Longsword

by David Pilling

  Eleanor stood well back as two of her knights unlocked and shoved open the heavy, iron-bound door. A stale odour drifted from the cramped, shadowy vault beyond. She clapped a scented cloth to her mouth and gestured at the knights. They strode inside, swords drawn. Eleanor heard a clink of chains, and brief muttered voices.

  “It is safe to enter, Majesty,” one of the knights called out.

  The Queen’s esquire handed her an iron lantern. A thick white candle burned inside it. She stepped inside the dungeon and held the lantern up before her. Pale yellow light spilled into the vault and caused monstrous shadows to flicker against the bare stone walls.

  Robert de Ferrers, Earl of Derby, stood pressed up against the far wall. His wrists and ankles were securely fastened by heavy iron chains, themselves fixed to rivets in the floor. One of Eleanor’s knights held the edge of a dagger against his throat.

  Eleanor studied him for a moment. He had always been a sallow, unhealthy-looking man, much afflicted by gout, the curse of his family. Weeks of imprisonment had done nothing to improve his pallor. He was thin, pale, hollow-cheeked, and apparently refused most of his food. King Henry had allowed the man fresh clothes, and his cell was kept clean, though only a thin shaft of light penetrated the high iron bars of the single window.

  Though humbled beyond measure, Ferrers still had his pride. His bloodshot eyes met the Queen’s scrutiny without a trace of fear.

  “I would kneel, Majesty,” he said in a dry voice, “but these pigs won’t let me.”

  Eleanor set the lantern down on the floor and carefully lowered herself onto the narrow bed set in one wall. This, a stool and a discreet bucket in one corner were the only furniture. Though bare, the room was warm, with a low fire burning in the grate. King Henry did not believe in tormenting prisoners unless necessary.

  The Queen gathered her thoughts for a moment. “You still have a spark of defiance,” she said. “Is it courage, I wonder, or just your natural spite?”

  “Both,” he retorted. “I am very like your precious son in that regard.”

  She looked up sharply. “Insulting Edward will gain you little.”

  “Perhaps not, but it makes me feel better. What have you done with my companion? Yesterday some of your guards came and took him away.”

  “I arranged more pleasant quarters for Sir Adam de Gurdon. He is a brave and honourable knight, albeit a misguided one, and deserves kinder treatment. Upon payment of a fine, he shall be released and restored to his estates.”

  This was true. Her son had sent Gurdon to Windsor in chains, as a gift for his mother. There was no question of executing the outlaw knight, or allowing him to rot in prison. There were only a limited number of good fighting men in England, as Edward explained in a letter to his mother. When he came to the throne he would have need of all of them.

  “Thank God,” said Ferrers. “Gurdon threatened to bore me into an early grave with the tale of his duel against Edward. I did consider throttling him with my chains.”

  Eleanor lost patience. “Sir Earl, I am not here to chop words, but to offer you a way out.”

  Ferrers said nothing. His thin face was expressionless, eyes narrowed.

  “The war continues,” said the Queen, “with no end in sight. Your followers plague the northern counties. Henry de Hastings is holed up at Kenilworth, yet he could hold out for months yet.”

  “My heart breaks,” spat Ferrers. “Has your tame cardinal proved a disappointment, then?”

  He referred to Cardinal Ottobuono Fieschi, sent to England by the Pope to mediate between the warring factions. So far, the clever and industrious Italian’s efforts had yielded little fruit.

  “I have every confidence in His Grace,” Eleanor replied blandly. “Peace will come, but might be achieved sooner rather than later. With your assistance.”

  Ferrers uttered a high-pitched laugh. “My assistance! The Queen wants my assistance! Quick, unfetter my wrists, so I may clap for joy!”

  One of the knights raised his fist to strike Ferrers. At a shake of the head from Eleanor, he lowered it again.

  “Stop playing the fool and listen,” she snapped. “This is your only hope of salvaging your inheritance. I want you to formally submit to the king, and make a public proclamation ordering your tenants to stop fighting and make their peace. In return I will use my influence to ensure you are not condemned to lifelong imprisonment, and allowed to recover some of your manors.”

  Ferrers looked sceptical. “Your husband is old,” he said. “My freedom will end the moment he dies and your son mounts the throne. Edward wants me dead. As soon as he is crowned, my life will not be worth a straw.”

  “Not so,” replied Eleanor. “His desire for revenge was sated at Evesham. Now he only wants peace in the land, as we all do. Think of your son, milord. Do you want him to inherit your disgrace?”

  The prisoner’s mouth worked. Eleanor could see the greed and ambition warring inside him. “No,” he said at last. “You wish to lure me into an ambush. I will say nothing and sign nothing.”

  Eleanor fought to keep her patience “Milord, be sensible. Must I hand you over to my son? He will use harsher methods of persuasion. I would not see a belted earl given over to torture, even if he is a mad dog.”

  His response was to spit a gobbet of phlegm at her feet. This time Eleanor’s knight smashed his fist into the prisoner’s stomach without waiting for her permission. Ferrers doubled over, gasping and red in the face. The Queen raised no objection.

