by Alys Clare
The owner of the house emerged through the heavy oak door and stood on the steps, eyes busy, darting this way and that as he took in the activity, and an expression on his face suggesting he wasn’t going to let any slapdash preparation get past him. He had been host to his King! For two precious days, King John had been an honoured guest under his roof. Josse didn’t think anybody among the man’s kin, friends or casual acquaintances would ever be allowed to forget it.
Suddenly there was a commotion from within the house: loud voices, some laughter, some ribald exchanges, the sound of many feet clattering on the stone flags of the great hall. Some liveried servants emerged, one of them frowning, as if inspecting the scene and the people in it to see if they matched some pre-ordained standard. Evidently they did, for the man stood aside, bowed low and waved an arm as if to say, Behold!
And King John stepped out through the doorway into the sunshine.
The King, clearly, was his usual impatient self. He was jittery with the habitual restlessness, never having learned the lesson that experienced men with their regular work to do were best left to get on with it, and that constant, irritably bellowed questions such as, ‘How much longer are you going to be?’ and ‘Can’t you do that more quickly?’ did more harm than good.
Josse watched King John with sympathy. He didn’t look as bad as he had the previous morning. Josse had noticed that, last night, John hadn’t drunk nearly so much. He had, in fact, been subdued; perhaps even depressed. He’d sat up on the dais, moodily staring into the distance, clutching his beautiful gold goblet with the blue and green jewels close to his breast, as if wary of someone trying to wrest it from him, and answering remarks tentatively addressed to him with a surly growl.
The surrender of Dover Castle had obviously hit him very hard. More, surely, than it should have done, for John was used to the vicissitudes of a long campaign, and must know that gains and losses occurred with regular frequency. It was a blow, naturally, but still Josse would have expected the King’s optimism to be reasserting itself by now …
His musings were interrupted by Geoffroi, nudging his horse up to Josse’s side. ‘We should be moving out soon,’ he said. ‘The last pair of packhorses has been lined up on the road leading out of town, and they’re just loading a few horse-drawn carts.’ He grinned. ‘I didn’t know kings travelled with so much baggage, Father! I just saw a portable chapel being hoisted on to one of the carts, and there was a priest in attendance yelling at the men to be careful of the holy relics and to treat them with due reverence, not hurl them about like a bag of carrots.’ He leaned closer, dropping his voice. ‘I reckon these light wagons must be reserved for the King’s personal valuables, judging by the number of heavily armed guards.’
‘Aye, it’s always said of him that he likes to keep his most precious jewels close,’ Josse remarked. Idly he wondered if John’s gorgeous jewelled gold cup was on the cart, carefully packed in its own box and padded with wool.
There was movement in the line of packhorses and carts. A command was issued, and men hastened to their appointed places. The first of the two packhorses led off, followed by the other one, and then the three laden carts slowly pulled away. The one which was guarded by the armed men was piled high, and the pair of greys drawing it had a struggle to get it moving. It’s overloaded, Josse thought. And they’ve stacked the luggage too high, so that it’s in danger of overbalancing. He nearly spoke out, but then, appreciating that a repacking operation would mean more delay and that would cause the King to seethe with furious impatience, thought better of it.
He sat watching until the final elements of the King’s long baggage train set off along the road.
Geoffroi was looking at the King, a frown on his face. ‘Doesn’t King John lead the way?’ he asked.
‘No. He’ll want to give them a start, but we’ll soon overtake them once we set out after them.’
‘Then why are we all mounted and ready, if we’re not leaving yet?’ Geoffroi demanded.
Josse smiled. ‘Don’t question the ways of kings, son. They are a rule unto themselves.’
A good hour later and probably more, at last King John set out from Lynn. The road out of the town ran south-west, roughly following the coast of the Wash. The land was marshy and often consisted not of solid, continuous firm ground but of a series of small islands, separated either by fordable ditches and streams or else linked by wooden bridges. It was, Josse thought, very difficult to determine where the coastline actually was. Locals said it was constantly changing and, now that Josse was riding along it and could see for himself, he understood.
