“They raped my sister,” said another. “Ambushed her on the road, used her, left her for dead. Thirteen of them. It drove her mad, poor lass. She lives at my house now, witless and cackling to herself. Unless she shows some hint of recovery, I might give her to a convent.”
After a time, Hugh started to suspect the peasants were trying to outdo each other with their tales of loss and misery. One man claimed to have lost everything, family, farm and all, yet looked remarkably happy about it. Even allowing for exaggeration, he gained a useful picture of conditions in this part of Yorkshire. Farther afield didn’t sound much better. Most of the speakers had heard rumours of devastation in the North and West Riding, the Vale of York in flames, rebellion in distant Holderness.
At last he overheard something of real interest. “Steer clear of Barnsdale,” said one raddled old mess, pickled in ale. “Especially at night. The valley is thick with thieves.”
“That’s old news,” scoffed another. “Robin Hode and his band have haunted Barnsdale for years. They rove back and forth between there and Sherwood. My cousin was waylaid by them once. Robin played him fair, mind. Said my coz could keep his sheep if he beat one of the outlaws in a game of buffets. Well, my coz was always a good man with his fists, and he knocked the bugger out cold. Robin let him go.”
“He’s a gentleman outlaw, right enough,” said a third man. The first speaker responded with a loud belch.
“Never mind Robin Hode,” he snapped. “If it was only him in Barnsdale, that would be fine. He robs wealthy folks, rich knights and abbots and the like, and leaves the poor alone. No, there are others in the valley. Bloody murderers who don’t care who they rob. Rich and poor, priest or labourer, makes no difference. Ex-soldiers, most of ‘em.”
Hugh was suddenly the focus of attention. Everyone could see the sword and dagger he carried, his battered jack, the dinted helm that rested next to his elbow. He took another swallow of the horrible ale and calmly met the hostile stares. Not one of them dared to hold his gaze.
Inwardly he was nervous. The serfs were all big, active countrymen, immensely strong from a lifetime of physical labour. If they attacked him all at once, he would be torn limb from limb.
Like cattle, he thought. Docile and obedient because they are bred that way. If they ever chose to turn and fight...
“They say there’s a gang at Tickhill,” said the old peasant. “Holed up in the castle, or what’s left of it. Nobody dares pass that stretch of the highway except in a large company, armed to the teeth. Even then it’s risky.”
Tickhill. Hugh remembered the castle, an old-fashioned stronghold of earth and timber, guarding a stretch of the highway on the border of Nottingham and West Yorkshire. He didn’t know it had been destroyed.
“They’re led by a knight,” another serf put in. “Calls himself the King of the North Wind. Nobody knows his true name. Must be an outsider. Him and his men are a right pack of murderous bastards. Kill for the pleasure of it. They say he decorates the rampart with the heads of his victims.”
Hugh listened to the conversation ramble on a while longer, as the speakers exchanged horror stories. To listen to them, the King of the North Wind had the entire district in a state of terror. His men frequently rode out of their ruined stronghold to extort ransoms, carry off prisoners, rape and rob and kill as they pleased. The local sheriff did nothing to stop them.
After a while the taproom started to empty. Men finished their supper, exchanged gloomy farewells and trudged back to their lives of toil. A few shot Hugh dark looks as they went. He smiled amiably in return.
A plan had formed in his mind. The next morning he would ride to Tickhill – it was only a few miles distant – and offer his sword to the King of the North Wind. There was a chance the outlaws might simply take his horse and cut his throat, but there was no help for it. If he wanted to get back into King Edward’s good graces, risks must be taken.
Hugh drank down his unpleasant ale and made his way upstairs. Tomorrow, he would vanish among the king’s enemies.
12.
Robert Ferrers galloped out of Chartley Castle on a cool, misted morning in high summer. The timbers of the drawbridge trembled under the hoofs of his destrier. His knights and squires streamed after him, glittering in their polished mail.
