He would have to speak with a priest and consign his soul to God. There was to be no period of grace. He was to die today. Now.
He had only one hope: that his son would at least have made it to Ireland. That was where he and the King were heading for, and perhaps they were already there. If so, at least his death might serve some useful function, because it would ensure that Mortimer and his army remained here in Bristol.
If there was one thing he wished, it was that he might have a little time to see his son. To talk to him, and to advise him how to strive to capture the men here in the room. To catch them and see them punished for their presumption.
But mostly he just wished he could see his son one more time.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Cardiff Castle
The outburst from Despenser had stilled everyone in the room. Sir Ralph said nothing, but there was a gobbet of spittle on his cheek. He reached up and wiped it away without comment, before bowing low to the King and slowly walking backwards from the room.
‘Where do you go?’ Despenser demanded.
‘To prepare the remaining members of the King’s household to ride wither His Majesty commands,’ Sir Ralph said with cool politeness, and was gone.
Edward gave a loud expostulation, lifting his hands and letting them drop again. ‘Oh! Why do I have to suffer in this way? If only I had one General in whose efforts I could trust. A man with the tactical genius of…’
He was quiet before he could say the name, but Baldwin was sure that he was about to say, Sir Roger Mortimer. The man had been his best Captain. All knew it. Mortimer had been the King’s very finest Commander, not only tactically and strategically, but politically too. And now he had turned against him.
Shortly afterwards, the King and Despenser left the chamber for a smaller, more private one, and as soon as the door had slammed behind them, the men in the hall were able to stand upright again, rising from their knees. Baldwin saw that one of the messengers needed assistance to rise, and he walked over to him. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked. ‘Are you fatigued after your journey?’
‘No – well, yes, but it’s not that,’ Robert Vyke said, wincing as he put the weight on his leg again. His shin was on fire, and he wondered whether he should pay to have it looked at.
‘What happened to you?’
‘A foolish accident. I fell into a pothole, and inside was a dagger. It sliced my leg open.’
Baldwin pulled a face. ‘It is one thing to be stabbed by an opponent in a fight, but to get slashed in a muddy pool, that is the height of bad luck. The fool who left it there deserves to be punished severely.’
‘I think he was,’ Robert said, and told Baldwin of the head and dismembered body.
‘Really? That is an intriguing story,’ Baldwin said. ‘I suppose there are small factions fighting all over the country. Lots of grievances being settled, feuds brought to a conclusion.’
‘There are plenty who say that they have a score to settle,’ Robert agreed, sighing heavily.
‘And I dare say that most will never be resolved,’ Baldwin replied. ‘It is sad to think of so many dying without a grave, without a mourner or prayer said over their bodies.’
‘I think I do know who he was,’ Robert said. ‘I was told that his name was Squire William. At least, that was the name that Sir Laurence mentioned when he saw the dagger.’
‘Squire William who, I wonder? We shall perhaps never know. Where was the man’s body?’
‘It was left near a vill some little way from Bristol. There was a priest nearby, who found me and tended to my wounds until I could walk again. Then I made my way to Bristol, where they asked me to come here. I suppose I wouldn’t have managed to help much in the fight there in the castle.’
‘I suppose not,’ Baldwin said. He watched the injured man limp over to a bench. ‘It is healing?’
‘Think so. You know how these wounds can be. Sometimes they heal quickly, others you have a barber take your leg off, and sometimes a man will die from the lockjaw or gangrene. I think this will be all right, but it is still very sore. I’ve walked long and hard in the last few days.’
‘You must take your rest,’ Baldwin said. He turned, only to see Bernard nearby. ‘A question, from interest,’ he said to him. ‘Are you aware of a Squire named William who lived near to Bristol?’
‘Only the one,’ Bernard said with a chuckle. ‘He wouldn’t be popular there, though. Married the daughter of a merchant in the city, and then treated her like a cur. Poor chit was only fourteen or so when they got wed. She ran away when she was eighteen.’
‘And?’
‘She ran off with a parson, and nine months later she had proof of his catechism! He must have been a right holy fellow, for he was always on his knees. The fool must have had his brain in his tarse. Anyway, when the crime was uncovered, the girl went home to her parents, and as soon as her husband heard of her baby, he went to her home with a group of ruffians and killed them all. His wife, her parents, and her son.’
‘I see,’ Baldwin said slowly. The sheer ferocity of such an act sickened him. He himself could imagine killing any number of men who had hurt his wife or children, but to go to a house from jealousy or from the position of cuckold, with a group of others, and slay all within, especially the babe, was the act of a madman.
‘They even killed some of the servants,’ Bernard went on. ‘The porter at his door was stabbed, and a maid.’
Baldwin nodded. ‘It is terrible how the lust for blood can blind some men.’
‘Well, they didn’t kill all the servants, I suppose, so that’s a mercy. The maid looking after the baby didn’t die. They left her where she was.’
‘But they took the child from her,’ Baldwin said. ‘That is truly foul. It must have sent the woman lunatic to see the babe killed.’
‘She was made of hardier stuff than that, I reckon.’ Bernard rubbed his chin. ‘She’s still in the city, I heard.’
Baldwin nodded, but he had no idea how his future was about to be so closely entwined with the woman he was discussing. Nor with her death.
Bristol
Simon had been allowed to finish his food, and then to see his servants released and fed, before he was led away to discuss the murder.
It was strange to be taken out to the main city. After such a short time, it had begun to feel as though the castle was a gaol from which he would never be released. Now, he was able to walk the streets with Hugh again like a free man. Margaret and Peterkin, he had been told, would be safer staying in the castle. With so many foreign mercenaries about the city, Simon could only agree with that. He left Rob with them.
He and Hugh were taken along the main street near St Peter’s, and then his guard stopped and suggested that they wait.
‘Why?’
‘Sir Roger Mortimer wanted you to be here,’ the guard said imperturbably. He set his polearm on the ground and leaned on it like man with a staff, yawning.
‘What’s your name?’ Simon asked.
‘Herv Tyrel.’
‘Have you come with the Mortimer from Hainault?’
‘Me? No.’ The man was surprised, Simon saw.
Herv Tyrel was a thickset fellow with the brawny arms of a farmer. His brown eyes were gentle, set in a broad, amiable face, and he looked as though he would be more at home in a field with oxen than here in a city.
‘Where are you from, Herv?’
‘A little vill in Oxfordshire, a place called Henret,’ he sighed, gazing about him without relish. ‘Wish I was back there now. I’ve already lost one mate, and now God knows when we’ll get back.’