by Robyn Young
Simon held on to the winch for a moment longer, then let go, the rope coiling back round sharply. He watched as Hugh hefted his shield. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I need to get to the bell.’
Hugh paused in the doorway, staring across the small stretch of torch-lit ground towards the arched opening that led into the opposite tower. Bending down, holding his shield up to cover his left side and head, he sucked in a breath, refusing to let his eyes look at the prone form of Ulf, his splinted leg splayed beside him. Hugh breathed a prayer, then launched himself into the open space between the towers. There was a shout above the breathless murmurs beyond the portcullis, followed a moment later by a sharp concussion in his left arm as something thumped into the shield. Hugh stumbled with the impact, then felt another strike, this time in his calf, followed by ferocious pain. He fell with a cry, the shield crashing down on top of him. Another arrow plunged into his thigh as he lay screaming. Under the rim of the shield, through eyes slitted with agony, he saw many men jumping down from the bridge on to the banks. His gaze flickered dimly over one in their midst, broad-shouldered and black-haired, wearing a fur-lined cloak. He was carrying a massive hammer in both hands and on his head was a band of scratched and dented gold. He looked like some warrior king, stepping out of the dark and distant past. Hugh felt someone grab him under the arms and twisted round to see Simon’s clenched face. Arrows lanced past as the guard hauled him back into the safety of the tower.
Hugh gritted his teeth and put his head back on the stone floor of the winch room, feeling sweat breaking out all over his body. He was freezing, except for the two bolts of fiery pain in his calf and thigh. ‘Upstairs,’ he hissed through his teeth. ‘Alert – the castle.’
Simon hesitated, staring at him, then disappeared up the tower stairs. Hugh lay gasping, hearing his footsteps fade. Nearer, were the dull thuds of hammers against stone. It sounded as though the tools had been muffled.
Reaching the guardroom, Simon halted, looking wildly around. Alert the castle how? He could shout, but it was unlikely anyone would hear him. His gaze fell on the fire. He went to it, gazing hopelessly at the bright flames, then caught sight of Ulf’s stick, still propped against the wall. Unfastening his belt with shaking hands, he hauled off his gambeson, which was padded with straw, and wrenched his undershirt over his head. Grabbing Ulf’s stick, he bundled the shirt around the top of it, then ripped open the gambeson. Crouching beside the basket of logs, his bare chest prickling in the heat, he stuffed straw and shards of kindling into the folds of the shirt. As he thrust the end of the stick into the flames, it caught, flaring yellow. Simon rose and raced up the steps to the tower top, cursing as the wind fanned the flames towards him, threatening to blow them out. He reached the top and crouched, swinging the beacon back and forth, as the twigs and straw went up and the material burned, showering his bare chest with cinders.
26
In the Tower’s inner ward, on a patch of ground by the orchards, a group of young men had gathered with their horses. Their winter cloaks were wrapped tight around them, long riding boots caked with mud, faces mottled by the cold. A few bore tethered birds of prey on their gloved hands. The knights carried speckled sakers from the Holy Land, the squires smoke-coloured lanners. Moving among the men were several girls, the hems of their gowns sodden. The wind snatched at their mantles and sent flurries of rust-coloured leaves scattering from piles that the servants in the orchards were trying vainly to sweep up. The sky over London was low and leaden, threatening more rain.
Autumn had arrived from out of tranquil September skies, the winds howling in ahead of a week-long deluge that drowned the shires of England. The Thames burst its banks, flooding a row of slaughterhouses and polluting the streets with a bloody sludge. The labourers of the Tower were kept busy mending a leak in the king’s bedchamber, where rainwater ruined a rug that had belonged to Eleanor. The damaged carpet had been the least of the king’s concerns, for the storms had struck the south coast just as the first half of his fleet set sail for Gascony. The treacherous wind blew half the departing ships back to Portsmouth and forced the rest to shelter down the coast at Plymouth. Nor was the inclement weather the only thing that had hampered Edward’s move towards France and his warmongering cousin. Following the spring parliament, the king turned to the Church to fund his campaign, but found the clergy unwilling to open their coffers for his cause. When Edward threatened to outlaw them, the Dean of St Paul’s crumbled in the face of his furious demands, but there was little doubt that the delay had enabled Philippe to gain a firmer hold over Gascony.
