by Wayne Grant
Roland bristled, but kept a leash on his anger. Thorkell stepped forward and raised an arm. He looked weary but unbowed.
“There will be no killing,” he said, first staring at Svein, then turning from man to man, looking for a challenge. Roland could tell that some sided with Svein, but none were ready to challenge their war leader’s authority.
“These men committed no offense against us. Perhaps Svein has the truth of it. Making common cause with a Norman lord goes against every instinct that I have, but this is a matter that cannot be decided by the few men here now. Your offer, if genuine, is generous, but it is a hard thing you ask of us—to give up the mountains that have been our defence for generations, to give up the farms we have sweated blood over. I will send runners to fetch the men who are not here now. By the end of tomorrow, most should be here. Then we will give you an answer.”
Svein leapt to his feet to protest, but Thorkell snarled at him.
“Sit down. You will have a chance to have your say along with the others.” He turned back to Roland.
“You are welcome here until our decision is reached. You said you wished to find your brother and visit your parent’s graves. The one is there,” he said gesturing toward Oren across the clearing “and I expect you know the way to the other.”
He jerked his head toward Sir Edgar who stood with his arms crossed, scowling at anyone who met his gaze.
“Keep your Saxon friend close. He doesn’t speak our language and he seems eager to have a misunderstanding with Svein. I will hold you responsible for his conduct.”
Roland nodded.
“And I hold you responsible for Svein. Sir Edgar will not start any unpleasantness with any here, but he will not suffer insults, nor will I.”
Thorkell stared at him for a moment, seeming to revise his estimate of the young knight before him. Then he nodded back.
“Fair enough. I will have my eye on Svein. Good luck with Oren. He’s a good lad and more than a fair shot with the bow, but he is quick to start a scrap.”
Roland grinned.
“It was ever so, Thorkell.”
Oren Inness
Thorkell called out half the men in the clearing and gave them terse instructions for summoning the Danes to council. Men left in every direction, following the paths that linked the isolated farmsteads of the high country together. Generations of Danes had followed these trails and Roland wondered if this would be the last to do so. He noted that Svein was one of the messengers and was relieved to see the man trot off to the north. The rest of the men in the clearing drifted off, back to whatever duties engaged them.
As Thorkell’s messengers moved off, Roland stole a glance at his brother. The boy had made no move to come to him and gave nothing away in his face. This would not be the warm welcome he had got from his sister. He walked across the clearing and Oren watched him come, his eyes wary. As Roland drew near, it was the boy who spoke first.
“I used to wonder what I would say to you—if you ever came back,” he said. “I didn’t think you would.”
Roland studied his brother. Oren was almost his own height, but was very thin. He had the broad shoulders of an archer, but it was the eyes that struck him. They were pale grey like their father’s. He had not remembered that. It was like having Rolf Inness staring back at him.
“It’s been a long road, brother, but I am back now. It’s good to see you, Oren.”
“Have you been to the priory?”
Roland nodded. “Aye, Lorea is well and she misses you.”
Oren turned his head away for a moment and Roland thought the boy’s eyes looked shiny when he turned back.
“I hated to leave her there, though they all loved her. I had to go, but it would have been selfish—and dangerous—to bring her with me.”
“Why did you run, Oren? Tuck was only trying to protect you and our sister.”
The boy shrugged.
“Did the monk tell you I refused to go with him, until Odo and Thorkell made me? And that I ran away twice on the journey to the priory?”
Roland arched an eyebrow.
“No, he left that part out.”
Oren nodded.
“Your friend Tuck is a hard man to escape from. He whacked me good with that staff of his. I had a knot on my head for a week.”
Roland fought to keep a smile off his face.
“You’ve no idea what I’ve seen that friar do with a staff or a sword. You got away lightly with a knot—and Thorkell tells me your head is hard.”
“Thorkell has also given me a bump or two up there, so he would know. Your friend the friar meant well, but I did not want to leave here with him. They made me go—said it was too dangerous to stay.”
Roland could tell from the boy’s voice that his forcible exile by the Danes still rankled.
“The monks at St. Oswald’s—they were not bad men—they loved Lorea from the start, but me? They were pious and I was not. I wished to roam and they would not abide it. Odo had given me a bow and I spent all my time fashioning arrows and practicing with it instead of feeding the pigs and chickens.”
For a long moment, neither brother spoke. Then Oren locked eyes with Roland.
“I need to know what happened after I took Lorea away from the farm that day. I know father was killed. Odo told me and took me to his grave later. You say the Earl had him killed—but why? No one here seems to know. So tell me, brother, what happened?”
Roland had known that one day he would have to confess to his kin what had happened that dreadful day on Kinder Scout. Now that day had arrived.
“It was my fault,” he began.
***
He left nothing out. He told of poaching a roebuck far down the mountain in direct disobedience of their father, how the Normans had stumbled on his crime and how he had fled in a panic. He told of hiding far up the mountain above their farmstead as William de Ferrers had Rolf Inness murdered while he watched helplessly. Finally, he told of killing the three soldiers on the trail and chasing the Earl’s son into the valley, only to lose his chance at revenge.
