Knight of Betrayal: A Medieval Haunting (Ghosts of Knaresborough Book 1)

by Karen Perkins

  ‘I humbly beg your pardon, Sire,’ FitzUrse said, falling back to one knee.

  Henry stared at him and made no indication that he should rise. He glared at Morville and Brett, who both hastily joined FitzUrse in his gesture of humility.

  ‘What a pity you did not ignore my words spoken in anger in the way you ignored my clear direction to present yourselves to Rome.’

  ‘Sire?’

  Henry stamped his foot. ‘Damn and blast it, you snivelling buggers, you know well to what I refer!’

  The three knights bowed their heads, knowing from long experience not to respond when Henry was in the grip of one of his furies.

  ‘Do you understand what you have done? Do you?’ He screamed and hurled his goblet to the floor. Fine Rhenish vintage soaked into the fresh rushes.

  ‘All is lost! My court reforms, the Constitution of Clarendon – all gone! The clergy will never be accountable to me now. Instead I am accountable to Rome! Me! King Henry of England, Duke of Normandy, Duke of Aquitaine accountable to a feeble old man in Rome.’

  Henry paused for breath, his face puce. A steward handed him another goblet of Rhenish and he drank half of it in one swallow. Not one of the gathered knights, men-at-arms or servants made a sound nor dared to move for fear of attracting their king’s ire.

  He thrust his face into Morville’s, who resisted the urge to flinch back from the hatred in his king’s eyes and the stink of sour wine on his king’s breath.

  ‘Alexander banned me from entering a church. Me – banned from the heart of God! He threatened to excommunicate me – me! And Thomas . . .’ He paused to catch his breath. ‘Thomas, that brilliant, frustrating, true and treacherous friend, whom I raised up from naught. Thomas will be canonised. Canonised!’ The last word was screamed as the King lost all semblance of control; all memory of having already told the knights this news lost. He fell to the ground and hammered his fists and feet upon it. As he rolled in his fit and spilled Rhenish, only occasional words were audible: ‘Saint’, ‘Devil’, ‘Friend’, ‘Martyr’.

  The knights dared not so much as glance at each other, all shocked that their actions had reduced their king to such paroxysms of fury. They had observed such behaviour before – all the men in King Henry’s service had witnessed such displays – but had never before brought their master this low themselves.

  The sound of heralds’ trumpets outside the canvas palace finally penetrated Henry’s awareness and he stilled, rose, adjusted his clothing, held out a hand for more Rhenish, emptied the goblet in one, then took his seat, waved the knights aside and awaited his visitors, all composure restored.

  *

  ‘Sir Richard de Clare, Lord of Strigoil and Pembroke. Sir Maurice de Prendergast, Sir Richard Tuite, Sir John Baret.’

  Four nobles entered as their names and titles were announced, removed helmets and mail hoods, unbuckled sword belts and handed them to waiting servants, then approached Henry and fell to one knee in obeisance.

  Henry nodded, then the first man, Sir Richard de Clare – Strongbow – stepped forward, once again fell to one knee, then clasped his hands together as if in prayer and extended them. Henry placed his own hands either side of Clare’s and grasped them for a moment.

  A Bible was brought close as the men loosed hands, Clare placed his right hand upon it, and met his king’s eyes.

  ‘Sire, My Lord King Henry, I beg you to hear my oath. I pledge on my faith that I would for all days be faithful to you, never cause you injury, and would give my life to your service. I would observe my homage, reverence and submission to you completely, against all men in good faith and without deceit.’

  ‘I, your Lord King, Henry of England, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, accept your fealty, Sir Richard de Clare, and grant upon you the fief of Leinster. May you serve me equally in peace and war, and with loyalty and honour.’

  ‘I thank you, My Liege.’

  Clare rose and backed away, allowing Prendergast then Tuite and Baret to take his place and make the same oath.

  Once the rebellious barons had been accepted back into Henry’s fold, FitzUrse stepped forward but was checked by Morville’s hand on his arm. These proceedings had been negotiated and agreed in advance. Henry had no use for a spur-of-the-moment pledge of fealty from them, no matter how deeply meant. He would need to forgive them first. And that did not look likely.

