by Clint Dohmen
With the Yorkists hiding from the archers and Simon’s men not having the numbers to storm the barracks, the courtyard fell silent. From a distance, the noise of shouting men could be heard.
Hundreds of men came up the castle’s slope and poured into the gatehouse that faced the town. Peasants entered the courtyard like a levee had broken, carrying knives, pitchforks, axes, spears, and sticks. Simon’s archers could no longer cover the garrison doors without shooting the peasants, so the Yorkist knights and men-at-arms spilled out of the building and moved amongst them. Realizing that Simon’s men were not firing on the peasants, the Yorkist men at arms advanced on the gatehouse within the mob.
Simon had to think fast. If he killed men from Exeter, he would be sunk. He climbed to the top of the gatehouse and yanked his family’s dragon pennant from its perch. He held it aloft over the uneasy, packed courtyard, swallowed hard, and in his best West Country accent—one that he’d actually lost years ago— he shouted, “Men of Exeter, my family’s banner has flown above this castle for a century.”
As he started speaking, Duncan’s outnumbered Welshmen listened intently, hoping to hear some words that would not require them to face five hundred angry English peasants along with some clearly professional Yorkist soldiers. Killing the English, stealing their livestock, and pillaging their villages was fun. Facing their revenge was not.
“It is time for the Langs to return to their rightful place.” Simon’s West Country accent got thicker by the second. He was pandering to the crowd, and they were eating it up.
Sneaky bastard, Blythe thought. Lord Blythe, fully aware that his life and property hung in the balance, also brought his full faculties of claptrap to bear. “Citizens of Exeter,” he interrupted Simon, bestowing all the trappings of a republican Rome or democratic Athens on his impoverished, indentured listeners. “You are faced with a decision to uphold your vows and defend your liege lord for the good of England. Or you can surrender your land to a foreign invasion!”
Simon, realizing he had met a politician almost equally adept in the arts of bullshit as himself, decided that he had better raise his game. Not necessarily his bullshit game, because that could go on forever, and with all the Yorkist men-at-arms slowly making their way forward among the peasants, they might tire of the crap flowing from his mouth and do something drastic.
“Lord Blythe,” Simon shouted down from the gate, “this castle is my birthright. It is you who are the invader here. I grew up scrubbing decks with some of the people I see here in this crowd.” Simon didn’t really recognize anyone in the crowd in particular, but he thought it could be true. Regardless, it had the desired effect: some nods from the peasants. “You were illegally bequeathed this land by a murderer of children who is now lying dead among the worms in Leicester. What will become of these people and their lands if King Henry decides to punish you for your support of Richard?”
The crowd murmured loudly, and Lord Blythe looked around uneasily.
Now was about as good a chance as Simon was going to get. “I challenge you to a duel, Lord Blythe. The winner takes all, and the loser meets his maker. And by the looks of it, your maker was a four-assed sheep.” Sheep jokes were always popular with the English.
Without waiting for an answer, Simon walked quickly down and out of the gatehouse, out into the courtyard, and right into the middle of the peasant mob. Maurice and his sons moved into the mob with him to show that Simon had the support of at least some of the locals.
Simon clapped Maurice’s shoulder. “This man next to me used to be the master of the docks. He would whip my backside when he didn’t think I was working hard enough. I am a man of Exeter, like these men around me, and I’m willing to show that a man of Exeter does not need to cower behind his men or ask them to die for him when he himself is too cowardly to do the same. I also promise you this: none of your men will be harmed after I fillet you.” Simon drew his sword. “What say you?”
The peasants were now enjoying themselves and getting into the spirit of things. Audience participation started off with a couple of peasants shouting ‘hear, hear.’ But soon, a crescendo of likeminded mutterings echoed across the courtyard.
Lord Blythe knew he had no choice. That bastard is clever. The crowd had either turned against him, or at best, were willing to watch him fight a duel.
“Of course, I’ll fight you, you little prick, and when I’m done, I’m going to hang your men from the walls for crow sport.”
The crowd separated between the two combatants.
Simon strode purposefully forward. He didn’t circle or feint to judge Lord Blythe’s strengths and weaknesses. In two motions, Simon batted away Lord Blythe’s low guard and ran his exquisitely sharp Arai steel blade straight through Lord Blythe’s mouth. Blood gurgled out of Lord Blythe’s mouth, and he slowly collapsed to his knees.
While the crowd absorbed what had turned out to be a very anticlimactic fight, some Yorkist soldiers climbed aboard the nearest horses and rode out the south gate.
Simon watched the horsemen fleeing and turned to the crowd. “Men of Lord Blythe, leave my land and go back to your homes in the north.” The Yorkist soldiers did not wait to hear any more of the speech, choosing instead to leave with their heads intact before someone changed their minds or before the villagers got ideas of their own.
