by Wayne Grant
For the first time, Roland noticed that all the men gathered at the ruined fort carried longbows and full quivers of arrows. Some were as old as Odo and a few hardly older then Finn. He nodded toward them, touched by their support. Then Finn walked up beside him leading the horses.
“I’m coming,” he said flatly.
Roland looked at the Irish boy. Finn did not know his own age for certain. The lad couldn’t be more than ten or eleven, but a squire’s place was with his knight—or so Sir Edgar had said.
“Right, lad. We’ll find her together.”
***
Twilight was fading fast when Oren reached the narrow gorge of the wind gates. He’d run steadily since first light and had covered over thirty miles. His legs felt leaden and his breathing grew ragged as the track climbed into the hills. The deepening shadows cast by the brooding walls of the gorge did not trouble him as he ran. This was country he’d grown up in. Not far to the north lay Kinder Scout and he knew at the bottom of this pass he’d find Castleton. Under different circumstances it would have been a sentimental homecoming, but not on this day.
He knew it was possible Millie’s captors were bound for somewhere beyond the little market town, but felt in his gut that he was nearing the end of the trail. From the first, he’d suspected that the men who’d burnt Danesford had done so on the orders of William de Ferrers. And as soon as the tracks crossed the Goyt he’d been certain they’d lead to Peveril Castle.
He picked up the pace as the track turned downhill. Full night was falling as he neared the outskirts of town. He slowed as the trail he’d followed since dawn was lost in a welter of tracks. The road into town was heavily travelled and churned up from the passage of horses, sheep and cows. A half mile outside of the town, a well-worn track turned off the main road and ran up a ridge that led to the west gate of Peveril Castle. Here too, many tracks mingled in a confusing mess.
Oren slipped off the road and ran across an open field to the edge of the town. He’d been to Castleton a dozen times as a boy, going to market with Roland and his father, and little had changed since last he’d seen the place. He ducked into a narrow alley that ran behind a row of houses fronting the main road and made his way toward the small town square. In the cramped little lane it was pitch black and he moved with caution, not wanting to alarm any folks settling down for bed or rouse a sleeping dog.
He reached the small square at the centre of town and stopped, unsure of what to do next. High up the hill to the east he saw torches burning along the walls of Peveril Castle. If he could not track the raiders up to the castle gates, perhaps someone in the town knew something.
Across the square he saw a building he remembered had once been an inn. Perhaps it was still and someone there might have seen a girl being taken up to the castle. It was risky, but he’d not come this far to be left uncertain as to where Millie was. There was a half-moon out, making the square brighter than he wished. He looked to his left and right. No one was about and he edged forward.
“Don’t move.”
Oren started to twist around, but felt the point of a knife prick his neck and stayed still.
“Who are you?” a man’s voice asked quietly.
“Oren Inness,” he whispered back.
“What’s yer business sneaking around town after dark?”
Oren considered his answer. If this was one of the Earl’s men, a wrong word would get him killed, but why would one of de Ferrers’ brigands be whispering as though he was fearful of discovery himself?
“I’m tracking a girl,” Oren said. “Men took her last night. Their trail led here.”
For a long moment there was silence, then the point of the knife was withdrawn from his neck.
“Turn around.”
Oren turned slowly, careful not to give the man with the knife any cause to skewer him. He found himself facing a shadowy figure.
“I seen the girl,” the man said. “They rode in at midafternoon. Took her up to the castle. Who is she?”
“She’s the wife of Sir Roland Inness of Cheshire.”
“Roland Inness, ye say?”
“Aye, he’s my brother.”
“I’d not thought he was real,” the man said, keeping his voice hushed. “There’s stories, ye know. Stories how this man Inness saved the Danes up in the hills from the Earl. I thought they was all made up.”
“They weren’t,” said Oren.
The dark figure gave a little grunt at that.
“They say he’s the finest bowman in the Midlands.”
“They’re wrong,” Oren said in a hushed voice. “He’s the finest bowman in England.”
