Shades of Time kobo

by Sarah Woodbury

  “FitzWalter shouldn’t have let us inside his castle in the first place if he was so concerned about strangers knowing what he was doing,” Constance said to Cador as she headed off with him and the others a few moments later to find the healer. She had to admit the four of them were hardly enough to protect Venny against any concerted effort on FitzWalter’s part to harm him, so leaving him with no guards shouldn’t make a difference.

  The four companions left the hall and walked across the inner ward to the gatehouse. A query to the guard there directed them to the healer’s hut, which was on the far northern side of the outer ward, as far from the bridge as it was possible to be and still be inside the walls. The location made sense, since if an army managed to breach the outer curtain wall, they would hardly be concerned with herbs and ointments. The healer could always retreat inside the keep with his satchel of supplies.

  “I’m surprised they let us go off by ourselves,” Rhys said, still in an undertone though nobody was close by. “If they had something to hide, you wouldn’t think they’d let us out of their sight.”

  “Maybe FitzWalter really doesn’t have anything to hide,” Cador said.

  “You saw the look in his face,” Constance said. “He was not pleased to see Venny. And he has too many men for a garrison.”

  “It may be, rather, he thinks he has nothing to fear from Venny. He isn’t going anywhere, and from the looks—” Rhys gestured towards the outer gatehouse. The portcullis had been dropped. “Neither are we.”

  Since they weren’t leaving the castle, they didn’t collect the horses, and they walked through the outer ward on foot. During the day, the healer’s garden plot would take the greatest advantage of the sun, which much of the year crossed a southerly portion of the sky. Thus, the northern curtain wall could provide some residual heat for tender plants overnight, and there were no buildings or walls to block the sun from shining on the garden.

  With Constance beside him, Cador pressed his ear to the door of the hut before giving it a sharp rap. Arms folded across their chests, Mathew and Rhys waited a few paces away. Mathew was a bit disgruntled because Venny had told FitzWalter that he, ox of a man that he was, had a fever. A man as big and strong as Mathew, who relied on his physical prowess, viewed illness as weakness.

  When there was no answer, Mathew said, “I’m not sick. Why are we even here?”

  Constance poked him in the ribs. “We need to not raise suspicion, and it was a good way to get us out of the hall.”

  Mathew grumbled under his breath, admitting she might have a point. With that, the door opened, and the healer, a wizened man with gray hair and a bent back, appeared. “What is it?”

  Even from three paces away, Constance could smell the beer on him.

  “This man is ill.” Cador gestured to Mathew. “We were hoping we could acquire a tincture for fever for him.”

  The healer looked Mathew up and down, clearly disbelieving, but then Constance said, “Sir Robert sent us.”

  “Very well. Wait there.” He lit a lantern, and despite the request for him to stay where he was, Mathew moved towards the doorway.

  Cador stepped back to allow Mathew to enter the hut and then bent to speak to Constance, “Is it just me, or are we being watched?”

  “I would be surprised if we weren’t.” A hooded man had definitely followed them from the great hall, though Constance didn’t see that particular man anymore. It was dark, however, with the only light available to them coming from cooking fires and a handful of torches. Truthfully, which of the three hundred men in the inner ward was tasked with keeping an eye on them hardly mattered. They had nowhere to go, and the men facing them wouldn’t be here if they weren’t loyal to FitzWalter—or another of the lords in the hall, like Bohun or Percy. Constance and her friends were truly in the lion’s den.

  Rhys took the short period of waiting to stroll in a large circle around the outer ward, greeting the men who were willing to look him in the eye and making an accounting of the various lords they served. This late in the evening, many were asleep or drunk, which made those who remained awake all the more noticeable for watching them.

  Then Mathew reappeared, ducking under the frame of the door so he wouldn’t bang his head. “I have what I came for.” And then he added in an undertone, “Let’s get moving.”

  As one, the four of them headed to the blacksmith’s works, one of the few deserted spots in the outer bailey. The fire was banked for the night, but it still glowed orange, and Constance moved towards it to warm her hands.

