The Ransomed Crown

by Wayne Grant

  “Run! Go tell Robin that Tuck and Rask have come home!” he called cheerily to the unseen watcher. A man dropped from a low branch a hundred feet up the trail and waved back, smiling.

  “Aye, Friar, I’ll let him know yer back and just in time. We’ve a boar roasting on coals.”

  They walked their horses through the towering trees until they came to a lovely little clearing that bustled with activity. It was their camp. On the far side, rough lean-tos had been built and from one of these came Sir Robin of Loxley with a huge smile.

  “Tuck! Rask! I had begun to worry about you two!” he said, as he hurried forward and embraced each man in turn. Then the girl caught his eye.

  “I see you’ve brought a new recruit with you, and a right lovely one at that. Welcome to Sherwood, Miss…”

  “Marian,” Tuck said with a pointed look. He had spent most of his journey back from the Holy Land advising the young knight to stop charming the tavern maids. It drew too much attention. So it was hardly a surprise that Robin would be taken with this girl. She was a pretty thing Tuck had to admit to himself.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Marian,” he said and gave a short bow. “Sir Robin of Loxley, at your service.”

  The girl looked at the young knight with a sceptical eye. She was a serving girl from a Sheffield inn and had no illusions about men—especially handsome and charming men.

  “Thank you, my lord. Friar Tuck and Master Rask saved my life, or at least my honour, and I am in their debt,” she said. “As for a service you could do for me—a bucket of clean water would be nice.”

  “Of course, miss,” he said, then turned and shouted across the clearing.

  “Hubert!” A man Tuck had not seen before jumped up from the fire where the boar was roasting and came at the run. Robin nodded toward the girl.

  “We have a guest and she looks tired and thirsty.”

  Hubert grinned happily.

  “Oh, I’ll fix ‘er right up, my lord. Come this way, miss. There’s some nice shade and we got lovely spring water so ye can wash yer face. Not that it’s dirty, mind ye, just a bit of dust from the trail.” He prattled on merrily as he led her across the clearing. The man’s obvious pleasure in making her comfortable was hard to resist. Marian gave him a small smile.

  “That would be lovely, Master Hubert.”

  Robin watched her go, tall and straight-backed across the clearing, and shook his head. She was truly a lovely girl. He turned back to find Tuck and Rask giving him knowing looks.

  “What? Can’t a man admire a pretty girl?”

  “For the moment, no,” said Tuck, a little sourly. “But come, we’ve much to report and I see you’ve been fruitful and multiplied while we’ve been gone.” Tuck had noticed that the sixteen men they’d left in this place a week ago were now two dozen.

  “Aye,” said Robin. “They started showing up the day after I sent you north. More come every day. They’re desperate.”

  Tuck looked around. Every man in the clearing was painfully thin, including Robin, but the new arrivals were the worst. The men who had gone over the wall at Nottingham had endured months of short rations and then starvation, but these new men had seen worse horrors from the look of them.

  Robin read his face.

  “Things were as bad in the countryside these past months as they were in the castle. While John’s army was starving us out, his new Sheriff was seizing everything of value from the farms and villages. These men have seen their children die, Tuck. They are weak, but if we can get a little food in them, they’re ready to fight back.”

  Tuck saw the grim look on his friend’s face and gazed around the clearing at the forlorn farmers who had edged close to the bed of coals where the boar was being turned on a spit, drawn to the smell of food. Some had staffs and some had pruning hooks in their hands. None had a proper weapon.

  Fight back? These men?

  “Robin... what are you thinking?”

  Robin was looking at the hungry men too, and shook his head.

  “Tuck, I’m done with whatever squabbles our royal masters may have with one another. Six months defending Nottingham Castle paid whatever debt I owed to Richard. But I will not stand by while these people starve to death. We were outlawed the moment we went over the wall. I think it’s time we acted like outlaws. I plan to steal back food from the Sheriff and feed the villages.”

