The men glanced at each other, then nodded, before whirling their horses about and thundering out through the gate again.
Sir Roger Mortimer grunted to himself, and then caught sight of Sir Laurence. ‘Yes?’
‘You are very concerned about this one man?’
‘I have known him for some years. He used to buy horses for me.’ Then Mortimer continued quietly, ‘He had something of value to me.’
Sir Laurence shrugged. It was none of his business.
‘Sir Laurence, do you want something?’
Sir Roger Mortimer’s eyes were on him now, slightly wide, unblinking, and in that moment, Sir Laurence knew real fear. This man was perfectly capable of killing in an instant.
‘No, Sir Roger. I have work to do. Please call me if I can help you, though.’
There was no answer. He turned and walked back towards his chamber, and all the way he dreaded the blow that must come upon his hideously exposed back, until he had entered his chamber and closed the door behind him.
David was at his board writing. ‘Are you all right, Sir Laurence? You look shaken.’
The knight eased himself into his chair. It creaked as he tilted it back and rested his boots upon the table-top.
‘You know, David, I think there is something very odd about Sir Roger Mortimer,’ he said in a low voice.
‘I could have told you that a while ago,’ David snorted.
‘You are a most perspicacious fellow,’ Sir Laurence said. ‘And you have good contacts in the city, don’t you?’
‘What of it?’
Sir Laurence considered a moment. He had an urge to learn all he could about this friend of Sir Roger’s.
‘Find out all you can about a man called Thomas Redcliffe. But David?’
‘Yes?’
‘Your enquiries: make them with subtlety, old friend. We do not wish to arouse Sir Roger’s ire.’
Riding to Marshfield
They had set off as soon as they had broken their fast, Simon and Sir Charles. Simon had not been content to leave his wife all alone in the castle, and insisted that Hugh remain with her. Hugh was only too pleased to be spared another journey on horseback, for although he had grown accustomed to this mode of travel of late, it was not with any enjoyment.
It was about noon when the pair reached the little vill where they had been told the body had been found. Simon and Sir Charles looked around for any signs of someone who could help them, but there was nobody to be seen. Eventually they rode up to the nearest cottage – a poor, dilapidated little hovel – and Simon dropped from his horse and rapped on the green, mossy timber of the door.
‘What?’ The door opened a short way, and the bearded face of Halt glared at them suspiciously. His looks were not improved by the scabs on his broken nose, nor the bruises.
Simon smiled winningly. ‘I would like to speak to you.’
‘Well, I don’t want to speak to you–’ His words were cut short by the penny spinning and catching the light as Simon tossed it in the air and caught it.
‘There was a body found near here a few days ago,’ Simon said. ‘Do you know where?’
‘Just over there.’
‘Could you show us, please?’
Halt was keen to help. Crossing his garden to the roadway and taking Simon and Sir Charles up towards the little spinney, he showed them the hole in the hedge made by the jury as they had forced their way through.
‘Do you know who the corpse was supposed to have been?’ Simon asked.
‘No. All the Coroner said was, it was the Squire from over Hanham way. That was all.’
‘Did you know this Squire?’
‘Me?’ Halt shook his head. ‘He was from miles away, master. I’d never seen him before.’
Simon went into the little wood and gazed about him. There was no lingering aura of evil, such as he might have expected. ‘The body was here?’
‘No, sir, it was on the ground over there, and this is where his head was stuck.’
‘His head?’ Sir Charles repeated, interested. ‘You say he was beheaded?’
‘Yes. As if he was a criminal – or a traitor.’
‘To his wife, perhaps, as well as to his parents-in-law,’ Simon murmured. He looked about him, and then walked out, back to the road. There was nothing to be seen there, and to stand gazing about the trees felt ghoulish.
Simon asked where the priest lived – some two miles further on – and the pair made their way onwards after Simon had paid the man his penny.
‘I don’t think much of the quality of the peasants about here,’ Sir Charles said ruminatively.
‘He was a poor example of a dull-witted serf,’ Simon agreed with a chuckle. ‘But look at this landscape, Sir Charles! Good, wholesome territory. Any man would grow strong and hearty in a place like this.’
‘If you say so,’ Sir Charles sighed.
In truth, it was a good day to be out riding. The sun was breaking through the clouds, and as it did so, the leaves and puddles appeared to be outlined in silver. There was the constant calling of birds in the trees and, disturbed by their passing, flies rose up in fine swarms of mist. Simon felt all the worries of the last days fall away from him. It seemed as though all the troubles in this worried land were for a little while dissipated, and while he remained here on his horse, the country, and he, were safe.
His mood stayed with him all the way to the little vill where the priest was living. And then all his euphoria was wiped away as he spoke to Father Paul.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Bristol Castle
The castle was in uproar. Men ran about like headless chickens while Sir Stephen watched them from the comfort of an old bench, a jug of wine at his feet, a cup in his hand.
It was clear that the Queen and Mortimer were keen to be away from the place as soon as possible, although he would guess that the Queen’s son was less enthusiastic about the prospect. It was not surprising. The lad must be wondering what on earth would happen to his beloved father, when the Mortimer caught up with him. Edward had, after all, tried to have Mortimer executed – and that was never a perfect basis on which to maintain a friendship.
The Queen’s men were soon to be on the move, then. Well, so much the better. Sir Stephen did not enjoy being in the vicinity of so many men with weapons. He was happier when things were quieter, and he would be content to remain here for quite a while longer. It was a good city, he’d always thought, and now, with the place in Mortimer’s hands as a result of his own hard efforts, he was better positioned than ever before.
Carts were brought, and the barrels from the undercrofts, so carefully stored against the day of the siege, were rolled out and loaded. There was little point in larger wagons for transport. The oxen to haul them were too slow, and the Queen and Mortimer had an urgent desire for speed. Besides, the roads west of here were deplorable. In Wales the land was rough and undercultivated. It would be better to have their goods brought on sumpter horses rather than these carts even, because roads were few and far between. There had been some communications built in the days of good King Edward I, the man who had done so much to pacify the unruly Welsh peasants, but not enough. All that effort to gather up food, he thought regretfully, only to see it removed in this way.
He heard steps behind him, and cast a glance over his shoulder. In a moment, he was on his feet.
‘Sir Laurence. I wish you a good day.’
‘Do you?’ Sir Laurence said. ‘Well, I wish you a slow death. You betrayed us all, especially your King.’