The man cocked his head in the darkness as though sceptical of this incredible claim.
“Might be some around here who’d argue that point, but no matter. Follow me,” he said, and turned back into the shadows of the little alley. Oren fell in behind him, but kept a hand on the skinning knife in his belt. The man led the way along narrow paths that wove through the huts and stables and frozen gardens of Castleton. Not stopping at the edge of town, he cut across an open field to reach a goat track that led up into some low hills.
They’d gone less than a mile when his escort turned off the track and climbed up a steep slope. Ahead he heard a bird call, odd on a winter’s night. Then the man who led him answered with the same call. There was a flare of light revealing the opening to a cave. Standing at the mouth of the cavern were two men and one had a half-drawn longbow.
The taller of the two raised the torch high to get a better look at these unexpected visitors. As Oren and his guide stepped fully into the torchlight, the men looked the young Dane over carefully.
The man with the bow lowered it, but left his arrow nocked.
“Where did you find this one, Will?” he asked Oren’s companion.
“He was sneaking through the alleys by the square, Sir Robin. He says he’s come lookin’ for the girl I saw. The one they took up the hill.”
“She’s the wife of Sir Roland Inness,” Oren blurted out. “Those men who took her to the castle burned her home and took her prisoner last night.”
“Inness? Roland Inness?” the man with the bow said, his eyes going wide.
“That’s what I said.”
“And you are?”
“Oren Inness.”
The man with the bow plucked his arrow from the bowstring and slipped it back into his quiver.
“I am Sir Robin of Loxley,” he said, “and this is my comrade, John Little. Your brother is an old friend, Oren. We fought together on Crusade and he beat me to win the Golden Arrow at the King’s coronation.”
Oren heard his escort let out a low whistle at that news.
“I’ve heard my brother speak of you often, my lord,” Oren replied.
“When Will reported a woman had been taken up the hill by de Ferrers men,” Robin said, “we asked our people with connections at the fort to make inquiries, but we’d heard nothing yet. I’m most sorry to learn it’s Lady Millicent, lad.”
“I cannot understand why de Ferrers has taken her,” Oren said. “All know there’s bad blood between the Danes and the Earl and particularly so between de Ferrers and my brother, but Roland is in France and the Danes have minded their own business since settling in Cheshire. Is it just spite?”
Robin shook his head.
“Spite the man has in abundance, Oren, but he’s not deranged. I can’t see what he has to gain from this, but you can be sure he has a purpose.”
Oren spit on the ground.
“His purpose doesn’t much matter now. We have to get her back and make the bastard pay!”
“On that we can agree, lad, but the doing of it…” Robin’s voice trailed off as he shook his head once more. “It’s been bad here, Oren. The men who took Lady Millicent are routiers, the scum of the earth, but very deadly. De Ferrers has chosen them for their skill and their cruelty. He’s unleashed them on Derbyshire like a pack of wolves. He wants the folk hereabouts to tr
emble before him and they do—most of them.”
“Some here are fighting back. They’re led by the Sheriff of Derbyshire, whom the Earl has outlawed, and by Friar Tuck, whom I think you know.”
“Aye,” said Oren. “Tuck dragged me off to a priory for safekeeping after de Ferrers killed my father, but I was soon gone from there. No monk’s life for me. But we settled any old scores between us when he came to Chester to marry Roland and Millie. I understand why Tuck is here, my lord. His flock is in Derbyshire, but what of you? As I recall you hail from Nottinghamshire.”
“Aye, lad, and there I planned to stay, but de Ferrers would not leave me be, so here I am.”
“How many bowmen do you have?” Oren asked
“Seven,” Robin said glumly. He pointed to Oren’s bow.
“We could use an eighth!”
“In another day, you’ll likely have forty, my lord. Not much could bring the Danes back to Derbyshire, but for Millicent Inness, they will come. And they will bring their bows.”
