater contrast between Earl Hugh then, and now. It was astonishing to see how he had fallen apart since the defection of Sir Stephen Siward.
‘So, two are least have not deserted their King,’ he said with a certain doleful satisfaction. He reminded Simon of a whipped hound that had expected another thrashing only to be given a tasty morsel instead. ‘Not all have run away.’
‘We have just learned that three more men of the garrison have climbed over the walls and run,’ Sir Laurence said.
Simon nodded. ‘How many are left?’
‘What does it matter?’ the Earl snapped bitterly. ‘If the cowards will run, who gives a farthing for them? Their courage and valour has flown. Sir Stephen ballocks Siward took it with him when he ran, the bastard!’
‘Surely we still have enough men?’ Simon said calmly, although inside he could feel his belly grinding with trepidation. It was awful to think that the place could be left undermanned in the face of so strong an enemy. For the attacking forces it would surely be easy to scale the walls if there was no one to watch for them. And then, were some of the garrison to be tempted, a rebellion inside the castle could see all the loyal men at risk of death. Meg, too. And Peterkin. He wanted to be sick.
Sir Laurence said nothing. He sat with apparent composure as the Earl expostulated about the quality of the garrison and their leadership: ‘Look at them! What sort of men are there here? The coward Siward has taken his men, and we don’t know whom we may trust. I know my men will remain loyal to me, but what of the others?’
‘My lord, we are all loyal to the King,’ Sir Charles said. ‘You know you can trust us.’
‘I know no one!’ the Earl spat. ‘We are lost! You will not aid me!’
‘This castle can hold with only a few men-at-arms, so long as we all stick to our purpose,’ Sir Laurence said quietly. ‘I am content that we can uphold our honour here. I made a vow to the King when I was made castellan here and I would not break it. But now it is different. The situation is changed.’
Simon was impressed with him. He was firm and calm under what must be immense pressure. Not so Earl Hugh.
‘You think I wish to surrender?’ the Earl cried out. ‘In Christ’s name, the King placed me in charge of all the south and west of the kingdom, and he ordered me to protect his realm so far as I may – and now, already, I must think of submitting, according to you.’