“What ship is that?” called the lead man, every bit of metal he wore, from spurs to finger rings, shining. Customs officials always queried a ship from foreign parts, and these men looked like Exchequer’s men, required to collect port fees and taxes.
John Hawkmoor identified our ship, and added,“She carries Lombard wine and a dispatch from the royal envoy in Rome.”
The three duty collectors put their heads together, and the lead man called out, “What men are you?”
Sir Nigel had been listening to this with an easy smile, but now he turned to Sir Rannulf and muttered something in a low voice.
John Hawkmoor called out, identifying Sir Luke, Sir Nigel, and Sir Rannulf.“And two squires, with a shipload of able men, by Our Lady’s grace.”
“What squires have you?” asked the leather-voiced horse-man.
Sir Nigel put a hand on John’s sleeve. Sir Nigel himself called out, “The Crusading squires Hubert of Bakewell and Edmund Strongarm.”
The three men consulted, then they turned their pale, clean faces toward us. As carefully as we had shaved, peering into our polished metal mirrors, and as thoroughly as we had washed our fustian blouses and our wool mantels, I realized we looked travel-stained and shabby compared with these city men.
When the horsemen observed Edmund standing in the stern, the lead man pointed, nodding, commenting to his companions. My friend had thrown a hood over his head at the sound of his name and bent over slightly, a big man trying to grow small.
The lead man’s question rang out, “Is Edmund of Nottingham the moneyer’s apprentice among you?”
Sir Nigel hissed, “Say nothing, any of you.”
Sir Luke was the only one of us who looked like he had just stepped from a castle keep, the salt flecks brushed from his long blue cloak. He climbed so high on the freeboard rail that Sir Nigel seized his sleeve to keep him from toppling.
He sang out, “God keep King Richard!”
“King Richard and Prince John!” came the response from the riverbank.
THIRTY-EIGHT
And Prince John.
“Not the very words,” said Nigel, “that we wanted to hear.”
“It will be dark by the time we dock in London,” said John Hawkmoor, “with Our Lady’s help.”
“Darkness is no man’s friend,” said Sir Rannulf. “It helps us, and it helps them.”
“But my lords,” I could not keep myself from saying, “we’re home, nearly, and our fighting is done.”
Never had I felt less like helping Sir Nigel buckle on a sword. All the fighting I had seen, with lance and halberd, shield and dagger, seemed to me at that moment worse than pointless. Men writhed, bled, and died, for little reason.Valor was spent in butchering the innocent or unlucky.
“We are King Richard’s men,” said Sir Nigel with a smile that meant, How can I explain it more clearly than that? Then he added, “King Richard did not trust his brother. Why should we?”
“If I face further punishment,” said Edmund, “I do not wish any of your blood to be spilled.” His voice was steady, but he had a distant, frightened look in his eye.
Sir Nigel laughed. “Do you think we have fought together and braved these foul seas to see you captured by the Exchequer’s men?”
Edmund could make no direct answer to this.“I sinned by serving a counterfeiter,” he said in a low, confiding voice. “I knew my master was cheapening the king’s silver—”
Edmund had never opened his heart so freely on this subject. I put a hand on his arm.“When our masters sin, we do, too,” I said.
“And we have earned Heaven’s forgiveness,” said Nigel. “Show me a man perfectly sinless, and I’ll show you a creature hard to love.”
“Perhaps I deserve further punishment,” said Edmund, in that deeply considered way I both admired and found, at times, so exasperating.
“Don’t be a fool, Edmund! What is Rannulf here but a murderer?” said Nigel with a laugh. “What am I but a wencher and a drunkard, when Heaven affords me the chance? Besides,” Nigel continued, “some devilment is at work here. These officials knew that Edmund was coming home, and they were waiting for him.”
“How is that possible?” I asked—although I nearly guessed the truth.
“Hubert,” said Nigel with a gentle laugh, “I was once as innocent of the world’s spiteful ways as you pretend to be.”
“Some slanderer has been at work,” I offered.
“Sir Jean himself,” said Nigel, “or may Heaven unman me.”
