CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The castle was in uproar. Men ran about like headless chickens while Sir Stephen watched them from the comfort of an old bench, a jug of wine at his feet, a cup in his hand.
It was clear that the Queen and Mortimer were keen to be away from the place as soon as possible, although he would guess that the Queen’s son was less enthusiastic about the prospect. It was not surprising. The lad must be wondering what on earth would happen to his beloved father, when the Mortimer caught up with him. Edward had, after all, tried to have Mortimer executed – and that was never a perfect basis on which to maintain a friendship.
The Queen’s men were soon to be on the move, then. Well, so much the better. Sir Stephen did not enjoy being in the vicinity of so many men with weapons. He was happier when things were quieter, and he would be content to remain here for quite a while longer. It was a good city, he’d always thought, and now, with the place in Mortimer’s hands as a result of his own hard efforts, he was better positioned than ever before.
Carts were brought, and the barrels from the undercrofts, so carefully stored against the day of the siege, were rolled out and loaded. There was little point in larger wagons for transport. The oxen to haul them were too slow, and the Queen and Mortimer had an urgent desire for speed. Besides, the roads west of here were deplorable. In Wales the land was rough and undercultivated. It would be better to have their goods brought on sumpter horses rather than these carts even, because roads were few and far between. There had been some communications built in the days of good King Edward I, the man who had done so much to pacify the unruly Welsh peasants, but not enough. All that effort to gather up food, he thought regretfully, only to see it removed in this way.
He heard steps behind him, and cast a glance over his shoulder. In a moment, he was on his feet.
‘Sir Laurence. I wish you a good day.’
‘Do you?’ Sir Laurence said. ‘Well, I wish
Sir Stephen gave a weary smile. ‘Look about you, sir knight. Would the King have preferred to see one of his greater cities devastated, the buildings destroyed, the land laid waste? I think if he wishes to retain his crown, he will be glad of a few places like this left standing. He will need the money.’
‘Money! What good is that to a man with no honour?’
‘You press me hard, my friend,’ Sir Stephen said. He spoke with a lazy drawl, but his hands moved to his belt and rested, thumbs hooked near the buckle.
‘Why, would you like to fight now?’ Sir Laurence said contemptuously. ‘I will be happy to stand here and defend my honour. What of you, though? Is your honour worth the defence? Or can you no longer find it?’
Sir Stephen kept his eyes on Sir Laurence. ‘I will fight you here and now, or at any other time and place of your choosing. I am no coward, and will show that my courage and honour are of the highest.’
‘Your courage may be, but you have no honour in you, by my faith!’ Sir Laurence spat. ‘This city was given away by you, when you were sworn to help defend it. That you did so
With a slither of steel, both men drew their weapons and crouched, Sir Laurence with his sword hanging in the true
‘You – stop that! Both of you, put up your swords!’
There was a moment in which the two knights stared at each other, and Sir Stephen saw Sir Laurence’s eyes narrow as though preparing to launch himself forward, but even as the idea began to communicate itself to his legs and arm, a pair of spears intruded, and guards stepped between them both.
‘Sires, I would be very glad if you would save this for another day,’ a serious-looking man said. He was older than either knight, and not noble, but for all that, he had a firm quarter-staff grip on a lance, and he looked as though he not only knew how to use it, but would willingly do so.
A man with a sword stood little chance against a man with a staff. The reach of that pole gave him a great advantage, especially when it had a sharp tip. Sir Laurence gritted his teeth, but stood back, his sword at rest, but unsheathed. The tip of the lance came closer to Sir Stephen, who smiled politely at the intruders. ‘Tell me,’ he said pleasantly as he shoved his sword into the scabbard. ‘What is your name, my friend?’
‘I am Otho, sir.’
‘And you think you have the right to stop two knights from fighting over a matter of honour?’
‘Sire, I would not dare to stop a knight from doing what he wanted. But I was ordered to see to it that there was no brawling or fighting here today, and I obey Sir Roger’s orders.’
‘I see, Otho. Well, I wish you fortune. For if you try such a thing again, I think you may lose your head.’
‘Sir Stephen, when would you like to meet again?’ interrupted Sir Laurence.
‘At the first opportunity, my friend. If we are to come to blows, it would be better to do so sooner rather than later, eh? Perhaps in the morning?’
Otho stood aside as Sir Roger stormed between the two. ‘There will be no fighting in the morning. There will be no fighting whatsoever here, not while I’m in charge. Tomorrow, Sir Stephen, you will join me, as will you, Sir Laurence. We go to hunt the King, and if you think I will willingly permit you two to deprive me of one or both of you, you are mistaken. Sheath that weapon, Sir Laurence. Better! Now, shake hands, both of you, if you don’t want to be gaoled and left here until I return.’
Sir Stephen smiled thinly, and held out his hand. Seeing Sir Laurence’s reluctance, he smiled more broadly, until the two gripped each other’s hands. But there was no peace in either man’s eyes as they stared at each other.
The Coroner let go, and stepped back quickly. It was not unknown for a man to be held by the hand while his opponent drew a knife and stabbed him. But Sir Laurence was not made in that mould, clearly. He turned, bowed casually to Sir Roger, and walked away.
‘You won’t leave him in charge here, Sir Roger?’ Sir Stephen asked.
‘You think I’d leave a man who is still coming to terms with his betrayal of his loyalty to the King? If Sir Laurence was left here alone, he could easily lock the gates again, and hold out even with a smaller garrison. No, I won’t let him out of my sight for a long while.’
‘Would you let
Sir Roger turned and stared at him. ‘You think I’m a fool? You were unfaithful to the King after you gave him your word. What could you possibly say to me that would let me trust you now? You, Sir Stephen, will also stay near me, where I can see you.’
The priest was a sad man, Simon thought. His face was weary, as though he had already seen too much suffering and was scarred forever. In his sorrow, the man reminded Simon of Baldwin when they had first met; there was the same sense of one who was marked by the way he had been hurt. And yet, whereas with Baldwin Simon had always had an appreciation of the steel beneath, this man did not give that same impresssion.
‘You are Paul, Father?’
‘Yes, my son. You are from Bristol? I have been expecting you.’
Simon and Sir Charles exchanged a look before they climbed down from their horses and lashed them to a tree nearby. The mounts immediately began cropping the grass.
‘Father, you know why we’re here?’
‘Yes. But I know nothing about it.’
‘What?’
‘The murder of Squire William of Hanham. Oh, don’t misunderstand me, I’d have killed him, gladly, and I would have confessed it with pride had you asked me – but I cannot take the credit for this death.’
‘Perhaps you would like to tell us your story from the beginning,’ Sir Charles said. Then: ‘I don’t suppose you
