The Ransomed Crown

by Wayne Grant

  “My lord—and ladies, I bring a message for Lady de Laval from the Archbishop of Rouen, Justiciar of the Realm,” he announced with a flourish.

  After a moment, Lady Catherine stood and came forward. She extended her hand to receive the parchment, but the man suddenly reddened.

  “Forgive me, my…my lady…the message is for Lady Millicent de Laval.”

  Lady Catherine stopped cold at the man’s words. She let her hand fall then turned to her daughter who looked as flustered as the courier. The older woman tried to control her voice, but could not conceal a touch of fear.

  “My dear, it seems you have a message.”

  Retreat

  They came at dawn, moving up through the fog along every trail wide enough to allow a man to pass. Rough men from Ghent and Bruges, who had once been poor, gripped their weapons. Hardy farm boys from Roeselare and a hundred other hamlets in Flanders, who had grown weary of toiling in the fields, looked anxiously through the fog for some sign of an enemy. Men from Clare and Cork and Kerry, raised on the brutish wars between petty Irish kings, crept forward, shields held to the front.

  These were hard men, long practiced at violence, and ready to finish this stubborn enemy who had torn gaps in their ranks and seemed to be always just out of reach. During the long battle to claim the heights, the Danes had been elusive as ghosts. Their bows could strike at impossibly long distances and an arrow to the chest was often the first and last hint a man got that there was an enemy somewhere ahead.

  These men were veterans and their shields saved many, but not all. The bodies of dead and wounded men littered the steep slopes behind them as the sun climbed higher in the sky. They had managed to trap a few of the bowmen, and these they killed in an orgy of vengeance. They knew the end was near, and like dogs unleashed, they were ready to savage these troublesome Danes.

  ***

  Roland and Oren had joined a dozen Danes who fought all morning to slow the mercenary advance up the main trail. But other trails were unguarded, and three times they were forced to fight their way past enemy troops who had got behind them.

  Once, two swordsmen closed on them, charging down the slope to their rear, arrows bristling from their shields. Roland drew his own sword and as the first man reached him, he dropped low. The man could not check his headlong sprint downhill and was tumbled into the air, falling onto his back in front of Oren. The boy drew his skinning knife and drove it into the man’s throat before he could rise.

  Uncoiling from his crouch, Roland aimed a thrust under the second man’s shield, but this man was a veteran and parried the attack. Using his shield as a ram, the mercenary aimed for Roland’s head. Roland twisted his body and jerked his head back, but the shield slammed into his shoulder, unbalancing him.

  He staggered backwards and his heel caught a root. Before he could recover, he was down and the mercenary moved in to finish his work. As his sword arm rose, he caught movement from the corner of his eye and glanced up to see Oren Inness with a drawn longbow twelve paces away. He tried to swing his shield around, but knew it was too late.

  “Damnú air!” he cursed and died.

  For a long moment, neither brother moved, breathing heavily from the exertion and the familiar battle fury that had swept over them. Then Oren walked over, extended a hand and pulled Roland to his feet.

  “Perhaps you could teach me this manoeuvre where you fall on your backside,” he said with a straight face.

  Roland didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at his brother’s jibe. A week ago the boy had killed his first man and had been badly shaken by what he’d done. Now he had killed two more and could jest. Oren had shown the instincts of a warrior more than once in the long days of fighting and that would keep the boy alive, but…

  Roland felt a wave of sadness wash over him. Another farmer—another Inness—had been turned into a fighter.

  ***

  By noon, the hard-pressed Danes had been forced back to the very crest of the broad ridge that ran north from the summit of Kinder Scout. Here, the trees were sparse and stunted and in many places, nothing but bare rock and bracken covered the ground. If the steep wooded slopes to the east of the ridge had favoured the defenders, this level plateau swung the advantage to the hundreds of mercenary troops sweeping up from below.

