Sir Stephen finished his cup of wine and stepped out into the rain. There were four men at the end of the street, all drunk and shouting incoherently at each other.
It was a sign of things to come. Sir Stephen had not endured a lengthy siege before, but he knew men who had, and was aware that the first thing to fall apart was law and order.
He walked towards them, and felt the usual tingle of excitement in his belly as he saw two of the men stare at him, one unfocused, the other with a look of malevolence. It was he who picked up a stone from the roadway.
His voice was slurred, but his meaning was clear: ‘Look, a lazy, thieving knight, just like the others who got us into this mess. Sod the lot of them! Gits who argue, and when things go wrong, who do they use to try to get them out of the shit? Us, that’s who! Let’s get him!’
Sir Stephen did not slow his footsteps. Soon he was within striking range, and then, as a stone was flung, only to miss him by a foot, he sprang forward. His gauntlet caught the bold man about the mouth, and the steel plates cut him badly. Then Sir Stephen shoved hard, and the drunk fell back onto his rump, while the knight stood contemplating the rest. ‘Any more?’ he said pleasantly.
The three picked up their bleeding companion and were off in a hurry. It was pathetic, but the mob could not be permitted to gather about a ringleader like him, Sir Stephen thought as he walked on.
He found the place a few moments later. The church had a small gate, and he walked inside, bowing at the altar.
The priest was already holding a small service, and Sir Stephen stood at the rear of the great empty space, listening to the monotonous droning of the man’s voice, wondering how long the fellow could last. But finally all was done, and the body was carried outside into the rain. Sir Stephen walked along after it, and as it was lowered into the freshly dug hole, he saw that the water had already pooled in the bottom, and mud was soaking into the winding sheet. It was a sad end to an unhappy life, he thought.
At his side the priest muttered the ritual words quickly, in a hurry to get back inside his church and hide from the rain. A man should take a little time over a burial, Sir Stephen thought, giving him a frown, especially when the corpse had no family to mourn her, no husband or child. No one but himself.
The priest slowed, scowling, before reluctantly bending over, grabbing a handful of sodden soil, and babbling on in his uneducated Latin, hurling the mud at the body. Soon he was finished, muttering the last lines, and then he made the sign of the cross, before turning and almost running inside.
‘Cover her,’ Sir Stephen said to the fosser, who nodded, took up his spade, and began to shovel the earth into the hole. The first throw slapped wet soil onto her face, and the damp linen took on the lines of her mouth, nose, eyes. It was almost as though she was watching Sir Stephen through the gauzy material. A fresh shovelful landed on her belly, making the points of her breasts stand out, and the next smacked into her shoulder.
It was enough. He looked away, and then he reached inside his jack and pulled out the little bundle. He hefted it in his hand a moment, looking at it sadly, before glancing into the grave, and throwing the pack in.
Turning, he left the cemetery and went out into the road.
The fosser had buried more than a hundred people here in this graveyard, and he had often seen people throw in little trinkets of no value as he covered the bodies. And more than once he had seen those people return, peering in to make sure that he had actually left their gift to the dead and had not stolen it.
This time, he was not going to take any chances. He carried on piling in the soil at the foot and at the head of the woman’s body, until it was not possible to continue without burying the gift. Only then did he crouch quickly, slip the edge of the shovel under the packet, and slide it up the side of the mound of soil at Cecily’s feet. Taking it from the grave, he whistled in surprise as he slipped the wrapping from it to reveal a golden hilt and two rubies.
He quickly covered it in the waxed linen again, shoved it under his shirt, and finished his work.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
It had taken Simon little time to decide to visit Emma, the mistress of the maid killed the previous night. The idea of leaving poor Cecily’s body unavenged did not sit well with him. He was not a sentimental man, he told himself, but the notion of a man taking a woman and then slaying her as though she was nothing more than a toy to be discarded was repellent. He loved his own wife and daughter too much to be prepared to let it go.
However, it was unthinkable that he should leave Margaret alone in the city when she was already so scared.
Her concern was entirely rational, of course. He knew that. They had been in the Tower at London when the city began to fall apart in early October, but although there had been the threat of danger there, there had not been engines of war, such as there would be here. The idea of those monsters lurking out beyond the walls was enough to make any man or woman fear for their lives. It was natural. Once those things began to fling rocks at a city, that city must fall. Nothing could withstand the onslaught.
Simon was certainly not happy to be here as the threat of battle loomed ever nearer, yet curiously, he was not afraid. During a siege, terror affected all differently. Some would find the nearest alehouse and consume as much drink as they could, which was why there were so many scared men wandering the streets, bellies filled with wine and ale, and muttering bellicose threats to all and sundry.
No, Simon most definitely did not dare to leave his wife alone. Instead, all four of them set off from the inn in the middle of the rainy morning. Their way took them under lots of buildings whose jettied upper storeys loomed over the streets, so their progress was a series of quick sprints from one area of moderate dryness to another.
Margaret was unhappy to be taken from her chamber, especially in this weather. They should never have come here in the first place, she thought resentfully. They could easily have ignored Sir Charles and ridden on along the coast. Soon they would have been out of the reach of the Queen’s men, and could have taken it more easy as they wandered down to Exeter and beyond. There was no need to be stuck here, in this ridiculous little city. Or the castle, the focus of the coming battle.
However, after a short way Meg found that her mood was lightening. There was something gay and carefree about this journey. None of them could maintain the fear of men on the streets full of ale, because no one else appeared silly enough to brave the elements. The roads were all empty. Instead, Margaret was struck with the urge to giggle helplessly as she saw an enormous wash of water sweep down from a gutter overhead, to soak her husband. Simon stood scowling furiously up at the offending gutter, and turned to his wife with an expression of utter rage, only to be struck again. This made her howl with laughter, and after a moment or two, Simon began to chuckle as well.
After all, they were all still alive, and with God’s help, perhaps the siege would not prove too lengthy or irksome.
Their way took them from a wealthy area, through a part that was clearly very poor, and thence to a section of the city that was not so rich as the merchants’ houses down by the castle, but still clearly well-to-do. Here, Margaret found herself peering in at the windows, where candles were lighted, trying to see what sort of hangings there were, and guessing at what type of person lived inside.
‘It is not like London, is it?’ she said, gesturing at a house with a large sign showing that here lived a glover. ‘In London there is much more ostentation; everyone wants to flaunt their riches. Here the people seem more sober.’
‘It’s the way folk are over here,’ Simon agreed. ‘In London a man doesn’t think he’s alive unless he’s rubbing another man’s nose in his wealth. This is a smaller city, so people have to muck in together. Just like home. We don’t have time to have grudges and feuds, do we? It’s more a case of trying to help everyone to survive when the winter’s bad and the sheep won’t lamb and there isn’t enough food to last. In London they can buy what they need always, I reckon, so they don’t care so much about getting on with their neighbours.’
‘Well, Master Philosopher, I don’t disagree, but I think it’s more that the people here are less rushed. They take time to enjoy their lives. Look at that magnificent bridge! London has one too, but theirs is so… I don’t know. These people seem to have more pride in their city, while in London all the displays seem intended to show you