  “I can tell you this castle has held too many men for a while,” Rhys said. “The latrine ditch has an offensive odor and can’t accommodate this many people for much longer. The men who are still awake seem to be on watch, which I wouldn’t have thought necessary inside the curtain wall, and if you see here—” he indicated a rack of weapons on the far side of the workshop they were in, “—this is as much an armorer’s hut as a blacksmith’s. They are preparing for war, and by my guess it should happen soon.”

  “Did you hear anyone speaking Scots?” Constance said.

  Rhys laughed low and without humor. “Ten Scotsmen cluster around their own fire pit. A few more were dotted here and there.” He frowned. “Did any of you see Scotsmen in the hall? I didn’t.”

  “I didn’t either,” Constance said. “If it’s true John Balliol has something planned for England, such a small number of men isn’t a large commitment.”

  “It’s plenty enough for a raid, though,” Cador said. “And we know Scotsmen were among the riders who entered Wales.”

  “So what do we do now?” Mathew asked.

  “We do what Venny said: find a place to camp in the open so everyone can see us and be certain we have nothing to hide.” Constance paused. “And when we get a chance, we slip away.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  19 March 1294

  Venny

  Venny’s friends left the hall, but instead of making room for him at the high table, FitzWalter directed him around the back and out a side door. Before leaving, Venny shot a glance over his shoulder to Henry Percy, who from all appearances was very drunk.

  He lifted a cup blearily to Venny. “Godspeed!”

  That did not give Venny confidence.

  With a word in the ear of Bohun, who stayed where he was, FitzWalter made his way towards the doorway too. Venny’s stomach was in knots—and that was before Henry had raised his cup to him. Something very bad was about to happen, but he honestly had no idea what it was. He didn’t think FitzWalter would kill him outright. Venny was a minor lord in FitzWalter’s eyes and hardly worthy of his attention.

  As it turned out, the place to which he was led was not a dungeon but a chapel, up one floor from the great hall, with a beautiful stained-glass window behind the altar. Although everyone knew Thomas Becket had been murdered in his own church on orders of King Henry, generally lords preferred to keep their evil deeds out of the direct sight of God, and Venny was a little bit heartened to think he wasn’t going to die just yet.

  So he threw back his shoulders and said as innocently as he could, trying to project a confidence he wasn’t feeling, “What am I doing here?” Likely the men who faced him knew he was putting up a false front, but bravery in the face of utter despair was the only way he was going to survive this.

  “You are here to pledge your loyalty to me.”

  This was a voice Venny had never heard before, and he turned to face the one who’d spoken. Before him stood a dark haired man of medium height, similar in age to these other barons. He had high cheekbones and narrow shoulders, and when he walked forward, it was with a limp.

  “You have the advantage of me, as I don’t know you.”

  The man stopped in front of him. “Roger Mortimer.”

  Venny had heard of him, of course. He’d been a favorite of King Edward, even before his eldest brother died and the middle son, Edmund, ascended to his title. It had been Roger’s message that had lured
King Llywelyn into an ambush at Cilmeri. His presence explained Humphrey de Bohun’s too, far more than FitzWalter’s marriage to Bohun’s niece. Before Edward’s death, Roger Mortimer had been a force to be reckoned with.

  It also explained the behavior of FitzWalter, who’d married twice above his station, and thus risen to the master of Beeston Castle by the efforts of men other than himself. He always looked to a more powerful man above him.

  Still, that Roger was the leader of a rebellion against King David was surprising. Since David had been crowned King of England, Roger had proved far less concerned about power in England than the status of his estates in France, which he’d gained courtesy of King David. As with Balliol, the king had attempted in a not-so-subtle way to distract the Norman lord from all he’d lost in the March—and the fact that David did not trust him. The last time Roger had been in England, rumor had it he’d petitioned King David for a high-ranking wife, since his first wife, a very minor noble named Lucy, had died in childbirth. Even with the dangers that women faced in the birthing room, that same rumor said Roger had hurried her along.