  Tuck blinked, started to protest, then stopped. Robin’s plan could hardly hope to succeed, but he’d seen the look on his friend’s face. It was a look he had seen on the faces of the Danes and his fellow Saxons when they had risen against Lord Robert de Ferrers years ago. That uprising had failed and most of his comrades had been hunted down and killed, but he had never regretted his decision to join them. He looked again at the starving farmers huddled around the cook fire.

  “Very well. Where do we start?”

  Robin grasped the monk by both shoulders.

  “I knew you would agree! First we will get some pig into these men, then we will need to teach them how to fight and find out where the grain stores are being held, but tell me—what of the mercenaries? Are they marching on York?”

  Tuck shook his head.

  “They reached Sheffield after a week and looted the place. Not surprising, but after three days they hadn’t moved and that was surprising. Sheffield can hardly have three days’ worth of plunder to loot! They were still there when we rode out yesterday.”

  Robin shook his head.

  “That hardly makes sense. When they started north, York must have been their objective. Why linger in Sheffield?”

  “We had the same question,” Tuck said, “and the girl gave us the answer. The Flemings and the Irish haven’t been paid in a month. They are refusing to go any further until they are. It seems John is running out of money.”

  ***

  Roland and Sir Edgar stayed at the priory for the evening meal and watched as a score of solemn priests doted on Lorea. Tuck had surely known what he was about when he brought the children to this place. He inquired after the monk, but none had seen Father Augustine since he had returned to the priory two years past with the golden arrow Roland had won at King Richard’s coronation. Over their simple meal, Roland learned that his gift had fed hungry mouths in southern Yorkshire for miles around and that the monks lifted up daily prayers for his soul and his safety.

  At this news, Sir Edgar leaned over and whispered in Roland’s ear.

  “Can’t tell about yer soul,” he said dryly, “but ye’ve been to the dungeons of Jerusalem and back again, so the prayers for safety seem to be havin’ an effect.”

  Roland wondered why Oren had chafed so under the care of these kind men, but recalled that his brother was always ready for a scrap. When they were boys, he had more than once rescued Oren from fights his brother had started, often with older and bigger boys. He had even had to thrash the boy himself on a couple of occasions when Oren had challenged him. For all that, his brother had been a kind lad, and brave. Now he must find him.

  For once, duty and family obligations did not seem to be at odds. His duty was sending him into the high country to find the Danes and fate had sent his own brother in the same direction. Find the Danes and he would find Oren—if the boy had made it that far. Between the priory and the high peaks was some of the same country he had travelled while on the run from William de Ferrers. He knew there were many ways a boy could meet a bad end there.

  The next morning they left at dawn. Father Pipin had Lorea up, dressed and brushed for the farewell. She waved to them until they were out of sight.

  “Beautiful child, that,” Sir Edgar said. “Looks nothing like you.”

  Roland smiled to himself.

  “Do ye think yer brother made it up into the hills?”

  “I don’t know, but we are bound for the high country in any event, so we will know soon enough.”

  “We’ll pass near to Peveril Castle.”

  “Aye, we have to pass with
in a few miles of the place. I like it not, but it’s the only way to get to Kinder Scout, save climbing more ridgelines than you would care to.”

  Edgar snorted.

  “Why don’t we just ride up to Peveril and see if that bastard William is at home? I wonder if he’s recovered his senses?”

  William de Ferrers, the Earl of Derby had been dragged unconscious from the approaches to Chester the month before, after Roland struck him in the helmet with an arrow at over two hundred yards. Word had reached them that the Earl survived, but was not quite himself.

  Roland grinned. Sir Edgar’s barely banked hatred for the Earl of Derby nearly matched his own.

  “In time, friend, in time. For now I need to find my brother and the Danes—and I wish to visit the graves of my mother and father. Can your feelings for de Ferrers keep for now?”

  “Oh, aye. I said I would follow ye, and I’m a man of my word. This brother, he looks like you?”

