by Wayne Grant
“Alwyn…,” he moaned, “Alwyn.” Tears poured from his eyes. They were tears for Alwyn and for Shipbrook and for all the evil that had happened while he was away serving his king. After a time he grew quiet.
“Once this is over,” he said gesturing toward the east window of the room. “Once this siege is broken, you will take me to his grave. A part of my heart is buried there.”
Both of the young knights nodded, too choked up to speak.
“And after that, we will find William de Ferrers—for he is a dead man.”
***
It was the eve of Christ’s Mass and Roland had duty as Captain of the Guard. As he moved along the wall walk between the guard posts he could hear singing coming from inside the town. It surprised him that, with their poor rations, anyone would be celebrating, but then he recognized the hymn and the voices. It was the Danes. He stopped near the Bridgegate to listen for a while. The Danes might be hungry, but they were happy to be alive this Christmas.
“Sir Roland.”
Roland startled, unaware that anyone was near. He turned to see Sir Roger approaching.
“They told me I would find you somewhere along the wall near here,” the big knight said.
“Aye, my lord. Please join me. I’ve just finished my rounds.”
Roland was pleased for the company. It had been three days since Sir Roger had managed to get past the mercenary army and into the city. Lady Catherine had fussed over him and forced him to rest, but the man could only stay abed so long. Roland had fretted over how gaunt his old master had looked the day he arrived, but had seen the knight’s strength come back with remarkable speed. Before long, he would be his old self.
Sir Roger leaned on the crenelated battlement and looked out over the River Dee.
“It’s a pretty spot. You can see the water boil as it tumbles over the weir—even at night. Never cared much for city life, but always enjoyed the view of the river from these walls.”
Roland thought of the many times he and Millicent had stood in this very spot and watched the water.
“My lord, Lady Catherine has told you about Lady Millicent’s summons by the Archbishop.”
Sir Roger nodded.
“Aye, she did. I won’t pretend to approve, but the thing is done. You can be sure that the moment we find a way to break this siege, I will be on to London to see for myself what these great lords are up to with my girl.”
Roland took a deep breath and screwed up his courage.
“When that day comes, I will do the same. My lord, you should know that I love your daughter. I know that you and Lady Catherine expect her to marry well and I have nothing, but she loves me as well.”
He had a hundred other things to say, but he had said the things that summed up all the rest. He stopped talking and waited. Sir Roger pushed back from the battlements.
“My wife told me of this but an hour ago. She also reminded me that I had nothing when we met and that her family had hoped for a better match.” He paused and looked at his old squire.
“You are a lucky man, Roland Inness.”
“Lucky beyond compare, my lord.”
Sir Roger laid his good hand on Roland’s shoulder.
“And she’s a lucky girl.”
A Christ’s Mass Gift
It was Christ’s Mass when Friar Tuck reached the edge of Sherwood Forest. He sat on a bench atop a large wagon piled high with a stinking mass of hay and manure. Over the past ten days, as he plotted a circuitous path northward from London that avoided the larger towns, he had grown used to the stench. The four mules that pulled the wagon over the frozen road seemed untroubled by the smell.
In his meeting with William Marshall in London, the Justiciar had listened carefully to Tuck’s plea for help and had offered what he could. It had taken time to arrange, but on the eighth day a messenger arrived at the house of Sir Bernard Waldgrave where Tuck had been given a place to sleep. The promised aid was waiting in a barn outside of the Aldgate.
He bid a quick farewell to his old mentor and hurried through the city. In a barn just a stone’s throw from the Aldgate, he found a wagon and a team of mules. In the wagon were weapons—broadswords, dirks, spears and some old dented shields—enough to arm twice Robin’s band in Sherwood. There was a tarp drawn over this precious cargo and at the far end of the barn there was a reeking mound that had been mucked out of the stalls.
Tuck did not hesitate. He reached for the pitchfork that was stuck, tines-first, into the mix and began to scoop the hay and manure onto the tarp. It took an hour of hard labour, but in the end he was certain no one would be anxious to inspect his wagon too closely.
On his journey north, he had avoided the most direct route to Nottingham through Leicester and headed due north on Ermine Street, the old Roman road that ran from London, through Lincoln, and on to York. This route ran to the east of Derbyshire and Nottinghamshire. Just north of Sleaford, he turned west onto rougher roads. He skirted Newark where the Sheriff of Nottingham still maintained a strong garrison and made his way, unmolested, into the deep woods north of Nottingham that had become his home. He did not have to go far before being challenged.
“Ho there, fat friar, what stinking mess have you brought into our beautiful forest?”
Tuck hauled in on the reins and the team of mules stopped in their tracks. He looked around and was not surprised to see no one. The leaves were off the oaks here, but there were cedar and other evergreens that provided ample places to watch the forest path unseen. But he didn’t really need to see who had hailed him. He had come to know that voice well.
“I’ve brought you a present for Christ’s Mass, Magnus Rask, and I’d wager my load smells more fragrant than you!”
Immediately, the big Dane stepped out from behind a fir tree and trotted down to meet the friar. Two other men broke cover but kept watch on the road. When Rask reached the wagon he wrinkled his nose.
