“Walter,” said Roger. “What have you done now?”
The leader and master of the outlaws sounded more weary than horrified. He sighed heavily and ran a hand through his close-cropped hair.
Walter seemed unconcerned. “Not the first holy man I’ve put in the ground,” he grunted. “Probably won’t be the last either. You should have let me kill the abbot. He’s the one who lied to us. This one” – he gave the dead man another nudge with his boot – “died in his place.”
Roger stared bleakly at the dead man. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said. Stephen was surprised at how quickly the outlaw chief submitted to his lieutenant’s will.
He’s secretly scared of Walter, thought the abbot. They will come to blows one fine day. God grant they perish on each other’s swords!
“You can go,” Roger said, turning to Stephen. “There will be no more bloodshed today. When you see the abbot of Garendon, be certain to give him my regards.”
“Let us take Brother Michael,” Stephen begged. “He deserves Christian burial.”
“Of course,” said Roger, and three of the monks hurried to scoop up Michael’s corpse.
Stephen’s pride crumbled. Duty done, he was only too happy to get out of the forest with a whole skin. If that meant abandoning the remains of the blessed Saint Barnabas, so be it.
Humiliated and shamefaced, he led his flock away.
5.
Hugh shivered. It promised to be another hot day in midsummer, but Sherwood Forest was drained of light and warmth. At least for him. In Hugh’s mind the forest was a place of terror, nightmarish memories he would never forget until his last breath.
Richard was free of such burdens. He jogged along happily a few yards in front of his master, whistling a Crusader song. They were on the Great North Road, the arterial highway linking the south of England with the north, and the most direct route from London to York. The highway cut straight through Sherwood, a great belt of untamed forest, parks, chases and cultivated farmland.
In places the road plunged into the greenwood. Few honest men dared to venture into the depths of ancient Sherwood, a haunt of outlaws and less human threats: sorcerers, witches, monsters, demons and ghouls of every stamp. Hugh cared little for the monsters. He had tasted enough of the cruelty of the men of Sherwood, to not have any fear of sprites and will o’ the wisps.
Richard looked about him, eyes narrowed as he peered at the shadowy treeline. “Quiet,” he remarked. “All too quiet. Pity.”
He slapped the hilt of his sword. “I enjoyed that last tussle with English outlaws. We should have started out later. They’re probably all asleep at this hour.”
“Don’t be a fool,” Hugh snapped. They had spent the night at a wayside inn, and he had insisted on riding out before dawn. This gave them the best chance of getting through the wilder parts of Sherwood without being attacked.
The highway was deserted. There was no traffic at this hour, and the two men had the world to themselves. All around them the forest was deathly still. Hugh kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead and refused to glance right or left. That didn’t stop the images in his head. The lean grey shapes loping through the woods. Eyes blazing with feral hunger, yellow froth dripping from their jaws, sharp teeth bared.
His thigh ached. The wolves of Sherwood had left permanent teeth marks on his flesh. He tried to shut out the pain, but the throbbing would not go away. In his mind Hugh once again heard their distant howls, echoing among the deep woods.
Faster. Get out of this, or I will go mad.
He spurred his horse into a gallop. She was a fine-bred courser, a present from Robert Burnell, who allowed his agents to take the pick of gear and horseflesh. The animal was both meek and responsive, and instantly surged forward.
Hugh sped past Richard. “Is this a race?” the young man laughed. His master ignored him and plunged on.
Another picture rose in Hugh’s mind. Esther, the Jewess he had loved and lost. Or lusted after. He had never been able to tell the difference. Regardless, she was gone, and they would never meet again on earth.
Regret mixed with old fears. Hugh drove his course as fast as she could go, anything to put the demons of his past behind him. Far behind. He bent low in the saddle and willed himself to forget.
At last they burst out of the forest into a landscape of open, gently rolling pasture. Neatly tended fields and hedgerows flashed past, small but well-kept cotter’s huts, smoke rising lazily from the holes cut into the straw thatch. A few ploughmen stopped work to watch the horsemen tear past, a rare bit of excitement in their dull lives.
