The Ransomed Crown

by Wayne Grant

  Marshall shrugged.

  “Difficult, your grace. I have just enough men to keep John’s garrison from doing anything rash regarding the ransom, but not much more than that. With your permission, we will be lodging you with the Archbishop. We decided last night that it would be safer there. His house is within sight of Saint Paul’s and can be more easily guarded. The palace at Westminster would require half my men to secure.”

  The Queen was unruffled.

  “I spent fifteen years locked up in a nunnery, William. All I need is a bed and a place to sit, but before I settle on the nest, take me to the church. I want to see it.”

  Marshall knew she had no interest in admiring the great cathedral. The woman wanted to see with her own eyes what was being stored in the crypts beneath.

  “Of course, your grace.”

  He helped her into her carriage and mounted his horse. At his command, the armed escort began the short trip up from the river to the higher ground occupied by the church. Marshall led the column of men around to the north side of the building. The entrance to the crypts was here. The Queen didn’t wait for Marshall to help her as she stepped out onto the street, narrowly missing a great mound of horse dung.

  Marshall dismounted and extended his arm. She took it and together they crossed the church yard, passing through a phalanx of armed men left there to safeguard the silver. All bowed as she passed. As they made their way down the short flight of stone steps to the underground chamber, Marshall saw how the lines in her face had deepened in the months since he’d last seen her. William Marshall might have spent his adult years amid the intrigues of the royals, but he was a simple man with a happy family of his own. He couldn’t imagine what this aging Queen endured having her two remaining sons at sword points.

  Inside the crypts were more men, their weapons stacked by the entrance for easy retrieval. Men did not go armed in the house of God, even into the crypts. Marshall slipped off his sword belt and handed it to one of his men. Behind them, a bishop came hurrying down the steps, hastily adjusting his robes.

  “Your grace, God be praised your journey was a safe one,” he managed as he fought to catch his breath.

  “Thank you, your excellency. Your King will not forget the good service the clergy of Saint Paul’s has done on his behalf.”

  “Of course, your grace, of course. He is the anointed of God!”

  Marshall thought he heard a quiet snort from the Queen, but couldn’t be sure. Two of the guards appeared with flaming torches and led them further into the gloom. Huge pillars loomed up on either side supporting the foundation of the massive structure above. The floor was earth and in the shadows, where the torchlight couldn’t reach, small creatures scurried about.

  The Queen paid no attention to such. At length, they reached the southern end of the long subterranean chamber. Stacked against the wall were dozens of large chests, all closed and sealed with the wax emblem of the Archbishop of Rouen. Marshall leaned in close and whispered to Eleanor.

  “Walter weighs and records the contents of each before sealing them.”

  The Queen nodded.

  “How close are we?”

  “We have only one shipment left. It is to depart York in three days under heavy guard.”

  “I confess, William. I wasn’t sure it could be done. Open one.”

  Marshall motioned to one of their escorts who secured his torch in a notch in the wall and broke the seal on the nearest chest. When he drew back the lid, torchlight reflected off stacks of silver chalices and ciboria—the instruments of communion.

  “How will they perform the Eucharist?” she asked.

  Behind her a new voice spoke up.

  “Tin plates and wooden cups I suppose, your grace.” Marshall and the Queen turned to find Walter of Coutances standing behind them, slightly out of breath.

  “I doubt Jesus will mind.”

  ***

  On the day of the Queen’s arrival, Archdeacon Poore’s agent informed him that Eleanor was not staying, as expected, at the Palace of Westminster, but would take residence with the Archbishop of Rouen. Lodging her near Saint Paul’s and the ransom would make executing his plan more difficult in some ways, but simpler in others. His mind was already sorting through the possibilities. He would need time to gather information—there must be nothing left to chance! But it would be over a fortnight until the last of the treasure reached London. He had time.

  “What of our man close to Marshall,” he asked his agent. “Can he be of use?”