“A shit wagon for a present, Tuck?” he asked with a grin. “Well, I suppose it’s exactly the sort of thing our friends in London would think suitable!”
Tuck grinned back.
“Oh, I think you will find this present most suitable, Magnus, but let’s get it into camp before we unwrap it.”
Rask crawled up beside him on the bench.
“Fair enough. The smell will hardly be noticeable amongst all the other fragrances of the camp. We’ve had another twenty men come in since you left and the place is getting ripe.”
Tuck snapped the reins and the mules obediently leaned into their traces.
***
Wagons were not often seen this deep in the forest and men began drifting into the clearing at first sight of it, their leader, Robin of Loxley, among them. Tuck reined in the mules at the edge of camp and Rask immediately singled out some of the youngest men to begin clearing away the dung and hay. With a good deal of loud groaning and complaining, four of them went to work. Bystanders offered encouragement and suggestions until the work was done. The filth cleared away, Tuck ordered them to pull back the tarp.
“Good God!”
Under the concealing mound of stable muck, Robin saw what William Marshall had sent them.
“Proper weapons, by God! No more staffs against lances. This is a most excellent gift for Christ’s Mass!” He turned to Tuck. “How many?”
“Over two hundred of various sorts, by my count.”
Robin’s eyes gleamed as he rummaged through the lances and swords. He saw an odd wooden handle protruding from the stack and dug out a single crossbow and held it high. The men who crowded around the wagon hooted and laughed.
“Does the Justiciar think we have a Genoese among our men?” Robin shouted gaily. Tuck smiled at the sight. After all they had endured since returning to England, it was good to see the young knight laugh again. Robin handed the crossbow to one of his men and turned to Rask.
“I leave it to you to issue these, Magnus. I will be considering how to make good use of them.”
R
ask nodded and turned to the men.
“Clear away, all of ye. I’ll pass these out after I’ve made an accounting.” The men started to move off.
“Raymond Langum, you can put that sword back where you got it!” The miscreant sheepishly removed the blade he had tucked in his shirt and dropped it in the wagon.
Robin turned to Tuck.
“Tell me of your visit to London, Tuck. This gift is most welcome, but how stands the country? What is Marshall doing and what will he want from us in exchange for these weapons?’
Tuck nodded.
“It’s about as bad as we feared. The barons in the far north are staunch for the King as are the Earls of Norfolk, Oxford and Chester. Those in Yorkshire and Lincoln are fence sitters, though they are apparently buying peace from the Prince. Most of the Marcher Lords, with the exception of Earl Ranulf, are committed to John. We know where the Earl of Derby stands.”
“Up the Prince’s arse, when last I looked,” Robin said, dryly, “but what other news do you have? If we are to be proper outlaws, we should be better informed.”
Tuck laughed.
“This news will please you. Marshall tells me our two young comrades from Cheshire made it safely home with their message for the Queen.”
“Roland and Declan? I’d wondered about those two! It good to know they are safe and sound.”
“Well, sound enough, I’m sure, but safe is another matter. It seems the Earl of Chester was charged with treason soon after we took ship for the Holy Land. He lost his city to William de Ferrers, but somehow got it back with help from our two young friends. Now the army that bottled us up in Nottingham Castle is besieging Chester.”
They had heard rumours that, when the mercenary army marched west out of Sheffield, they had ravaged the high country and then turned southwest toward Chester. They had assumed Chester might be the target, but now that was confirmed. Both men had keen memories of the suffering that went with a siege.
“God watch over our friends and the people of Chester,” Robin said.
“Amen,” said Tuck.
The two men had been walking across the clearing as Tuck reported on his journey to London. The burly monk noticed that the camp had grown in the month he had been gone.
“They are still coming,” he said.
“Aye, a few more every week. Another fortnight and we’ll be two hundred strong. And with these weapons, we may be able to do more than just raid grain barns, but tell me—what does Marshall want in exchange for his help?”
Tuck shrugged.
“He wants us to make mischief for John’s men here in Nottinghamshire.”
“Well that will be easy enough, but surely there’s more.”
“Aye, there is. Marshall asked me, if the crown were in the balance, would we come to his aid, if summoned.”
“And you said…”
“I said yes, of course.”
The King’s Ransom
Walter of Coutances stepped off the sailing cog at the dock in Harfleur to find a carriage and driver waiting for him in the port town. It was the first day of January in the Year of our Lord, 1193. The driver had been ordered to wait for his arrival and to fetch him whenever he should return from Germany. In two hours he was standing before Eleanor.
“The bargaining was hard, your grace.”
“I expected no less, Walter. Tell me.”
“The ransom has been reduced to one hundred thousand marks—still a ruinous sum, and the Emperor wants Richard to provide a fleet and an army to help him take Sicily back from the usurper Tancred.”
Eleanor felt her shoulders sag. The outrageous price for the King’s return had been reduced by a third, but it would still pauper the kingdom. As for the Emperor’s ridiculous demand that Richard help him take Sicily, she cared not a whit. It was a promise easily made and just as easily broken once the King was released..
