‘Do you always trust in rumours?’ Humfrey asked.
De Balon looked at his counterpart allowing a few seconds to elapse before he replied, ‘We have learnt never to ignore rumours, they are always based on truth, however inaccurate they are….if they are false we shall leave you in peace and continue our search elsewhere.’
Humfrey looked down at de Clare who sat looking pensive, chin resting on the fingers of his clenched fists. Long seconds passed as de Clare thought about de Capo and the unexpected visit of these two men before him and he nodded and said, ‘No, your rumours are not false, but I would like to know where you heard those rumours.’
De Balon was never going to divulge the network of spies the Grand Master was in control of and he smiled, ‘I am unable to give you that information my Lord, our men hear things and pass them on.’
‘So, Reynaud,’ de Clare said, understanding that wherever their information came from would remain a secret, ‘you want whatever de Capo stole, how does that help me?’
De Balon started to speak and fell silent as de Chauvigny raised his hand, ‘I and my men will fight for you. When Rochester falls I will have de Capo and you will have the Lady!’
There was a palpable silence as de Clare glared at de Chauvigny, ‘And if it doesn’t fall?’
‘Another way will always be found my Lord,’ said de Chauvigny, finally using the correct address for de Clare, ‘the property he has stolen must be recovered!’
‘Which is?’
‘It is a holy artefact,’ de Chauvigny said, ‘it has to be returned to the Holy Father for whom we are indentured, what it contains I do not know, but it has to be recovered to protect Christianity!’
De Clare was shocked to hear of the Pope’s involvement, ‘The Holy Father?’ He smiled as looked up at Humfrey. If the Pope was connected to this artefact and aware of his assistance he would be a powerful ally for his ambitions. He turned back to de Chauvigny after Humfrey gave a small nod, ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘you will fight for me and you can have de Capo, as long as I get the Lady.’
That was three days ago and during that time Humfrey had made enquiries with men in de Clare’s service who had served in Outremer, the name given to the Holy Land. The stories that were told were of men whose viciousness knew no bounds. De Clare looked past the two men who were less than fifty feet away and saw ten more knights at the base of the hill, all wearing the same red surcoats with the black cross. They were all ready for war and as de Chauvigny and de Balon drew closer he noted the battle axe and mace both strapped to the side of de Chauvigny’s saddle, his shield and helmet strapped on the opposite side and of course the great red shaggy beard streaked with grey would be recognisable to friend and foe. De Clare turned his horse slightly to greet his new ally, partly out of etiquette but mostly to prevent any sudden attack he couldn’t counter. Gilbert de Clare only trusted two men, his cook and Humfrey.
De Chauvigny stopped a horse’s length away, ‘Mon Seigneur,’‘My Lord,’ he greeted de Clare, ‘un temps idéal pour aller à la guerre!’ ‘Good weather for going to war!’
De Clare gave a small nod in return and ignoring de Chauvigny’s lack of respect by speaking his own language acknowledged de Balon with a similarly small movement of his head, ‘I’m glad you could join us,’ de Clare said sarcastically, ‘I did begin to wonder if you had changed your mind!’
‘Oui,’ said de Chauvigny as his mouth changed shape to reveal a grin that failed to extend to his eyes which remained cold and dark, ‘mes excuses.’ ‘My apologies.’
De Clare smirked and let de Chauvigny know he was as adept at speaking French as de Chauvigny was at English ‘Le français est une langue noble Reynaud, mais en Angleterre, je préfère parler anglais.’ ‘French is a noble language Reynaud, but in England I prefer to speak my own language.’.
‘Of course my Lord,’ de Chauvigny replied, ‘it is your country and I will speak your language.’
‘Well, now you’re here I trust our agreement still stands.’
‘De Capo for me….the Lady for you….that agreement still stands.’
‘And what of your men,’ de Clare queried, ‘there is no other payment you require?’
‘None save our duty to the Holy Father, which is payment enough.’
‘Good,’ de Clare turned his horses head and faced down into the valley as his army continued their slow trudge towards Rochester. He wondered about de Chauvigny’s reputation, if the man was as vicious as he had heard, he would be a good asset to have, ‘Join me.’
De Chauvigny nudged his horse forwards until he sat on the left of de Clare and looked down at the slow moving column. De Balon sat on de Chauvigny’s left and with Humfrey on de Clare’s right the four horsemen stared at the movement below.
‘How well do you know de Capo?’
Both de Balon and De Chauvigny turned their heads slowly to face de Clare who continued to look down at his army.
‘I know he’s a treacherous bastard,’ spat de Chauvigny.
‘You know him well?’
‘I do,’ growled de Chauvigny. He spat on the ground and growled, ‘I know the bastard well.’
‘Not a friend of yours?’ De Clare turned to face de Chauvigny, ‘because he and I have unfinished business, perhaps you could leave him alive long enough for me to take my revenge.’
‘I think that can be arranged,’ replied de Chauvigny, ‘as long as I can have his head, my Grand Master would like to piss into his shrivelled decaying face.’
