by Wayne Grant
Richard dropped his hand and turned back toward his cot. “Now, as to your notion that we should use more good Englishmen in this war, I heartily agree. I think it’s time I spoke with Earl Ranulf.”
“You are calling up the Invalid Company, your grace?” It was an idea that the King had considered more than once in the past year.
“Aye, William, I am. Last I heard the Welsh marches are quiet and I’m keeping John under my thumb here in France. I think England is safe enough and we could use those lads here. I don’t need to have my best fighters sitting there on garrison duty.”
Marshall did not protest, though he had opposed a call-up of the Invalids in the past. He’d argued that having a force of loyal troops at home was useful should any of the great barons back in England have notions to cause trouble. But with two fresh defeats, the need now seemed greater in France. Marshall summoned a page and sent him to fetch the Earl who’d been out probing the French lines west of the besieged fortress. He’d let the Earl of Chester argue with the King if he so chose.
“You will make the arrangements to move the army,” the King said, as he eased himself down on his cot.
“At once, your grace,” Marshall replied, making a small bow before pulling aside the tent flap and walking out into the bright sunlight.
The King turned to Sir Robin who had stood silently during Richard’s encounter with Marshall.
“You may go, Sir Robin,” he said, wearily. “I will rest a while now. Spread the word that my wound was but a scratch.”
Dismissed, Robin followed Marshall outside. The Earl of Pembroke was already issuing orders and sending couriers to the senior commanders of the army to prepare to abandon the assault on Aumale. The town would now fall to the French and the English garrison, which had lustily cheered Richard’s banners when they’d been sighted in the distance, would go down with it, just another in the long list of tragedies he’d seen in this war.
The young knight shook his head. He’d followed Richard to France to escape the boredom of life back in peaceful Nottinghamshire, but after three long years of war, the allure had faded. As much as he was loyal to the King, he’d seen too much blood, too much death—and not just among the soldiers. Innocents on both sides had been ground up in the gears of war and that gnawed at him.
Robin loved the Lionheart for his courage and daring, but the King’s ambition often outweighed his scruples. Richard had increasingly turned a blind eye to the brutalities of his mercenary commanders, chief among them, General Mercadier, a man without a shred of pity in his heart for men, women or children. Mercadier won victories to be sure, but deserved to burn in hell for the methods he used.
Robin had yet to tarnish his own honour in such a way, but he wondered how long it would be before he did? The thought chilled him. He took his horse’s reins from a groom and trudged back toward his own modest tent. He’d been trying to summon up the courage to tell the King he was going home, but now, with the news that William de Ferrers would be returning to England a year early, he felt the time had come. Unless de Ferrers had changed his stripes, his homecoming would spell trouble for the poor folk of Derbyshire and beyond. And there was one man there who needed to be forewarned.
He had to get word of this to Tuck.
Money Speaks
John Plantagenet dismounted from his coal black warhorse, slapping at his tunic and making the dust fly. He’d come from the siege lines that circled Nonancourt, the fortress that lay near the Norman border with Dreux, a vassalage of Philip of France. He was well satisfied with the extension of his entrenchments and the progress of his sappers. A small smile flickered across his thin lips. Within a day, two at the most, he was sure the castle would fall into his hands.
Of course his enemies would whisper that it was Mercadier who deserved the glory for this victory, but the mercenary general merely determined strategy and issued orders. John commanded here, not Mercadier, and this victory was his alone.
Let them name me Softsword now! he thought.
Oh, he knew what men called him behind his back, those very barons who’d once taken his coin, but now licked Richard’s boots. He’d sworn they would make a meal of those words one day, but for now he would swallow his bile and bide his time. Such was the price of failure. He’d rebelled against his brother and lost. Now the same men who’d called him Lord named him Softsword and called his precious brother Couer de Lion!
Lionheart.
That’s what they’d named the King. John sneered at such foolishness. Even now, his glorious brother was laid up in his fairy tale castle of Château Gaillard nursing a wound and a defeat. Just a week ago, Richard had been chased away from Aumale by Philip and nearly killed in the bargain, while in a matter of days, John Softsword would break the French at Nonancourt! And he’d done it without foolishly venturing within crossbow range of the enemy.
