by Smith, Skye
When they reached the Palace, and the float was lowered, and they had stepped off together, the bishop forced his way through to Edith and pointed his finger at her and spoke in anger. "You mocked the church and God with that nonsense. How dare you pretend you are an angel of God?"
Henry stepped between his wife and the crooked finger of the Bishop, and had he been armed he would have slain the highest cleric where he stood.
Raynar grabbed the Bishop' s fingering hand in a steel grip and pulled him out of Henry's reach and spoke in his loudest voice so all around could hear. "I don't know what vision you saw, your Eminence, but what we the people of England saw was not their Queen being an angel, but their Queen being touched by the angels.
Now get down on your knees and touch her robes and ask for her blessing, because none of us have ever been touched by the angels as she has been today." With that he twisted the Bishop's hand with tremendous force and the Bishop winced and fell to he knees. "Touch her and close your eyes to feel the wonder," Raynar hissed at the man.
The Bishop looked up at the King's boiling face, and at the hating looks of the baron's wives, and then he looked at the look of total joy and love on Edith's beatific face, and he asked for a blessing from his queen and he bent his head and closed his eyes to receive it.
Henry looked first at the Bishop of England on his knees in front of his wife, and then at Raynar who had now released his crushing grip on the Bishop, and he scanned the looks of satisfaction on the faces of his barons, and then he looked on the face of his wife, and his anger was washed away by the glow of the love in her smile.
Edith was led into the palace by the ladies of the court, which left Raynar with Henry and his barons. Henry's look went deadly serious. "Was that procession through the common your doing, Raynar? Do you have any idea what risks you unleashed?"
Martin was still close by, and Raynar signaled him to come close. "Your Majesty, may I present Martin O'Dale, whose orders stopped the float from tipping over." Martin stood to attention and did not dare to blink. "Martin, how much danger was the queen in during her procession to the knoll?"
"There was danger when the procession halted, sire. The crowd was getting impatient and some were getting unruly. After it started again there was no danger at all sir. The people loved her. The women especially. Some were praying to the Christian mother, some were praying to Freyja, but they all had tears in their eyes. If any man had said even one angry word against the Queen, the women would have shredded him with their bare hands."
"Thank you Martin, that was quick thinking to replace the pages with archers." Martin looked to the King, who waved him his leave.
In a voice loud enough for all the barons to hear, Raynar said, "Sire, today you think that you made Edith the Queen of the English. Nay, she has just made you King of the English. You are now unassailable. Your brother Robert may as well go back to the holy lands. How London does, so does the rest of the kingdom, and this city is hers."
The Bishop was standing now, still favouring his twisted hand. Raynar turned to him and continued, "Your Eminence. If anyone in Christendom should be made a saint it should be Edith's mother Margaret. I have no doubt that Margaret is now an angel of heaven, and today was my proof. What mother in heaven would not move the November clouds to see her daughter now married and crowned?"
Raynar softly took the Bishop's bad hand and moved him gently away from Henry. When they were away, he whispered, "You can thank me for saving your life some other day. You just came as close to being a head shorter as any man should ever be."
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The Hoodsman - Saving Princesses by Skye Smith Copyright 2010-13
Chapter 18 - Searching for Hereward through the Peaks in June 1069
After a short stop at Buxton to bathe in the warm pools, young Raynar and his four bowmen made for Tideswell to visit Alan. The forester was not at home, and the village folk were suspicious and refused all knowledge of him.
They trotted out of the village heading towards the River Wye but once they entered the forest they heard a call from the bushes. The face of a young woman peered out of the shadows at them. "If you're looking for Alan, take the second fork and travel east until the path dips down into a vale. Call out to the forest. His men will find you."
They followed the directions, but there was no answer to their calls. They thought perhaps there were two valleys and continued along the path to find the second. "Leaving so soon?" said a voice from above them. There sitting cross-legged on a ledge above the path was Alan.
Alan’s camp in the Peak Forest was far better thought out than those of Sherwood. First, it was harder to find and further from any cartway. The entrance was through a narrowing of the valley that would scream ambush to any patrol in search of it.
There were three caves, one of which was only the opening to a series of connected caves and tunnels that led away into the blackness. There was also a large cave that was the only place in the camp where fires were allowed. There was drinkable spring water, and pools for washing and for watering animals.
The smallest cave, which was larger than a good sized freeman's house, was filled with curing Yew staves. There was a lean-to roof outside this cave under which was all of John's bowyers craftwork, which had been moved here from Harthersage. The next cave was also for storage, including barrels of beans and corn and stacks of sheepskins.
"These two caves are our dry storage because no water drips or runs through them," mentioned Alan. He was so proud of his camp that he was dancing up and down the paths while showing it off.
There were women at the camp, but they did not have that haunted look of other outlawed women he had met in other forest camps. Perhaps they were wives, or perhaps not. No one asked. There were a few men in the camp and all were busy carving bow staves. "We found that if we do a rough carve of the raw Ywen staves to get rid of the bark, and leave the heartwood exposed on one side, then the staves season faster," Alan explained.
