by Dan Davis
“That I am the Bloody Knight?” I said. “I do not care what these people say about me.”
“You should kill Tuck,” she said, her eyes cold. “He is mad beyond saving and evil. His presence is poison. And what you are doing to Sir Geoffrey in there is evil too. He deserves death. Not what you are doing to him. That is true whether people are saying it or not. Surely you see that?”
I looked in her eyes. Her face was dirty with grime and sweat. The skin beneath shone with health and vitality, stained brown by the sun.
“I will kill him tomorrow,” I said. “Both of them.”
“Good,” Eva said. “Is what I am saying unknown to you?”
“No,” I said.
She sighed. Her face was softer, more open than I had seen it before. “I wish I had been taught how to make conversation.”
I thought of Emma, for the first time in months. That I had not thought of her surprised me, because usually she was never far from my thoughts. But it was because I knew what she would have said about my abduction and preservation of Brother Tuck and my treatment of Sir Geoffrey.
“You tell the truth,” I said to Eva. “And the value of truth is greater than the art of conversation.”
I stood, finishing my cup of beer.
“Where are you going?”
“I will end those men now,” I said, standing. “Why put it off any longer?”
For a moment, she looked tempted to come with me. But even her warrior’s heart balked at two grimy executions in the dark.
Mine certainly did.
“And I am not sixty years old,” I said to her as I walked into the wood, treading the familiar path to the dell with my greenwood gaol.
When I stepped inside with my sword already drawn, Sir Geoffrey wept. His lips muttered a prayer. He was filthy, thin as a bow stave and his beard and hair were matted and wild. His arms were lined with half-healed cuts and scars where I had drawn his blood for Tuck.
“Sir Geoffrey,” I said. “You raped a child. You and your men killed loyal Englishmen. But your punishment has denigrated us both. This ends now with your death.”
“Oh, thank God. Thank God.”
He was still muttering when I drove my blade through the base of his skull.
I dragged Tuck from his corner and unbound his eyes and mouth.
Tuck wailed at the death of Sir Geoffrey. In his mad, lonely state, Sir Geoffrey had been Tuck’s only friend.
I felt a sudden weariness and horror at what I had inflicted upon both of these men.
“The time has come, Tuck,” I said.
“To be free?” he asked, looking up like a dog at his master’s homecoming.
“In a way,” I said. “I know now that I have wronged you. That I damaged your mind by starving and confining you. Damaged beyond repair. You have told me nothing. You are not capable of telling me what I need to know. So now I will free you from the bonds of William’s blood. If you have any sense of God left in you, take a moment to pray before I end your days.”
“No!” Tuck screamed. “I will tell you. I will tell you.”
“It is too late.”
“The king, the king!” Tuck shrieked. “The Green Knight will kill the king.”
I hesitated. “What new madness is this?”
“Not madness, my lord, not madness. A man. The big man. He came to Eden. He came to the Green Knight. He begged my lord for poison. My lord said no. The big man said he would pay any price. My lord agreed that he would do the poisoning himself, if the big man would name the man to be poisoned. The big man was quiet. But Tuck heard it. Tuck hears all. Tuck is a good monk. Tuck says his prayers. Tuck likes to do a shit at vespers but don’t tell the Prior, don’t tell the old prior or else Tuck—”
“Who was the big man?” I cut in.
“Didn’t know him. A man. Big man,” Tuck said.
“Who was the victim?”
“The what?” Tuck looked startled, confused.
“The big man’s target. Who was the Green Knight going to poison?”
“Oh, that,” Tuck giggled, covering his face. “I told you. I told you. The king, of course. Bad King John. King John is to die, I heard it in Eden. My lord will do it when next the king comes to Nottingham.”
I leaned against the wall, smelling the damp, earthy fungal smell of the greenwood posts. Tuck was mad. There was no doubt. He was deluded as to where he was and what he was doing. But because it was William de Ferrers he was talking about, I thought it might be true.
“Listen to me, Tuck, you must tell this to the sheriff. Or to the Marshal, yes. Yes, that is what I will do. You must come with me.” I cursed myself for killing Sir Geoffrey too soon. He could have been witness to Tuck’s words. “You must say to them what you said to me.”
“What I said to you?” Tuck asked. “I behave myself. I only drink when my lord commands.”
“You must tell the king that the Green Knight means to poison him in Nottingham.”
Tuck’s face fell into the deepest horror that a man could show. “I told?”
“You told,” I said. “But I will protect you from him. I am your new lord now, am I not?”
“What did I tell?” Tuck said.
I sighed and spoke patiently, as if to a young child. “You told me that your master, the Green Knight, is going to poison King John in Nottingham.”
“No,” Tuck said. “No, I did not. I would never. I could not. I never said. Anyway, it’ll be some other great lord what does it.”
“Who?” I said. “Do you mean Hugh de Nonant? Or someone else?”
He ducked his head down and rocked back and forth. “No, no, no.”
“I will get you all the blood you need,” I promised. “But you will tell the Sheriff of Nottingham or William Marshal what you told me.”