I was shaken at the thought of what we faced in London. Then my old habit of spirit returned—hope, that ever flowering shrub. Surely Nigel was mistaken. Surely, I reassured myself, we would not need the swords we strapped on as darkness fell. Rannulf found the ship’s armorer, a bald old man with huge hands.
“The sea air will have dulled our steel by now,” said Rannulf.
Yet another fylor sparked as it put a fresh edge on our swords.
THIRTY-NINE
I could not take a straight step.
The rough planks of the wharf seemed to rise up to meet me, and I stumbled. I had to laugh. Sir Nigel staggered, and only Edmund made anything like a dignified departure from the ship. I was so accustomed to the ceaseless lift and fall of the vessel after months at sea that every step I took was like the lumbering of a drunkard.
Unable to walk upright for the moment, I joined Sir Nigel in prayer, the knight’s quiet voice thanking our Lord Jesus Christ, “from whom proceeds all goodness.”
Sir Rannulf knelt, either in prayer or to steady himself, and Sir Luke likewise took a few strides and sank, his mantle draped over his shoulders.
I realized as I struggled to my feet that Edmund was hurrying ahead, up toward a dock crowded with barrels, columns of wine casks in the dim torchlight. I realized too late that if there was trouble, Edmund intended to meet it alone and not entangle his friends.
I called out.
A shadow shifted and separated from the stacked drums of wine. Other shadows followed, and these creeping figures were joined by still others, ink pouring down out of the far reaches of the docks, taking shape in the form of the black leather armor of the Exchequer’s men.
These assailants closed fast, and I heard a questioning voice. “Are you Edmund, the counterfeiter’s apprentice?”
As I ran toward them, I made out the glint of crossbow triggers, and the dimly shining iron points of the crossbow bolts as men shouldered the weapons, aiming them at me.
I could not see Edmund in the tangle of Exchequer’s men. I stopped short, breathing hard, five crossbows poised to send their quarrels directly into my head. Rannulf drew his sword and hurried toward the cocked weapons, and I had to block him with my body, begging Rannulf to spare his own life.
Rannulf said nothing, but he did not sheathe his weapon.
“This is an insult to the king,” said Sir Luke, falsetto with emotion.
“We are Crusaders!” Sir Nigel exclaimed. “With news of King Richard—and the fall of Acre.”
“Sir Nigel and Sir Rannulf are welcome to London,” said a smoothed-voiced Exchequer’s man, “and the worthy Sir Luke. But we have a warrant for this felon’s arrest.”
“Show me the seal,” said Sir Nigel.
The scroll was handed over, and even in the bad light of the wharf, it was plain that a heavy portion of wax had been impressed upon the document.
“This is the Exchequer’s seal, no doubt,” said Sir Nigel, running his fingers over the patch of hard wax, then handing back the warrant.“However, we have a letter of credence from the royal envoy to Rome—the king’s personal representative. You will not arrest Squire Edmund.”
“We were so commanded,” said the Exchequer’s man. “New officials have come to London from France, accompanying our lord Prince John. Every outstanding warrant is reissued, and every old crime freshly punished.” His voice softened. “I mean no disrespect to good Christian knights, but I follow orders. In any legal matter, w
e are now Prince John’s men.”
I could feel a spasm of frustration run through Rannulf as I kept my body between him and the crossbows.
“I know your voice,” said Sir Nigel, peering through the poor light at the pale face above the black leather breastplate. “Or one very like it.”
“It’s possible that Sir Nigel knew my father,” said the Exchequer’s man in a formal but gentler tone. “A bachelor knight with a head of red hair—”
“Brian de Lynn!” said Nigel. “A knight who could drink ale with me from sunset to sunrise, singing sinner’s tales.And you must be young Clifford—Heaven’s blessings on you.”
“My late father spoke well of you,” said Clifford, with the grace to sound embarrassed. “He used to say days like those will never come again.”
