Three Lions of England

by Cinnamond, Patrick

  Sophia stuck her fingers in her ears but there was no way for her not to listen to Ruth’s cries, to not know what was happening, for her not to feel the Devil taking his due.

  XVI

  True to the mark, the Sign of the Archer, Sagittarius, would reveal itself in the stars on summer nights like this. Bright up there, framed by the dark walls of the city’s tall houses. A familiar old comrade. On his campaigns, Wat found much comfort in tracing imaginary lines of light between the twinkling stars to form the Archer, a ritual learned from his father, who told him that all shooting stars came from this drawn bow. As a boy he always wondered what the Archer was loosing wildly at out there – in all that seething darkness? Was there war even in Heaven? It was one of those things a man would die not knowing, a question to put to God Himself.

  ‘John’s going to kill the King,’ Jack said. ‘I’m telling you, Wat. King Richard’s head will be up on one of those spikes tomorrow.’

  Wat steered Sleipnir round a wrecked cart with a firm hand. The stallion was skittish, playing up, on the way to Ruth’s. ‘John won’t kill the King. He knows the people are loyal to King Richard, that kingship is sacred, and that without the King law and order would break down.’

  ‘Everybody but John cunting Ball is loyal,’ scoffed Jack. ‘He’ll kill us after too, in the name of Jesus, make no mistake.’

  Sleipnir scented the air, whinnied.

  ‘Jack.’ Wat reined the stallion in tight. ‘You know, like it or not, we have to seize the King from the nobles – or they will kill us.’

  ‘I know. I know,’ Jack spat. ‘I just hate that fucking priest being right all the time.’

  ‘Just in case John takes the head-staggers,’ Wat said, ‘we’ll be there tomorrow to make sure no harm comes to the King, won’t we?’

  ‘Whatever you say – you’re Captain. But I have a bad feeling about it.’

  Wat stared up ahead to the corner of Lombard Street – to where an unleashed Nobody was sniffing at what looked like a big heap of rags in the gutter. ‘Tell me that isn’t what I think it is…?’

  With an archer’s eye, Jack said: ‘Woman. Headless as a chicken.’

  Wat removed his lance from its holder, lowered the Three Lions, spurred Sleipnir into a trot. He could smell the copper-tang of blood in the air. A slaughtering had taken place nearby.

  Round the corner, on Lombard Street, they found Nobody sniffing at the headless carcasses of two young girls. Doll small. ‘Jesus!’ Jack said. ‘Get out of that!’

  There were more bodies strewn about, Flemings, judging by their dress. Wat dismounted, did a quick count – twenty or more men, women, children, all dead, beheaded. ‘Someone has been killing Flemings – as if they’re traitors.’

  ‘The Londoners!’ Jack slipped out of his saddle and notched his bow. ‘Look! They’ve been kicking in doors.’

  Wat stared at the tenements at the bottom of Lombard Street. All the doors had been smashed in. He dropped Sleipnir’s reins and began sprinting down the street to Ruth’s house. ‘Sophia!’

  Jack barked: ‘Nobody, heel!’

  The mastiff obeyed, leaving the corpses and lolloping after Jack and Wat.

  ‘Sophia!’ Wat yelled into the destroyed doorway.

  Jack dropped his bow, drew his dagger and followed Wat up the stairs.

  In the darkness of the wardrobe, shivering, Sophia heard her name called. It sounded like Wat. ‘Sophia!’

  Ruth heard Wat over the grunts of Thomas Farringdon, humping away at her.

  Thomas Farringdon slapped the wench, and rode her harder for good measure. ‘Bitch! You’ll soon have some of my fellows to serve seconds to.’

  Wat entered the bedchamber – saw the man in between Ruth’s legs – and seized the rapine fucker by the hair.

  ‘Get off me. She’s my prize!’ Thomas Farringdon struggled against the grip of steel but was dragged out of and away from the woman.

  Wat hit the man in the side of the head, once, twice, three times: dropping him, dazed. ‘Sophia?’

  ‘Father?’ Sophia called out.

  Jack rushed into the room, saw the armoured man sprawled on the floor – Wat standing over the body – and Ruth on the bed half-naked. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’ll survive.’ Ruth covered herself back up. ‘We locked Sophia in the wardrobe.’

  Sophia was shouting, wailing: ‘Let me out, Father. Let me out!’

  Wat heard his daughter’s muffled cries. ‘Where’s the key?’

