The Sons of Montfort, page 3
part #2 of Longsword Series
“God for King Henry!” he screamed, crouching behind his shield. D'Eyvill made his destrier rear onto her back legs. Trained for war, the huge animal slammed the hoofs of his forelegs against the shield, tearing away the canvas and bowling the man off his feet. He twisted aside before the horse could gallop over him.
D'Eyvill stabbed downward. His sword stuck fast in the back of the man's neck. He wrenched it out again and watched his victim die. Wide-eyed, choking for breath that wouldn't come, the man flopped into the mud. Blood pumped from the hole in his throat.
Satisfied, d’Eyvill watched the massacre unfold. His enemies, now in full flight, were driven in all directions. Some were hacked down and drowned as they tried to struggle back to the ships. Those who remained aboard frantically turned the vessels about, oars thrashing.
The men who fled into the mere were doomed. A few blundered into hidden pools and were sucked into the depths. D'Eyvill shuddered as he imagined the bog-spirits dragging them down. Their brief screams echoed across the fens. Others were caught and butchered. There were no ransoms worth taking here, no profit in mercy.
When all was done, d’Eyvill led his horse on foot to the waterside. He shaded his eyes to watch the handful of sails retreating into the distance. Scarcely half a dozen boats to carry the survivors home. The rest bobbed in the lake, empty or crewed by dead men.
Jocelin and Nicholas rode up to join him. They were both slathered in blood, hauberks stiff with gore, blades red to the hilt.
“Crack a smile, coz!” roared Nicholas. “This was some payback for Chesterfield, eh?”
D’Eyvill scowled. Nicholas referred to the fatal battle in Derbyshire the previous spring, where the rebel army in the north was smashed and their captain, the Earl of Derby, taken prisoner. Derby was still a prisoner at Windsor, rotting away in some dark cell. D’Eyvill doubted he would ever see the light of day again.
“Scarcely,” he grunted. “We’ve slaughtered a few hundred silly peasants, nothing more. King Henry is God’s own fool. What did he hope to achieve, sending an army of fishermen and shopkeepers against us?”
“He must lack men,” said Jocelin. “His armies are stretched thin. If we can hold Ely long enough, Henry will soon run out of money and soldiers.”
D'Eyvill scowled. He had already had months in the wetlands of Ely, and didn't relish the prospect of staying here until King Henry gave up and raised the siege. The damp air of the fens played hell with d'Eyvill's joints.
Perhaps his victory only delayed the inevitable. After the fall of Kenilworth in the winter, Ely was the last major rebel stronghold. True, there were rumours of a disturbance in the north, some conspiracy in distant Northumbria. D'Eyvill couldn't put his faith in rumours.
“We've given King Henry a bloody nose,” he said. “Yet we cannot sit here and congratulate ourselves. Soon the Lord Edward will join him with a fresh army.”
This wiped the triumph from the blood-spattered faces of his kinsmen. Edward had clawed down Simon de Montfort, his father's great enemy, and destroyed the Montfortian army at Evesham. Unlike his father, he was a formidable soldier whose name inspired fear and respect.
Edward was currently resting at court with his wife and firstborn son. He had named the boy John, which made d'Eyvill smile. Only Edward would have given his son such a provocative name in the middle of a civil war. His grandfather, King John of evil memory, had waged war against his barons, the grandfathers of those who now defied the crown.
“We must break out of Ely,” said d'Eyvill. “Or lose. We haven't got the numbers to face King Henry in the field.”
He raised an eyebrow at his cousins. “If you have any suggestions, now is the time to make them.”
“We must look for allies,” Jocelin said eagerly. “Send out a call to arms. Hundreds will rally to us!”
“Aye,” added Nicholas. “Those who came into the peace last year, only to find their manors burnt and despoiled, houses plundered, bondsmen lying slaughtered in the fields. The king is hated.”
“I will think on it,” said d’Eyvill. He didn’t want to depress their spirits, especially in the wake of victory.
While his kinsmen went off to drink and boast of their deeds, d’Eyvill tramped off alone to his lodging. This was a longhouse made of timber and roofed with turf cut from the fens. A damp hovel, compared to his hall at Egmanton Castle, but he was used to discomfort.