“Men of Exeter, I thank you for your hospitable welcome.” The weapon-laden crowd laughed at Simon’s joke. “I’m sorry to have awakened you so early. As a token of my gratitude I invite you all to feast, but not tonight. Pardon the delay, but I need to get the Yorkist smell out of my castle first. Now please go back to your homes and put away your weapons.”
Simon looked around, and the peasants stood firm, no one budged.
“You have to tell the people an exact date,” Maurice said in a whisper.
“On the Twelfth Night, on the eve of Epiphany, come to the castle for festivities,” Simon told the assembled audience. A decidedly unsatisfied murmur emanated from the crowd, surprising Simon.
“You don’t want to be doing that, sir. The town folk want another festival to enjoy, and that one’s already a big one,” Maurice said quietly.
Simon stood thinking a little longer.
“St. Fillan’s Day,” Maurice mumbled.
“They don’t already celebrate that one?” Simon whispered the question out of the corner of his mouth. Whoever the hell St. Fillan is, he thought.
“I doubt they’ve bloody heard of that random Scottish saint, but it gives you until January nineteenth to try and scrape the coin together for a proper feast.”
“We shall celebrate on the day of the feast of St. Fillan!” Simon announced with gusto.
The crowd erupted with a large roar and then ambled back to their hovels, each one questioning the other about who St. Fillan was and when his “day” would be.
Simon stood gazing at the red stone castle. He was back home, at last. It hadn’t changed much.
“So who the devil is this St. Fillan anyway?” Simon asked Maurice curiously. “And would a feast involving beer be proper to honor him?”
“I don’t really know who he was, but he was born in bleedin’ Ireland and buried in Scotland. I should think if we don’t have alcohol, he’d be apt to climb out of his grave and give you a good talking to.”
Exeter, January 19, 1486
There was big news from London that Simon decided to save for the feast. He invited his cousin and his men to stay for the feast, and being too polite to turn down free food and drink, they all complied.
Neno couldn’t believe that he was now a landowner. Being a member of the landowning class seemed to calm his notorious temper considerably. He hadn’t gotten into a single fight in the Exeter taverns all month.
Aldo couldn’t believe Neno was a landowner either. he’d had to promote Seaman Aversa to first mate temporarily, though he was sure Neno would find a way to bankrupt himself soon enough.
Kojiro thought the countryside of
England was beautiful. He enjoyed riding Kuro down to the coast and fishing in the streams that meandered across the rich farmlands. He caught salmon and trout from the rivers and for the most part prepared his own meals. He prepared his own meals because he could not get used to the English standards of cleanliness. Of course, he was too polite to tell them that; after all, he liked the English. To keep busy, he had started teaching sword and hand-to-hand combat in the castle during the day and at night he advised Simon on governing matters. Simon even appeared to be maturing.
Simon, with Kojiro’s counsel, proved to be an able administrator, and in less than a month, the town was functioning smoothly. Trade income nearly doubled, so when it came time for the feast, which he hosted in the expansive castle courtyard, the local population came in high spirits. Simon hired musicians, minstrels, jesters, and jugglers. He had oval pavilion tents erected in the courtyard to shield everyone from the constant light, cold drizzle that came with living near the English coast. Simon had casks of English ale, unhopped, and beer, hopped, from the best brewers in the country brought in.
Aldo returned to Exeter for the occasion and brought a magnificent variety of wines from across the globe, including the champagne that he was becoming very fond of. By the time food started to come from the kitchens, the entire courtyard was in good spirits and headed quickly towards inebriation.
Simon figured he’d better give his toast while people could still remember what he said. “Aldo, do you have any more of that champagne?”
“I’m afraid not, my friend. We just finished the last bottle, but I have a wonderful white wine from the Chablis region just south of Champagne.”
Aldo produced a glass and handed it to Simon. “I think you will appreciate the taste of this. It is delightfully frisky with a grassy aroma. You will notice that chardonnay grapes from this region give it a magnificent deep yellow color with green hues.”
Simon took the glass. “That will do nicely, thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
Simon stood and ordered the musicians to be silent. “People of Exeter, thank you for coming to my humble party.”
The crowd roared and clapped. Simon waited for the appreciation to die down.
“In fact, I am truly honored by your presence and awed to be back in my home once again.” More cheers. “I have been too long in exile and too long away from the people who raised me.” And with that he turned and looked at Maurice, who sat beside him in a place of honor at the head of the table. The crowd was on its feet now.
“I ask you all to raise your cups with me,” Simon continued, “as I drink to you, the people of Exeter.” He raised his glass and drained it, as did the entire feasting population.
“Interesting,” Simon said looking at his wine glass. “An acquired taste, perhaps.”
“Absolutely, but the taste grows on you,” Aldo said as he filled another glass for Simon.
