by Wayne Grant
“Damn all the English…” he said and toppled backwards, landing at the feet of the Queen. He jerked and tried to rise. Eleanor of Aquitaine brought the iron poker down with authority on the man’s head. His movements stopped. Millicent felt her head swim. She heard the Queen calling for help. She sank down to the floor, just now feeling the pain in her wounded shoulder. Eleanor rushed over and sat on the floor beside her.
Outside, in the hall, Millicent heard shouts as the two dead guards were discovered. There was thunder on the stairs and she heard the Queen call for a physician. Someone was ripping the sleeve from her dress and binding up her arm. She thought it was Jamie Finch. Then everything went dark.
Thirty Five Tons of Silver
It was nearing midnight when William Marshall called a halt. His bone-weary column of men had been marching since dawn and the weaker among them had begun to fall by the side of the road. Those who had remained in ranks now stumbled off the road and simply curled up on the ground to fall into exhausted sleep. They had reached the outskirts of Dunstable, still a day and half march from London.
Marshall had sent a rider ahead to inform the Queen of his victory over John’s forces near Towcester. It had been a complete rout, with no little slaughter of the mercenaries that had plagued the Midlands for three years. After the battle, Marshall’s men counted over six hundred enemy dead. Most of the bodies lay on the muddy slope below the defensive line, pierced by longbow shafts.
Marshall had called off the pursuit by late in the day. Killing mercenaries was a useful endeavour, but he did not know how things stood in the capital or if the precious silver in the crypts of Saint Paul’s was still secure. So they had let the remnants of Prince John’s great mercenary army slip away.
Marshall ordered the wounded who could ride, Sergeant Billy among them, to be mounted on the tired horses and began the long march back to London. They had pushed hard for two days, from dawn to midnight, and the strain was showing on every man.
Near the rear of the column, William de Ferrers staggered off the road and sat down. His hands were bound and his legs felt like dead weights. He had never walked this far in his life. The two guards who had watched him all the long day and night sat down facing him. One had a hook for a hand and the other was missing an ear.
Invalids.
He wished he had never heard the word. To be under the control of creatures like these two was an insult hard to tolerate. He was the Earl of Derby! Still, being taken prisoner was better than the alternative. During the march, he had tried not to dwell on the terror he had felt in that frozen field when he realized that all of his skill with the blade would not be enough to save his life.
When he had seen Marshall appear, he had fallen back on an ancient law of the realm. Any noble, accused of any crime, could insist that his case be heard by the monarch. It had been a custom of the English since the days of Alfred the Great. He had prayed that Marshall’s well-known reputation for honour would not allow him to ignore his plea—and his prayer had been answered.
But now he would have to face the judgment of Richard himself and that gave him little comfort. He had seen men lose their heads on Tower Hill and the thought that he might join them made his stomach turn. Still, he was alive for now rather than dead at the hands of Roland Inness. He curled up on the cold ground and tried to find sleep.
***
Sir Geoffrey Kent was in a quandary. He was Constable of the Tower of London and commander of the garrison, made so by Prince John the year before. For most of his year in command, the Prince had made his residence in the White Tower. That suited Sir Geoffrey. He was a competent soldier, but had no sense of politics at all. The fickle moods of the Londoners and the shifting factions within the nobility of England were a mystery to him. He had been happy to leave such things to Prince John and simply follow the man’s orders.
Now the city was awash in politics and it had been two months since the Prince had decamped from London to Windsor. To be sure, he received frequent instructions from his master, but with John not on the scene, these orders often seemed at odds with what Kent was seeing in the streets of the capital. And now he had received an order from the Prince that chilled him.
He was to seal off the city and, under no circumstance, was he to allow William Marshall and the men under his command to enter its walls. Further, he was to use whatever force necessary to seize the silver currently stored in the crypts of Saint Paul’s.
Kent could understand the timing of this order. As the silver had begun to accumulate through January, William Marshall had called in every loyal man he could to guard it. But a week ago, the Earl had stripped his forces in the city to the bone to march off and meet the Prince’s army on the road from Chester. There were now less than one hundred men loyal to Marshall left to guard the treasure. Without doubt, the thing could be done. He had over three hundred men—more than enough to do it, but the politics of it had him tied in knots.
Word had reached him that Marshall had beaten the mercenaries and was marching back to London. There were also rumours that an assassination attempt on the Queen had been foiled. In the city, crowds seemed to be congregating wherever two streets met. The merchants of London might be for John, but the lower classes still seemed to revere Richard. The situation was simply too complex for him to sort out. So he fell back on duty. The Prince was his master and had delivered an order. He would follow it.
Sir Geoffrey dispatched a hundred men to secure the seven gates of the city and mustered two hundred fifty more to march on Saint Paul’s. He formed them up in a column, four abreast and led them out of the Tower and into the streets of London.
***
“They are coming, your grace.”
The Queen nodded to Sir Nevil.
“How many?”
“Two hundred fifty. Kent has sent the rest to secure the gates.”
“Any news of Marshall?”
“Aye, your grace. A rider made it through the Newgate not ten minutes ago. The Earl was at Dunstable two nights ago. He could be here by late in the day.”
