The Oath

Then, despite himself, his hand moved over the chest’s lid, his questing fingers stroking the blued steel of the bands, reaching down to the padlocks… and his heart pounded as he felt the hasp of the first lock give under his fingers. His hand went to the other lock – and suddenly the lid was flung open, throwing Robert onto his back. He screamed, and saw before him that head once more – the narrowed eyes, the blue lips – floating towards him. Robert flailed at it with his arms, but the thing drifted effortlessly past, moving ever nearer, and there was the smell of the grave about it. And then it was right in front of him, coming closer and closer until it seemed about to touch his lips…

‘Christ’s bones!’ he screamed aloud, and this time it was enough to shake him properly awake, and he was sitting up, mouth gaping, panting, the sweat pooling on his breast. He looked around wildly, and found himself in a bright, warm chamber, lying on a good bed, and there were firm hands on his shoulders gently pressing him back.

‘You are safe here, my son. Do not fear. Lie back. Be still, be easy.’

Robert stared about him. The room was sparsely furnished. One stool sat near a small, low table, and the only decoration on the walls was a stoup set at the door, and a simple cross of dark wood on a wall nearby. The floor was made of packed earth, and the fire, which burned with a steady, heartwarming hiss, lay on a hearth of clay in the middle of the room. Over it a pot bubbled, giving off a wonderful smell of rosemary and bacon.

‘Where am I?’

‘In my house. I am Paul, the priest for this little vill, and you have been here since your discovery beside the road.’

‘My discovery… What does that…?’

‘You were found there,’ the priest said. He was a slim man, but wiry, with a tonsure that left the majority of his skull bald. Bright blue eyes held his own, and Robert was comforted by the sympathy in them. ‘You were bleeding badly from that gash in your shin. It’s a matter of good fortune that you lost no more blood, my friend, for had you done so, I doubt that you would have survived. As it is, the wound appears to have all but healed.’

‘Healed? How long have I been here?’

‘We can talk about that in the morning. For now, you should rest. Have some broth, settle back, and forget these horrible dreams.’

‘I’ve had them before?’

‘You have returned to the same dream many times, I think, my friend. It is most sad to see you thrashing in your fear. Do not worry, though. We shall soon have you well and free of these mares.’

Robert nodded and allowed the priest to ease him back against the wall, watching while Father Paul busy himself with wooden bowl and spoon.

But Robert did not see the priest. All he saw with his mind’s eye was that decomposing head floating towards him again.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Bristol

The city of Bristol was still the second city of the kingdom, no matter what anyone might say, and Sir Laurence Ashby, the Constable of Bristol Castle, was convinced that his adopted home eclipsed London in many ways. It was better served with access to the sea, it was more pleasant on the nostrils and eye, being much cleaner than the capital, and from his point of view, as a warrior, it was infinitely more secure. Not only were there walls encircling the whole town but the river also formed a strong barrier to the south, while the fields to the north were notable for their bogs and marshes.

There was a good, strong wall about the castle, too, which was one of the most imposing in the land. Raised on a hill, its square keep reared up over the city it was intended to protect, while the curtain walls concealed a mass of smaller buildings: sheds, smiths’ forges, stables, and a vast number of storage chambers. Usually the castle was manned by only a small contingent, but now the realm was on a war footing, matters had radically changed, and Sir Laurence was glad that his calls for the garrison to be enlarged had been heeded.

It was with good reason that people called this ‘almost the richest city’. Merchants there plied their trade all over the world from Bristol’s good, deep-water port. Many years ago, the city had begun the great work of moving the River Frome, the burgesses excavating the new line of the river in St Augustine’s Marsh, so that access to the harbour was greatly improved. The sea was the source of the city’s power and wealth, and as soon as that great work was completed, the townspeople set out on another ambitious project: damming the River Avon and diverting it, so that a stone bridge could be constructed over the river, giving access from the south.

‘Sir Laurence, there is a messenger.’

The Constable closed his eyes for a moment, cursing all messengers. Since the beginning of this terrible dispute between the King and his Queen, the number of messages had increased to a steady flow. In the past, the Constable of a royal castle would be left to get on with his many tasks, but not now. It seemed as though the King was ever more determined to keep tight control over every aspect of life in the kingdom, especially in places like Bristol. Or was it that he was attempting to maintain the fiction that he had some control of events?

Sir Laurence supposed it was to be expected. A man who was so suddenly overtaken by fate must try to assume command by whatever means he could.

Taking the note, he read down the sheet quickly. Sir Laurence was a man of middling height in his early thirties. His head was almost as bald as a priest’s, with a fringe of yellow hair curling about. His eyes were clear and blue, set in a rather pale-complexioned face with thin lips that gave him the look more of an ascetic than a man of action. The truth was, he was infinitely happier with a sword in his hand than a book, and although he had less time to spare now, he was always more content to sit in his saddle with a lance at the ready, than bent over at a desk.

Not that there was much likelihood of that, these days. Knights were no longer permitted to test themselves in jousts of honour, since King Edward disapproved of such martial displays. He had been very happy to participate in such celebrations when he was younger, but Piers Gaveston had died following a plot conceived during a jousting match, and after the loss of that most beloved adviser, the King had refused to allow any more.

‘Very good,’ Sir Laurence said, and folded the parchment carefully, pushing it into his shirt. The writing was atrocious again – he had scarcely been able to decipher it. The King’s clerks were clearly under a great deal of stress themselves, he thought to himself.

Leaving the messenger and guard, he strolled towards his little chamber in the keep, where he pulled out the message and threw it onto his table. His clerk, David, peered at him with interest. ‘More complaints about the privy?’

‘Silence!’ Sir Laurence snapped.

David was less a clerk, more a comrade against the world. A lean, astute man, his sarcasm was a welcome shield against the foolishness of men, especially those who tried to achieve their will by politicking. ‘Oh, having a good morning, then?’ he responded calmly.

‘No one’s grabbed me about the shit-house this morning, no,’ Sir Laurence grunted.

‘Something else, then?’ The clerk knew all about the many troubles which dogged his master. As Constable, he was nagged about any problems with living quarters in times of peace, and now there was war, for some reason the complaints about the privy had escalated. True enough there was a foul stench rising, and guards and servants alike were unhappy that they might inhale some of it.

Sir Laurence himself reckoned it was less a fault with the chamber itself, or the chute into the moat, and more a reflection of the garrison’s nervousness in the face of impending war. They were shitting themselves.

He kicked the door shut. ‘Yes. I reckon the King has lost his mind.’ It was hardly surprising: there was his wife, flaunting her adultery with the man whom King Edward had ordered to be executed, plus she had kept their son with her even when King Edward had demanded his return. Who wouldn’t be made lunatic in those circumstances?

‘Do you really mean that?’ David set down his reed and stared at Sir Laurence, his head to one side.

‘Read this,’ the Constable grumbled, picking up the message and passing it to the clerk. ‘He’s only written