Excitement pounded in Robert’s veins. His heart thrilled to the rumble of hoofs. The feel of the spear grasped in his fist, the weight of armour on his back. No more would he skulk in the woods and hills, like a hunted animal. He was once again the Earl of Derby, unafraid to display the arms of his noble house.
He had unfurled his banner at Chartley and summoned all those who owed loyalty to the house of Ferrers. His father’s old bannermen, knights and sergeants and tenants, those who had followed Robert all through the civil war. Hundreds of men had come in. Thousands more would rise, once the news of his revolt spread like wildfire throughout the kingdom. Robert’s little army would swell to a great host, smashing aside all opposition on the triumphant march to London.
His mind filled with dreams of glory. How I will drive my enemies before me! Make the regents beg for mercy. They will grovel, and kiss my feet, and weep like children before I kill them.
Prince Edmund would be the first to die on his blade. Then the Earl of Lincoln, and Reynold Grey, and Roger Mortimer. These were his most dangerous enemies, the leaders of the royal army. Once their heads were mounted on pikes, Robert would turn his attention to the regency council. He had decided to roast Robert Burnell, that snivelling low-born toad, over a slow fire. He didn’t deserve any kind of honourable death. His colleague, Walter Merton, would be cooked beside him.
Inside the privacy of his helm, Ferrers grinned. He could almost hear the screams. His one regret was that King Edward, his most hated foe, was out of the country. No matter. If he was still alive, Edward would return one day to find his kingdom in ashes, his loyal servants butchered, his lands and castles laid waste.
And his greatest enemy seated on the throne of England.
Robert scarcely dared to even think it. But why not? Edward’s ancestors had won and held the throne by the sword. They stood to lose it the same way. Those who conquered might themselves be conquered.
He restrained himself. It was tempting to turn south and sweep on to the capital, but that might end in disaster. His agents informed him London was fully stocked and garrisoned for a siege. Prince Edmund had concentrated his forces there, and for the moment Robert lacked the numbers to meet them in the open field.
Patience, he told himself, repeating the word inside his head like a mantra. Patience and discipline. Neither were among his virtues, but Robert had been forced to learn. The last few years had been a humbling experience, yet he was all the stronger for it.
Instead he rode northwest, into Derbyshire and the hill country of the Peak. These were the Ferrers heartlands, where Robert’s ancestors had ruled as kings in their own right for the past two hundred years. His most loyal followers were all Derbyshire men.
They rode to Peveril, the castle of the Peak, a gaunt stronghold perched on a hill overlooking hundreds of acres of untamed forest. Trumpets heralded his arrival; the gates yawned open to admit him into the cramped inner ward. Robert threw his reins to a waiting groom and carefully got down from the saddle. Pain shot through his bandaged legs, swollen with gout. He could feel blood seeping through the linen.
Not now, he thought irritably. He had no time for the family curse. Perhaps later, when he had eaten and rested, he could summon a doctor to let his blood.
The constable of Peveril, a white-haired old man, hobbled forward on a stick to greet his master.
Two cripples together, thought Robert.
“My Lord,” said the constable with a stiff bow. “Welcome home. Your faithful men are assembled to greet you.”
Robert gave a brisk nod and limped towards the hall, trying not to let the pain show on his face. Every step was agony, as if red-hot needles were thrust into his flesh. Blood p
ooled and squelched in his mailed feet.
He hobbled painfully into the hall, where he was greeted by a great mob of knights, roaring and holding their swords aloft. He nodded and smiled and looked keenly at the rows of faces. Most of the local men had answered his summons, knights of the lower or middling sort, some with just one manor to their name. It was good to know he had their support, but none could raise more than a handful of fighting men. Where were Robert’s powerful allies? Would they keep their oaths?
At least James Audley was present. Robert didn’t like the swarthy Marcher lord, but that didn’t matter. What counted was the five hundred veteran March riders, the best light cavalry in England, he brought to Peveril.
