Longsword

by David Pilling

  “Small comfort to those who have to live in the world here and now,” retorted Hugh.

  “The truth is seldom comforting. Why are you here, Christian?”

  “For two reasons. One, to know Esther is safe.”

  “She is. And the second?”

  “To collect my reward.”

  The Jew’s aged features wrinkled into a knowing smile. “I thought so. How predictable. Still, no-one could say you do not deserve something. How much?”

  “You misunderstand me. I don’t want money.”

  Ben-Shaul frowned. “No? What, then?”

  “Just this. A word of thanks.”

  There was silence in the room while the two men held each other’s gaze. “I will take that as a rebuke,” ben-Shaul said after a long moment, “and perhaps not an undeserved one. You have my thanks, Hugh Longsword. You have Esther’s as well, and something else.”

  He opened a drawer in his desk and drew out a roll of vellum tied with red string. “She wanted you to have this,” he said, holding it out. “Take it and be gone.”

  Much later, Hugh sat in the Red Lion inn near Fossgate and untied the string binding on the vellum. It unrolled to reveal a brief letter written in a neat, precise hand that he took to be Esther’s own:

  ‘Hugh,

  If you ever read this, then I would you knew of my gratitude for your courage on my behalf. We cannot meet. I am among my own people now.

  I have great cause for bitterness towards the men of your race. You are the only exception. I shall pray for you.

  Your friend,

  Esther’

  When he had finished reading, Hugh rolled up the letter and tucked it inside his belt. A vision of Esther’s face, pale and anxious and framed by black ringlets, rose in his mind as he drank his ale.

  He mulled over the words of her cousin. One cannot fight such people with their own weapons. Hugh had initially dismissed that as cowardice. Now they made sense in the context of Esther’s letter and the marks on his own body. One could only trust in time.

  It was time he went home. The journey back to London was not as risky or difficult as he feared, since he was fortunate enough to fall in with a company travelling from York to London. The roads were still dangerous, so they hired a strong guard to see them safe to the capital.

  His companions were a mixed bag of merchants, friars and tradesmen. Among them was a fat widow with a full nether lip who gave Hugh one or two thoughtful glances before ignoring him for the rest of the journey. She ambled along on a palfrey and had a little pet terrier that she treated like a spoiled baby, petting and cooing to it and feeding it sweetmeats from a bag. Even she rode armed, and carried a long dagger in a plush red sheath among her silks and furs. Her perfume was overpoweringly strong and carried a scent of lilac.

  Hugh’s wounds made it painful for him to sit a horse, so he resorted to riding in the back of a covered wagon. He spent much of the journey in prayer and contemplation. His thoughts were divided between Esther, God and fate.

  A week later he arrived at his old lodgings in Southwark. The familiar cheap room above a bakery, with its smell of damp sheets and floorboards, mingled with the more pleasant smell of fresh bread from below. It was as sparsely furnished as he remembered. Besides the narrow but comfortable bed, there was only a chest full of old clothes and a few bits of furniture. He lit a fire in the small grate and ate a quick supper of bread and cheese.

  When it grew dark Hugh undressed with care, wincing at the pain of half-healed scars. He crossed to the window to close the heavy wooden shutters, and noticed a square of parchment lying on the table. Hugh picked it up to read the single line written across the leaf.

  Don’t get too comfortable.

  The handwriting was small, neat and precise. Unmistakably that of Master John of St Michael.

  34.

  Fenwick, Nottinghamshire

  The manor house at Fenwick was a strong place, enclosed by a double ditch and a wall of stone and lime, set near the fair forests and rolling hills where the lord of Fenwick, Sir Richard Foliot, enjoyed hunting the beasts of the warren. Richard was a keen huntsman who jealously guarded the boundaries of his estates. His foresters kept strict watch for poachers and other unwelcome intruders.

  Their lord had other, more private, reasons to be concerned about the security of his manor. One such sat in the hall of Fenwick house, devouring a plate of roast venison. His followers, the red-haired man named Will Scathelock and the bald giant Jean le Petit, ate at the lower tables with no less urgency.

  All three had wandered aimlessly since they lefy Hugh Longsword lying in a pool of blood at Hode Castle. Penniless and homeless, they took to the forest as brigands, common thieves, lying in wait for travellers. Thanks to his abduction of Esther, Robert had no allies left and very few friends.

  Not all doors were barred to him. When life in the greenwood became too harsh to sustain, he took a risk and sought shelter with Foliot. The cheerful forest lord welcomed the gang into his house, gave them a place by the fire and plenty to eat and drink. Robert feared there would be a price to pay for such generosity, but preferred not to dwell on it.

  Foliot sat at the other end of the long table and watched his guests eat with amusement dancing in his soft brown eyes. He was in his middle age, a tall, well-knit man who shunned the company of women and was happiest at the chase, a hawk on his wrist and his hounds at his heels. He lived in somewhat rough comfort. Foliot allowed his reddish hair and beard to grow long and wore plain, homespun clothing, none of it overly clean.

  Yet he was no fool. Robert was well aware of this, and occasionally darted anxious glances at his host.

