She was wife to Squire William de Bar. That was the harsh truth. She was seventeen on that fateful day when Paul met her, an acknowledged beauty, but still barren. Not for want of trying, the Squire would say gruffly, ignoring, or perhaps not seeing, the pain in her eyes.
Paul could not marry anyway, since he was sworn to celibacy, but that served only to heighten his arousal at the sight of her. She was unattainable, a vision of total perfection: like Guinevere to Launcelot. An angel come to earth.
All would have been well, had Paul not seen her thrashed that day. That was the day he swore to himself that he would not let her suffer in that brutal man’s company. He would rescue her.
It was that resolution which had led to her murder.
And his child’s.
The rain fell but they scarcely noticed it any more. On all sides men trudged on through the wet and mud, wretched in the cold. Some were wearing tattered sacking about their heads and backs; others, more fortunate, had leather jerkins, but all shivered as the dampness was flung in their faces by the capricious wind.
These were the men of southern Oxford. Summoned by a King who had lost all support among his barons, briefly arrayed with their unfamiliar weapons, they had been ordered to hurry to his defence – while all others in the land hurried to the King’s enemy: his wife, the Queen.
If it had not been for Otho, most would not have struggled this far.
The Sergeant was a kindly man to those from his village. Thick-necked, with a pepper-and-salt beard and a clump of sandy hair, Otho had two boys back at his home, and Robert knew he would be as worried about them and his wife as he was about his own wife, Susan. But Otho would not allow the men under him to rest and slacken off. He inspired them by his own iron determination, forcing himself on, hour after hour.
A cart hauled by a wretched old nag rumbled past. The beast’s head hung low as it plodded on, beyond despair. The rain began to fall again. Few among the men would spare a thought for its suffering, and when it stopped, shivering, the man at the leading rein stared uncomprehendingly as though he had forgotten he had the animal with him. A spasm passed through the pony’s frame, and its head drooped so low, it almost touched the mud of the roadway. The driver and two others tried to beat it into movement, but it would not budge, whether they hauled on the reins or whipped it until its rump was red with blood.
Robert Vyke heard the low, moaning whinny, and his eyes were drawn to the pony.
‘He can’t pull any more,’ he said.
The driver snarled, ‘So, you want to carry his load on your back?’
Vyke glanced at the light cart with the boxes set over the axle. ‘You can pull all you want, the beast’s done.’
‘Yeah, well unless we get some more like you to pull, we’ll have to rely on this God-damned pony,’ the man said, and tugged again. ‘Come on, in Christ’s name! God’s body, but you’d test the patience of a saint!’
‘Leave the poor brute,’ Vyke muttered. He walked to the pony’s head and scratched it under the chin. The creature was too tired even to whicker, but rested its head on Vyke’s hand. ‘He’s all but done.’
‘Out of the way, you prickle – we have to get on! Come on, you justler, you swiver –
Vyke would have protested, but Otho put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Come on, lad. He’s right, you know that. The horse has his work to do.’
Struggling on, his eyes rolling in his head, muscles tightening like bands beneath his skin, the horse began to move again, and Vyke turned away in disgust and pity as the driver swore, cajoled and yanked on the beast’s reins.
Then, at the side of the road, there was a sight to drive the horse from his mind. Two young men stood, both dark-haired, their faces twisted with loss, while an older man lay between them, his hair almost white, his face grey and miserable, his lips blue.
Robert Vyke passed them with a short stab of jealousy. He was so tired, the thought of lying down amid the mud and thin grasses, to feel the rain upon his face, the coolness of water seeping into his bones, and know that he need not march further… that would be a sublime pleasure.
A memory snagged his mind as Robert glanced at the men. He had seen them before, in Reading, he realised. They had been with another vingtaine. The two were the old man’s sons, but it looked like they’d lost their father now. There was no movement in his breast, and his eyes stared, unmoving.
But their loss was not Robert Vyke’s. He had little room in his heart to feel sorrow for others when he missed his wife and child so very much.
Sometimes, while walking, he had a memory of his home. Of when he was with his Susan, her young face cracking into a smile as she joshed him, or that teasing expression of hers as she glanced at him from the side of her almond-shaped eyes. It was a look that he’d take to the grave, that was. When she did that, he had to follow. He knew what she was offering…
He would probably never again feel the warmth of her body against his. That was the thought that made him sigh. And all because his lord had thrown his lot in with the King. ‘Only a few miles,’ they kept saying. The King was only a little way ahead, over the next hill, and then they’d all see his host. There would be thousands there, they said, but no one believed it. They knew no one else supported the King any more.
A sob formed in his breast, near his heart, as he prayed that his Susan was safe and well, their little boy with her – but today, no one could tell. The country was aflame. He would perish out here somewhere, far to the west of the realm. They all would.
It felt as if the kingdom had been teetering on the brink of war for years, and now it had toppled into chaos. Old Otho had been ordered to collect twenty men for battle, and Robert had been one of the first to be chosen. That was just over a week ago now, and since then all he had done was march, first up east towards London, and now back west again. There was no sense in it. He didn’t know what they were doing, only that the King himself was in danger, and Robert, Otho, and the lads from the vill must try to protect him, while others tried to stop or slay them. It made no sense. Nothing made sense any more. All he wanted was to stop, to lie down and sleep.
There was a sudden crack and a shout, then a terrible scream. The pony lay on its side, a bloody froth at its mouth, kicking listlessly with two forelegs, while the cart’s body lay in pieces all about. A wheel had fallen and broken in a hole, and the poor beast had broken its heart trying to continue.
Robert Vyke walked over to the driver. ‘I said the poor brute wouldn’t be able to carry on,’ he told him.
The driver looked at him blankly, then kicked the horse’s head viciously. ‘Bastard son of a sow was useless,’ he burst out.
Robert’s hand was on his dagger – and then the blade was out, and the driver jumped back. There was a shout, a curse, and the driver had his own dagger free in his hand, and was reaching for his whip.
‘Stop that!’ The bellow came from Otho, the Constable of Robert’s vingtaine, and in a moment he was standing in between them. ‘You want the Queen to discuss your argument, boys? You want her here so that you can put your cases to her, wait for her judgement on you? Eh? Because I can tell you what her judgement would be – that you two prickles would deserve a good, tall tree to hang from, since you’re going to her enemies. Your King wouldn’t be too happy to learn you’d held us all up, neither. He’d hang you as an example. Put the blades away, boys, because so help me, if you don’t, I’ll break your pates, both of you.’
Robert and the driver stared at each other a moment, then Robert looked at Otho. ‘You think I can’t cut a fool’s throat like his?’
‘Leave him. He’s a son of a goat, and not worth getting yourself hanged over, Robert,’ Otho rasped.
‘I will do as you wish, Constable,’ Robert said, and thrust his dagger back in its sheath.
It felt as though he had pulled the lever in a mill and turned off the water from the sluice. Suddenly he had no energy again, and he saw that his companions from the village were all near him. He walked in among them, and would have fallen but for a friendly hand at his arm. And then they began their weary trudging again.
