A Question of Honour

by Wayne Grant

  “It’s good to be back, your excellency,” he said, gazing around at the rich tapestries that adorned the walls of the anteroom, “and may I compliment you on your home. It is a very fine house, and so near to my own.”

  The Archdeacon waved away the compliment.

  “Oh, it’s not mine, I assure you,” he lied. “I but have the use of it through a benefactor of the church, my lord.”

  De Ferrers smiled at the churchman.

  “God provides, does he not, excellency?”

  “Indeed, indeed, my lord. And He loves a cheerful giver—as does our mutual friend, the Prince,” Poore added pointedly. “Now if you will follow me, we have a good meal set and much to discuss.” The churchman turned to his servant.

  “James, would you see to the victuals for the Earl’s companions?”

  James opened a side door and gestured for Barca and Catchpole to follow. They looked at the Earl who nodded his assent and they disappeared to dine with the servants. Poore turned and led de Ferrers down a short hallway and through double doors to a large room dominated by an ornate table, already set with dishes and cutlery. The churchman lifted a bottle and poured a cup of wine for himself and for de Ferrers. As he finished topping off the cups, de Ferrers raised his and offered a toast.

  “To Prince John,” he said quietly.

  “To the Prince,” the Archdeacon echoed softly, sipping from his cup and setting it down on the table.

  “Now, let’s talk finances.”

  ***

  It was late in the day when the guards stopped a man at the gate of Danesford. The stranger had made no threatening moves, but his appearance alone urged the guards to caution. The man was over six feet tall with wild tangled hair and a bushy beard. He wore a sort of loose cloak made entirely of animal skins and from a leather belt at his waist hung a well-sharpened axe. He’d not hailed the sentries as he approached and seemed to think he could simply walk into the little fort unchallenged.

  “What’s yer business here?” a guard said, blocking his path.

  The stranger studied the guard for a moment then tugged on his long beard.

  “I come t’see Lady Millicent Inness,” he said. His accent was strange and he spoke haltingly as though unused to conversation though his words were plain enough.

  “I’ve a message from Brother Tuck,” he continued.

  The name of Tuck was not unknown at Danesford and lent the man’s presence some weight. The guard called for Sir Edgar, the Master of the Sword and commander of the fort’s small garrison. Sir Edgar Langton had been in the courtyard teaching swordsmanship to the squire Finn Mac Clure when the stranger arrived and needed no summons. The mere sight of the man was enough to have him set aside his wooden practice sword and head to the gate, trailed by young Mac Clure. As he crossed the courtyard, he was joined by Lady Millicent who had been feeding an apple to her favourite mare down at the stables.

  “He says he ‘as a message for you from Brother Tuck, my lady,” the guard explained as they arrived.

  “Any friend of Tuck is welcome here at Danesford, sir,” Millicent said, addressing the newcomer. “Your friar married Sir Roland and I.”

  The tall man scratched an itch somewhere buried in his beard then nodded.

  “Met yer husband once, runnin’ from Ivo Brun. Never thought he’d get away. Clever boy.”

  “Then I am sorry you missed him, sir,” Millicent said with a smile. “Now, what message do you bring from Tuck?”

  “Oh, aye,” the man said. “I’m to tell ye that William de Ferrers has been released from exile and will soon be back in Derbyshire.”

  Millicent and Sir Edgar looked at each other. They both knew that a day of reckoning would one day come when the Earl of Derby returned from Brittany, but this was a year early.

  Millicent turned to the wild-looking man.

  “Sir, I did not get your name,” she said. “Will you stay the night with us?”

  The big man tugged once more on his beard and shook his head.

  “Angus is the name, miss, and I don’t favour roofs overhead.”

  Millicent smiled sweetly.

  “Very well then, Angus. Travel safely and give my regards to Tuck.”

  The man nodded and without another word, turned and walked away. When he was well out of earshot, Millicent turned to Sir Edgar.

  “He’s bought his freedom,” she said grimly, and Sir Edgar nodded his agreement.