The two earls, Gilbert Clare and John Warenne, were absent. Robert had expected this. Both sent their apologies before he left Chartley. Clare explained he was embroiled in a private war against Llywelyn ap Gruffudd, the ambitious lord of North Wales, but would march to join the revolt as soon as possible. Warenne was also fighting a local rival on his estates in Sussex. His enemy was a royalist knight, so Warenne claimed to be acting on Robert’s behalf.
Men of power, as Robert knew perfectly well, always put themselves first. Only a fool would rely on the likes of Clare and Warenne. He had offered them great rewards, and could only hope they would eventually come to his aid. In the meantime, he had to rely on lesser men.
His hopes rested on one particular family of tough northerners. Relief flooded through him at the sight of Sir John d’Eyvill. John’s squat figure was unmistakable. He stood in the centre of the crowd of knights, arms folded across his broad chest, surrounded by his equally rugged kinsmen. Robert knew them all. His two brothers Robert and William, his brutish cousin Nicholas – the one they called the Beast – his nephew Adam.
Robert limped forward to greet them. “Sir John!” he shouted above the roars of acclaim, clasping John’s hand. “Thank God you’ve come! How many lances did you bring?”
“Three hundred,” came the reply. “I have another six hundred stationed on my manors at Egmanton and Cundall, ready to ride at a moment’s notice.”
The earl clapped his friend on the shoulder with genuine affection. They had fought side by side at the battle of Chesterfield – although, in truth, John did most of the fighting while Robert hid under a pile of woolsacks – and this time they would win. The mere sight of the old warhorse gave Robert fresh heart.
“We’ll ride together again,” he said warmly. “Just like the old days. Get some revenge for our fallen comrades, eh?”
John’s eyes were small and blue, and impossible to read. “Aye,” he replied, “vengeance is long overdue. You don’t look well, my lord.”
Robert brushed this aside. “I am well enough, John, well enough. The malady shall pass, as it always does.”
He turned quickly to address the rest of his followers. “My friends,” he shouted, flinging his arms wide. “Welcome – welcome to a new beginning!”
More cheers and sword-waving. He soaked up their adoration, and prayed it would give him energy enough to ignore the mounting agony in his legs. Robert couldn’t stand upright for much longer.
“You all know our plans,” he cried when the noise had died down. “The whole of England is a smouldering pyre, ready to burst into flame. Our allies in the north” – here he grasped John’s wrist – “are ready to ride. We have allies in Essex and Leicester, Sherwood, Charnwood, Cambridge, the marches of Wales.”
Robert raised his right hand and slowly closed it into a fist. “This is the calm before the storm,” he said in a quieter voice. “When I send out the war-arrow, this broken realm of ours shall be swept from end to end.”
He drew inspiration from his gout. “England is sick, my friends. It needs to be purged. The veins must be lanced, and the bad blood drawn out before the patient can be whole again!”
This met with another shout of approval. Robert swayed a little. A wave of nausea made him dizzy. If he wasn’t holding onto John, an immovable pillar of a man, he might have fallen.
“First,” he said, conscious of the sweat on his brow. “Let us drink a toast to our impending victory. Drink and eat your fill, my friends. We have a long war ahead of us.”
He nodded at his seneschal, who stood waiting by the door to the screens passage. The old man flung open a door, and a line of servants trooped in carrying dishes laden with meat, spiced foods and other delicacies. Their appearance drew more cries of approval from the ravenous knights, who quickly seated themselves at the long tables below the dais.
Robert stayed to hoist a jug of wine and down most of the contents, to the noisy approval of his followers. He wiped the spillage from his mouth and tossed away the jug, forcing a laugh as it smashed on the flagstones.
