down and bound to a ladder. Water dashed in his face to revive him, and then he was castrated, the executioner throwing the offending parts into the flames, before slicing into his belly and, while Despenser’s mouth worked, the man dragged out his intestines, bundling them into a heap and burning them too.
There were taunts and laughter as the executioner reached in with his knife and cut out Despenser’s heart. When that too was on the fire, he took up a bright new cleaver to finish his butchery.
It was enough for Baldwin. This was bloody revenge, not justice. The entire realm wanted to know that Sir Hugh le Despenser was not merely dead, but defiled for all to see. His head would be sent to London, his quarters to major cities so that all would see the punishment meted out to those who sought to destabilise the kingdom. He felt sickened.
‘What of me?’ he said to Simon.
‘You won’t be harmed,’ Simon reassure him. ‘They have their figurehead. They don’t need you.’
Baldwin felt shaky and befouled, as though he had been an active participant, not a mere witness. This was too much like the deaths of so many of his friends in Paris and all over France: Templars who were tortured and then burned at the stake for refusing to confess to crimes they had not committed.
‘Poor England,’ was all he said.
Simon managed to force a way through the press as people edged closer to the guards standing with polearms held across their chests, keeping them all back as the executioner continued his grisly work. His cleaver could be heard clearly, each blow striking wetly as it sheared through bone. Simon of Reading was already dangling limply from a rope, the life throttled from him, but Baldock had been rescued and whisked away. Some weeks afterwards, Simon heard that it was Bishop Orleton who rescued him, only to have him gaoled later for his ‘offences’. But the London mob would later find him and drag him from his gaol cell to murder him in the street.
Baldwin walked away with Simon, still feeling that strange sensation, as though his soul was separating from his body. ‘I do not know what is to happen to me,’ he said, when they were some distance from the execution. He felt a total alienation from the world, as though he was merely waiting in a queue for the executioner to take him in his turn.
‘Baldwin, you are safe.’
The knight ignored him, saying, ‘There was no need to kill Reading. You saw him hang just now, Simon. Why?’
‘He was too close to Despenser,’ Simon said. ‘I’ve heard he was insulting to the Queen, too. I think she wanted her revenge.’
‘Perhaps,’ Baldwin said wearily. ‘Perhaps so.’
‘Come, my friend, you need a good jug of wine, and so do I.’
‘I rather think that this once, a pint of wine would be an excellent idea,’ Baldwin admitted.
Soon they were standing in a loud chamber with a jug each, trying to avoid being jostled by the happy revellers who were celebrating the death of a tyrant.
Simon and Baldwin drank in silence. Baldwin was moody, not at all himself. In all the years Simon had known him, Baldwin had never been morose, but today he seemed to have convinced himself that he was shortly to be arrested and killed.
To try to draw him from the bleak shell into which he had retreated, Simon began to tell him of Cecily and the murder of the Capon family by Squire William. It was not, perhaps, the happiest of tales, but there was one message that Simon thought relevant for his friend.
‘So the Squire received a pardon, as did his men,’ he finished at last.
‘Only to die at the hands of a village priest,’ Baldwin noted.
‘But they were able to return to their homes,’ Simon pointed out. ‘And so will you.’
Robert Vyke had felt a profound terror strike him at the sight of the man’s butchered quarters. The naked body had been manhandled like a hog’s, the eviscerated torso separated from the hips, then held up and accurately separated with a series of blows straight down the middle of the spine; and finally the legs were separated by five firm cuts at the groin which slashed through the bone with ease. The pieces were all to be left in tar to seal them so that they would survive for years on display.
It was enough to turn a man’s stomach, to see such brutality.
‘Will they do that to me?’ he asked in a whimper.
‘Why’d they make the effort?’ Otho said, but Robert scarcely heard his joke.
‘They’re going to do him next, aren’t they?’ he said fearfully, pointing to the body swinging overhead. Simon of Reading’s face was a purple mask, and the rope was stained red where his fingernails had tried to pull it from his neck as he rose in the air.
‘Nah,’ Otho said, and spat into the road. ‘He’s already dead. No point. Anyway, he’s not important enough. You got any idea how much it costs to get an executioner to joint a man? It don’t come cheap.’
‘What will they do to us, then?’ Robert shuddered.
‘Probably forget you exist,’ Otho said patiently. ‘Look, that sort of death is for the nobles and high-born. Not for the likes of you and me, Rob. Now, I’d suggest you stay with me and Herv for the next few days. We’ll look after you.’
‘How can you?’
‘By saying you’ve been with us all this while. Right?’
‘What, pretend I wasn’t there?’
‘Who will say you were?’
‘There were all the knights… the king… Despenser…’
‘The knights, believe me, have more to think about than whether you were there with them or not. The King’s off tomorrow, so I’ve heard. They’re going to take him somewhere else so he can’t escape. And the Despenser’s not really a problem to you now, is he?’
‘What about the others, though? I can’t just walk away.’
‘Course you can! No one’s holding you, Rob. Wake up, man! You’ve been with me and Herv all the while, right? All the way from Bristol.’
Robert nodded, and would have felt reassured, but for the man who at that moment turned and recognised him.
‘Why, if it isn’t the injured messenger – the man we sent to the King. Have you only just returned, then?’
‘Sir Stephen,’ Robert said, his heart sinking to his shabby leathern boots.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Baldwin was feeling a great deal better as they drained their drinks. The talk with Simon had brought a measure of calmness. It was good just to be with a friend again. He let his hand fall to his side, resting on Wolf’s great head.
‘What will happen now, do you think?’ he said.
‘You, a knight, ask me, a mere yeoman, what
‘You have been with the people who have won the dispute,’ Baldwin reminded him. ‘I come from the losing side.’
‘Well, I do not know,’ Simon said. ‘I simply hope we may soon be permitted to leave this place and return homewards.’
‘I could wish for nothing more,’ Baldwin agreed. ‘However, I fear that there may be a desire on Sir Roger’s part to prevent my leaving any time soon.’
‘This is ridiculous!’ Simon said. ‘You have served the Queen, and the Duke her son, and even Mortimer himself in the past. Why shouldn’t we see one of them and ask that you be released?’