  “A messenger from your brother came to my house at Grimston, two weeks ago,” Foliot said at last. “He asked, no, instructed me to keep a look-out for you. I am send him word if you are spotted. At once.”

  Robert swallowed and carefully laid down his eating knife. He did some swift calculation. Fenwick Hall was full of male servants, grooms and at least five sergeants Two of the latter stood guard by the door, their beefy faces carefully blank, calloused fingers gripping the hilts of their falchions.

  He exchanged glances with Will, who shook his head. There was little chance of fighting their way out.

  “Do you mean to obey my brother?” Robert asked, pushing away his plate and meeting Foliot’s steady gaze.

  “No,” replied Foliot. “Sir John assumes too much. I am the Lord of Wellow, and do not follow the orders of any save the King. I bear you no grudges.”

  He looked thoughful. “There are many who do, however. You are an outlaw with a price on your head. All kinds of men are out hunting for you.”

  Robert’s skin prickled with sweat. “Yet, despite all that,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady, “you will not give me up?”

  “I please myself,” answered Foliot, “and it strikes me that you and I could come to terms.”

  “Terms?”

  “Indeed. I am your only protection. I am also a lawful man, and must not be seen to step beyond the boundaries of the law.”

  He stabbed a finger at Robert. “You could survive for many months, stealing from rich travellers. I am willing to provide you and your men with refuge, in return for a share of your profits. Do we have a bargain?”

  Robert considered. He realised what was on offer. In exchange for sanctuary from the law, Foliot would treat him like a puppet; cream off the proceeds of highway robbery and withdraw his protection if Robert ever gave him trouble. It was an unattractive offer, yet what else could he do?

  He could feel the eyes of his followers on him. Their fate was bound up with his.

  “I accept,” he said.

  That evening, Foliot held a feast for the entire household. Robert, in no mood for celebration, sat at high table with his new master and drank endless toasts to their partnership. Conversation between the two was stilted, and Robert found himself envying the boisterous merriment of the servants and men-at-arms c
rowded at the lower tables. The ale was flowing freely, drunken male voices raised in song.

  Robert overheard one particular snatch of rhyming voice, bellowed in a deep bass by a crossbowman with a louder voice than his fellows.

  “Robyn Hode in Sherwood stood, hatted and hosed and clothed and shod,” he roared, beating out a rhythm on his knee, “four and twenty arrows he bore in his hands…”

  The rough song caught Robert’s interest. He had heard tales of Robyn Hode before, though the ‘tales’ were hardly that, mere fragments of rhymes about the deeds of some obscure north country outlaw who may have never existed. The bare bones of a legend.

  Robyn Hode… Robert d'Eyvill… Hode Castle…

  For the first time in several weeks, Robert smiled. Perhaps it was time to put some flesh on those bones.

  “Your health, Sir Robert!” cried Foliot, his ruddy face glowing with the bloom of too much wine as he raised his cup yet again.

  “No,” said Robert. “From now you may call me Robyn Hode.”

  *

  A.D. 1266

  “Then arose the famous murderer, Robyn Hode, as well as Little John, together with their accomplices from among the disinherited, whom the foolish populace are so inordinately fond of celebrating both in tragedies and comedies, and about whom they are delighted to hear the jesters and minstrels sing above all other ballads…"

  – Walter Bower, The Scotichronon

  END

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Tales of the Second Barons' War in England usually focus on the first stage of the conflict that ended with the death of Simon de Montfort at the Battle of Evesham (or 'murder of Evesham', as one chronicler termed it) in August 1265. This is understandable, since Montfort was a titanic figure who cast a long shadow over his era and for centuries afterwards. It is sometimes forgotten – or glossed over – that war in England continued to rage for two years after his death. The surviving rebels, or Disinherited as they were known, struggled to find a new leader of Montfort's stature, and in the end were defeated one by one. Yet the likes of Robert de Ferrers, the 'wild and flighty' Earl of Derby, and the aggressive Sir John d'Eyvill, certainly deserve to be better-known.

  These men were failures, ultimately, as well as violent and unpleasant by our standards, but possessed of an undeniable charisma. Sir John in particular, described as 'the bold d'Eyvill' by one poet, was famous in his own day for deeds of arms. Tough, stubborn and unwilling to give up his principles, he should be admired as a fighter, if nothing else. Nor should the darker side of his career, the merciless attacks on the Jewish community of Lincoln and elsewhere (much as described in my story) be forgotten or brushed aside. This was a dark time, full of blood, treason and bigotry, and ought to be presented in all its tainted glory.

  As for Hugh Longsword, he stands poised on the cusp of one of the most dramatic and controversial eras in English history. The ageing King Henry III has only a few more years to run. Waiting in the wings is his powerful and ambitious son, the Lord Edward, destined to be remembered by future generations as Edward Longshanks or the Hammer of the Scots. For good or ill, King Edward I left his own indelible mark on the history of Britain. Hopelessly entangled by Edward's clever spymaster, Hugh looks set to be swept along with the tide...