“Now all we can do is keep our legs crossed and pray,” Beth said. Both girls giggled and pushed at each other when they realised what she’d said.
Then Beth yawned. They were sleepy because they’d kept each other up all night with their sighs and tossing and turning. Yesterday had been a busy day, and neither of them had been able to sleep last night for all their pleasurable thoughts as they tried to imagine what it would be like to have George in their bed.
******
Who should arrive that afternoon but Uncle Thomas back from Okehampton. He and four archers pulled up in front of the priests’ house in a wagon full of sacks of famine food. I threw on my Egyptian tunic and sent Mary out the back door when I heard the dogs barking and commotion of someone arriving. I could hear people talking.
“Hello, Uncle Thomas,” I shouted as I rushed out the door for a great embrace and kisses on both cheeks.
“Ah, my dear boy, how are you? How are you?”
And before I could reply, he inhaled a great sniff and stunned me with a question.
“And who is she, the one you’ve been dipping your dingle in?”
Chapter Six
Thomas
I listened quietly and asked a few questions as my greatly embarrassed young nephew stuttered out his answers. As I listened, I realised the boy had become a man right under my nose and was already taller than his father and maybe even stronger in the shoulders as well. It was probably as a result of pulling a bow and eating an egg almost every day since he’d learned to walk and his mother weaned him.
Mary, the housekeeper, returned several hours later to set out our evening meal. One glance and I was reassured; she’s obviously a sturdy widow looking for a good dingle to enjoy instead of spreading her legs to trap a husband. I really hadn’t noticed her the last time I visited. I’d been too busy chopping off the priest’s head and helping my archers organize the feeding of the desperately hungry local people.
After the archers and George and I finished eating, I followed Mary when she went outside to piss on the onion garden.
Her head jerked up in surprise, and she smoothed her skirt when I began by saying, “I know about you and my nephew.”
She started to deny it but then shook her head and gave a rueful smile.
“He’s a good-hearted lad. Don’t be hard on him.”
“I won’t. Nor on you,” I said whilst shaking my head.” I hadn’t realised how much he’d grown.”
Then the two of us talked about Penzance and its people and how they were coping with the famine. It soon became quite obvious Mary was a level-headed woman and knew a lot about the village. It was from talking to her that I learned about the smith’s young daughters—the two love-struck sisters who were spinning and knitting for their famine food—and their scheme to move in and take her place with George.
“Not that it’s a bad idea about me and Sam, mind you; it’s the girls. They’re lovely lasses, but they are a mite too young and may not be altogether ready to do for George until he’s been learnt a thing or two more about women and they’ve been learnt a lot more about men.”
“Could you learn him so he knows more about women without him or anyone else ever finding out we talked and arranged it? It would be worth a lot to me and a silver coin for you, yes it would.”
“Oh aye, I could do that; I certainly could. And it wouldn’t be much of a chore at all, would it?”
“Well then, it’s settled. I’ll take the archers back to Restormel with me and leave him here alone for another week or two whilst you learn him a bit more. And where, pray tell, might I find these sisters?”
******
The two-room daub-and-wattle hovel of Harold the smith was one of the nicest and tidiest in the village. There was smoke leaking from the thatch in the roof from a fire inside and I could hear pounding and talking coming from behind it. I walked around to the back instead of to the door of his house.
A burley grey-bearded man wearing only sandals and a dirty leather apron over his smock looked up as I came around the corner of his hovel. So did a sallow faced man who looked like he might have the coughing pox and be about to fall to the ground.
“God bless all,” I said with a smile as I waved my wooden cross at them and walked forward.
Who knows? He might be religious.
******
It took a while to convince the smith and his wife I really did want to take their daughters to Restormel to help care for my little nieces. What clinched their agreement was a gold coin for the smith, the girls’ excitement when they heard they would be helping care for George’s infant sisters, and an invitation for the smith and his wife to travel with me and their girls to Restormel to meet the little ones and their mothers. I told them they could stay there with their girls as long as they liked. We’d always have work for a strong and hardworking smith such as Harold appeared to be.
Having William’s wives teach the girls to take care of my nephew George probably isn’t altogether honourable, so I didn’t mention it even though I’m prepared to sanctify it if everything works out and the girls and George come to know each other. I also didn’t mention that George is my brother’s son and heir or that my serf-born brother is now a newly bought noble and the captain of the archers. They’ll find out soon enough.
******
Beth and I were spinning and knitting and talking about George when our mum came home and began to question us closely about the sergeant who prayed at everyone in church and gave us the news. We couldn’t believe it when she explained why we’d all be going to Restormel with the bishop in a few days. Mum’s mouth dropped open when Beth and I grabbed each other’s elbows and began jumping up and down and laughing and crying all at the same time. I’ve never been so excited!
To travel as far as Restormel to help take care of George’s brothers and sisters and be near him? It must be true that prayers are answered.
“Mum, does George know about all this?”