"This is John's gear, where is John?"
"In Hathersage. His dad had an argument with some Normans and was injured, so John is working the forge in his place," replied Alan. "And you, where are you bound?"
"To Burna. I seek Hereward. I have a message for him." Raynar looked at Alan. "Are you outlawed now?"
"Me and a dozen others. Things have been a bit grim lately."
Alan disappeared into the big cave and came back with the roasted legs of some fowl, which he passed to Raynar and his men. "They have a new sheriff in Nottingham. A relative of William's, a bastard son or something. He has a large garrison because he controls Derbyshire as well."
He popped some juicy skin in his mouth and chewed as he talked "But none of this is the cause of so many outlaws. The cause is that William is replacing all the English churchmen with Norman and French priests. I think he has realized that he cannot control villages of freemen with garrisons and patrols. Ahhh, but, with his own priests in every town and village, he has at least one spy in each place. As you know, the men of the Peaks are not good Christians"
The men all chuckled at this, and made jests. "Unfortunately, our women are. They go to the church to confess their sins even though the priest is a Norman. Because of this, the priests know everything that happens in the villages, and therefore so does the bastard sheriff."
"Every month there are more English churchmen being called away from their village churches by the abbeys and their replacements are always Romanized priests," explained Alan. "They tell us that they are not there to replace the English, but to bring the true Romanized version of Christianity to the people. Bull shit. They are spies. Be careful seeking help or lodging from any church. You must first find out the language of the keeper."
Men were drifting into camp now. Some with loud tales of thieving from Normans, others with venison, others with fresh cut staves. The staves were for pikes, not bows. Raynar held off telling his news until the venison was ready to eat, so he would not need d
o the telling twice, but then he told the same news and the same stories he had told in Oswestry.
Afterwards, Alan and Raynar climbed a steep trail up above the caves and scrambled to the top of a cliff face. From the top they followed a game trail to the high point of the local hills and looked towards the distant Tors. Once above the cliff face there was not a sign of the camp. From this hill close to his camp, you could descend in three other directions and quickly cross into other valleys.
"I searched for months for this location," said Alan. "I could hide a hundred men here for weeks, though eventually the trails would become so obvious that any forester could track them to the camp."
"How many are here now?"
"We started with six, but because of the effing priests we now number twenty," Alan replied.
"So are you kil... er... silencing the priests?"
"How can we without turning half the folk against us? We would loose our protection."
"Half the folk?" asked Raynar
"The women. You know how they are about churchmen. They even tell them things that should be kept secret. The ealders are cursing Sundays now," said Alan.
"Because they must listen to a Norman sermon?"
"No, the men don't go. They sit in the alehouse and get drunk while their women are filled with pious thoughts and mustn'ts and shouldn'ts. The men go home drunk and the women go home and scold them for being unchristian, and are often beaten to stop their shrewish tongues. Sunday used to be a family day, but it has become ugly because of those damn Romanized priests."
"Priests can have accidents, too," whispered Raynar.
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The next morning Raynar led his escort of four out of the valley and up a ridge and connected with a bridle path that took them almost all the way to the Porter's Glade. They stayed long enough to rest the horses and to eat, while Raynar spoke to Gwyn's mother.
Her mother was joyous for news of Gwyn, especially the news of the harp, and spoke warmly of its importance in Welsh culture. At one point, he disappeared into the forest to find his hide, and returned with a purse of silver coins, and gave them to her to help with the running of the glade.
It was almost the solstice, so there were few folk living at the glade. Most were working for the mine, or with the shepherds. The women were doing a good business from the porters, because the mines were prospering from the Norman building boom. Stone buildings used a lot of lead.
He decided not to visit John, so they crossed the Hope Valley and picked up the Roman street on the other side. They could not reach Sherwood in one day, so they made camp on the edge of a moor in a place Raynar had used before because it had a fresh spring. The next day they rode warily. Now they were crossing land and through villages that were Norman controlled and had Norman priests. They were much relieved when they finally reached the deep shadows of Sherwood Forest.
He found Rodor's camp with difficulty. He kept telling his men that they didn't have to actually find the camp, they just had to be found by any outlaw. Therein lay the difficulty. They looked so much like farmers or shepherds, that the men of Sherwood were ignoring them.
It was late afternoon before they were stopped by hooded men who led them close enough to a camp to be found. The camp was humming with activity. The last time he had been to this camp, only a few men slept here. The rest slept in their own beds in their villages. This time the camp was full.
Once they had made greetings all around, and had sat to share the food, Raynar told his news. It took longer than he expected because many of the men knew nothing beyond their own village, and so there were many interruptions. Most of the men thought it wonderful news that an army was making for York, and that the Danish fleet was making trouble for William, but then most of them were Daneglish.
Raynar finally finished the news and gave them some advice. "If I were you I would stay close to home and hide your women and animals in the forest until after the various armies destroy each other. Just because the army is fighting the Normans, does not mean you are safe from them."
