‘Raymond!’ Sir William Marshal’s animated voice pierced his daydream and the noise of the bustling marketplace. The captain smiled cheerily as his friend trotted his horse between the little tented shop fronts, but immediately he could see that the green and yellow surcoated knight was bearing bad news and he braced himself to receive it.
‘What is it?’ he asked as he grabbed Marshal’s bridle.
‘Geoffrey of Abergavenny and his sister they have been taken by William de Braose.’
Raymond struggled to comprehend the news he had received and shook his head. ‘They were under the protection of the Young King. Sir William would not dare attack them!’
‘You are right,’ Marshal replied. ‘But King Henry had no such qualms. He sent a message late last night demanding his son hand the pair over to him. Henry must have realised that the prince was enamoured with Alice and, to get him back for his remarks at the feast, promised Alice and Geoffrey to Lord Bramber. The Prince refused, even when the Old King threatened to cut off his income, so, while Harry was gambling with Bertran de Born in the early hours, Henry had them kidnapped by his routiers. I am sorry Raymond, but I could not do anything to stop it. They were gone before I knew what was happening.’
‘The Old King still has them?’
Marshal shook his head. ‘Lord Bramber bought them from the king and gave them over to his son.’
‘They will make for Abergavenny?’ Raymond asked as he began belting his sword to his side, his eyes dark and his brow creased in concentration. He knew what would befall Geoffrey and Alice if Sir William de Braose had his way. He would not repeat his mistake of keeping them alive as he had when Raymond had caught up with him in Wentland.
‘Unlikely,’ Marshal answered. ‘I gather that Sir William and six knights left Westminster under cover of darkness with the two siblings. They were going east, making for London Bridge. Bramber Castle is their destination.’
Raymond cursed. For all he knew, Sir William could be across the Thames already. With King Henry’s court already between him and London Bridge, there was little hope that he would be able to catch up. And even if he could, how could he be certain that Alice and Geoffrey had not been transferred into the Danish chieftain Sigtrygg’s ship? Thanks to Fulk’s discoveries, he knew that the longship had been headed in the same direction. He dismissed the idea almost immediately. Sir William wouldn’t risk having his captives in anyone else’s custody, not after all he had gone through to again have them in his hands.
‘I have to go after them. Will you ride with me?’ he asked Marshal.
‘The Young King wants to be in Kingston by this evening. His ship awaits us at Wareham,’ he replied with pursed lips and a slight shake of his head. ‘I think you should consider what you are about to do, Raymond. If King Henry discovers that you have attacked his court favourite, you will be declared outlaw…’
‘And Strongbow can say goodbye to Striguil,’ Raymond finished the sentence and shook his head. ‘Damn it! Though she abandoned me, I cannot do the same to her. I must go after her.’
‘She is lucky to have you,’ replied Marshal. ‘May fortune smile upon you, my friend,’ he said as he leant down to grip his friend’s forearm.
‘God be with you. I hope we shall meet again. Borard!’ he yelled. ‘Forget those packhorses and get our coursers saddled. We have a mission.’
‘A mission?’ Borard replied. ‘What about Striguil?’
‘Twelve riders will come with me, the rest to stay with Earl Richard and Walter de Bloet.’ Raymond stated as he secured a mace to his belt and began searching for his shield amongst the contents of the nearest wagon.
‘So where are we going?’
‘To save a damsel in distress,’ Raymond grimaced as he hoisted his chainmail coif onto his head. ‘We ride to defeat a tyrant and do deeds worth singing about. We ride to –’
Borard held up a hand to stop Raymond from saying anything further. ‘Save your breath. You listen to the troubadours far too much,’ he finished with a despairing roll of his eyes. ‘God, but I do detest chivalry. What is the plan then, Sir Lancelot? Charge up the road and kill King Henry?’
Raymond smiled at Borard’s remark and called Fulk of Westminster to his side. ‘Do you know where the ferryman lands on the southern shore?’ he asked the younger man.
