by DAVID B. COE
Rather than chance disturbing Marion, he found a blanket by the chair near the fireplace. He sat, wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, and within moments had fallen asleep.
Some time later, he awoke to the soft padding of footsteps on the stone. Looking up, he saw Marion standing beside the chair looking down at him. He shifted in the chair, tried to stretch his back a bit. The fire had burned down to nothing but glowing orange embers, and the ubiquitous dogs sat around his chair.
“I thought you had left,” Marion said. It was hard to read her expression in the dim light, and she spoke softly, so he couldn't say for sure what emotion he heard in her voice. But it almost seemed to Robin that she was relieved to find him here.
“Spring planting began tonight,” he told her. “The north field is sown. The south tomorrow night. I returned late and didn't want to wake you.”
She quirked her head in surprise, and a half-smile touched her lips. “How did you get the seeds for sowing?”
“If you need to ask, it is not a gift,” Robin said.
Her smile warmed. “If that is what it is, then thank you.”
Marion regarded him a moment longer, as if she saw something in his face and his bearing that she hadn't noticed before. She turned and left him there, but he could see that she smiled still.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
The Baron of York had long prided himself on his close ties to the royal house of the realm. Decades before, Baldwin's father had joined Henry the Second in his campaigns against the Irish, and Baldwin himself had fought under Henry's banner in the north to repel Scottish invaders. He had been too old to join Richard on his crusade, but as baron he had done all he could to give support to the Lionheart's march on the Holy Land. He paid his taxes to the Crown, gave grain to the bishops of York.
In every way, he had served his realm honorably and courageously. Never in his life had he uttered a seditious word, or given comfort to those who did. He considered himself a friend of the Plantagenets and had long assumed that they looked upon him as a loyal subject and a dependable ally.
Apparently, he had been mistaken all these years. Or he had been a fool. How else could he explain the army that had gathered outside his gate, demanding what remained of his treasure and threatening to sack his village and home should he refuse?
It was John's doing, he knew. Richard might have squandered England's treasure and the blood of her young men in pursuit of his wars, but he had never been a despot. He had never sacrificed the well-being of his people simply because it pleased him to fill his coffers with gold.
This new king, though, was a different matter. He would happily destroy the realm to satisfy his greed. Richard's leopards were gone, banished. Wolves now controlled England. And they were at his gates.
Baldwin was headed for the ramparts of the Barnsdale tower, the better to see just what his people faced. He tried to cinch his sword belt as he took the tower stairs two at a time, but his hands shook with fury, making it difficult for him to do much of anything. His grandson climbed the stairs behind him, trying to keep up with him, breathing heavily with the effort, and probably with fear as well. It was no small matter to face the king's army.
“This Robber King is no king of mine!” Baldwin said bravely, hoping for the lad's sake that he sounded more confident than he felt.
He reached the top of the winding stairs a moment later and stepped out onto the battlements of the town walls. There were townspeople up there already, many of them dressed in rags, looking half-starved. And these men had come for gold? Baldwin would have laughed if he hadn't been so enraged. He pushed past his people so that he could get a view of what was happening below.
The force was smaller than he had been led to believe. His grandson, panicked and inexperienced in such things had spoken as if the entire English army was at the Barnsdale gate. There couldn't have been more than two hundred men massed before the walls.
Still, Barnsdale couldn't stand long against any force, not even one half this size. His people were farmers, not warriors. His gates were intended to keep out road thieves and ruffians from the wood, not English regulars.
One of the king's men had stepped forward to the town gate and was now nailing up a notice, which, of course, Baldwin couldn't read. Not that he needed to. He could imagine well enough what it said.
“Are you Baldwin?”
The baron shifted his gaze to the man who had spoken. He wore a fine coat of mail, and, over it, a black tabard marked with a brightly colored crest Baldwin did not recognize. A black cape was draped around his shoulders, fastened at the neck with a silver chain. His head was clean-shaven, his eyes deep-set and dark, and he bore an angry scar on one cheek. He sat an impressive black stallion that seemed to complement perfectly his clothing and appearance.
“Open the gates,” the man said. He spoke the words forcefully enough, but there was an insouciant quality to his voice, as if it made little difference to him whether or not Baldwin complied.
“In whose name do you come against us like Vandals and Vikings?” the baron demanded.
The man pointed to the notice his soldier had posted. “In the name of King John. Pay or burn.”
Baldwin felt his face going red with anger. “We have paid in money and men for King Richard's wars, and we have no more to give!”
The bald man looked to the soldier next to him, a dark-haired, bearded man who sat tall on his mount. The two eyed each other for a moment. Then the second man gave a small shrug of his shoulders and the bald man looked up at Baldwin again.
“Burn then,” he said, as if it was nothing to him.