Then his stunted fool from Chartley, Crooked Tom, capered into the hall, tootling on his reed pipe. After him came a band of proper musicians, playing The Song of the Barons on harp, lute and gittern. They were led by Jon Littiljohn. The great brute possessed a powerful singing voice, and roared the lyrics in a baritone that made the old rafters of Peveril shudder:
“But the good Earl Warenne,
Who has so much riches and property,
And has skill in war,
Into Norfolk in this thought,
Came conquering his enemies.
Sir John Giffard ought well to be named,
He was always forward,
Valiant and wise, and active,
And of great renown.
And Sir John d’’Eyville,
Who never loved treason nor guile,
Was in their company.
And Sir Peter Montfort,
He held firm to their agreement,
And had great seignory.
And the good Roger Clifford,
behaved like a noble baron,
And exercised great justice.
He suffered neither little nor great,
Neither nor behind or before,
to do any wrong…”
The Song of the Barons was Robert’s choice. He thought it appropriate, and a reminder to his knights of the cause they fought for. The tune was only a few years old, composed by a Montfortian poet during the civil war.
It also served his purpose. The song flattered many of the barons who were present, including Sir John d’Eyvill. Then the last and most important verses were reached:
“Right good men were the barons,
But I cannot tell all their names,
The number is so great,
Therefore I return to Earl Simon,
To give the interpretation.
What is his name?
He is called Montfort,
He is in the world,
And he is strong.
And he has great chivalry,
This is true,
And I agree to it,
He loves right
And hates wrong.
And he shall have the mastery!”
A few of the older men, veterans of Lewes and Evesham and many other bloody conflicts, started to weep. The name of their old captain, Simon de Montfort, still had the power to make grown men cry. Littiljohn’s booming voice died away, replaced by a chant as men stamped their feet and pounded their fists on the tables.
“Montfort! Montfort! MONTFORT!”
The cry rippled around the hall. Then it changed. One of Robert’s knights started a different chant.
“Ferrers! Ferrers! God for England and Earl Ferrers!”
His shout was taken up by others, until even the old Montfortians were shouting the earl’s name. Robert stood in the middle of the glorious noise, arms outspread, the pain of his gout forgotten. He had always been jealous of Earl Simon’s fame and popularity. After the great man’s death at Evesham, Robert had tried to fill his boots and failed miserably.
Now his cherished ambition was finally coming to pass. The surviving rebels in England looked to him for leadership. They chanted his name, followed his banner, believed in his vision.
Simon’s memory was passing into shadow where it belonged.
Simon died because he lacked the courage to take that final step. To snatch the crown from the head of the old king, and place it on his own. Robert would not hesitate. He could almost feel the weight of the golden circlet on his head, the orb and sceptre in his hands. The shouts of the throng inside Westminster Abbey as they roared his name.
Hail King Robert! King Robert the First!
13.
Now the revolt started in earnest. While Earl Ferrers mustered his knights in Derbyshire, his followers overran the rest of the Midlands. One of his captains rode south with fifty horse into Charnwood Forest in Leicestershire. Charnwood was the home of Roger Godberd, Ferrers’ lieutenant, who had his camp inside the woods.
Roger’s headquarters lay several miles off the road, deep inside the forest near his manor of Swannington. He and his men had cleared an old hillfort, excavating the ditch and erecting new timber ramparts above the ancient earthworks. At the same time the fort was well hidden from prying eyes behind a wall of briar and thicket, and the captain of Derby had to be guided there by Roger’s sentries.
“Our master sends you the war-arrow,” he said when Roger met him at the gates. “You are to begin your assault at once.”
He held up, an arrow painted entirely red from tip to flights.
Typical of my lord, Roger thought with affection. The man is a dreamer, always one for the dramatic gesture.
“All is ready,” he replied. “Those lads behind you are reinforcements, I take it?”
“Yes. The earl could spare no more than fifty lances. Enough for the task ahead.”
“More than enough,” said Roger. “We’ve been preparing down here for months. I have over a thousand archers at my call.”
The Hooded Men Page 14