  “Excellency, I think that the clerk would faint if Eleanor of Aquitaine blinked at him.”

  “Very well. You understand that when this deed is done, there will be no stone unturned to ferret out our network. From your description, your clerk would not stay silent under torture.”

  “I will attend to it, excellency.”

  “See that you do.” The elderly prelate rose and beckoned for the agent to follow. “Now, I want you to meet the man I’ve chosen to kill the Queen.”

  ***

  The day after the Queen’s return to London, a rider on a worn out horse arrived from the north with urgent word for Walter of Coutances. It was a message from his spy in York. The Archbishop sent a courier to fetch William Marshall and when his fellow Justiciar arrived they called upon the Queen.

  “There is treachery afoot, your grace,” the Archbishop said. “I have a man close to the Sheriff of Yorkshire. This man has embarrassing secrets—secrets that, if known, would ruin him. I keep his secrets—as long as he does my bidding. He has been my eyes in York ever since and his reports have all proven accurate and useful. I’ve just received his latest message.”

  Marshall furrowed his brow. For not the first time, he recognized what a ruthless man Walter of Coutances could be. His fellow Justiciar unfolded a piece of vellum.

  “My man writes: ‘Your excellency, etcetera, etcetera. Sir Alfred de Wendenal, Sheriff of Nottingham has been ordered by his grace, Prince John, to seize a shipment of silver leaving York for London. Sir Hugh Bardolf, the Sheriff of Yorkshire is aware of this order and has been persuaded to turn over the treasure without resistance. They will blame the theft on the outlaws of Sherwood.” The archbishop carefully refolded the message and slipped it into his pocket.

  “There are other details concerning the exchange, but that is the gist of it.”

  He turned to Eleanor.

  “I have no time to get a warning to loyal men in York to stop this shipment before it leaves the city, your grace, and de Wendenal has more than enough men in his garrisons at Nottingham and Newark to take the silver, even if that bastard Bardolf was inclined to fight for it.”

  The Queen turned to Marshall.

  “My lord, I presume you could not march your men north in time to secure these wagons.”

  Marshall shook his head.

  “No, your grace. Most of my men are foot soldiers. Even if I was to march today, I could hardly reach Leicester by the time the column from York enters Nottinghamshire.”

  “How much do you reckon is in this shipment?”

  The Archbishop sighed.

  “Nine tons of silver I’ve been told, your grace. It’s the gleaning from all of the northern regions and a quarter of the whole. To replace that would take months—if it can be done at all.”

  The Queen turned back to her advisors.

  “What then are we to do, my lords? We do not have months! Are we finished? Has John won?”

  “No!” William Marshall slapped the table in front of him. “I cannot get my men there in time, your grace, but if they intend to blame this outrage on the outlaws of Sherwood, then we will turn this lie on its head. These ‘outlaws’ are loyal to the King and they owe me a debt.”

  The Queen looked at him sceptically. She had not heard of any loyal forces in that county—not since the fall of the Nottingham Castle.

  “Who are these outlaws you wish to entrust with the King’s ransom, William?”

  “I believe yo
u know their leaders, your grace. Sir Robin of Loxley and Father Augustine brought you a message from the King over a year ago. They fought to defend Nottingham Castle and managed to escape its fall. They have raised a band of peasants in the forest of Sherwood and I have sent them weapons. They are obliged to answer my summons when I send it.”

  The Queen’s eyes widened.

  “I remember those two! The young one was handsome and the friar was stout. The message they brought from Richard was distressing and I’ll confess that, beset as we were, I practically invited them to turn outlaw and make life difficult for John in the Midlands! It was a terrible thing to suggest, but I was desperate. I never thought they would take my words to heart.”

  Marshall shook his head.

  “Your grace, I’ve spoken to the friar. They are loyal men, but this uprising of theirs is not for you or the King—it’s for the starving people of Nottinghamshire.”

  Eleanor scowled.