  Chapter 45

  Morville, FitzUrse and Brett set up their tents on the outskirts of the main camp, ensuring their temporary homes were surrounded, and well-protected, by those of their men-at-arms.

  They sat around the campfire with a plentiful supply of wineskins and Brett poked at the brace of coneys roasting above the fire; the only meat they had been able to find. The mood in the camp was so hostile they had forgone the supply tents and caught their own dinner in the surrounding woods; woods that had been hunted daily for weeks. There was no bigger beast left in them than the bobtail coneys, and their entire party had caught not nearly enough to feed the knights and men-at-arms. Thank goodness they had thought to bring a plentiful supply of wine in their haste to depart Cnaresburg.

  ‘That was not the reception I had expected,’ FitzUrse said at last. ‘We did as Henry instructed, we carried out his orders and carried them out well. And look how we are vilified.’

  ‘Hush, Reginald,’ Morville said. ‘You do not know who may be listening, this is no time to speak ill of the King.’

  ‘Indeed it is not,’ a new voice said, surprising the knights. Its owner stepped into the firelight.

  ‘Mandeville!’ Morville exclaimed.

  Sir William de Mandeville, Earl of Essex, grinned, although there was nothing friendly in the rictus. A second and third man stepped up, all three dressed in full mail and helmets, swords at their sides. Richard de Humez and Ranulf de Broc. The two men who had originally been sent to arrest Becket and whom Morville, FitzUrse, Tracy and Brett had beaten to the prize. And Broc, the man who had encouraged and led them to Canterbury, then turned his back on them and left them to suffer the consequences. They had not heard a single word from him since they had left Saltwood Castle nearly a year ago.

  FitzUrse glared at his old master, who stared back with equanimity; no emotion or expression evident on his face.

  ‘What is this, Ranulf?’ FitzUrse asked.

  ‘What does it look like, Reginald?’ Broc replied, his tone mild. ‘You have shamed our king, and by doing so you have shamed all of us.’

  FitzUrse worked his mouth for a few moments before he could find coherent words. ‘We shamed you?’ he said quietly. ‘We shamed you? We shamed you?’ His voice and temper rose with each utterance of the phrase.

  ‘You did.’

  ‘But, but, it was you . . .’ FitzUrse stopped, speechless once more.

  ‘I gave you every assistance and opportunity to arrest Becket. Yet you slaughtered him in his cathedral and made him saint and martyr. You betrayed your king, your earls and your fellow barons and knights when you did so.’

  ‘But, but . . .’ FitzUrse spluttered.

  Broc smiled. ‘You have much to learn about politics, my friend.’

  ‘Friend? Friend? You have been no friend to me!’

  Broc shrugged and unsheathed his sword. Morville and Brett stepped forward, having taken the opportunity of FitzUrse’s ‘conversation’ to don mail and helmets. Brett slapped FitzUrse’s helmet with slim nose guard on his brother-in-arm’s head. There was no time for FitzUrse to don mail, but all three had kept their weapons close, unnerved by Henry’s reception of them.

  FitzUrse glanced around and realised Broc, Mandeville and Humez’ men had surrounded their outlying camp. He was gratified to see their own men-at-arms had remained, and stood between the gaggle of knights and the small encircling army. Then he realised these same men had let the visitors through and his pleasure soured.

  ‘So you intend murder?’ FitzUrse asked Broc.

  ‘No. Murder is despicable and unchivalrous,’ Mandeville s
aid in his stead.

  FitzUrse’s temper rose once more and both Morville and Brett stiffened, recognising they were being taunted into stupidity. ‘Reginald, care,’ Morville warned.

  FitzUrse didn’t hear him. Or, more likely, chose not to.

  ‘This is your fault,’ he said, advancing on Broc. ‘This is all your fault.’ In one quick movement he unsheathed his sword and struck. But Broc was fast and parried with apparent ease. Morville recognised a smile on his face and realised he had intended to taunt FitzUrse into striking the first blow, yet he also felt a respect for the man; he knew well from their many practices with swords at Cnaresburg Castle how strong FitzUrse’s blows were. Even in his fury, The Bear’s strength made little visible impact on his old master.