His brother behaved in battle more like a landless knight seeking his fortune than the king of the mightiest empire in Europe. Those around the King tried to restrain him to little avail and John would not be the one to upbraid Richard for being reckless in battle. No, let his brother continue to play at being the great Lionheart and perhaps the next crossbow bolt would strike a little higher. Then John Softsword would be king!
Or not.
There was the matter of Arthur of Brittany. Richard had no issue of his own and had named their nine-year old nephew, Arthur, as his heir. This was not out of any love for the boy. After all, Arthur’s mother, the Duchess Constance, had been caught red-handed conspiring with Philip of France while the King was away on Crusade. He’d pardoned her, but kept a suspicious eye trained on Brittany. No, naming Arthur as heir was not out of affection for the boy, it was out of spite toward his own brother!
The loss of his titles, his lands and his place as Richard’s successor John had swallowed without protest. After all, it could have been much worse. He knew Richard had ample evidence to have him beheaded for treason. And when their mother, Eleanor, ransomed Richard back from the Holy Roman Emperor, he’d had to choose—flee to Philip of France and be a lackey at the French court for the rest of his days or throw himself on his brother’s mercy in hopes of keeping his head and one day wearing the crown.
His ambition had overcome his fear.
He’d gone down on his knees and begged the King’s forgiveness. Of course, Richard the Merciful, Richard the Generous, Richard the Wise, had taken him back—after a fashion. He’d been stripped of all his lands and titles save Count of Mortain. And Mortain was one of the humblest and tiniest counties in the entire empire! It was most unfair, but he was determined to play the part of loyal follower for as long as it took.
John had been lost in thought as he walked up from the picket line of horses, but looked up to see he had a visitor waiting for him by his campaign tent. It was the Earl of Derby, come from the far reaches of Brittany to purchase his freedom from exile.
“Ah, William, ye’ve come!” he hailed the tall thin nobleman as he approached. “And just in time to see me take Nonancourt.”
William de Ferrers, fourth Earl of Derby, bobbed his head nervously.
“Aye, your grace. I’ve been six days on the road.”
“Then come inside and sit,” John said, holding back the tent flap for the Earl. “You must be tired and thirsty.”
It was September and summer still lingered south of the Seine valley making the days hot and dusty. John followed de Ferrers into the tent, which provided some shade from the midday sun, waving the Earl toward a folding chair. As de Ferrers settled himself, the Prince removed the cork from a bottle of red wine.
“You won’t be able to get anything of this quality back in Derbyshire I’d wager,” he said brightly, as he filled two large cups with the dark liquid.
De Ferrers sniffed at the wine, then drank eagerly from his cup. John peered over the top of his own cup at the Earl, who appeared to be both thirsty and nervous. He hadn’t seen de Ferrers in three years, not since before
the disastrous defeat at Towcester. Watching the man fidget, he wondered if de Ferrers was expecting some censure from him for that calamity. After all, de Ferrers had been in command that day when Marshall broke his mercenary army and ended the Prince’s hopes of gaining the throne.
In truth he did harbour ill-feelings toward de Ferrers over that defeat, but he’d set those aside in light of the man’s dog-like loyalty to him. During his rebellion against Richard, no baron had supported him more faithfully than had the Earl of Derby. De Ferrers was ambitious and had pushed all his markers to the centre of the table to bet on John and they’d both lost.
The Prince was surprised to see streaks of grey in the Earl’s hair and beard. De Ferrers was in his middle thirties but looked ten years older. It would seem his three years of exile had weighed heavily on him and that pleased John, for when he’d demanded an outrageous sum in exchange for a one year reduction in his banishment, de Ferrers had not protested. To have agreed to pay such a fortune could only have been out of desperation—or ambition. Either way, it suited John.
“The wine is very good,” de Ferrers said after draining half the cup, “very good indeed, your grace.”