He sat alone at a mead-bench and listened to the chatter outside. His squire, Adam, stood dutifully by the doorway. Drunk on slaughter, as well as stolen ale, his men sang and swilled and roared with laughter long into the night.
I am alone, thought d'Eyvill. Again.
He stared into the fire, crackling inside a rough hearth of round stones. The flames offered no inspiration.
D'Eyvill glanced at his squire. “Today was your first proper fight,” he said. “I am glad you came through it unscathed.”
“I killed two men, my Lord,” Adam said proudly.
“Peasants, boy. Mere peasants. You had armour, a good sword and a lifetime of training. What did they have? Spears, cudgels, a few pieces of boiled leather to protect their bodies. There is no honour in slaying such folk. Any more than slaying oxen or sheep.”
Adam looked crestfallen, so d’Eyvill relented a little. “Still, you're blooded now. There will be harder fights to come. Better men to kill.”
He stared again into the fire. Tonight I shall pray to Saint Simon. If ever we needed his aid, it is now. We fight in his name. For the sake of his memory. Send us a miracle, my Lord!
The next morning, after a sleepless night, d’Eyvill got his miracle. It came in the shape of a lone rider. This man had slunk unobserved through the royal siege lines and made his way to the rebel camp, guided by local fishermen.
D'Eyvill's scouts spotted the rider and brought him before this master. “I carry a message for you, Sir John,” he said.
“Who from?” d'Eyvill demanded.
The other man grinned and reached into his belt for the letter.
“Why, from the red dog.”
5.
The long journey from London to Northumberland took Hugh through some familiar territory. He went alone, mounted on a swift black courser from Master John's private stables. As well as his horse, Hugh was loaned a sword and dagger, a shirt of light ringmail to wear over his tunic, and five shillings in his purse.
“Try not to get robbed on the highway,” Master John's chief clerk, a horse-faced man named Percival, said drily. “It all goes on your account. Any lost equipment has to be paid for.”
“I'll try not to get fat either,” Hugh retorted. Five shillings was barely enough to pay for his food and board on the journey, let alone any emergencies that may arise. At least his gear was of good quality, and the courser a fine, sleek creature in the prime of life.
Hugh rode along the highway from London through Barnet and then onto the Great North Road, the main artery of England linking north and south. The roads immediately beyond the capital were busy with traffic, gradually petering out as he pushed on to Northampton. The dilapidated town, still bearing the scars of the recent war, offered some shelter from the dangers of the lonely road and crowding forest.
In the privacy of his bedchamber on the top floor of a cheap lodging-house, Hugh unstitched the fabric of his belt and drew out a folded bit of parchment. The parchment contained a secret message from Master John, written in a cipher of Roman numerals and signs of the Zodiac. Hugh was versed in the cipher and quickly read through it:
There is treason everywhere. The king's enemies are legion. They have many weapons, many allies. Even my own household is compromised. I dared not speak openly for fear of placing your life in danger.
I have sent you into a rat's nest. The north is barely settled, and only a spark is required to set it aflame again. Ride alone, keep your mouth closed and your eyes open. Not a single royal officer north of Trent can be trusted. I suspect the High Sheriff of Northumberland is dead, murdered by John Vescy and his allies. Below are the names of men Vescy has ridden with in the past:
Eustace Balliol
Robert Wyleby
Henry Percy
John Hastings
Robert Bruce
Peter Bruce
Adam Newmarket
Robert Nevill
Stephen Menill
I sense something else at work in Northumberland. A malign influence, beyond mere treason. Soon the Lord Edward will march north to crush Vescy and his friends. Swords and lances are not the only threat. You must root out the danger before Edward reaches Northumberland. Above all, the heir to the throne must be protected. He is our best hope for peace in the realm.
Go to Alnwick, the heart of Vescy's power. Find the secret that eludes me, return as swift as you may, and beware the fangs of the wolf.
Hugh memorised the letter, then burnt it. Master John's reference to the wolf gave him food for thought. This was the spymaster's name for the suspected traitor in Northumberland. Master John was convinced that one of his agents in the region had defected to the enemy.
