by Wayne Grant
“Millie,” he croaked.
Millicent didn’t speak. She threw herself into her father’s arms and clung to him. Sir Roger looked at Roland and Declan, tears streaming down his face.
“Well done, lads. Well done.”
As the father and daughter embraced, Roland turned to Declan.
“De Ferrers,” he said.
“He’ll have run,” Declan said.
“Then we’ll catch him,” Roland replied grimly. The two raced down the steps and spotted Tuck striding across the bailey. The monk saw the two and spread his arms as though offering a benediction.
“Miracles have been worked this night!” he declared with a broad grin.
“Aye, Tuck, but there’s a sin that still needs doing.”
“De Ferrers,” the monk said.
“Aye. Any sign of the Earl?”
Tuck looked around at the local garrison troops being rounded up and disarmed.
“He’d not be one to fight to the finish if there’s a way out. I’d guess he’s taken to horse and gone by now.”
“Then we’ll be needing our horses,” said Roland.
***
They found Finn wandering about the bailey, his short sword in his hand. The Irish boy had clearly been looking for a fight, but the enemy had yielded too soon. The disappointment was written on his face, but he brightened at the sight of his master.
“My lord!” he called. “I thought sure ye’d be dead!”
Roland raised an eyebrow.
“You think I’m that easy to kill, Finn?”
“Well, no lord, but…”
“We need our horses, lad, and I’ll want my bow.”
“Aye, lord!” Finn said, relieved to be given something useful to do. He jammed his sword in its scabbard and ran for the east gate. He returned in short order leading The Grey and Declan’s favourite chestnut mare. He handed Roland his longbow and the two men mounted. They picked their way around the clusters of prisoners in the bailey and made their way over the drawbridge to the outer bailey. They found the west gate open.
Roland touched The Grey’s flanks with his heels and the big horse leapt through the open gate, heading west, toward the wind gates.
***
The four riders had fled from Peveril in haste, whipping their horses into a gallop and riding flat out for over a mile to put distance between them and any pursuers. Of necessity, they slowed to a trot when they reached the gorge that led up through the wind gates to the high pass. To gallop up such a steep grade would ruin the horses before they reached the top and they had miles to go to reach the safe haven of Derby.
William de Ferrers rode in silence. It had been a disastrous night with one setback following close upon another. He’d had Inness in his hands! But somehow this damnable Dane had slipped from his grasp once more. Not only had Inness survived, but he and his henchmen were now in possession of Peveril Castle!
It was a calamity to be sure, but he’d suffered many such. This was just another setback to overcome. He would find men and protection at Derby, then hasten to London to inform the King’s Justiciar of this outrageous assault on his lands and his person. He would name Inness and the former Sheriff as rebels who’d fomented an armed uprising against him, the legitimate ruler of Derbyshire. With Inness and the rest holding Peveril Castle, there could be no doubt of their guilt. The Archbishop of Canterbury was a cold fish, but a stickler for the law and would surely condemn the lot of them!
The law notwithstanding, Hubert Walter knew where the silver was coming from to keep Richard’s army in the field. He would not risk that over a minor knight and a wayward Sheriff. He’d failed to put an end to Roland Inness as he’d planned, but he’d happily let the King perform that service for him.
As de Ferrers and his party reached the top of the pass, the thought of Inness and Sir James Ferguson bound and kneeling before the axeman on Tower Hill lifted his mood a bit. Then Barca touched his arm. The Gascon pointed back along the road. De Ferrers stared hard into the darkness and saw movement down in the gorge. One or perhaps two riders were following them. Perhaps they were some of Barca’s men who’d escaped the carnage back at the castle, but his gut told him otherwise.
Barca seemed to be of the same opinion. He issued terse orders to the two men who’d fled with them from Peveril and the men peeled off the road, disappearing into the gloom. The Gascon leaned in close to de Ferrers.
“Perhaps they’ll kill whoever is back there,” he said, but his voice carried little conviction.
The Earl made no reply. He slapped his horse on the rump with his reins and spurred the stallion back into a gallop, his mood now as dark as the night around him.
Distance. He needed distance between him and whoever was coming through the wind gates.
***
Despite the moonless night, Roland saw the four riders silhouetted against the dark sky at the top of the pass. They were there but a moment, then disappeared over the crest. He’d slowed The Grey from a full gallop to a canter as they started up the steep slope of the wind gates and fought the urge now to ask the big gelding for more speed. He knew The Grey could reach the top of the pass at a gallop without being blown and would eventually run the other horses into the ground, but Declan’s sturdy little mare could not keep up such a pace. And against four men, he’d be needing his friend’s broadsword.
He kept The Grey at a canter as they climbed up through the wind gates.
***
The ambush was sprung just as they reached the top of the pass. Two riders burst out of the darkness from the right, swords drawn. Roland jerked the reins of The Grey toward the attackers and the big horse reared, lashing out with its front hooves. Startled, the routiers’ mounts shied away to either side of the gelding. As soon as The Grey’s front legs touched the ground, it whirled to the left, snorting and baring its teeth like a warhorse. Roland touched its flanks with his heels and the horse charged forward, slamming into the side of the mount nearest him and knocking the animal on its side. The rider managed to avoid being pinned beneath his fallen horse, but he landed hard. The man rose unsteadily, staggered and sat back down.