  “I’d not thought this before,” Sir Edgar said, “but mayhaps it’s best that Roland’s gone to France for a time.”

  Finn Mac Clure looked up at Millicent with a puzzled expression.

  “Who’s William de Ferrers?” he asked.

  Across the Channel

  It took two days to reach the port of Dover. Sergeant Billy had been dispatched two days ahead of the Invalids to make transportation arrangements at the port and as the Invalid Company neared Dover a rider came to meet them. He informed Roland that the Company Quartermaster had procured sufficient shipping to carry men and horses to France. But the good news was dampened a bit as the weather that had been so summer-like on the long march down from Chester turned to autumn with a vengeance.

  As the long column reached the outskirts of town, a cold wind swept in, heavy with the smell of rain. Roland looked past the brooding mass of Dover Castle perched high above the port and saw a line of dark clouds piling up behind the fortress. As the first drops began to fall, Sergeant Billy came cantering up the main street of the town aboard his big brown mare. Casting a baleful eye at the approaching thunderheads, he hailed them.

  “I’ve procured stables and a barracks of sorts, my lords,” he yelled above the growing howl of the wind.

  “Well done, Billy!” Roland shouted back.

  “It’s nuthin fancy, mind ye,” the sergeant said with a touch of apology in his voice, “but it’ll keep ye out of this weather.”

  He swung around to lead them to shelter, but just then the black clouds unleashed their load on the castle above and the port town below. The rain came in gusty sheets drenching the men as they followed their quartermaster through the centre of town past the fine houses of ship’s captains and merchants, their heads bent against the fury of the storm.

  The few people on the street who had not taken shelter at the first sign of rain paid no attention to the Invalid Company as they passed by. The appearance of large numbers of fighting men in the streets of Dover was no novelty to the town folk as thousands such had passed through their port in recent years to join the fighting in France. Despite the occasional perfunctory looting, the town and its people had profited handsomely by the traffic.

  Sergeant Billy led them through the town and along a short stretch of pebbly beach, jammed now with small boats hauled out of the water ahead of the approaching storm. A breakwater protected the harbour from the worst of the wind and waves, but a squall could still capsize a small craft. In the harbour proper, dozens of merchant vessels and a few ships of war tugged at their anchors as thunder rumbled across the harbour and echoed off the white cliffs, barely visible across the bay.

  Beyond the strand, a series of long low buildings clustered around a half dozen docks. They were built to house imports and exports, be they goods or men. Billy led them to one of the buildings that had the smell of a stable.

  “There’s hay to be pitched and water to be fetched and I’ll put the newest men on the job,” he said, as they dismounted.

  He’d just finished speaking when a man rode up leading a string of spare horses. He dismounted and led the mounts into the stable then returned and reached for the reins of The Grey. It was Bertrand, the Norman recruit.

  “Easy with that one,” Billy ordered. “That’s the best horse in the Company.”

  Bertrand slipped a small apple from his tunic and rather shyly offered it to the big gelding. The horse took it delicately from the Norman’s hand and chewed contentedly.

  “It seems The Grey has made a new friend,” Roland sa
id with a grin as he unstrapped his kit from behind his saddle and undid the bindings that secured his longbow.

  While the Invalids saw to their mounts, the quartermaster led Roland and Declan to a smaller building that would shelter the men. Smoke billowed from a chimney at the far end where a hearth was already blazing. Inside, the structure had benches built into two facing walls and a clean dirt floor. Declan clapped two hands together and made for the hearth to dry his clothes. Roland turned to Sergeant Billy.

  “Well done on the ships and the quarters for the men, Billy. I’d feared we might be shore-bound here for a spell for want of transport.”

  “Fah! If yer purse is heavy enough, a child could find ships along this coast, lord, and the Earl is generous with his funding, though we’ll need cooperation from the weather if we’re to sail on the morrow.”

  Roland smiled at the old soldier.

  “If the Invalids were dispatched to the moon,” he said, “I’d expect to find you waiting for us there with pack mules.”

