by Wayne Grant
“And now you’ve become a Norman yourself,” Svein sneered, “and a traitor to your own people!”
Roland flushed.
“You call me traitor? I would watch your tongue—or is that the only weapon you are willing to draw against me?”
Svein reached for the long skinning knife at his side, but Thorkell seized his wrist. He looked between the two young men who stood glaring at each other.
“There will be none of that here!”
The crowd had grown quiet as the two men faced off. Thorkell turned to them.
“Inness will have his say. Let him speak and we will then decide amongst ourselves.” He turned to his son and snarled in his ear. “Sit down and shut up.” Furious, Svein elbowed his way through the crowd and out of the circle of firelight.
Roland gathered himself as he got his temper under control. He took a deep breath and began.
“We Danes once ruled here—from York to Oxford. We fought the Saxons for control of this island for generations, but we lost that fight. The longboats stopped coming from across the North Sea and we were forced to make our peace with the Saxons. Then the Normans came and pissed on Dane and Saxon alike. They drove the Danes from rich farmsteads in the fertile lowlands into these barren hills an age ago. Since then, we’ve scraped out a living on the fringes of this country.”
Roland paused. It was a history they all knew, but he saw that men were leaning in.
“It is easy to love these mountains,” he said, “but it is time that we, like our fathers’ fathers found a better land—a better place to feed our families. A hide is five times the land any of you can claim here in the high country. It’s land enough to raise your children where famine does not take them. The Earl of Chester is a Norman, through and through, but he is a man of his word. The land he offers is rich land and he offers it because he needs us. Now is the time for the Danes to come down from the hills.”
He paused once more and pointed into the darkness outside the ring of firelight.
“There is a war out there. Till now, it has barely touched you, but I believe that it will. You can wait for it to come to the foot of these hills or you can take this offer from Earl Ranulf. Come down while the Normans fight amongst themselves. We may not be able to throw off their rule but we can prosper from their war. You know what William de Ferrers has to offer—oppression and death. Ranulf of Chester has given you another choice. You should take it.”
He had had his say and stepped back. Thorkell stepped up and spoke quietly to him.
“Take your Saxon friend and find a place out of earshot. I will call you when a decision has been reached.”
Roland nodded and walked away from the circle of light, motioning for Sir Edgar to follow. Oren caught up to him.
“You spoke well, brother.”
“I am no talker, Oren, but the offer is an honest one and I hope the men take it. On which side will you speak?”
Oren stopped.
“Roland, I have no desire to leave here. I’ve had it in mind to work our farm, once the trouble is passed.”
“Odo told me.”
“But listening to you, I fear trouble may never pass by the Danes—as long as a de Ferrers is the Earl of Derby. I will speak in favour of your offer, but whatever is decided…I stay with the Danes.”
Roland put his hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“Oren, you are a man now and must make your own decisions. Whatever you decide, I will always be your brother.”
To his surprise, Oren threw his arms around his neck and hugged him.
“And I, yours.”
Then he was gone, back into the circle of light to decide the fate of the Danes.
The gathering lasted late into the night with the sound of voices rising and falling—some pleading and others angry, though the words were not plain. Near midnight Thorkell stopped the debate. Roland could not hear what the man said, but when he had finished men moved off into two groups on opposite ends of the clearing. They were choosing sides. A count of heads would not be necessary. One group was twice the size of the other. He saw his brother and his heart sank. Oren was in the smaller group.
Thorkell spoke once more and the men began to drift away to find someplace to curl up for the night. The war leader came across the clearing with Oren alongside him. Roland rose to meet them.
“The Danes have spoken,” Thorkell said. “The answer is no.”
***
Oren and Roland stayed up into the small hours of the morning as Sir Edgar snored peacefully beside the banked fire. Oren had made his decision to stay with the Danes, and would not waver from it. Roland’s efforts to convince him to leave were half-hearted. He understood loyalty.
Oren, in turn, tried to convince his brother to stay.
“Roland, Thorkell is a good leader, but he is not young. When he grows too old, others, like Svein, will make their claim to leadership. I think that will be bad for the Danes. He itches for a fight—a fight I doubt we could win. You have been to war. You know the Normans like no one here. You, brother, should be our next war leader.”
Roland nodded. He agreed with all Oren had said, but he had his own loyalties.
“Oren, I am the sworn man of Sir Roger de Laval. God knows where he is in the world, but until he releases me from my oath I must act in his interests. All that is dear to him is threatened by the war between the Normans and I must do what I can to protect those things. And Oren, there is a girl, Sir Roger’s daughter…”
He saw his brother’s eyes widen in the firelight.
“Tell me about this sweet maiden, Roland,” he said with a touch of sly humour in his voice. “Is she beautiful?”
Roland laughed.
“If you called Millie de Laval a sweet maiden, she might try to cut out your liver—but beautiful? She’s the most beautiful girl in England, I’d warrant.”
Oren slapped him on the shoulder and sighed.
“I might have talked you out of your allegiance to this Sir Roger, but the most beautiful girl in England? I can see it is a lost cause. I will go with you and Sir Edgar on the morrow—as far as your horses. What will happen is in God’s hands.”
