men were gathering a short distance away, and he went over to join them.
Sir Charles sat easily on his mount. He wore a simple armour, light enough to allow him movement without being too tiring on a long ride. Sir Stephen Siward was nearby, astride a black destrier which, although it was no larger than Simon’s rounsey, was spirited enough to keep the hostlers away. His flailing hooves spoke of his fighting temper.
There were a good number of Hainaulters and Frenchmen with them, but the majority were the men of Henry of Lancaster, and they were all keen to catch the King and his diminishing circle of supporters.
‘Sir Charles!’
A short man with a gait like a barrel on a rolling ship swaggered up to the knight’s horse and clouted him on the knee.
‘Simon, this reprobate is Sir Giles of Langthwaite. An old friend of mine.’
‘I knew this fellow before he could hold a sword,’ the short man said, but by the grin he gave the other knight, Simon could see that he was fond of Sir Charles. ‘So, sire, you are with us to hunt the King?’
‘Aye,’ Sir Charles nodded. ‘And all his friends.’
‘Yes. The King, Despenser, Arundel, Baldock and any others who ride with him. Well, we’ll soon have ’em. Can’t leave things as they are.’
Before long, the men had been arrayed in groups. The Earl of Lancaster’s men were to the fore, with some Welsh behind them, and the Hainaulters brought up the rear. Simon and Sir Charles rode with Sir Stephen, not far behind the Earl himself.
‘Sir Charles,’ Simon said as they rode, ‘the Earl of Lancaster was your master before, was he not?’
‘That was Thomas of Lancaster, the Earl’s brother, yes,’ Sir Charles said.
Simon knew that Sir Charles had lost his home, position and status when his master had been executed. Because Earl Thomas had been judged a traitor, many of his servants were forced into hiding or exile. But even though the family of Lancaster had a stain on its reputation, clearly the King had seen fit to maintain the earldom and not simply destroy all memory as he had tried to do with the Earl himself.
‘It was quite wrong,’ Sir Stephen said. ‘The Earl Thomas was a decent man, and to treat him in such a manner was disgraceful.’
‘You mean his execution?’ Sir Charles said.
‘Of course,’ Sir Stephen said, his round face serious. ‘The Earl was the King’s own cousin, in God’s name! That is taking ruthlessness a step too far. And as I said, the Earl was a good man. You know that there have been pilgrims to his grave? They say that astonishing miracles have been seen there.’
‘Yes,’ Sir Charles said languidly. ‘They say as much at any church where they need money.’
‘That is an appalling slur!’
‘Yes. And it’s true, as well.’
Simon had to look away before his amusement could be seen by Sir Stephen.
‘What of you, master? Did you get to the truth of the murder of that woman in Bristol?’
Simon felt a quick shame. He had forgotten all about Cecily in her lone grave. The last days had been so filled with excitement and fear, that the poor woman was driven completely from his mind. ‘No, I fear not. I learned about Squire William’s death, though, and the priest you told me of – Father Paul, the man who ran away with Squire William’s wife.’
‘It was a terrible event, that,’ Sir Stephen said. ‘Dreadful to think a man like William could stoop to such a killing. But you haven’t found whoever it was who killed the maid?’
‘Cecily was killed without witnesses, it would seem,’ Simon said. ‘She died quickly, with the one stab, so that is good, but as to who did it – I do not know. Perhaps one of Sir William’s men?’
‘Not “Sir” William: he was only a Squire,’ Sir Stephen said sharply.
‘My apologies, Sir Stephen. I meant no offence,’ Simon said quickly. A prickly knight was not a pleasant companion. ‘Squire William had several men with him when he stormed the banker’s house, so perhaps it was one of them who slew Cecily, in revenge for her giving evidence against them.’
‘Perhaps so. They would have been released as soon as he was, so they would have had the same opportunities. And while Squire William’s home is some miles away from Bristol, and thus beyond Cecily’s reach, his men would be more fearful of being denounced in the streets.’
Simon could not disagree with that. The men who had been paid by Squire William would already have a reputation, and if a woman was to point to them and accuse them of being the source of her fear, others in the street might decide to do her the honour of setting about them. It would be hardly surprising if one of the gang reckoned it would be better to kill her as well, before that happened.
‘I wonder, Sir Stephen, why the men left Cecily alive in the first place? It makes no sense. They killed everyone else in the Capons’ house, did they not? Did that not strike you as peculiar?’ Simon asked.
Sir Stephen shrugged, but Sir Charles had been listening carefully. He now set his head to one side, his eyes narrowed as he said, ‘You say that all in the house were killed bar one? That is indeed most peculiar, Bailiff. Was she hiding when they arrived?’
Simon looked at Sir Stephen, who stared into the middle distance, racking his brains.
‘No,’ he said at last. ‘I recall that she had run out into the front court, where she was captured by the Squire himself, and there and then, he snatched the baby from her and dashed his head against a wall. I think that is what she said.’
‘That was written in the Coroner’s rolls,’ agreed Simon. ‘The Squire caught her outside – but then saw no need to hurt her.’
‘I believe she collapsed, probably from fainting. You know what women can be like,’ Sir Stephen said.
‘So he thought she was dead anyway, you mean?’ Simon said.
Sir Charles gave a harsh laugh. ‘You believe a Squire would do that? Assume someone was dying when he had not even struck a single blow? No, more likely he’d have struck three times at a fallen body just to make sure. A man cannot take risks.’
‘I see,’ Simon said. In his mind’s eye, he saw again Cecily’s body, with the single stab wound. ‘Would a knight have behaved in the same way, Sir Charles?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Would a knight have stabbed many times, “just to make sure”?’
Sir Charles looked at him very directly. ‘When we meet the King’s men, and if any of them dare to stand against me, I will strike each of them precisely as many times as I can before they fall to the ground.’
‘I was thinking of the woman. Cecily. Would you have struck at her more than once?’
‘No, not more than once,’ Sir Charles laughed. ‘But that once would have taken off her head!’
CHAPTER FORTY
They arrived late in the afternoon, as the light was fading. This pleasant little abbey, all grey stone walls, but with some well-carved blocks of paler stone at the corners and towers to reinforce them, it was a pretty sight as they approached, and Baldwin had asked a man who seemed to know the place a little about it.
‘Yes. It was built under a warrant from the King’s father, Edward I, who always loved this area. Fortunately, it is one of the few places down here that wasn’t attacked by the rebels.’
Baldwin nodded. In the short wars of the Marcher Lords against the overweening arrogance of Despenser, many of these little abbeys as well as castles and manors owned by Despenser were laid waste. The buildings were robbed of all their better fixtures and anything movable was stolen.
They rode in through the gates, and Baldwin was glad enough to drop from his saddle. The journey had not been long, only eight miles or so, but with the cold weather, it was not pleasant to ride even that far.