The King, it seemed, was well aware of the dangers of travelling in this difficult terrain, having taken the precaution of engaging local men to advise him. Riding between Yves and Geoffroi, only a few ranks behind the King and his intimate circle, Josse saw John frequently exchange remarks with the two guides who rode with him. As always, he was in a hurry, and more than once Josse heard him dismiss a suggestion because it threatened to slow his progress.
They came to the south-easternmost point of the Wash, rounded it and set off north-west. They skirted the town of Wisbech, the castle visible in outline on top of its rise. Josse had been hearing various mutterings about stopping to eat, and, indeed, a big crowd of the town’s inhabitants had come out to greet the procession, many offering food and drink. Josse’s optimism rose; they had been on the road for more than two hours and covered perhaps a dozen miles and he was feeling hungry. But the King, acknowledging the cheers and shouts with an impatiently waving hand, did not stop.
The long procession rode on.
The King’s party overtook the light wagons and the packhorses a few miles beyond Wisbech. But if John had held any hopes of hurrying on ahead and reaching Spalding well in advance of his baggage, they were to be disappointed, for all at once they were on the smaller, lesser-used, far more perilous tracks that ran close to the Wash, and abruptly the terrain changed. The packhorses and the carts slowed down, but so too did the mounted men. Here the land was broken up by numerous waterways, some large, some little more than a trickle, which emptied their contents into the sea. The ground was often uncertain. At one point Josse heard a cry of fear from somewhere behind him, and loud splashing. There was the shrill, sharp neigh of a terrified horse. Geoffroi, always unable to bear the thought of any animal suffering, swiftly turned his horse and hurried back down the line. After some time, he came cantering up to resume his place beside Josse and Yves.
‘What happened?’ Yves asked.
‘A chestnut mare went too close to the margins of the firm ground,’ Geoffroi replied tersely. ‘Another rider was pushing up from behind and, it seems, his larger horse shoved the mare off the track.’
‘Is she all right?’ Josse said.
‘She’s frightened and she’s trembling violently, and the arsehole – sorry, Uncle – riding her has no consideration for her well-being. But, aye, she’s all right, if you mean by that she’s not drowned.’
Josse, picking up his son’s fury, wisely said no more. Life in the company of the King and his entourage was tough, he reflected, on a young man who cared as passionately as Geoffroi did for all those of God’s creatures at the mercy of uncaring men.
It was well past noon now. Since it appeared that the King was intending to press on, his sense of urgency too great to allow a stop for refreshments, Josse and his companions copied what many of the other men were doing, and, extracting bread, cheese and meat from their saddle bags, ate as they rode.
The morning had started fair, with a warm sun shining out of a clear blue sky and a gentle south-westerly wind. A wind that blew from the land, Josse reflected, keeping the air dry. They couldn’t really have asked for a better day for riding.
He could smell the fresh, salty tang of the sea. It was very close now, a wide, silvery-green mass over to the right, beyond the expanse of marshy foreshore. The sunshine caught sparkling lights on the rumpled water, and if he strained his ears
above the noise of the men and the horses, he fancied he could hear the regular flop of small waves breaking on the shore. Perhaps, he thought vaguely, the tide was coming in.
He noticed, not for the first time, that Yves was uneasy. He was repeatedly staring round at the men surrounding the King, studying them with a frown. ‘Are you looking for your spy?’ Josse asked quietly.
‘Aye, I am,’ Yves muttered. ‘I thought I saw him this morning, before we set out, but now I’m not so sure – there’s no sign of him, or not that I can see.’
Josse forbore to say that the man wouldn’t be much of a spy if he allowed others to observe his movements. Instead he said mildly, ‘If your guess is correct – and I’m not saying it isn’t – then, once he found out where we’re bound for today, he didn’t really need to stay around.’
But Yves was still frowning anxiously. ‘You’re probably right. But I wish I knew why I feel so worried.’ He glanced at Josse. ‘I feel all but certain there’s danger ahead.’
