the King’s son.
Earl Hugh bowed to both, and he smiled. It was clearly in his mind, as it was in Simon’s, that this lady would not order the death of a man she had known for so long. ‘Your Royal Highness, I surrender the castle of Bristol to you. In the name of the King, I beg that you treat all the men within with honour, and that you respect the King’s property.’
As he spoke, Sir Roger stood with arms akimbo as he looked down at the older man, and his low, controlled voice carried over the whole courtyard. ‘Earl Hugh, you will be held until we can convene a special court to consider your crimes. You should compose your soul for death, my lord. I will take no pleasure in it, but you have stolen and robbed for so long, you can receive no other punishment. The realm demands it.’
‘We agreed when I surrendered…’
‘Nothing.’
The Queen called out, ‘Sir Roger, there is no need to punish the good Earl. He is not the man who caused us so much grief – that was his son.’
‘My lady, I am afraid that this man is guilty of numerous offences. We can discuss them during his trial.’
The Earl shook his head, expostulating, ‘We agreed that the innocent would be released! You promised that.’
‘We agreed that you would surrender the garrison and the castle in the interests of protecting the innocent. There was no need to kill all the people in the castle, certainly. I am no bloodthirsty warrior. I only carry out those acts which are necessary for the good of the realm. Take him away!’
And Simon watched as the old man was grasped by both arms. His sword belt was unbuckled, and the sword and dagger allowed to fall to the ground, while he was firmly marched away to the little gaol set into the wall.
There was a stillness in the cool air that morning, and Simon was stiff and uncomfortable as he rose.
They had been given some few blankets, but for the most part the garrison had been forced to sleep on the stone paving of a hall near the entrance to the castle. The chill felt as though it had entered his very marrow, and Simon prayed that his wife and son were safe. One thought nagged constantly at his mind. He could imagine Peterkin huddled in a corner while men took Margaret for their own pleasure – the little boy forced to watch, Margaret biting her lips to stop her cries so that he shouldn’t be too alarmed.
Hugh’s voice was low and sulky. ‘Reckon we’ll be released?’
‘What do you think?’ Simon snapped. ‘They’ve taken our weapons, and we’re stuck here like felons. I doubt they intend to give us gold for a journey home.’
Hugh said nothing, but shifted so that he was sitting upright. The man on his right was snoring, with a great bloody mark on his nose. He had been slow to respond when given an instruction to move towards this chamber, and the guard with him had slapped him across the face with a steel gauntlet, breaking his nose and almost knocking the fellow unconscious.
Seeing his servant shivering badly as he huddled himself into a small shape, Simon was instantly stabbed with pangs of contrition. ‘Hugh, forgive me. I was thinking of Meg when you spoke.’
‘’Tis all right. I just don’t like being stuck in here.’
It was more than that. Simon knew that Hugh had never liked towns. He was a son of the moors. Raised near Drewsteignton, he had watched flocks as a boy, learning how to fight, how to cook and eat on his own out on the rich pastures bounding the moors. For him to be locked in here, in a small room with a lot of other men, was like taking a lion and caging it. He needed to be able to breathe the clean air.
Rob lay in the corner of the wall; his mouth was open, and he was the picture of ease and comfort. His childhood had been spent in the port of Dartmouth, and to him a bed of stone floor and a scrap of rug was plenty. Having had threats of a thrashing from the sailors who were his mother’s lovers all through his life, the risks of his execution did not seem to affect him. It was just one more hazard. He had survived so many already in his short life.
Simon’s further contemplation of his servant was stopped as the door’s bolts slid back noisily. There were two, and as the last shot open, the door was pushed inwards. Three men with cudgels in their hands blocked the way, and the man in front, an ill-favoured watchman with a week’s growth of beard and the eyes of a ferret, slapped his against his open palm as he gazed about the room. ‘Where’s the one called Bailiff Puttock?’
Simon stood. ‘I’m here.’
‘Come out here.’
Simon glanced at Hugh. ‘What of my servant?’
‘I didn’t call him, I called you. Get out here!’
There was little choice. Simon walked out, trying to catch Hugh’s eye, but the servant hardly looked his way.
The walk from the cell to the hall was brief, and yet to Simon it was as though he had walked from a scene of Hell into Heaven, and the fact filled him with a strange euphoria.
Inside the castle’s hall, he felt his belly lurch as he saw Margaret and Peterkin sitting on a bench engaged in animated conversation with a man in a bright green tunic. It was only when he turned that Simon recognised Mortimer.
‘Sir Roger,’ he said, bowing.
‘So, Bailiff. We meet again, and this time in our own lands! Please, come, sit with us. We have much to discuss. You would like some food?’
‘I would be very grateful,’ Simon said, and threw a quick look at his wife.
‘I am fine,’ Meg said, and in her face he could see no untruth. Her smile told him that she had slept safely, which was more than he could have hoped.
‘She has been kept safe from the men of the castle, Master Puttock,’ Mortimer said, seeing Simon’s expression. ‘Don’t fear for her.’
‘What do you want from me?’ Simon asked. ‘You have pulled me out of the prison, but you’ve left my men in there.’
‘Perhaps I can release them too before long,’ Mortimer said, and gave a sharp whistle. Soon a steward entered the room carrying a large cauldron of pottage, which he set beside the fire. Another man brought two loaves of bread, which he broke open and left on a trencher, while a bottler supplied a pair of large wine jugs. ‘First, though, eat and listen. I have much to tell you.’
Simon sat on a stool and took a mazer of wine, which he drained. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was, but the lack of a meal the previous night, followed by no breakfast, had left him with a belly that felt like a pig’s bladder with the air let out. There was a rush of warmth as the wine hit his empty stomach, and then a sensation of near-dizziness. It was so intense, so delicious, he held out his mazer to the bottler to be refilled.
‘You were investigating a murder, I believe, when I arrived here?’
The question so surprised Simon that he almost choked. He shot a look at Margaret, but her frank incomprehension was a picture. ‘Yes.’
‘The dead woman was called Cecily, I believe. And she was slain by a man who may still be here in the city?’
‘He’s bound to be, since he killed her after the city’s gates were locked.’
‘That simplifies matters. Very well – the woman was killed by a man called Squire William de B–’
‘I think that is unlikely.’
‘Perhaps you should tell me what you know first.’ Sir Roger smiled thinly.
‘She was found dead,’ Simon said, and went on to tell about the murders of the Capons and their daughter