Robert glanced round from checking his stirrup lengths, hearing a peal of laughter. Two girls were behind him watching a servant chase the scurrying leaves with a broom. One, barely out of childhood, wore a dove-grey gown under a mantle lined with miniver that wisped about her pale neck. Elizabeth, the king’s youngest daughter, had inherited her father’s long limbs and her mother’s dark hair, strands of which had floated free from beneath her cowl and switched about her face. As Robert watched, she tugged one impatiently behind her ear and leaned over to whisper something to the older girl beside her, Helena, who had springy auburn hair and milky skin that was chapped a provocative red at her cheeks and lips. On her gloved hand was a merlin, its wings ruffled by the wind. The flame-haired girl, a daughter of the Earl of Warwick, was promised to a high-ranking knight of the king’s household, but for some weeks now Robert had been unable to take his eyes off her, despite quiet warnings from Humphrey. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a young man staring at him. The rangy, red-haired knight with a grim expression was Helena’s brother, Guy de Beauchamp, Warwick’s heir. Robert turned back to his horse, shortening the stirrup with a forceful wrench.
‘Are you ready, Sir Robert?’ Humphrey called, heading across. The tall knight had a skin of wine in one hand. He gestured at the expanse of muddy ground, where two posts had been erected. A thin rope was suspended between them from which dangled a small iron ring, invisible at this distance. ‘You have two chances, remember.’
Robert returned the knight’s goading grin. ‘That would be one less than you then, Sir Humphrey.’
Humphrey, who failed to lance the ring on his two tries, narrowed his eyes at the provocation as a few of the other knights laughed.
Edward, standing with their squires, clapped Robert on the back as he dug his foot into the stirrup. ‘Show these southerners what Scots are made of, brother,’ he murmured.
Robert swung up into the saddle and grasped the reins as Nes came forward to tighten the girth. The horse, a handsome roan charger called Hunter, was one of the swiftest, most responsive animals Robert had ever owned, a true joy to ride. But that good temperament had cost him, for horses of Hunter’s breeding did not come cheap and the sixty marcs he’d handed to the trader had seemed a huge sum. Convincing himself of the necessity of a suitable horse that would carry him into war in France, he had ignored his brother’s intimations that it was more to do with the fact that the sturdy-legged coursers and gentle palfreys they had brought from their grandfather’s stables had seemed lowly in comparison to the powerful French and Spanish-bred destriers of the English knights. Afterwards, Robert had dug deeper into his purse to buy new clothes for himself and his brother, more in accordance with the London fashion. Soon after the spring parliament, he had been granted his first audience by the king, who had welcomed his pledge to serve him in war, as his father and grandfather before him. Following this, Robert found himself invited to many subsequent royal councils and feasts. Moving within the higher circles of the king’s court, the effort to blend in with the other barons had seemed fitting.
Nes passed Robert his lance, which he took in his gloved hand. The soft leather was still smooth from lack of wear and he had to grip all the harder to keep the shaft in place.
‘Wait, Sir Robert!’ came a girlish voice from the crowd.
Robert looked round to see Princess Elizabeth, whom he’d heard affect
ionately referred to as Bess, wielding a fistful of white silk. It looked as though it had once been part of a veil. As he watched, the young princess stuffed the rumpled cloth into Helena’s hand with a furtive grin. Helena’s cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red and she shot the princess a furious glance, but stepped reluctantly out of the crowd. Robert felt his chest tighten as she held up the cloth and met his gaze. The merlin on her hand raised its wings in expectation of flight as Robert bent down to take the favour and Bess clapped laughingly. His fingers brushed against Helena’s when he grasped the silk and he wished to God he wasn’t wearing the gloves. She moved quickly back into the crowd, her head bowed, while he wrapped the fluttering length of silk around his lance shaft, ignoring the glare he knew Guy de Beauchamp was giving him. Steadying himself, Robert turned towards the distant posts and kicked hard at Hunter’s sides.