Roland paused and stared at his brother who had been listening intently. The boy spoke.
“I remember that morning. I was gathering wood at the pile of deadfall on the far side of the field. I saw you come out of the woods, but took no note of it. By the time I got back, Father was handing you a parcel of food and then you were gone—up the mountain. Father wouldn’t tell me what had happened, just that I must take Lorea to Odo’s and stay there until he came.”
The boy stopped for a moment, his eyes shiny.
“But he didn’t come,” Roland said, hot tears stinging his own eyes. Oren shook his head mournfully.
“No, he didn’t. I remember looking up as we were leaving—at the big rock above our place. I couldn’t see you, but I knew you were there. I waved.”
“I remember, Oren. You were holding Lorea. I didn’t wave back.”
Oren nodded and was silent for a while. Then he spoke.
“That spring—I remember crying at night from the pain in my stomach because there was no food.”
“I heard you—and Lorea too. I couldn’t stand it.”
“So you went down the mountain to hunt—where Father told you not to.”
Roland could only nod. There was no escaping his guilt for that fatal mistake. When Oren spoke again, there was sadness in his voice, but kindness too.
“It’s just the sort of thing the monks of St. Oswald’s beat me for. If I had been the older brother, Roland, I expect I would have done what you did.”
Once more Roland had to fight to keep tears from springing to his eyes. He had longed for and dreaded this day for three years. He had borne the guilt of their father’s death for all that time. Now, the brother he had made an orphan had heard his confession and with a few words had lightened his burden.
Oren Inness had forgiven him.
***
They stayed up for hours around the flickering coals of t
he fire as Roland told his story and Oren peppered him with questions. He spoke of his new life at Shipbrook, his travels to the strange lands of the Crusade. He told of the terrible attack on the breach at Acre and of being knighted by the King himself. He told it plainly, but it sounded like some kind of wild folk tale—even to him. Oren had listened, a little wide-eyed at his brother’s account.
“This knight that is your master, Sir Roger—he is a Norman, yet he made a Dane his squire. That seems strange. Mostly they kill us.”
“Aye, Sir Roger is an uncommon man, though not the only Norman or Saxon I’ve met that I would trust my life to. He cared not that I was a Dane, and he appreciated my skill with the bow. Sir Roger is first and always a soldier. You will find none better to stand with you when swords are drawn or arrows nocked. As for me being a Dane, he already had an Irishman as a squire, so…”
Oren’s eyes showed his surprise.
“The Irish—I’ve heard they are a dangerous and unpredictable people. Your friend…Declan you called him, is he of that sort?”
Roland had to smile. How to describe Declan O’Duinne?
“Yes—dangerous and unpredictable.” He would let Oren reach his own conclusions about Sir Declan, but the boy did not dwell for long on the nature of Irishmen.
“The King, they say he is a great warrior. Is that so?”
Roland nodded.
“I did not see him in a pitched battle. When they fought at Arsuf, I was in Saladin’s dungeons, but men I trust—warriors all—say that none could stand before the King that day. So many fell to his blade that brave men in the enemy host fled at his approach.”
Roland could see the fascination in his brother’s eyes.
“Oren, the King is a man who loves glory and has the bold heart to grasp it, but he is a man after all, not a god and all men are flawed.”
“How do you mean?”
Roland poked at the fire and rearranged some coals with a stick. He was silent for a long time and Oren was about to speak again when he replied.
“There were things done in that war—things ordered by the King—things that should not have been done. Do not ask me to describe them. They brought no honour to our cause. I think Tuck said it best. ‘Richard is a bad man, but a strong king, and England needs a strong king.’”
“And the King’s brother, John—he is weak?”
“Yes, but dangerous in his own way and it is John and those that support him like William de Ferrers that put us in our present peril. The Danes should consider this—if Chester falls, it will move John closer to the throne and put more power into the hands of de Ferrers than has ever rested with the Earls of Derby. For the Danes, nothing could be more dangerous.”
“It seems neither Danes, nor Saxons, nor even Normans, are safe these days,” Oren said.
Roland looked up at the sky that was now full of stars. The fire had slowly died to a soft blanket of ashy coals.
“We live in dangerous times, brother, but a man still needs to sleep. We will speak more of this tomorrow. Will you go with me to visit the grave?”
“Aye. I go on Sundays, when I can.”
***
The next morning they climbed the ridge that formed the long north-south spine of Kinder Scout and dropped down along the eastern flank of the mountain. Thorkell had consented to returning their weapons and Sir Edgar seemed particularly happy to have his battleaxe at his side once more.
The day was hot and, in clearings, pink, honey-scented heather and bracken crowded into the sunny openings among the trees. On this day, in deference to Sir Edgar, they spoke in English as they made their pilgrimage.
“The monks at St Oswald’s showed me the golden arrow that Father Tuck brought from London,” Oren said. “They said you won it at a great archery tournament. It was a thing of beauty, but they melted it down and used it to buy food for the priory. Those monks might be too holy for my tastes, but they fed many mouths that winter with the food that gold bought.”
“Aye, I had no need of a golden arrow.”
Oren gave a sly smile.