A Reckoning at Castleton
It was well past midnight when Oren reached the ford on the River Goyt. Sir Robin had given him food and a place to rest for a few hours before starting back on the long journey to Danesford. He’d also given Oren a horse. It wasn’t a particularly swift animal, but the little mare was sure-footed enough to travel the high passes of Derbyshire. Now as the horse picked its way slowly down the steep slope toward the ford, its steady gait almost lulled its rider to sleep in the saddle.
But a sound ahead snapped Oren out of his doze. In the darkness below, he heard horses splashing across the ford. Reining in the mare, he slid out of the saddle and led the horse off the road and into some scrub pines that clung to the steep slope. While he waited to see who might be passing this way in the small hours of the morning, he slipped an arrow from his quiver and fitted it to his bowstring. He did not intend to use it, but best to be prepared.
He knew the horse before he recognized the rider.
There was no mistaking the big grey gelding that led a handful of other horses strung out down the slope. And if The Grey was back from France…
“Roland!” he cried, and stepped out of the trees.
Roland reined in and gaped at his brother as Oren tried to run to the road while leading a slow horse at the same time. Roland jumped down from The Grey and ran to meet him. The two embraced as Sir Roger dismounted and hurried to their side.
Loosening his grip, Roland held his younger brother at arm’s length.
“You found her?” he asked urgently.
“Aye, Roland. She was seen alive yesterday and is being held in Peveril Castle. But that’s not all I found. There’s a small uprising afoot in Derbyshire and your old friends Friar Tuck and Sir Robin of Loxley are in the thick of it. They will help however they can.”
“There are no two men anywhere I’d rather have with us,” Roland said.
“What strength do they have?” Sir Roger asked.
“At best they have thirty fighters, my lord, though few with much experience. They say they have sympathizers in Castleton and all over the countryside who spy on de Ferrers’ patrols.”
“And what of the Earl?”
“He has a garrison of forty men or so at the castle, but he brought another forty back from France and they’re well-armed and mounted. Sir Robin calls them routiers. They’re hard men and they’ve been terrorizing Derbyshire for months now. They were the ones de Ferrers sent to burn Danesford and take Millie. I counted three of their dead at Danesford and Sir Robin thinks another seven have fallen to ambushes.”
Roland nodded.
“I saw what these routiers did in France. It’s no wonder the people of Derbyshire are starting to fight back. They’re bad men, to be sure, but capable fighters. Town folk and farmers are no match for them. But perhaps we can show them that England is not France.”
Oren peered into the darkness and saw Declan O’Duinne and Finn Mac Clure still mounted. Behind them, were men on foot, many men, and they carried longbows.
The Danes had come back to Derbyshire.
***
“It’s a trap, you know,” Oren said as they rode east toward Castleton.
“Of course it’s a trap,” Roland replied. “It was no accident they attacked Danesford the day before I was to return. How he knew of it I can’t say, but he knew. Now he expects me to rush to Millie’s rescue and he’s brought a pack of cutthroats from France to greet me.”
“And here ye are, rushing to her rescue, just as expected,” Sir Roger put in.
“He won’t expect me to come with forty longbowmen, my lord.”
“True enough,” the big Norman agreed. “That may upset his plans! I’ve not seen this castle of Peveril. How formidable are its defences?”
“Too strong to be stormed by anything less than a small army,” Roland said. “I used to stare up at it when we came for market day. It was such a strange thing to see, sitting up there above the town. To a farm boy, it looked unnatural, but thinking back on it now with a soldier’s eye, it’s very well placed. It sits at the end of a long ridge with a sheer drop into a ravine behind it and a steep slope to the front. There’s an outer bailey to the west. It protects the main gate that can only be entered by passing through the outer bailey and then over a drawbridge to the inner bailey.”
“So if we can’t storm the place, how will we get her out?” Sir Roger asked.
Roland made no reply as they rode through the night. He didn’t know.
