“The cost, my lord, the cost,” said the Chancellor, wagging a finger. “Maintaining an army in the field is ruinously expensive, even if it does nothing but sit outside a castle.”
“Then reduce our numbers,” Almain replied. “A third of the army here could be safely disbanded and sent back to their homes. Why are so many needed to watch over so few?”
The council fell to wrangling over money. Henry sat and listened, but said little. He was aware of the undercurrent of tension between his sons and the two quarrelling noblemen, Mortimer and de Clare. The outcome of the war really depended on whether all these seething rivalries exploded into violence. The starving men inside Kenilworth, and Sir John d'Eyvill’s stubborn northerners squatting inside their damp stronghold at Ely, could eventually be dealt with. The quarrels of over-powerful magnates could not.
The young Earl of Gloucester caused him particular disquiet. He recalled the morning of that terrible, blood-soaked day at Evesham, and the last words he heard Simon de Montfort utter in this life. The Earl’s little army was gathering inside the gates of the town, when he heard that Gloucester’s banners had been seen in the van of the approaching royalist host. De Montfort had smiled grimly at the news.
“This red dog shall eat us today,” he remarked, before pulling on his helm and leading his men out to their doom.
Henry, who was de Montfort’s captive, had been obliged to ride with them, dressed in plain armour and stuck up on a huge destrier that carried him into the heart of the slaughter. It was only thanks to the grace of God and the sharp ears of Mortimer, who dragged Henry to safety, that the King was not slain along with Montfort and his knights.
Henry shut out the dreadful memory and glanced at de Clare. The red dog stared inscrutably into his cup and took no part in the heated debate as it raged around him.
This one nurses a host of grievances, thought Henry. I shall have to watch you, sir earl. Watch you very carefully.
31.
Thirsk, North Yorkshire
It was raining. It had rained ceaselessly all the way from Kenilworth. The cold and damp seeped through Hugh’s clothes and into his bones, infecting his soul.
He sat his horse on the moor west of the village of Topcliffe and gazed towards the Hambleton Hills. The villagers were peasants, suspicious of strangers to the point of violence. Only the steady flow of money from his purse had saved him from a beating.
It also persuaded them to answer his questions. He learned that Hode Hill lay just three miles to the north-east. Topcliffe was a Percy manor, and the villagers had little to do with the d'Eyvills. One shepherd’s lad claimed to have witnessed much activity near the castle in recent times. Two more farthings dropped into the boy’s grubby palm loosened his tongue further. While out on the moor to the north of Topcliffe, tending his father’s sheep, he had seen a small group of riders heading towards Hode Hill.
When was that? Why, over a week ago, sir. What have you seen since? Another, larger group riding the same way. They were soldiers, these, over a score of them, carrying pretty banners and dressed all in mail that shone like the sun. They had stayed less than an hour up at the castle, and then ridden back the same way.
Hugh thanked the boy, tossed him another penny for his trouble and rode out of Topcliffe, leaving enough gossip behind him to sustain the isolated village for months.
Now the little castle on its lofty ridge was in sight. He reined in to study it and ponder what to do next. Hugh’s mind was bare of ideas. All his strength and guile had been used up getting him this far.
He recalled his last conversation with Master John at Kenilworth. Persuading the spymaster to let him go in search of Esther had been a feat in itself.
“Had you not done so well for me recently, I would not even consider this request,” Master John said. “I advise you to forget the Jewess and return to your family. Rest and recover your strength, until I have need of you again.”
He gave one of his unpleasant smiles. “I will summon you as little or as often as I like. There is no retirement from my service. Only death can terminate the indenture.”
Hugh’s skin crawled at the thought of being in thrall for the rest of his days.
“I am resolved to find her, sir,” he replied. Master John’s weak little eyes peered narrowly at him.
“Tell me about this Jewess,” he snapped. “Are you in love with her?”
The question was unexpected, and Hugh had to grope for an answer. “No,” he said finally. “I promised to save her from the rebels. I failed.”
“So you feel obligated. You realise she is probably dead by now.”
“Perhaps, sir. I have to know for certain. Otherwise the guilt might stay with me forever.”
Master John sniffed. “Matters of conscience are a waste of time in our trade, Longsword. You will learn. Where do you intend to look for her?”
“Godberd questioned the men who took her back to Sir Robert d'Eyvill. They said they saw him riding north. I doubt he took her back to Ely.”
“That leaves the d'Eyvill manors in Sherwood and Yorkshire as their most likely destination,” said Master John. “Sir Robert has spent much of his life in Yorkshire, and only ever comes south in the service of his brother.”
Hugh nodded gratefully. “I will go to Yorkshire, then.”
Master John looked at him with some alarm. “You propose to ride off alone into the wilds of Yorkshire,” he said incredulously, “to snatch some Jewess from the clutches of a pack of outlaws? Don’t think of asking me for help. I have no men to spare, and would not waste them on such a foolish venture.”
“I will go alone, if need be,” Hugh said stubbornly. “I must know what has happened to her. That is all.”
