The Ransomed Crown

by Wayne Grant

  Roland knew this place. It was less than three miles from the river. Another half hour and they would be over the ford. He stopped to look back up the road to the north. Surrounding the hamlet were open fields stretching a mile or more in all directions. For now, nothing moved on the road to the north.

  Might they make it?

  He turned to follow the Danes and was two hundred yards from the next patch of woods when he heard a new sound behind him. It was some distance off and faint, but there could be no mistake—it was the sound of iron-shod hooves. He turned to see his worst fears realized. Armoured knights poured out of the woods and into the open field, fanning out as they came.

  He looked ahead and saw Thorkell had slipped an arm around Svein’s waist as his son faltered. Roland caught up to the pair and grabbed the younger man from the other side. Ahead, he saw Oren disappear into the woods.

  “They’re here.” he said. No need to say who he meant. Svein tried to struggle out of the grasp of the two men running beside him, but finally gave up and simply tried to match their strides. Behind them a hunting horn sounded. There was no point in looking back. The woods were now a hundred yards ahead. They would not be much refuge from what was about to fall upon them, but some men might be able to scatter and survive. They ran on, as the sound of hoof beats grew behind them.

  Thirty yards now.

  Roland released Svein and turned, drawing a bodkin head shaft from his quiver. He nocked it as the line of cavalry swept past the abandoned village and thundered toward him. They drew within two hundred paces and he saw they wore plate armour.

  Wait.

  At one hundred paces he loosed—too far to penetrate armour, but he could not tarry. He aimed at a big man on a coal black charger in the centre of the line. The shaft leapt across the distance and found the opening where the man had raised the visor of his helmet to gain a better view of the field. It was the last thing he saw. He toppled backwards off his horse, but the wave of heavy cavalry rolled on.

  The sound of pounding hooves and snorting horses filled Roland’s ears as he turned to run. His legs felt like lead and sweat poured into his eyes as he sprinted down the dusty road toward the refuge of the trees. He could still make the woods, but barely.

  A barrage of arrows flew over his head. The Danes had not scattered in panic at the sight of the mounted onslaught. He saw Thorkell and Svein and his own brother at the edge of the field refusing to flee. They should have. He wanted to scream at them.

  Run! Run!

  Another flight of arrows flew past him—this time closer to his head as the range shortened. He did not look back, but could hear the scrape of metal on metal as lances were lowered and swords drawn. Ahead, something moved in the tree line. He blinked the sweat from his eyes and saw a line of horsemen emerge from the edge of the woods. His heart sank. Somehow the mercenaries had got riders in behind them. He had led the Danes into a deathtrap.

  He blinked again and his breath caught in his throat. A stirring of the breeze had caught a blue and gold banner, unfurling it. It was the flag of the Earl of Chester. Beside the banner was a knight standing up in his stirrups and shouting an order, his broadsword pointed toward the horsemen in the field. There could be no mistaking who this knight was. Declan O’Duinne had found them and he’d brought the Invalids with him.

  Roland sprinted toward the trees as the Invalid Company spurred their mounts into a charge. They parted to let him pass, a chilling war cry rising up as the men urged their warhorses into a gallop straight at the charging mercenaries. He saw Patch on a dapple grey a little ahead of the line. As he rode past, Declan had a look of joy on his face. Roland reached the trees as the two lines met with a tremendous crash.

  The mercenaries were shocked to find they were facing heavy cavalry when they had been expecting nothing more than a few archers to ride down and trample. Some tried to rein as this unexpected threat appeared, but a charge of warhorses is a thing not easily halted. Most of the Irish and Flemish warriors rode on, but any thoughts of easy money were now gone.

  When the two lines met, a knot of horsemen around Declan and Earl Ranulf cut right through the enemy line leaving a ragged hole filled with downed riders and riderless horses. Without waiting for a command, they wheeled to the left and right, smashing into the rear of the enemy line and creating chaos in the centre of the field. The surprise and the ferocity of the attack checked the mercenaries for a moment, but with two hundred riders, their line overlapped the Invalid’s and their riders began to swing around the flanks to take them in the rear.