***
A heavy fog blanketed the hidden valley at dawn as Roland and Edgar gathered their kit and weapons and prepared to climb the ridge to the east. Oren watched their preparations morosely.
“I know the place you left the horses,” he said, looking up the slope covered in thick grey mist. “I’ve seen that old man. He sometimes comes up the mountain to avoid the patrols in the valley, but he has never harmed anything of the Danes, so we leave him be.”
“Let’s just hope he managed to keep our mounts hidden. It’s a long walk back to Chester.”
Together they climbed the trail to the top of the ridge. Roland stopped at the crest and looked around at the four points of the compass. The tops of hills, covered in their summer green, could be seen for miles with grey layers of fog hanging in the valleys between. Toward the south, the rocky summit of Kinder Scout caught the morning light and seemed to glow.
He felt a tightening in his chest. This land was beautiful, but it was no longer his home. He looked off to the west. That was where his heart was now. His home was wherever a certain brown-haired girl was waiting. He would be heading back to her this day with crushing news.
The Danes would not be coming to the relief of Chester.
Chess Pieces
Walter of Coutances looked down at the chess board and arched an eyebrow. The young priest who sat across from him had played cautiously early in the game, but now he moved his knight into an exposed forward position. Was this a blunder or a trap? The obvious response was to block the knight’s escape with his rook and take the piece with his queen. It would open up an entire file and expose the white king to attack.
But was it too easy? He had not played this young man before and had seen nothing in his early moves to suggest subtlety, but the Archbishop of Rouen was no novice at this
game. He looked at the board carefully. He surveyed three moves ahead, then four.
No danger.
Five moves forward.
Ah, there it was!
A trap had been set that would snare his queen and even threaten his king. The Archbishop felt a twinge of disappointment. This priest was good—just not good enough for the delicate thing he needed done. For that, he needed someone who could think more than five moves ahead.
Still, the boy was clever and could be put to good use on some lesser task. The Archbishop ignored the knight and moved a bishop to near the centre of the board, then rose and walked to a window while the younger man contemplated the collapse of his careful gambit.
Looking out into the garden behind his lodgings, he saw a dog curled up in the shade of a fruit tree, its tail occasionally thumping contentedly against the ground. The Archbishop sighed. He didn’t much like dogs, but envied them their single-minded pursuit of comfort and lack of care.
Would that men could be as content with their lot as were dogs! But the nature of man was to strive, and in their striving, men were capable of the most admirable feats and the most appalling wickedness. His recognition of this simple fact had helped to raise him up from a lowly clerk in King Henry’s service to Justiciar of England—in service to Henry’s son, King Richard.
In his many years of observing the character of men, he had developed no illusions about his own nature. He was no dog thumping his tail in the shade. He relished the prestige and power that came with his current position and did not intend to lose either. Ultimately, power, prestige and position all flowed from the King—but from which king—John, who acted as though he was already crowned or Richard, crowned but absent?
John’s aggressive assertion of his position was forcing men of rank all over England to choose. Neither man was a prize as a king, so the Archbishop had chosen neither. He had chosen the most capable ruler he knew. He had cast his lot with Eleanor of Aquitaine. The Queen had given him the burden of extending and strengthening the spy network she had started to build, a challenge he found both intriguing and frustrating.
Over the past winter, one of his own spies had been discovered in the employ of William de Ferrers, Earl of Derby, and John’s primary supporter in the Midlands. He’d heard that his man had died painfully. In the spring, two ladies, recruited by the Queen, had been unmasked within Prince John’s court and were even now held under close arrest in John’s new possession—Nottingham Castle.
Both Philip of France and Prince John had agents at work in England. John’s spies were more numerous but not as skilled. One had recently been uncovered working as a clerk for the Earl of Oxford, Lord High Chamberlain of England. The boy confessed all before they hung him and disposed of the body in the Thames. It was the French who worried him.
The plot to use Earl Ranulf’s wife to implicate him in treason had been very clever and was very likely hatched by Philip’s agents. The priest who had suborned Lady Constance was connected to the Earl of Derby, but there was strong evidence his real master was not William de Ferrers. That nobleman, the Queen had assured him, had neither the brains nor the bollocks to conjure up such a brilliant manoeuvre. It had to be the French.
Then there was the matter of the attempt to relieve Nottingham in June. William Marshall’s plan had relied heavily on surprise and only the Archbishop and the Queen had been informed of his intentions. That John’s mercenaries were perfectly placed to fall on the relief column as they crossed the River Soar was simply too convenient. Somehow, the Prince had been warned that a relief column was coming. The warning could have come from John’s own agents, but he strongly suspected the information had been passed to him by the French.
The compromise of Marshall’s plan raised suspicions on all sides. Was there a spy in his friend’s household or that of the Queen? He dismissed the idea of a traitor close to the Queen. Eleanor’s closest companions were women who had shared fifteen years of captivity with her when her husband, King Henry, had locked her away. And with these loyal women, she never discussed affairs of state.