The rider who turned left met Declan O’Duinne. The meeting did not end well for him. Unsheathing his broadsword at the first sign of trouble, the Irish knight deftly parried a wild slashing attack, countering with a straight thrust that caught his attacker in the side. The man’s mail coat saved him, but the tip of the broadsword cracked his ribs and almost unhorsed him. He slumped in the saddle, doubled-over in pain as his horse trotted aimlessly off into the darkness.
Declan reined in his mare beside Roland. The Grey, its blood up, nipped at the smaller horse. Roland jerked its head to the front then patted the gelding on the neck.
“Easy,” he said quietly, and the horse settled.
“Two gone,” Declan said. There was little of his friend’s usual bravado in the statement. Both men were weary to the bone, but there could be no rest until they’d finished. Together they resumed the chase.
***
The Earl’s beautiful white stallion had been bred for beauty and speed, but not for endurance. As they neared the tiny village of Buxton that lay athwart the road from Castleton to Derby, the animal’s gait faltered. De Ferrers had galloped the stallion repeatedly and now the horse was blown. He whipped the horse and dug his boot heels savagely into its flanks. The horse gamely tried to run, but staggered and finally stopped dead in the middle of the road refusing to move.
De Ferrers leapt out of his saddle and looked up at Barca.
“Your horse, Captain,” he demanded, his voice betraying his growing terror.
The mercenary looked down at the Earl and said nothing. Savaric Barca had always known when the time was right to seek a new employer. He clucked to his mare and trotted off into the darkness.
“Barca!” de Ferrers screamed. “Come back here!”
But the Gascon was already out of sight. De Ferrers looked around frantically. The villa
ge of Buxton had once been a small spa town for the Roman legions keeping watch over the Midlands, but it had fallen on hard times once the legions sailed away from Britannia. Now Buxton was nothing more than a score of wattle and daub huts clustered next to the remnants of a Roman road.
In the small hours of the morning, nothing stirred in the village, save a stray dog who began to bark as soon as he caught the scent of a stranger in the town. De Ferrers tried to hush the animal, but it only caused to dog to bark louder. He drew his sword and swung wildly at the cur, but the animal danced away from his blade and continued to sound his alarm. So determined was de Ferrers to stop the infernal racket that he did not see the two riders enter the town.
***
When Roland and Declan rode into Buxton they saw the Earl of Derby trying to kill a dog. They reined in as de Ferrers looked over his shoulder and saw them. Forgetting the dog, he turned to face his pursuers.
“The King will have your heads for what you’ve done!” he spit out.
“Then killing you won’t add to our troubles,” Roland said, climbing down from The Grey.
De Ferrers stood there, frozen to the spot like a bird watching a snake approach. Behind him, the dog continued to bark frantically, though not a single villager ventured out to see what had alarmed the animal.
“Wait! Wait!” the Earl said, his threatening tone turned to pleading. “I could make you a very rich man. What’s your price, Inness? You want silver? I can provide that. Or land! You can have your mountain back if that’s what you want.”
Roland stood there and said nothing.
“What is it you want?” de Ferrers asked, desperation creeping into his voice.
Roland drew his short sword and moved toward the Earl.
“I want my father back.”
Christ’s Mass
Eleanor of Aquitaine sat on the dais next to her son, the King of England. Her ancient eyes were closed and there was just the hint of a smile on her weathered face as the sounds of the madrigal swirled through the great hall. Beneath her exquisite gown, the Queen tapped her toe.
It was five days until Christ’s Mass and the King’s holiday court in Rouen was awash in festive events. Eleanor had made the arduous journey up from the abbey at Fontevraud to join her son in the celebration, claiming it might be her last. Richard seemed to think she might be right and was determined to make his mother’s last Yuletide a gay one. After all, the woman was in her seventy-fourth year, and he owed her much. But while she occasionally showed her age by nodding off at meals, the Queen seemed otherwise healthy and had certainly not lost a scintilla of her formidable intelligence.
As if aware of her son’s scrutiny, Eleanor’s eyes fluttered open and she leaned forward.
“I’d like to dance,” she announced.
Richard beamed at that and held out his hand to escort her to the floor as other revellers moved to the side.
“Play something lively,” she ordered the small band of troubadours and after a whispered conference, they launched into a bouncy carole replacing the stately madrigal. It was a tune she had danced to as a mere girl when she was Queen of France and married to the pious King Louis and as a woman when she was being wooed by the very impious Duke Henry of Normandy.
As the music swirled, Richard the Lionheart led Lady Eleanor to the floor. With scores of courtiers looking on and clapping in time to the music, the Queen glided, turned and curtsied through the old familiar steps. Eleanor had once been famed for her beauty and grace and though the beauty had faded, the grace had not as she missed not a beat or step. As the tune ended, she leaned against Richard, breathing hard.
“Enough for one night,” she said with a smile.