  “So says my sister.”

  “Then it’s a very ugly lad we seek. That will make the quest easier.”

  ***

  Riding south, they forded the River Dearne and skirted the village of Barnsley. Topping a low ridge, they stared off at the southern horizon and saw a ragged procession of people coming up the road from that direction. They had the familiar look of people fleeing from danger. Behind the column of refugees they saw smoke rising in the distance.

  “Woods burning?” Sir Edgar wondered.

  “Could be a town,” Roland replied. “Prince John’s army was heading in that direction a week ago.”

  John’s mercenaries.

  One day they would have to be beaten if the King was to keep his crown and if there was to be any security for him and the people he held dear back in Chester. This journey was meant to even the odds when that reckoning came—just not too soon. They were not ready yet. Roland turned his horse’s head to the west and rode down off the ridge. Ten miles on, the country rose up to meet them.

  ***

  Two hours after Roland and Sir Edgar rode down from the ridge, a dozen riders appeared on the road pressing south through the mob fleeing from Sheffield, cursing and striking anyone who did not make way for them. The men were heavily armed and all wore mail. They had ridden out at dawn through the Micklegate Bar at York, pausing only to water their horses in the Dearne.

  As the lead rider forced his way through the column of human misery flowing up the road, the sight of it lent new energy to his mission. This scene would not be repeated at York! William Marshall might preach loyalty and threaten dire consequences upon the King’s return, but Marshall was gone and of the King, nothing was heard.

  The Sheriff of Yorkshire spurred his horse. He had to get to Sheffield and buy off the Prince’s army.

  Return to Kinder Scout

  As shadows lengthened, Roland and Sir Edgar followed an ancient trail that wound its way southwest through the high country toward Castleton. In the narrow mountain valleys, night fell quickly, even during the long days of summer. When the sun dropped behind the peaks to the west, they followed a small stream away from the road and made camp.

  “Tomorrow we stay south along this trail,” Roland said, as they unsaddled and tethered the horses. “This valley will broaden out until we meet the main road that runs from Sheffield to Castleton.”

  “I know that road,” Sir Edgar said. “Our fief was east of Sheffield and we travelled that road often when the old Earl was in residence at Peveril Castle.”

  “There will likely be patrols along the road.”

  “Boys, with spears,” said the big Saxon, hoisting his battleaxe. “Short work.”

  “We are not looking for a fight—not yet,” Roland warned. Edgar shrugged.

  “Very well, we avoid trouble—but if trouble finds us…” He hefted his axe again and gave Roland a wide grin. Roland laughed and nodded.

  “If the way is clear, we travel the Castleton road west until we reach a stream coming in from the north. It flows from Kinder Scout mountain. We follow it as far as we can, then we leave the horses and climb.”

  Sir Edgar struck some sparks and got a small blaze going.

  “I know the stream you mean,” he said, “but where it meets the road is scarcely more than two miles from Peveril Castle. You’re sure you don’t want to ride up there and knock on the gate? De Ferrers would piss himself.”

  Roland shook his head and laughed again.

  “Yes he would, just before his men killed us.”

  Edgar snorted.

  “Probably torture us first.”

  “And we’d deserve it for being stupid.”

  Edgar did not respond immediately, but threw more wood on the fire and watched the embers fly into the dark sky. Finally he spoke.

  “Are we any less stupid climbing up into these hills uninvited? These Danes we seek—they use the longbow. We both know what one of those can do. We have no shields,” he hefted the mail shirt that he had removed in camp and dropped it in a heap, “and this will be worthless, if they aren’t glad to see us.”

  Roland knew Sir Edgar spoke the simple truth. There were a thousand places on their path ahead where a man with a longbow could kill them, but the men he had known as a boy would not kill another man simply for climbing their mountain. But things might have changed. He looked at Sir Edgar and shrugged.

  “We’ll know that by the end of tomorrow.”