Slowly Josse nodded. ‘I would say that you were letting your imagination run away with you – only I feel the same.’
Then the wind changed.
The breeze, strengthening now, was coming from the sea. More quickly than Josse could have imagined possible, a sea fret came rolling in from the east, and where a moment ago they had been riding along in sunshine, with good visibility and no danger of allowing their horses to stray too close to the perilous marshes, suddenly everything was different.
They had just come to a stream. It was quite wide, its banks dissipating into the surrounding marshy ground as its mouth opened out into the sea, although it didn’t appear to be deep; at least, it wasn’t when they first approached. But it had arrested their progress. Up at the head of the train, a few rows in front of where Josse, Yves and Geoffroi rode, the King and his senior attendants were talking to the local guides. Quite soon they were not so much talking as arguing. The King, as ever, wanted to hurry on across the stream and be on his way. The elder of the two guides – a weathered man of late middle age with deep-set grey eyes and a skin tanned by sun and sea – was advising caution.
‘Tide turned quite a while ago,’ he said calmly. ‘With this mist we can’t see what the sea’s doing, but I don’t much like the conditions, what I can make out of them.’
‘Explain,’ said the King tersely.
The man paused, obviously thinking. ‘Water’s higher than it should be at this time,’ he said eventually. He fixed the King with his grey stare, apparently undaunted at being in conversation with his monarch. ‘I’m thinking perhaps something’s piling up the sea out there.’ He nodded towards the Wash.
The King tapped his crop against his boot, the gesture swift with irritated impatience. ‘What do you mean?’ he demanded.
The man paused once more, then said, ‘You get the onshore wind, see. Out of the east, like this here.’ He raised a hand in a cupping gesture, as if testing the air. ‘Now there’s strange currents swirling out there at the base of the Wash. They’re unpredictable.’ He paused, gazing out to where the sea could be heard but no longer seen. ‘Sometimes – and my bones tell me this is one such time – the wind and the current combine with the tide, and the water rushing in up these streams and little rivers comes with an unusual force.’
The King urged his horse forward so that he stood on the near bank of the stream. ‘The water does not look deep,’ he said. His tone, Josse thought, was carefully neutral.
‘Maybe not. But, like I said, the tide’s coming in.’
The guide gave the impression that he thought that was the end of the argument.
But the King said, ‘How long until it goes out again?’
The guide narrowed his eyes. ‘Won’t be before dusk. And, if I’m right and there’s a surge of water coming in, it’ll be later.’
The King sat silent for some time. Watching him closely, Josse sensed he was deeply uneasy. He is spooked by this place, he thought . He mistrusts the marshes, the rank smell, the silvery fog off the sea insinuating itself through the air. But just then, a ray of soft, golden sunshine speared down through the mist, diving down between the billows of cloud and piercing the ground almost at the feet of the King’s horse.
The King’s expression changed. His mouth stretching into a triumphant smile, he roared, ‘An omen! God is with us!’ Then, nudging his horse further into the water, he said with an air of utter finality, ‘We go on.’
There was a low murmur among the attendants. The younger guide, anguish on his face, spoke to the older man in a low voice, the words indistinguishable but urgency clear in his very tone. The older guide nodded.
‘My lord King,’ he called, ‘we do not advise this. There is a wide band of quicksand in mid-stream, slightly closer to the far bank, and, in this mist and with the water coming in so fast, it’s not going to be easy to spot it.’
Without turning round, the King called out coldly, ‘Then the pair of you should keep your eyes open and be particularly vigilant.’ Then, raising his right arm, he shouted, ‘On!’
The men in the first rank behind him plunged into the water. There was a great noise of shouting, and a confusion of angling for position as they hurried to follow the King. Josse cried out above the uproar, ‘Wait! For the dear Lord’s sake, wait! See if he has found the safe way!’
