The Bastard's Son

by H A CULLEY

  A few minutes later the horses were saddled and Hugo and his men swung into the saddle. One of the serjeants still had hold of the terrified boy and that gave Hugo an idea.

  ‘We are returning to Harbottle. You will delay any pursuit if you want to see your son alive again. Simon, take the boy up in front of you and make sure he behaves.’

  The Bailiff gave a cry and hugged the boy to him. He muttered a tearful farewell to him before a burly serjeant pulled the boy away and lifted him up in front of Simon. Seconds later they cantered out of the village heading north. However, when they reached the River Wansbeck they turned east instead of crossing it on the road to Otterburn. Ten miles further on they reached Morpeth and turned north for Alnwick.

  After a few miles Simon came riding up alongside Hugo. The boy sitting in front of him looked terrified.

  ‘This isn’t the bailiff’s son. The real one is only five. One of the servants told me this ragamuffin is a spit boy.’

  To Simon’s surprise Hugo laughed.

  ‘I knew. You could tell he spent his life turning the spits in front of the kitchen fires. You only have to look at his greasy clothes and his fire scorched complexion. What’s your name, boy?’

  ‘Colby, sir,’ the boy stuttered.

  It was an apt name. In Saxon it meant dark haired and in a race where the majority were fair-haired, Colby’s dark brown hair was unusual, though it might be a few shades lighter once it was washed free of the grease.

  ‘And am I correct? You’re not the bailiff’s son are you?’

  ‘It’s true he is my father, as he is to several of the village children.’

  ‘Ah, you’re his bastard then?’

  ‘Yes, when my mother died two years ago he sent me to work in the kitchens, so you’re correct. I’m a spitboy and general dogsbody.’ He paused and when he spoke again he was pleading. ‘I hate it; please don’t send me back.’

  ‘Very well. My serjeants’ servant fell ill at Edale and we had to leave him behind. You can replace him.’

  To judge by the boy’s smile, which made his white teeth stand out from his grimy face like a beacon in the dark, this was preferable to working in the kitchens. His serjeants were fair-minded men in the main, and loyal to him, but they weren’t soft-hearted and would prove hard task masters.

  ‘Why did you accept the boy if you knew he wouldn’t be any good as a hostage, Sir Hugo?’

  Hugo ignored Simon’s impertinence in asking him such a question and decided to answer it honestly.

  ‘To convince the bailiff that we were headed directly to Harbottle. Actually, I think he was genuine in not wanting to see the boy killed. Why else would he have surrendered our gear? Hopefully the Count of Eu’s men will chase up to Elsdon en route to Harbottle before they realise they’ve been hoodwinked; we should be two thirds the way to Alnwick by then.’

  They camped that night in Coquetdale beside the river. It gave everyone the opportunity to wash the dirt away and to scrub a protesting Colby clean of his coating of grease and filth. Simon was struck by the ruddy complexion of his arms and face compared to the pasty whiteness of his body. All of them were a light brown where their skin was exposed and were pale where it wasn’t, but the boy’s ruddy exposed skin provided much more of a contrast than the light tans of the others.

  The next day they set off again northwards. It was only then that the serjeant bringing up the rear spotted Colby dropping a small piece of coloured cloth from the small pouch he wore at his waist. When he told Hugo what he had seen, he was sent back to check their back trail. He soon found another small square of red cloth and rode back to tell Hugo.

  ‘He threatened to beat me if I didn’t lay a trail for your pursuers to follow,’ the boy snivelled. ‘I was too frightened of him to refuse.’

  Hugo wondered when the bailiff had passed the instructions and the pouch to Colby but then he recalled that he’d allowed them to say goodbye. He blamed himself for being soft-hearted. He was tempted to hang the unfortunate Colby from the nearest tree but he had a better idea. He gave the pouch of coloured squares to Simon, who had the fastest horse.

  ‘Ride back as swiftly as you can to our campsite and lay a false trail along Coquetdale as far as Rothbury, then ride over the moors to join us at Alnwick, but don’t leave any markers after Rothbury. Hopefully they’ll ride on towards Harbottle for a little before they realise.’