De Clare was taken aback and glanced at Humfrey who raised his eyebrows at the statement, ‘You seem to have a lot of hate for a thief, apart from taking this scroll what did he do to make you hate him so?’
‘The man doesn’t know when to mind his own business,’ he hissed, ‘I’ll not bore you with the details, suffice to say when he suffers he will know why.’
De Clare decided not to press the issue and turned to Humfrey who shrugged his ignorance of the reasons for the enmity between the two men, ‘Tell the priest to pray for good weather,’ said de Clare as he looked up at the sky, I do not want to siege in the rain.’
Chapter Four
‘You look exhausted!’
Henry smiled wanly, ‘Aye,’ he looked at the ancient knight and grinned, ‘I’m glad to see you’re still alive.’
Gilbert raised his eyes and looked at Henry like a scolded child, ‘You called me an old man earlier!’
‘Well,’ Henry remarked, ‘you must be at least, what, sixty years old?
‘Sixty five.’ Gilbert rubbed his great shaggy beard and looked thoughtful, ‘Sixty five years and no bastard has killed me yet, though plenty have tried and some have tried more than once.’ He stared forlornly as he absentmindedly rubbed a scar from an old wound on his left arm.
They sat together in Gilbert’s private room in the Bridge House. As the Captain of the City Guard his first duty was to protect the bridge, then the City; the castle came last in his list of priorities. He had fought for Henry’s father, the Earl of Cornwall for a number of years and the Earl had since become the King of the Germans but still had an allegiance to the English King. When the young Henry had started to campaign, Gilbert had fought by his side to protect and watch over him at the behest of the father. After a number of years of hard campaigning in France and Germany Gilbert saw Henry develop into a fine leader and experienced warrior. He knew it wouldn’t be long before the guardian ended up being the guarded and decided it was time to retire to a quieter life.
He returned to England but quickly discovered just hunting and drinking did not fulfil his need. He had no family, for years his family had been the men he had fought with, bled with and helped bury. When he was a young man he married a local girl called Francesca, sadly she died in childbirth and took their son with her. Gilbert was a man racked with grief and from the day he buried his wife and baby he took to the road and put his body and soul into campaigning, quickly finding a place in the army of the Earl of Cornwal
l. It was said a man with no fear of death could not be killed; Gilbert had no fear of death. Indeed it was said he welcomed death with open arms. Only he knew how ready he was to be with his beloved wife and son, born and dead in the same hour.
The Sheriff of Kent had offered him the post of Captain of Rochester and he had seized the chance to be among fighting men again, maybe not the same as campaigning but he was still strong and happy to have the responsibility. He knew he would die when the time was right, he was ready. All he had to do was wait. Gilbert was older than the Earl of Cornwall and knew how passionate the Earl was about his son, ‘Have you seen your father? I hear he is with the King in the North.’
Henry shook his head, ‘We never made the North, once we heard Rochester needed men we made all haste here and I’m pleased we weren’t too late.’
‘Not too late to die lad!’
‘You think we can’t hold?’
Gilbert stood, ‘Come with me.’
Henry followed the big man to the top of the Bridge House and looked out over the river. A guard stood on the top tower looking out to the west and out of earshot of the two men.
‘Look around you,’ said Gilbert, ‘I’ve been here three years. Most of the men under my command have been here longer, some have campaigned, some haven’t, some are old and some are just boys.’ He rubbed his left arm again which always ached more when it was damp, ‘We can hold the bridge, the Keep will stand unless they copy that bastard John and mine it, but the walls are too long and the men too thinly spread to hold the city. If the city falls the bridge falls.’ He turned and stared at the castle, ‘If the bridge falls the baileys will be breached.’
Henry raised an eyebrow at Gilbert’s pessimism, ‘It sounds like you’re ready to open the gates to the Barons without a fight!’
‘No,’ Gilbert retorted, ‘no, I’ll fight for the city and for the King, my men will fight for the city and the King....’
‘But?’
‘But I fear we will lose, and lose hard!’
‘The King will come,’ Henry said, ‘if he loses Rochester he loses England!’
‘Aye, well, maybe he will come, maybe he won’t. It matters not lad, men will still die.’
‘You’ll guard the bridge?’
Gilbert looked annoyed, ‘Aye, Sir Roger wanted me on the wall. Wanted my experience in keeping the men firm. I managed to persuade him I was best kept here....this is my bridge!’
Henry yawned and rubbed his eyes, ‘Your bridge? Perhaps they should name it after you.’
Gilbert smiled, Henry and his men had ridden long and hard to get here and he knew they would be exhausted as soon as the fighting started and exhausted men were no good in a battle, ‘You need to get some rest, you’ll be no damn good if you keep yawning and you’ll end up with a blade in your guts. Use my chamber and I’ll wake you for the counsel.’
Henry thanked Gilbert and left him standing and staring across the city. He rubbed his arm again, wishing, not for the first time the sword that cut him so many years ago had found its mark. He scratched his beard and watched a raven land on the crenulations on top of the Bridge House and stare at him. Gilbert stared back and grinned as the omen of doom squawked and flew off to the east.