“So, he won’t be here in time.”
“No, your grace.”
“Very well, can you stop them with what you have?”
“My men will fight to the last, your grace, but if they are determined to have it, they’ll be dragging that silver out over our dead bodies.”
Millicent sat next to the Queen. It had been two days since the assassination attempt. She had lost considerable blood from the knife wound she’d received that day, but had rebounded quickly. The man who had stabbed her, Father Malachy, did not fare as well. He’d been tossed in an unmarked pauper’s grave across the Thames. As for the girl, Mary Cullen, she had been questioned under duress and had not revealed the names of any other French agents.
“It turns out the girl is the Archbishop’s illegitimate daughter—the product of a young man’s indiscretion,” the Queen told her with a world-weary sigh. “The Archbishop is mortified. He thought he had done right by the girl, but he never acknowledged to anyone that she was his own—for understandable reasons. It seems that ate at her, so she betrayed him.”
Millicent was stunned. Mary Cullen had completely taken her in. That the Queen’s own spymaster had been equally cozened did not make her own failure any easier to accept. It was a failure that had come within seconds of costing the Queen her life. But Eleanor seemed not to have lost confidence in Walter of Coutances or her. Now, faced with a new crisis, she turned to Millicent.
“What shall we do, my dear?”
“What else is there to do, your grace. We fight.”
***
Sir Geoffrey Kent’s column marched west on Tower Street until it intersected with Watling Street. He turned right and headed northwest toward the city centre and Saint Paul’s. From the moment they tramped out of the Tower, crowds of Londoners had gathered to gape at them. Women leaned out of second floor windows to watch them pass and small boys marched along pretending to be s
oldiers themselves.
As they passed through the market district, the taverns emptied out and the lower classes of London began to hoot and make rude noises as they passed. A few, already in their cups, thought to go further. One man leapt out of the crowd and grabbed a helmet from the head of a man in the outer file. A sergeant knocked him senseless with the butt of a lance and retrieved the helmet. A ripple of angry murmurs ran through the crowd.
As the column passed Bread Street, the magnificent spike of the Saint Paul’s steeple was visible above the buildings ahead. Sir Geoffrey was relieved. The crowds were growing and he did not like the mood of these Londoners. Shouts and insults rained down from all sides, though no one was bold enough to try to halt the advance. At last the column emerged onto the square where the great cathedral stood.
Sir Geoffrey saw a double line of men, bristling with pikes, arrayed in an arc to protect the entrance to the crypts. He had no doubt that more men were inside. He had held out hope that his display of overwhelming force would make bloodshed unnecessary, but that hope died when he saw Sir Nevil Crenshaw standing at the centre of the line. He knew the taciturn knight and thought it likely he would die before surrendering.
So be it.
He nodded to his two sergeants and they began bellowing orders. Files broke off in both direction and began to form up to attack. Sir Geoffrey marched across the square and stopped ten feet from Sir Nevil.
“Stand aside, sir!” he demanded loudly. Behind him, he could hear the buzz of the crowd grow. Sir Nevil met his gaze.
“Or what, sir?”
“Or I will order my men to attack. As you can see, you have no hope of stopping us. If you resist, we will take the silver and your men will have died for nothing.”
“Except their honour!”
This was a new voice that came from somewhere behind Crenshaw. The men at his back edged aside and from the steps leading into the crypts, Eleanor of Aquitaine emerged. She wore a splendid, shimmering robe of purple silk and a coat lined with ermine. Atop her head was a crown. The buzz from the Londoners grew into an excited roar.
“Do you know who I am Constable?” she asked.
Kent swallowed hard. Eleanor of Aquitaine had been Queen since before he was born. She stood there, withered with age, but with eyes that were not old. They had the cold look of a raptor. Behind him, the crowd began to chant the Queen’s name.
“I do, your grace.”
“Good, then you will explain to me why you have come to steal the ransom money intended to free your rightful King?”
“I…I…the Prince…”
“My son. Yes, he is a prince—but not a king. I speak for the King. Do you doubt it?”
Sir Geoffrey swallowed hard. The chant from the crowd made it hard to hear.
“Eleanor! Eleanor! Eleanor!”
His shoulders slumped.
“No, your grace.”
“Good! Now, it would please me if you would march your men back to the Tower and stay there until I give you leave to do otherwise.”
Sir Geoffrey Kent bowed his head. If John wanted the treasure in the crypts, he would have to deal with his mother himself! He turned to his sergeants.
“Form ‘em up!”
The crowd cheered.
***
Late the following day, Marshall’s column staggered into London through the Newgate. Sir Nevil had turned out a small guard of honour to line both sides of Watling Street just inside the gate. When the last man passed through, the Earl called a halt. The Queen, who had repaired to Westminster Palace after the threat to the ransom had been eliminated, was there to greet them. Beside her stood Millicent de Laval.
As the dirty column of men trooped into the city, Millicent saw a tall man walking beside Sir William. It took her a moment to realize it was her father. She had known that Sir Roger had survived the Crusade and had escaped capture with the King. The Queen had told her as much. He had sailed for home with Eleanor’s blessing, but there had been no further news of him. She had not expected to see him here.
