by Wayne Grant
Dust still clung to the man’s clothes as he gratefully downed a cup of wine. The Archbishop studied him. For years he had maintained a casual acquaintance with William Marshall as they had both risen in stature and influence under the patronage of King Henry. But it had only been in the last year, when both had been thrown together as the appointed Justiciars for King Richard, that he had come to fully know and appreciate Marshall’s many qualities.
Adversity had a way of revealing character in a man, and there had been a surfeit of adversity since Richard’s departure on crusade. Over the past two years, they had watched many of the English nobles go over to the King’s brother. Prince John had worked relentlessly to undermine Richard’s throne, but Walter of Coutances had not wavered from his sworn loyalty to the King—nor had William Marshall. That loyalty could be trying at times. In many ways the Archbishop thought the King rash and bull-headed—and quite capable of fumbling away his crown to his brother. And if that happened, men who had kept faith and remained loyal to Richard could expect little mercy from the new King John.
In truth, his loyalty to Richard was more loyalty to the man’s mother, Queen Eleanor. He knew that Marshall felt the same. He often thought that the kingdom would have been better served if she had simply been made the monarch, but that was not the way of things. Nevertheless, he and the Earl had cast their lots with Eleanor and hoped that it would not cost them their heads. As Marshall returned his empty wine cup to the table, the Archbishop saw worry etched in every line of the man’s face.
“William, you should rest awhile. There are chambers prepared upstairs. Can your report not wait a few hours?” the Archbishop asked gently. Both men had long ago dispensed with the honorifics of “my lord” and “your excellency.” There was simply too much business to attend to when they met to waste time on puffery.
William Marshall looked up at the Archbishop. He appreciated the man’s concern for his health, but knew how anxious he was for news. Walter of Coutances had been chosen by Eleanor to run her spy network in England and Marshall had soon learned that the churchman was far from ignorant of secular affairs. The man soaked up information like parched earth soaked up rain, and he had a remarkable way of sorting through tangles of rumour to get to the truth.
“Walter, I could hardly take my ease knowing you would be down here, pacing about and waiting for me to rise,” he said with a wry smile, “so let’s get on with it. First the good news—as I passed through Lincoln, word came that John’s army made it only as far as Sheffield before stopping, I expect, to loot the place. So they have not moved on York—yet.”
“Well that is a blessing—at least for the people of York, though not to the poor folk of Sheffield,” the Archbishop said and crossed himself, “but what is the temper of the barons in the north? Are they with us? Will they resist John?”
Marshall shook his head.
“All say to my face they are loyal to the King, but we can be sure some are lying. I believe the Northumberland nobles are with us. They look to Richard to protect them when the Scots come howling over the border and they have no faith that John is up to that task. But, of course, they do not control the gates of York. The Sheriff of Yorkshire does that and he seemed a bit overeager in his protestations of loyalty. I cannot be certain how he stands. It does not help that the King has not yet started for home.”
The Archbishop nodded. Richard had sent word—had given his word to the Queen—that he would sail by the end of July from Acre, but no messenger confirming his departure was likely to reach them much in advance of the King himself. Provided Richard did not tarry on the way home, a habit he was prone to, he should reach these shores before Christ’s Mass. At the moment, beset as they were, five months seemed like an eternity.
“Did you remind these fence-sitters in the north that choosing wrongly might put their heads on the block when the King returns?”
Marshall grinned. The Archbishop was no doubt a Christian, but he had a backbone of steel and no great surplus of Christian forgiveness—particularly when it came to treason.
“Aye, I did, and pretty bluntly, but they are more fearful of the wolf pawing around their door than the lion half a world away.”
The Archbishop grunted. Marshall’s report on the mood of the northern barons did not surprise him, but the news that the mercenary army had stopped dead at Sheffield was unexpected. In hindsight, it should not have been. The siege of Nottingham Castle had taken six months and the town outside the castle must have been thoroughly looted in the first few weeks.
Sheffield would have fresh spoils that should occupy mercenaries for at least a day or two, but then, which way would they turn—north or west? The nobles in the north seemed susceptible to coercion and York would be a rich source of plunder, but there was also Chester. John had lost sizable revenues when Earl Ranulf had retaken his own city in a brilliant coup. The Prince, no doubt, wanted it back and the revenue that came with it. Mercenary troops did not march for free! This thought prompted another.
“William, you may be pleased to learn that news of Ranulf’s recapture of Chester has spread wide and has had an effect in the south. Roger Mortimer, who I had counted as firmly in John’s camp, paid me a visit here in London last week. He was inquiring about the health of the King and when we expect him back.”
“So my neighbour along the Welsh Marches has gone from likely enemy to fence-sitter!” Marshall said with a sneer.
“It’s progress, my friend,” the Archbishop said earnestly. “With the first positive news of the King’s approach, he will leap off that fence onto our side—and we shall welcome him as though he was there all along!”
“And when will that be? Has the Queen heard nothing more of the King?”