But what of his own people? Most of his staff had been with him for years, and he had tested them—had laid clever traps to reveal any who might be betraying his secrets. None had been snared. No, the traitor must be among William Marshall’s household and associates here in London. The Archbishop had enormous respect for his fellow Justiciar, but felt the man had a blind spot. Incapable of treachery himself, Marshall had difficulty seeing it in others.
The man would no doubt bridle at the thought that any of his people were traitors, but in the end he would see the need to confirm their loyalty. The Archbishop had made a point of deferring to Marshall on all things military and his fellow Justiciar had granted him the same deference on all things concerning the Queen’s spy network. In the end, Marshall would trust him.
The Archbishop watched as the dog got up and extended its front legs to stretch and yawn before trotting off in search of whatever it might find on a warm summer day. For all of its cold and damp much of the year, London’s weather could be rather pleasant in July. He would have to follow the dog’s example and go for a stroll after his midday meal, but first, he had to consider what to do with the young priest. Five moves ahead was not bad.
But it would not do.
He turned away from the window and spoke to the young man who was still pondering a new strategy.
“My son, I fear we will need to continue our game another time.”
“Of course, excellency. I would like that.”
The Archbishop came forward and laid a hand on the priest’s shoulder.
“Come to me tomorrow. I have a problem I think you can help me solve.”
The priest nodded eagerly.
“Anything, your excellency.”
The archbishop smiled as the priest withdrew and looked down at the chess board. He sat down heavily and sighed. This had been his third interview of the day and only this boy looked promising—just not promising enough. He would find a use for the young priest, but knew he was not up to the more delicate task he had in mind.
Mary Cullen, his most trusted servant, entered the room quietly and brought his mid-morning indulgence—fresh cider and sweet cakes. He had brought Mary with him when he left Rouen for London. She was young with short brown hair and intelligent eyes. Alone among his staff and servants, he trusted her to be a part of the real work he did for the Queen.
Mary was a clever girl and, had she not been well known as a member of his household, he might have used her for this task. But her appearance struck a spark. There was another girl—the one from Chester—the one who had saved Ranulf’s head. That one had a keen eye and a level head and was brave in the bargain. She was someone who thought more than five moves ahead. What was her name? Ah, yes.
Millicent de Laval.
The Harrowing
As the morning sun rose higher, the fog began to burn away. The trail down the eastern slope of Kinder Scout switched back and forth following the contour of the mountain. The three men came to the farmstead Roland and Sir Edgar had passed two days before as prisoners. The man had not yet returned from the meeting on the opposite side of the ridge, but a woman and the two young boys were already at their labours.
The older boy was pulling weeds from the barley crop and the younger was helping his mother with repairs to a small pen where the family pig was confined. It was a peaceful scene. The boy weeding the field looked up and waved as they approached, but the mother and her younger son, intent on their task, never noticed them pass.
They were still well above the valley floor when Roland saw first one, then three more crows rise up from below, loudly cawing at whatever had disturbed them. He scanned the skies for a hawk they may have been heckling, but saw none. Something in the valley had disturbed the birds. Then a sound reached him that made him freeze. It was the faint, but unmistakable, sound of metal on metal. He grabbed Oren’s arm and turned to Edgar, raising a finger to
his lips for silence.
The sound came again, clearer this time, then yet again. It could have been the sound of a farmer’s billhook scraping against a scythe or some other metal tool, but they had been in this valley three days before. There were no farmers left there.
Roland started forward, moving with more urgency than before and the others fell in silently behind. To get a look at what was in the valley, they would have to get much closer and find a safe vantage point. They came to a small game trail and Oren touched his arm, pointing down the path to the right. Roland nodded and let his brother take the lead. The sounds in the valley grew louder. Now the snorting of horses and the distant shouts of men could be heard below.
They came to a place where part of the hillside had collapsed, leaving a scar of bare earth and a debris field of rocks and downed trees below. From just above the lip of the slide they could see the road clearly without being seen. It was a sobering sight. A large force of infantry was marching along the muddy track that hugged the opposite bank of the stream at the bottom of the valley.
“De Ferrers.” Oren whispered.
Roland shook his head. He could tell by their weapons and style of dress that these were no local men-at-arms employed by the Earl of Derby. These men had a distinctive look about them that he’d seen once before. In the winter just past, men such as these had tried to ambush the Invalid Company on the road from Shrewsbury to Chester.
“Flemish mercenaries,” he whispered back. “They were moving north toward York last I heard, but it seems they’ve turned west.”
They watched from hiding as a continual stream of men passed by. There seemed no end to the column. Then an officer on horseback rode up and signalled a halt. Sergeants shouted orders and men split off from the path. A few seemed to be engaged in setting up a camp, but the rest crossed the stream and moved into the woods below the slide.
Roland rolled onto his side.
“We’ve feared they’d march on Chester, but if that was their goal, they would not be on this trail. The main road from Castleton to the west is well south of here.” He looked down the slope as a hundred or more men emerged from the band of trees by the stream. The group split to either side of the tangle of rocks and trees in the debris field and began climbing the slope toward them.