Some of the men, appreciating the good sense of this, reined in. Others – perhaps they were more devoted or sycophantic; perhaps they were more foolhardy; perhaps they simply didn’t hear – forged on. The mist was swirling more densely, and sometimes Josse could barely make out Geoffroi and Yves, positioned right beside him. Then abruptly he and Alfred were nudged out of the way as the first of the wagons bearing the King’s personal treasures came creaking and groaning up towards the stream bank, coming to a halt on the edge of the water. There was a lot of splashing and some cursing. An anonymous voice said incredulously, ‘We’re crossing over? Here?’
Nobody seemed to know what they ought to be doing.
A freak gust of wind blew a hole in the mist and, just for a moment, Josse could see the scene before him: the King was safe on the far bank, already urging his horse up on to the higher ground. He turned round once, briefly watched as two pairs of mounted men came lurching up the slope behind him, then, as if satisfied that all was well, put spurs to his horse and rode away.
All the leading ranks of men were over now. The two packhorses followed. The second one, not liking the feel of the stream-bed beneath his big hooves, baulked and stopped dead. The man in charge urged him on, speaking gentle, soothing words, and with a loud sucking noise, the horse extracted its feet from the mud into which he was already starting to sink and plunged on.
The light carts went next. Josse watched as the first of them made the crossing. There was a brief delay – the men had considerable difficulty getting the trembling, white-eyed horses to pull the heavy load up the far bank – and then the second one followed. The pair of greys were both sweating, big patches darkening their pale coats, and one let out a shrill neigh of fear.
Aghast, Josse noticed that the water lapping the horses’ legs and the wheels of the cart was reaching a noticeably higher level this time.
‘We must go, immediately,’ he called out to Yves and Geoffroi. ‘I don’t know what’s happening out there, but the pace of the tide has suddenly accelerated.’ He turned Alfred’s head sharply to the left. ‘We’ll cross upstream,’ he said, ‘because the water should be shallower there, and we won’t get tangled up with the last cart.’
He had tried to keep his tone calm and unworried. He didn’t think he’d succeeded. Geoffroi gave him a frightened look. Yves, an anxious frown creasing his brow, began to say something and then stopped. ‘You’re right,’ he muttered. ‘We must hurry.’ Then, the edge of panic in his voice, ‘Oh, for the good Lord’s sake, hurry!’
Josse knew he should have taken it slowly. Should have made a very careful approach, searching out the best place and staring inten
tly ahead to spot the treacherous band of quicksand. Should have edged forward across the stream step by careful step, steadily, patiently.
But terror overcame him. He urged Alfred down into the water, spurring him, shouting encouragement, giving the big horse his head and leaning forward in the saddle, pushing, pushing on until the horse was heaving himself out of the water and clambering up the far bank. Yves followed close behind. But Geoffroi, struggling to reassure his frightened brown mare and urge her on for the last few yards to safety, had come to a halt. Crying out in alarm, he leapt off the mare’s back, landing with a loud splash in water that reached almost to his armpits. Josse cried out, horrified at how fast the water was rising and how powerfully it pushed. Geoffroi, strong young man that he was, could only just keep his feet. He put gentle hands on the mare’s brow and nose and, even over the shouting and the roaring of the water, Josse heard the calm, reassuring words. The mare heard them too; with a whinny of distress, she pulled herself free of the water and the perilous, sucking mud and erupted up the bank, Geoffroi, struggling to stay on his feet, beside her.
We have made it. Thank God, oh, thank God, we are all safe, Josse thought, relief flooding through him. He peered ahead through the mist, trying to count the riders, the packhorses and the carts. The King and the leading horsemen were out of sight now, lost in the white swirl. There were the two packhorses, there were the carts.
No. There were only two carts.
He said aloud, ‘Where’s the overloaded one?’
Suddenly the wind rose, turning in a heartbeat from a gentle breeze to a whirlwind that shrieked like a demon. A cry of horrified fear. A horse, neighing in pain and terror, a second one joining in, the ghastly sound coming again and again until abruptly it stopped. A tremendous splash that seemed to go on for ever. And the water; rushing, pouring, bubbling, so that it seemed it would rise up, burst the banks of the stream and engulf them.