  Simon nodded and cantered off back the way they had come, hoping he’d reach the campsite before the count’s men. He picked up a piece of cloth by the track that led to the north and moved it to the west of the camp. He had just ridden into the trees alongside the River Coquet when he heard voices. He dismounted and tied his rouncey to a tree before peering through the foliage. Three men rode into the clearing and became excited when they found the remains of the campfire. They then started to hunt for the coloured marker just as twenty more men rode into the clearing. It wouldn’t be long before they found the false marker and he ran quickly back to his horse.

  He cantered along the trail by the river, dropping squares of cloth every mile or so. Then he realised that he was being unnecessarily profligate with them and that he only had ten squares left. When he reached Brinkburn Priory, which was little more than a grange with a small wooden church and outbuildings, he realised that it was pointless laying any more in any case. The monks tilling the land around the priory would tell the soldiers behind him that no others had passed that way today.

  However, he calculated that by now Sir Hugo would have had time to reach Alnwick and he cantered on to the small village of Rothbury before turning north east and climbing out of Coquetdale to head over the moors towards Alnwick just as it started to rain.

  He was feeling very cheerful, despite the increasingly heavy downpour and he allowed himself to relax, thinking he had done well. It was a massive error. His rouncey, normally so surefooted, caught its foot in the tangled roots of a heather plant and fell, breaking its leg. Simon was thrown clear and was badly winded, but was otherwise unharmed. However, there was no saving his horse and, with tears in his eyes, he had to cut its throat. Now he was alone in the middle of open moorland sopping wet and about eight miles from Alnwick. He didn’t doubt his ability to walk there, given a few hours to do so, if he was undetected on the open moorland. He hoped that the rain would screen him from sight sufficiently, but as swiftly as it had begun the rain stopped and visibility rapidly improved. His cheery demeanour evaporated as he realised that his pursuers would now spot him easily if they decided to come that way.

  -X-

  ‘You’re risking everything, Odinel, and for what? Just because William of Eu has promised you Redesdale and Harbottle if you turn traitor and support the claim of Steven of Aumale to the throne? Do you think that Robert Curthose or Henry Beauclerc would stand by, even if their brother was killed, and let their nephew rule England? Their cause is doomed and the sooner you realise that the safer we’ll all be.’

  Lady d’Umfraville paused in her tirade against her husband to gain breath but he had heard enough.

  ‘You are right, my love. I’ve risked everything by not doing as the king commanded, but it’s not too late. William of Eu has sent half his men chasing after that bloody man de Cuille so my mesnie now outnumbers those of his who are left. I’ll disarm them and arrest the count and his nephew.’

  ‘At last you’re talking sense. You had better muster your men as well. There’s still Robert de Mowbray and Morel of Bamburgh to deal with, as well as Roger de Lacy.’

  By the time that the king arrived Odinel was able to hand William of Eu and William of Aldrie over to him in chains. He had avoided a fight with their men by allowing them to go free provided they didn’t interfere with the arrest of their masters.

  A day after the king had departed with the two Williams in chains the conroy sent after Hugo de Cuille returned. They had failed to catch up with him, but had brought his wounded squire back with them. Simon had put up a fight, despite the fact t
hat he was on foot armed only with a dagger, and his right shoulder had been badly wounded before he had surrendered.

  Odinel was all for letting the boy die of starvation and a festering wound in a dungeon but his formidable wife intervened and had Simon taken to Brinkburn Priory to be treated by the monks there. She also sent a messenger to Hugo at Harbottle letting him know about the arrest of William of Eu and the fate of his squire. However Hugo still hadn’t returned to Harbottle so it took some time for the message to reach him.

  He had stayed at Alnwick Castle with Ivo de Vesci for a few days and sent instructions for his men to muster there. By the time that the messenger found him he was with the king besieging Bamburgh Castle and, knowing that Simon was in good hands, he left him there.

