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.
CHAPTER FIVE
Third Tuesday after the Feast of St Michael[11]
Bristol
Cecily reached the house and pulled open the door. Trembling like a leaf, she pushed it closed behind her, then stood leaning against it for a while, her eyes shut.
‘Maid?’ Old Hamo the steward was at the doorway to his buttery, a cloth in his hand as he methodically wiped and polished a maple-wood mazer, a frown of perturbation on his kindly features. He was ancient, at least sixty years, and as bent and gnarled as an old blackthorn. ‘Maid, what is it?’
‘Nothing,’ she said. How could she explain the shock that had jolted through her body out there when she saw the little boy who looked so like baby Harry? The child in his mother’s arms had turned and stared at her with such an intensity, it felt as though Harry himself was there. God in Heaven, the accusation she thought she had seen in those eyes…
‘Hamo!’ she said, and then began to sob, her hands over her face as she slid down the door to the floor.
‘What is it, Cecily?’
She tried to turn away, but the tender concern in his eyes made her feel the guilt again. She saw Little Harry’s face, and as though in a nightmare again, saw the skull shatter, the blood and brains exploding out. ‘Oh, Holy Mother, save me!’
‘Speak to me, Cecily,’ the steward said, now seriously concerned. ‘You’ve been getting more and more fretful these last days – what is it?’
Cecily wept, head covered in her hands. She was aware of tears pouring down both cheeks, and gave a choking sob. But it was no good. Even behind her hands, she could still see the hideous events of that bloody day: the accusing death stare of Arthur Capon, the cold, calculating expression in the murderer’s eyes as he stood and slid his sword into Madame Capon’s breast. The baby…
She must carry her guilt with her to the grave.
Emma Wrey had heard the weeping, and it was enough to make her put her needlework aside and walk to the doorway. She watched for a moment, frowning as she considered her maidservant. Curious that Cecily had broken down like this. It was the first time she had been so distraught during the day. At night she had often cried herself to sleep, and woken with a yelp of horror or pain, but Emma had assumed that the dark memories would gradually fade.
It must have been a God-awful shock. Emma didn’t know how she herself would have reacted, seeing her master and mistress cut down before her, the daughter of the house dragged from her bed and stabbed to death, then the child who was her charge slammed against a wall and killed. Those were the sort of things that no one could witness with impunity. They would change a soul. Poor Cecily, she had thought.
But this recurrence of the maid’s terrors was alarming. There were stories of people who were dreadfully affected by such things, who lived normally for a while and then were prey to fears that drew their lives to an untimely end. Perhaps Cecily was so badly marked by her experiences that her heart would give out.
No! It would not do!
‘Hamo? Hamo?’
‘Mistress?’
‘I think a jug of strong wine would be a good idea. Cecily needs fortifying.’
‘Of course, mistress,’ Hamo said, walking stiffly from the room.
‘Make it good wine. Not the sour stuff, mind.’
He smiled and nodded.
When Emma married Master Wrey, she had been alarmed by the sight of this paragon. He was tall, suave and elegant, and had impressed her with his cool appraisal of her before he gave a nod, as though telling himself that while she was not perfect, she was at least young enough to be moderately malleable.
And perhaps she had proved to be for the first years, until her husband died. When that happened and she found herself thrown into the management of the business, Emma had grown harder and more uncompromising, but still, every so often, she would catch that same measuring look in Hamo’s eyes, and she would see him occasionally give a sign of approval, as if pleased that she had turned out so well; not in a patronising manner, but almost with pride.