The Oath

meant there were no forces of knife-wielding Welshmen on their trail.

Sir Stephen and Sir Charles joined him.

‘That looks like a bush over that doorway,’ Sir Stephen observed. ‘Sir Charles, Bailiff, may I offer you a jug of something warming?’

‘I’d be glad of it,’ Simon said.

Sir Charles said nothing. He was already striding towards the alehouse.

Inside, there was no decoration, but the ale itself was tasty and strong, and the fire in the hearth was burning with a soft hissing sound, the coals warming both by their sight and their heat. Simon took a stool near the fire, thrusting his dagger in among the coals until it was glowing dully, and then used it to stir and heat his ale.

‘Wales is a large country,’ Sir Stephen remarked, as he sat on an up-ended barrel.

‘Large enough to lose a hundred men,’ Sir Charles agreed.

‘I believed we would have caught him by now.’

‘At least we have learned that he has left Caerphilly Castle,’ Simon said. ‘He won’t have come this way, because the Severn will force him up towards Gloucester and that would be too dangerous. He wouldn’t risk the lives of his men on a gamble like that.’

‘Gamble?’ Sir Stephen queried.

‘To gamble on passing between the Mortimer’s men,’ Simon explained. ‘He would be caught if he tried to head towards England.’

‘What about the ferries?’ Sir Charles said.

‘I don’t suppose they’ll be working, not with Mortimer holding the eastern bank. And if a ship did sail, the King would be a fool to board it with the risk of capture on the other shore.’

‘True enough. So you think he’s gone farther west?’

‘Yes. He’ll be trying to take a ship to Ireland.’ Sir Stephen sipped his ale disconsolately. ‘Which means we’ll be riding all the way to the arse of the country, I’ll be bound. Right over to the Irish Sea. There’s a lot of hills between here and there, and from what I’ve seen, every one has its own raincloud waiting for us.’

‘We shall find him soon enough,’ Simon said. He eased his shoulders with a grimace. ‘That’s better. I seem so tense.’

‘It’s the weather and all the riding,’ Sir Charles said. ‘Sleeping out in this poxy weather is no good for man or beast.’

Simon grunted and sniffed, but it was not only the residue of his cold, it was also the thought of his wife, back at Bristol, waiting and wondering what had happened to him. She would be suffering, he knew, petrified that he might be dead or injured. News would take time to get to Bristol, because all the messages were being concentrated on Mortimer – wherever he was.

They were all glad to buy some hot cakes and cheese, and sat about in comfort as they chewed, all too tired to talk. There was an easiness about all three now, which Simon found comforting. So often a knight would not deign to talk to those beneath his rank. There had been few indeed who would have spoken to Simon only a few years ago. It seemed as though that had changed when he first met Baldwin, and the new knight’s respect had done much to change Simon’s own attitude to other knights. There was something about his frankness and intelligent approach to people that set Sir Baldwin apart. And of course Simon had known Sir Charles for some years now, since his pilgrimage with Baldwin to Compostela and the great cathedral dedicated to St James, but it was good to see how even a man who hardly knew him, like Sir Stephen, could treat him almost as an equal.

As he was thinking how fortunate he was to have met these men and be spending time with them, he heard steps outside. A man-at-arms entered, gazing about him with a frown. Then: ‘You! Are you Bailiff Puttock?’

Simon looked at the fellow. He was maybe three and twenty, with a thin, gangling frame, even with his armour. ‘You wish for me?’

‘No, Master Puttock, I do,’ said the Duke of Aquitaine as he stepped into the room.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The fire lighted the Duke’s face as he sat. It gave him an otherworldly look, and not a pleasant one, with his cheeks illuminated but his eyes in inverted shadow like a demon. But the red light also showed the lines on his brow and at his cheeks. He was no longer a child.

Simon poured him ale from his own jug. ‘Your Highness, I am sorry, I did not see you there.’

‘No more should you have. I was hiding behind the door until I could be sure who was here with you. You trust those two – Sir Charles and Sir Stephen?’

The two knights had hurriedly made their apologies when it grew clear that the Duke wanted to speak with Simon alone.

‘Yes, I think so. They have been honest with me, I believe. Sir Stephen is Coroner in Bristol, and Sir Charles is a good fellow.’

The Duke’s mouth twitched upwards. ‘You say that most grudgingly, but I trust your judgement. I have heard that you have not yet found my father. Is that true?’

Simon grunted. If he had, there was little chance that the discovery could have been kept secret. ‘No. We have found no trace, but he was apparently at Caerphilly a while ago. A local told us that the King stayed there, but has separated his force, leaving a garrison behind while he has ridden westwards.’

‘Where would he have gone?’ the Duke said with a frown. He stared into the fire, considering, before nodding to himself. ‘Neath. He always had a soft spot for the Abbey there. Assuredly, that is where he has gone. Poor Father. He will feel like the hart who hears the hounds upon all sides.’

‘It must be a most uncomfortable situation for the King,’ Simon agreed sadly.

‘I feel as though I am a traitor to my own father,’ the Duke said quietly, his voice scarcely more than a whisper.

‘Your Highness, this is none of your making. Your father’s adviser has set the realm against himself, personally, and that has made some of the barons react in this way, but it is no reflection on you.’

‘You think so?’

Simon felt those eyes bore into him as though the Duke was trying to see into Simon’s heart. But the Duke looked away after a moment, and spoke as though to himself.

‘But they will see me here, and they will say, “The Duke is only a child. He cannot serve us.” And they will look at my mother, and think, she is only a woman. But then they will look at Sir Roger Mortimer and tell each other, “He is a leader of men. He has power and authority; he understands others and how to reward them.” So they will ignore me, and instead will cultivate their friendships with Sir Roger, for he is the strong man in the realm. My mother has no authority to compare with his. So, while I am here, Sir Roger will gain in power and influence. And my father: what will happen to him? A solitary figure without allies or friends, a shambling, shuffling figure of fun. The realm will laugh to see him because the kingdom does not fear him any longer. And what then? How will he be able to sit on his throne if no one looks up to him, respects him, fears him?’

‘My lord, I do not know,’ Simon replied. Now that the Duke spoke of it with such a depth of understanding, Simon realised that no matter what happened between Mortimer and the Despenser, the King himself would be in an intolerable position.

‘You were asking about someone who was killed in Bristol the other day, I heard,’ the Duke said after a few moments, changing the subject. ‘A man?’

Simon sighed. ‘I have been asked to enquire into so many deaths in recent weeks, it is hard to recall them all. First there was a poor maidservant in the city itself, and then a man who had been a merchant, put to death just outside the city. Sir Roger Mortimer seems to have an interest in all the people of the shire.’

‘This merchant, what was his name?’

‘Thomas Redcliffe.’