“Which enemy?” Hugh murmured to himself. There were so many to choose from. What was the nature of the malign influence? Master John seemed to imply some kind of unnatural evil was at work in Northumberland, poisoning the hearts of the northern barons.
Hugh was a conventionally pious man. He shuddered and made the sign of the cross.
I cannot fight the Devil, he thought. Perhaps Master John should have sent a priest in my stead.
He took refuge in wine. It was thin, sour stuff, the best his limited funds could afford. Three cups, gulped down in quick succession, helped to smother his fear. For the moment.
The next morning, nursing a bad head, Hugh pushed on towards Nottingham. His journey was uneventful, with none of the hair-raising clashes with outlaws and rebels that marked his previous venture into the north country. He was warier this time, and tagged along with merchant caravans, bands of travellers or drovers taking their livestock up and down the Great North Road. There was safety in numbers, since the brigands lurking in the forest preferred soft targets: isolated farmsteads, lone travellers and the like.
Danger caught up with Hugh at York. The greatest city in the north was in a ferment. Soldiers on the gates warily eyed the constant stream of people going back and forth, carts were frequently stopped and inspected, crossbowmen patrolled the walls. York, the key to the north, had once been seized and held to ransom by Sir John d'Eyvill. Such a disaster could not be allowed to happen a second time.
Hugh was stopped by the guards at Micklegate Bar, the twin-towered southern gateway. “That's a fine horse, friend,” remarked one, slowly chewing a mouthful of biscuit. “Fit for a knight, she is. You don't look very knightly to me.”
“A rough night, perhaps,” sniggered his mate, a much younger man with a pathetic scrap of beard on his chin.
Hugh didn't panic. He had half-expected to be challenged on the courser. Hugh's plain russet cloak, woollen tunic and cheap boots lent him a beggarly appearance, though the sword and dagger at his hip suggested a soldier fallen on hard times. A casual observer would fail to notice the mail shirt under his tunic, or the purse of money artfully hidden under the cloak. Fortunately he had an explanation to hand.
“I am on crown business, friend,” he said, “and carry a royal warrant. Do you wish to see it?”
The first guard swallowed his biscuit. “In here,” he grunted, nodding at the guardroom inside the arch of the gate. “Peter, take his horse.”
Hugh dismounted and handed over his reins to Peter. Just for devilment, he gave the younger man a wink. Whistling under his breath, he followed the vintner into the guardroom. Two more soldiers followed them.
Once inside, Hugh produced the warrant from a satchel at his belt and placed it in the vintner's grubby palm. The other man peered carefully at the neatly folded vellum, bound with string attached to a tiny seal of pink wax. The seal was stamped with the royal arms of England, three pards rampant, with an image of the king enthroned on the other side.
“Read it, if you like,” said Hugh in his most innocent tone. The vinter coloured slightly: he was obviously illiterate.
“The seal is enough,” he replied gruffly.
“Are you certain?” asked Hugh, aware he was pushing his luck. “How do you know I didn’t murder a royal envoy on the road and take it from him?”
Dangerous lights flared in the vintner’s eyes. “Get out,” he snarled, “before I forget the protection that little blob of wax gives you.”
Hugh tucked the vellum back into his satchel and ambled out of the guardroom, nodding at the other soldiers as he left. They glared back at him with a mixture of bafflement and suspicion.
He stayed only one night at York; Master John liked his servants to work quickly, and Hugh’s limited funds didn’t allow him the luxury of tarrying. Fourpence went on bed and board in the upper-floor room of a dingy, inexpensive tavern close to the Great Flesh Shambles, a street of butcher’s shops: twenty-five timber buildings packed close together, their wares displayed on rows of shelves. Men in bloodied white aprons could be seen hacking away at joints of beef, pork and venison, or competed with each other for custom, roaring the quality of their produce even as clouds of flies buzzed around the meats on display.
Hugh ate at a chophouse and retired early for the night. After an hour of vainly trying to sleep on his scratchy, straw-stuffed mattress and stinking bolster, he gave up and decided to tire himself out by going for a walk. Like any big town, York never slept.