“Nothing since early June. I send couriers to her weekly and she to me. While we wait for news of Richard, the Queen spends her time putting backbone into our Norman lords along the border with France. Only a fortnight ago, King Philip marched an army to Gisors and demanded its surrender. Claimed to have papers signed by Richard granting the place to him! But Eleanor was there ahead of him. The commander sent the King and his army packing.”
This made Marshall smile.
“The Queen can always inspire a man to his duty. She probably had the fellow puffed up and believing he was Achilles by the time she was finished with him.”
“Or more frightened of her than of Philip!” the Archbishop said. Marshall nodded and refilled his wine cup.
“So tell me, what is the temper of things here in London?”
The Archbishop sighed and spread his hands helplessly.
“London is London. The mayor and the aldermen are cautious, but hardly bother to disguise their preference for John. The Prince has taken up residence in the Tower, which he’s strongly garrisoned. To the merchants and tradesmen, he’s promised virtual immunity from taxation if they support his claims to rule. And the place is rank with spies like fleas on a dog. My house is watched day and night and so is yours. I’ve had two of my staff approached in the past month to spy on me for money. I’ve yet to determine if the approach came from agents of John or agents of King Philip, but I am working on that.”
Marshall rubbed his chin.
“I trust the members of my own household, Walter, but it does seem as though John has been more than lucky in countering our plans. When I marched north to relieve Nottingham in the spring, only you and the Queen should have known my plans, but John was waiting for us at Leicester.” There was a note of bitterness in Marshall’s voice as he harkened back to the beating he’d taken at the River Soar. He paused, then reached out and touched the Archbishop’s sleeve.
“Walter, we cannot let these people win. John would be the ruination of the kingdom—not to mention of us!”
Walter of Coutances laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“I still have hope, William. The merchants and nobles may see Richard’s crusade as a folly, but for the commoners, his victories at Acre and Arsuf have made him the g
reatest English king since Alfred! The day he sets foot back in England, this foolishness will end.”
The Archbishop paused, searching his memory for another item he had stored away for Marshall’s return.
Ah, yes.
“And, William, you will be pleased to hear that these loyal commoners are delighting in the exploits of your Invalid Company. The news that a band of half crippled Englishmen nearly annihilated a troop of Flemish mercenaries has gained them a reputation for daring and ferocity. Minstrels have composed a rather bawdy ballad in their honour that does little for the reputation of the Flemings—but is most popular with the common folk of London.”
William Marshall laughed. It was the first time he had done so in weeks and it felt good. He had held out little hope that the wounded veterans of the crusade who had washed up on England’s shores would be of much use when he pulled them out of the gutters of London in the spring and sent them off to find the Earl of Chester. They had proved him very wrong and he was glad of it.
“I shall have to learn this ballad myself, so I can sing it in my bath! But tell me, Walter, has the Archbishop of Rouen actually been patronizing taverns here in London?”
Walter of Coutances smiled a slightly evil little smile.
“More often than you might think, William.”
Saint Oswald’s Priory
Two men sat their horses in the tree line watching the monks preparing for harvest. It was early July and the day promised to be hot. The two had ridden for five days to get to the priory of Saint Oswald, keeping to the north of the high peaks of Derbyshire. They came on personal business.
The younger of the two was tall with broad shoulders and dark hair tied off in back with a strip of leather. There was a fresh red scar along his cheek—a reminder of the arrow that had grazed him during the taking of Chester. Over his shoulder was an unstrung longbow secured with a leather strap. The man beside him was huge and rode a massive black horse. He had a dark tangle of beard that looked like an approaching thunderstorm and a long-handled axe hanging from his saddle.
Across the fields of ripening barley and wheat they could see the plain structure of the priory itself. The building looked well maintained, as were the fields and barns that surrounded it. The monks were making good use of the dry weather, working industriously to sharpen scythes and clean out storehouses before the reaping began in a few weeks.
But as they bent to their labours, they did not lack vigilance. It was, after all, a dangerous world. So while their spirits looked to heaven, their eyes kept watch for trouble. They saw the two riders emerge from the woods and all but one man began to move back toward the shelter of the priory walls. That man, an elder, put down his basket and came forward to greet them.
“Welcome, my sons, to our humble priory. Can we offer water and feed for your horses? It is an hour until the midday meal and it is plain fare, but you are welcome to join us.”
Sir Roland Inness dismounted as did Sir Edgar Langton. The sight of the huge bearded knight caused the priest to unconsciously take a small step backwards.
“Father, we thank you for your offer and can pay for the fodder for our horses,” Roland said with a reassuring smile.
The priest nodded happily.
“Wonderful—and the meal? Will you join us?”
“Perhaps, Father, but we are not passersby. We have come here on business.”
“Business?”
“Aye, my name is Sir Roland Inness and my companion here is Sir Edgar Langton. Three years ago, my friend, Father Augustine, brought two children to this place—a boy and a girl. They are my brother and sister. I’ve come to see them.”
The priest looked shocked—then nervous.
“Children, you say?”
Roland did not like the way the man had started to wring his hands. He took a step toward the priest, who shrank back.
“I’ve sent you gold, through Father Augustine, to pay for their care. It would not do, Father, for me to find I’d not got my money’s worth. Where are my kin?”
