The Oath

a fortnight, and he lay watching the two of them from dark, suspicious eyes that raked over Baldwin, from his green tunic to his sword.

Baldwin undid his sword belt with slow deliberation, staring back at the fellow as he did so. Then, choosing the least noisome of the spare palliasses, he rested his back against the wall and placed his sword at his side, motioning to Jack to lie nearby. Wolf padded to his side and lay down.

There were no safe inns in the land now, he knew. The kingdom was too unstable. King Edward II was running for his life. Throughout his reign, from the earliest days, Edward appeared to have been doomed. His wars to protect his lands against the Scottish had all foundered against the resolute tactics of that devil Bruce, while the one war he had finally won, against the Marcher Lords, had been fought not for his own benefit, but for that of his adviser and friend, Sir Hugh le Despenser.

His choice of friends and advisers had been disastrous, since he had selected those who were more keen to enrich themselves than work for the good of all and govern wisely. First it had been that cretin Piers Gaveston, and more recently Despenser. There were few in the realm who did not loathe Despenser; even those who protested their affection for him were often lying. His avarice and insatiable hunger for power were despised by all who believed in chivalry and honour.

Baldwin himself detested the man. He had seen how Despenser had persecuted his friend Simon Puttock. A good, decent man, Simon had been hounded from his home and forced to give up his offices working with the Abbey at Tavistock, returning to his old home near Sandford and taking on the mantle of a simple farmer. Yet compared with others who had endured the enmity of Despenser, he was fortunate. He was at least still alive.

There were many within the King’s circle in past years who had inspired such hatred, but few could have attained such heights of influence. For Baldwin, it was a cause of conflict and frustration since, although the Despenser represented all that was hateful to him, yet Baldwin must fight to protect the man – because to refuse would be to disobey his King. And he could not do that.

The rushlight was dying, and Baldwin snuffed it between dampened finger and thumb. Instantly the room was thrown into darkness, and he listened carefully. There was no apparent difference in the sounds of quiet breathing and snoring, but he would take no chances. Reaching for his sword, he placed it on his lap, his right hand ready on the hilt.

Shutters could be closed against burglars and draw-latches, but sometimes they could seal in a victim.

Chapel near Marshfield

As the sick man began to murmur and moan in his sleep, Paul knelt beside his bed and gently mopped his forehead with a cloth.

It was expensive having this man here. He had already eaten much of Paul’s store of food, and his logpile was sadly depleted, all gone to keep the room warm for the invalid. At least his leg did appear to be healing.

But it was worrying, this story he told. His descriptions were vague, but as soon as news was abroad that he had been out this way, the chances were that his story would take on a new meaning.

‘God help me,’ the priest muttered under his breath.

This fellow was probably the most profound danger to Paul of all the men who walked upon the earth. As soon as his story became known, everybody who had heard of the Capons and Petronilla, the faithless bride, would flock to gawp at him – her lover. It would be impossible to remain here. What would his congregation think?

Squire William had slaughtered his Petronilla and her family, even a babe who could never have hurt anyone. They had all died for nothing. Petronilla and Paul had been foolish, perhaps, but that was no reason to murder the Capons. If anyone, it was Paul who deserved that.

He closed his eyes as the tears came once more. It was hardest now, in darkness, to hold back the terrible misery; the shame that lay so heavily on his soul.

As he opened them again, the rushlight flickered and almost blew out. He glanced across. It was only a gust coming in through one of the many holes in his walls. A rat had gnawed its way through a beam at ground level, and the big hole there was one of the banes of his life. Every so often he would try to fill it with clay, but at this time of year it wouldn’t hold. It would dry out on the inside from the fire’s heat, then wash away outside.

Something glinted temptingly, and he turned to look around. There, in the rushlight’s warm glow, lay the knife with the warped blade.

He reached down to pick it up, but something made him stop. He recognised it.

This knife had been the Squire’s, he was sure. He had seen those gemstones so many times, prominently displayed at the man’s belt. He suddenly realised, with a horror that almost stopped his heart, that this blade might have been the one that ended poor Petronilla’s life. And here, in his bed, lay a man with his leg cruelly harmed by it – more proof of the weapon’s malevolence.

To grip that hilt might take away all the last restraints which manacled him to this church. If Paul took up that knife, he could instantly plunge it into this sleeping man’s heart, for bringing so much danger here to him.

Because as soon as people heard that Squire William had died, they would want to come and arrest Paul. And this fool could tell them exactly where to find him.

Inn outside Winchester

The sound was tiny. A faint, muffled crunch.

In the dark, Wolf awoke and crouched, instantly alert. His movement stirred Baldwin. He had spent much of his youth as a Poor Fellow Soldier of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, a Knight Templar, and the life of obedience and training had left its mark upon him. His hand closed about the hilt of the sword in his lap, and he opened his eyes slowly, casting about him for any movement.

There was no moon, and the room was as black as pitch. If a man had moved, he doubted that he could have seen it. However, listening intently, he knew that there was something wrong, and then he realised: the breathing in the chamber was not that of sleeping men, but faster – the breathing of men preparing to fight.

Baldwin put out his hand and found Jack’s sleeping form at his left. Good, the boy was still there. There was a rustle from his right, just ahead, and Baldwin knew it was a foot stepping on a palliasse. He felt, rather than heard, a low, ferocious growl from Wolf.

It was that which decided him. He knew that there was about to be an attack, but the darkness meant he might as well have been unarmed. A sword in the darkness was likely to kill the wrong man, and Baldwin had no wish to accidentally stab Jack. Still, Wolf had precipitated action.

He must protect the boy. Rolling to his right, he slipped a hand under his palliasse and threw it over Jack. Wolf was snarling now, and a man shrieked. Springing to his feet, Baldwin stood with his sword, still scabbarded, in both hands, then stabbed the blunted weapon forward. There was a grunt, a muttered curse, and Baldwin knew where two men were. He slammed his right fist forward, the pommel protruding this time, and felt it connect with one head, as a man cried out in pain. There was a shout and stumbling feet, a muffled protest from Jack, and another man whimpered and screamed as Wolf bit his thigh.

Baldwin stepped swiftly to his side, away from any retaliation, only to hear the silken whisper of steel, which ended in a wail of terror as Wolf bit the man’s hand. There was a loud clang as a sword crashed to the ground, a shriek as the man fell with Wolf worrying at his throat. Baldwin stamped his foot, feeling the hand beneath his boot, and chopped down with the hilt of his sword. It crashed into a skull, and he heard the man grunt and collapse. Then he was thrusting at the place where another had been.

There was a rasp, a flash, and he saw his error. In the dark he had moved too far to his left, and now the second man was at his shoulder. Baldwin cocked his elbow and jabbed, felt it crack into the man’s jaw, his teeth clicking together, hard.

Another flash. Someone was striking a flint. Baldwin ducked as the flare glinted from a sword, and shoved his scabbarded sword upwards into the man’s belly. He gave a short retching gasp and fell back as a red glow appeared. There were two more men, and Baldwin finally drew his sword. The grey blade gleamed wickedly, and as the tinder began to catch light, some rushes flaring briefly and leaving a residual glow, Baldwin saw that both had knives, one small, the other a long fighting dagger of almost eighteen inches. The fellow with the shorter knife was the more practised, though – it was the bearded man he had seen with the innkeeper. His skill with the knife