Eventually Hugh slowed his courser to a trot, then a walk. Horse and rider were breathing hard. He dropped his reins and used a fold of his cloak to rub the muck sweat from his brow.
Richard clattered up beside him. “That was some gallop, master,” he panted. “You’ve always taught me to spare the horses. If yours had turned a shoe, the beast would have tipped you over and broken her leg into the bargain.”
There was a mild tone of reproof in his voice, mixed with surprise. He didn’t understand his master, and Hugh preferred to keep it that way.
“My apologies,” he said gruffly. “One day I’ll explain.”
Richard gave him a shrewd look. “It’s something to do with those scars on your leg, isn’t it? You seldom talk about your past, but it isn’t easy to hide old wounds.”
Hugh rounded on him. “Have a care, boy. Mind your own business! One day you will overstep the mark.”
He should have known Richard better than to threaten him. The young squire was thoughtlessly brave, and stood his ground in the face of any danger.
“No need for anger, master,” he replied with a shrug. “It is no shame to carry such wounds. One of my father’s old huntsmen was slashed by the tusks of a boar across his ribs. Four shining white weals gouged into his flesh. He used to display them at the Christmas feast to frighten children.”
“It isn’t a question of shame...” Hugh began, then stopped. He wasn’t one to bare his soul. Every man should keep his secrets, especially if he relied on them to survive.
Still, Richard deserved some kind of answer. “I’m over twice your age,” said Hugh. “I’ve seen much, and taken my share of knocks. Sometimes the world inflicts bruises that won’t fade.”
He forced a smile. “Never fear. I’m as sane as anyone in this world. Which might not be saying much.”
This was the sort of devil-may-care remark that Richard appreciated. It also stopped him asking questions. The two set off again, and Hugh’s moment of panic was forgotten.
They turned onto a fork off the main highway. The road took them through several miles of flat, low-lying pasture, watered by the River Trent. This gentle countryside carried terrible scars. They rode past the blackened shells of farmsteads and empty villages, their inhabitants either slaughtered or driven off.
Richard didn’t seem to mind the desolation. He was a born fighter, raised among a warrior elite, and regarded burnt villages and butchered peasants as the natural state of affairs.
“This was done recently,” he said, pointing at a farmhouse. The wisps of the thatch still smouldered, and the smell of burnt wood was pungent. “It’s true what Burnell told you. This is a land at war.”
He rubbed his hands together. “Good! I had feared England would be a dull place, but there are plenty of rebels left to fight. I look forward to killing them.”
Hugh could not help but smile. There was something oddly appealing about Richard’s brainless courage, his endless desire to prove himself in combat.
“What if they should kill you?” he asked innocently. “I have met some of these rebel knights. Crossed swords with them.”
He put a hand over the scar on his breast. “Dangerous men. Murderers and thieves, for all their noble blood.”
Richard would not listen. “No, no,” he said impatiently. “They are belted knights, gentlemen of breeding and honour. I know all about that scar on yo
ur body, master. It was brave but foolish of you to fight Sir Robert d’Eyvill. He is a man of noble birth, trained to arms, while you are...”
He stopped and went red. Hugh looked at him with some amusement. This wasn’t the first time Richard had said something unfortunate about Hugh’s low birth.
He resents me, thought Hugh. Why should he not? It is inevitable.
It was difficult not to sympathise. Richard was a member of a powerful noble family, raised to believe himself superior to those who were not of gentle birth. As a younger son, the fourth of five, he would inherit no lands. Instead his parents farmed him out as a squire to the royal household, hoping he would one day be knighted and granted lands of his own.
King Edward had many such landless young men in his service. Too many. He had ordered Richard to serve as Hugh’s squire, perhaps to knock some humility into him. Hugh was regarded at court as little more than a jumped-up clerk, an ambitious peasant who had risen through merit rather than birth.
“I am a serf,” Hugh said mildly. “Don’t be afraid to say it. I have no shame in my fathers. They were men of their hands. Labourers and stonemasons. My great-grandfather was a cottar.”