“Oh, I don’t think so, my dear. The bishop said we’d be going to Restormel as soon as his nephew returns. He’s apparently off somewhere delivering food—to the mine at Lannwenep, I think the bishop said.”
His nephew? George is the bishop’s nephew?
Chapter Seven
George
My four archers and I came through the hills on the rough cart path that serves the Lannwenep mine. The last few miles were difficult because the cart path was so rough and muddy. Twice we had to unload some of the food in order to pull one of the wains out of a ditch, and once we had to unload both of them to get them over a little stream.
A gaunt skeleton of a man in ragged clothes staggered up the path towards us whilst we were putting the sacks back in the wain after our second stop. His eyes were bright with madness.
“Help me! For the love of God, please help me. Something to eat. Please. Anything. Can you spare any food?” He begged in a weak, trembling voice as he stood there in his rags, shivering in the cool breeze with his hand outstretched.
John Short and I looked at each other. The man was clearly close to dying.
“There’s some bread in the wain and a piece of cheese wrapped in linen on the driver’s bench. Get it for him if you would, John,” I said.” And cover him with one of our sleeping robes. He looks to be freezing.”
Two minutes later, we all just stood and gaped as the man devoured the food, promptly retched some of it out onto the rocks next to the little stream, and then began eating again. Finally, I gently took what was left of the bread out of his hands, helped him climb into the wain, and quickly handed back the remains of the bread when he pleaded for it. He was huddled under the sleeping robe weeping and trying to kiss my hands and talk all at the same time.
His story chilled my heart and caused me to put on my chain mail shirt and sword, adjust the wrist knives Uncle Thomas insisted I always wear hidden under my tunic, and tell my men to arm themselves and string their bows.
******
&n
bsp; We followed the path along the stream as it ran around a tree-covered little hill. We moved slowly towards a chimneyless cottage with a thatched roof and three long, barnlike hovels.
The slave barns were probably where the starving slave and his fellow slaves had lived before the overseers stopped feeding them and left them to die. The walls and other remnants of a stone building stood next to the little stream. It looked like it hadn’t been used for many years. There was obviously a fire inside the cottage, as we could see wisps of wood smoke coming out of the thatch in several places at the south end.
Suddenly two haggard shivering men appeared out of nowhere. They were dressed in rags and called out in pitiful voices as they began staggering up the path towards us with their arms outstretched and pleading. A few moments later a man who walked and looked as if he might be strong and able-bodied came out of the cottage next to the slave barns in response to all the commotion.
The man who came to the cottage door took one look at us and our wains and hurried back inside. Seconds later, three men came out carrying whips and clubs. One of them scurried towards the entrance of a tunnel cut into the nearby hill; the other two just stood there and watched us as we clattered down the rough path to where they were standing. We’d obviously reached the king’s mine and the building where the first refining of tin is done. It was rundown and obviously no longer in use.
The old building had probably been used before the firewood hereabouts ran out and the refinery at Truro opened. There are big trees all about, so this must be quite an old mine; maybe it’s even one of the Roman mines Uncle Thomas told us about.
By the time our wains reached the waiting men, two more men came out of the entrance of the tunnel and headed towards us, along with the man who’d obviously been sent to fetch them. So did a two ragged men who came out of one of the slave barns.
“What are you doing here?” one of the men demanded with his hands on his hips, as our two wains rolled to a stop in front of the cottage.
Our questioner was a bulky fellow with a greasy red beard. He was wearing a filthy, hooded, sheepskin cloak over his shirt, and he carried a whip and a heavy club. Despite the chill in the air, his hood was down so he could see and hear.
I didn’t immediately respond. Instead, I smiled and raised my hand in greeting as John and I jumped down. The archers driving our two wains reined in their horses and climbed down to hobble them.
“I asked you what you’re doing here,” the bulky man repeated, this time with a snarling threat of real menace in his voice.
“We’ve brought famine food from the Earl of Cornwall on whose lands you are standing. Who are you?”
“I’m captain of the king’s mine and his slaves, that’s who I am. So leave your food and get yourselves gone before I put you in chains and work you for the king.”
Boys? I’ll show you boys, you insulting sonofabitch.
“That’s the mine over there, and it is indeed the king’s,” I said as I pointed at the tunnel entrance.” And that land you’re standing on is the earl’s land, so mind your tongue. Now, what’s this about slaves, and why are these men starving?”
“Them slaves be my business, not yours. Now you be a good lad and unload your wains as you’re supposed to do and get you gone.” He walked up to me and poked me hard in the chest with the handle of his whip as he ordered me to go. He held his club as if ready to swing it.
Perhaps what happened next was instinct. Perhaps it was my need to save face in front of my men. I don’t know what it was. My blood was boiling.
My wrist knives slipped out of their sheaths and down into my hands. In the blink of an eye, as the butt of his whip hit my chest, I jammed them as far as they would go into both sides of the slaver’s neck. He didn’t even have time to flinch or swing his club before I took him.