‘At Lambeth,’ Fulk replied and pointed an outstretched hand towards the distant bank opposite Westminster. Raymond had to shield his eyes because of the sunshine pouring over England from the east. He could see a small wharf amongst the rushes, and a few thatched rooftops. Several sheep roamed around the fields above the dancing marshland and there were villeins in the fields.
‘Are you sure they have a horse ferry?’ Raymond asked his new servant.
‘Of course, Lord,’ Fulk exclaimed, shocked that he would ask such a thing. ‘My uncle is one of the ferrymen for the archbishop.’
‘Signal him then. We need to get to across the river as soon as possible.’ Already a plan was enfolding in his mind, one of daring and mischief. ‘Borard, take the money we received from Sir James FitzJames and go with Fulk. Pay the ferryman for shipping men and horses across. Give him whatever he wants.’
Borard stared down at the pouch of money in his hand like it was a kitten he was being forced to drown. ‘You want me to give it away again?’
‘Fulk, show him the way,’ Raymond told the boy as Borard gave his captain one last despairing look. Both turned and walked towards the water’s edge. Raymond turned to find Strongbow at his side.
‘Is there a problem with the baggage?’ the earl asked.
‘I have a pressing matter that requires my attention across the river, Lord,’ he told his master as he checked the length of his stirrups on Dreigiau. He put them up three notches. In battle he liked them to be longer to provide extra balance, but the ride ahead would be tough and the saddle all the comfier for the change.
‘A pressing matter across the river?’ asked a confused Strongbow. ‘But we are bound for Oxford, Raymond, and then on to Striguil.’
‘I am sorry, Lord, but for your own sake please do not ask any more questions.’
‘Oh dear,’ Strongbow shook his head and studied Raymond de Carew. ‘Another adventure,’ he sighed. ‘Would this involve a certain girl from Abergavenny?’
‘Yes, Lord,’ Raymond admitted.
‘You are not going to attack the Young King, are you?’ Strongbow seemed genuinely concerned that his liegeman would take on the might of the Angevin monarchy.
‘No, but my enemy is no less well protected.’ Strongbow did not answer and Raymond sighed as he unbuckled his sword and pulled off his surcoat emblazoned with the crimson and gold Clare arms in one swift movement. He held out the colourful garment to Strongbow. ‘I will not let your name be attached to this act, Earl Richard. So I ask that you release me from my oath. Your nephew, Walter de Bloet, will see you safely back to Striguil.’ He shook the surcoat and urged Strongbow to take it, but the old Earl simply stared at the colourful folds. ‘You know that he has always wished to command your conrois, Lord.’
‘I will keep this for you, Raymond,’ the earl said as he accepted the surcoat. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Lord.’
‘You are still my captain, Raymond de Carew, even though I do release you from my service. I have need of you and all these men. So accomplish this deed, whatever it is, quietly if you can, and then hurry home to Striguil. We have bigger prizes to claim than petty revenge in England.’
Raymond smiled and pulled on a tatty green surcoat with no heraldic device. ‘I will race you back to Striguil, Lord Strongbow.’
The earl grimaced. Turning his back on his captain, he signalled towards Walter de Bloet. ‘I want us ready to leave Westminster in the hour, nephew.’
Raymond felt a sudden surge of pity and affection for the earl, so desperate to claim the esteem of kingship across the sea, yet trusting enough to let his warlord dash off on the eve of that feat
.
‘Raymond,’ Borard interrupted his thoughts. ‘The conrois is ready to move out.’
He nodded in answer and leapt into his saddle with a single bound. His riders looked at him expectantly.
‘So what is going on, Raymond?’ asked William de Vale, the esquire.
‘Yeah, what’s the plan?’ enquired Denis d’Auton. ‘I thought we were for home?’
‘I am going after Geoffrey of Abergavenny and his sister Alice,’ Raymond replied, loud enough for all his companions to hear. ‘They have been taken prisoner and will not survive long. I won’t order you to come with me. Our enemy rides at the head of a strong force of horsemen supported by those Danish devils who attacked us at the Thorney Inn.’ A number of the milites growled angrily, swearing vengeance against the men who had killed their friend, Lyvet. ‘But also because William de Braose has the ear of the king and should we fail to get away without being recognised, then we run the risk of being declared outlaw.’