The lord of Rougemont Castle looked around at his guests. “And one more toast before I leave you to enjoy your cups freely.”
The crowd pounded on their tables for more alcohol as servants quickly refilled their cups.
“I received the news yesterday that our King, Henry VII, was wed to Elizabeth of York on January 18.” The crowd gasped, and the courtyard became utterly silent except for the tapping drizzle on the roof of the tents. “The houses of York and Lancaster are now one. You will no longer be asked to send your sons and husbands to slaughter fellow Englishmen because their family coat of arms bears a different color rose.”
And with that statement, Simon looked to the village seamstress. He’d paid her a handsome amount of silver to work overnight with her daughters on his project. Proudly, the seamstress, a woman of Irish extract, widowed when her husband died fighting for the Lancastrians at Tewkesbury, unfurled her embroidered cloth from a six-foot pole.
The crowd stared in sober appreciation of what they were viewing: a white rose embedded within a red rose, a symbol that would have been heresy less than a year before.
“People of Exeter, this is King Henry’s new standard. Raise your cups to the Tudor rose.”
The crowd, now solemn as they contemplated an end to the English civil war, a war that had taken the lives of so many they knew, raised their beer, ale, wine, and mead cups more slowly than they had the time before, but at the same time more earnestly; hands clenched mugs so tightly fingertips turned white and tears dripped from all but the most stoic of men. Simon drained his cup, and the crowd followed with him.
As the revelers erupted into conversation about the unprecedented joining of the houses of York and Lancaster, Simon turned to Aldo. “That wine doesn’t get any better; in fact, it gets horribly worse and leaves a rather salty aftertaste.”
“Well, it would. It is horse piss.”
Simon stared in shock. “You said it was Chablis.”
“No, my dear friend, I said, I have a wonderful French wine from Chablis. I didn’t say that I was giving you the Chablis.”
“Bastard!” Simon said as he looked around frantically for anything to wash his mouth out with, while Maurice, Duncan, Neno, and Kojiro practically fell out of their seats in laughter.
“If you recall, you served me a live grasshopper at dinner once.”
“That was over two years ago!”
“We Venetians are known for our vendetta.”
“I could just as likely have died before you got your revenge.”
“And yet, you did not.”
Simon grabbed a flagon of beer from a servant and guzzled the whole thing. “Christ in a whorehouse, remind me not to play jokes on you again.” Simon grinned in appreciation at the fine revenge even as he searched for another flagon.
Aldo grasped a rosary bead and began his familiar routine of praying for Simon’s soul.
The night carried on, and Exeter woke up with probably the most widespread hangover since the Vandals sacked Rome. Aldo returned to Venice, but made Exeter a major stop for his substantial trading fleet.
Soon the docks of Topsham, at the mouth of the River Exe, managed by an old goat named Maurice, became one of the busiest ports of entry into England for goods from around the world. Maurice, earning a more than comfortable living as trade manager at the docks, bequeathed the Pig and Whistle Pub to Maureen.
Maureen turned the Pig and Whistle into a warm and welcoming rest stop, famous throughout the West Country. Maureen stopped having sex for money and started having sex with Neno, who proved to be nearly as experienced in bed as she was.
Neno needed the iron-fisted rule of Maureen, and since she did not allow him to gamble, he still had the lands that King Henry bequeathed him. Maureen did not, however, place any limitations on his other two vices: alcohol and sex with her.
Simon’s cousin Duncan returned to Wales with Simon’s thanks and a nice chunk of Simon’s nutmeg money.
Simon rode to the coast nearly every day, and nearly every day wished he could once again pilot a boat to foreign lands, but the responsibilities of governance did not allow it. He had to act like an actual adult. Of course, maintaining this adulthood required a stern lecture from Kojiro every month about responsibility, loyalty, honor, and blah, blah, blah, but Simon put a brave face on it and listened to his mentor.
Kojiro had his good and bad days. It was not always easy to live in a country that was not one’s own. Some days the mannerisms and customs of the English made him desire to pull his hair out, and some days he just longed to see the sakura in bloom once again. On these bad days, however, he had discovered that fishing the streams of his property did wonders for soothing his soul. Initially, he had accepted the property with reluctance, but he gradually warmed to it as it became clear that the method of his service to Simon was different from that he had given to his daimyo in what seemed a lifetime ago. His daimyo had required his sword and his obedience and little else. Simon required his counsel and friendship more than he had ever had need of his sword. The political intrigues of England had pr
oven to be every bit as complicated and deadly as those of Kyoto. The fact that Simon still had the attention span of a gnat annoyed him at times, but Simon had integrity and courage, and Kojiro did not regret his decision to follow the gaijin to this far-off land.
Kuro wondered when the next war would come.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52