  ‘Here.’ Ruth handed Wat the wardrobe key.

  Wat unlocked it, threw open the door. ‘Sophia?’

  ‘Father.’ Sophia stepped out and embraced him. Over his shoulder, she said: ‘I’m so sorry, Ruth.’

  Ruth nodded, tears in her eyes. ‘It’s over now.’

  Nick came round with a groan. His head, his ear, was killing him.

  Thomas Farringdon was not far behind in recovering his wits. He reached for his dagger, drew it from its hilt, and sprang up to his feet.

  ‘Uncle Jack!’ Sophia cried out.

  Jack reacted fast – thrusting his dagger point at the man.

  Thomas Farringdon parried and lunged, the edge of his dagger slicing Jack across his archer’s brace and cutting into the meat of his forearm.

  ‘Bastard!’ Jack cried out and sprang back out of range, clenching a hand over the wound in his arm.

  Wat stepped in to face the rapist. ‘Come on then. Come on! Try me.’

  Nick hauled himself to his feet using the bed as support. His ear was splitting, his shoulder was throbbing.

  ‘Let me go or I’ll kill you all!’ Thomas Farringdon warned.

  Wat launched himself at the rapist, batted a high dagger thrust to the side and head-butted him – there was a sickening crunch of a nose breaking …

  Thomas Farringdon reeled back into the wall, desperately trying to stab his attacker under the arm.

  Ruth screamed.

  Nick rushed in to help, seizing the rapist’s wrist, pushing against the elbow, forcing the blade back in on the man with all his might …

  ‘Be careful, Nick!’ Sophia shouted.

  Thomas Farringdon’s arms shook; he gave everything he had but he did not have the strength to hold the two of them off, and the point rose to his neck…

  ‘Do it!’ Wat told Nick, and shifted his weight to allow the boy space.

  With a cry of rage, Nick thrust the blade up and deep into the rapist’s throat. Hot blood gushing all over his hand, he watch the man choke on the knife, his eyes bright blue and flaring wide in struggle…

  Wat held the sagging man prone, his hands slipping on hot slick blood. ‘Again, lad. Finish him!’

  Nick pulled the knife out of the neck, and stabbed it deep into the wound again. The light went out of the rapist’s eyes like two snuffed lanterns and he slumped into Wat’s arms, deadweight as a spent lover.

  Wat stepped back and let the body drop to the floor with an almighty clatter that sent dust puffing from the boards.

  Sophia went to Nick. ‘Are you hurt?’

  Wat said: ‘He’ll be fine.’

  Nick held her in one arm, wiped the hot wetness off his face with his sleeve. The blood was rose red. It was on his lips. He could taste it. The sourness of the man he’d killed made his gorge rise.

  XVII

  The three-legged ewer steamed gently over the hearth fire. The heavy scent of pine honey hung in the wisps. Wat scooped up a ladle of warm bragget – a mix of mead and dark ale out of the vessel and poured it into a pewter cup. He handed it to Ruth, stretching over the table. ‘There you go.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Ruth smiled weakly, and shifted on her stool.

  ‘My bragget calms the nerves all right.’ Wat poured himself a cup. And one for the wounded Jack who was deadly sober on watch with Nobody outside the broken front door.

  ‘To my hero,’ toasted Ruth and began to cry.

  Jack would have to wait. Wat knelt down in front of her, took her by the hand. ‘Don
’t cry, Ruth.’

  Ruth sniffed. ‘Waste of time anyway. Never solves anything.’

  ‘You’re all right.’ Wat wiped a tear from her cheek. ‘You’re all right. We’ll get you out of harm’s way tomorrow. Out of the city. You’ll be all right.’

  ‘I don’t want to leave. London is my home.’ Ruth swallowed the tears.

  ‘The city is lawless, Ruth. I only have command of the men of Kent. It was Londoners that attacked you.’

  Ruth sipped at her bragget. ‘I know.’

  ‘Things will get a lot worse before they get better. If John has his way at Smithfield, tomorrow will be the start of war, us against the nobles, to the bitter end.’

  ‘War in England. War in France. War in Spain. Where do you have to go in this world to live in peace?’

  ‘I’m sending Sophia and Nick to my sister-in-law’s place, near Antwerp. Go with them? You’d be safe there.’

  Ruth touched his bearded cheek. ‘Would you put your arms around me and hold me? Just for a moment.’