  “You still think you can win, don’t you?” she said softly. “Burst your chains and reverse the judgment of battle. That’s why you won’t compromise.”

  She waited for him to stop retching. “My men,” he wheezed, “will fight on until I am free, or England reduced to ashes. Fire and blood, Majesty.”

  Strange lights seemed to dance in his eyes. “Fire and blood! Fire and blood!”

  Eleanor rose. “Earl Simon once told my husband that you were not only dangerous but insane,” she said. “I see now that he was right. Sleep well, milord. May God forgive you.”

  She picked up the lantern and walked out, followed by her knights. They left Ferrers in darkness, still muttering to himself.

  “Fire and blood…”

  11.

  Hugh and Brother Stephen left Kenilworth at first light and rode for Nottingham. They followed the highway to the market town of Coventry and then onto Watling Street, the main artery linking north and south.

  There were few travellers on the road at such an early hour. Hugh imagined robbers lurking behind every bush, and kept a nervous eye on the forest. There were other dangers. Wolves and bears and other, less natural horrors, were known to dwell inside the deep woods. As a Londoner, who had spent much of his life in the noise and bustle of the city, he found the silence of the countryside unnerving. He wished his companion still had a tongue in his head.

  Then again, he thought, considering the man’s history, perhaps I should thank God for small mercies.

  Hugh was almost relieved when he heard the clatter of hoofs further up the road, and spied a cloud of dust kicked up by a troop of horsemen.

  They turned out to be twenty sergeants escorting an ox-drawn wagon loaded with barrels of ale, sacks of grain and bread. Their captain was a greying man-at-arms with a knife scar down one leathery cheek. He gave his name as John Chepman, and was happy to stop and talk awhile.

  “The victuals are for the army at Kenilworth,” he said, jerking his thumb as the wagon as it rumbled past. “We left yesterday from Leicester. Seen hardly anyone on the roads. No sane person dares travel alone these days, or even in a small company. These woods are full of dangerous men. Some thieves were bold enough to loose a few shafts at us, just north of Coventry, but we drove them off.”

  Chepman looked meaningfully at Hugh and Brother Stephen. “No sane person,” he repeated, “so you two are either mad or on some sort of mission. Which is it?”

  Hugh calmly drew a folded parchment from
one of his saddlebags. “We’re on the King’s business,” he said, holding it up for inspection. “See the Royal Seal?”

  The captain peered at it. “Fair enough,” he answered, “but waving the king’s writ at an outlaw won’t do you any good. Where are you headed?”

  “Nottingham. A two-day journey, by my reckoning, if the weather holds.”

  Chepman nodded. “Your best hope is to ride fast and pray your horses don’t founder.”

  He glanced at Brother Stephen. “I see you’ve brought your own confessor. Doesn’t say a lot, does he?”

  “He can’t. He was a monk in a former life, and the Abbot cut out his tongue.”

  Chepman paled. “God’s death,” he muttered. “And to think I envied the monastic life.”

  The captain’s warning made Hugh fearful of what might lie ahead, and he was grateful when they reached the market town of Coventry. He and Brother Stephen pushed through the bustling, overcrowded streets in search of an inn to stay the night. They chose a small, clean-looking place with a ploughshare hanging over the door, close to the southern bank of the river flowing through the middle of the town.

  At first he had trouble convincing the landlord that the sinister-looking Stephen was merely a mute, rather than a lunatic or a criminal. Fortunately, Master John had given him enough silver to smooth over any such problems. The landlord remained suspicious, but eventually agreed to let them have a double room.

  Afterwards, Hugh left Stephen to stable and rub down the horses, and went to explore the sprawling market outside the gates of the huge multi-spired cathedral north of the river. The town was full to bursting with people. From the snatches of conversation he overheard, Hugh learned that refugees were pouring in every day from outlying villages. The Forest of Arden bordered Coventry to the west, and he only had to look in that direction to see distant smoke trails in the sky, doubtless from some burned-out homestead. Gangs of robbers were loose in the forest with none to stop them.

  Hugh did his best to ignore the atmosphere of fear. He had come to the market to buy some added protection, and wasted no time in spending Master John’s money. Six shillings went on a decent sword to complement his pick-axe. Fourpence bought a dagger. Three shillings went on a newly-forged kettle hat, to replace the battered and dinted object he had on his head. He toyed with purchasing a haubergeon, a kind of heavy iron-plated shirt. In the end, he decided the cost was too high, and stuck with the battered leather gambeson he had worn since Chesterfield.

  He endured a sleepless night at the tavern. Hugh was obliged to share a scratchy, flea-plagued bed with Stephen, who stank as much as he snored. As soon as the grey light of dawn began to slant through the cracks in the shutters, he rose, dressed, shook his bedmate awake, and trudged downstairs for a meagre breakfast of black bread and thin ale.

  “You can’t stay another night here,” said the landlord as he wiped a wine jug with a greasy cloth. “More people come into town every day. They will be fighting for rooms soon. I can get six bodies into the one you slept in.”

  Hugh exchanged glances with his companion. “So where do we sleep tonight?” he demanded.

  The landlord shrugged. “In the gutter, for all I care.”

