seemed happy-go-lucky could suddenly become depressed; others, who were rude, quarrelsome and argumentative could suddenly discover their Christian kindness and start to help their neighbours. Most, though, just tried to keep their heads down and survive.
Women, of course, were the most fearful of all, for when men were convinced that they were soon to die, they often lost all shame and fear of justice. During the last siege, Cecily had known women who had been raped by those who sought a momentary escape from the fears of death. She herself had been pulled into an alley by a neighbour, but had drawn her little knife and he had immediately slunk away, to stand sobbing at the alley’s entranceway.
It had shocked her more than anything, because he had always seemed a pleasant old man: thoughtful and amiable. To see someone like that suddenly turn into a monster who sought to rape her had been more terrifying than the thought of strangers attacking her, somehow. Perhaps, she wondered, it had been her fault? Maybe he had seen her so often, he had assumed she would welcome an advance from him? Or had he thought that she lusted after his body, just as he lusted for hers? Was it possible that she had, in her friendship with him, given him the impression that she would welcome his natural desires? Perhaps. But he had used the siege as the excuse. Yes, that was it: he was glad to have a reason which he could use for blame, rather than his own lustfulness.
Later, she had heard he had killed himself, taking a razor to his throat, and she felt sorry for him, although she couldn’t forgive him.
So now, as the mood of the city turned to fear and uncertainty, she walked in the wider roads, her head downcast beneath a hood, avoiding the eyes of passers-by.
It was when she passed along Peter Street that she felt the terror strike her again, and had to stop and breathe carefully so that her heart did not leap from her breast.
The two were lounging at the side of the street, chatting as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Anyone looking at them would think that they were normal men doing normal things. Only she, of all the people walking past, knew the truth about them both.
‘Come on, maid, you want to come and play?’ one called, seeing her and making an obscene gesture.
She could not look them in the eyes. Her loathing would be too clear, if she did that. She was no pretty young maid, but these men were drunk, and would go with any woman. She must walk on past them… if she could.
‘Maid, didn’t you hear us? Come here, let’s play the afternoon away.’
There was an edge to his voice; a hint of threat. If she could only walk on, simply placing one foot before the other, she would survive. Her knife was no match for these two.
‘Are you deaf? Or is it that you don’t
A loud laugh, a high giggling from the other, and she was aware of them both approaching her. She had to run, get away from here, as swiftly as she could, escape to the house where she lived now with Mistress Emma. But Cecily was frozen with panic.
‘Leave her, you men!’
There was a hand on her arm, and she squealed, wrenching it free, as Sir Stephen Siward smiled and said, ‘Come, Cecily. Do you not know me, then, that you look so fearful?’
CHAPTER TWENTY
It was already growing dark as the group was shepherded to their horses, and Sir Ralph mounted his beast with a feeling of enormous sadness.
‘Your Highness, I hope to meet you again in happier circumstances,’ he called.
She was standing some distance from him, but her pale face was fixed on him, and he saw her hold up a hand in farewell.
‘They’re ready, Sir Ralph,’ Bernard said, nodding towards the friars, and they set off, weaving their way past the unnumbered men.
The camp was enormous. From here, Sir Ralph could see tents stretching off into the distance, while many slept in the open, wrapped in cloaks and blankets, huddled close to the fires that burned fitfully. There were some houses with men inside, the peasants fleeing, and doors and furniture had already been thieved for firewood. The places all about here had lost everything. Only shells remained.
Any optimism on the faces of the two friars was gone now. They rode silently looking downcast.
When Bernard asked how they had fared, the younger friar shook his head sadly. ‘There are no guarantees. The only thing they would say was that the body of the King would be respected. He is inviolate, naturally; not so the others with him. Those who have committed the most manifest crimes must pay for them. There is no humility there, you see.’
‘Who was negotiating with you?’ Sir Ralph asked.
‘It was Sir Roger Mortimer,’ the friar answered. ‘He is a most resolute man.’
‘And his soul will burn in hell,’ the other friar added. ‘The devil himself could not have been more inflexible.’
Sir Ralph rode on without listening as Bernard asked what Mortimer looked like, what sort of character he had, how he held himself – those things didn’t matter to him. All he could see in his mind’s eye was the King’s few friends and retainers, struggling on, while the great mass of the Queen and Mortimer’s force swallowed them up.
‘We shall take a rest soon,’ he said, interrupting Bernard. ‘There is no hurry to bring news of this sort. I weep to think how the King will react to it.’
The hammering on the inn’s door in the middle watches of the night was enough to make Simon curse loudly.
Their evening had not been restful. Margaret had been weepy and miserable, and Simon was convinced that his indecision was the cause of their current situation. If only he had made up his mind to do as she suggested sooner! If only he had agreed to leave that very night, rather than wait until the morning, they would be past the great line of hills to the south by now. If only he had been able to make a decision, his wife would be out of this damned city, and perhaps on her way to safety.
‘What do you want?’ he demanded.
Hugh was already awake and had taken hold of his staff as he rose, yawning and blinking, from his palliasse near the door. Margaret was awake beside Simon in the bed, while Peterkin and Rob slept on, huddled together on their own palliasse, wrapped in coverlets, Peterkin snoring gently.
‘Master Simon Puttock, if he is awake,’ came the drawling response, and Simon cursed as he pulled on a shirt, walking to the door and pulling it wide. ‘Sir Charles, what sort of hour do you call this?’
‘One of the more unpleasant ones, Master Bailiff. Madame Puttock, I am sorry to disturb your rest. I trust I may bring your husband back very soon.’
‘You want to talk?’ Simon asked, rubbing his bearded face and yawning.
‘I would like to take you to see something, master. But not, perhaps, until you have had a chance to clothe yourself. You may find the night air a little inclement. And it’s raining.’
Simon grunted and reluctantly went to his pile of clothes. Drawing on his hosen and binding the cords about his waist, he cast a bitter eye at the knight. ‘So what is it? Some debate about military matters? How to defend the city? I’m not experienced in matters such as those, you know.’
‘No, Bailiff,’ the man replied, and now his manner was deadly serious. ‘No, this is a case of murder, I think. And I am sure that I need help in the matter.’
