Longsword

by David Pilling

  As their captain, Godberd had it in his power to hang any man he chose. He would have preferred to stretch Walter’s neck and put an end to the brute, but feared that doing so would risk splitting the band. They were divided enough already.

  Godberd knew his resolve was faltering. There was no end in sight to the war, and no realistic prospect of his lord, the Earl of Derby, being released from prison at Windsor. Godberd had no love of robbery and bloodshed for their own sake.

  Walter seemed to read his thoughts. “You have no right to condemn me,” he said, “for you are guilty of the same crimes. I heard what happened at Garendon Abbey. You robbed the monks at swordpoint and beat the Abbot to a pulp. How does that make you any better than me? How are you fit to be my judge?”

  A few men raised their voices in agreement. Godberd cursed silently. He had committed a terrible crime at Garendon, and God had chosen a fine time to punish him for it.

  “I claimed nothing from the abbey that was not rightfully mine,” he answered, raising his voice above the tide of discontent. “The abbot denied my rights. He paid the penalty. I am not the one on trial here.”

  “Mutinous bastards,” growled his brother Geoffrey. Godberd laid a hand on Geoffrey’s arm before the latter could reach for his sword.

  “If any man other than the accused wishes to charge me with wrongdoing,” said Godberd, “I will be happy to answer him fairly.”

  He turned his attention back to Walter. “My judgment is this. You will be given fifty strokes of the birch, your sword will be broken, and you will never again hold a position of command in this company.”

  The dissenting voices were quelled slightly. Walter broke into a peal of throaty laughter as his guards led him away to be flogged.

  “Coward!” he shouted, “I knew you didn’t have the guts to kill me!”

  Godberd ignored him and turned to his brother William. “How are the captives?” he asked quietly.

  “The crippled monk spends most of his time asleep or staring at the wall,” replied William. “He has suffered much, and I doubt he will recover his wits. The other one seems sound enough.”

  Godberd nodded. “I’ll speak with him.”

  25.

  Hugh surfaced from a deep sleep, thankfully free of nightmares, to be greeted by cold reality. His back rested against rough stone, and he was chained to the wall via a heavy iron fetter attached to his ankle. The fetter was rusting and had scraped his ankle raw and bloody.

  His befuddled mind tried to make sense of recent events. After his rescue from the wolf pit, he had been brought here, to a ruined grange deep in the forest, and imprisoned inside one of the outbuildings. He had seen no-one except a guard for two days.

  Hugh appreciated the respite. He had been constantly on the move for weeks, forced to react quickly to problems he was not trained to cope with. His most recent adventure nearly ended with him being devoured by wolves. The experience had left him babbling scared and hovering on the verge of madness. Only now, in the blessed loneliness of his prison, did he feel his strength returning. Brother Stephen had been put elsewhere.

  The building had once been a grain store, and a few ancient grain seeds were still scattered about the earth floor. Rats and mice scuttled to and fro, squabbling for territory. Hugh didn’t mind them. Daylight filtered through chinks in the roof, so he wasn’t condemned to total darkness. He was fed twice a day, and the food was good: wheaten bread, goat’s cheese, cuts of venison and pork, the water always fresh, straight from the river. Hugh doubted many prisoners ate so well.

  Hugh concentrated on sifting information, mainly what he had gleaned from spying on the rebel camp at Ely. Thanks to the education his father worked so hard to provide, Hugh had a well-ordered, mathematical mind, and found it easy to commit facts to memory.

  On the third morning of his captivity, not long after breakfast, the door swung open. A stranger entered. Hugh quickly weighed him up. He was of average height and stocky build, about forty or thereabouts, with a strong, square face framed by an unkempt beard. The grey streaks in his hair and deep lines scored into his cheeks and the corners of his mouth were testament to a hard life.

  “My name is Roger Godberd,” said the newcomer. “I am captain of this outlaw band. I rescued you from the wolves.”

  Hugh’s chain clanked as he shifted position. “You have my thanks, if you want them,” he replied warily. “My name is Hugh Longsword.”

  He had considered supplying a false name, but decided it was too much of a risk. For all he knew, the outlaws in Charnwood were in regular communication with the rebels in Ely. Equally, they might have no knowledge of each other, or be rivals. The best hope of safety, Hugh reckoned, lay in being honest up to a point.

  “My men told me something of your history,” said Godberd. “You were captured near Northampton in the company of a woman. Running from a hunting party led by one of the d'Eyvills. Is this true?”

  Hugh replied that it was. Godberd leaned his back against the door, one hand placed lightly on the hilt of his broadsword.

  “Talk to me, Hugh Longsword. Fill in the gaps. There are so many.”

  Hugh spun him a tale, one part true to two parts pure invention. He pretended he left London to join the rebels and angered Sir Robert d'Eyvill by falling in love with a beautiful Jewess, one of the prisoners taken at Lincoln. Hugh claimed that Robert had his own designs on the Jewess, and so the lovers had fled, pursued by soldiers and dogs.