  William Rufus had moved fast; quickly capturing de Mowbray’s castle at Newcastle. Roger de Lacy had also been arrested once Hugo had told the king of his probable involvement. The putative candidate for the throne, Steven of Aumale, never even left Normandy, where he remained professing loyalty to his cousin, Robert Curthose.

  However, William Rufus found Bamburgh a hard nut to crack. It sat high above the surrounding countryside on a mound of volcanic rock. It was defended by the sea on one side and by high vertical cliffs on the other. The only possible approaches were up steep slopes to the north and south of the castle, heavily defended by two double gateways. If the outer one fell the attackers would be faced by a second one with the space between the two defended by murder holes and arrow slits. The area would become a killing ground for those foolish enough to enter it.

  The war council were still debating the best way of assaulting the impregnable castle when there was a development that William hadn’t anticipated.

  ‘Sire, I fear that Robert de Mowbray has escaped.’ Ivo de Vesci said, entering the king’s tent as he was getting dressed one morning.

  ‘What? How?’

  ‘Apparently he and Morel slipped away by boat last night. There was a fight with a patrol on the beach but they were unable to prevent them escaping with a few followers.’

  ‘And you’re sure it was those two?’

  ‘The leader of the patrol knows both men and he recognised them. He crossed swords with Morel and got wounded.’

  ‘What are they up to, I wonder? Why leave the safety of Bamburgh? I would have expected de Mowbray to have tried to negotiate with me.’

  ‘Presumably he is trying to raise more men to his side in order to force you to raise the siege. He knows that you haven’t got a large army here as most of them are still in Wales.’

  ‘That makes sense. Where would he go?’ William was speaking more to himself but Ivo responded.

  ‘Tynemouth and Newcastle seem the logical places. Both towns were his and there are probably plenty of men willing to join him.’

  ‘Very well. I’m going to leave you in charge of the siege here. Send Hugo de Cuille to me. He can go and root out the traitors.’

  ‘What about you, sire?’

  ‘I must deal with de Lacy and William of Eu and then return to Wales.’

  -X-

  Simon was getting bored. It had been three weeks since he had arrived at the priory and his shoulder was well on the way to healing. Now that he was up and about again he was expected to join the monks in their daily routine. Simon didn’t know how they put up with it. There were three novices at the priory, one quite young, one of fourteen and one who had just turned sixteen. However, he had nothing in common with them. They had been cowed by the discipline of the Benedictine order and, in any case, he was now a man, having turned twenty one. Had the rebellion not interfered, Hugo had intended to knight Simon as soon as he returned to Harbottle. Now, instead of getting his golden spurs, he was attending church for interminable services eight times a day, including one in the middle of the night.

  He groaned when the bell rang at six in the morning for prime. He had only just returned to his small cell after the five o’clock service called lauds. He was convinced that what he needed was sleep to recover his strength but with matins at two in the morning and compline just before the monks went to bed, there was no chance of an uninterrupted night’s rest.

  He was therefore more than a little relieved when Sir Alain arrived with his squire and another, younger, boy he didn’t recognise. He brought the glad tidings that he had come to collect him. His shoulder was still sore and riding was difficult, but he would have put up with any degree of pain to get away from the priory. He did remember his manners, however, and thanked the prior and the infirmarian for taking care of him and gave them the purse that Alain had brought for him as alms for the poor.

  ‘By the way, this is Payn, he’s the youngest son of Gilbert, Steward Herbert’s father. He’s just turned fourteen and is to be your squire,’ Alain told him.

  The boy nodded at Simon and gave a shy smile. Simon gave a much broader grin back; not so much because he was glad to meet Herbert’s brother, but because it meant that he was to be knighted at long last.

  When he arrived at the besiegers camp before Bamburgh Castle Hugo greeted him and then explained that he was about to leave.

  ‘You still need to recover, Simon, and so I’ll take Payn with me as my squire for now. I’ll leave Colby here to look after you. This camp is not the best place to recuperate and so tomorrow, after I’ve knighted you, you’ll ride to Alnwick and Lady de Vesci will look after you until I get back.