Sir Luke put a hand on Nigel’s shoulder. “If these men have clear orders—”
Rannulf’s voice surprised us all, deliberate, unexcited, the words of a man who had made an irrevocable decision. “If you arrest my squire,” said the knight, speaking as clearly as his scarred lips allowed, “you arrest me, too.”
“And,” said Sir Nigel, “all the rest of us as well.”
FORTY
Martin de Asterby, the Royal Exchequer, apologized for not standing as we entered his chamber.
“I am not a healthy man,” he said.
“It grieves us to hear it, my lord,” said Sir Nigel.
“I cough bloody sputum, morning and night,” said Martin. “I meet a priest every evening.” He was one of the most powerful men in England, and sheriffs and barons alike trembled at the suggestion that the Exchequer felt they had underpaid their taxes. The quality of coinage, and punishment of robbery on the High Way, all fell under his care.
We wore royal livery, with the woolen leopard insignia, freshly brushed, at our breasts. We had spent the preceding night in the Tower of London, a castle of stone built by William the Conqueror and used for various noted guests—envoys and traitors.
Sir Luke had pleaded complicated responsibilities the night before, and left to carry them out, but the rest of us hushed Edmund’s protests, and his expressions of gratitude. Our prison rooms were as comfortable as many chambers I had seen, and we dined on honeyed wine and stewed pears, and mutton that was as tough as any cob-horse, but a treat after shipboard fare.
Now Edmund stood with us—weighed down with chains.
“You are not the first travelers to have tidings of King Richard,” said the Exchequer, coughing wetly. He wore a blue tunic of worsted wool, his full sleeves gathered at his wrists. The leopard insignia blazed over his heart, but a smaller emblem than others I had seen. Perhaps Prince John was offended to be reminded that this was still King Richard’s London, and no doubt a wise Exchequer sought ways to accommodate a prince.The hilt of a decorative short sword protruded over the edge of the table, its pommel a single brilliant garnet.
“Sir Nicholas de Foss and Sir Jean de Chartres,” Martin was saying,“returned nearly a month ago, and filled London with wonder at the tales of King Richard, and the stories of the misdeeds of a certain Crusading squire, a counterfeiter’s lad.”
Sir Nicholas. So the tall squire had been knighted.
I was not surprised at the further anger the news stirred in me.
Sir Nigel reached within his cloak pocket, and displayed a leather roll with a silver leopard device. He withdrew the letter of credence from its covering.
Martin gave a low, phlegm-choked chuckle at the sight of this document. “You need no introduction to me. None of you do, all prayerful fighting men in the king’s service.” He spoke the best Anglo-Frankish, his accent that of a nobleman. “If only I could please every supplicant who came before me,” said the Exchequer, “I would die in bliss. Prince John has examined the accounts, and believes his brother’s Crusade is costing far too much money.”
“What is the price,” asked Sir Nigel, “for freeing our companion?”
“Seven hundred gold marks,” said the Exchequer.
Sir Nigel protested, with an incredulous laugh, “My lord, the price is too high.”
“Are you telling me,” asked the Exchequer silkily, “that you returned from the Holy Land with empty purses?”
The service of the finest fighting knight for a year could be purchased for one hundred marks. The price on Edmund’s freedom was cruel.
“We assert his innocence,” said Sir Nigel.Then he added, “Given time, and your lordship’s patience, I could pay this fee—”
“How many days,” asked Martin, “before you can pay the sum—on your honor?”
Nigel was at a loss for words.“On my honor, I cannot say when I will have so much gold,” he said at last, sounding defeated.
“I have testimony against Edmund,” said Martin. “I have the evidence of two good Christian men who say that while on Crusade he kept a servant who was trained by himself in the art of thievery.”
“The witnesses have lied,” said Sir Rannulf.
Martin ran a thoughtful finger over his lips. “An hour with an interrogator will break the truth from his bones. And it has been a good long while since the folk of London have seen a man disemboweled and hanged.”
What made me speak just then, my voice ringing out, I shall never guess.“My lord, we assert our privilege to trial by combat.”
Trial by combat was the traditional way out of a legal impasse. It was believed that Heaven played a hand in such a contest, favoring the side in the right.