  He turned to set down the jug. Four seconds later he was pressed up against the wall behind the counter. Stephen had leaped up and twisted his arm behind his back.

  Hugh watched with interest. He had been waiting for this. The mute had been a picture of saintly calm since leaving Kenilworth, and showed no sign of the darker side of his character.

  “Best not hurt him,” said Hugh. “We have work to do, and can’t afford to have the hue and cry after us.”

  The landlord grunted in pain as Stephen twisted his arm further. Hugh tensed. Was he going to have to intervene? He thanked God there was no-one else in the taproom.

  He relaxed as Stephen released his grip. The landlord staggered away, rubbing his arm and spitting curses. They made no impression on Stephen, who smiled and left him a tip on the counter.

  Hugh and his sinister friend rode out of Coventry and headed north onto the broad highway of Watling Street. They kept their horses at a steady trot. He hope the road would be safe at this early hour, but kept a watchful eye on the woods. In his mind he pictured silent archers hiding in the trees, imagined the pain of a grey-fletched arrow thrilling in his flesh.

  After an hour or so they rounded a bend in the road, wide enough for ten horsemen to ride abreast. There it was. An overturned cart, the horses gone and four corpses sprawled around it.

  Hugh trotted forward to study the nearest. A young girl, no more than twelve, her throat slashed, smock of homespun brown wool hitched up to her thighs. She had been raped. A brief glance at the other bodies was enough. Two men and a woman, considerably older than the girl, both horribly mutilated. Probably her parents.

  His gorge rose, and he made the sign of the cross. Stephen, he noticed, looked unperturbed.

  “You were a man of God, weren’t you?” Hugh said angrily. “At least show some pity!”

  Stephen slid off his horse and knelt next to the girl. He pressed his index and middle fingers against her neck. Then he rose and placed them against Hugh’s wrist. An odd gesture, but Hugh realised the meaning. The bodies were still warm. That meant the killers could still be in the vicinity.

  He stood up in his stirrups and looked around. Nothing. The woods were quiet as ever, save for the twitter of distant birdsong and a faint breeze rustling the leaves.

  Stephen climbed nimbly back into the saddle, and the two men rode away at a gallop. Hugh crouched low in the saddle, ignoring the wind and dirt that whipped past his eyes.

  An ear-splitting scream erupted behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw Stephen’s horse founder in the middle of the road. An arrow with green fletches was stuck in her rump.

  Hugh wheeled his horse about. He glimpsed a man step out of the forest about fifty yards back down the road, close to the plundered cart. An archer in dark greens and browns, face hidden under a hood. He reached for a fresh arrow from the quiver hanging from his shoulder.

  Three more hooded bowmen, armed with bows and swords, leaped from the woods. One aimed his bow at Hugh, who kicked in his spurs and galloped straight at him. The bowman’s eyes widened with fear. He was ugly, with a pockmarked face and lank black hair straddling to his shoulders. He dropped his bow and dived aside just in time to avoid being trampled.

  Hugh ripped out his sword to cut at the man as he grovelled in the dirt. He froze as more archers came streaming out of the forest. Five of them surrounded Stephen and tried to claw him from the saddle. He drove his knife into the nearest man’s shoulder, even as grimy hands clutched at his ankles. The flank of his wounded horse was impaled by a spear. She shrieked and went down, taking her rider with her.

  The archers piled on top of Stephen. They kicked and punched and cursed, rained blows down on him with their bowstaves. Hugh was forced to make a decision: help his companion, and probably die in the attempt, or turn and ride for his life.

  He swerved his horse around and put her to the gallop. An arrow skimmed past his head. The archers had no horses to pursue him, and he swiftly rode clear of danger.

  12.

  Lincoln

  Esther woke and reached instinctively for the warm body next to her. Familiar desolation returned as her fingers found nothing but a cold pillow. Her husband was gone. The pain stabbed at Esther’s heart, as it did every morning, followed by the dull, unrelenting ache that would remain with her for the rest of the day.

  She sat up and rubbed her face. The sadness welled up inside her. Black wolf, she called it. If she concentrated, the wolf could be kept at bay. For a while. Tears did no good.

  It was early, far too early to rise and labour through the day. Something must have woken her. Esther reluctantly swung her legs out of bed, shuffled over to the window, and fumbled with the latch on the shutters. They swung open to admit a wall of freezing night air. Her skin go
osebumped under the thin cotton shift.

  The street below her was illuminated by torchlight. Esther’s shadow cast monstrous shapes on the cobbles as she leaned over the sill.

  A door opened on the opposite terrace. One of her neighbours, a middle-aged goldsmith named Isaac ben Jotham, stepped out in his nightshirt. He raised his candle in its iron holder and peered up at her. His face was pale and haggard in the weak light.

  “Another light sleeper,” he called out. “Did you hear it too?”

  “Something woke me,” she replied, uncomfortably aware of him ogling her bare shoulders. “I don’t know what.”

  He put his finger to his lips and cocked his head. Silence.

  Isaac laughed nervously. “We’re easily startled, eh?”

  His face turned white as a distant scream tore through the streets. It was drowned by the rattle of chains and creak of timber.