He contemplated visiting a brothel. His exhausted mind was disturbed by thoughts of Esther, the beautiful Jewess he had rescued from the outlaw knight, Sir John d’Eyvill, inside the fens of Ely. The last he heard of Esther, she had vanished into the bosom of her family inside York’s Jewish quarter. There was no point seeking her out. Her last letter to Hugh had made it perfectly clear she wanted nothing more to do with him.
This was poor reward, to his mind, for the dangers he had endured on her behalf. He was still haunted by memories of wolves inside Sherwood Forest, snapping at his legs as he fought a desperate duel against the mad priest, Brother Simon. Or the cold kiss of Sir Robert d’Eyvill’s sword carving into his flesh.
It cannot be helped, Hugh told himself as he ventured into the warm spring night. Jews and Christians did not mix. Esther, a devout woman of her race, could never bring herself to lie with a Gentile.
He tramped along the Shambles, a lonely figure, face hidden under his hooded black mantle. There were a few street tarts gathered on the corner, looking for trade.
“Fancy a good time, sweetheart?” one said breathily as he strode past. “Best halfpenny you’ll ever spend, I promise.”
Hugh grimaced. Even in the poor light of dusk, he could see lice crawling in the girl’s greasy red hair. Her teeth were rotten, and he caught a whiff of foul breath. None of her companions were to his taste. He wanted a girl with creamy skin, black hair and black eyes. Just like Esther, or as near as could be.
He moved on, ignoring the curse thrown after him. Lost in thoughts of the Jewess, he allowed himself to rove aimlessly through the darkening streets. Shops were boarded up for the night, laughter and song and yellow candlelight spilled out from the taverns. Human debris littered the streets. Crowds of beggars, lepers and cripples held out wooden begging bowls, bleating for alms. Hugh ignored it all and walked on, restless and frustrated.
No other woman will do, he thought hopelessly. Only Esther, not some hired substitute.
His steps led him to an ancient stone gatehouse on the edge of the city. He stopped and gazed up at the slender moon, framed between the turrets of the gatehouse. A light drizzle had started to fall. Hugh turned his face upwards. The cool moisture on his skin calmed his thoughts. He pushed aside the memories of Esther and let his mind go blank.
Something thumped into his back. A ripple of pain exploded up and down his spine. Hugh gasped soundlessly, stumbled and almost lost his footing on the slippery cobbles.
His training took over. Hugh swung around, drew his sword in the same movement, and dropped into a guard position. He raised his left arm to protect his face and peered into the shadows of the deserted street.
A knife lay on the cobbles in front of him. Pale moonlight glinted on the thin, slightly curved blade and unadorned hilt. Hugh recognised it as a light throwing knife. Someone had hurled it at his back. If not for the mail shirt he wore under his tunic, it would have skewered his kidneys.
He cursed himself for a fool. Wandering the streets of York at night, alone, like a lost sheep! Master John had warned him of the dangers lurking in the north. Agents gone missing, secret assassins, rumours of conspiracy and rebellion. Hugh should have been on his guard from the moment he crossed the Trent.
"Never make yourself a target."
These words, one of Sancho's first lessons, echoed in Hugh's mind. He moved backwards into the shadow cast by the gatehouse. Now he was invisible to his attacker. A pool of moonlight shone on the cobbles between them.
He crouched and slowly drew his dagger from its black leather sheath with his left hand. The oiled blade slid out without a sound. Hugh put another of Sancho's lessons into practice. With an effort of will, he blocked out the distant background noises of the city, focused all his senses on the hidden enemy.
Sancho’s voice again:
"You have sharp eyes and ears, Longsword. Let us make best use of them."
Then he caught it; a whisper of steel on leather, the scuff of a boot on the cobbles. Someone was trying to move quietly and making a meal of it.
A silhouette appeared on the edge of the light. He was well over six feet tall, in a long cloak and peaked hood. He grasped a broadsword in his gloved right hand. The blade gleamed in the night like a silver flame.
"Come out, coward," said a deep voice with no trace of an accent. "Come out and die."
The hooded man appeared to be alone. Hugh swallowed, gathered his courage. This would be his first fight in anger since his defeat at the hands of Sir Robert d’Eyvill. Now was the time to put Sancho’s lessons to effect.