Tuck’s groan started from somewhere deep in his bowels, like the lowing of a cow. Quicker than I had ever seen him move before, he leapt up, tearing through the rotting rope around his arms and leg.
Before I could bring up my sword, he threw me aside and rushed Sir Geoffrey’s body. I assumed he was going for the blood but instead he crashed his head into the central oak stump. The hut shook. Tuck cracked his head twice more before I recovered my wits enough to drag him away. The ancient oak had cracked and so had Tuck’s skull. His nose was split, smashed flat. I could see shards of bone and the pink stuff of brains flecked in the wound before the blood welled out, filling his eyes.
I thought that perhaps he could recover from such an injury, if I could get some blood down his throat immediate.
But I would not. I knew Tuck. After so many months breaking and then nursing his broken mind. I knew he was telling the truth about the poison plot. And I also knew that no court would take the words of the man as anything but raving lunacy. And the thought of dragging him across the country again was more than I could take.
I forced pity from my mind. This creature had committed tortures and terrors against the innocent and even against the holy. The suffering I had inflicted upon him was fair, even if he had been serving as a proxy for my revenge against William.
About to warn him once again that he was about to die, I decided not to bother. I did not see what difference it would make.
I killed him and cut his head from his body though I doubted he could rise again. I buried Tuck and Sir Geoffrey both, in the wood by their summer prison, hacking through roots with my sword.
Then I gathered my men and the next morning before sunrise, we set out for Nottingham.
I had to warn the king that he was to be murdered.
Chapter Eight – The Death of the King
“I am here to see the king,” I said to men at the gate of Newark Castle in Nottinghamshire. The town lay behind the castle and to the north over the wall I could see the top of the church tower as I stood before the gatehouse.
Newark was a small but sturdy castle built on the banks of the River Trent, rising it seemed straight from the waters. Upriver to the
west, the sun was low in the sky above the wooded hills, casting a smear of orange light on the rippling surface. The castle was square and compact and still looked like new, having been built in stone only twenty years or so before. We approached from the south and crossed the bridge that the castle guarded.
A stocky man-at-arms with a mace hanging on his belt came forwards and looked me up and down, taking in my filthy, mud-spattered clothes and rusting armour.
I had ridden all the way from the Weald prepared for war, not trusting to the safety of the roads. Potentially saving the life of the king and catching William in the process was worth days of sweat and discomfort and we had arrived at Newark by the middle of October.
I hoped that the hard riding had not permanently damaged our horses. Sometimes it took them days or weeks to fall ill and die. Jocelyn was already close to weeping for his precious bay courser.
“And who are you, sir?” The man-at-arms said and looked beyond me as if to query why a lone knight could possibly be important enough to want an audience with the king.
“Sir Richard of Ashbury.” I wanted to bash his face in with his own mace but I was too tired to put him in his place. He was the sergeant of the guard and served the crown rather than the local lord, so I had to pay him the proper respect or I would end up in gaol instead of before the king.
Still, mention of my name had a satisfying effect. Colour drained from his face. The two guards behind him whispered to each other, glancing at me.
“Are you staying at the inn, Sir Richard?” Though his tone was more respectful, he looked pointedly at my legs. They were caked in black mud.
The town and castle were packed full of the leaders who followed the king from place to place though the bulk of his army was camped miles out of town. The common loyal men and mercenaries spilled over into the villages for miles and tents were up in fields all around.
“I know that I am unfit for the king’s company but please impress upon the king’s men that I have urgent business. I have knowledge of the highest importance. Knowledge that must be heard now, or the king’s life—” I broke off, fearing I sounded like a lunatic. I cleared my throat. “I have hurried hard. There are no rooms where I might clean and dress for court. Hence my appearance. I shall wait nearby with my men. But I must be seen. Ideally, by the Marshal, if he is here, or William Longspear or Ranulf of Chester.”
I pointed to Jocelyn, Anselm, and Swein who waited with the horses pressed against the base wall of the castle wall below. They all looked miserable and exhausted, the horses’ heads low as they dozed. I had pushed them all hard on the ride north.
The sergeant cast a final, withering look at me and went away in conference with one of his men.
“Don’t want much, does he,” I overheard them say as they passed through the gate.
Night was falling when the sergeant returned and allowed us to lead our horses into the castle courtyard and stable our horses. Newark Castle was essentially a large irregular square with a large hall, stable, chapel and other buildings inside. The outer walls were thick enough for chambers, storerooms and quarters on all four sides and there were, in addition, five towers plus the gate tower. There was enough room to house scores of knights with their retinues of squires, pages, grooms, servants, and chaplains but even still, it was now full to bursting.
The castle stable was heaving with the fine horses of the king and the courtiers. The beasts were spilling out from the stalls and the grooms struggled to find places for them. Most were riding horses that the great lords paid fortunes for. The court was never in one place for more than a week and being with the king meant a whole day in the saddle every second or third day. But there were knights’ horses there too, straining at the excitement of being near strange mares. We kept well away from those creatures. Everyone knew enough to avoid a trained warhorse, even I would retreat into doorways to avoid being bitten or kicked by beasts who were as violent as a drunk man-at-arms or a wronged wife. One huge, black-coated stallion with heavily muscled hindquarters steamed in the cold, quivering in a high state. Barely contained, it snorted and moaned, lunging at the mares nearby while the grooms strained to contain the chaos.
