Read Online 29 - The Oath by Michael Jecks - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michael Jecks
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body, and that of her baby, his head crushed and bloody.
Cecily was a hopeless witness. She could hardly speak: she muttered, stared at the ground, and closed her eyes completely when asked to look at the corpses. It was all quite frustrating, for Sir Stephen needed a clear declaration of the attack. Still, she had managed, finally, to make the necessary statements, and she had been convincing enough for the Squire and his men to be arrested.
Of course, it was natural that she should be in a state of shock. The poor young woman had lived with the family since Petronilla’s childhood. A long, long time.
After Petronilla’s marriage to Squire William, the latter had fallen out with his father-in-law, the burgess Arthur Capon. Sir Stephen himself wouldn’t have stood against the Squire in one of his rages: the man was known for his ferocity, and his impotent fury over his wife’s infidelity and flight must have been all-consuming.
The jury had no need of lengthy deliberations, but simply agreed that the assassins must have been Squire William with a gang of his men. Any man would want revenge in these circumstances, especially since his woman had run away with her confessor.
Everyone knew the background to the attack, and although Cecily had agreed that she had seen Squire William, it was not necessary for her to give lengthy evidence about his part in the attack. That was quite a relief to all concerned. The Squire and his men were arrested soon after.
Afterwards, Cecily had not wanted to see Sir Stephen for a long time. Well, that was all to the good, Sir Stephen thought. He had no wish to become attached to her permanently. It was hardly appropriate for a knight to be seen too often in the company of a serving-maid.
Third Thursday after the Feast of St Michael 13
Marshfield
The sudden darkness brought on the terror again, and he stirred and sat up, thinking that he was in danger, but there was nothing here. Only a hideous pain in his leg, and Robert groaned to himself when he recalled the horrible wound.
Opening his eyes, he saw that he was lying on a comfortable bed with a rope base over which a palliasse of straw had been laid; at the foot of it stood a large chest. It was the sort of thing in which a man would keep his spare belongings, and Robert eyed it with curiosity. Made of pale, gleaming wood, with a pair of heavy bands which appeared to pass over the lid to padlocks at the front, it was a temptation to try to open it and peer inside, but something stopped him. There was an aura of evil in the chamber: something that emanated from within the chest.
Then, despite himself, his hand moved over the chest’s lid, his questing fingers stroking the blued steel of the bands, reaching down to the padlocks . . . and his heart pounded as he felt the hasp of the first lock give under his fingers. His hand went to the other lock – and suddenly the lid was flung open, throwing Robert onto his back. He screamed, and saw before him that head once more – the narrowed eyes, the blue lips – floating towards him. Robert flailed at it with his arms, but the thing drifted effortlessly past, moving ever nearer, and there was the smell of the grave about it. And then it was right in front of him, coming closer and closer until it seemed about to touch his lips . . .
‘Christ’s bones!’ he screamed aloud, and this time it was enough to shake him properly awake, and he was sitting up, mouth gaping, panting, the sweat pooling on his breast. He looked around wildly, and found himself in a bright, warm chamber, lying on a good bed, and there were firm hands on his shoulders gently pressing him back.
‘You are safe here, my son. Do not fear. Lie back. Be still, be easy.’
Robert stared about him. The room was sparsely furnished. One stool sat near a small, low table, and the only decoration on the walls was a stoup set at the door, and a simple cross of dark wood on a wall nearby. The floor was made of packed
Cecily was a hopeless witness. She could hardly speak: she muttered, stared at the ground, and closed her eyes completely when asked to look at the corpses. It was all quite frustrating, for Sir Stephen needed a clear declaration of the attack. Still, she had managed, finally, to make the necessary statements, and she had been convincing enough for the Squire and his men to be arrested.
Of course, it was natural that she should be in a state of shock. The poor young woman had lived with the family since Petronilla’s childhood. A long, long time.
After Petronilla’s marriage to Squire William, the latter had fallen out with his father-in-law, the burgess Arthur Capon. Sir Stephen himself wouldn’t have stood against the Squire in one of his rages: the man was known for his ferocity, and his impotent fury over his wife’s infidelity and flight must have been all-consuming.
The jury had no need of lengthy deliberations, but simply agreed that the assassins must have been Squire William with a gang of his men. Any man would want revenge in these circumstances, especially since his woman had run away with her confessor.
Everyone knew the background to the attack, and although Cecily had agreed that she had seen Squire William, it was not necessary for her to give lengthy evidence about his part in the attack. That was quite a relief to all concerned. The Squire and his men were arrested soon after.
Afterwards, Cecily had not wanted to see Sir Stephen for a long time. Well, that was all to the good, Sir Stephen thought. He had no wish to become attached to her permanently. It was hardly appropriate for a knight to be seen too often in the company of a serving-maid.
Third Thursday after the Feast of St Michael 13
Marshfield
The sudden darkness brought on the terror again, and he stirred and sat up, thinking that he was in danger, but there was nothing here. Only a hideous pain in his leg, and Robert groaned to himself when he recalled the horrible wound.
Opening his eyes, he saw that he was lying on a comfortable bed with a rope base over which a palliasse of straw had been laid; at the foot of it stood a large chest. It was the sort of thing in which a man would keep his spare belongings, and Robert eyed it with curiosity. Made of pale, gleaming wood, with a pair of heavy bands which appeared to pass over the lid to padlocks at the front, it was a temptation to try to open it and peer inside, but something stopped him. There was an aura of evil in the chamber: something that emanated from within the chest.
Then, despite himself, his hand moved over the chest’s lid, his questing fingers stroking the blued steel of the bands, reaching down to the padlocks . . . and his heart pounded as he felt the hasp of the first lock give under his fingers. His hand went to the other lock – and suddenly the lid was flung open, throwing Robert onto his back. He screamed, and saw before him that head once more – the narrowed eyes, the blue lips – floating towards him. Robert flailed at it with his arms, but the thing drifted effortlessly past, moving ever nearer, and there was the smell of the grave about it. And then it was right in front of him, coming closer and closer until it seemed about to touch his lips . . .
‘Christ’s bones!’ he screamed aloud, and this time it was enough to shake him properly awake, and he was sitting up, mouth gaping, panting, the sweat pooling on his breast. He looked around wildly, and found himself in a bright, warm chamber, lying on a good bed, and there were firm hands on his shoulders gently pressing him back.
‘You are safe here, my son. Do not fear. Lie back. Be still, be easy.’
Robert stared about him. The room was sparsely furnished. One stool sat near a small, low table, and the only decoration on the walls was a stoup set at the door, and a simple cross of dark wood on a wall nearby. The floor was made of packed
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