in himself. A spare chemise and jack had been found for him, and his cloak, mercifully, had not been too badly torn during his terrible dragging, but the stitches where the earlier damage had been mended were now ripped a second time. His leg was extremely painful where the muscles had torn, but his back was surprisingly good, provided he did not try to move too suddenly and reopen the scabs that dotted it. The cold seemed to soothe it.
It was not like him to have fallen in such a manner, he mused. His horse was usually so reliable. And then he had a sudden memory of redness flashing across in front of him… It was almost as if a man had been there – but that was ridiculous.
‘Are you all right, Simon?’
‘Talk to me, Baldwin,’ Simon said thickly. ‘Every so often I get this urge to puke, and I’d appreciate some distraction. How did you get here?’
Baldwin whistled to Wolf, who was padding along behind the horses of Robert Vyke and Herv Tyrel with a hopeful air, watching as the two shared some dried meat.
‘There is not much to tell,’ Baldwin began. He told Simon of his fast journey across the South of England, intending to get to Furnshill before war could reach it, and how he met with Redcliffe. ‘It was clear enough that the man was in danger.’
‘I know that name,’ Simon said with a frown. It took him a long time to recall where he had heard it. ‘Oh, I’m a fool. He’s dead, of course!’
‘Yes, I had to leave his body at the banks of the Severn,’ Baldwin said.
‘He was intending to murder the King, so the Duke of Aquitaine thought,’ Simon said.
Baldwin nodded. ‘Yes – and I sought to protect him. If I had succeeded, he would have killed our King.’
‘Who discovered him?’ Simon asked, remembering Sir Roger Mortimer’s interest. ‘Was it you?’
‘No. The man who tried to kill him at Winchester managed to reach him in the end,’ Baldwin said, and explained about the bearded killer.
Simon closed his eyes as a wave of nausea washed through his belly, and he shuddered with the taste of bile in his throat. ‘I think, my friend,’ he said very quietly, ‘you managed to kill the Duke of Aquitaine’s man. He sent a fellow called Sam Fletcher to kill the man Redcliffe before he could get to the King.’
Baldwin screwed up his face into a grimace of anguish. ‘Ach! And I thought at the time I was only protecting a messenger for the King.’
‘Best to keep quiet about it, I think,’ Simon said weakly.
‘There is one thing,’ Baldwin said, and he pulled out the note of safe-conduct which he had found in Redcliffe’s purse. ‘I still have this.’
‘Keep it safe, my friend,’ Simon advised, reading the somewhat bedraggled sliver of parchment. The ink had begun to smudge in places, but it was still legible. ‘You never know when it may come in useful.’
After three days in the saddle, Simon’s back was giving him less pain. He winced at regular intervals as a sudden lurch of his mount jolted his leg, but at least his head and neck were healing.
The aim had been for them to ride to Monmouth first, and thence to Hereford, but progress was slow. With all the injured men, they were only managing a scant three leagues a day, and the Earl of Lancaster was to get back to Sir Roger Mortimer and the Queen.
Baldwin understood their urgency, but could hardly share it. He did not know how he would be received when they reached Mortimer.
The King was obviously deeply troubled, and whereas Baldwin had the companionship of Simon, Jack, and even Robert Vyke and his ever-present Wolf, the king had no one to comfort him. His oldest servant had died in the battle trying to protect him, and Despenser was a spent force.
It was strange to see the Despenser now. He rode loosely, as though he was drugged or filled with burned wine,[47] and his eyes glittered. He looked about him menacingly, as though storing up a memory of each and every face in order to ensure that all were captured and tortured when he had an opportunity, and Baldwin wondered if his mind was unbalanced. He must surely have realised that there would be no escape for him.
In those periods when he was able to speak rationally, Despenser was coldly polite, but for the most part he would say nothing, not even to the King who had risked so much and had now lost all on his behalf.
He must be fearful, Baldwin thought, and this appeared to be confirmed by the fact that he refused all food. Nothing had passed his lips since Llantrisant, and he was showing signs of deterioration. His eyes, Baldwin saw, were growing yellow instead of white, and his face was sinking in upon itself.
Sir Hugh had made the decision to starve himself, Baldwin reckoned. Perhaps that was not a bad idea. Sir Roger Mortimer would want him to be executed in public, in the most humiliating manner – probably by having him dragged all the way to London so that the mob could jeer at the sight of their hated oppressor. But if he drank nothing and ate nothing, Despenser would never reach London.
Perhaps, Baldwin wondered, that was a reason for the Earl’s haste? He wanted Despenser to be delivered alive so that he could be punished for the sport of Mortimer and Sir Hugh’s many enemies. It would not please Sir Roger Mortimer to be cheated of his revenge.
So on they trotted and ambled, a small force guarding the two men who until the last month had been the most powerful beings in the whole country, and who were now little more than wraiths, their energy and souls sucked clean from their bodies.
Baldwin pondered on this thought. And wondered what would happen to him.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Robert Vyke dropped a crust of bread for Wolf as the great mastiff lumbered along beside him, and when he looked up, he saw Otho and Herv riding nearby.
‘Not far now,’ Otho muttered. He was not comfortable on horseback, and his body lurched from side to side in the saddle.
Robert Vyke smiled, but his heart was not in it. There was no telling what would happen to him when they arrived. When captured, if you were rich and important, you would be ransomed and your life saved; but if you were a simple peasant from another lord’s host, you ran the risk of being slain out of hand. He had a nasty suspicion that his own fate could follow that path.
‘You look like you’ve swallowed a wasp,’ Otho said after contemplating him for a moment or two. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. I just don’t want to get to Hereford that soon.’
‘Your leg all right?’
‘Yes. It’s no trouble now,’ he said, flexing it to show.
‘You’ll live.’
Robert Vyke shot him a look. ‘What?’
Otho shrugged. ‘Your leg, I meant. Why?’
‘What’s the chance of me living, though? They will want to make a show of those who supported the King, won’t they? And I was with him when our master went over to the Queen. I’m a traitor to my own master.’
‘You didn’t do that on purpose,’ Herv objected.