  ‘To arms!’ Morville shouted, drawing his own sword and stepping up to William de Mandeville. He held his blade defensively, determined not to fall into the same trap as FitzUrse. Unfortunately Brett did not have the same sense or experience, and he flailed his blade at Humez, who defended with ease, with plenty of breath to taunt the young knight further.

  FitzUrse, meanwhile, had lost all sense, striking at Broc quickly and ferociously, delivering a devastating sequence of strikes. Broc’s mail held up to the blows that he was unable to deflect. He would be badly bruised on the morrow, but as yet his skin was unbroken.

  The surrounding parties of men-at-arms were in much the same mind as FitzUrse; months of uncertainty at the actions and manoeuvrings of their masters releasing in the familiar arena of battle. At last, all was simple. The masters of the opposing men meant to harm their own masters. They would fight to the death to defend their lord. They had all spent their lives in training for these moments. This was what they knew. This was what they did. They fought. Some with swords, others with axes, still more with maces. Whatever their weapon, they struck, parried, ducked and danced around their opponent, then struck again.

  Morville and Mandeville, the eldest and most cognisant men on the battleground, were the only two who had not yet landed a blow. They circled, feinted and taunted, each determined to place the other in the wrong. Each determined he was in the right.

  ‘Cease! Cease! In the name of King Henry, cease this madness!’ Hamelin Plantagenet, mounted on a large destrier in full barding, cantered into the throng of warriors. Percy and Courcy, similarly mounted, accompanied him. ‘How dare you disrespect my brother, the King? Cease, damn you!’

  The men separated, lowering their weapons.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ Plantagenet addressed Mandeville.

  ‘Settling an old score, My Lord,’ he replied.

  ‘Consider it settled,’ Plantagenet said. ‘Return to your quarters.’

  Mandeville, Humez and their men-at-arms retreated, faces impassive.

  ‘The King demands an audience with you, FitzUrse and Brett at dawn,’ Plantagenet said to Morville. He glanced around. ‘Where is Reginald?’

  Morville searched the diminishing circle of men and could not see him. ‘I am unsure, My Lord.’

  ‘Find him before dawn.’ Plantagenet wheeled his destrier around and moved off. ‘There is to be no further discord,’ he proclaimed. ‘We are here to challenge the Irish rebels, not each other. In the name of the King!’

  ‘In the name of the King!’ shouted the gathered knights and men-at-arms, both those so recently fighting and those who, Morville now recognised, had gathered to witness it.

  Morville met Percy’s eyes for a brief moment. Neither spoke, then both Percy and Courcy turned their horses on the spot and followed the King’s half-brother.

  Brett stood, having been felled by Humez. ‘Where is Reginald, Hugh?’

  ‘I know not, Richard. Nor where Broc has disappeared to. We must find them before we face the King. I fear there will be no rest for us this night.’

  *

  ‘Here! My Lord, here!’ The shout was taken up by more men-at-arms and both Morville and Brett turned as one in the direction of the cry, and hurried through the trees as best they could to see what had been found.

  ‘No! Reginald!’ Brett sank to his knees, shaking. ‘Why? My God, why? He did not deserve this!’

  Morville said nothing, but approached his comrade-in-arms, his own men retreating to give him room. He looked up.

  Reginald FitzUrse swung and twisted at the end of a rope; his face purple in the predawn light. Very clearly dead.

  ‘Cut him down,’ Morville said.

  As the body of his late friend thumped on to the mulch beside him, Morville bent over him. ‘Pass me a torch.’

  He held the flaming pitch-soaked branch over FitzUrse and the men around him gasped. Brett erupted into further moans.

  FitzUrse had not only been hung, but disembowelled, snakes of his guts writhing around his body, still slithering from the impact of his fall.

  Morville held the torch close to the face to make sure of the man’s identity, and gasped. Clear in the light of the fire, the letters T R A I T O R had been written on Sir Reginald FitzUrse’s forehead in his own blood.

  Morville stared for a moment, then handed the torch back. ‘Bury him,’ he said, walked over to Brett, and hauled the young knight back to his feet.

  ‘But who . . .’ Brett said.