  That made the older man laugh out loud.

  “Mules on the moon!” he said, pleased at the idea. “But let me see to our horses right here in Dover first,” he said, and headed back out into the rain.

  Roland dropped his kit and his longbow near the one table in the far corner of the barracks, then went to join Declan by the fire. The heat caused steam to rise from his soaked clothes. After a time, Patch and Sir John came stamping in from the rain, trailed by Jamie Finch. They gathered next to their two young leaders to dry out. A few minutes later Sergeant Billy returned, satisfied with how the new men had tended to the mounts.

  “Tell us what’s to happen when the weather breaks, Billy,” Roland said.

  Sergeant Billy nodded.

  “I’ve contracted for four vessels. The two largest are outfitted with stalls and can transport all of the horses. The other two are smaller, but have enough room for the men and my supplies. They’ll bring the big boats in if it’s clear in the morning and we’ll load the horses first, then the men.”

  By now more men of the Company had started to drift in and find spots on the floor to claim as their bed. Roland dismissed the Company officers and he and Declan found their own spots in the far corner.

  “Remember our first time here?” Declan asked, as he spread a woollen blanket on the dirt floor. “You’d never seen the ocean—or a ship larger than a rowboat!”

  Roland laughed at the memory.

  “As I recall, I heaved my breakfast as soon as we ventured into deep water. I think our long voyage aboard the Sprite finally cured me of that malady.”

  “Sir Roger was with us then,” Declan said wistfully.

  “And Tuck,” Roland added.

  “I never doubted they would see us through,” said Declan.

  “Aye, Dec. I miss them.”

  “Me as well, but I suppose it’s up to us now, isn’t it?”

  “Aye, it’s to us,” Roland said flatly.

  “The lads trust ye, Roland, and fer good reason.”

  Roland shrugged.

  “Perhaps they won’t after this is all over, Dec. I think France will be bad.”

  Declan nodded.

  “Very bad, I expect. Let’s just hope we make it back alive.”

  “And with our honour intact,” Roland added.

  “Amen to that,” the Irish knight replied, rolling over and wrapping himself in his blanket. All around them, the sound of snoring began to compete with the pounding of the rain.

  ***

  The next morning, the weather had turned mild again and the horses were led down to the quay to load onto the large trading cogs nestled up to one of the docks. There was the usual shouting and cursing that went with loading animals onto a ship, but the crews knew their business and Sergeant Billy’s men proved to be talented drovers as well.

  By mid morn the beasts were all secure in their stalls and the men began to board the two smaller craft that had swung in to tie up at the pier. By noon, with a favourable wind, the small flotilla made sail out of Dover’s harbour, bound for Harfleur at the mouth of the River Seine.

  The winds were light in the Channel and the four ships sailed close by each other through the afternoon and into the night. For a time, the men lounged about on deck singing songs and jesting with each other as men do when in their own company, but as the moon rose over the horizon and climbed higher, the songs fell silent and men curled up to catch some sleep. Their slumber was disturbed when the lookout announced land off the port bow as the eastern sky began to lighten. The helmsman peered off in that direction and nodded.

  “That’d be the fishin’ port of Fécamp,” he noted. “Another two hours to Harfleur.”

  The men who’d slept on deck were awakened by the lookout’s cry and began to stir from wherever they had chosen to curl up for the night.

  “France!” Brother Cyril exclaimed happily, rubbing his hands together as he gazed off to the east. “They say it is a beautiful country and the food is good.”

  “Aye, it is a pretty place,” replied Patch, who was standing nearby and relieving himself over the side, “or at least the women are, but I’d reckon that means little to you, friar.”

  Brother Cyril blushed a little, but was used to this sort of jesting from the men he’d chosen to look after as chaplain of the Company.

  “Oh, I find a fair face as pleasing to the eye as you, Patch,” he shot back. “I may be chaste, but I’m still a man!”

  Patch finished his business and, hitching up his pants, favoured the monk with an affectionate smile.

  “And a better one than I, Cyril, I swear.”