  Godberd appeared to swallow the tale. “Then you had the ill-fortune to run into Walter Devyas on the road outside Northampton. The rest I know,” he said when Hugh was done. “Very well. The question now is - what to do with you?”

  Hugh waited. He suspected this hard-faced man had already made up his mind.

  “You won’t know this,” Godberd went on, “but word reached us yesterday that the King has offered terms to the garrison at Kenilworth, and to any rebel willing to come in and make their peace. The terms seem fair. King Henry has finally realised the folly of disinheriting half the landowners in England. We are to be allowed to buy back our property.”

  Hugh digested the news in silence, wondering how such a settlement could work. A great many of the King’s supporters had enriched themselves at the expense of the Disinherited. Were they going to be forced to surrender their ill-gotten gains? They would surely fight to keep what they had stolen. That would lead to fresh discord and division, and the war would continue.

  “I’m telling you this, so you understand what I say next, and why,” said Godberd. “I have long had doubts about the wisdom of remaining in arms against the king. We could carry on the fight for another year or two, perhaps, yet to what end? England is crumbling. The people suffer. The fighting has to stop.”

  Hugh didn’t credit any of this. He had spent too long in the company of outlaws to believe one who claimed to have a conscience. Godberd was just another brigand, every bit as ruthless and uncaring as the Beast or Walter Devyas. His guess was that Godberd’s leadership had been challenged in some way, and that the man was looking for a way out before he got his throat cut.

  “Tomorrow I will ride to Kenilworth,” Godberd went on, “and make my peace with the King. You would not be safe if I left you here. Come with me.”

  Hugh mulled this over. Godberd’s list of allies must have grown thin indeed if he put his faith in a stranger. On the other hand, whatever the outlaw’s motives, he offered Hugh a chance to get out of Charnwood and back to the safety of Kenilworth. Once inside the royal camp, Hugh could make his report to Master John and hopefully be discharged of any further duties.

  He cleared his throat. “What of Brother Stephen?” he asked.

  Godberd looked surprised. “The crippled monk? Why should you care what happens to him? It is not long since you were trying to kill each other.”

  “Your followers made us fight. I had no wish to harm him. He is quite mad, poor soul.”

  Godberd’s heavy brows knitted together. “Yes
,” he said eventually, “we can take him as well. Tomorrow, then.”

  26.

  Kenilworth

  Master John of St Michael shivered in the gloom of his tent. He was always cold, even in the heat of summer, and now the autumn was starting to fade. Winter was on the march. It was a time of year he hated.

  The spymaster doubted he would see another spring. He had struggled through forty-six winters, and every year he grew weaker. His feeble, fleshless body was frequently racked by agues and the creeping shadow of arthritis. His stomach was incapable of keeping down anything but gruel, and precious little of that. Master John was a man living on borrowed time.

  He frowned and pulled the sheet of vellum closer to him, squinting by candlelight at the design scrawled on it in charcoal. The almost certain knowledge that he was not long for this world served to focus his mind, which unlike his suffering body was as healthy and vigorous as ever.

  The vellum showed a detailed plan of the layout of Kenilworth Castle. Master John had been studying it for months, since before the siege began. All that time he pondered ways of getting his agents into the castle. Every attempt had been a failure. Henry de Hastings was clever and vigilant. He left no stretch of wall, postern or water gate unguarded. Master John had already lost several good men to his sentries, though Hastings never failed to return portions of them via a catapult.

  Master John sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. He may have to lose a few more. The rebel garrison had rejected all overtures, including the latest peace proposals. They had stoutly endured months of heavy bombardment and resisted all attempts to storm the walls.

  One couldn’t help admiring their courage. It bordered on the fanatical, since there was absolutely no hope that they would be relieved. The Cinque Ports were now firmly in royalist hands, and the coasts watched for any sign of Simon the Younger’s invasion fleet. Master John feared no threats from that quarter. He had a great many contacts in France. The latest reports told him that Simon and his brother Guy were wandering aimlessly about the south of the country. Their money was all but squandered, along with their reputations.

  A helmeted head appeared through the tent-flap. “They are here, sir,” said its owner, a Brabant mercenary with a livid pink scar down one cheek. Master John lifted a finger in acknowledgment without looking up from his map. The Brabant vanished and shortly returned with two other men.

  “You can go, Henri,” said Master John. “I will be safe in the company of these men. In case I am wrong, remain within earshot.”

  The Brabant left, though reluctantly, and with a suspicious glance at the newcomers.

  Master John smiled thinly and decided to try and put them at his ease. Not, as he would have been the first to admit, his strongest suit.

  “Please,” he said, indicating the chairs opposite his little desk. He folded his hands and adopted his most demure expression as they ventured in and sat down.

  “Come,” he said, “I am not your enemy. Indeed, at this moment, I am probably your best friend in the world.”

  Master John studied the faces of Hugh Longsword and Roger Godberd. Despite his assurances, they looked wary. Hugh and Godberd had arrived at Kenilworth the previous day. They brought a few men with them, outlaws who wished to make their peace. They also brought all that was left of Brother Stephen, slung across the back of a rouncey.