“Then I shall have a case of it for you to take back to Brittany. Or should I say Derbyshire?” John added with a sly smile. “Have you brought the money, William?”
De Ferrers blinked at the sudden change of subject, but answered readily.
“Oh, aye, your grace. Just as you specified.”
“Good, good! I have the commutation order from the King right here,” he said, picking up a packet from the table with Richard’s royal seal affixed. “It took some persuading, mind you, but I pressed him hard. It was the least I could do for a man who has been loyal to me. I’m sure you are anxious to return home.”
“Yes, your grace, most anxious. My time in Brittany has been…trying.”
John looked surprised and concerned by this news, though he was neither.
“Remind me, William—your lands in Brittany, where do they lay?”
“North of Dinan, your grace, near the coast,” de Ferrers replied, and drained the rest of his wine. John quickly refilled the cup.
“Ah, yes, not so very far from Saint-Malo, I believe. And not far from Rennes either.”
John saw the man tense at the mention of Rennes, the capital of the Duchy.
“Aye, your grace. It is close by Saint-Malo, but a good two-day ride to Rennes.”
“Have you been there, William, to Rennes? They have a lovely old cathedral.”
“I have not, your grace,” de Ferrers answered tersely, setting down his cup. “I doubt I’d be welcome there.”
John put down his own cup and furrowed his brow.
“Ah, how stupid of me!” he said, crossing the tent and laying a gentle hand on de Ferrers’ shoulder. “Of course you would not go to Rennes, what with that traitorous harpy Constance ruling the place like some queen. It was you after all who uncovered her treachery against the King and took her prisoner. And I recall you threatened to have her head cut off! I doubt she’s forgiven you for that!”
De Ferrers looked glum.
“I’m sure she hasn’t, your grace, and she does rule Brittany with an iron hand. I feared when I was forced into exile there she would take her vengeance on me, but I’ve somehow managed to avoid her attention!”
“Oh, that, dear William, was not by chance, I assure you. I have not forgotten your loyalty, or Constance’s treachery. I made it clear to the Duchess that neither she nor any of her barons were to trifle with you during your sojourn there.”
John smiled benignly at de Ferrers as he delivered this utter fabrication. He had no power whatsoever over Constance of Brittany, a woman who would cut his throat if given a dull knife.
“Of course, with the King’s recent wound,” he continued, “we must all be concerned about Constance and her son. Should, God forbid, Richard die, young Arthur would take the throne with Lady Constance as Queen Regent. That, my dear Earl, would be most unfortunate for both of us.”
De Ferrers stopped in mid drink, the colour draining from his face.
“The King, wounded? I had not heard,” he gasped.
“Oh, yes. He took a crossbow bolt in his leg at Aumale a week ago, but seems to be healing. Still, you know how the man takes risks, William.” John paused and lowered his voice, almost to a whisper. “Next time he might not be so lucky. Then where would we be?”
John stepped back and refilled his own cup before continuing, letting de Ferrers stew over the prospect of Constance becoming Queen Regent.
“And, lest we forget, my lord, Constance is still married to your old enemy, the Earl of Chester, and while she and Ranulf hate each other’s guts, I expect they hate you even more and would happily see you hang should Arthur come to power.”
For a long while de Ferrers cradled his cup of wine in both hands and hung his head without speaking. Then he lifted his eyes to John. There was near panic there.
“What are we to do, your grace?” he blurted.
John gave the man a comforting smile.
“Don’t fret, William. I swear to you that Constance’s brat will never sit on the throne of England!”
De Ferrers rose to his feet, his face still pale.
“How, your grace? The King has named him heir.”
“When it comes to succession, my lord, the desires of a dead king are hardly binding. Men will look to their own interests as they always do and when that day comes, we must be prepared.”
“What can we do, your grace?” de Ferrers asked plaintively.
John shrugged.
“As we learned not so long ago, William, the barons can be bought, but they do not come cheap. And, sadly, the King has severely reduced my own purse.”