  Wat slid his arms around her waist and held her as she sobbed. There, there. He stroked her hair, his fingers threading through the tresses. For a moment, she and Maggie were one and the same, as if his love had come rushing all the way back to him from the right hand of God, for a hug. ‘You smell good, woman.’

  Ruth held onto him like a child, her breathing choppy with grief. She wished he had not seen her like that. Shamed. Him of all men.

  A surprise of tears welled up in Wat’s eyes. Ruth was not Maggie. But she made him feel like a man again. He kissed her, grazing her lips with his.

  Ruth kissed him back. She wanted to say, I have wanted this since we met in France, but it was too much to say such things. Instead she said: ‘You taste of honey.’

  XVIII

  The old crier rang his heavy hand-bell, seven clangs for seven hours. He hacked to clear his throat and spat a big slimy green gob into the muck. ‘Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! By order of King Richard all the men of Kent are to assemble at Smithfield market at midday on this the Feast of Modestus.’

  Alderman Horn rode past the soke crier, flying his colours, leading the rowdy and bloody men-at-arms of his ward in a march up to the gates of the Convent of the Black Friars. It had been a very busy night on the streets: they had sacked the foreign quarter; despatched in excess of a hundred aliens; demolished seven properties. He had accomplished all that he was commissioned to do by the Mayor. Now it was time to turn coat. Return to the loyal service of the King. End the rebellion.

  ‘Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!’ The crier yelled, eyeing the men-at-arms anxiously. Being a crier was a dangerous profession depending on what the news was. ‘By order of King Richard all the men of Kent are to assemble at Smithfield market at midday.’

  Alderman Horn dismounted at the gates of the convent. Because his bastard herald Thomas Farringdon had not reported back last night – drunk as a lord likely – he had to ring the blasted bell himself.

  The slat racked back to reveal the face of a friar, scarred from forehead to jawbone. ‘Who goes there?’

  ‘My name is Alderman Horn. I want to see Sir Robert Knolles.’

  ‘There’s no brother of that name here. Sorry.’ The slat racked closed.

  ‘Oyez. Oyez. Oyez …’

  ‘I know he’s in there!’ Alderman Horn kicked the porter’s gate. ‘The Mayor sent me. I am the Alderman of Billingsgate and I have thirty armed men under my command.’

  The porter’s gate opened, and the scarred friar stepped out, wearing greaves under his robe and holding a sword. ‘Mayor Walworth sent you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Alderman Horn. ‘So open the bloody gate!’

  The fake friar looked the men over, shrugged. ‘Open the gate.’

  ‘Out of my way!’ Alderman Horn left his horse, stepped through the porter’s gate even as the main gate swung open. A good two hundred or more men in harness were crowded in the courtyard, preparing for action. ‘Where is Captain Knolles?’he asked another fake friar.

  ‘Over there, Sir.’ The fake friar pointed at the stables.

  Alderman Horn marched through the warmongering men, seeking out the famous face of Sir Robert Knolles, and finding him eventually – dressed in the colours of Sir Simon de Burley, and actually standing beside the real Sir Simon, which was indeed a fine stroke of luck! ‘Sir Simon,’ he said to Sir Robert. ‘I offer you both command of the six thousand men of the wards.’

  ‘Forgive me, but who are you?’ Sir Robert said.

  ‘I am Alderman Horn.’

  ‘Alderman Horn?’ Sir Robert’s right hand went to his sword hilt. ‘You are a rebel. I heard you led the Kentishmen into the city.’

  Sir Simon took a hold of Sir Robert’s sword arm, calming him. ‘Rumours are often ill-founded, my friend. I will personally vouch for Horn.’

  IXX

  Bishop’s Gate was open but the portcullis in the single Roman archway was clamped down tight, barring the route onto the Great North Road. Nobody, loping ahead of the riders, discovered this first.

  ‘We will have to turn back,’ said Sophia. And she wished they could go back, she wished they could go all the way back to the way things were before the taxmen came, back further to when her mother was alive and well. Instead – she was going forwards fast, shot like an arrow to Antwerp, to Hans and Aunt Heloise’s, like it or not.

  ‘There is no going back,’ Wat said. He could feel the warmth of Ruth’s arms holding him tightly round the waist, even through the armour, holding on so as not to slide off Sleipnir’s back.

  ‘With whom do you hold?’ called a booming voice from inside the gate-tower.