  Master John was usually immune to anger. There was little scope for it in his cold, detached personality. Yet he had experienced a flicker of annoyance at the pitiful condition of Stephen, one of his most useful agents. He had arranged for Stephen to be taken to a quiet, secluded monastery in the West Country, to live out his days in peace.

  “At least you are unharmed,” he said to Hugh. “I am keen to hear your report. It surprises me to see you in the company of Roger Godberd. This man is a notorious felon. Give me one good reason why he should live.”

  Godberd went white, and Hugh shifted uncomfortably on his chair. “He has seen the error of his ways, sir,” he said, “and wishes to make his peace.”

  Master John was unconvinced. Men like Godberd had been coming into the peace ever since the terms were announced at the end of August. Small fry, mostly, lesser knights and landowners. The King had sent a papal envoy to treat with the rebels occupying the Isle of Ely, but Master John doubted he would meet with any success.

  “I have spoken in private with the Lord Edward,” he said to Godberd. “He is not keen on accepting your surrender.”

  The outlaw swallowed. “I came here in good faith,” he rasped, “on the understanding that the terms were available to all.”

  “So they are, but at variable rates,” replied Master John. “You have done a great deal of wrong. An abbey plundered, the abbot nigh beaten to death, loyal soldiers and servants of the King assaulted and murdered. Do you expect a free pardon for all these crimes?”

  “They were done in time of war! I was a soldier in arms, not a mere brigand. Let us speak plainly. If I am to buy my pardon, say so. I have money.”

  “We want your service, not money,” said Master John. “Once it is accomplished, you can have your lands back.”

  “What service?” Godberd demanded.

  Master John ignored him and switched his attention to Hugh.

  This one has suffered, he thought, running a critical eye over his newest agent, and will suffer more yet.

  Hugh sat slumped in a chair too small for his large frame. Master John noted with a touch of approval that Hugh’s expression was carefully blank. This made it almost impossible to read his thoughts.

  “What have you told Godberd of your background?” asked the Savoyard.

  “As much of the truth as was safe to tell,” Hugh replied. “I told him I had left London and joined the rebel cause of my own free will, and that I fled the Isle of Ely after quarrelling with Sir John d'Eyvill’s brother over a woman.”

  Master John nodded. “You will give me your full report in private later. Master Godberd, Longsword has lied to you. I sent him into Ely to spy on the rebel camp. He is no rebel, but my agent and a servant of the crown.”

  He braced himself for Godberd’s reaction. He had judged the outlaw to be a typical greenwood savage, impulsive and easily roused to violence. That was why Master John had told his guard to remain within earshot, and why the fingers of his right hand were wrapped around the hilt of a dagger strapped to his thigh.

  People seldom surprised him, at least not in pleasant ways. This was one of those rare occasions. Godberd glanced briefly at Hugh and shrugged.

  “No matter,” he said indifferently, “I would have spun a similar tale, if I had been in his position. There are men in Charnwood right now who would call me a liar and a traitor. I abandoned them to come here.”

  Master John eyed him for a moment and then slid the plan of Kenilworth Castle across the desk. “You have been inside the castle,” he said, “and must have some knowledge of its defences. The accursed place has so far proved impregnable. Is it?”

  Godberd studied the plan for a moment. “I don’t know of any secret ways in, if that’s what you mean,” he replied. “Henry de Hastings is a thorough man.”

  “The graves of several of my agents bear witness to that fact,” said Master John. “No-one gets in or out without the garrison knowing about it. Very well. We shall try something else.”

  He stabbed a finger at Godberd. “The men of the garrison know and trust you, correct? They cannot know anything, yet, of your coming here and suing for peace.”

  Godberd replied uneasily that this was so.

  “Good,” Master John went on, “then you shall enter Kenilworth tonight. Master Longsword will go with you.”

  As a physically feeble man, Master John had always delighted in unsettling those bigger and stronger than himself. Judging by their faces, Godberd and Hugh were thoroughly unsettled.

  These were the moments he lived for. Master John laced his fingers together and started to recite the details of his plan.
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  27.

  Thirsk, NorthYorkshire

  Hode Castle was a small place, more like a fortified hunting lodge than a castle, perched on the dramatic, wind-blown summit of Hode Hill. To Esther, born and raised in towns, it was the most remote and Godforsaken spot she could imagine. The surrounding countryside was beautiful in a rugged sort of way, but no amount of natural beauty could compensate for being a prisoner again.

  As he had done at Ely, Robert d'Eyvill gave her the best rooms, on the highest floor of the timber keep at the northern end of the castle. She was allowed to venture onto the battlements, where the wind blew so hard it threatened to pluck her off her feet. The door to the lower levels was locked and guarded.

  From the battlements she had a fine view over the surrounding hills and the rest of the castle, a long, narrow ward that followed the contours of the ridge, divided in two and enclosed by a limestone wall and a dyke. The castle appeared to be sparsely inhabited. She could see only three guards, not including Shakelock and Jean le Petit, and a few servants.