Master John was obviously disgusted by such pointless self-sacrifice. Yet nothing he said could persuade Hugh to change his mind. In the end, the spymaster dismissed his servant with a show of ill-temper, though not before handing over a purse of money and his grudging good wishes. He also arranged for one of his quartermasters to give Hugh a horse for the journey.
Hugh rode out of the camp the same day, though he stopped for one last look at the battered shell of Kenilworth Castle. After so many failed assaults, the king’s army had settled down to starve the defenders out. The rebel war-engines were silent, and the barbican and towers of the curtain wall empty of life. Hastings had pulled most of his remaining men back to the inner bailey. Whenever they chose, the royalists could cross the lake and take possession of the outer bailey.
The inner bailey was a second fortress by itself, garrisoned by sullen, dogged men whose determination to resist bordered on madness. Hugh remembered the feverish gleam in the eyes of Henry de Hastings, and wondered at the fate of Roger Godberd and Thomas de Reymes.
He shuddered and pricked his horse on. Kenilworth, he considered, was a place best left behind.
His journey to North Yorkshire took the best part of five days. The roads were in a poor state, churned up and rendered almost impassable in places thanks to the onset of winter rain and mud.
Hugh was wary of falling victim again to highway robbers. He travelled by cautious stages. Every night he sought shelter in roadside inns, and more than once scrambled off the road and hid in the woods as groups of armed men rode past. Whether they were for the King or the Disinherited, or mere brigands out for themselves, he couldn’t tell, and had no intention of finding out.
He frequently glimpsed smoke on the horizon, smelled the familiar stench of fire and blood. On those occasions he would clap in his spurs and gallop on, putting as much distance between him and potential danger as possible.
Now he was on a darkened moor, ignoring the rain that tumbled from grey overcast skies and soaked him to the skin. He had been wet through ever since crossing into Yorkshire, a green and wildly beautiful land that seemed determined to drown him.
Before him lay Hode Castle on Hode Hill, the suitably grim stronghold of the d'Eyvills. It occupied a commanding position on the hi
ghest part of a prominent ridge that ran from north to south on an isolated hill. The sides of the ridge fell away steeply, so the castle could only be approached from north or south. The northern end was guarded by an old-fashioned timber keep – Hugh supposed that the d'Eyvills lacked the funds to rebuild it in stone – and a small stone barbican guarded the southern approach.
Compared to Kenilworth, Hode Castle was a pygmy of a fortress, but no less daunting for that. The banner of the d'Eyvills snapped and fluttered on the roof of the keep. Hugh saw no sign of men on the battlements. The place had an empty, haunted feel about it.
Encouraged, he rode towards the southern end of the ridge, along the curving line of the man-made defensive ditch that followed the contour of the hill. He was in full view of any watchers on the walls, but no sentry hailed him. All was silent, save the whisper of rain and the steady beat of hoofs on the sodden moor.
He stopped when he came within sight of the gates of the barbican. They were open. All his instincts screamed at him that it was a trap. As soon as he passed through those gates, they would swing shut behind him and he would be at the mercy of whoever was inside. Robert d'Eyvill and his hirelings were no doubt watching him at this very moment.
What other choice did he have? He felt certain Esther was inside the castle. The memory of her pale beauty and determination to live and die free – “I would stab myself rather than fall into their hands again,” – spurred him on.
He had to dismount to lead his horse up the steep slope of the ditch, within easy arrow-shot of the walls. Nothing happened as he climbed back into the saddle and rode slowly to the barbican. Hugh drew on his last reserve of courage and spurred his horse through the gates.
The barbican opened onto a narrow corridor flanked by high crenellated walls, ending in a gatehouse. The arrow-slit window above the arch yawned vacantly at him as he cantered up the corridor and passed through the inner gateway.
He came out into the lower ward, with roofed buildings either side of him and a steep slope that led up to the keep. This was the heart of the little castle, and apparently devoid of life. Not a light flickered inside the windows of the hall, or the kitchen block next to it. It seemed Hode Castle was abandoned.
“Hello, Longsword,” said a familiar voice. Hugh twisted sharply in the saddle and saw Robert d'Eyvill leaning against the doorframe of the hall. The knight was bareheaded and wore a plain black tunic, black leggings and boots of black calfskin. A broadsword was strapped to his hip.
“Don’t gawp at me, man, I’m not a ghost,” said Robert. “That much I am certain of.”
Hugh’s shock at seeing Robert was compounded by the knight’s manner. There was a careless insouciance about him that hadn’t been there before. He was smiling. Hugh thought he must be drunk.
“Where’s Esther?” he demanded. “What have you have done with her?”
Robert sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Esther,” he echoed. “She left me.”
“Left you? She is alive, then?”
“Yes. Probably. I don’t know.”
“What happened here? Why is the castle deserted?”
“I’ve been cast out, Master Longsword. My cousin Nicholas came here some days ago and ordered me to return south with him. I replied that I would rot in Hell before I went back to rotting in the fens. He didn’t like that. He cursed me for an outcast and a traitor, and stripped me of my name. I no longer have the right to call myself a d'Eyvill.”