  “I’m not fond of peasant insurrections, William—for any reason. They too often end with people like us torn apart by mobs, but these outlaws of Sherwood appear to be the only tools at hand.”

  “Aye, your grace.”

  Eleanor gave a little sigh.

  “Send your summons.”

  William the Marshall

  Prince John sat in the round tower keep his father had built at Windsor and listened to a chill wind howl around the battlements. The mournful sound matched his mood. Just three months past, the crown had been within his grasp and now it all seemed to be slipping away.

  Philip, that most devious of allies, had failed to honour his promise of troops to help him seize the throne. Without the French army at his back, taking the country by force was not going to be possible. His mother had rallied just enough of the barons to thwart him in that ambition. If that fool de Ferrers had been able to retake Chester, it would have been a needed boost to his finances and his prestige, but six months of besieging the place had not forced Ranulf to surrender.

  As the end of January approached, the unthinkable appeared to be happening. His mother, against all reason, was on the verge of raising the enormous ransom needed to free Richard. The thought of his brother’s return made him shiver more than the cold that seeped into the stones of the castle. He had no doubt Richard knew of his treason and would be thirsting for vengeance. The best he could hope for if he fell into his brother’s hands would be a quick beheading.

  There were worse ways to die.

  Another gust caused one of the shutters to bang, startling him. He stood and paced around the room, thinking furiously. Philip had suggested that they outbid Eleanor to gain custody of Richard, had even pledged five thousand marks of his own, but the price was one hundred thousand and his own coffers held barely enough to keep paying his mercenary army. There was only one source for that sum—the ransom itself.

  The idea had been tumbling around in his mind for weeks now. His spies had kept him informed as William Marshall scraped together a force to guard the silver under Saint Paul’s. He had been tempted to have his garrison assault the place and seize the hoard, but the numbers were too even and the outcome too uncertain. If he were going to snatch Richard’s ransom away, he would need an overwhelming force in London and there was only one such force at his command.

  He called his servant and sent for a courier. Within the hour, his order was making its way toward Chester. This would be his last chance and he would stake all on the outcome. If he could gain the ransom, he would gladly pay the Emperor his asking price and just as gladly turn Richard over to Philip. It would be the death of his brother, but there would be no blood on his hands.

  ***

  Earl Ranulf flushed, embarrassed as his stomach growled loudly, the sound amplified inside the stone chamber. Chester had been on half rations since the feast of All Saints and the Earl had set the example, scrupulously taking his meagre ration of bread, the same portion as the meanest stable boy or washer woman. He had kept a brave face, but his stomach was not impressed. It was now the third day of February and he was hungry.

  The sight before him was distressing, though not surprising. Lady Catherine had requested his presence that morning and, together, they had gone to the granary where the last of the barley was stored. He looked into the gloom and could see that the stone coffer that had been overflowing in August, now had a forlorn drift of grain in one corner.

  “How long?” he asked.

  Lady Catherine did not hesitate. She had kept careful watch over the food supplies for over six months and could tell at a glance what a day’s half ration would consume.

  “Three days, my lord.”

  The Earl’s shoulders slumped for a moment, but he recovered.

  “I will not see my people starve, my lady.”

  “You will surrender, my lord?”

  “No, I will fight.”

  ***

  The Earl of Chester held his council of war that night. Sir Roger de Laval, Roland Inness and Declan O’Duinne were there along with Patch and Thorkell.

  “In three days, there will be no bread. I will not surrender the city without striking a blow. Tomorrow, we will march out and offer battle to the mercenaries. Perhaps we will win and the siege will be broken. Perhaps we will lose and our enemies will march over our bodies into an undefended city. God only knows. But I will not turn over this city to William de Ferrers while there is breath in my body. How say you?”

  “Aye,” said Sir Roger.

  “Aye,” said Roland.

  “I’d like a go at ‘em,” agreed Declan.

  “The Invalids will not surrender, my lord,” said Patch.