  Roland looked to the north and saw dozens of their own men being forced back onto the ridgetop. Some were starting to turn and run to avoid being overwhelmed by the enemy troops that seemed to emerge from every path and game trail. He heard a strange howl rise up, shrill and excited, as some of the Irish began to bay like hounds released for the chase. Above this wailing call, he heard three clear blasts from Thorkell’s hunting horn. He grabbed Oren’s shoulder and shoved him toward the west and their line of retreat.

  “Run!” he shouted. They ran.

  ***

  An Irish sergeant led a dozen men up a trail that switched back and forth as it climbed a spur. He was a veteran with grey flecks in his beard. It had been a long time since he had faced a foe this determined and he moved with practiced care, keeping his shield high and his eyes far up the slope looking for any sign of trouble. With his gaze fixed in the distance, he didn’t see the tiny willow tit flush from a bush just ahead—but the man to his front did. Startled, the mercenary recoiled and dropped his shield half a foot. He never saw the arrow that took him in the throat.

  The sergeant looked at his downed man and cursed. Gesturing to the rear, he raised four fingers and pointed to the left. Four Irishmen slid off the trail and began the practiced routine of circling the hidden bowmen. The sergeant waited. It took an hour, but finally he heard a call in Gaelic from above. The way was now open.

  Slowly he moved up the trail, not entirely trusting the all clear signal. Three more switchbacks and they found themselves, for the first time in four days, on level ground. They had reached the top of the ridge at last. Somewhere, off to the south they heard a hunting horn sound three blasts. The sergeant’s instincts told him that signal meant the enemy was on the run. He gave a grim smile.

  It was time to finish the Danes.

  ***

  The long line of men ran in single file, each man holding his bow at his side and keeping his eyes fixed between the rocky path at his feet and the man to his front. The trail switched back on itself again and again as it headed down toward the flatlands. Roland ran near the end of the column and at one turn hopped off the trail and let those behind run on.

  He looked back up the slope and saw no pursuit, but knew it would not be long before the mercenaries gave chase. He had told Thorkell to halt the retreat at the River Goyt. He and Sir Edgar had forded the river on their journey to Saint Oswald’s. The ford was in a steep gorge where the river ran swift and shallow. The stream itself was no real obstacle, but the bottom of the gorge was wide with open lines of sight. The road dropped into the gorge on the eastern side, crossed a good forty paces through the shallows of the river and made two switchbacks coming up the western slope. It was an excellent place for an ambush.

  He waited for a gap in the line, then jumped in, matching the pace set by the Danes ahead of him. Oren was somewhere in the middle of the column, but he had lost sight of his brother in the dash down the western side of Kinder Scout. He took a last glance over his shoulder and wondered if he would ever see these mountains again.

  ***

  The Irish sergeant eased into the clearing with his shield held high and gave a hand signal that sent a half dozen of his warriors darting across flat ground to the tree line on the other side. This sheltered valley was tucked below the crest of the ridge to the east that they had just taken. He saw one of his men give the all clear signal and he lowered the shield a little and walked into the open ground. As he crossed the clearing, he saw one of his men hurrying back from the tree line.

  “They’re on the run—the whole lot of ‘em,” the man said and pointed to the west. “From the ridge there ye can see all the way to the lowlands. I seen a whol
e string of ‘em carrying those damn bows and running like deer.”

  The sergeant grunted and pointed back to the east.

  “Get yerself back over the ridge and back down to the valley where we started,” he said. “That’s where the commanders will be. Tell ‘em just what ye told me. And tell ‘em we are pursuin.’ Understood?”

  “Aye, Sergeant!”

  “Then go!” The man set off at a loping run back over the ridge of Kinder Scout.

  The sergeant turned his attention back to the task at hand. He intended to latch on to the fleeing Danes like a wolfhound. He would stay on their trail and not let them shake loose. There would be a reward for him and his men for doing so, for, if contact were lost, their quarry might turn in any direction and vanish. The reward would be welcome, but after four days of brutal fighting his men would want vengeance as much as pay.