‘Lady Alice saved our horses,’ Bertram d’Alton’s voice barked from amongst his men, ‘so I say we owe her our help.’
‘What difference would it make if I was to be made outlaw?’ asked William de Vale.
Borard climbed into the saddle beside him. ‘Where you go, Raymond, we go,’ he stated. ‘Who knows, there may even be a bit of profit in it?’
Raymond smiled and turned his horse southwards so that his men would not see him blush.
‘Well then,’ he said with determination, ‘let’s ride.’
The forested glade was the perfect place for a murder. Steep wooded sides sloped away from the path on both sides; one uphill and the other down into the heavily forested valley where the River Mole wound its way towards Buckland, and piping birdsong of redshanks echoed.
‘Perfect,’ Sir William de Braose hummed happily. He was not talking about the beautiful surroundings, where yellow kingcups mixed with ivy-laden trees in the soft summer sunshine. He and his small company had passed Mickleham earlier in the day but had left Stane Street below Boxhill to follow a tiny path along the Mole Valley rather than continuing on the same path towards the big town of Dorchester. For the first time since leaving London they found themselves free of fellow travellers.
‘You men,’ Sir William flapped a hand at the twenty hired Danes. ‘Go forward and scout those trees,’ he ordered with no idea if the vicious-looking warriors understood a single word that he spoken. ‘Forward,’ he insisted at the leader of his mercenaries, pointing ahead and downhill.
The foreigner slowly nodded and shouted something in his coarse language which made his crewmen laugh. As the foreign mercenaries walked forward, Sir William felt his lip sneer. He had been forced to accept twenty of Sigtrygg’s men into his company as they travelled back to Bramber Castle. The jarl had sought him out as he and his knights had attempted to flee Westminster with the two bastards of Abergavenny. Jarl Sigtrygg had demanded his payment or threatened that he would inform the sheriff of Sir William’s part in the fire and the murder of one of Strongbow’s mesnie household. Penniless after bribing the king, William could not pay but he had convinced Jarl Sigtrygg that he had silver at Bramber. The jarl had been suspicious and had ordered his men to remain with the Norman knight until the debt was paid. Sigtrygg and the remaining members of his crew had taken the sea route with the warning that he would be waiting for Sir William in Sussex. That had forced the young knight to make all haste on the road southwards ere the jarl thought to take his payment from within Bramber’s walls while both Sir William and his father were absent. He knew that he had to be rid of the Danes’ company before they did any lasting damage to his reputation, but for now he could not free himself of their presence.
The foreigners had, however, proven a welcome security against attack. He had no real reason to fear ambush on the road south, of course no band of outlaws or highwaymen was likely to mistake the troop of horsemen and infantry for the pilgrims and merchants who frequented the road, but he still felt jittery. Even with the Old King’s help in the kidnapping of Geoffrey and Alice, he could not shake the worry that Prince Harry would pursue him and take back his new mistress.
William called to the most senior knight in his conrois. As he watched the Danes disappear around a corner ahead, grizzled old Guy Wiston joined him from the back of the column.
‘Is it time?’ Wiston asked.
Sir William did not turn around to look at him. ‘This is as good a place as any.’
‘Yes,’ Wiston said absentmindedly. He took a dagger from his belt and examined its edge.
‘Make it quick,’ Sir William said as his eyes flicked around to look at Geoffrey and Alice of Abergavenny, tied at the knees and hands, in the cart. ‘Take one man with you to dig their graves. I’ll lead the rest of the company back up the road a bit to make sure no one is coming this way. Understand?’
‘Whatever you think,’ Wiston replied. ‘Abergavenny is your inheritance, not mine.’
The younger man turned his horse towards the cart which carried Alice and Geoffrey. Against his will, Sir William felt the pang of desire as he looked at his beautiful cousin. She had given herself to him in the wilderness of Wentwood and an image of her body in the firelight leapt into his mind. She had thought to save her brother after the priest had died by Wiston’s hand. Sir William consoled himself that it had been a sin and Alice’s death was justice. The thought sat comfortably on his ambitious shoulders.
