Longsword

by David Pilling

  Beyond the stream, the outlaws gathered on a ridge of high ground. Perhaps eighty men armed with bows, spears, axes, even pitchforks and flails. Few wore any type of armour. Peasants, driven or inspired to rebel against the crown.

  Among them was a huge knight. Edward recognised the man immediately by the arms on his surcoat, three silver fleurs-de-lis against a red field.

  Sir Adam Gurdon. The outlaw knight was burly and balding, with traces of grey in his russet beard. Bear-like in his wrath, he bawled at his ragged followers to stand their ground. He clutched a broadsword in one hand, an axe in the other.

  Edward laboured up the bank and rushed at Gurdon. The outlaw knight’s eyes widened when he saw the prince. He hesitated and lowered his weapons.

  “Fight, coward!” Edward roared. He unleashed a savage cut at Gurdon’s head, which the outlaw caught on his hilt and turned away. Their blades clashed again, and the duel was on in earnest.

  Edward’s sergeants swarmed up the slope after their master. They tore into the outlaws, trained men against serfs. The woods echoed to the clash of weapons, screams of wounded and dying.

  Edward hacked at Gurdon with all his strength and spite. His opponent was forced to give ground, but defended himself stoutly. Gurdon recovered and went on the attack, cutting patterns in the air. Edward took cover behind his shield, which splintered under a hail of blows. He retreated, laughing.

  “Well struck!” he cried. “Well struck indeed!”

  The outlaw kept coming. An involuntary yell escaped Edward’s lips as Gurdon’s blade slithered through his guard and scorched a line of fire across his cheek. His dormant temper flared hot. Enough of this. He responded with a terrific double-handed cut that beat down Gurdon’s sword and almost knocked it from his hand. Edward’s men shouted encouragement as he pressed, not allowing Gurdon a moment to recover, hacking at his head, neck, and shoulders.

  Gurdon was a second slower. He failed to get his sword up in time to deflect another vicious strike, and the edge of Edward’s blade crunched into his right shoulder. The links of his mail split, along with leather and bone.

  His sword dropped from nerveless fingers. Edward kicked him in the groin. The outlaw doubled over, clutching his private agony.

  The prince had to admire Gurdon’s courage. Beaten to his knees, right arm dangling like a broken stick, Gurdon still offered fight. He crawled towards Edward, flailing with his axe.

  “Brave man,” Edward panted. He shook off the remnants of his shield and wiped away the blood streaming down his face.

  Brave men were useful. He knocked the axe from Gurdon’s hand and levelled his sword at the fallen man’s throat. The outlaw went very still and gazed fearlessly at Edward, waiting.

  “Yield,” said the prince, “and you shall have mercy.”

  *

  Edward could have led his men back to London the same day, but as a reward for their efforts allowed them to pitch camp and have a meal. In need of rest, he retired to his tent while they ate. There his squire stripped off his armour and applied salves and a vinegar-soaked sponge to his bruises.

  He sat and drowsed on a stool, sipped watered wine and held a poultice to his swollen cheek. Tired as he was, his mind never ceased weighing up the state of affairs in England.

  The outlaws of Alton Pass were crushed. Sir Adam de Gurdon was in chains and bound for imprisonment at Farnham Castle. His followers had been hanged on trees near their camp. The Earl of Derby was a prisoner at Windsor, his allies either dead or scattered. Edward’s lieutenant, Roger de Leyburn, was busy flushing out nests of rebels in the southeast and laying siege to the Cinque Ports in Kent and Sussex.

  The royalists were winning, Edward reflected, but there could be no end to the war without conciliation. That depended on his father, and his father was not a in a merciful mood. After Edward’s victory at Evesham, which should have ended the war, King Henry chose to disinherit everyone who had supported Simon de Montfort. Predictably, many took up the sword again rather than submit. England, barely recovered from the first war, was plunged into fresh conflict.