De Ferrers nodded glumly.
“I had heard, your grace. Most ungenerous of him.”
“Aye, aye, William, but I can endure it. Still if we are to be ready when the time comes, I will need ample funds to support our cause. Can I rely on you to help?”
“Me, lord?” de Ferrers moaned. “I’ve nearly paupered myself to buy this commutation!”
John’s sympathetic smile vanished.
“Count yourself lucky, my lord!” he hissed. “Your money would not have bought you a damned thing were it not for my intervention. You owe me, William. You are going home a year early—back to your lands and your revenues. You can replenish your purse soon enough and not just from Derbyshire.”
“Your grace?” de Ferrers asked, confused.
“Did you not know that the King summoned Earl Ranulf to Normandy some months ago?”
De Ferrers shook his head.
“I did not, your grace. Word travels slowly to Brittany.”
The Prince nodded.
“He may be here for some time yet, depending on how Richard’s war goes, and just last week I learned that the King has sent for Ranulf’s personal little army.”
“The Invalid Company?”
“Aye, William. You remember the Invalids. They routed you and my army at Towcester,” John said with a sneer, “and now the King wants to turn them on the French. That will leave Cheshire secured by nothing more than a few garrison troops at Chester and give you ample opportunity to gain some profit at Ranulf’s expense!”
John leaned in close to the Earl.
“You bled the Midlands once before, my lord, and now, if I am to claim the crown when Richard is gone, you must do it again. You may, of course, keep a portion of the revenues for yourself, but don’t be greedy, William. I’ll expect a third of all you collect henceforward, monies you will recoup ten-fold when I am king!”
De Ferrers seemed to grow paler as John drove home his point. Seeing the man’s distress, the Prince placed a brotherly arm around the Earl’s shoulders.
“If you stand with me now, William, we will prevail and, when I am your king, you will be the most powerful baron in England. Do you understand?”
For a long moment,
de Ferrers said nothing, as though wrestling with the risks and rewards of once more allying himself with the King’s brother. John watched him intently. The man had once lusted for power. Did he still?
“I understand completely,” de Ferrers said at last, setting his empty wine goblet on the table. “I won’t fail you.”
Prince John smiled. He had his answer.
***
John watched as the Earl of Derby mounted his beautiful white stallion and, surrounded by five personal guards, rode west out of the English camp at Nonancourt. He was certain that he’d frightened de Ferrers out of his wits at the prospect of Arthur of Brittany on the throne of England and that was good. Fear would drive the Earl to squeeze every last ounce of silver out of the Midlands. And John would have his share.
As he stepped back into his tent, he looked at the four heavy bags of silver the Earl had left on his table. Such treasure was scarcely found these days with Richard demanding more and more funds to support the war in France. Only two of these bags would go to the war effort, a fact neither the King nor de Ferrers would ever know. The other two, he would keep.
It was never too soon to begin buying friends.
***
As de Ferrers rode out of Nonancourt in the warm September sunshine, a satisfied smile played across his face. The meeting with John had gone exactly as he had expected. For the Prince’s benefit, he’d played the familiar role of the pawn—and rather convincingly. He knew it was how John thought of him and he didn’t care. After all, those who did not toady to the Prince would never prosper under his rule. And with Richard taking unnecessary risks, his younger brother might indeed be king one day.
John had complimented him on his ability to bleed the Midlands, but the Prince would be shocked at how deeply he had mined that rich vein whilst he controlled Cheshire and Derbyshire. He’d sent John what was required of him, but had skimmed far more than the royal brother ever knew. His coffers had been full when he’d been hauled aboard a boat and sent off to Brittany. And it was fortunate for him that they were.
For the years in Brittany had been lean ones. Once there, he’d had no illusions about the threat that Lady Constance posed. He’d paid off certain Breton nobles to provide him with protection from the whims of the Duchess, but it had cost him dearly. Cut off from the revenues of Derbyshire, he’d seen his once princely fortune dwindle. The money he’d pledged to the King to gain his freedom had put him in dire financial straits.