The servants in the orchard stopped sweeping to watch as Robert plunged down the field, lance raised into the canter, before being levelled for the gallop. Mud sprayed, splattering his new boots. The iron ring came up quickly, his focus narrowing on it. Robert’s fingers tightened around the shaft, the pad of his glove slipping against the wood as he rushed towards the posts, the silk favour billowing ahead of him. His mind filled with the image of Helena, arm raised, her sleeve slipping down to reveal more skin. She flashed through his thoughts only briefly, but it was enough to distract him. He lunged, a second too early. The tip of the lance grazed the iron circle, but didn’t enter it. Leaving the small ring swinging madly in his wake, Robert shot on past the posts, cursing. Slowing Hunter, he turned in a wide circle back down the mud-churned field towards the company.
Humphrey raised the wine skin. ‘One left!’ he called, laughing as Robert approached.
‘I’ll wager he makes the second,’ said Edward, turning to the knight, his eyes glinting with challenge.
Humphrey chuckled good-naturedly and shook his head, but Henry Percy, the Earl of Surrey’s grandson, nodded to Edward.
‘I’ll accept that wager,’ said the stocky, blond lord with his lazy smile. On his wrist was a handsome buzzard, its talons hooked over a thick glove. Henry motioned to Robert, who had pulled Hunter to a halt. ‘Ten pounds he doesn’t take the ring.’
Robert looked over at his brother and shook his head discreetly at the sum. Acting as lord of their English estates in the absence of his father, he had summoned three knights and five squires from Essex to serve him, along with his brother and their Scottish entourage, in the war in France. It was Robert’s duty to provide for them all on campaign and unwise wagers were the last thing he needed.
Edward, however, ignored his look. ‘Done,’ he told Henry Percy.
Some of the other knights clapped approvingly, eager for the sport. They had been training for months, all through the delay, and the spice added to their usual practice session was appreciated.
Unable to back down now the wager had been set, Robert turned his horse and moved into position, gritting his teeth and hefting the lance. Forcing all else from his mind, he waited for that single, perfect moment when everything, the horse beneath him, the lance in his hand, his gaze on that distant ring were aligned. When it came it felt like a push. He dug in his spurs and Hunter set off, racing down the centre of the field towards the posts. The wind stung his cheeks, but Robert didn’t take his gaze off the ring. He crouched forward, lance swinging down. Suddenly, a flash of white darted across his path. Hunter’s head jerked round at the motion. The horse missed the next step and came down hard, front hoof slipping in the mud. As the destrier smashed into the ground at furious speed, Robert was flung from the saddle. Tumbling over and over, Hunter’s scream of pain echoing behind him, he came to a shuddering stop.
After a few moments, Robert swayed up on to his hands, spitting blood and mud from his mouth. He could see his horse struggling to stand. His squires were running towards him, Nes heading straight for Hunter. Edward was sprinting with them, his face filled not with concern, but fury, fixed on two men and a woman who had appeared on the edge of the field. One was taller than the others, his sleek black hair swept back from his angular face. On Aymer de Valence’s wrist, swallowing down a piece of meat, was a white saker. Robert realised the flash of white that had spooked Hunter had been the rush of a bird’s wings.
‘What were you thinking, Aymer?’ demanded Humphrey, heading over as Robert swiped blood from his split lip.
‘I thought we were flying our birds today.’ Aymer’s tone was smooth, but he was looking at Robert as he spoke, his eyes bright with amusement. ‘I apologise, Sir Robert. I didn’t mean to distract you.’
Beside him, his sister, Joan de Valence, wore a delicate smirk, half hidden by her gloved hand. Robert’s gaze moved from Joan to the young man next to her with pallid skin and lank black hair, her new husband, John Comyn. He hadn’t even bothered to hide his mirth. It was plastered across his lean face.
The son of the Lord of Badenoch had arrived in London two months earlier with his father and other Scottish magnates, summoned by King Edward to do service in France for their English lands. It was said that Comyn, backed by his fellow Scots, told the king that none of them would serve in a foreign war unless he adhered to the provisions agreed at Birgham and left Balliol to rule his kingdom without English interference. Robert and the other knights didn’t know whether the king had accepted these terms. What they did know was that soon after, a hasty wedding had taken place at the Tower, between Comyn’s eighteen-year-old heir and Edward’s cousin, Joan, the daughter of the Earl of Pembroke. The growing closeness between the new brothers-in-law had turned the air between Robert and Aymer, who hadn’t warmed to him at all, even colder. He sensed the knight was resentful of his burgeoning friendship with Humphrey, but until now Aymer had vaunted his disapproval with nothing more than snide comments and snubs, all of which had been easy to ignore.
