‘To avoid unnecessary bloodshed,’ Sir Charles murmured. ‘If it were only we men, it would be easy to bear. But think of all the others – the women and children – who must also die. That is harder to support.’
‘Yes, yes,’ the Earl agreed, but his mind was already moving on. ‘So, are we agreed?’
Simon looked from one to another, wondering what he could say. ‘I don’t know what…’
‘We cannot continue to fight,’ Sir Charles said smoothly. ‘Not now.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Simon said helplessly.
‘The Duke of Aquitaine has raised his banner along with the Queen’s,’ Sir Laurence said. ‘If we resist, we will be resisting the Queen and the King’s heir. We will be committing treason. If we surrender, we shall be failing in our oaths to the King. But if we do not, we shall condemn ourselves. I would not willingly lift steel against the King’s son.’
‘There is nothing more to be said, gentlemen,’ the Earl declared, and rose. He gripped the table as he wobbled. ‘We must surrender and pray for terms. I cannot ask the men to fight their next King.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
The actual transfer of authority was an anti-climax, Simon thought. He had returned to the chamber to fetch Margaret and Peterkin as soon as the decision was made, and with them and Hugh, he made his way to the gatehouse as quickly as possible.
Down at the gates, Sir Charles was bawling for a man to whom he might speak, while the castle’s castellan stood beside him, a finger pulling at his bottom lip thoughtfully. While Simon watched, he heard a sniffling and weeping, and when he turned, he saw two of Earl Hugh’s men unashamedly sobbing. All knew that their master would be arrested. The Queen and Mortimer had good reason to think that a man like the Earl should be kept in a dungeon for the rest of his life. With fortune, he could be held in a decent chamber in the Tower, perhaps, or at Corfe or one of the other great royal castles. It was certain that he would not be permitted to go into exile. As the Queen now understood only too well, sometimes exile could mean an opportunity to recruit supporters.
There was a shout, then Sir Charles began to issue orders. In a short space, the gates were thrown open, and a small number of men walked inside, crossing the area to run up the ladders and stairs to the battlements. The guards already there were marshalled and marched down to the courtyard to wait. Simon was grabbed unceremoniously and brought to join them, as was Hugh. He threw a look at Margaret, and felt his heart wrench to see the tears streaming down her face.
They must wait for a short while, and then there was another order and a new man walked in.
Simon had seen Sir Roger Mortimer before, but then he had been in France, and Mortimer had worn the look of a man who was sure he was about to die. He was in exile, declared traitor by his King, and under sentence of death.
Not now. This was a man returned to pride and position. Confident, arrogant, certain of his authority. As soon as he entered the courtyard, he was looking about him, and then he began to point to specific points at the walls and inner buildings, ordering men to those vantages, others to hunt through the entire castle for people concealing themselves. Only when he was happy that the castle was secure, did he deign to look at Earl Hugh.
‘So, my lord. It appears your scheming to execute me has come to naught.’
On hearing that voice, Simon felt his heart turn to ice. Mortimer was devoted to honour and chivalry – but was also known to have no scruples about punishing those who stood in his way. And Simon was one of those who had held the castle against him.
Earl Hugh made a brave effort, but his voice was querulous. ‘I did not plot your death, Sir Roger.’
‘Truly?’ Mortimer said. He was clad in mail under his tunic, looking quite old-fashioned for such a modern warrior. But at nearly forty years old, he was already quite an age for a man who had dedicated his life to serving the King by leading Edward’s men in battles from Scotland to Ireland. His hair was grizzled now, Simon saw, but his build was still that of a fighter, trim at the waist, powerful in the shoulder.
Earl Hugh stood with slow deliberation, as though his knees and hips were giving him pain. As he stood, Sir Roger Mortimer said nothing, but turned and beckoned, and then Simon heard the sound of hooves walking slowly. Soon two beasts appeared under the gateway. The first to appear was Queen Isabella, riding on a bay mare that ambled in to stand at Roger Mortimer’s side; the second was the young Duke of Aquitaine, Earl Edward of Chester, the King’s son.
Earl Hugh bowed to both, and he smiled. It was clearly in his mind, as it was in Simon’s, that this lady would not order the death of a man she had known for so long. ‘Your Royal Highness, I surrender the castle of Bristol to you. In the name of the King, I beg that you treat all the men within with honour, and that you respect the King’s property.’
As he spoke, Sir Roger stood with arms akimbo as he looked down at the older man, and his low, controlled voice carried over the whole courtyard. ‘Earl Hugh, you will be held until we can convene a special court to consider your crimes. You should compose your soul for death, my lord. I will take no pleasure in it, but you have stolen and robbed for so long, you can receive no other punishment. The realm demands it.’
‘We agreed when I surrendered…’
‘Nothing.’
The Queen called out, ‘Sir Roger, there is no need to punish the good Earl. He is not the man who caused us so much grief – that was his son.’
‘My lady, I am afraid that this man is guilty of numerous offences. We can discuss them during his trial.’
The Earl shook his head, expostulating, ‘We agreed that the innocent would be released! You promised that.’
‘We agreed that you would surrender the garrison and the castle in the interests of protecting the innocent. There was no need to kill all the people in the castle, certainly. I am no bloodthirsty warrior. I only carry out those acts which are necessary for the good of the realm. Take him away!’
And Simon watched as the old man was grasped by both arms. His sword belt was unbuckled, and the sword and dagger allowed to fall to the ground, while he was firmly marched away to the little gaol set into the wall.
Fourth Monday after the Feast of St Michael[28]
Bristol Castle
There was a stillness in the cool air that morning, and Simon was stiff and uncomfortable as he rose.
They had been given some few blankets, but for the most part the garrison had been forced to sleep on the stone paving of a hall near the entrance to the castle. The chill felt as though it had entered his very marrow, and Simon prayed that his wife and son were safe. One thought nagged constantly at his mind. He could imagine Peterkin huddled in a corner while men took Margaret for their own pleasure – the little boy forced to watch, Margaret biting her lips to stop her cries so that he shouldn’t be too alarmed.
Hugh’s voice was low and sulky. ‘Reckon we’ll be released?’
‘What do you think?’ Simon snapped. ‘They’ve taken our weapons, and we’re stuck here like felons. I doubt they intend to give us gold for a journey home.’
Hugh said nothing, but shifted so that he was sitting upright. The man on his right was snoring, with a great bloody mark on his nose. He had been slow to respond when given an instruction to move towards this chamber, and the guard with him had slapped him across the face with a steel gauntlet, breaking his nose and almost knocking the fellow unconscious.
Seeing his servant shivering badly as he huddled himself into a small shape, Simon was instantly stabbed with pangs of contrition. ‘Hugh, forgive me. I was thinking of Meg when you spoke.’