  “Roger, didn’t you know this young man is in the service of the king?” FitzWalter had his shoulder propped against the wall, and his words came out a drawl. “He isn’t going to swear allegiance to you.”

  Mortimer looked down his nose at Venny. “He is if he knows what’s good for him.”

  Then a new voice spoke from the shadows, and Venny’s father stepped into his view. “He is my son. He will do what he must. He will do as I command.” His father’s hand came down on Venny’s shoulder and forced him to his knees.

  If Venny’s stomach had been in knots before, now it was a five-pound weight in his belly. White-haired, thin but still vigorous, the Baron of Kinderton had never been a loving guide as much as a force to be reckoned with in Venny’s life. While Venny’s decision to become one of King David’s men had been made with his father’s approval, that approval had been grudging. Because his father never approved of anything he did, Venny hadn’t taken his attitude as anything unusual. And of course, serving the king had been an honor. It would have made no sense to keep the family aloof when doing so came with the real possibility of causing it harm.

  Venny ducked his head and said exactly that. “I served King David because what other choice did I have?”

  Mortimer guffawed. “See, Robert. Most men feel the same. They serve David not because they wish to, but because they have to. The Venables family knows upon which side of the bread the butter must be spread—as we all have up until now.” He turned again to look at Venny, who was doing his level best to look humble and self-effacing—and to ignore the pain in his knees from kneeling on the hard floor and the anger that shot through him hearing Mortimer speak of the king so dismissively. “I did the same, did I not?”

  “I didn’t,” FitzWalter said.

  Mortimer sneered. “Don’t go all high and mighty on me, Robert. You went to London on bended knee too, and you did it again when David handed you Beeston Castle on a silver platter.”

  FitzWalter didn’t like being reminded of his obeisance, and he put his nose into the air. “I didn’t prostrate myself like this one.”

  “He is of lower rank. He had no choice.” Again Mortimer turned to Venny. “Isn’t that right?”

  Venny nodded vigorously. “That is absolutely right. He is the king, but … perhaps not for long?” He wasn’t trying to sound sly. He wanted desperately to hear their plan from Mortimer’s own lips.

  Mortimer obliged. “We have an alliance with Balliol of Scotland.”

  “Roger!” FitzWalter threw up his hands. “He hasn’t pledged yet.”

  Mortimer was still looking down his nose at Venny. “But you are going to, aren’t you?”

  “Of course, my lord. I was awaiting an opportunity that made sense. Gilbert de Clare—” He deliberately left the sentence hanging, and Mortimer again obliged by finishing it for him.

  “—was a fool. He reached too high. He thought to kill both David and the King of France in one blow.” He laughed mockingly.

  “So … you don’t intend to become king?”

  “My royal blood is thin, though not as thin as our current king’s.” Again the mocking laugh. “I will marry Princess Elizabeth, however, and then we’ll see.” The glitter in his eyes was definitely dangerous, and Venny had a feeling Balliol should watch his back.

  King David had taken the throne of England five years earlier after the murder of King Edward’s eldest living daughter, Princess Eleanor, and the subsequent refusal of her younger sister, Joan, to marry William de Bohun, instead finding herself called to the Church. Five years ago, those two had been the only daughters of marriageable age, but Edward had more daughters: Margaret, who’d married a Duke from the Continent once she came of age; Mary, who’d joined a convent; and Elizabeth, who was the same age as King Llywelyn’s daughter, Gwenllian, both of whom would be twelve years old this year. Venny thought marrying a child to a fifty-year-old man was obscene, but that wasn’t to say it hadn’t been done before.

  “We have her,” Venny’s father said. “Or rather, King John has her.”

  “Balliol will give her to me as soon as David is dead, and the English crown is on his head,” Mortimer said.

  “I am confused,” Venny said, leaving aside the fact that no word had reached his ears—or King David’s—that Elizabeth’s guardian had lost her to Scotland. “Why do you ally with Balliol at all when you could do this for yourself?”