He stared at me in surprise and disbelief as I gave both knives a good pull and finished him off just as Uncle Thomas had taught me. And then, for some reason, I held him up by the knives’ handles and stared back at him for several seconds. We stood there nose to nose as great gushes of blood spouted out of his neck. He was the first man I’d ever killed, and it was easier than I expected.
The slaver’s men surged forward and raised their clubs as soon as the big man and I came together. John Short was much faster than they were, and he’d pulled his sword as soon as he saw the man approach me with a whip and a club and an unfriendly look on his face. The closest man was still raising his club when John’s sword damn near took off his head. He didn’t even have time to scream.
The other slavers stopped with stunned looks on their faces. Then they turned around and ran as John’s man slumped to the ground. I finally jerked my knives out of the dead slaver and let him fall as well
As he fell I heard the familiar thud as an arrow hit its target and looked up to watch as the most distant of the running men went down on one knee and began a high pitched scream. One of the new archers had jumped down from the wain when John and I went into action. His name was Edward and he was obviously a fast thinker and good shot.
I waved my hand just in time to stop him from launching a second arrow to take another of the overseers. And later I was sorry I did; the bastard got clean away.
“Let them go,” I shouted. A few seconds later the screaming trailed away to a whimper and the slaver holding on to the arrow sticking out of his belly with both hands fell over on his side.
I’m trembling for some reason. I wonder why?
We quickly finished hobbling the horses. Then all five of us notched arrows in our bows and I led the way as we moved to cautiously investigate buildings around the mine entrance. First we looked into the slavers’ smoke-filled cottage, which turned out to be empty except for three slatternly women who apparently belonged to the slavers. Then we walked to the tunnel entrance where the surviving whip carriers had run. A damn foolish thing for them to do unless there’s another way to get out.
The raggedy and shivering men just stood there the entire time gaping at us in disbelief without saying a word. One of them had his hand out as if to speak the entire time.
“Come out. We won’t kill you. We’ve brought food from the Earl of Cornwall.”
I shouted my message into the tunnel entrance, first in Norman French and then in the dialect we use in camp and in our family, the one some now call English. After a few moments, there was some kind of answer from inside. I couldn’t understand it. There was some sort of light flickering a good distance into the tunnel.
My men shook their heads when I looked at them. They couldn’t understand what had been said either. I moved two or three feet closer and shouted out my message once again as loud as I could.
After a brief wait there was a rustle and clanking from in the tunnel, and a half-naked scarecrow carrying a candle lantern emerged into the daylight. We watched as at least forty filthy, ragged men walked slowly out of the tunnel. The left leg of every one of them was attached to a long chain. Two of the men were carrying wooden shovels, but on the backs of all the others were woven baskets full of rocks. Not one of the whip carriers came out with them.
“Do any of you speak English? Is anyone else in the mine?” I shouted as they came out.” Is anyone else in the mine?”
A man near the end of the chain finally answered in heavily accented English.
“There are two other chains like this one in the mine. They do the digging and clear the fall. We’re the carriers. Who are you?”
None of the other slaves answered me or even attempted to speak. They must be foreigners who can’t understand me.
I ignored the slave’s question and asked my own as my men gathered around me and stared in disbelief at the shivering, chained men who were blinking and shielding their eyes from the sudden light of the sun.
“What happened to the men with whips, the ones who just ran into the mine? Who has the key to unlock the chain?”
I asked my questions as I approached them. The man who had
spoken out just stood there and looked at me with a great deal of fear and worry in his eyes. The others wouldn’t look at me; they averted their eyes and stared at their feet.
“They ran past us and into the upper shaft,” the man finally said in broken English. He started to continue but suddenly stopped as if he had made a terrible mistake in talking to me. But then he rallied and continued.
“Captain Sam is the one what has the key. He’s mostly over there where he and the other drivers live,” he said as he pointed to the cottage from which one of the men we killed had come.
The three ragged women we’d found in the slavers’ cottage came out whilst we were standing next to the chain of men. They just stood there unmoving and looked at us. Suddenly one of them screamed and pointed, and they all ran to where the men we had killed lay crumpled on the ground—and began hysterically picking up big rocks and smashing them down on the head of one of the dead men.
“John,” I said to my chosen man, “I think we just found the mine captain. Better run over there and see if you can find the key before the women find it.”
******
It took all that day and much of the next to sort things out. I began by ordering the archers to bring some of the sacks of dried little fishes down from the wains and give each of the chained men six of them to eat and some to the scarecrows as well. The fish came from somewhere in the east and were slightly larger than the pilchards which were often dried and eaten in these parts.
Whilst John was off to search for the key, the line of chained men put down their wicker baskets and shuffled their way to the little stream that ran through the mine camp. Not a word was spoken. The way they did it made me think it was part of their daily routine.
Castling The King Page 5