any rest.’
Baldwin could feel Jack’s eyes on him as he said politely, ‘I am most grateful to you, Master Thomas, but no. I must return. At this time, I have a responsibility to my wife, but also to the King.’
‘You are a supporter of the King, then?’ Roisea asked. Her lips were parted, as though she awaited his answer with an especial keenness.
It was not a question he had expected, and Baldwin felt his brow crease in a fleeting frown. ‘I have given my oath to him, and I owe him my service as my Lord. Just as any knight must who holds lands from the King.’
‘You are a man of honour,’ Redcliffe said, pushing his wife away so that he could reach the food. ‘Come, Sir Baldwin, please eat.’
In the castle, Robert Vyke was happy to find that he was not to be held in one of the cells. All too often, as he knew, a city’s castle would contain the very best facilities for holding men – cold, damp chambers near the moat, plenty of smiths keen to show their skills at producing fetters of different types, and quite a lot of men who were equally enthusiastic about methods of enquiry involving the use of hot metal and pliers.
For Robert, the idea of the torture chamber was one that returned to his mind that morning when he was told that he was needed. He was called by a Sergeant with foul breath and a peculiar-looking beard which had a large gap in the left side of his jaw. When Vyke looked more closely, he saw that the man had suffered a ferocious wound there; the skin was all scarred, as though some weapon had torn away an inch-wide section of flesh.
‘Horse kicked me,’ the man said, seeing the direction of his attention.
‘In a battle?’
‘No,’ the Sergeant said, scowling. ‘I was grooming the bastard.’
Vyke was unsure what to say, so he followed the Sergeant out from the garrison’s sleeping chamber, where he had been installed for the night, along a short passageway, up two flights of stairs, and into a long, warm, rectangular room.
It was heated by an immense fire in the left-hand wall, and the glorious light illuminated rich hanging tapestries of hunting scenes, and a number of stools, chairs and two large tables. At one, a smiling older man was sitting, while opposite was a thin, grey-faced old fellow with wiry frame and grizzled hair. At the fireplace stood Sir Stephen, the Coroner.
‘Get in here,’ the Coroner said. His face was blank, just as it had been at the inquest. He was a strange serious man, who was either amused and jolly, or completely serious, concentrating on matters of importance. Now, clearly, he was considering something that gave him little cause for amusement.
The man with the smile was the Earl of Winchester, Vyke knew. He had heard about him from some of the garrison last night. Not a bad man, this one – unlike his son, by all accounts.
‘Come in, fellow. Come in. Now, the good Sir Stephen has said to us that you are bright, and capable of thinking for yourself. Is that right?’
‘I suppose so, sir.’
‘Good. You come from where?’
‘I’m from East Henret, sir. Oxfordshire.’
‘Oh. You’re a long way from your home, then.’
‘Sir. The men in the vill were arrayed and mustered and marched off. That was a while ago. We went east towards London, then we were turned about and came here instead.’
‘And your companions?’
‘They went on, sir. I was left behind because of my leg,’ he added, pointing.
‘You are loyal to your master?’
The impatient, grey-faced man interrupted him before he could reply. ‘You
‘Yes, sir,’ Vyke said. He didn’t like the direction of the conversation.
‘You may be able to help the King in his trials now,’ the man said briskly. ‘We need to send him a message. Can you do that for us? Can you take him a message?’
‘I suppose so, sir.’
‘Good. Do this, and you’ll have the gratitude of the King, the Earl here, and of me, Sir Laurence Ashby.’
‘I’d gladly help, but I’d need directions. I don’t know this country.’
‘It should be easy enough to follow the King’s trail,’ the Earl said.
Sir Stephen folded his arms. ‘This is very important, Vyke. We have to make sure that the message gets through to him. You understand me?’
‘Yes. I understand, sir.’
‘Good. Then you can go now.’
‘One minute,’ the Earl said. ‘How bad is your leg? Can you use it for a long walk, do you think?’
‘If I need to. The cut was deep, but it’s not gone foul, my lord.’
‘You’re sure of that, are you? Has anyone looked at it?’
‘A priest did, my lord. He seemed very competent and–’
‘My friend Sir Stephen Siward here says you were hurt by a bent dagger: it sounds a curious accident. It is usually enough for a man to fall into a pothole without the additional encumbrance of a dagger inside. Do you have the dagger here?’
‘It is in my pack, my lord,’ Vyke said.
‘Good. Can you fetch it for our friend?’ the Earl said to the Sergeant, who still stood behind him. The Sergeant nodded and hurried from the room.
Sir Stephen pushed himself away from the wall and walked to the table where the Earl was sitting. He poured himself a goblet of wine from a pewter jug, but made no effort to offer it to the Earl or the other man, to Vyke’s surprise. It was almost as though the Coroner thought himself superior to the others in the chamber. Either that or he was so distraught at the idea of the coming days that he forgot himself.
There was the sound of steps approaching, and then the Sergeant walked in again. He had Vyke’s pack with him, and opened it on the floor near the Earl.
Earl Hugh took the dagger when it was offered to him, and Vyke saw him shake his head. ‘A valuable piece. I would think any man would rue its loss. You have done well to discover it, Vyke.’
‘I was going to see if I could straighten it,’Vyke said.
‘You mean to keep it?’ Sir Stephen asked.
‘Well, I don’t know whose it is, so…’ Vyke said, flustered. It seemed to him that Sir Stephen was planning to take it from him, and he was alarmed at the thought after all he had endured because of this damned blade with its pretty hilt.
‘I would think you would be better served to sell it,’ Sir Stephen said. ‘It is a valuable piece of metalwork, and if you were found with it, it may go evilly with you. Give it to me, and I will pay you a fair price for it. Six shillings?’
Vyke was about to take it gratefully when he spotted something out of the corner of his eye. It was the look on Sir Laurence’s face, an expression of sadness.
‘You know whose dagger that was, don’t you?’ Sir Laurence said. ‘It belonged to Squire William de Bar, who murdered Arthur Capon.’
‘You knew Capon?’ Sir Stephen said.
‘Many knew him. He was a useful money-lender to many nobles. I had reason to use him a few times – but I never expected to hear that he could have died at the hands of a man like that. Squire William deserved his end, for killing him and his family.’
That afternoon, there was a bad feeling in the air as Cecily walked about. It was not only her and the weight of the guilt that bore down upon her shoulders, it was the atmosphere of the whole city.
There was no sign of the besieging force as yet, but the traders were already closing up as though they had sold all their wares. In reality, all knew that they would have to be more careful with their food and money.
Cecily had endured the siege here ten years before, and knew how people would change. Those who