  Simon nodded gloomily. He supposed that being fussed over by Ivo’s wife and her ladies was preferable to living with monks, but it wasn’t what he wanted. He cursed himself for being foolish enough to try to fight off the Count of Eu’s men with a dagger but it was a question of pride. The knight who had disarmed him hadn’t even needed to use the edge of his sword; he’d brought the flat of the blade down on his shoulder to make him drop the weapon. However, Simon had ducked to avoid it and the edge had cut into the flesh on the point of his shoulder. The cut had healed, leaving an impressive scar, but he needed to build up the muscle again. At the moment the arm was stiff and he couldn’t wield a sword properly.

  Then he realised what Sir Hugo had said.

  ‘Colby? That little traitor! I thought you were going to hang him.’

  ‘Although he tried to betray us, he was coerced into it. I’m convinced he repents what he did and he’s been looking after me well whilst you’ve been away – at least until Payn arrived a few days ago.’

  Simon wasn’t very happy but he had little option but to agree. He was looking forward to his stay at Alnwick Castle even less now.

  Initially he was very frosty towards Colby, but he could see how upset the boy was by his rejection of him and he did need help until he regained full use of his arm again. As he got to know him better he realised that the boy was devoted to Sir Hugo and eager to please. As he explained one day to Simon, his life at Belsay had been unbearable. Being a spit boy had been bad enough but, as one of the hated bailiff’s bastards, the other servants had made his life a living hell. He had only agreed to pretend to be the bailiff’s legitimate son because it offered him a chance to escape.

  ‘Why then did to continue to obey him and leave a trail for our pursuers to follow?’ asked Simon puzzled.

  Colby studied his feet before mumbling a reply.

  ‘Just in case they caught up with you and I had to go back to Belsay.’

  ‘But there was no chance that they would have caught us if you hadn’t shown them where we were going.’

  ‘Oh! I never thought of that!’ The boy looked so crestfallen that Simon had to laugh.

  Colby glared at him, burst into tears and ran from the room.

  After a few days in his company Simon looked at the boy with new eyes. He hadn’t referred to his loss of composure and neither had Simon. Both seem content to forget the past. Now that Colby had lost the ruddy complexion imparted by the cooking fires, had his hair cut properly, and was dressed in decent clothes, including a red tabard emblazoned with the black de Cuille sh
ield with its white inverted chevron, he looked not only presentable, but quite comely. In a few years he would have the girls chasing him, Simon thought with a grin.

  Once Simon had recovered sufficiently and Hugo could be present, the former squire was given the accolade during a simple ceremony. Being at war, there was no time for a night’s vigil in a chapel or the other trappings of knighthood. Ivo de Vesci had slapped him in the face with a leather gauntlet; the traditional way of making sure the new knight remembered his vows. Then his sponsor, Hugo, knelt and fastened a sword around his waist and buckled on his golden spurs. Hugo would have presented him with his armour and his warhorse as well but Simon’s father, the lord of a manor in Sussex which he held from Guillaume de Peverel, had sent him his hauberk, helmet and a courser together with his apologies for not being present in person.

  Simon hadn’t seen his father since he was nine and scarcely remembered what he looked like anymore. He had hoped for a destrier, rather than the cheaper courser, but he supposed that his father wasn’t particularly wealthy. However, to his delight Hugo gave him a good destrier from his herd at Edale along with a shield displaying the de Cuille arms. It meant that Hugo would allow him to join his mesnie so at least he had employment now. It would give him time to think about his future. Many new knights had to seek a master themselves. A few had even gone north to serve the late King Malcolm and being given manors, not that Simon was tempted to do that.

  The Normans had been expelled when Donald Bane had seized the throne. However, Malcolm’s son, Duncan, had deposed his uncle and had been crowned king towards the end of the previous year and he had started to recruit Norman knights again to help him hang onto it; to no avail. He was murdered later in the year and Donald Bane had returned.