Later, when the camp was quiet, Raynar told Rodor of his decision to stay away from nobles and their armies, and the whys of it. Rodor was thoughtful and then replied, "Well, it took you long enough to figure that out. We've watched you flutter to them Earls like a moth to a candle. We figured you would either be trapped by the wax or singed by the flame. None of them care beeswax beyond their own hides."
The next morning the five of them gave Nottingham a wide berth and then made for Burna. There they were told that Hereward was not there, but in Spalding. A big storm was threatening and they were lucky to be offered a roof at the Manor. Raynar told his men to wait for him at Burna while he went and found Hereward. They were glad of a day out of the saddle. Especially on a day that promised to be very wet.
Raynar waited all morning for the rain to stop, but when it didn't he rode to Spalding despite the rain and went directly to Beatrice's manor. He knocked on the gate but there was no answer.
The drizzle had soaked him to the bone and he was tired and hungry and he wanted out of this damn weather. This time he thumped with the handle of his dagger. Finally there was a call from the other side of the gate. Raynar yelled back, "A friend".
A small peek hole opened and an old face peered out. "You alone?" asked an old man.
"Yes."
"Go away!"
"I must see the Countess." Raynar was so cold that his words sounded like pleading.
"She's not home, come back tomorrow," said the old man.
"I am cold to the bone. Let me sleep in your stable till the morrow."
"I'm not opening this gate to the likes of you, my lad. Now be gone."
"My name is Raynar. I am a friend of the Countess," shivered Raynar.
There was silence. "Not Raynar with the bloody bow?"
"The same."
"Wait a moment."
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The Hoodsman - Saving Princesses by Skye Smith Copyright 2010-13
Chapter 19 - After the Coronation at the Domus in Holborn, November 1100
The Domus was finally back to its normal sane and quiet demeanor. During Mathilde’s coronation it had been as crowded as during Henry's. Men had been sleeping under any bit of roof. There was no easy sleep to be had for three nights. Wyl had decided to soften the rules and allow the overcrowding, since so many of the members wished to be present at the crowning of an English woman.
Gregos was not amused. Not only did the physician that was nursing his wounds refuse him permission to attend the coronation, but he still had to put up with the raucous humor of the returning partygoers. He had sent Risto away to enjoy the coronation, had locked himself in his room, and had drugged himself to sleep with poppy juice. Needless to say, he did not remember much of the last three days, was now constipated, and had a taste of dung in his mouth.
Risto, on the other hand, had not slept for three nights due to his easygoing ability to get women to drink too much red wine. He was now complaining that his head was three times its normal size and was pounding, that he could not see clearly, that it hurt when he pissed, and that his purse had been cut.
Raynar was far from fresh either. On the night of the coronation there was no need of a place to sleep because the only ones in bed were the royal couple, and even they were not sleeping. Mary, some thirty years his junior, had decided that he was her only safe companion, and she wanted to see and do everything, and dance every dance.
The day after the coronation there was all the goodbye celebrations, which Mary dragged an increasingly tired Raynar to. Later that night, when all should have been quiet, there was no spare bed for Raynar, as the ladies of the court had commandeered the Queen's chamber and all men were forbidden.
Raynar had slept the night on a wooden bench in Henry's counting room, and was woken continuously by the hardness, the cold, and the army of rats that had descended on the palace to clean the floors of all the spilled f
ood. Since it was obvious that Raynar’s services were no longer required at the palace, he had made his farewells, and had limped on blistered feet to Temple lane.
The only one chuckling and jesting was Wyl. Not that he had slept much either, but knowing that the peak of his busy-ness was over was like a tonic to him. His Domus was still in one piece, and Holborn was still in one piece, and the massive crowds had been peaceful for the entire duration of the coronation.
"So now," Wyl said, "all three of you have standing invitations to the palace. You, Risto, because the King enjoys practicing with your thin swords, and you, Gregos, because you are reorganizing the finances of the kingdom, and you, Raynar, because both Edith and Mary desire your company. Was it only three months ago that Gregos was worried that he would never get an audience with the king?
"Not now Wyl," pleaded Raynar, "none of us feel like light conversation."
"I am only here because a delivery has been made for Master Gregos from the Embassy of Al-Andalus." Wyl now had their complete attention. "Ah, here it is now. Bring it in lads." A small barrel was rolled in.
"Well open it," grumbled Gregos.
It contained oranges. They each took one, and peeled them. The fragrance was pleasure enough, but the sweet juices were nectar.
"Now you look even sadder, Raynar," observed Wyl.
"People I know in the north are cold and hungry this November. And yet we can eat oranges that were probably picked just two weeks ago in a hot climate." He looked at the sticky juice on his hands. "Think of it. The value of just the silk worn by the guests at the coronation, was enough to feed the entire north for the winter." He handed the two halves of his orange to the two lads that had brought the barrel. "The whole world is out of balance, and everyone’s values are turned upside down, including mine."
"Raynar," said Gregos in English so that Wyl could understand, "you are tired and your mind is in a turmoil. You have just helped marry the son of your worst enemy to the daughter of your fondest friend. There is a fitting saying that goes: 'Forgiveness is the grease that keeps society moving.' I suggest you go to bed and dream of your times with your Margaret."