only rats gorging themselves. Edward had been held in France by his mother and her lover for the last year; since returning, he knew that his was the authority that allowed Queen Isabella and Mortimer to take over the kingdom. It was he who was being used to topple his own father, a distressing position in itself, but with the added irony that it would set a precedent for a future King – for Edward himself.
By destroying his father, he could well be planting the seeds of his own destruction.
When Simon left Margaret in their chamber with Peterkin, he was scarcely able to think straight. His wife was distraught with terror about the siege, and nothing would comfort her.
‘Come, Bailiff,’ Sir Charles said, seeing him in the corridor, and taking him to the Constable’s chamber. ‘You and I should witness this.’
Sir Laurence was at his table, which was piled with documents and scrolls, but his attention was not on them or his clerk, but on the man who sat before him.
Simon could scarcely recognise this ravaged figure as the man who had only yesterday been so sure of himself. There could hardly be a greater contrast between Earl Hugh then, and now. It was astonishing to see how he had fallen apart since the defection of Sir Stephen Siward.
‘So, two are least have not deserted their King,’ he said with a certain doleful satisfaction. He reminded Simon of a whipped hound that had expected another thrashing only to be given a tasty morsel instead. ‘Not all have run away.’
‘We have just learned that three more men of the garrison have climbed over the walls and run,’ Sir Laurence said.
Simon nodded. ‘How many are left?’
‘What does it matter?’ the Earl snapped bitterly. ‘If the cowards will run, who gives a farthing for them? Their courage and valour has flown. Sir Stephen
‘Surely we still have enough men?’ Simon said calmly, although inside he could feel his belly grinding with trepidation. It was awful to think that the place could be left undermanned in the face of so strong an enemy. For the attacking forces it would surely be easy to scale the walls if there was no one to watch for them. And then, were some of the garrison to be tempted, a rebellion inside the castle could see all the loyal men at risk of death. Meg, too. And Peterkin. He wanted to be sick.
Sir Laurence said nothing. He sat with apparent composure as the Earl expostulated about the quality of the garrison and their leadership: ‘Look at them! What sort of men are there here? The coward Siward has taken his men, and we don’t know whom we may trust. I know my men will remain loyal to me, but what of the others?’
‘My lord, we are all loyal to the King,’ Sir Charles said. ‘You know you can trust us.’
‘I know no one!’ the Earl spat. ‘We are lost! You will not aid me!’
‘This castle can hold with only a few men-at-arms, so long as we all stick to our purpose,’ Sir Laurence said quietly. ‘I am content that we can uphold our honour here. I made a vow to the King when I was made castellan here and I would not break it. But now it is different. The situation is changed.’
Simon was impressed with him. He was firm and calm under what must be immense pressure. Not so Earl Hugh.
‘You think I
‘To avoid unnecessary bloodshed,’ Sir Charles murmured. ‘If it were only we men, it would be easy to bear. But think of all the others – the women and children – who must also die. That is harder to support.’
‘Yes, yes,’ the Earl agreed, but his mind was already moving on. ‘So, are we agreed?’
Simon looked from one to another, wondering what he could say. ‘I don’t know what…’
‘We cannot continue to fight,’ Sir Charles said smoothly. ‘Not now.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Simon said helplessly.
‘The Duke of Aquitaine has raised his banner along with the Queen’s,’ Sir Laurence said. ‘If we resist, we will be resisting the Queen and the King’s heir. We will be committing treason. If we surrender, we shall be failing in our oaths to the King. But if we do not, we shall condemn ourselves. I would not willingly lift steel against the King’s son.’
‘There is nothing more to be said, gentlemen,’ the Earl declared, and rose. He gripped the table as he wobbled. ‘We must surrender and pray for terms. I cannot ask the men to fight their next King.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
The actual transfer of authority was an anti-climax, Simon thought. He had returned to the chamber to fetch Margaret and Peterkin as soon as the decision was made, and with them and Hugh, he made his way to the gatehouse as quickly as possible.
Down at the gates, Sir Charles was bawling for a man to whom he might speak, while the castle’s castellan stood beside him, a finger pulling at his bottom lip thoughtfully. While Simon watched, he heard a sniffling and weeping, and when he turned, he saw two of Earl Hugh’s men unashamedly sobbing. All knew that their master would be arrested. The Queen and Mortimer had good reason to think that a man like the Earl should be kept in a dungeon for the rest of his life. With fortune, he could be held in a decent chamber in the Tower, perhaps, or at Corfe or one of the other great royal castles. It was certain that he would not be permitted to go into exile. As the Queen now understood only too well, sometimes exile could mean an opportunity to recruit supporters.
There was a shout, then Sir Charles began to issue orders. In a short space, the gates were thrown open, and a small number of men walked inside, crossing the area to run up the ladders and stairs to the battlements. The guards already there were marshalled and marched down to the courtyard to wait. Simon was grabbed unceremoniously and brought to join them, as was Hugh. He threw a look at Margaret, and felt his heart wrench to see the tears streaming down her face.
They must wait for a short while, and then there was another order and a new man walked in.
Simon had seen Sir Roger Mortimer before, but then he had been in France, and Mortimer had worn the look of a man who was sure he was about to die. He was in exile, declared traitor by his King, and under sentence of death.
Not now. This was a man returned to pride and position. Confident, arrogant, certain of his authority. As soon as he entered the courtyard, he was looking about him, and then he began to point to specific points at the walls and inner buildings, ordering men to those vantages, others to hunt through the entire castle for people concealing themselves. Only when he was happy that the castle was secure, did he deign to look at Earl Hugh.
‘So, my lord. It appears your scheming to execute me has come to naught.’
On hearing that voice, Simon felt his heart turn to ice. Mortimer was devoted to honour and chivalry – but was also known to have no scruples about punishing those who stood in his way. And Simon was one of those who had held the castle against him.
Earl Hugh made a brave effort, but his voice was querulous. ‘I did not plot your death, Sir Roger.’
‘Truly?’ Mortimer said. He was clad in mail under his tunic, looking quite old-fashioned for such a modern warrior. But at nearly forty years old, he was already quite an age for a man who had dedicated his life to serving the King by leading Edward’s men in battles from Scotland to Ireland. His hair was grizzled now, Simon saw, but his build was still that of a fighter, trim at the waist, powerful in the shoulder.
Earl Hugh stood with slow deliberation, as though his knees and hips were giving him pain. As he stood, Sir Roger Mortimer said nothing, but turned and beckoned, and then Simon heard the sound of hooves walking slowly. Soon two beasts appeared under the gateway. The first to appear was Queen Isabella, riding on a bay mare that ambled in to stand at Roger Mortimer’s side; the second was the young Duke of Aquitaine, Earl Edward of Chester,
