Castling The King

by Martin Archer

  What I thought about, but never did, was putting on my bishop’s robes and visiting Bodmin Monastery and Carantock to see if I could order their abbots to do the right thing and free their serfs and slaves “as the Pope has ordered.” I was tempted to do so because, almost certainly, some of the men they freed would come to us for employment.

  Bodmin would have certainly been the best place to start. It’s the biggest of the monasteries in Cornwall, and it certainly had the most serfs and slaves—over one hundred, I’d been told.

  What I finally ended up doing was a mistake. I had William send a parchment to the king suggesting he order the abbots to send their serfs and slaves to us to help during the coming war. I did that so the church would be pissed at the king for losing them and not at me or William. Nothing ever came of it.

  ******

  Becky and I certainly learned a lot from George’s mums in the weeks that followed our arrival at Restormel—about George and his family and about babies and what pleasures men. It was quite exciting, what we learned about caring for men and making babies, I mean.

  I know it’s hard to believe, but George’s father was an earl—whatever an earl is—and was once a serf and even lower than us. At least that’s what Helen and Anne and Tori told us. What was most surprising was to discover that George really was a priest and could say the words and pray at people, but that it didn’t matter because the Pope allows priests such as George and his father to marry and have more than one wife if they marry sisters.

  My mum didn’t believe it at first, about priests like George being able to marry sisters, even though Beth and I think it’s a wonderful idea. Mum does now, because before she and Da went back to Penzance to get his tools and her loom, the bishop himself happened to see her at the cook tent and told her it was true. He even blessed her and let her kiss his ring to keep poxes away.

  Chapter Nine

  Thomas

  After a long hard ride I arrived in Windsor with my arse aching. And once again I stayed at the priests’ cottage and my four escorts in his barn. I stayed there even though the priest charged me much too much for us each getting a supper of lamb stew with a fresh loaf and a slice of cheese in the morning.

  Before I left for Windsor, I had checked with William and Peter and there was still no word from our spies at Exeter, or from anyone else, regarding the French or the barons. All we knew for sure from our spies at Rougemont was that the Earl of Devon was still in France, and his wife and daughters thought he and his fellow barons were meeting with Phillip to offer him the English crown. According to the castle servants, the earl had the sailors’ pox and was searching for a village infant his wife could pretend to birth as his son and heir. His women think he will bring one back from France.

  That there was no news about the barons or a French invasion was to be expected; it was still early days.

  Information as to the intentions of the barons and King Phillip was no better at Windsor than it was in Cornwall. Neither the priest of Windsor’s parish church, with whom I had a long discussion, nor anyone I talked to after I walked through the Windsor gate seemed to know anything about anything. If they did, they’re certainly weren’t telling me.

  The Windsor priest, at least, had commented on the famine. He’d been praying, he told me, for the farm labourers in his parish and their families because they were starving. Praying is all he could do for the serfs and churls, he had explained with a question in his voice as if he hoped I would agree, “because the poor are always with us.” I merely made a grunting sound for him to take as agreeing or not agreeing as he wished.

  About the barons and France and the possibility of war the priest had heard nothing. His housekeeper, who is obviously his wife even though it is forbidden by the church, said nothing to me during my entire stay, not a single word. She and her children didn’t take their meals with us.

  Father Rufus was the priest. He once again revealed rather arrogantly, forgetting that he’d also told me the same thing each of the two previous times I’ve had a bed from him, that he is the third son of a minor lord with a manor near Chester. He is apparently quite proud to have learned enough Latin and prayers at the Priory of Saint Frideswide to be ordained without ever having to read or copy the Bible. He bought his copy from a poor scribe, he said.

  Rufus seemed quite astonished on my first visit some years ago to hear I’d been born a serf and become a bishop. He’d questioned me closely as to how I’d done it and seemed quite dejected when I said I’d risen in the church the traditional way—by bribing the papal nuncio. He must have finally remembered I’d stayed with him previously; this time, for the first time, he didn’t bring it up.

  ******

  I’ve been here at Windsor all day waiting for the king and William Marshal to appear. It’s damn uncomfortable and quite boring despite all the meaningless personal gossip I’ve been hearing from the king’s toadies and all the other waiting petitioners.

  As far as I can tell, no word has yet reached the king’s court about the king putting his seal on the mercenary-like contracts I scribed to permanently give William and his heirs Exeter and Rougemont Castle and its manors as freeholds in exchange for some coins and Cornwall’s support for the king against the French and the rebel barons.

  I can only conclude, since everyone here talks and gossips about everything and everyone, it likely the king’s men and his courtiers know nothing about the parchment that would grant us Rougemont and no more than I do about the plans of King John and William Marshal or those of the French king and the rebel barons.

  Could it be King John and his men know the French and barons aren’t coming? That is certainly one of the questions I intend to put directly to William Marshal if I ever have an opportunity to speak with him privately. If anyone would know about the French and barons it would be Sir William. He and the king surely have spies in Phillip’s court. And once again I wondered if they have any in Cornwall and Devon?