“You must be very good with that bow of yours to win such a tournament.”
There was no disguising the subtle challenge in the boy’s comment.
“Well, I believe there is a man from Loxley who is my match and I have seen archers among the Welsh who can hit a mouse in the eye at a hundred paces, but I am good enough.”
“I’ve been practicing,” the boy said.
Roland stopped on the trail and Sir Edgar, who had been admiring a pair of songbirds fluttering about in the heather, almost ploughed into him. He looked around the clearing and pointed to a single white birch sapling on the far side, its trunk no bigger than a man’s forearm.
“Can you hit that, brother?”
Oren gave a small hoot.
“Can you, brother?”
Roland had to smile. This was the little brother he remembered. He drew an arrow from his quiver and nocked it. There was a slight breeze rising up from the valley far below them and moving from his left to his right. He gauged the distance to be one hundred and fifty paces to the birch. He drew the flax string back to his ear as he elevated his longbow. With a slight adjustment for the breeze, he loosed the arrow. It arched across the clearing and struck the narrow trunk of the sapling in the centre.
Oren did not seem impressed. He nocked his own arrow and drew. Roland studied his form. Someone had been teaching the boy well. Oren paused as his draw brought the string back to his cheek, then released. A moment later, his arrow struck the birch a few inches above his brother’s. He turned and gave Roland a look of triumph.
Sir Edgar who had been watching patiently spoke up.
“If you two pups are done pissing on trees, I suggest we continue. The day is growing hot.”
Oren swung around to confront the big man, pointing at his axe.
“Is that just for ornament?”
Roland thought Sir Edgar would bristle at such a taunt, but he gave the boy a charitable smile and walked over to another birch sapling that was growing nearby. This young tree had the girth of a man’s leg.
He slid the heavy oak handle from a loop on his belt and with hardly more than twitch of his massive shoulders swung the gleaming blade at the trunk. There was a soft ripping sound, but the sapling hardly moved. There was a brief shudder that disturbed the leaves and Roland wondered if the big man had aimed poorly. Then a breeze caught the upper branches and the birch toppled over into the clearing, its trunk cut clean through. Sir Edgar returned the axe to his belt without ceremony.
Oren laughed and spoke to Roland in Danish.
“I like him—for a Saxon.”
***
They followed the trail for another two miles to reach the small patch of level ground that had been the Inness farmstead. The tiny field where Rolf Inness had scratched out food for the family was overgrown now with heather and patches of golden gorse.
Little grew in the blackened circle that had been their wattle and daub hut, burnt so long ago by the Earl’s men. Roland’s eyes rose to the rocky outcrop where he had watched as Rolf Inness died. Oren led him to the base of the slope where two stone mounds with weathered crosses marked the resting place of Rolf and Mara Inness.
Roland sank to his knees. He thought that enough time had passed—that the rawness of his loss had been worn smooth with its passage, but now it all came back to him with a sharp bitterness. A sob caught in his throat and he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Oren.
“I come here often. It doesn’t hurt so much now. It takes time, brother.”
Roland wiped his eyes with a shirt sleeve and stood up. Sir Edgar stood a little ways off and tactfully looked away. Oren had gathered up a bunch of pink heather and gave it to him. He laid the blooms on his mother’s grave, then turned slowly to take in this place that had been his whole world not so long ago. He doubted he would ever return.
He looked up at the cloudless sky and saw that the sun had passed its
highest point.
“It’s time we were getting back.”
They made their way back to the trail and headed north. Roland spoke to Oren as they retraced their steps.
“What will the Danes decide?”
Oren shook his head.
“I don’t know. A hide of land—it is almost beyond belief, but these mountains have been their home since the Normans came. They feel safe here. It will be hard to leave.”
Roland nodded.
“Will you speak at the council?”
“It is my right. I am of age.”
“And what will you say?”
Oren shook his head.
“I don’t know, brother. I don’t know.”
The Ransom of Yorkshire
William de Ferrers drummed his fingers nervously on the table. The room where he sat was in the finest house in Sheffield and it had mercifully been spared arson, though the smell of burnt wood hung like a pall over the town. They had been here for four days and should have long since marched on York, but the army would not move.
This was an embarrassment. He had been given command of this force of Flemish and Irish mercenaries by the Prince himself, but these hard-bitten warriors paid him little heed. They had refused his orders to march north until all of their back wages had been paid, but he had nothing to pay them with. His entreaties to the Prince for funds had brought only further embarrassment.
“I’d have the funds to pay the men, if you had not lost Chester,” the Prince had said to him. John had promised to find the money, but his payroll had grown painfully large over the past months as more barons sought to dine at the royal trough. It seemed these nobles could not be bought, only rented, and their appetite for silver seemed limitless. So the great mercenary army sat in the despoiled town of Sheffield and refused to move.
De Ferrers got up and paced around the room. It had taken him a month to recuperate from the blow to the head he had received outside the walls of Chester, though he still had occasional bouts of dizziness and blinding headaches. His physician had assured him these would pass, but he had little faith in the man with his bleedings and noxious potions. He would be damned if he let these afflictions rob him of his role as John’s chief baron in the Midlands!