  Edward ground his jaw. The sainted Earl Simon! Would that he had never been born. Even now, after his death, the wretched man would not rest. Miracles were said to occur at his tomb, and the silly common folk prayed to him as a saint. They believed he could cure all ills, from unfair taxes to warts. Meanwhile England was virtually overrun by bands of robbers and outlaws. Everywhere was smoke and fire, slaughter and pillage, most of it visited on the helpless poor. No wonder they prayed to Saint Simon, forgetting he was the man who triggered all this chaos.

  Edward gazed at the dregs of his wine. No use lingering over past mistakes, he thought ruefully. If I wish to inherit the kingdom, first it must be saved.

  5.

  Windsor, Berkshire

  Hugh’s father had raised him to be of a strong and independent mind, proud of his family, and the equal of any man.

  “Most people in England are slaves to the rich,” the old soldier told him when he was a boy, “but our family are not slaves. Not anymore. Your great-grandfather was a serf on one of Earl Warenne’s manors in Surrey. Your grandfather ran away and became a wandering labourer for hire. He rose to be a Master Mason, entitled to his own Mark, respected and wealthy.”

  He gave a rueful smile. “I was a great disappointment to him. A life of shaping stone wasn't for me. As a young man, I preferred the grip of a sword in my hand to a chisel. God's death, how he knocked me up and down when I told him I meant to go for a soldier! Still, I remember his lessons, and now I pass them on to you. If a man applies himself, and has the slightest drop of talent, he can rise high in the world. What do the Scriptures tell us? All men are created equal in the eyes of God. Why should a man inherit lands and castles, just because his ancestor won them at the point of a sword? There is no justice in that.”

  These were dangerous words, and Hugh was wise enough to keep them to himself. Only now, as he stood inside the Great Hall of the Royal palace at Windsor, did he appreciate the reality of power.

  Hugh had never set foot inside a baronial hall, much less a royal one. He could only compare it to a massive barn, except no barn he knew had been whitewashed until the walls shone like a pale diamond, or richly decorated with religious paintings and intricate tapestries. Giant figures of kings and saints loomed around him, bowing their heads and offering each other marvellous gifts.

  The imagery threatened to overwhelm his senses; as did the smell of roasting meats from the spits turned over an enormous log fire at one end of the hall. This was mingled with the stench of people. Hundreds of people. Servants hurried back and forth through the covered walkway that linked the hall to the kitchens: tapsters, kitchen boys, pages, maids, and cooks, all greasy and sweating from their labour.

  Hugh observed teams of pinch-faced clerks and lawyers, soldiers, mailed knights and Barons, fine-boned ladies of quality with plucked eyebrows and skin like cream, priests, jesters, wise men, braggarts and fools. All life streamed in and out of the hall, save the lowest. Beggars were not permitted, though Hugh had passed a great mob of them outside the gates of the palace, holding out their filthy hands and pleading for alms.

  He took refuge in the shadow of a pillar, one of the massive stone uprights supporting the weight of the arched roof. Two sergeants stood watch over him. Tough-looking men with scarred faces, they had orders to guard Hugh and prevent him running away.

  “I can barely hear myself think,” he said to them, almost shouting over the hubbub. The sergeants said nothing. They just stared at him, like a couple of lizards sizing up their prey. Hugh shrugged and went back to crowd-watching.

  An hour dragged by. Eventually the crowds thinned out a little, and a richly dressed young man swaggered into the hall, escorted by four spearmen in Royal livery. The youth's face was fleshy and empurpled, and he wore a cloak of blue wool trimmed with rabbit fur over a dark red tunic. Heavy, powerful arms and a muscular neck and shoulders were offset by a pot be
lly, straining against his silver-linked belt. Hugh noted the way the crowds parted respectfully for him.

  One of Hugh's guards shuffled closer. “Look alive, boy,” he muttered out the corner of his mouth, “this one takes no prisoners.”

  The fat youth stormed through the cringing servants and lawyers as though they weren't there. His little eyes fixed on Hugh, and one heavy arm shot out to point at him.