~
As Henry’s lieutenant, Ranulf had entered the Keep with the intention of checking just how secure the colossal tower really was. The first floor was a place of mayhem and chaos. He stood in the Fore building near the main doorway with a look of bewilderment at the hustle and bustle of the people preparing for a siege; clearly a frightening prospect for everyone. With the last siege being fifty years earlier, none of the servants or even most of the defenders had ever experienced life under siege. As a result they would prepare for a long siege and hope for a short one, with the defenders as the victors.
He watched the mass of servants rushing around and heard orders being shouted. A young boy yelped as a large woman who Ranulf assumed was a cook, cuffed him round the head and screamed at him for committing an unknown misdemeanour. The noise was akin to a massed battle as people were shouting and screaming at each other while servants rushed about in panic. He walked through the main door into the Keep proper and looked about trying to find his bearings when a voice from behind him broke through the noise and he half turned, not sure if he had heard something or not.
‘You look lost!’ Louder this time.
Ranulf turned, and looked into the face of a woman who took his breath away. He found himself instantly captivated and for several seconds just stared. He had heard of women who could bewitch men but had never seen one and thought it a story only fools would believe, until now. He felt a knot in the pit of his stomach and swallowed hard before he replied,
‘Aye.... I’m lost,’ he said eventually, as he dodged another servant who barged past him.
‘Can I help you?’ She stepped backwards into the Fore building to avoid the same servant and Ranulf followed. The noise receded slightly although servants and guards continued passing to and fro, taking no notice of them.
Ranulf stared at her, unsure what to say next. He was a man of war and felt clumsy.
She held her smile and spoke again, ‘Can I help you?’
‘Yes?’
She laughed, ‘Yes?’
‘My apologies,’ Ranulf spat out, flustered and embarrassed by his sudden inability to speak.
As a young man he believed himself to be in love with a blacksmiths daughter from the local village. He learnt soon enough the difference between love and lust. The battle axe the blacksmith wielded like a third arm convinced him lust came with a price. He had caught them as they both vented the passion that boiled between them and Ranulf had run. He had never returned to the village, instead finding a life as a foot soldier in France and Germany before earning his knighthood in battle.
Ranulf de Balmagne was the bastard son of a knight long since dead. His mother had been a local farmer’s daughter who had fallen for a man she could not have. She swore the child’s father was William de Balmagne and surprisingly he did not deny it. But though he was renowned for his honour and compassion he could not treat the child as his own son nor show any feelings towards him. The mother was looked after and received money every three months but there was no further relationship or contact between Ranulf’s parents.
A man from the castle always arrived with the money, asked questions about the boy, looked at him and left. This carried on until Ranulf was in his ninth year. That was the year his mother died, a victim of the scourge ravaging the land. The next time the man came with the money he left with the money, only to return the next day and take the boy from his grandfather who gratefully accepted payment for the young life. Ranulf was taken to the castle and put to work with the armourer and he learnt to use the weapons he now wielded with such skill.
He knew who his father was, his mother had told him often enough he was of noble blood and there were times he had seen his father carefully watching him. His one regret was his father had never been able to acknowledge him, neither in private or public. He learnt later his father was always asking after him, not only watching him but also instructing others to ensure he was properly trained and guided in weaponry. He knew Ranulf would have to make his own way in the world and if he could fight he would survive. That was his legacy to Ranulf, that and his name. When he died there were no tears from Ranulf, but there was emptiness and that remained with him until he met Henry.
His fortune was his to make and the lust he had succumbed to had forced him to make a choice. One of the rare breed of men who earned the respect of men above him. He had fought like a berserker from the old legends and in one battle had ploughed into the enemy when his Lord had fallen from his horse and been attacked. Single handed he had scythed through the attackers with his sword, killing five and wounding a dozen more. The Lord had lived, the battle won and Ranulf was knighted for his valour. Since then he had ridden with the Lords son and had become his closest friend.
Unsure what to say next, he decided to introduce himself, ‘I am Ranulf de Balmagne.’
The Lady looked up at him still smiling, a smile that was infectious as Ranulf found himself smiling back without realising it.
He took a deep breath and gave a small nervous cough, ‘You work in this mad house?’
‘No, I am just fetching some fruit....I am Evelyn,’ she continued to smile, ‘you are new here?’
Ranulf nodded and moved swiftly out of the way as several of the servant boys pushed past him with more baskets of bread to be stored, ‘Aye…arrived today with Henry of Almain.’ He dodged another servant and almost barged into Evelyn who stepped back sharply placing her hand on his left arm. He glared at the departing servant and turned back to her, ‘My apologies.’
Evelyn continued to smile, ‘The people are busy and as usual I am in the way.’
Ranulf stared at her, once again stuck for words. Without realising it he smiled inanely. The crash of something heavy being dropped and the shouts that accompanied it made him quickly glance behind shaking him out of his reverie. He looked back to find Evelyn watching him closely and he stared at her and wondered what to say next.
‘Are you unwell?’ she asked after several seconds. Her smile quickly disappearing.
Deus Militis - Soldiers of God Page 26