‘Cousins,’ Sir William greeted them. Geoffrey wilted under his words.
Alice was undaunted. ‘Where are you taking us?’
‘To Bramber, of course,’ William lied. ‘There you will be kept safe and secure. Geoffrey will go to the monks of Battle Abbey and you, cousin, to a nunnery.’
‘The Young King will come for me,’ Alice replied, ‘and he will make you cower before him.’
Geoffrey looked up, expecting violence, but William de Braose smiled sweetly at the siblings. ‘No, he will not come, Alice. He is enamoured with the sound of his own voice, that one. I wager that he had already forgotten you.’
‘You worm,’ whimpered the girl as tears began to show.
Sir William laughed, stopping only when shouting erupted in the distance. His eyes narrowed and his pupils danced in their sockets as he listened for more tell-tale signs of combat in the valley where the Danes had disappeared. There! The distant clash of weaponry emanated from the depth of the glade and was followed by the briefest shouts of alarm.
‘Harry!’ Alice of Abergavenny exclaimed breathlessly, a smile of victory beaming from beneath her tear-stained face as she turned back to stare at her captor.
‘Be quiet,’ Sir William snapped as he considered the situation. Certainly the sounds indicated that the foreigners down in the valley were under attack, but what did he care if they died? They cost nothing if they were dead. More important was finding out who was attacking them. Before he could react, three Danes burst from the tree line and, spotting Sir William, sprinted towards him.
‘Lord,’ their leader panted. ‘We have come upon bandits in the forest.’ The foreigner kept his head bowed in subservience to the powerful young knight.
‘Are they the Young King’s men?’ asked Sir William, momentarily shocked at the Dane’s grasp of the French tongue. Then he remembered that Jarl Sigtrygg had been able to speak the language.
‘They are not mounted, Lord,’ the foreigner answered in his strange lilting accent.
‘How many?’ he demanded.
‘Ten at most, armed with bows. We should send cavalry, Lord, to help chase them off.’
Sir William ignored him and considered the situation. An idea quickly began to take form in his mind. He turned his back on the Danes.
‘Guy!’ he shouted in Wiston’s direction. ‘Get my conrois ready. We are going to drive away those bandits.’ The man nodded his helmeted head in assent and began issuing orders to the other warriors.
‘You are from Ireland?’ he asked of the mercenary leader.
‘Yes, Lord,’ the Dane answered, keeping his head bowed in deference to the noble heir to Bramber. ‘My name is Ulf.’
Sir William noticed that the foreigner had a Norman horn at his side. Probably plunder from some poor murdered soul, William decided. ‘I have another job for you, Ulf.’ He urged his horse away from the cart. ‘Follow me.’
‘Yes, my Lord,’ the man answered and walked away from where the Abergavenny siblings were chained.
Sir William searched among his clothes and produced two coins. ‘That,’ he said as he threw the first of the coins into Ulf’s hands, ‘is for the boy’s soul. And that,’ he flicked another in the Dane’s direction, ‘is for that of the girl.’ The second coin shimmered in the air before falling into Ulf’s hands. ‘And this,’ Sir William continued, shaking the little money remaining in the worn leather purse, ‘is for your silence.’ He held the purse by the ties at the top, swinging it gently between his thumb and forefinger. Ulf’s face was shadowed by the wide nasal guard, and his chin covered in chainmail, but his eyes shone at the sound of the money. ‘Do you understand what I am asking of you? I do not wish for you to pray for them.’
‘Yes, Lord,’ the man replied in his strange accent. ‘We will take them somewhere secluded and make it look like the bandits killed them?’
William de Braose smiled and tossed the purse on the ground beside the man’s feet. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Keep this to yourself and you will have my favour and more silver than you could ever imagine. Open your mouth to anyone, including your jarl, and it will be the last thing you do.’
‘Yes, Lord,’ the man replied as he gathered the coins into his pockets.
‘Good. Get it done then,’ Sir William said as he trotted back towards Geoffrey and Alice. His horse barely broke stride as he passed the bastard cousins whose deaths he had bought.
Lord of the Sea Castle Page 16