  “You!” he bellowed. “Longpork, isn't it?”

  Hugh swallowed his outrage. “Longsword, milord,” he answered coldly, “Hugh Longsword of Southwark.”

  The youth waved this aside. “Come with me, Longpork. At once.”

  He swung about and strode back the way he had come. One of Hugh's guards gave him a shove in the small of his back, compelling him to follow.

  “A word of warning,” a voice whispered in his ear. “This man is Henry de Lacy, a great lord and heir to the Earldom of Lincoln. Do as he says and don't answer back. He has a foul temper.”

  Hugh nodded. He had failed to recognise de Lacy, but knew of his belligerent reputation. The future Earl was one of the Lord Edward's closest friends. Soon he would be one of the greatest nobles in the land, with the power to make or break men as he pleased.

  They passed through an arched doorway, up an adjoining spiral staircase and along a narrow passage until they reached a black door. De Lacy snapped his fingers at the sentry, who pushed the door open and stepped aside. The young nobleman beckoned at Hugh to follow him inside.

  “Not you,” he snapped at the guards. “Stay outside and don't eavesdrop.”

  Wondering, Hugh stepped through the archway. Inside was a circular upper-floor chamber. The walls were whitewashed but undecorated, giving the room a chilly, oppressive atmosphere despite the warmth of the fire crackling under a hooded hearth.

  The only furniture was a chair of polished black oak and a square table. These were positioned just in front of the carved window seat, so the bright spring sunlight streamed through and rendered in silhouette the figure sat upright in the chair.

  Hugh squinted to get a better look at him. He made out a tall young man dressed in plain gabardine of dark grey wool. His face was impressive rather than handsome; a heavy stubbled jaw, big nose, prominent cheekbones and high forehead. Flaxen hair fell to his shoulders. His eyes were dark blue, and the left eyelid drooped over the iris. The table was occupied by a chessboard, the pieces carved of crystal and onyx. All his attention was apparently fixed on the game, though he played against himself.

  There was something dangerous about this towering youth. Hugh sensed it, as he could sense the danger in a half-trained destrier or slumbering wolfhound.

  De Lacy coughed to get the man's attention. “Well, here he is,” he grunted, gesturing at Hugh. “I have to say, he doesn't look much to me.”

  For a moment the youth didn't look up from his chessboard. He reached out with long, powerful fingers and moved a white bishop into check. Only then did he look up at his visitors.

  “If he was much to look at,” he said quietly, with the hint of a lisp, “he would be no use to us.”

  He shifted his icy gaze to Hugh. “I am the Lord Edward,” he added, “your future King. You may kneel.”

  Hugh made a knee and bowed his head. He hated himself, but would rather bow his head than lose it. No man with any sense refused the Lord Edward, or the Leopard, as he was called after his pride and ferocity. And treachery, too, some said, though not too loudly.

  A long silence followed. Hugh swallowed, his skin prickling with sweat, as the heir to the throne looked him over. De Lacy stood by and impatiently cracked his knuckles.

  Finally Edward spoke. “You were the man who captured the Earl of Derby at Chesterfield. My cousin, Lord Henry, informs me you found him hiding under a pile of woolsacks in a church. You then marched him through the streets at swordpoint until you found Lord Henry and handed the earl over to his custody. True?”

  Hugh's knee ached on the flagstones. For some reason he thought of the mysterious green-eyed woman who had led him to Earl Ferrers. She had vanished when he emerged from the church with his prize.

  If only she were here instead of me, answering the Leopard's questions!

  “All true, milord,” he answered. “Lord Henry insisted I accompany him on the march south to Windsor. He promised a reward for my good service.”

  Edward nodded. “Of course. All good service should be rewarded. Earl Ferrers is now caged, as he deserves, and we have you to thank for it.”

  He sat back and folded his hands. “Let me recollect. Your name is Hugh Longsword of Southwark. Your grandfather, William, was a Master Mason who worked on Southwark Cathedral. Your father, Hugh senior, fought against us at Lewes and Evesham, and was killed at the latter. Your mother, Matilda, drowned herself in the Thames soon afterwards. You have no wife or close kin, and have to make your way alone in the world.”