  At midmorning, the ships entered the estuary of the River Seine and were aided by an onshore wind that drove them a mile or two up river to the port of Harfleur. A harbour master in a rowboat hailed them as they approached the anchorage and led them to a set of vacant docks on the western side of the port. As soon as their vessel tied up to a pier, Sergeant Billy scrambled down a gangplank trailed by his team of men and headed to the neighbouring dock where the larger cogs carrying the horses were tying up.

  The Invalids secured their kits and streamed off the two troop ships, following in Sergeant Billy’s wake. Within an hour, the Invalid Company was mounted and heading east toward Rouen. In the early afternoon, they thundered past the castle at Tancarville, perched high on a steep ridge overlooking the river.

  Roland looked up at the castle and recalled that Sir Roger had brought the news of King Richard’s capture to Queen Eleanor at this place. It was common knowledge that, with Richard’s return, the Queen had retired from public life, spending most of her days far to the south in the Abbey of Fontevraud. But one never knew for certain where Eleanor of Aquitaine might choose to be. He couldn’t help but wonder if the wily old woman might be up there now in the tall tower, watching the road to Rouen.

  After a time, the river made a sharp bend to the south while the road cut overland to the east. Another ten miles on, the broad waters of the Seine reappeared off to the right, having looped back north. Here the Invalids made camp, twenty miles from Rouen. Fires were stoked a little higher in the night as the summer-like weather that greeted them at Harfleur gave way to signs of autumn’s approach with a chill wind blowing in from the north.

  At dawn there was frost on the ground and the men took a hurried breakfast before breaking camp. It was nearing sunset when they reached the great fortress town of Rouen, capital of Normandy and seat of Angevin power on the continent. Accommodations had been set aside for them within the walls, but they did not tarry long in the city. Their orders were to move to Les Andelys, the spot on the Seine where the King was building his new fortification and Patch had the men up and in the saddle at first light. Any city dweller still slumbering at that hour were no doubt roused as the Invalid Company clattered past the massive cathedral of Rouen and out the eastern gate of the Norman capital.

  The Lionheart

  They rode all day through rolling hills an
d across fertile plateaus where the grain had turned gold and ready for harvest. Entire families were in the fields, the children chasing away flocks of hungry birds, the men scything the stalks and the women bundling the stalks into sheaves. They only looked up from their labours long enough to see if this column of armed men was coming to kill them. Seeing the Invalid Company pass peaceably by, they returned to their chores.

  The company was still two miles from Les Andelys when Roland saw Jamie Finch riding back toward him, and he was not alone. Riding beside the young scout was a tall, broad-shouldered man astride a beautiful roan warhorse. The man wore a simple tabard with no badge or symbol of his rank, but none was needed. Every man of the Invalid Company knew Richard the Lionheart on sight.

  Roland was shocked to see the King coming to greet them and the look on Jamie Finch’s face spoke of the scout’s own surprise. A respectful distance behind the two riders, a dozen men-at-arms, fully clad in mail and heavily armed, kept pace. Roland raised his arm and called the column to a halt as the King reined in before him. Roland and Declan hastily dismounted and bowed low.

  “Sir Roland of Kinder Scout, if I recall correctly!” the King boomed. “And I see your Irish brother-in-arms is still with you,” he said nodding toward Declan. “Splendid! Your liege lord, Ranulf, is engaged with the French in Neufchatel at present, so I’ve come to welcome you to France.”

  It had been five years since Roland had last seen Richard, but the man had changed little. There was still an aura of animal energy about this warrior-king that the passage of time had not dimmed. As Roland studied him, the King swung around and called out to his armed escort.

  “These lads stormed the breach at Acre, boys,” he said gesturing toward Roland and Declan. “I knighted them myself for that bit of work and now Sir Roland commands my Invalid Company!”

  The King twisted back around and beamed at Roland like a proud father.

  “Sir Roland, I recall you won a golden arrow at my coronation. I’ve still never seen finer shooting anywhere. Are you still handy with that long Viking bow?”