  “Our aims are the same.” Mortimer paused. “And he can do some things I cannot do myself.” He spoke as if he hated admitting he wasn’t all powerful.

  Venny still didn’t understand Mortimer’s plan, but it was clear from his expression that he wouldn’t welcome more questions in that direction. So Venny tried another tack: “The king is in Ireland. How will you reach him there?”

  The look that came over FitzWalter’s and Mortimer’s faces was positively gleeful. “As I’ve said, Balliol can do some things for me I cannot do for myself. His forces should have already consigned David to hell where he belongs.”

  Venny’s heart sank into his boots. He should have known, given FitzWalter’s attempt to capture Princess Anna, that the conspiracy went farther than Beeston Castle, but to know they had co-conspirators in Ireland meant they truly did have wide-ranging support. The knowledge hardened his resolve, however, and he rose to his feet, straightening his shoulders and implying that his earlier cowering had been feigned. “Then it is time I told you the truth of why I am here.”

  That was the last thing FitzWalter and Mortimer expected. Despite their arrogance, they gaped at him, and Venny’s father said, “What is this, son?”

  “I come to you now as a warning and a courtesy. My father thought to keep secret from me his alliance with you, but I learned of it and have stayed close to King David ever since, in an attempt to protect my father, knowing I would ride to him the moment the king or his allies got close.” He looked darkly at Mortimer and FitzWalter, who were still gazing at him open-mouthed. “Lord Mathonwy knows you sent those riders into Wales to abduct Princess Anna. He is coming.”

  That had everyone’s attention in a way nothing else could have. “How could he possibly know?” Mortimer said.

  “This morning, in the saddle bag of a man who was killed during Princess Anna’s abduction, Lord Mathonwy found a tunic sporting the FitzWalter crest. But even without that, the riders left a trail a blind man could follow. Lord Mathonwy has some of the best trackers in Britain.”

  The stunned silence this last statement caused had Venny’s knees trembling. He had brought out the news of Lord Mathonwy’s coming to elicit a response—and because he didn’t believe it could possibly come as a surprise. But it was also to save his own skin, and when Lord Mathonwy questioned him about how the evening had gone, he would be straightforward about it.

  When the barons still didn’t respond, Venny cleared his throat. “Is Princess Anna
here?”

  “No.” Gone was Mortimer’s expression of superiority and complacency, replaced by fury. He turned to FitzWalter and spoke through gritted teeth. “They were supposed to leave no witnesses and nothing behind.” The two men glared at each other.

  While Mortimer berated FitzWalter, Venny turned to his father and spoke in an undertone for his ears only. “Are you sure about this?”

  Venny had avoided eye contact with his father before now, but if Venny was to get himself and his men (and woman) out of the castle in one piece, preferably sooner rather than later, he needed allies, and Hugh Venables was possibly the best option. This conspiracy had gone miles too far already, and Venny’s story was painfully thin. He feared it wouldn’t hold up for long.

  “Of course I’m sure. It is unconscionable you would ask such a question.”

  “You are betraying the king and yet you question my judgement? How did you become involved with Roger Mortimer in the first place?”

  “FitzWalter approached me.” Hugh put his nose into the air. “He knows I am the most powerful baron in the Kelsall area. If Balliol is to succeed, he needs the north of England to stand with him. We have ever been neglected by London.”

  It was an old complaint, and not one Venny in principle disagreed with. “How can you support Balliol’s claim to the throne of England?”

  “It is long past time the two crowns were united. Besides, if Balliol does not counter him, King David will claim Scotland. He has to be stopped.”

  “Why? Why not unite the crowns under King David instead of Balliol?” The question was out before Venny could stop himself.

  But it was exactly the right question to ask, because it allowed his father to look at him with the same disdainful expression he’d directed Venny’s way a thousand times while Venny was growing up. “Don’t you realize by now that a strong king is the last thing we want?”

  “You think Balliol is weak?”

  “Of course he’s weak. Haven’t you been paying attention?”