  Hugh went cold with fear as he listened to this. The Leopard's agents had been at work, ferreting about in his past. Yet if Edward meant to kill him for having rebel sympathies, why not just do it? Hugh was nobody, not even a knight.

  “Your blood is rank with treason, Hugh Longsword,” Edward went on, “yet you chose to enlist in our father's host, and fight for the Crown against the northern rebels at Chesterfield. What were your reasons?”

  Hugh decided to tell the truth. Edward would only sniff out lies. “I followed my conscience, milord. Earl Simon's cause died with him at Evesham, and England has to bind up her wounds. Those who persist in rebellion bleed the land for their own gain. They have to be stopped.”

  “Quite a skill with words,” Edward murmured. “I know your father paid for your education. Languages and arithmetic. He must have had high hopes for you. Not many common sergeants have a working grasp of Latin or algebra.”

  Hugh raised his head to meet the prince's gaze. “He thought I should know such things, milord, to rise in the world.”

  “Wise man,” said Edward, “in some respects, at least.”

  A terrible thought occurred to Hugh. It could well have been Edward, or one of his knights, who struck down Hugh's own father at Evesham. The royalists had shown no mercy on that terrible day, when Earl Simon’s army was massacred under stormy skies. A flash of anger coursed through him. Hugh willed himself to suppress it.

  Edward rubbed his chin. “Interesting,” he remarked. “Now, let us talk of England.”

  He stood up, his long body unfolding with the grace of a cat, and beckoned Hugh and de Lacy over to the table.

  A roll of vellum lay next to the chessboard. With a sweep of his hand, Edward scattered the pieces. Hugh winced as the precious bits of crystal and onyx, worth more than he could earn in a year, bounced away over the floorboards.

  De Lacy picked up the vellum and unrolled it flat over the board. It displayed a line map of England, sketched out in blank ink. All the major towns, castles and rivers were included, and various sections of the map were marked with a cross. A few of the crosses had been rubbed out, though their traces were still visible.

  “The crosses stand for known rebel activity,” Edward said briskly. “As each disturbance is dealt with, the crosses are rubbed out. Sadly, a great many new ones have been drawn of late.”

  He stabbed his forefinger at the region of Hampshire. “Two days ago I defeated Sir Adam de Gurdon, so the coast road to Southampton from London is now made safe.”

  His finger roved across England and the March. “The Cinque Ports have at least been cleared of rebels. Even now, our troops smoke more of them out of the forests of Essex. The west and the north are in uproar. The Welsh tear up the Marches at will, and Kenilworth in Warwickshire is home to a nest of Montfortians. There are rumours of conspiracy in Northumbria. Many of Ferrers’ allies escaped from Chesterfield. Too many. Once they have licked their wounds, we may expect yet more trouble.”

  He sighed. “As you can see, Master Longsword, there is much work to be done. You were quite right. The rea
lm bleeds.”

  “Don’t forget Earl Montfort’s sons,” growled de Lacy. “They slipped custody and now lurk in France, raising money and soldiers.”

  “Let’s not stuff our guest's head with too much information, Henry,” said Edward. “He is only a serf, after all.”

  Hugh bristled at his patronising tone, and then stopped. Edward meant to provoke him.

  “Good,” said the prince with a slight nod of approval. “You know how to keep your temper. I'm afraid you have the advantage of me there.”

  He turned back to the map. “Our prisons fill up with rebels, but there is one I need clapped in irons, and quickly. Sir John d'Eyvill. You will have heard of him.”

  Hugh started at the name. “Yes, milord. One of the rebel captains. He almost rode over me at Chesterfield.”

  “There will be no peace in England, no peace at all,” said Edward, “until Sir John is safely incarcerated. He is a dangerous man, fearless, stubborn and a good soldier. If the Disinherited have any sense, they will make him their chief.”