Richard visibly shuddered. Cottars were the lowest of the low, bonded serfs who held miserable little cottages and plots of land in exchange for lives of toil. Human cattle, bought and sold by their lords and usually worked to death. Hugh’s great-grandfather was only thirty when he died, worn out by endless toil.
“Enough chat,” said Hugh. “I want to reach Egmanton before noon. These roads are not safe.”
He heeled his horse into a trot and rode on. Richard followed in silence. Hugh wanted his companion to focus on their mission. Hopefully this would stop him brooding, since there was no room inside his pretty head for more than one thought at a time.
They were headed towards the castle and manor of Egmanton, beyond the northeast outskirts of Sherwood. This was still too close for Hugh’s liking: the castle lay just a bow-shot from the edge of the woods.
Egmanton was built in the old style, of earth and timber with a fortified bailey and a wooden keep crowning a grassy mound or motte, piled up by the hands of long-dead peasants. The castle overlooked a handful of thatched huts, guarded by a ditch and stockade.
Hugh noticed the village was untouched, probably because it was so close to the castle. The outlaws of Sherwood preferred to hit soft targets.
A helmeted head peered down from the rampart of the gatehouse. “We are envoys of the king,” Hugh called up at the rough, unshaven face. “Here is my warrant.”
He flourished his letter of protection. It carried a red wax seal engraved with the royal arms, large enough for even the most suspicious guard to recognise.
The little eyes under the helm widened. “What do you want?” demanded their owner. His voice was hostile, but tinged with a grudging respect.
“I want to see your mistress,” Hugh replied. “Go and inform her of our arrival, and be quick about it!”
He had pitched it just right. The guard was a man used to taking orders, especially if they were shouted. He vanished, though more soldiers peered down from the walls.
To show he was unconcerned, Hugh folded his arms and started to sing. He chose Ja Nus Hons Pris, composed by the Lionheart himself when he was held captive in Germany:
”No man in prison can tell his tale true
Lest he himself has known what I’ve been through
In writing song he may comfort renew
I’ve many friends but their gifts are few
They’ll bring dishonour for my ransom’s due
These two long winters past
My noble barons and men surely knew
England and Normandy, Gascon and Poitou
Ne’er would I forsake or be untrue
To any friend; noble, commoner too.
I do not mean to reproach what they do,
Yet I remain held fast…”
For the second time in one day, he had caught Richard by surprise. “I’ve never heard you sing that before,” the boy said.
Hugh gave a shrug. “King Edward’s knights used to sing it round the supper fires in the Holy Land, when they were drunk and maudlin. Edward himself joined in, though he has a voice like a raven with a sore throat.”
Richard looked jealous. He had done little on crusade, thanks to a severe bout of dysentery. While others won glory fighting the Saracens, he was confined to the privy.
Not much of a tale to tell his grandchildren, Hugh mused. What did you do on the Ninth Crusade, grandpa? Well, my boy, I spent the entire time in a sanatorium, shitting my guts out and praying for death.
The guard soon returned. “My lady will see you,” he said in the same grudging voice. Moments later the timber gates swung inward. Hugh went first through the entrance, which led into the outer bailey.
The castle was built on a roughly circular, flat-topped hill, surrounded by a dyke and wooden stockade. It contained grain stores, barns, a smithy, stables and sleeping quarters for the garrison and servants. At the northern end stood the motte with the keep at its summit, connected to the bailey via a timber stairwell.
Hugh guided his horse at a gentle trot, smiling amiably at the people of the castle. “Look cheerful,” he said to Richard out of the corner of his mouth. “Keep your hand away from your sword. Don’t give them a reason to take fright.”
Richard said nothing, and Hugh didn’t care to look around to see if he obeyed. He hoped the boy wasn’t entirely stupid. A crowd was slowly gathering to watch them pass. Hugh didn’t like the ugly look on some of the faces, or the air of latent violence. One cross word, a look out of place, and there would be trouble.
Thankfully the sentry on the gate had the brains to give them an armed escort – six spearmen in mail and kettle hats, three on either side. When they reached the foot of the motte, Hugh and Richard dismounted and surrendered their horses to the guards.