The man turned in his saddle and nodded to the soldiers behind them. Instantly, several dozen of the men stepped forward carrying grappling hooks that dangled from the ends of thick rope. They swung them expertly and almost in unison, and sent them soaring up to the top of the wall. People fell back from the iron talons, the baron included, and then watched in horror as the soldiers pulled the ropes taut, allowing the hooks to grip the wall. The men began to climb toward the ramparts.
They climbed quickly—they were as well-trained as any English warriors the baron had ever seen. Baldwin leaped forward, drawing his sword, and began to hack at the ropes, desperate to cut them before the soldiers reached the top of the wall. Many of the townspeople fled the walls in a blind panic, but some of Baldwin's men joined him in attacking the ropes. The baron cut through one, and then another, sending the climbers tumbling back to earth, and, he hoped, to hell. Another man reached the top of the wall only to be stabbed by one of Barnsdale's guards. But farther down the wall, a soldier made it to the top, jumped onto the battlements, and began swinging his sword savagely at anyone who got in his way. A second soldier joined him, and then two more. Within seconds, the wall was swarming with soldiers. Innocent men and women were wounded and killed before they could flee to safety. Baldwin's men tried to fight the invaders off, but they hadn't the skill to do battle with soldiers like these.
Baldwin had little choice but to call for his men to fall back and for his people to save themselves. He glanced back over the edge of the wall and saw that the bald man was still looking up at him, a smug smile on his lips.
IT DIDN'T TAKE long for Adhemar's men to gain control of the town walls, but Godfrey had never been a patient man, and even waiting those few minutes put him in a foul temper. He could hear screams rising from the ramparts and from beyond walls in the village, and he hoped that this time their work would be rewarded with more coin and treasure than it had been in Peterborough.
At last, as the screams continued, the gates to the town began slowly to swing open. Godfrey didn't wait for Adhemar's men to open them all the way. As soon as he could, he spurred his mount forward and rode into Barnsdale, wrinkling his nose at the smell of pig shit. Sheep bleated and chickens ran for safety, wings nailing, feathers flying. Another useless country village, probably with barely enough gold to make all this effort worthwhile.
The lane that carved through the village was littered with bodies. Those who were merely wounded crawled for safety, leaving trails of blood in the dirt. Others lay motionless. Soldiers moved from house to house, killing whoever got in their way, taking all that they could find. Godfrey looked back at Adhemar and nodded a second time. The Frenchman looked back at one of his men in turn and made a small gesture. Moments later, several men entered the village bearing torches and made their way toward the nearest of the thatched roofs.
Godfrey looked up at the walls, knowing that he would find Baldwin watching him, watching it all. Godfrey smiled and offered a slight shrug. He had given the baron a choice, and Baldwin had chosen poorly.
FROM BARNSDALE, GODFREY led his army toward the city of York, where he knew that their take would be far greater than it had been in the smaller villages of the northern baronies. The Church had spent the last several months gathering grain from its parishes. Now Godfrey, in the king's name, of course, would gather grain and gold from them. It wouldn't be long before John had lost not only the support of his nobles, but also of the bishops. The land would be rife with civil conflict and ripe for conquest.
They made their way through the streets of the city to York Minster. Godfrey was not much given to religiosity, but even he could not help but be impressed by the cathedral, with its Norman-style spires and enormous colored glass windows. He had seen the great cathedral at Canterbury, and thought that this one compared not unfavorably. But he wasn't here to admire architecture, and he definitely hadn't come to pray.
He sent in some of his men—on horseback—to deal with the curate Father Tancred and his monks. He could hear the commotion from out on the street: pews being thrown over, glass shattering, men dying. When at last the sound abated, Godfrey spurred his own mount up the stairs and into the abbey, his sword in hand.
Monks still ran for cover, arms thrown over their heads as they were chased by soldiers. The interior of the church was a mess. Altars had been shattered, blood stained the floors, several fires burned, blackening the stone walls.
And at the center of it all stood Tancred, his robes singed, his begrimed cheeks streaked with tears, his eyes wide and wild with disbelief and outrage and terror. He clutched a golden chalice to his chest with shaking hands, looking like a mother guarding her babe. He looked around him, desperate to stop the destruction of his church, but helpless to do more than watch. How hard that must have been for him, Godfrey thought, enjoying the moment. A man in his position couldn't have been used to feeling powerless; before this day, he had probably never feared for his life. How the mighty had fallen.
Seeing Godfrey, Tancred took a step back, gripping his chalice even tighter.
“Why?” the abbot demanded, his forlorn voice echoing off the walls and ceiling. Why? Why? Why? “Tell me why!” Why! Why!…
Godfrey didn't answer him. He hefted his sword and advanced on the man slowly, a smile on his lips. Catching the eyes of two of his horsemen, he signaled them to help. They rode toward the abbot as well, the hooves of their mounts clicking loudly on the stone floor and resounding through the chapel.
