‘The King does not need you now,’ Baldwin said mildly. ‘He has other affairs to concern him than a knight who committed murder. Especially one who killed a man who was going to fight for him. One who surrendered a city of his.’
Sir Stephen turned, only to find that Herv and Otho were both blocking his escape. ‘Get out of my way, churls, or I’ll cut you down,’ he hissed.
‘By the devil’s ballocks, you have a nerve,’ Simon said, as he put his hand on his sword. ‘I declare, if you try to draw a sword, man, I’ll knock your pate so hard, you’ll not wake until Christmas!’
Sir Stephen looked at him, and then drew his dagger and lunged.
Baldwin gasped as the blade passed by Simon’s breast, missing him by a cat’s whisker, and then Sir Stephen continued, toppling to the ground, while Simon stared down at the body before him.
Otho weighed the stone in his hand. ‘I didn’t hit him too hard,’ he said apologetically. ‘But I’ve wanted to knock down a knight for a good long while now. It’s satisfying.’
CHAPTER FIFTY
The Duke of Aquitaine stood as the two men walked into the hall, and waited as they made their way to him.
It was an old chamber, and smoke from the fires had marked the beams with soot, blackening the rafters and staining all the thatch that lay above. There was a comforting smell about the place, a smell redolent of ale, of dried hams and bacon, and of the pleasures of eating and drinking with family and friends during a long cold winter’s evening. The fire was lighted now, and the well-dried wood was burning brightly, sending occasional sparks flying up into the air, where they mingled with the very fine smoke a little higher. Later, as the chamber warmed more, the smoke would dissipate and the air would be cleaner. For the young Duke, this chamber smelled of happiness.
And he detested it.
This was the room he had been in when they had come to tell him that his father had been caught. Caught and brought here like a felon, all power, authority and honour stripped from him like so many garments. If they could go against God’s holy law and do that to one king, they could do it to any.
‘Sir Baldwin, I am glad to see you well,’ he said, forcing a smile as the two men reached him. ‘Master Puttock, your head is recovered?’
‘Almost, Your Highness,’ Simon answered. ‘My back will be sore for a while, though.’
‘You are lucky. Such a fall could have been fatal.’
‘It was intended to be,’ Baldwin said. ‘Fortunately, Sir Charles saw his danger and saved him. Otherwise he would be dead. And all because Sir Stephen attempted to see him thrown.’
‘He tried this?’ Duke Edward said.
‘He has admitted it. He regrets very much, so he says, that his plan failed. Apparently he felt anxious that Simon was coming too close to his secret, and wanted to remove a possible threat.’
‘So many are dead because of him. What did he hope to achieve?’
Simon answered him. ‘The man Capon had been a moneylender. I should have realised it before. So many told me, and Baldwin too, of people who had been to Capon to borrow, and who had suffered for their pains, that I should have taken note. But I failed, I fear, because all told me of the death of Squire William’s wife, and the focus of us all was on his unique cruelty.’
‘So was he not so bad as he was painted?’
‘Oh, yes. He was a most unpleasant man, by all accounts. But this crime was not his. I am quite sure that the murder of Capon and his family and servants was committed by Sir Stephen, purely in order to conceal a large debt he had accumulated. He had no means of repaying it, so he sought to kill the moneylender who wanted it returned. Redcliffe had told Baldwin about the methods he employed. He was no kindly, amiable merchant, any more than Squire William was a warm-hearted nobleman. Their behaviour towards Petronilla, Capon’s daughter, shows that. Both sought to take what they wanted, and when thwarted, were equally resolute in seeking revenge.’
‘Why would Cecily have agreed to help Sir Stephen?’
Baldwin answered. ‘Sir Stephen has already told us that she was exceedingly upset to have been sent away from her mistress’s side by her new employer Squire William. Suddenly, Cecily was thrown back on the charity of Capon – except that Capon was not sympathetic. He was about to evict her from his house, when Petronilla returned with her lover, and needed a maid again. And then, presumably, Capon found it convenient to keep Cecily on as a dry-nurse. The experience had scared Cecily, and she wanted revenge on Capon. The thought of helping someone to rob him was appealing; Sir Stephen vows that she had no idea that Capon was to die. She must live, so that there was a witness to declare that it was Squire William, and she played her part well. William was accused, arrested, and found guilty.’
‘But then,’ Simon continued for him, ‘the Squire and his men were released. Learning of this, Sir Stephen ambushed Squire William on his way home, slew him, and pointed the blame at the priest. He even disembowelled and beheaded him, making it look like an act of revenge for his woman and child. And then Cecily saw the other men in the city.’
‘Which made her fear for her life,’ the Duke said.
‘Sir Stephen said that, in fact, Squire William’s men were very unlikely to risk committing a crime when they had just been pardoned for one of which they were innocent. True, they had been wrongly accused and it is not surprising that she feared they would seek to punish her for her false witness. However, Sir Stephen laughed at her. He held out the dagger, I think to threaten her, and she took it and killed herself. He couldn’t remain there with her, so he took back his dagger and ran. And in case someone had seen him there, and would remember, he refused to return, instead asking Sir Charles to hold the inquest in his place.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘In your gaol at the castle, my lord,’ Simon said. ‘But I think he should be sent back to Bristol to be tried there. If I may suggest it, Sir Laurence would be an excellent guard to take him. He would like to return to his city, I am sure.’
‘Yes. Certainly,’ the Duke said.
There was a little additional business. He had letters to be taken to Bristol, and Simon and Baldwin asked for safe-conducts signed in his name for their journey, for the roads were still hazardous. Soon their business was over, and he took their farewells, offering them ‘Godspeed’ on their way.
‘You go home now?’ he said.
Baldwin bared his teeth in a smile. ‘I have not seen my daughter or son in months, Your Highness. I am desperate to see them, and my wife.’
‘Me as well,’ Simon said. ‘My daughter is a mother now, in Exeter, and my wife and son are incarcerated in Bristol. I would ask one last boon.’
When they left him, the Duke wandered over to the large table where his clerk sat, and leafed idly through the parchments on the desk.
Two men, he thought. Two men with wives and families whom they adored. Their children would never know how terrible it felt – the wrenching guilt of a son who was the source of contention between his parents.
For Duke Edward, the future King of England, such a peaceful, amiable family existence would never be his lot – and it made him heartsick, to think of the comparison between his life and that of Baldwin and Simon’s sons.
