The Oath

both. I cannot afford that. No, we shall seek a room for the night. That will be safer.’

On hearing his words the relief on Jack’s face was like a warm beacon in the dark. Baldwin chuckled, for he could see it even in the gloom of twilight. It was no surprise that he should be glad: Jack was a peasant’s son from Portchester who had been taken at the array and sent to help on a raid in France, but he was only a youth, with no experience of fighting and less of riding a horse. Yet in two days he had covered as much ground as a King’s Messenger. His thighs must be rubbed raw, at the very least.

Baldwin spurred his horse on, calling to Wolf, and they trotted around the city’s wall, following the old road. It was no great distance: the total circumference of the wall Baldwin reckoned to be less than a mile and a half. On the way they met with a carter, who warily kept out of sword’s reach as he listened to their questions, and then told them that there was an inn at the southern gate of the city, which was where most would settle for the night if they missed the gate. It was to this that Baldwin led Jack, and before long the two were standing before a great fire that crackled and glowed in the middle of the room, while Wolf slumped to the floor with relief.

Jack looked about him with eyes dulled by exhaustion.

The innkeeper was reluctant to let them in at first, but that was normal at such an hour. Most inns would prefer to err on the side of caution and bar their doors after dark. As it was, the keeper brought them ale and then returned to speak with a strongly-built man with dark hair and beard who sat on an old barrel, watching Baldwin mistrustfully.

‘Do not worry,’ Baldwin said soothingly, only partly to reassure Jack. ‘We shall be safe in this place.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

Near Marshfield

Robert Vyke peered at his leg. The wound was not smelling foul, which was a relief, but there was plenty of pus leaking out and turning the linen bandages yellow.

‘It hurts?’ the priest asked.

‘Very much, Father.’

‘I have heard it said that this leaking fluid is the “laudable pus”. It means that you should have a fully healed leg in a little while.’

‘It is feeling stronger. And there is less fluid.’

‘You can stay here as long as you wish, my friend. There is no hurry for you to leave.’

Robert Vyke couldn’t help but glance at the door. ‘Have the Queen’s men been here?’

The priest was sitting on his stool, a wooden board on his lap containing some old cheese and bread. He had been about to push a lump of the bread into his mouth, but now he stopped and fixed an eye on Robert. He had a shrewd look about him, for all that he was no older than Robert himself. He would have been a good-looking man, with his fair hair and blue eyes, were it not for the sadness that seemed to lie on him. ‘Have you cause to fear her?’

‘I was here because of the King. I was arrayed, and marched with him.’

‘I think that there will be many like you,’ the priest said, shoving the bread into his mouth and chewing. Crumbs flew from his mouth as he spoke. ‘There is no need for you to fear, my son. She and her army may pass here, they may not. The most important thing is that they won’t be stopping here to find you. Do you think she will seek out all those who have ever shown themselves loyal to their King? No. It is not as though you are a wandering felon, is it?’

‘No!’ Robert protested.

‘I did have to ask, my son. Your leg will heal, so far as I can tell. I have washed it with egg-white, and there is no poisoning of your flesh. Perhaps in a week or a little more, you will be able to walk again.’

‘A week or more?’

‘If you will rest it and behave sensibly, yes.’

Robert stared at his leg. He had hoped to be able to return home to his Susan. She would be so happy to see the… Where was the knife?

‘Father,’ he said tentatively, ‘when I fell, there were belongings of mine in a bag, and…’

‘Yes, of course,’ the priest said. He stood, set his board on his stool, and came over to the bed. Reaching beneath Robert, he withdrew the old pack. ‘The dagger is a strange device for a man of such lowly upbringing,’ he noted.

All at once the memory of the face returned to Robert. ‘I found it…’ he began, but was cut off by the priest holding up his hand.

‘I am sure you came by it honestly, my friend. After all, who could have wished to keep a weapon in that condition?’

‘It was lying in a pothole, with the blade pointing up, and it was that blade which so injured me.’

‘A great misfortune,’ the priest said. ‘I wonder whose it could have been?’ His voice held a strange note, and when Robert looked at him, his posture was that of a priest, awaiting a man’s confession.

‘There was a man there,’ Robert said. ‘I was trying to straighten the blade, and he was in there. In the trees. His head – it was sitting on a fork of two branches, and that was when I fell. I can remember now.’

‘Where was this?’ the priest asked, frowning.

‘In the trees.’

‘Can you describe the place?’

‘I…’ He stopped. He might recognise it if he saw it again, but it was just a bit of roadway. ‘There was a road, with a pothole, a hedge, and trees behind it.’

‘My son, you were found in the field behind my church here. Did you walk here from the wood?’

‘No, I was beside the road with my friends,’ Robert said.

‘Which road? Do you know which vill you were near?’

Robert shook his head slowly. ‘All I know is, we were close to Bristol. We stopped there to rest, for our company was passing through on our way to the King. I hurt my leg and had to be left behind – and then a damned sumpter-man struck my head because I remonstrated with him for his cruelty to his beast. He killed it,’ he added as an afterthought.

‘There was no party came past here,’ the priest said. ‘I’ve heard of the King’s host passing by a few miles to the north, but none down here.’

‘We were only one vingtaine,’ Robert said tiredly. His head and leg were throbbing. ‘And it was very early in the morning when we came past.’

‘You think I’d have missed you?’ the priest chuckled. ‘Not here, my friend. There is no concealment for a vingtaine, I assure you. I sleep lightly, so I would have woken at the sound of a force riding past.’

‘I didn’t see a church,’ Robert admitted. ‘The road was tree-lined, and there were hedges, and a little cottage: I saw it.’

‘Well, not here, my friend,’ the priest said, and there was a kindly look in his eye. ‘Don’t forget, you have seen the skull rise before you several times over the last day, in your sleep. Perhaps you should lie down again?’

‘I am not mad!’ Robert said, but he could feel the onset of a kind of panic. Had he dreamed the whole incident – the fall, the discovery of the head? Was it all just a fiction planted in his mind by a mare?

Inn outside Winchester

Baldwin and Jack were shown into the main bedchamber. Palliasses were thrown higgledy-piggledy over the floor, and some had already been taken. Their occupants were curled up or lying on their backs, and there was little noise, apart from one man, who was snoring so furiously it was as though he was fighting for every breath. There was a boot lying by his head – perhaps someone had thrown it to silence him. The shutters were pulled tight, Baldwin noted, to prevent any thieves entering during the night, but he still looked about him cautiously.

By the little rushlight it was hard to see much. He could make out six men on the floor, of whom only one appeared to be awake still, and he was hardly a threat. He was a short fellow, scrawny as a man who’d fasted for