They herded the man, driving him back toward the great altar. Tancred stumbled once, but righted himself. He tripped a second time and went down hard on his back. Still Godfrey and the other two riders advanced. Tancred scrabbled backward, climbed clumsily to his feet, and continued to back away. At last the abbot reached the steps leading up to the altar. Once more he fell, but he crawled up the stairs, his wide, terrified eyes never leaving Godfrey's face.
“Is God not watching?” Tancred asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Godfrey spied a rope tied to a cleat on the wall. Following it, he saw that it led to a massive iron chandelier.
“I don't know,” he said, raising his blade. “Go and ask him.”
He sliced through the rope, so that the chandelier smashed down upon the abbot, the crash of iron on stone and Tancred's dying cry reverberating through every corner of the abbey.
Sheathing his weapon, Godfrey looked at the French soldier nearest to him and nodded toward the abbot's body. The legionnaire dismounted, stepped over the wreckage and plucked the golden chalice from Tancred's fingers. Godfrey motioned for it impatiently and the man brought it to him.
Godfrey turned his horse and rode back outside to the lane. The tax wagon sat in front of York Minster, guarded by several men, not that anyone would have dared come near it. He was pleased to see that it was loaded high with Church grain. Godfrey considered the chalice for a moment, and then threw it in with the rest of what they had collected.
* * *
BLOODIED, GRIM, MORE angry and determined than he had been in all his days, Baldwin led the survivors of King John's assault toward the crossroads at Northumbria. Only fifty or so had been fit enough to make the journey with him. A few were soldiers. Most were farmers, humble craftsmen, even house servants. They were old and gray, they were too young to shave, they were fathers, husbands, sons. But they had come this far with him; after what they had all been through, he knew that they would follow him anywhere. Most of them wore bandages, others bore bruises and burns, several had limped all the way from Barnsdale. And every one of them carried a weapon of one sort or another: a sword or a battle pike, a hammer or an axe, a pitchfork or a hoe.
They had passed others like them on the road. Driven from their homes, robbed of whatever meager wealth they once could claim, hell-bent on exacting a measure of revenge.
They saw more and more of them the closer they drew to Northumbria, and as the crossroads came into view, Baldwin realized that refugees were converging on the place from every direction. The king's tax collectors had been busy; now John would reap what they had sown in his name. As Baldwin and his followers neared the meeting place, one man in particular caught the baron's eye. He was broad in the shoulders and chest, and the years had given him an ample gut as well, so that he cut quite an imposing figure on his charger.
Baldwin and Baron Fitzrobert had never been friends, nor had they been enemies. They were rivals of a sort, in the way that all nobles were rivals for their king's favor. But they also shared a certain respect for each other. At least Baldwin respected Fitzrobert; he assumed the large man felt the same way about him. Fitzrobert had fought the Scottish invaders as well, and had been a fearsome warrior, swinging his two-handed bastard sword as if it were a weapon half that size.
But the two of them were here now, a long way from the battlefields of the north and years removed from Henry's reign. They had been driven to it— Baldwin didn't see that they had any choice. Still, the fact remained that they had come to the crossroads to plot treason.
“Fitzrobert!” Baldwin called when he was close enough to make himself heard.
The big man raised a hand in greeting, but his expression was wary. “Baldwin!”
Baldwin halted his horse in front of Fitzrobert and for several moments the two barons eyed one another, as if each was trying to determine if the other could be trusted.
At last, Fitzrobert nodded once, seeming to come to a decision. “We'll make an army of the north to march on London,” he said, loudly enough for all to hear.
The men who had accompanied Baldwin let out a ragged cheer, as did the other refugees around them. The sound gladdened Baldwin's heart, though his expression remained grim. Avenging the attack on his town would be sweet, but there could be no mistaking the gravity of this endeavor. He saw his own misgivings mirrored in Fitzrobert's pale eyes.
“Send word through your shires,” Baldwin said. “We'll rally on the road to London.”
“Where?” Fitzrobert asked.
He didn't need to consider; the answer came to him immediately. “There is only one place for this meeting.”
At that, the big man grinned. “Yes!”
Another cheer went up from the men around them, at least those old enough to remember. Baldwin had to smile as well. Treason or no, they had waited many years for t
his.
Baldwin and Fitzrobert quickly set to work scribbling messages to the lords in their baronies, as well as to other barons. Once their missives were written, they chose the best riders from among their small bands of followers to carry their messages forth from the crossroads. If they were to do this, it would have to be arranged quickly and quietly. If word of their intentions reached the White Tower, all was lost, and Baldwin and Fitzrobert would likely wind up with nooses around their necks.
Yet, as Baldwin watched their messengers ride off, scattering in all directions like silken seeds carried on a late summer breeze, he did not feel fear, but rather something that King John's henchmen could never steal from the heart of an Englishman: Hope.