  Jack answered half-heartedly: ‘With King Richard and the True Commons.’

  ‘Bishop’s Gate is closed, friend. Try Aldgate.’

  Wat laughed. He knew that big voice from Tonbridge. ‘That you, Ed Smith?’

  A haggard-looking Ed lumbered out of the tower, the bow in his hand looking like a toy, and over to the party of riders. ‘Am I pleased to see you, Wat!’

  ‘Good to see you too, Ed.’ Wat smiled.

  ‘Guarding the gate wasn’t the easy job John Ball said it’d be!’ Ed had accompanied Elder Abel to guard the gate; John wanted two good men on the job. Truth was, Ed would have done anything to get away from that blood-mad priest. Chopping folks heads off did more than tear at his conscience; it was as if he felt the blows, and the blood was his.

  ‘Tough night, Ed?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Bloody awful. Those mad-dog Londoners were slaughtering people in their beds. The shrieks didn’t stop till dawn. Me and Abel couldn’t lift a finger.’

  ‘It was like that all over,’ Wat said, looking over his shoulder at Ruth. ‘People settling old scores.’

  Ed nodded. ‘I know this is a stupid question, Captain, but when do you think we’ll be going home?’

  ‘I don’t know, Ed,’ said Wat. ‘I’m hoping we’ll be done with the King today, after this Smithfield meeting.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that.’ Ed was so relieved. He hated to be away from little Adam. ‘But for Abel all the lads from Tonbridge want to go home, you know?’

  ‘I know,’ Wat said. ‘We’re the last souls allowed out of these gates today, Ed. Nobody gets through while we’re at Smithfield. Not our Nobody. Not the King. Not even God Himself.’

  ‘I hear you, Wat.’ Ed went inside and bawled at the drunken lazybones of a gatekeeper. ‘Abel. Abel! Raise the bloody portcullis! Oh for fuck’s sake! I’ll do it myself.’

  As soon as the portcullis was lifted, Wat geed Sleipnir into a trot through the open arch – a short journey from the city into suburbs.

  The others trotted after him, including Nobody, who had decided it was fun to trot along like a horse.

  The ditch outside the walls was full of garbage, dung and animal carcasses. They all held their breaths, did not let the vapours enter the lungs. Everyone knew such stenches could kill; that this was how the plague spread; that this was what took Maggie.
<
br />   The open ground beyond the stinking ditch, outside the walls, Spitalfields was littered with rent cloth. All of the draping frames and tenterhooks the dyers used to stretch and dry the cloth on had been smashed to pieces or cracked. Shreds of precious woollen fabric, red and blue, brown and yellow, fluttered off the broken wood like the little flags of nobodies from nowhere.

  Jack whistled which made Nobody’s ears perk and dance. ‘Just a few pounds’ worth of damage done out here, eh. Drapers Guild will be in hanging mood.’

  ‘Woah, Sleipnir.’ Wat offered Ruth his hand to get off the horse’s back.

  ‘Thanks.’ Ruth took it and slid off the right side, landing lightly on the toes of both feet.

  Wat dismounted, and he pulled off his jupon. ‘Help me get the breastplate off, will you?’ he asked Nick.

  Nick dismounted Sophia’s horse. Beneath the armour, slung over the deer-hide leather jerkin, was where serjeants wore money belts, nicely hidden. He undid the buckles, and hefted Wat’s plate armour to the ground, grimacing at the twinges in his injured shoulder. ‘How do you wear that weight all day?’

  ‘You get used to it, son. You’ll see, you’ll be a soldier someday—’

  ‘I’ll be an archer when the King grants us serfs our freedom today.’

  Wat took both money belts off, kept two pouches for himself. ‘You have the steel to be a King’s Man.’

  Nick didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t feel brave. He looked bruised, battered. But the pain was stunted. After his Harry’s death, he wasn’t feeling much of anything.

  ‘You’re to hold it for me.’ Wat held a whole money belt, strung with pouches, out to Nick. ‘You and Sophia.’

  ‘Don’t take it,’ Sophia told Nick.

  ‘You’ll all need the money to travel,’ sighed Wat. ‘To cross the Channel.’

  Nick looked at Wat, to Sophia, then down at the ground. ‘Give it here.’

  ‘Wear it hidden under your shirt.’ Wat handed him the money-belt. ‘Now help me get the plate back on, good lad.’