  Roland saw the danger and shouted at the Danes to train their arrows on the threat. The melee swirled barely a hundred paces from the edge of the woods and the bowmen began to abandon the cover of the trees to move closer. At one hundred yards they could pierce mail, but at twenty yards, they could penetrate plate armour. It was a dangerous thing to do, but they closed on the enemy horsemen. At this range they could not miss and the encircling horsemen, unaware of the threat, began to fall. Some turned to face their tormentors, but any mercenary knight who chose to attack an archer was instantly targeted by a score of bowman and went down in a blizzard of longbow shafts.

  In battle, even experienced troops can lose their cohesion when taken by surprise. The Irish and Flemish knights were veterans, but the men they faced had learned their trade in a more unforgiving land. The Invalids were ruthless and the new men they had taken into their ranks were anxious to prove their worth. All fought with a battle rage that paid troops could not match.

  First one, then a dozen, then a score of men jerked their horses around and fled up the road to the north. The others needed no order. They knew a rout when they saw one. Some of the Invalids started to pursue, but Declan and Patch screamed at them to a halt. A half mile across the field, hundreds of infantry began to pour out of the woods. There would be crossbowmen behind those ranks and, soon enough, the enemy cavalry would regroup there as well. It was no time for heroics.

  The thunderous clamour of sword on sword and lance on shield that echoed across the field gave way to comparative quiet. Warhorses stamped and snorted and men called to each other as the Invalids and Danes milled about on the field they had just won. Four of the Invalids were down and their comrades had dismounted to tend to them. Roland found Declan and Ranulf in the centre of it all.

  “Very good timing, my lord,” he said, giving a short bow to the Earl of Chester.

  “Aye, Sir Roland. The families you sent ahead should be at the gates of Chester by now. I had to order your Sir Edgar to stay with them. He was eager to be a part of…this,” he said, sweeping his arm across the field where dead mercenaries lay thick among the stubble. The Earl stopped as he faced south and saw scores of Danish archers watching him. On the ground in front of these men were dozens of dead mercenaries pierced with longbow shafts that armour did not stop. It was a sobering sight.

  The Earl had learned much over the past two years about leading men. He had learned from Llywelyn, the young Welsh prince, what men would do for a leader who respected them. He had learned from the Invalids what men who had regained their self-respect could accomplish. He had lost and retaken his city, and in the doing of it, had remade himself. He rode out to meet the Danes.

  The archers drifted closer to where Thorkell and Svein centred their line, Oren Inness among them. The Earl pointed to the dead Irish and Flemings.

  “Sir Roland Inness told me that an alliance with the Danes would even this fight. I see with my own eyes the truth of it. If I had twice your number, I’d march on Derbyshire!”

  Thorkell dipped his head. He was a man unused to bowing to Normans, but it had been this Norman Earl who had just ridden to their rescue.

  “We will fight for you, my lord, but not to invade Derbyshire. We’ve been driven from our homes there and have been promised new homes in your lands. For that we will fight—if you are a man who is good to his word.”

  “My word is good. There will be a hide of land for
every man who drew a bow here this day. That is a promise.” He paused and looked at the broad fields they had just fought over.

  “The River Weaver is two miles yonder,” he said, pointing to the south. Between here and the river is rich farmland—some of the best in Cheshire. I give it to you. You may farm it and raise your families here—for as long as I am Earl.”

  “And after we clear it of mercenaries…” Thorkell said dryly, pointing at the mass of men continuing to form up across the way.

  Ranulf laughed and most of the Danes joined in.

  “Aye, I expect it would be hard to get a crop in under present circumstances, and for now, we will depend on the crops we have already taken in at Chester to feed your families, but I promise you this. We will drive these people from my lands—from our lands.”

  Roland stood behind the Earl and felt weary relief. Perhaps he had not led the Danes to their doom after all, but he did not feel like celebrating. He watched as more infantry arrived on the opposite side of the field. He saw that Declan was watching this movement warily. Behind the foot soldiers, the heavy cavalry appeared to have regrouped. A command rang out and the infantry began to move across the field toward them, toward the south and Chester.