As the King led her back to her seat, he saw William Marshall standing patiently in the wings. The Earl held a packet under his arm but hadn’t approached the dais, not wishing to interrupt the King’s revelry with business. Richard caught his eye and beckoned to him.
Marshall bowed low to the King and the Queen, then rose shaking his head.
“Your grace,” he said, grinning at Eleanor, his old friend and patron, “you dance like a girl!”
Eleanor laughed at that.
“Would that I still felt like one, William, but thank you for your kindness.”
“William, what news have we?” asked the King, nodding toward the package under Marshall’s arm.
“It’s the Archbishop’s report, your grace, just arrived. I’ve not looked at it.”
Richard suppressed a grin. Any other man would not have resisted looking inside for the latest news from England, but not William Marshall! The King took the package and undid the twine that bound the folder. Hubert Walter was his Justiciar and managed the daily affairs of England while Richard pursued his war in France. The Archbishop’s weekly report was always thorough and concise, just like the man himself.
The King slipped the two sheets of velum from the folder and scanned them. It contained the usual figures on revenue, expenditures and other government business as well as one piece of startling news that caught Richard’s attention. He turned to Eleanor and Marshall, the velum still in his hand.
“William de Ferrers is dead,” he informed them.
The Queen took a moment to react to this news.
“Forgive me if I don’t grieve,” she said making a face.
“How did he die?” asked Marshall.
“The Archbishop says he was murdered!”
Eleanor arched an eyebrow at this.
“By whom?”
Richard shook his head.
“It says here that the Sheriff of Derbyshire, one Sir James Ferguson, properly investigated the death and reports the Earl was killed by one of his own hired mercenaries, a Savaric Barca by name, perhaps in a dispute over payment.”
“Serves the bastard right,” said Marshall.
“He was a traitor and you should have had his head four years ago!” the Queen added, for good measure.
Richard wagged a finger at his mother.
“So was your younger son, my lady, and I don’t recall you insisting on taking John’s head.”
Eleanor shrugged.
“John is a Plantagenet and there are only two of you left.”
“Spoken like a Queen and a mother,” Richard shot back.
“I’ve been both for most of my life,” she said placidly.
“But, you’ll recall, de Ferrers paid very generously for keeping his head,” Richard said a little glumly.
“Aye, that’s true,” the Queen replied with a sly glint in her eye, “but consider this, Richard. De Ferrers has died without issue, which means all of his lands and revenues come into your hands.”
The King brightened at this news and lifted his cup.
“Then good riddance to William de Ferrers and a merry Christ’s Mass to me!”
Historical Note
As with all of my stories, the events portrayed in A Question of Honour are mostly fictional, but I’ve tried to weave my tale within a reasonably accurate historical context. The period from Richard’s return from captivity in Germany until his death in 1199 was marked by near continual warfare between the English King and Philip of France as Richard tried to win back all that he’d lost while held hostage by the Holy Roman Emperor.
These wars were particularly bloody affairs featuring few pitched battles but numerous sieges. In the beginning, Richard won back much of the land he’d lost in the south, but in the critical Vexin region the war devolved into a long, grinding campaign that saw the employment of large bands of mercenaries on both sides.
The feudal levy of armed and armoured knights owed by great barons to the king in times of war remained the elite warriors of the day, but the traditional service requirement for such men was but forty days. Mercenaries, on the other hand, could be employed for as long as funds were there to pay them. In the protracted war between Richard and Philip, the reliable, long-term availability of mercenaries was essential to both sides, as was finding
the money to pay for them.
These hired men were not just foot soldiers. In many cases they were highly trained and prized specialists such as siege engineers or crossbowmen, but in all cases they were known for their ruthlessness. Putting men, women and children to the sword was not uncommon. The lawlessness and barbarity of these mercenaries, known in France as “routiers,” resulted in their condemnation by the Catholic Church at the Third Lateran Council held in 1179 and the inclusion of a provision in the Magna Carta of 1215 banning mercenaries from England.
This did not stop Philip and Richard from relying heavily on hired professionals throughout their conflict on the continent. Some of these paid men rose to positions of great power, such as Mercadier, who had travelled with Richard on the Third Crusade and became, next to William Marshall, his most trusted field commander. On the French side, the Brabançon mercenary leader, Lambert Cadoc, was one of Philip’s primary commanders.
Regarding some of the events portrayed in the book I would offer these clarifiers:
The initial battle portrayed in the book at Aumale actually took place and was a defeat for Richard who found himself for once outmanoeuvred by Philip. He was forced to retreat and the garrison was captured. Richard paid 3000 marks to ransom them back. It was his first major defeat at the hands of Philip.
Richard was wounded by a crossbow bolt in 1196, but there is some uncertainty as to where that occurred. It might have been at Nonancourt, but for the purposes of this story I had it happen at Aumale.
Gamaches did fall to the English in 1196, but the massacre of prisoners was fiction—though there were cases of garrisons being slaughtered rather than taken prisoner during the Angevin-Capetian wars.
During this period, scholars agree that Eleanor tried to lay down some of her burdens of governance, but did not do so all together. I’d like to think the wily old spider kept her webs intact to the very end of her life.
Turning to the major historical actors that play a role in this story: