“You!” Edward snapped. “Come here.”
The vintner wiped his bloody axe on his jack and sheepishly approached the king. “Now,” said the king, turning back to his beaten foe. “You will surrender to a low-born soldier. In front of your people and your kin, you will do this.”
The Comte’s eyes widened. “No...” he whispered in horror. “You cannot make me...the shame...”
“The shame is all yours. Take off that foolish helm. I want everyone to see your face.”
A hush slowly fell over the crowd. With trembling hands, the Comte slowly levered off his ruined helm. The face underneath was young and darkly handsome, or used to be: blood flowed from a broken nose, his lips were swollen and bloodied, his right eye was hidden under puffy blackened flesh. More blood dribbled from his mouth and soaked into the Comte’s neatly trimmed beard, turning it from yellow to dark pink.
“Not so pretty any more,” Edward snarled. “Now, yield!”
The Comte’s good eye was full of pure hate. He had given his word to surrender and could not break it in public.
He tore off one of his gauntlets and held it out to the vintner, who took it with an ironic bow.
“I accept your surrender,” he said in a thick Yorkshire accent. Grinning, he turned to brandish the trophy at his mates, who started to laugh. More laughter broke out all over the field. Most of it came from English throats, though there were a few guffaws among the French peasantry in the crowd. It seemed the Comte was not as popular among his folk as he liked to think.
The howls of mirth rose to a storm. While it still raged, and the Comte blushed a furious crimson under his wounds, Edward beckoned at Othon. The Savoyard obediently trotted over to his master.
“Let us go, lord king,” he cried, struggling to make himself heard. “Before the mob turns on us.”
Edward had other plans. He looked grimly at the nearby town of Chalon. It was a pretty place, built on the banks of the glittering Marne, a pleasant spread of tiled roofs and church spires under the dreaming skies of southern France.
It was also a den of traitors. The people of Chalon had conspired with their lord to lure the King of England into a trap, murder his good knights, take him prisoner and hold him to shameful ransom. God had seen fit to disrupt their evil plans. Now it was time for vengeance.
“We’re not going anywhere,” Edward said harshly. “The Lord has given us this victory, and the town is ours by forfeit. Treason must have its just reward.”
“Lord king,” the Savoyard said in a shocked voice. “Chalon is part of the realm of France. King Philip...”
“Will understand when I meet him in Paris,” Edward said firmly. “Philip is a reasonable man. A cask or two of gold will smooth over any difficulty. Now gather our men together. Move!”
As Othon turned about to yell orders at the infantry, Edward glanced again at Chalon. For a moment he felt a pang of regret. When he left England to fight the Saracen, four years ago, Edward had never dreamed he would end up sacking Christian towns.
The sin is not on my head, he told himself. Nobody must be left in any doubt that he was a king to reckon with.
By dusk, he swore, the sleepy little town of Chalon would lie in ashes.
11.
Nottingham
The body of Walter Devyas lay on a table in the cellar next to the dungeon tower. This was the coolest chamber in the castle, so it would be some time before his flesh started to stink.
“You hardly needed me here,” complained the coroner. “Any fool can see the cause of death.”
He traced his finger down the line of the deep cut in Walter’s neck. “The slash of an edged weapon, I would say a dagger, across his throat. Probably choked on his own blood. No more than he deserved, from what I know of the man.”
The coroner stepped back and wrinkled his long nose, as if he had smelled something nasty. His assistant handed him a damp towel, which he used to wipe his hands.
“My advice is to bury the swine in an unmarked grave, as quickly as possible,” he added. “He will start to rot soon enough, even down here. And I will charge double my usual fee for calling me out on a pointless errand. There are plenty of other deaths to investigate in this county, all of them more interesting than this one.”
“Proper forms must be observed,” said the constable of Nottingham, Alan Kirkby. “You will get your money, never fear.”
The coroner sniffed and walked out, followed by his apprentice. Alan and Hugh Longsword were left alone with the corpse.
“Ugly bastard, wasn’t he,” remarked Alan. “Walter Devyas, I mean. The coroner wasn’t much to look at either.”
Hugh gave a mirthless smile. Walter was indeed hideous in death. He had been stripped naked for the coroner’s inspection, and the sight of his grotesque yellow body was enough to turn the strongest of stomachs. The outlaw’s mouth hung open and his eyes stared glassily at the ceiling, frozen in the shock and horror of his final moments.
Alan leaned closer to squint at the knife-slash in Walter’s throat. “Killed by one of his own. I wager he didn’t expect that.”
He gave a low whistle. “One hell of a cut, too. Whoever wielded the blade must have held a serious grudge against him.”
“Which narrows the list of suspects down to five hundred or so,” Hugh said drily. The other man grinned.
“Indeed. There will be a celebration in Nottingham when his death is announced. All those grieving widows will finally get justice. I only wish I could have been the one to give it to them. It wasn’t for lack of trying.”
The constable was cheerful, far too cheerful in Hugh’s opinion. Granted, the death of a dangerous outlaw was never a bad thing, but Alan Kirkby had little to be proud of. A band of hooded men had broken into his castle, supposedly one of the strongest in England, killed or wounded dozens of his people, and murdered a prisoner under his very nose.
Walter would have hanged anyway, after Hugh got some answers of out of him, but that wasn’t the point. He should have been properly tried and convicted as a felon by royal justices in open court. That would have shown everyone that the law was not entirely fallen away in this part of England.
As it was, the king’s justice was more of a joke than ever. His servants couldn’t even protect themselves, let alone anyone else.
“We’ll bury our Walter in a midden, just as the coroner advised,” said Alan. “No church would agree to take him.”
He looked at Hugh with a show of concern. “You don’t look too clever yourself, Longsword. What are your plans?”
Hugh gingerly touched the tender lump on his brow. The nameless giant he fought in the raid on Nottingham had knocked him out cold for three days. He woke up in the sanatorium after a fevered dream in which he was once again chased through a black forest by red-eyed wolves. This time they caught him, and he had vague, distorted memories of watching his own body worried and torn to pieces. There was no pain, or even the memory of pain. He had simply floated above it all, his soul removed from the earthly cage of flesh.
“I need to think on it,” he replied. In truth Hugh had already decided on his next course of action, but wanted to keep it secret from Alan. He still didn’t trust the constable, or indeed anyone except his companion, Richard Giffard. Even that only went so far. Richard could be trusted in a fight, and to drink and wench and gamble at any given opportunity. He lacked the brains for anything else.
This was one reason why Hugh had decided to get rid of him, at least for the present. He made his excuses to Alan and returned to his lodgings above the great hall. On the way he sent a page boy to fetch Richard.
“I’m leaving Nottingham,” he told the young man when he stepped into Hugh’s chamber. “And you’re not coming with me.”
To his annoyance, Richard didn’t seem put out. He had suffered a few bumps and bruises in the fight, but otherwise emerged from it smelling of roses, as ever. More than one serving girl had taken a shine to the handsome young squire with the marks of
battle on his boyish features. To judge from the dark smudges under his eyes, Richard had taken full advantage.
“You want me to stay here?” he asked, stifling a yawn.
“So you can rut yourself into an early grave?” Hugh answered sourly. “No. I want you to go back to London. Tell Master Burnell that I mean to vanish. He may see me again, he may not.”
“Vanish?”
“Yes. Among our enemies. I can’t return to London yet. My task is unfinished.”
Richard looked perplexed. “Have I offended you in some way, master? You will need me at your side.”
“I don’t need anyone,” snapped Hugh, more forcefully than he meant. The truth was he dared not go back to London and report to Burnell on his failure. This, as the regent had made abundantly clear, was his one and only chance to redeem himself. His career in royal service, and quite possibly his skin, depended on it.
Hugh had a plan. One last roll of the dice. It was desperate, something he could only do by himself.
“Go to London,” he said in a gentler tone. “Enlist in the royal army. Prince Edmund will be glad to have you. The more willing and able swordsmen, the better. There is none better than you in the whole of England.”
Richard swelled a little. He was as vain as a peacock, and easy to flatter. Fortunately, under all his swagger and boasting, he was essentially good-natured. Otherwise Hugh might have found him unbearable.
He decided to lay it on even thicker. “Men like you are born to fight in the front line. Men like me...well, you know I am no lord.”
“You’re a good man, master,” said Richard after an awkward silence. “I wish you the best of fortune. We shall, with God’s grace, meet again someday.”
He offered his hand. Hugh clasped it, and they exchanged nods. Then Richard turned on his heel and was gone.
Hugh was relieved it had been so easy. He had feared the young fool would take offence at being dismissed, and refuse to obey. Perhaps there was a brain inside that thick skull after all.
At midday, after he had gathered up his belongings, Hugh went to the stable and fetched his horse. He had made sure the animal was well looked after. There was a long road ahead.
He saddled up and rode out of the castle. Since the raid, Alan Kirkby had tightened security and doubled the guard. This was no obstacle to Hugh, who simply waved the king’s writ at the sentries and was allowed through the gates. Alan himself might have questioned Hugh’s sudden departure, but the constable was busy in the town overseeing court sessions. After the recent disturbances, he wanted to reassure the people of Nottingham that life would go on as usual.
Nobody challenged Hugh as he trotted through the streets and left Nottingham via the northern gate. Then he was back on the Great North Road, riding at a canter along the busy highway. At Newark, a bustling town on the fringes of Sherwood, he stopped for the night.
In his lodgings, a small but clean room in a quiet inn, Hugh stripped to his drawers and studied his face in a little mirror. He carried the mirror everywhere, as well as a small bag of cosmetics. These were spread out on the bed.
Cosmetics were frowned upon by the church: women were allowed to use make-up to enhance their looks, if only for the benefit of their husbands. A woman who made herself attractive to anyone else was a harlot.
A man who used cosmetic on his face was something unspeakable. Yet vanity was common to both sexes. Hugh had met plenty of lords who put colouring on their hair to hide the grey or bald patches, or a little paint to touch up sagging features.
Hugh was not vain of his looks, since he had none to speak of. His face was smooth, oval, and blessed with no distinction whatsoever. He was thirty, but might have been anywhere between twenty-eight and forty-five.
First, he cut his hair. Another useful skill taught to spies. He used his dagger to give himself a brutally short military cut.
How ugly it makes me, Hugh thought with a smile.
Just one final touch was needed. A small scar under his left eye, nothing too dramatic, just a sliver of dried animal skin stuck to his face with glue, itself made from animal hide. He held the scar in place until the glue had dried.
Then it was time for the costume, which lay in a heap on the floor. Hugh had bought the gear from a local armoury. He pulled on greasy woollen breeches, heavy military boots with thick soles, a dirty undershirt and padded jack stuffed with wool, cracked leather gauntlets and a kettle hat. Last came the belt, along with Hugh’s own sword and dagger.
“Oui, ce’est vrai,” Hugh said, rolling the accent around his mouth. He had taken on the role of a foreign mercenary, a sell-sword from the duchy of Gascony in southwest France. His grasp of Occitan, the dialect of Gascony, was weak, but hopefully it wouldn’t matter. Northern England was scarcely crawling with Gascon mercenaries. At the same time there was nothing unlikely about a foreign mercenary roving about the unsettled kingdom, looking for work.
“My name is Pierrot of Orthez,” he said in badly pronounced English. “I came to England with the Count of St Pol. After the war against King Henry, I went to the Marches of Wales and fought for Earl Gilbert Clare. I got into trouble and had to run away. I will fight for pay or plunder.”
His nasally Gascon accent would need refining, but for now it was good enough. Hugh picked up his last and most essential piece of kit. This was a heavy crossbow of the two-footed variety. Gascon mercenaries were famous for their skill with the crossbow, and could even use the weapon from horseback.
It was many years since Hugh had handled a crossbow. Not that they were difficult to use. He stuck both feet in the stirrup and wound the lever to draw back the string. Then he chose a bolt from the rack on the bed, slotted it into the groove and lifted the weapon with both hands.
Hugh took aim at the thick bolster at the far end of his bed. “Sir John d’Eyvill,” he muttered. “I have you now. Do you beg for mercy, Sir John? You, who are without mercy, now plead for it? No, my friend. This is a day of judgement.”
He squeezed the trigger. The bolt flew across the length of the room and punched clean through the bolster, raising a great cloud of feathers. There was a thump as it smacked into the thin plaster wall beyond.
Hugh brushed the pillows aside to find the bolt had almost gone straight through the wall. Fortunately, the adjoining chamber was vacant. He levered out the stubby black dart and held it up before his eyes. The sharp iron point glittered in candlelight.
This one is for you, Sir John, thought Hugh. He sat down, drew his dagger and started to carve the name of his nemesis on the shaft.
* * *
The next morning Hugh was back on the road. He remembered this part of England fairly well, and after a couple of hours crossed into south Yorkshire. There was some traffic, though the highway was far from busy. Hugh passed several bands of armed riders or peasants on foot driving their sheep and cattle to market. Everyone was armed; nobody travelled alone. Hugh ignored the suspicious looks – a lone horseman on the road was either an outlaw or a madman – and none cared to challenge him.
He could almost taste the fear. It hung over the kingdom like an invisible fume, poisoning the very air. Even the woods were silent, and every town and homestead he passed was fortified against attack. Those who could afford it threw up walls of limestone around their dwellings, or at the very least a palisade of rough logs. Hugh occasionally caught sight of grim faces at narrow slit windows, staring out at him. He spurred his courser to a gallop and rode on quickly before an arrow sprouted from his back.
Before noon he stopped at a roadside inn a few miles south of Doncaster. The inn was a small fortress, with heavy wooden shutters over the windows and two beefy guards on the gate.
“Keep moving, soldier,” one of them growled as Hugh led his horse to the entrance. “We don’t want no thieving sell-swords here.”
Hugh jingled the purse at his belt. “I ‘ave money,” he said in his best Gascon accent.
The guard and his mate relaxed a little. They had a tou
gh, wary look about them, old soldiers if Hugh was any judge. Veterans were usually not unreasonable, with a cheerfully realistic attitude towards bribery.
“That’s different, of course,” said the first man, hitching up his sword-belt. “Just to be on the safe side, let’s have a look at it.”
Hugh pretended not to understand. The guard rolled his eyes and gestured at Hugh’s purse. “Money,” he said in a loud voice. “Show us your money.”
“The good stuff,” added his mate with a grin, rubbing his thumb and index finger together.
“Ah!” exclaimed Hugh. He dug in his purse and held up a silver shilling for inspection. Then he tossed it at their feet. Quick as a flash, the first man bent down to scoop up the coin, which vanished into his sleeve.
“Much obliged,” he said in a friendly tone. “In you go then. Stables are out the back. Behave yourself and don’t cause any trouble, otherwise we’ll have to break your legs. Nothing personal.”
Hugh exchanged nods and led his horse through the gate. Shortly afterwards he was sat in a corner of the taproom, picking at a bowl of beef stew as he listened to the locals talk over their midday meal. The beef was tough and stringy, the ale abominable, but he wasn’t here for the cuisine.
Much of the talk was typical peasant chat about crops, livestock, the ever-changing mood of English weather. Hugh pitied them. Even when times were good, these people lived on the edge of disaster. One failed harvest could mean the end for them and their families. He had seen it happen all too often: famine and plague, eviction from their homes by callous lords, the dead lying by the roadside with swollen bellies. Food for carrion birds.
Now, on top of all this, they had to cope with the threat of war. Hugh listened intently to tales of night robbers swooping down upon lonely farmsteads at night, or waylaying people on the road.
“Like wolves, they are,” one man remarked, bleakly staring into his cup. “A band of them attacked my uncle’s farm at Campsall. Burnt his byre, murdered three of his servants, drove away thirty head of cattle. God knows how he will make it through the winter.”
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