  Ranulf looked across the field and seemed startled to see the enemy advancing instead of retreating. He looked to his two young knights.

  “Fight or withdraw?” he asked.

  “I think Derbyshire may have to wait, my lord,” Declan said. “Those people outnumber us and they know their business. We won’t surprise them again, and if they follow, we will have to put the walls of Chester between us and them—at least for now.”

  Ranulf gave a quiet curse. His blood was up, but he’d learned to trust the advice of his young commanders.

  “We’d hoped to avoid a siege…”

  “My lord, I did not mean to bring the mercenaries back with me when I went to fetch the Danes,” Roland said.

  The Earl shrugged.

  “Give it no more thought, Sir Roland. I hoped to escape a siege, but it was a very faint hope. Sooner or later they were going to turn on us.” He paused and a grim look came over him. “We are too much a thorn in John’s side. He will have to dig it out if he is going to be king!”

  Roland watched as the enemy drew nearer, almost into crossbow range.

  “This looks to be but a part of their force, my lord, and they may not intend to invest the city, but for now—we should withdraw.”

  Ranulf nodded and Declan gave the order to fall back. The Irishman reached an arm down and pulled Roland up behind him.

  “Welcome back, Roland. It’s good of you to bring the Danes, even if you did bring the other lot with you.”

  Roland smiled as Declan turned his horse’s head toward home. Nothing seemed to dampen his friend’s wit.

  “Believe me, they were not invited. Let’s just hope they don’t overstay their welcome. Is the harvest in?”

  “Aye, all save a few hides west of town and those should be taken in by tomorrow. We were lucky with the weather and the yield this year.”

  “Thank the Lord for that, but there will be nine hundred new mouths to feed. How long will the food last?”

  Declan shook his head.

  “I expect Lady Catherine is at the Northgate counting heads right now and will know the answer to that by the time we get there.”

  “And Millie? She is well?”

  There was an uncomfortably long pause.

  “Declan?”

  “Aye, she’s well. She…she left for London two days ago, Roland. She was summoned by the Archbishop—the one who attended the Queen in Oxford. We sent a strong escort with her. Sergeant Billy will let no harm come to her.”

  “London?” Roland had thought the girl he loved was safe behind the walls of Chester. “To what purpose?”

  “The summons did not specify, but the man is the King’s Justiciar. She couldn’t refuse.”

  They rode back to the woods in silence surrounded by the mounted men of the Invalid Company and the Danish bowmen. Once they’d reached the cover of the trees, Roland slid off Declan’s mount. One of the Invalids offered their commander his horse, but Roland refused. Other riders, without being ordered, began hoisting wounded men up behind them, Svein among them. Together the men of Cheshire and Derbyshire resumed the retreat to Chester.

  Roland caught sight of Oren and was relieved to see him unharmed. They fell in together, both too exhausted to talk. Roland’s thoughts were in a whirl.

  Millie… gone.

  He tried to convince himself that she would be safer in London than trapped inside a city under siege, but it was a half-hearted effort. Nowhere was safe in these troubled times and he wanted her near him. He knew the Archbishop would not summon a girl from the far west of England to pass the time of day. And whatever the Justiciar needed from Millicent would be more important to him than a mere girl’s life.

  As he trudged along, his weary mind made one plan after another to ride to London and bring her back, but the mercenary army had not broken off their pursuit and he had a responsibility to the Danes he had led here. He would not be able to ride to Millie’s rescue.

  He had Chester to defend.

  Safe Haven

  Lady Catherine de Laval watched them come—old men staggering from the weight of years, women with nursing infants, small children, weary and frightened, and young boys carrying bows taller than they were. Leading the vanguard of refugees was the huge Saxon knight, Sir Edgar Langton, his war axe slung over his shoulder.

  The Danes had come to Chester.