  So they would stay close. If the Danes slowed, then the rest of the infantry would catch up and destroy them. If they stayed out of reach—well, no matter. There was always the cavalry.

  ***

  By midafternoon, the first of the Danes splashed across the Goyt, and fanned out on either side of the road. By the time Roland arrived, Thorkell was positioning his archers in the trees on the western slope. The sides of the gorge were heavily wooded, but many trees had been cut back near the road and the ford. It made for an excellent killing ground. Roland saw Svein sitting on a stone letting his wounded leg recover. He had wondered whether the hot-headed Dane could make the run. Svein raised a hand in greeting but did not rise.

  Tough bastard.

  Roland caught up with his brother near the edge of the road.

  “It’s good ground,” Oren said. “I counted eighty paces from the far side of the river to here.”

  Roland watched as the last men moved off the trail and into cover.

  “Aye, I would not want to cross that ford with this many longbows aimed at me.”

  Thorkell came down the line checking each position. He had every man count what was left in his quiver. He ordered them to conserve their arrows, particularly the precious bodkin-head shafts that could pierce armour. Roland saw him come and did a quick count of his own supply as did Oren.

  “Fifty-two, with twelve bodkins,” he said as the war leader approached.

  “Fifty-seven and fourteen” Oren added.

  Thorkell nodded.

  “That’s better than most. I don’t have to tell you to make every shot count. We won’t be much use to the women and children if we have to throw our bows at the infantry.”

  Thorkell started to move to the next knot of men down the line, but Roland touched his shoulder.

  “Do you have any among your men who can ride a horse?”

  Thorkell rubbed his chin, surprised by the question.

  “Two—that I know of.”

  “Do either of them know this country at all?”

  Thorkell paused, unsure where Roland’s questions were leading.

  “Aye, I think young Gudbrand might. His family’s farmstead was on this side of the mountains, and not far from here. They owned a horse, but it was taken and their farm burnt in the spring.”

  “He will do then. Will you send him to me?”

  Thorkell started to speak, but simply nodded and went to the fetch the boy. He returned, trailed by a raw-boned lad with hair like straw and tired eyes. Gudbrand’s face was dirty and his clothes ragged, but he had a ready smile.

  Roland laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “Gudbrand, do you know the road off to the south that comes out of the mountains from Castleton heading west?”

  Gudbrand glanced at Thorkell. He was seeking the war leader’s permission to speak and he received it with a small jerk of the man’s head.

  “Aye, I know that country well.”

  “Good! I need you to find a horse and ride out that way.”

  The boy frowned.

  “A horse? We got no horses. They took ours in the spring. Where am I to get a horse?”

  Roland smiled at the boy.

  “You will steal one. I’d venture a guess that the hamlet a mile west of here will have one or two.”

  Gudbrand said nothing for a moment, then gave a small smile in return.

  “I can steal a horse.”

  “Good lad! Once you have your horse, find you a good vantage point on the Castleton road and watch. If anything troublesome comes down that road heading west, you find us.”

  “Troublesome? Like what?”

  “Like a lot of men on horses. I will need to know if any such are heading our way.”

  “Aye, men on horses. I can watch for them.”

  “Very good, Gudbrand. Now off with you!”

  The boy gave an odd little wave and sprang off toward the road. Thorkell had patiently held his tongue throughout Roland’s exchange with the boy, satisfied that he would learn what Roland intended soon enough. Now he knew and he wished he didn’t.

  “Men on horses? Cavalry you mean.”

  “Aye, cavalry, Thorkell. I expect they held them at Castleton while they sent the infantry into the hills.”

  “How many?” the older man asked.

  “The Earl of Chester’s scouts counted four hundred a fortnight ago.”

  Thorkell stared at him, his eyes blazing.

  “Troublesome, indeed. You failed to speak of this when you offered your Earl’s bargain to us.”