“My lord, it was not our fault…I swear to you. We tried to raise the boy as a good Christian, but he…he was difficult from the start.”
Now Roland closed the distance to the priest and grabbed the collar of his robe in his fist. He pulled the man close.
“What have you done with Oren?” he growled.
“No…nothing, my lord. He was a high-spirited lad with no discipline in him. We applied the rod, as I’m sure you would have wanted us to, but it had no effect on the boy’s behaviour. He would not read scripture or sing hymns and when he was set to work in the fields, he was more trouble than help. And now, my lord, he’s run away. It was in the spring. We searched the grounds and for miles around, but there was no sign of him. When we asked his sister where he might have gone, she just said ‘home.’”
Roland eased his grip a bit, but did not let go of the priest.
“Lorea—she is here?”
“Aye, lord. She is here, and a more wonderful child never there was.”
“Take me to her!” Roland said, releasing his hold on the priest’s robe. The man straightened himself, relieved to be released by this surly young knight. With as much dignity as he could muster, he pointed toward the stone priory.
“Of course, my lord. This way.”
They found her in a sunny courtyard with a fountain at its centre. The rest of the space was filled with carefully cultivated herbs and flowers, leaving narrow paths between. Tall sunflowers, heavy with seed, seemed to be bowing their heads under the weight, or perhaps from the sanctity of the place.
The girl was laughing at something an old priest was telling her. She had golden hair. She was six years old. When the old priest saw the two knights he laid his hands gently on the girl’s shoulders and turned her toward the men. He seemed to know, without being told, that they had come for her. His old eyes held genuine sadness.
“Father Pipin, this man is Sir Roland Inness. He has come—for Lorea…and Oren.”
Roland took a step forward and studied the girl. She had their mother’s eyes. Lorea had been hardly more than a babe when he last saw her, walking away from their homestead, holding Oren’s hand. He recalled that his brother had looked up to the rocky outcrop where he had hidden himself and waved farewell as he led the little girl to safety. Thankfully, they had been spared the pain he had endured watching the murder of their father.
He took another step forward and looked into his sister’s bright blue eyes. She was watching him intently, but had said nothing. He went down on one knee.
“Lorea. It’s me. I’m Roland. I am your brother.”
The bright eyes of the girl lit up even more. She took a hesitant step away from the old priest, then ran the remaining way and threw her small arms around him.
“They said you would come,” she murmured into his ear. “You look like Oren…”
Roland folded his arms gently around her. He wanted to hold her tightly, but was afraid he would frighten the girl.
He let her cling to him for a long time. She was crying, but it seemed a happy cry. Finally, he pried her arms from around his neck and held her at arm’s length. He took his thumb and brushed away the tears on her cheeks.
“You were so small when Father died and I had to go away. I know you cannot remember me, but I remember you! You’ve grown so much, I can hardly believe it,” he said. That seemed to please her.
“Have you come to take me home?” she asked.
“Lorea, I have found a new home for us. It’s away over the mountains you see to the south. It’s a lovely place called Shipbrook and you will be happy there, but we cannot go just yet.”
“Why not, Roland?” she asked.
Roland wondered how to tell her about the destruction of the pretty fort by the Dee. He would not lie to his kin.
“Some bad men burned it down, Lorea, but we are going to build it back, better than ever.”
Lorea considered this new information solemnly.
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“They told me bad men killed my father. Are they the same ones?”
Roland rose to his feet.
“Yes, little one. They are the same ones, but don’t be afraid. I promise we will make an end to these bad men who kill and burn. And when we’re done, I will come back for you. Can you wait a little longer?”
Lorea turned back to the old priest.
“Father Pipin, can I stay a little more? Roland can’t take me now.”
The look of relief on the old man’s face would have been answer enough. Here was a childless man who had discovered late in life the simple joy that a child can bring. He could scarce bear the thought of this little golden-haired girl leaving.
“Oh, of course, my dear. You can stay as long as your brother needs us to care for you.”
She turned back to Roland.
“Roland, I can stay, but I will be waiting for you. I’ll watch those mountains to the south to see when you come back.”
“Aye, sister,” he said and took her back into his arms. “You keep watch. And as sure as the sun comes up, I will be back and we will be a family again.”
“Oren too?”
“Yes, Oren too. The priest said you told him that Oren had gone home. Where is that, Lorea?”
The little girl looked at him with surprise.
“You know where home is, Roland—Kinder Scout.”
***
As the forest closed in on the narrow path ahead of them, Tuck, Magnus Rask and the girl Marian dismounted and walked the horses forward. They had ridden for most of the day to reach this place. It was a section of Sherwood that had burnt years ago, allowing bracken and white birch saplings to spring up thickly amid the blackened skeletons of holly, hawthorn and small oaks that did not survive the blaze. Here, a man could not hope to see more than twenty feet ahead.
For a quarter mile they followed the path as it wove through the thicket, until at last it led them to a copse of ancient oaks that fire could not kill. Under the shade of the big trees, the saplings and undergrowth ended.
No sooner had they emerged from the narrow path than Tuck heard a loud bird call. He grinned and waved toward the sentry he couldn’t see, but knew was there.