  “The Danes will not be slaves,” said Thorkell. “We will fight.”

  Ranulf rose to his feet.

  “It will be my honour to lead you. We will assemble at the Eastgate an hour before dawn.”

  ***

  The plan was straightforward. At first light, the Earl would lead his mounted force through the Eastgate and strike the mercenary positions that guarded the road beyond the open fields there. Once the cavalry had cleared the gate, the infantry would follow and form a defensive line a hundred yards from the walls. On the walls above, the longbowmen of the Danes would stand ready to make any force attacking the defensive line pay a heavy price.

  Ranulf, backed by the Invalids and his other mounted men, would continue to attack and inflict damage on the enemy until they organized themselves to counterattack. Then all would fall back to the defensive line outside the walls of the town. It was hoped that the mercenaries, seeing the entire garrison marshalled in the open, would mass and attack. The men of Chester would be greatly outnumbered, but the eight score bowmen on the walls would even the odds a bit.

  It was still dark when the horsemen gathered in a thick column that stretched back from the Eastgate to the centre of town. All through the night, the temperature had been dropping and clouds had rolled in from the west. Sleet began to fall in flurries making a sound on the steel helmets of the riders like small beads bouncing off a marble floor.

  “Good weather for a dawn attack,” said Sir Roger, more to himself than to anyone nearby, but Roland heard him and turned to look at his old master.

  “They’ll be snug in their huts, my lord,” he said with a smile.

  “Cuddled together, they’ll be!” added Declan O’Duinne who sat his horse beside them in the column.

  Both young knights were grateful to have Sir Roger de Laval back. His broken arm was not fully healed, but he had regained most of the strength he had lost during his ordeal with the King. He looked ready for a fight.

  During Sir Roger’s month-long convalescence, they had slowly drawn out the story of the King’s capture and his own escape over the passes of the Alps. He had been found, collapsed in a snow bank, by a goatherd looking for a lost member of his flock and dragged back to a mountain hut. He’d spent a week there fighting off a fever that left him weak. When he had finally recovered enough to continue his jou
rney, the goatherd had demanded compensation.

  “He demanded Bucephalus!” Sir Roger said, as he told the story. “Thought he could use him in the spring for ploughing in the valley! I was not fit to walk, so he offered a swaybacked mule in exchange for the greatest warhorse ever sired.” He stopped, his eyes shining when he thought of his horse. “But the man had saved us both, so I had little choice. And I thought Buc might like living out his days eating dandelions up there in the mountain pastures. So I made the trade.”

  On this morning he sat astride a fine mount, but thought wistfully of his great warhorse in the faraway mountains. Earl Ranulf came down from the Eastgate where he had been talking to Thorkell and mounted. Roland glanced back down the line of Invalids. He nodded to Sir Edgar and to Patch and Sergeant Billy. They sat easy in their saddles, talking quietly and jesting. The Invalid Company was ready.

  It was very dark in the narrow street, but the sky above, despite the storm, seemed lighter. The Earl gave a quick signal and the great oak gates swung open. He rose on his stirrups and turned back to the column of men behind him. All were leaning forward in the saddle. He drew his sword and led them out into the storm.

  The column moved up the road at a canter. As they neared the tree line, the Earl put the spurs to his warhorse and the animal went to a gallop. His movements rippled back through the column as men urged their mounts to more speed and drew their swords. The hurtling mass of men and horses reached the spot where mercenary sentries had kept watch on the town since summer and found—nothing.

  ***

  Five days after the Queen’s arrival in London, word came that the mercenary army at Chester had broken off the siege and was marching on the capital. When Marshall informed the Queen, she seemed unsurprised by the news.

  “He’s missed his chance to take the crown by force, William. He’ll try for the silver now. I know John. We almost match his strength in London. He won’t risk his garrison against your men—not when he has another card to play. That’s why he’s recalled his mercenaries from Chester. He’s going to seize the ransom.”