Nicholas d'Eyvill. The Beast. Hugh looked around wildly, half-expecting his snarling, apelike features to appear in one of the doorways.
“Calm yourself,” said Robert with a smile, “my cousin is a stark man, and you are wise to fear him, but he has gone. Back to the fens and the fighting and the burning and plundering and the whole bloody, muddled mess. He took the garrison with him. The servants left soon afterwards. They refused to work for a disgraced master.”
Robert straightened and spread his hands. “I will make you lord of nothing, Nicholas vowed, and so he did. I am lord of an empty shell. No longer Sir Robert d'Eyvill, but plain Robert of Hode.”
Hugh slowly drew his sword. “I care nothing for your troubles,” he said, “only for Esther. Tell me where she is.”
“I understand. You are in love with her. I can’t blame you for that, but won’t tell you where she has gone. She yearned to be free, so I released her. Her life is none of my concern now. Or yours.”
Hugh urged his horse a step closer. “I didn’t ride all this way to be put off by a wretch like you, d'Eyvill ”
Robert frowned. “I told you, I no longer have a right to that name. Coming here was a chivalrous act, no knight could have done better, and for that I commend you. But the effort has been in vain. Go home.”
Hugh slid out of the saddle and slapped his horse’s neck, pushing her away. He advanced on Robert, holding his sword before him.
“Robert d'Eyvill or Robert Hode, I care not which,” he said, “tell me where she has gone. Otherwise, I swear to Almighty God, I will carve you like a pie.”
“Well, this should be entertaining.”
Another familiar voice. Hugh looked to his left, and saw two men standing under the arch of the gatehouse. They must have watched him venture alone into the castle. Now he was trapped.
They were a mismatched pair. Hugh recognised the speaker, a wiry, auburn-haired man with a crooked smile, and his companion, a black-bearded giant with a bald pate and limbs like tree trunks. Both had been among Robert’s hunting party in the fens.
Three against one. The odds against Hugh had just risen to unacceptable levels. He backed away, cudgelling his wits for a way out.
“Master Longsword gave us a hell of a chase back in the fens,” said the one named Shakelock, “and now he’s ridden all this way for a woman. He must have some balls. How about we let him keep them, lord?”
“I have no desire to kill anyone today,” said Robert, pointing at the open gate. “Off you go, Master Longsword, while my good humour lasts. Pray we do not meet again.”
Self-preservation warred with the stubborn streak in Hugh’s soul. Stubbornness won.
“No,” he said, “I will know what happened to Esther, even if I have to cut the truth out of you.”
Robert’s smile vanished. “We are not going to fight. The idea is absurd. I am a knight, trained to arms since childhood, and you are a peasant. A remarkable one, perhaps, but still a peasant.”
“I am a freeman and a soldier.”
“A peasant,” Robert replied with a shrug, “to one of gentle birth, you are all peasants.”
Hugh lost his temper. “Draw your sword,” he growled, “not for my sake, or yours, or even Esther’s. Someone has to stand up to your kind. You live in castles and gorge on red meat, while the poor starve on bread and pottage. You chain men to the plough, pillage and tax the people without mercy. Anyone who dares to protest is beaten and imprisoned. You have ruined England with your selfish wars. The time has come for justice.”
Robert let his hands fall loose by his sides. “Quite a speech,” he remarked. “Am I responsible for all the world’s ills, then? What if I gave away my lands and wealth to the poor? Would that satisfy you?”
By way of an answer Hugh lunged, aiming to spit Robert through the chest. Robert dodged aside. Hugh’s blade struck sparks as it scraped against the wall.
“You remind me of a bear swiping at a fish,” Robert said calmly. “For the last time, will you stop?”
Hugh cursed and swung at him again. Robert’s sword flashed into being. There was a blur and ring of steel. Pain flooded through Hugh’s wrists.
His sword clanged as it hit the flagstones. Robert had turned his attack and disarmed him, seemingly without effort. The knight could have killed him there and then, but lowered his weapon and stood back, waiting.
Shakelock’s laughter echoed in Hugh’s ears. He snatched up his sword and went for Robert like a mad bull, trying to force the smaller man into a corner where
he could hack him to pieces.
Hope flared as he battered down Robert’s guard with a mighty swinging two-handed blow. His opponent bent like a reed and spun away with the grace of a dancer. Robert kept his sword down and moved easily on the balls of his feet while Hugh lumbered after him.
“Tiring, isn’t it?” said Robert as Hugh wiped away the sweat that had started to drip from his brow. “More so than you might think. Soon your lungs will start to hurt.”
Hugh snarled wordlessly and chopped at Robert’s neck. Robert ducked aside from the cut, ignored a glorious opportunity to cut open Hugh’s ribs, and allowed his off-balance opponent to blunder past.
Hugh turned and hacked at him again. The contending blades flickered together once, twice, and the left side of his face exploded with pain. He felt warm blood pouring down his face, half-blinding him, and gasped as he staggered away and explored the damage with his fingers. Robert’s sword had opened a deep cut on his temple, just above his left eye.
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