Nigel turned to me and gave me a look the character of which he had never given me before—measuring, nearly respectful.
He did not contradict me.
“Do you?” Martin stifled a cough, and took a sip from a finely wrought silver cup. A servant stepped to his side and poured wine from a pitcher, the beverage spiced with leaves and flecks of stems. Martin gazed into the wine cup, waiting for the medicinal herbs to settle.
“My lord,” said Sir Rannulf, “this is our desire, before Heaven.”
Martin tasted his medicine. “The two of you, Nigel and Rannulf, joined by—this other young squire—”
“Hubert of Bakewell, my lord,” I heard myself say.
“Prince John desires revenue,” said Martin with a weary smile. “He does not want to see you kill each other.”
“Perhaps,” Sir Luke suggested from the back of the chamber, “negotiations might reduce the burden—”
Nigel turned and fixed him with a glance.
Martin’s brow smoothed, as though some inner mental struggle was just now resolved.“I shall not allow Edmund to take up arms in his own defense, you understand.You three will be his champions—is that your wish?”
Nigel spoke for us. “That is our wish, my lord.”
“If you intend to fight,” Martin continued after a long moment,“the spectacle will please these city folk and members of the royal household who are not able to see the glory of the Crusade. I myself thrill like a boy at the sight of lance and shield. But I will caution you. If those men who champion the squire lose this contest, then Edmund will face the executioner.”
“Tomorrow,” said Sir Nigel, “we will take up our lances against these perjurers.”
“And this young squire, this bright-eyed Hubert,” said Martin, “will have to fight like all the rest, lance to lance.”
Edmund’s chains chimed, the heavy links grating on the oak floor as Edmund strained to catch my eye. I saw him shaking his head at me out of the corner of my vision.
“Good Sir Nigel,” added Martin with something close to gentle concern, “do you see how travel-worn you are? You bleed from your gums, the whites of your eyes are yellow, and a month of banqueting might bring you half your usual vigor. If I let this joust go forward as you wish, this capable young Edmund will die.”
“We put our lives in God’s hands,” protested Nigel.
Martin gave a gentle laugh. “I will not survive much longer myself, I’m greatly afraid, and I do not wish the lives of two tr
avel-weakened knights on my soul. Why should two famous Crusading knights such as Nigel and Rannulf die so soon after arriving in England?”
I sensed the words he was about to utter.
“I command this young Hubert to do the fighting,” said Martin, “lance to lance, against young Sir Nicholas. Only those two combatants—none other.” He leaned forward, and put his elbows on the table. “Or do you wish to deliver a strongbox of gold marks to me by nightfall?”
Nigel was rigid with emotion, his lips quivering as he mentally searched for the argument that would alter the Exchequer’s decision.
Martin turned to one of his men. He gave a quiet word, and, chains dragging on the floor, Edmund was led away.
FORTY-ONE
I have never before been in such a stew of feeling, angry and afraid for my friend.
Even after I was taken with Nigel and Rannulf to a noble house, with a courtyard where servants swept paving stones, I could not sit still. I paced about the room, in a whirlpool of troubled humors.
Only after darkness fell and Nigel and Rannulf assembled armor, an assortment of helmets, and a collection of mail suits—my own Crusading mail had grown rigid with rust—did I begin to be afraid for myself.
And then I was nearly speechless.
The two knights enjoyed pullets from the prince’s own buttery, brought down to us by a royal steward, a highly placed man-at-arms who bowed and showed every sign of respect for us—especially for me, nodding and smiling in the kindest manner. It was, I recognized too well, the respect people show toward those who will soon be killed.
“I am Elias de Boves,” said the steward, a sunny-faced man with bronze curls and a quiet manner.“A man-at-arms, most recently from Aquitaine, where I have been serving the prince.”
“I know the village of Boves,” said Rannulf. “A storied ogre lived beneath a vineyard there, turning the green grapes black.”
“The very place,” said Elias.
“Why did the prince break his word?” asked Sir Nigel. “He told his brother he would stay in France until the Crusade’s end.”
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