  Roland could see the look of anger and betrayal on the man’s face.

  “Thorkell, the last report I had was that the mercenaries were moving on York. On my honour, I did not know de Ferrers would send them into the mountains to attack the Danes. But once they pushed into the high country, the die was cast. You could not hold onto these mountains. You had to run somewhere and the only refuge left for the Danes is Chester.”

  Some of the fire went out of the older man’s eyes as he considered the truth of what this young knight was saying. Roland Inness had not brought this plague down upon the Danes, and in the end, they would have had to flee—but to where? The son of Rolf Inness had offered them a haven, before they had even known they would need one. Now they knew.

  “Very well, Chester it is, but God help us if the cavalry come.”

  ***

  Sir Edgar stood on the muddy bank of the River Deane and watched the last of the families cross. The water was knee-deep and a young mother leaned into the current holding an infant in one arm and pulling a small boy along with the other. The water was up to the boy’s chest.

  Tough people, these Danes.

  He slid down the bank and sloshed through the muddy water to meet her. Without a word he hoisted the boy up on a huge shoulder with one hand and steadied the mother with the other. When they were safe on the bank, he turned back to see the final member of his party enter the water from the far bank. It was a twelve year old boy who had been assigned to make sure no one was left behind in this exodus. As he crossed the stream, he waved at Sir Edgar to signal there were no stragglers.

  The big knight waited for this rear guard to reach him. The boy had a pudgy face smeared with dirt and eyes that were as innocent as a new born calf, but in his hand was a longbow and Sir Edgar had little doubt the lad knew how to use it. He clapped the boy on the back and took a last look at the ford.

  There had not been rain for days and the water level was much lower than when he and Roland had crossed in this same place less than a fortnight ago. He wondered if Roland would try to make a stand here. The banks were low and the woods sparse. It would not be much of a barrier to the men who pursued them.

  He looked up at the sun, which was directly overhead. They had been walking for twelve hours. He would keep them moving until they found a more sheltered spot, but knew the youngest and the oldest had to rest, and soon. When they had recovered a little, he would march them into the night. No one would complain. All knew the men on their trail would not be stopping to rest. He looked back over the stream and said another prayer that R
oland and Thorkell would keep the war dogs from reaching him and the families he guarded.

  ***

  Two men moved cautiously out of the woods that covered the steep eastern slope of the gorge at the River Goyt. They saw nothing on the far side of the ford, but there were plenty of signs in the soft sand and gravel that the Danes had passed this way. They expected there were at least some men concealed in the woods on the other side and they eased back into the cover of the trees. After a while, their sergeant arrived with the rest of the men.

  “Ambush?” he asked his two scouts.

  “Probable. Nothin’ movin’ on the other side, but they came this way fer sure and it’s a good place for one.”

  The sergeant watched the trees on the opposite side of the gorge for a long time, then turned to his men.

  “We wait until the rest come up. We should have three hundred men or more here within the hour.” He turned to one of his scouts. “Get back to the rear. Find the captain. Tell him to send men north or south of the road. If the Danes are over there, we need to get our boys behind ‘em.”

  The man set off back up the winding road that climbed out of the narrow valley. Two hundred paces across the gorge, hidden eyes watched them carefully. Thorkell had instructed every man to hold fire until he signalled. The enemy scouts across the way had seen nothing, but they were cautious. Cautious was good. Cautious was slow; and they needed the mercenaries to move slowly. For somewhere to the west, the families were moving at their own speed—the speed of the very old and very young.

  ***

  The farmer had been turning over the soil of the fallow field to ready it for the autumn planting, but the day was hot and he was thirsty. He led the plough horse to a patch of shade beside the burnt over field and trundled off to a nearby stream for a drink. When he returned, he found his plough attached to nothing more than the severed ends of the reins and traces. Back toward the road, he saw a lingering cloud of dust. He sank to the ground and moaned, wondering how he would explain to his master the loss of a good horse.