  She was as prepared as she could be, given the short notice. Ever since the Earl and Declan had led the Invalids out to the northeast, she had been frantically organizing Chester to shelter and feed the refugees. A cavernous vacant building that once housed a rope walk was found near the Shipgate. It could accommodate most of the families until less communal quarters could be arranged. Shelter would not be a major problem, but food?

  The harvest was all in and the yields exceeded all expectations, but with the population of the city increasing by a quarter, the bountiful supplies would not last as long as planned. They had hoped to stretch the rations for six months if the city were besieged—more than enough time for King Richard to return and set matters aright in his kingdom, but now…food would begin to run out by early December without severe rationing.

  Lady Catherine had townspeople posted at the Northgate with buckets of spring water and loaves of bread for the refugee Danes. All looked exhausted, but relieved to have reached this new destination. Most had never seen a city of any size and the children were wide-eyed at the huge stone edifice of the Northgate and the tight rows of buildings that crowded the streets inside the walls.

  She beckoned to Sir Edgar who hurried to her side as the human flood poured through the gate.

  “My lady, I’ve brung the families and didn’t lose a one,” he said proudly.

  Lady Catherine gave him a warm smile.

  “You’ve done well, Sir Edgar. The Danes will no doubt write a saga of the big man with the axe who led them out of danger.”

  Sir Edgar smiled sheepishly. He had come to know Lady Catherine a bit in the weeks he had been at Chester, and she overawed him.

  “It was Sir Roland and the bowmen that kept the damned mercenaries off of us, my lady. All’s I did was show this lot the way to Chester—and help along a few of the wee ones.”

  He had no sooner said this than a girl of no more than four tore herself loose from the clutches of her mother and ran over to where the big Saxon knight was standing. She wrapped her skinny arms around a massive leg and looked up at Sir Edgar with pure worship in her eyes. He smiled at the girl as he pried her arms loose.

  “Get on back to yer mother, Freja. Get along now.”

  The girl pouted, but did as she was told.

  “Seems you have an admirer among the Danes, Sir Edgar.”

  “Aye, my lady,” he said, his voice a bit wist
ful. “I always thought I frightened small children—my appearance being what it is, but these little Danes…I guess nothing scares ‘em much.”

  “Children are smarter than we think, Sir Edgar, and I wouldn’t fret about missing the fight—I expect there will be work for you and your axe soon enough.”

  ***

  It was late afternoon by the time this wave of displaced humanity was sorted out and cared for. As the sun sank toward the Irish Sea, Lady Catherine returned to the Northgate and climbed to the rampart, studying the northern horizon. The fact that the refugees had made it to Chester unharmed meant that the men who had ridden out had managed to keep the pursuit at bay. That required fighting and no one could ever be sure of the outcome of a fight.

  She had made ready as best she could. Soon after they had retaken Chester from William de Ferrers, she had sought out those women in the city and the surrounding villages who were skilled in the healing arts. These, Lady Catherine organized to care for the sick and wounded should the city be attacked. She had also found space inside the walls of Chester Castle to fashion an infirmary. Before the Invalids had ridden out of the Northgate she had sent word for the women to gather at the castle and prepare for wounded.

  The day had been clear and hot and a haze hung in the air. The flags that flew over the gate hung limp in the late July sun. To the north and east, she could see peasant families trudging toward the gates of Chester carrying bundles and pulling carts filled with what possessions they could carry. Word had spread quickly that an enemy force was approaching and all were seeking shelter behind the thick walls of the city.

  She squinted into the distance and out of the haze to the north, men appeared. She bit her lip. These men were on foot and some of them were running. A few staggered and fell. All were stumbling down the road toward Chester and all were carrying bows—bows like the one Roland Inness had brought with him so many years ago when he had arrived, a mere boy, on her doorstep.

  As the last of the bowmen left the cover of the trees, Catherine saw horsemen. Was it Ranulf and the Invalids—or the enemy? She strained to see through the haze. Then she caught sight of the bright blue banner of the Earl. She exhaled and realized she had been holding her breath.