  Or could it be the king hasn’t signed the parchment because he is upset with us about his mines closing? No, probably not, or the gossips would have said something about it and demanded an explanation. It’s more likely the greedy sod wants more coins as well as our loyalty and blood. A demand for more coins is what I expect and why I brought them.

  There’s nothing to be accomplished by constantly worrying about such things. All I can do is wait here at court for Sir William to arrive and then, if I can get a private word with him, ask him what he knows about the French and barons and if the king intends to put his seal to the parchments.

  ******

  It shouldn’t be much longer before the king and Sir William arrive. One of the servants I sat next to in the court jakes about an hour ago assured me they were hunting in the forest and returned to court about this time each day.

  Having a covered jakes, where visitors and members of the court can shite or piss at Windsor without being wetted by the rain, is a great improvement over what it used to be when Richard was king and all one could do is find a quiet room or tree. At least I think so.

  One of the few interesting things I heard as I waited was several courtiers openly complaining about the king’s latest scutage for those who don’t bring their men in to join the king’s army in the spring. It was interesting to hear, because one of the men complaining the loudest was not on the parchment William Marshal sent me listing the barons who were thought to be disloyal to the king.

  About the only other interesting thing was what I heard from the king’s courtiers about the famine which has England in its deadly grip—absolutely nothing. The famine didn’t seem to concern them. They were obviously interested in other more significant matters, such as the time left on the queen’s pregnancy and the number of buttons on the queen’s gown and what the number of buttons portends, a subject I heard extensively discussed and was twice asked for my opinion.

  ******

  I was close to starving when the king finally arrived. Sir William Mars
hal was with him and so was his pregnant queen and her buttons. John entered the hall with his queen on his arm and accompanied by a great entourage of knights and clerics, including the Duke of Sussex and several other important nobles. There was a great bustling about as everyone, including me, moved towards them with lots of bowing and scraping and holding out of petitions. Almost at the same moment, several fashionably dressed ladies suddenly appeared among us as if they had been conjured up by a magician.

  Then nothing happened. The king and queen and Sir William and their companions exchanged bows and pleasantries with various petitioners and courtiers. Then, despite the chill of the day, they wandered outside on to the grassy area on the north side of the castle’s bailey with a great gaggle of fawning courtiers and clerics following them. I, of course, went after them right along behind them with everyone else. What else could I do?

  After a while, Sir William pretended he had just seen me, and he and a man I did not recognize walked over to speak with me. Sir William named the other man as Walter DeGray, as if I was somehow expected to know of him and be impressed. So I bowed profusely and acted as if I was quite impressed and honoured. I’d never heard of the man.

  We talked about the French and the rebellious barons. The king’s men seemed unconcerned that we might be overheard by those standing around us. We also talked about where the coming war might be fought and my petition to the king for Rougemont Castle and Devon’s lands. The two men agreed the French were coming and some of the English and Welsh barons would join them and, perhaps, would some Scots. Their spies at Phillip’s court have confirmed it. So why didn’t you send a galloper with a parchment informing us? I wondered but did not ask. I didn’t ask because I was sure I knew the answer – we in Cornwall were too insignificant compared to the great and mighty who gossiped at the king’s court.

  Then Sir William caused me to temporarily lose my breath and my thoughts.

  “They are almost certainly coming, and the king thinks you should pay more for a freehold of Rougemont since your brother the earl will not be contributing knights or soldiers to the king’s army, just sailors and transports. The king needs more money so he can hire mercenaries.”

  I pretended to be undone by his remarks, but then I rallied.

  “That is most unfortunate, Sir William, but perhaps understandable given the king’s great desire to defeat them and the sad fact of Cornwall having no knights or men at arms to contribute to the effort. How much would it take to satisfy the king so he puts his mark and his seal on the parchments and I can take them with me back to Cornwall?”

  Does he think we can pay more because he knows of our treasure? It surely cannot be because he thinks Cornwall’s lands have large revenues.

  “Forty pounds will be sufficient,” said Walter DeGray rather promptly.

  “Forty pounds?” I exclaimed. Is that all? I’ve got more than that in my money belt.

  “In the name of God,” I said.” That is a lot for Cornwall to raise, being as there is a great famine on the land and not a manor in Cornwall can support a single knight even in the best of times.”

  I gave the two men my most sincere, depressed look and then suddenly brightened up considerably.

  “Wait a minute. Yes; now I remember. We just carried a valuable cargo into London for the Greek merchants who have been supplying the crusaders. They’ve sent in some of the flower paste which is so valuable and easily sold because it makes the pain of a soldier’s wound go away.

  “There’s a moneylender in London who has agreed to advance us enough coins to pay for the cargo. I’m supposed to borrow the necessary coins and use them to pay the Greeks and buy the paste before I return to Cornwall. But the Greeks could wait, since the king obviously comes first. Yes, they could.” There are no Greeks; I’ve got more than that with me.