Sir Roger looked up just in time to see a young woman, who bore a remarkable resemblance to his wife, launch herself at him. Millicent threw her arms around his neck and began to sob. Sir Roger wanted to comfort his daughter, to tell her that his heart was so full it felt like it would burst, but he was reduced to sobs along with her. For a long time they clung together. Finally he drew away.
“Ye’ve grown, lass”, he said through tears.
“And you’ve turned grey,” she said with just a hint of sadness in her voice, “but still the handsomest man in England!”
“And you—you’ve become a spy?”
Millicent laughed at that. She saw Marshall standing to the side watching them. She turned to the Earl.
“It was Parrot, my lord. Your clerk was the spy, though now he’s dead.”
“Parrot, a spy?” Marshall asked, incredulous, “and dead?”
“Killed by one of his own. But don’t feel you’ve been the only one cozened, my lord. Speak to the Archbishop. It was the spy he harboured that had yours killed!” Marshall just shook his head and left the two of them to their reunion. He had to report to the Queen.
On down the column, sergeants were issuing orders as men fell out of ranks, some simply sitting down in the street. Sir Nevil had organized provisions for the men and servants with ale and bread and sausages moved among them. Roland gratefully took a cup of ale and wound his way through the ranks of the Invalid Company toward the head of the column.
They saw each other at the same moment. He let his cup fall. She turned to Sir Roger.
“Father…”
He nodded.
“Go on, Millie.”
They met in the middle of the Invalids. The sweating, blood spattered men who had fought at Watling Street gave back respectfully, as the man who led them and the young woman they revered clung to each other.
***
Five days after Marshall’s column entered the Newgate, a column of another sort passed through the Bishopsgate. Twelve wagons, laden with the wealth of the north and freshly cleansed of dung and hay rumbled into the city, escorted by the outlaws of Sherwood and the men of the Invalid Company who Marshall had sent out to find them. Roland Inness and Declan O’Duinne rode beside Sir Robin and Tuck as they passed beneath the arch of the gate. For a week, the men of Nottinghamshire would be the toast of every tavern in London.
***
The bellowing of three score and four oxen disturbed the dawn and echoed off the north wall of St. Paul’s Cathedral. Eight huge wagons stood in the street just north of the church. Each of these wagons were stacked high with chests that now bore the seal of the Queen of England, with two armed men in front and two in back. Every street and alleyway between the cathedral and the dock at Billingsgate was guarded by well-armed men—some of whom, a fortnight before, had been outlaws.
With a snapping of bullwhips, the wagons lurched forward, the column led by twenty men from the Invalid Company. Roland and Declan rode in front with drawn swords. Sergeant Billy and Jamie Finch brought up the rear. After a long cold spell, the weather was clear and almost spring-like in London as the wagons rumbled over the cobblestone street. It was early morning, but the sound had roused a considerable number of Londoners to watch the procession move the greatest treasure ever assembled in Britain down to the docks.
With the hard looking men of the Invalid Company challenging any man who might wish to impede the march, the trip down to Billingsgate went quickly. The Queen and Marshall had preceded them and were seated on high-backed chairs on the forecastle of the cog that would transport the silver to Speyer. There was no mistaking this vessel.
It was the Sprite.
Master Sparks stood proudly by the steering oar at the stern and waved at the two young knights as they dismounted. Both hurried to the edge of the dock and vaulted over the railing to the deck.
“You two should wipe yer boots ‘for fouling up me deck.” The voice c
ame from below. They looked into the hold and saw Boda preparing to supervise the proper storage of the silver.
“Boda!” both shouted in unison.
“I am the very same. Now tell me, will you lads be joining us on this voyage? I’ll want to keep a pail handy if Master Inness will be on board. I recall he loses his breakfast if the seas are not calm.”
Roland laughed, remembering his misery the first time the Sprite had encountered swells in the open ocean.
“That won’t be necessary Mister Boda. We are staying on dry land, but twenty of my men will be along and I cannot vouch for the strength of their stomachs.”
Boda climbed out of the hold and slapped each of the men on the shoulder.
“Come along. Master Sparks will want to see ye’.”
They made their way to the sterncastle where Sparks stood—a man fully in his element.
“My boys!” he shouted. “Well met indeed. Are ye signin’ on for another voyage? I’ve room for two more on the crew.”
“No, Master Sparks,” Roland said as he clasped the man’s meaty hand. “We’ve other duties to attend to. Just see that this cargo gets where it’s bound.”
Sparks hooted.
“When have I ever failed to do that?”
***
It took an hour for the crew of the Sprite and the Invalids to move the treasure chests from the wagons and position them properly in the hold of vessel. Patch had been given command of the score of men from the Invalids who would guard the treasure until it was delivered to the Emperor.
The loading complete, Roland and Declan climbed back over the railings and on to the dock. Marshall stood there patiently, waiting for the ship to cast off, ever a slave to duty. A moment later Sparks gave the order and the bow of the Sprite caught the current and began to drift downstream. Lining the railings were the men of the Invalid Company, armed to the teeth. Watching over it all was Eleanor of Aquitaine.