“Very well, Walter. You’ve done as well as could be expected with that greedy German. Prepare me a proclamation to be sent to every nobleman, merchant and bishop in the realm. You may handle the details of the assessments, but I want the silver brought to London and I want it there by the feast of Saint Matthias.”
The Archbishop gasped.
“Your grace! That is but six weeks from now.”
Eleanor fixed him with a withering look.
“I can count, your excellency. The more time we give them, the more they will find ways to shirk their duty. You must give them no time and brook no excuses. Our realm cannot afford any delay in this. I fear we may already be too late.”
Walter of Coutances had no answer for that. The Queen was right. Any delay in getting the King released would begin to raise suspicions that he would not be freed at all. John, who had been proclaiming that Richard was dead for a year, now was spreading the rumour that the Emperor would never let his brother go. Time truly was no friend of those loyal to the King. He bowed his head in submission.
“It shall be done, your grace.”
Eleanor nodded. She felt sympathy for the man. The task she had given him was grievous and would win him no friends, but it was at times like this that a man’s loyalties were truly tested. She knew that the Archbishop would not flinch.
“Have the ransom deposited in the crypts beneath Saint Paul’s. It’s the most secure place in London, next to the Tower, which my younger son currently occupies. Advise Marshall that I hold him responsible for keeping it secure. I will return to London a week before the final collection is done and will sail with the silver to the Emperor’s court in Speyer. You will arrange for a ship and crew.”
“As you wish, your grace.”
Eleanor stood, signalling the end of the session. The Archbishop bowed and turned to go, then heard her speak softly.
“We must all hang on a little longer, Walter.”
***
From one end of the Angevin Empire to the other, there was an outcry over the Queen’s proclamation. Never had such a demand been made on the coffers of the church or the purses of the nobility and there was resistance. But Eleanor was unmoved. Reluctant princes of the church and resistant barons were browbeaten and threatened and by the middle of January the silver began to flow into London from every part of the realm.
By the end of the month, the crypt beneath Saint Paul’s held the greatest treasure ever assembled in England. Wagons from Cornwall and Essex, ships from Bordeaux and Nantes had all disgorged a staggering fortune—all of which would be needed to buy back Richard from the Holy Roman Emperor. Only a final shipment from York remained. When it arrived, the ransom would be complete.
***
A mile to the west of Saint Paul’s cathedral, Archdeacon Herbert Poore listened to the report of his agent.
“They have twenty-six tons of silver in the crypts, your excellency, with nine more expected from York. The Queen is still expected to arrive in three days—to count it herself, I suppose. She intends to sail with the ransom to Germany.”
The French spymaster shook his head.
“I wouldn’t have thought it possible. One hundred thousand marks! That she wolf Eleanor has so frightened the church and the nobles that they have actually raised the entire sum! The Prince is in a panic and I can hardly blame him.”
“What will he do, excellency? If this silver reaches the Emperor, John is finished.”
“You are quite correct. I have advised him to break off the siege of Chester and bring his mercenaries to London. Chester can wait. If the ransom is delivered and Richard returns, John will be lucky to keep his head.”
“And what of us, excellency? I am not suspected and as for our clerk, they have not managed to track him past the brothel—or so say our watchers. Could we not survive Richard’s return?”
“You were not here during the days of King Henry’s rule. Now there was a man who knew how to be a king! It was a miracle I survived those days. I lost a dozen agents right here in London. And if Richard returns, I fear those dark days will as well. We need John to
forestall that. We have worked too hard to place a crown on that weak limb of the Plantagenet tree to see it all fail now.” The man paused and wiped a thin froth of spittle from his lips.
“Eleanor is the key. Without her, the resistance to John would have long since collapsed. Come back to me on the day she arrives in London. There is a man who has been waiting to make history. I think his day has come round.”
***
Walter of Coutances had spent the month of January sending off harsh demands to nobles both rich and poor, while William Marshall took on the task of protecting the growing hoard of silver. The Lord of Striguil ordered every man who owed him allegiance to come to London armed and ready for a fight. He worried that he had stripped his defences along the Welsh border to the bone, but there was no help for that.
Loyal men such as the Earl of Arundel and the Earl of Norfolk sent what troops they could spare and by the middle of the month, Marshall could count on over three hundred knights and men-at-arms within the walls of London to secure the growing ransom. This force maintained an uneasy balance with the large garrison of the Tower that was loyal to John, but hardly a day passed without some provocation in the streets and alleyways of the capital. Men died on both sides, but open warfare had not erupted—yet.
On the last day of January, the Queen arrived as promised from Tancarville. Marshall met her at the Billingsgate docks with a hundred armed men.
“Your grace, it is good to have you home again.”
Eleanor pulled her cape tight around her as a nasty wind blew off the waters of the Thames. As she stepped onto the gangplank she looked around at the show of force on the docks, then took the Justiciar’s hand as she set foot back in England for the first time in a year.
“It’s good to see you, William. You’ve no doubt heard that Philip has officially declared war on us. He sent a letter directly to Richard letting him know. He must have gloated over every word. He will no doubt take the Vexin, but there is nothing to be done about that now. How stand things here in London?”