  We talked and argued and negotiated as I tried desperately to get them to accept fewer coins for the king. It’s what they would expect me to do and what I want them to report to the king—that Cornwall is too poor to support even a single knight, let alone one of his favourites.

  Finally we reached an agreement on a lower price. It happened after Marshal admitted he hadn’t received any news about when and where the French will attack. Even worse for Cornwall, he also admitted that even if we paid the required coins we’d still have to wait to take Rougemont until the fighting actually begins in order to be absolutely sure Devon is against the king.

  They seem to think the uncertainty as to when the fighting will start will be a problem for us because it always is for the Cinque Ports of Kent and Sussex, the ports which must provide the king with transports for fourteen days each year in lieu of paying taxes. They didn’t know we’d be starting the fighting ourselves as soon as the French fleet assembles.

  “Let me be sure I understand what you are proposing on behalf of the king, Sir William. If I go to the London moneylenders and bring thirty-two pounds here for the king the day after tomorrow instead of using it to buy the flower paste, I will receive the parchments signed and sealed and ready to be placed in the parish records?”

  Marshal and DeGray both nodded.

  “Well then, your word is certainly good enough for me. I’ll leave for London immediately and try to get the necessary coins from the moneylenders even though I certainly can’t promise them. Hopefully I’ll see you here the day after tomorrow. If not, I’ll send you a parchment message so you’ll at least know I tried.”

  Damn. Now I’ll have to go to London and come back, if only for the sake of appearing to tell the truth. Oh well, at least it doesn’t look like rain, and I do like the drink the alewife brews with wine and juniper berries at the White Bull.

  ******

  Two days later and I was newly returned to Windsor after riding all day on a bouncing horse cart with a terrible headache from drinking too much juniper-flavoured brew at the White Bull.

  I paid one of the Windsor guards to carry a message into William Marshal. Then I sat on a bench and held my head until he and Walter DeGray walked up to me.

  “How did it go?” DeGray asked.” Did you fetch the coins?”

  “It went well for the coins; not so well for my drinking jenever last night and having to spend all day getting here on a horse cart that somehow found every hole on the king’s road. My head hurts most terrible,” I said mournfully.

  “Jenever? I’ve never heard of it. What is it?” asked DeGray with a smile at my obvious discomfort.

  I wonder if DeGray is smiling because my head hurts and he’s a right bastard, or because I’ve got the coins and he’s a king’s man and is going to end up with some of them. Probably both.

  “Comes from cooking wine with the juice of juniper berries and then letting it bubble in the pot, so they say. Strong is what it is. Really strong. An alewife in a tavern near where I stay in London brews it.”

  “Well you fetched the coins and that’s what’s important. Come with us to my room so we can count them and give you the parchments. We want to talk about the French and the barons.”

  ******

  An hour later, I had the signed and sealed parchments in a leather messenger tube slung over my shoulder and I was back with my men who had been waiting outside the castle entrance. They were sheltering from the cold rain that was lightly falling by huddling under a horse cart. I was anxious to get back to Cornwall and so were they. We’ll be going back on a galley from London.

  I thought about what Marshal and DeGray had told me as we walked back to the rectory. There was no doubt about it according to the king’s two men. Devon and his fellow barons offered the English crown to Phillip of France, and he has accepted their offer. The French, they said, will assemble their army after the spring planting is finished and sail for England to join up with Devon and the rest of the traitorous barons. They claimed to have no idea at all where the French will land.

  Two hours later my men and I were bouncing along the king’s road towards London in our rented horse cart.
We had just hit a particularly large hole when it suddenly struck me that Marshal and DeGray had mentioned neither the great famine nor the missing slaves nor the closing of most of the king’s tin mines in Cornwall.

  Is it possible they don’t yet know? Or do they know and not care?

  Chapter Ten

  Lieutenant Henry

  The sea birds poking at the sand along the French shoreline took to the air as the battered old fishing boat nosed onto the rock-strewn beach at Honfleur. It was just before high tide on a cold, windy, early spring day. It was still stormy in the channel, and it had been a long, rough voyage. The beach smelled of seaweed and dead fish as beaches often do.

  Two of the four crudely dressed fishermen on board the boat immediately jumped down onto the beach to pull the vessel as far as possible out of the water. They didn’t want to chance it drifting away if the tide continued to rise. They were experienced sailors, but the waves in the channel had been more than a little difficult and they were glad to be ashore.

  Another old and battered fishing boat, similar to the first, came in immediately behind with two more fishermen and a middle-aged couple on board. The two fishermen who had pulled the first boat ashore also pulled the second boat ashore. Then they offered their hands to the couple to help them step down on to the damp sand. It was good they did, for both the man and woman were not experienced sailors and had been almost constantly seasick during the trip from Cornwall. They were both more than a little weak in the legs. The man’s tunic and cap marked him as a moderately successful merchant.