  Morville did not answer. ‘We must prepare for our audience with the King,’ he said instead, marching the boy back in the direction of the camp.

  *

  ‘What do we do now?’ Brett asked after Morville had sat him in front of the fire and forced a goodly amount of Rhenish down his throat.

  ‘We have little choice, Richard. We stay and die as Reginald did. We flee and live as outlawed excommunicants in a vicious and strange land. Or we petition the King to allow us free passage to Rome and throw ourselves on the mercy of Pope Alexander.’

  ‘But the Dominicans?’

  ‘We pray that we are sent to serve the Knights Templar and not the Dominicans.’

  They stayed silent for some minutes. Then Brett asked, ‘What are our chances?’

  Morville looked at him, shook his head, and emptied his wineskin.

  *

  ‘So,’ Henry said, still in his hunting hose and tunic. ‘Sir Reginald has departed us.’

  ‘He has, Sire, in the most gruesome manner,’ Morville said.

  ‘A shame. He was abased when he fell. I would not have wished eternity in Hell for him.’

  Morville and Brett said nothing.

  ‘And Broc? What of him?’ Henry asked the gathering of interested knights.

  ‘Spent the night with his whore,’ Mandeville said. ‘He is not responsible for this.’

  Henry laughed. ‘Yes, that sounds like Broc.’

  Morville gritted his teeth and clamped his fingers into Brett’s arm to stay any reckless statements.

  ‘Well, what to do with you two?’ Henry mused, steepling his fingers and looking at his two most errant knights.

  ‘Begging your pardon, Sire,’ Morville ventured and took Henry’s raised eyebrows as permission to continue. ‘Richard and I beg leave to depart Ireland for Rome, there to throw ourselves upon Pope Alexander’s mercy and subject ourselves to the penance of his choosing for our misdeeds.’

  Henry nodded in thought, held out a hand into which was immediately placed a fine goblet of Rhenish. He took a long drink then relinquished the goblet and looked back at Morville and Brett and nodded. ‘God have mercy on your souls.’

  Chapter 46

  1st August 2015

  Donna glanced around as she handed in her ticket at the door, her hand trembling. She was relieved to see that no Castle Players were front of house, but was dismayed at the steady stream of cars entering the car park. There were too many. Far too many.

  She ignored the door to the auditorium and hurried to the ladies, glad that she’d had the opportunity during the cleansing to explore all the theatre’s nooks and crannies. She shut herself into the far cubicle, closed the toilet lid and sat down to wait.

  By her watch t
here were ten minutes left before the curtain rose, giving Henry and Becket centre stage and a captive audience. She waited a little longer until she was sure no one else was in the ladies, then emerged from her cubicle.

  In the hallway she took off one of her shoes – she’d worn stilettoes in preparation for this performance – took a tight hold of it and smashed the heel into the fire alarm.

  She breathed a sigh of relief as the siren wailed – she’d half expected the spirits to put a stop to her plan and somehow take the alarm system offline. She felt a brief pang of pity for Helen and the other players, then hardened herself once again. However much work they’d put in, and however important this was to them, she had to put a stop to it. Nothing else had worked.

  *

  Half an hour later, huddled in the car park in the wash of blue flashing lights from two fire engines, Donna held her breath once more as Helen stood at the top of the steps with a firefighter at her side and called for everyone’s attention.

  Please cancel, please cancel, please cancel.

  ‘Thank you everyone for staying, I’m relieved to announce it was a false alarm – a prank.’ Helen stared at Donna as she said this and Donna glared back, her heart sinking. ‘We can all go back in, the show will go on!’

  Helen raised her hands to quell the surge of words her announcement had ignited and added, ‘And in apology for the inconvenience, your interval drinks will be on the house.’

  The crowd of theatregoers applauded and made their way back into the auditorium.

  ‘Not you.’ Helen stepped in front of Donna as she tried to re-enter. ‘I know it was you, but you won’t stop us. You’re not welcome here.’

  The firefighter stepped behind Donna, giving her a disgusted look and effectively trapping the Wiccan.

  ‘Helen, please – you’re putting the safety of all these people at risk. You can’t do this!’

  ‘These gentlemen would like you to go with them.’ Helen indicated two police officers who stepped forward.