  ***

  At dawn, they rode slowly south through morning fog that clung to the valley floor. By midmorning it had burned away and the day looked to be clear and hot. It was nearing noon when they struck the main road to Castleton. From the trees they watched the road for a long time, but no one passed by.

  Strange.

  The road from Sheffield into the mountains should not have been empty at harvest time. Finally, Roland clucked to his horse and trotted down to the road. Turning west, they rode toward Castleton. Still, they saw no one. At this time of year, there should have been men in the fields at dawn, but there was no one—and for good reason. Most of the fields were overgrown. If crops had been planted in the spring, they had been abandoned and weeds had choked out any grain that had been sown. The few huts they passed in the valley all appeared to be deserted. It was an eerie landscape and it seemed to unsettle Sir Edgar.

  “Where is everyone?” he asked with an edge in his voice.

  “I don’t know. This is a fertile valley. When I was a boy, my father and I would hunt in the high ground over yonder. We could look down and see these fields—so green and thick with grain it would make you want to weep. Nothing like the rocky patch we worked on our farmstead higher up.”

  They rode on for another hour until Roland reined in his horse and signalled to Sir Edgar to be silent. For a moment, no sound reached them beyond the buzzing of insects and the cries of angry crows heckling some unseen hawk in the distance. Then there was something else—a low rumbling that echoed up the valley from around the next bend.

  Riders.

  “Off the road!” Roland spurred his horse toward the nearest trees with Sir Edgar close behind. The dust of their passage had just settled when a patrol of a half dozen riders came around the bend. Had they been vigilant they might have seen the tracks left by two horses in the soft dirt of the field, but, heedless, they thundered on down the road toward Sheffield. Edgar snorted after they passed.

  “Boys with spears.”

  When the patrol was out of sight, they returned to the road. The sun was inclining toward the west when they reached the stream leading north into the higher hills. There was no road here, just a rugged path hardly wide enough for a farm cart. They had to dismount and lead their horses in places. As they made their way north, they passed small fields and clusters of huts that should have been the centre of midday activities, but were still and silent.

  The Midlands bleed.

  Millicent had said those words to him and here was the evidence, but could it be bad enough to empty the land like this? He
had grown up among peasant farmers who tilled the poor soil of the high country. Such men did not leave their hard won plots willingly—and to have left good land on the valley floor? Something had driven these people away.

  After another hour of scrambling along the edge of the stream, they led the horses into a thicket and made a cold camp. It would be unwise to enter the hills where the Danes held sway at twilight. The next morning they rose at dawn and continued north up the valley. Three miles on they saw a thin column of smoke rising from a wooded ravine off the trail. Had there been any breeze, the wisp of smoke would not have been visible, but the day was calm and in the still air, it was like a beacon.

  Dismounting, Roland and Sir Edgar led their horses up a path into a dense copse of trees. There they found a tiny hovel of wattle and daub, its thatched roof black with age. A thin swirl of smoke drifted up from a hole in the roof. Without being told, Sir Edgar quietly circled around behind the dwelling. Roland stepped forward and pounded on the oak door. No answer. A sound came from the rear of the hut and Sir Edgar soon came around the side, leading an old man by the arm.

  “He had a little bolt hole out the back,” Edgar said with a grin, as he released the man in front of Roland. The old man was trembling with fear and would not meet Roland’s eye.

  “What is your name, grandfather? We are not here to harm you,” Roland said gently.

  The old man lifted his eyes and spoke. His speech had the familiar accent of the Saxon peasants in these parts.

  “Godric, my lord.”

  “Godric, I am Sir Roland Inness and this man is Sir Edgar Langton. We hoped to find stabling for our horses, but the valley is deserted. Where are the people? Has there been a plague?”

  “No plague, my lord.”

  “Then where have they gone?”

  Godric shook his head. He still trembled, but a look of defiance was in his rheumy eyes.

  “I’ll not tell.”

  Roland sighed and looked at Edgar.