“Follow me,” grunted the vintner, a thin, sickly-looking man with a hooked nose. He walked stiffly – an old wound in his right leg, Hugh judged – and limped carefully up the flight of steps. The stairwell was steep and narrow, forcing them to climb up in single file. Hugh squinted at the battlements high above his head. Any unwanted visitors who tried to clamber up this slope would be exposed to a storm of missiles.
The keep was a square block of timber, three storeys high. It reminded Hugh of Sir John d’Eyvill’s rough hall in the depths of the Isle of Axholme. Crude, smoky places, built for defence rather than comfort.
No place for a lady, he thought. The mistress of Egmanton was Lady Clemence Lungvilers, heiress to an old and reasonably powerful Midlands family. Robert Burnell had sent Hugh to question her.
“We’ve been watching Clemence for some time,” the regent told Hugh. “There’s something odd going on at Egmanton. The last royal officer who visited the manor was found inside Sherwood, beaten almost to death. Attacked by outlaws, so she claimed. Clemence had him patched up and sent back to London.”
Burnell’s pale face wrinkled in distaste. “He will never be whole again, poor fellow. Another useful agent lost. I think it was meant as a warning. Lady Clemence doesn’t want us looking closely into her affairs.”
Hugh rifled through his well-drilled memory. “She is niece to Sir John d’Eyvill,” he said. Burnell’s eyebrows raised a little.
“Indeed,” he replied, clearly impressed. “That is why she is a person of interest. Not a very happy family. Clemence and John have been at war for the past year. He wants her lands. She won’t give them up. You know John, Longsword, better than most. He responds to any challenge with violence. It’s part of his nature. His whole nature.”
“Even to the point of attacking his own kinswoman?” Hugh asked. He knew John for a man of violence, true enough, but his family were a clannish, tight-knit set. His brothers had all fought alongside him in the civil war, as did his cousin Nicholas, a terrifying brute known as the Beast.
�
�Apparently so,” said Burnell. “But appearances can deceive. The d’Eyvills are perfectly capable of burning their own villages, merely to give a false impression. John and his kinsmen were close allies of Earl Ferrers. I suspect they are in league with him now. Clemence’s role is uncertain. She may be telling the truth, she may not.”
He flashed one of his quick, unsettling smiles. “Your job is to find out which.”
This promised to be no easy task. Hugh bore in mind the fate of the last royal servant who came to Egmanton, sniffing for clues. The poor wretch suffered such a beating he was left half-deaf, deprived of his sense of smell and barely able to remember his name. He would spend the rest of his days as a harmless pensioner in the royal hospital at Winchester, where broken agents were sent to die.
The vintner led them into the ground chamber of the keep. This was a guardroom, sparsely furnished, stinking of unwashed feet and old sweat. Weapons hung in racks from the bare wooden walls, spears and crossbows and axes, a sword or two. Hugh noted how well kept and polished they were. There were also a dozen shields and six mail hauberks, gleaming like silver mirrors.
Two soldiers squatted in one corner, playing at dice. They glanced briefly at the newcomers, then went back to their game. Hugh wasn’t fooled by this show of disinterest. Both men wore mail, and their swords and daggers were close at hand.
A ladder went up to the first floor. The rungs creaked under Hugh’s feet. His heart pounded. Once he was halfway up, his head and shoulders would be exposed to anyone lurking above.
No blade came slashing at him. He breathed again. The upper floor chamber was pleasant, with carpet over the bare timber boards and fresh air wafting in from the windows, their shutters flung wide. Hugh mounted the last step and looked around for Lady Clemence.
“Welcome.”
Clemence stood leaning against the northern wall. She was unusually tall for a woman, thin and straight as a lance. Her face was pale and haughty under a white coif, with hard penetrating eyes. One loose strand of greying black hair had worked loose from the coif. She wore a long gown of blue wool, peasant’s garb, with a slender belt of brown leather. A purse and a small dagger hung from the belt.
The Hooded Men Page 5