Edward stepped towards the three, wrathful at the cheap trick, which had wounded his brother and lost him the wager. ‘You cast that bird on purpose, Valence. Anyone can see that.’ His eyes flicked to John. ‘Take that smile off your face, Comyn.’
John Comyn scowled, but before he could respond Henry Percy moved in, stroking the dappled chest of his buzzard.
‘I say all’s fair.’ Henry looked from Aymer to Robert. ‘We’re training for war. Do you not think there will be distractions on the field?’
Some of the other men nodded in agreement, but Humphrey shook his head adamantly. ‘This isn’t the field of war. There are rules.’
Robert took the wine skin one of his squires handed to him and swilled the liquid round his bloody mouth. He glanced round as Nes called to him. The squire had hold of Hunter’s reins and was trying to help the distressed animal.
‘I think he’s lamed, sir.’
Robert stared at Nes’s troubled face, his thoughts filling with the money he’d paid for the beautiful animal, his best weapon for the coming fight. As he turned back to Aymer, fury flooded him. He went for his sword, meaning to challenge the French knight, determined to recover his loss and his pride, but before he could act there came a shout.
Thomas of Lancaster was sprinting across the grass towards them. ‘There’s rebellion in Wales!’ he panted, as he reached the group. ‘Messengers arrived an hour ago. The king is gathering the magnates for an emergency council.’
‘A rebellion?’ questioned Humphrey sharply. ‘Led by whom?’
‘A man called Madog. My father says he’s a cousin of Llywelyn ap Gruffudd.’
‘All of Llywelyn’s line were captured in the last war,’ said Henry Percy. ‘King Edward made certain of it.’
Thomas shrugged this away, breathing hard. ‘Well, whoever he is, it is serious. Caernarfon has fallen and other castles are under attack. The king is to take immediate action.’ He paused to catch his breath, excitement in his eyes as he met Humphrey’s gaze. ‘The rebels have the Crown of Arthur.’
27
Taking a swig from the skin, Robert
savoured the warmth of the wine that flooded his throat. It was colder this far north and west, winter closing in. The sky beyond the broken screen of trees was a frost-tinged blue. He was reminded of Carrick by the clarity of the air, so different to London, clogged with the stink of its seething multitude.
Returning the skin to his pack, Robert leaned back in the saddle, letting Hunter find his own path along the furrowed track. The branches of oak and silver-white birch were almost bare, the ground dense with rotting leaves. Around him men, horses and carts moved through the trees, following the deep ruts in the soil, made by many who had gone before.
Six days out from Chester and he was surprised by the peaceful region through which they travelled. From his father’s talk of wild mountains and scarred plains of rock, gale-swept hills and rain-dashed coastline, he had imagined something quite different to the green, rolling land that opened slowly before them. There were no desolate peaks, no plunging waterfalls, just hills like knucklebones protruding from the soft haze of distant woodlands. He wasn’t complaining, for although Hunter had mended well from the injury and was stronger than he’d dared hope, he was still cautious of pushing the animal too hard. His anger towards Aymer de Valence for the malicious trick played on the practice field hadn’t diminished, despite Hunter’s recovery, but there had been no chance to vent it, the shock that greeted the Welsh revolt consuming the court.
The intensity with which the king had fixed on Wales was visible in the fact that many of the commanders, infantry and supplies at Portsmouth that had been destined for France had at once been redirected. Leaving the Seneschal of Gascony to lead a diminished fleet to France to mount a holding operation, the king chose his bases for the advance, one at Cardiff, the others at Brecon and Chester; a three-pronged attack designed to strike at the rebels from all sides. According to reports that were soon flooding in, each more desperate than the last, English castles were being besieged, towns burned and officials murdered all across Wales, the uprising begun by Madog ap Llywelyn in the north setting flame to the whole country, from Conwy and Caernarfon to Gwent and Glamorgan.