“Whose horse is that?” Jocelyn asked no one, as if his heart ached with longing for the magnificent animal.
The sergeant escorting us shrugged. “Came in with a bunch of lords last night. He’s not one of the king’s,” he said. “But if he claps his eyes on it, no doubt he’ll want it.”
“Some rich fool,” I suggested. “With more money than sense.”
“That is Geoffrey of Monmouth’s horse, my lord,” a passing groom said, his eyes full of wonder and terror.
“There you go then,” I said, for I had heard how the young Monmouth was enormously rich but not at all a fighting man. “The idiot will like as not get himself thrown.”
“What a waste,” Jocelyn muttered, talking about the horse and not the loss of the courtier.
“Wait here, if you please, Sir Richard,” the sergeant said. “They will send for you.”
My men all fell asleep in the corner of the yard amongst our equipment and supplies. Our precious horses were tended to and they too lay down to sleep where they could, on mounds of straw and covered with blankets. I hoped that they would all recover soon. The men were young and the horses expensive and well cared for by the castle and royal grooms so I trusted that they would.
I sat on my cloak on the floor, leaning on my saddle and wishing I could drink blood. Just a little bit. I wanted my strength back. I wondered if anyone would miss the smallest groom.
I woke.
“Sir Richard,” a servant with a lantern stood in the darkness before me, the flickering light illuminating a miserable old warty face. “My lord will see you now.”
Still half asleep, I followed the servant through the castle until he told me to wait through a door somewhere deep inside. Squires, priests, and servants hurried up and down through every corridor and the place resounded with shouting and the clashing of feet. The room was an antechamber with nothing but two stools and a side table, a slit window on the wall opposite the entrance door and a door on each of the other doors. It was bare but clean and I sat on a stool, a shower of mud flaking off the links of my mail. I was aware of the sour stench of my body.
One side door opened and two lords walked in. I jumped to my feet. I did not know them but by their dress, they were vastly rich and therefore powerful men.
“You are Richard of Ashbury?” one man said. He was about thirty years old and plump, soft of the body. But he had the eyes of a murderer.
“I am.”
“You lie,” the plump man said, his lip curling. “Richard of Ashbury fought with the Lionheart. You are little more than a boy. I should call my men to throw you in the Trent.”
I overtopped him by a head. I ground my teeth and held myself still until my rage subsided. Striking the fat little lord would no doubt mean my death. “I am Richard of Ashbury. I have a youthful countenance. I am known for it.”
“That is true,” the other man said. He was probably younger than thirty but his bearing showed no deference to the other man. This one was a fine looking fellow and stood straight and tall. Indeed, he looked familiar but I was tired and I could not place him. “They say you made a pact with the devil in exchange for your strength in battle.”
“They do that, yes,” I said, shaking my head. “Often I decide to take it as a compliment instead of an insult.”
There was fear in his eyes for a moment before he laughed. “I am William Marshal,” he said. “It is an honour to meet you.” He noticed my confusion. “Ah, my father is the Earl of Pembroke, the famed William the Marshal. I am merely his firstborn son and barely worthy of his great name.” He smiled but there was a hint of bitterness under his levity.
“Of course, my lord,” I said. “Forgive me, I have ridden far to bring news.”
It was also the fact that the last time I heard of the Marshal’s son, he
was with the rebel barons. Clearly, he had been pardoned and welcomed back into the king’s arms. The great William Marshal was the king’s most powerful supporter, despite how badly the king had treated him over the years. The king owed the Marshal more than a few favours and I supposed Marshal the elder was calling them in.
In fact, all his five sons but Anselm had been with the rebels and they had all suddenly changed sides.
The plump lord interjected. “You do not mean that you believe him, William?”
William Marshal the younger peered at his fellow lord. “Richard of Ashbury, this is John of Monmouth.”
“I have heard of you,” I said. “I am glad that you are here.”
“Heard of me?” the pudgy little goat turd said. “What have you heard of me?”
“Simply that you were raised at court. I knew your father, in a way. You are a favourite of the king. That is good, for I have news that concerns his safety.”
John of Monmouth sneered. “You could be anyone.”
“Bring me to a man who knows me,” I said, fixing young Monmouth with a stare. His lordly father had been the one to engineer a scandal about my blood drinking. His son was not my enemy but still, he shared his father’s blood and, it seemed to me already, his father’s character.
William Marshal nodded. “Your lord is Hugh de Nonant. The Archbishop of York.”
“Perhaps not him,” I said. “Someone else can confirm who I am.”
“You see?” Monmouth said, sneering. “He lies.”
“Why not your liege lord?” Marshal said, placing a hand on Monmouth’s arm.
“I am not sure that I can say,” I said, keeping my face set hard lest I give anything away. “I have information that should be heard by as few men as possible. My lord would force me to tell him and that may not be in the best interests of the king.”