***
Millicent awoke long before dawn and sat up on her cot. Her mouth was dry as sand and her stomach rumbled. Her cell was pitch black save for the small square of the window high on the wall. It too was black, but the night sky was a half shade lighter than the stone walls of her prison. The room was ice cold. It had a small hearth but no fire had been made there and no wood or kindling had been provided for her to make her own. She wrapped her arms around her body to keep in what heat she could and wondered when dawn would come.
She stood and stamped her feet to get feeling back into them. During the night, she’d heard sounds outside her locked door and knew a guard had been placed there to keep watch. She felt her way along the wall until she reached the rough wood of the door and rapped on it. She could hear the sound of feet scraping on the other side and suddenly the cover over the narrow slit in the door was shoved aside. A shaft of yellow light from a torch in the hall struck her eyes causing her to blink and turn away.
“What do you want?” the voice on the other side asked.
“Water,” she answered, “and food.”
There was silence on the other side of the door for a moment.
“I’m not supposed to open the door,” the voice said.
“Are you afraid I’ll attack you?” Millicent asked.
The guard snorted.
“Not likely, miss.”
“What if I die of thirst in here? Won’t you be in trouble with the Earl?”
Again there was a long silence.
Then Millicent heard a key turn in the lock and the door opened a crack. Peering through the gap was the guard. He was hardly more than a boy. His helmet was too big for him and fell down around his ears. The boy soldier thrust a water skin through the crack.
“I’ve no food to give ye, miss,” he said and slammed the door shut.
Millicent took the skin filled with water and drank greedily. When she’d had her fill she spoke through the door once more.
“What’s your name, sir?” she asked.
Silence again.
“Are you not allowed to say your name?”
“Not supposed speak with prisoners, miss.”
“Do you know my name?”
“Aye, miss. Inness I’m told.”
“Have you heard that name before?”
A long silence this time.
“You have, haven’t you? You’ve heard of Sir Roland Inness, I’ll wager. He is my husband and he’ll be coming for me. He’s
a very dangerous man, my husband. I would not like to be between him and me when he gets here.”
The guard made no reply and Millicent did not press him further. It was a start.
***
It had been a long cold night standing lookout up in the wind gates. The Sheriff had forbidden him to build a fire, so the son of Castleton’s miller had wrapped himself in a heavy coat lined with lambswool and stamped around in the dark to keep warm through the long hours of darkness. Now he yawned, unused to a sleepless night. His replacement would be here at dawn and he only needed to stay awake until then. He leaned against a tree to wait and directly his head began to bob.
He woke with a start when he heard the faint sound of a horse snort somewhere in the distance. It wasn’t yet dawn, but the eastern sky was brightening and he cursed himself for having fallen asleep on watch. He rubbed his eyes and peered up toward the pass where the gorge of the wind gates began and saw five riders there. Behind the riders were men on foot—lots of men.
The Sheriff had posted him here to meet any riders coming over the pass during the night. Relieved that he hadn’t slept through their arrival, he set off down the slope to intercept the horsemen. The men in the gorge saw him coming and one turned his horse off the path and rode toward him. The miller’s son suddenly stopped as a troubling thought stuck him. What if these weren’t the men the Sheriff ordered him to meet? As a man reined in beside him, the miller’s son sent a quick prayer up to heaven that he had not made a dreadful mistake.
“Are ye Master Inness?” he asked hopefully.
“I’m not,” said Declan. The boy’s heart skipped a beat and he turned, ready to flee. “But I can take ye to him.”
***
A half dozen candles cast an eerie light against the walls of the cavern where seven men sat holding a counsel of war. The miller’s son had led Roland and the others to a secluded glen a mile north of the main road into Castleton. The Danes had settled in to rest, while the three knights and Oren Inness were led halfway up the eastern slope of the small valley to this cave.
“He must be killed,” Sir Roger said flatly. “First, we must get my daughter out of harm’s way, then we kill him. He’s burnt my home, killed my Master of the Sword and now he’s burnt my daughter’s home and taken her as hostage. No more half measures!”