The Sons of Montfort, page 7
part #2 of Longsword Series
“God will give them the strength to rise,” Father Rolle declared. “If He deems them worthy. If not, then not.”
Of the children, only the girl survived. She was painfully thin, almost skeletal, and looked as though a puff of wind might blow her away. Somehow she found the strength to go on, limping on her bare feet several paces behind the rest. She got nothing from her companions save curses and blows. At meals she was grudgingly given the worst of the Brethren’s scant rations. Crusts of hard rye bread, cheese rinds, a few mouthfuls of water.
Only Hugh showed her any kindness, though he was careful to hide it. He had only been with the Brethren a few days, yet had already come to loathe and despise most of them. A pack of silly, weak-minded sheep led by a wolf, to God only knew what end. The sight of those left behind to die had torn at Hugh’s conscience, especially the children. Helpless innocents, abused and then deserted.
In his darkest moments Hugh considered abandoning his mission. Perhaps he could find a ship and work his passage overseas. Vanish into France or the Holy Roman Empire, or even further. Somewhere Master John’s bloodhounds could never find him.
Only the girl prevented him from deserting. He was inspired by her strength, her impossible endurance. At night, careful to ensure nobody was looking, Hugh gave her half his food. She snatched it without question. As one dreary, painful day faded into the next, a silent understanding grew between them.
They exchanged few words. One rainy evening, with the waves thundering on the splintered cliffs, he managed to speak to her alone for a few moments.
“What’s your name?” he asked quietly, keeping a nervous eye on the Brethren, deep in prayer around the supper fire.
Her large round eyes were placid as they gazed up at him. “Emma,” she replied in a surprisingly deep voice. “I was named after the saint.”
“Where do you come from?”
She shrugged one of her narrow shoulders. “A village. The name doesn’t matter. Some men on horses came and burnt it. They killed everyone they could find.”
“Including your parents?”
“Yes. All the grown-ups. I hid. So did Cuthbert and Edric. They were my friends.”
Hugh assumed these were the two boys. He was alarmed by the indifference in Emma’s voice. She recited these horrors without a hint of emotion. So many brutal experiences had clearly left her damaged.
There was a faded bruise on the underside of her chin, another, more livid, on her cheek. She was usually struck two or three times a day, on the slightest pretext or for no reason at all. Father Rolle approved of her treatment as an act of love. “Whoever spares the rod hates their children,” he would intone piously. “The one who loves their children is careful to discipline them.”
Hugh did nothing to stop the beatings. Torn between duty and self-disgust, he swore a vow to rescue Emma from the Brethren.
They spent another seven days trudging along the rainswept Northumbrian coast. On the sixth day Father Rolle switched course and led the Brethren inland, through a wild landscape of moor and forest. This was bleak country, suited to the priest’s grim philosophy. It was sparsely populated, with only a few scattered shepherd’s huts on the hillsides and a hamlet or two. Once, Hugh spotted a troop of riders in the far distance, galloping south over the dales. Their banners were too far away to make out, and he was relieved when the horsemen vanished out of sight.
Nothing seemed to worry Father Rolle. Even as his followers weakened from exhaustion and lack of food, he seemed to grow stronger. The old man strode over the springy turf on his long legs, breathing in deep lungfuls of cold air.
“Courage!” he bellowed. “Just a little while longer, my children. A few more hours, a few more miles! Then we shall see the glory of the blessed Saint Simon the Righteous. Then we shall bathe in his healing light!”
Father Rolle talked like this all the time. After a week of it, the mere sound of his droning voice was enough to set Hugh’s teeth on edge. As for the blessed Simon, Hugh would have gladly consigned him to Hell, locked the gates and tossed away the key.
So far as he was concerned, Simon de Montfort was a traitor who stirred up war in the land and brought nothing but misery to England. Even if he began with noble intentions, where had they led? Years of war, vast stretches of the kingdom laid waste, thousands slaughtered or reduced to beggary. Hugh had witnessed too much bloodshed to place any faith in the cult of Saint Simon. Seen too many depopulated villages, ruined castles, butchered innocents.
At last, shortly after noon on the seventh day, the Brethren came within sight of their destination. Alnwick Castle, seat of the Vescys, one of the most powerful families in the north.
More traitors, Hugh thought grimly as he squinted up at the castle. It was a crude, brutally functional stronghold of old-fashioned design; the square Norman keep perched atop a high motte, while the lower bailey was surrounded by a curtain wall of undressed stone and a gatehouse. The castle loomed over a town of fairish size, huddled under the bailey and protected by an earthen bank and timber palisade.
From their vantage point on a hill, the Brethren were separated from castle and town by a wide, fast-flowing river, crossed by a stone bridge. Hugh saw forested parkland stretching away to the west, doubtless reserved for the lord’s hunting. Vescy banners, displaying a black cross against a yellow field, streamed from the turrets of the gatehouse and corner towers of the keep.
Other banners crowded next to those of Vescy. Hugh picked out the arms of Balliol, Newmarche, Umfraville, Wyleby, Bruce, Percy, Nevill, Hastings. All the great lords of the north. The royal arms of England were notable by their absence. Vescy and his allies had raised their banners in defiance of the king, and were now in open revolt.
“On!” cried Father Rolle. He strode off down the gentle slope, with the Brethren straggling after him. Days of tramping through the wild had reduced them to a miserable rabble, many too weak or faint from hunger to walk unaided.
“Wait, my friend,” the veteran of Evesham cried out feebly to Hugh. “Help me, I beg. We old soldiers should stick together, eh?”
Hugh offered the man his shoulder to lean on. Of all the adult Brethren, the veteran was the only one Hugh had struck up any kind of friendship with. His name was Geoffrey, and he claimed to be of Breton descent. His ancestors had once been great lords in Brittany, now fallen on hard times due to the treachery of others. As one trained in deceit, Hugh knew an accomplished liar when he heard one. At least the old cripple’s tales offered some amusement.
Geoffrey’s faith in Saint Simon was absolute. “My sight shall be restored,” the veteran burbled happily. “I shall be able to see again in both eyes. The pains in my joints will dissolve. My bowels will work properly!”
Hugh glanced sceptically at his companion’s empty eye-socket. He had heard of miracles, of course, but never witnessed one. The restoration of an eyeball ought to be something special.
“Did you ever speak to Earl Simon?” he asked.
Geoffrey nodded eagerly. “Once, when we marched to the siege of Rochester. I was among a company of foot, and he rode past at the gallop. Such a tall, comely figure, riding proud in the saddle. ‘You,’ he called out to me, ‘out of the way, there, unless you wish to be trampled!’"
He clasped his gnarled hands. “Such grace, such mercy! I have served under the banner of many a lord. Most of them wouldn’t piss on an ordinary soldier if he was on fire. Earl Simon was different. He cared.”
“A great man indeed,” said Hugh, trying not to laugh. “I only ever saw him at a distance. In London.”
This was true. Hugh had once seen Montfort ride through the streets of Southwark at the head of his knights. The city was in uproar at the time. Montfort had stirred up the mob against the King, the Jews, foreigners – any convenient target. Afterwards Hugh witnessed the burning of a synagogue and the murder of a rabbi, slaughtered on the steps of the house of prayer by one of Montfort’s friends.
John Fitz John, his name was. A big, burly, sweating ruffian, teeth bared in a devilish grin as he drove his sword into the defenceless old man’s belly.
“Give my regards to the Devil, Hebrew pig!”
Hugh pushed away evil memories and helped his companion down to the bridge.
Father Rolle confidently led his beggarly crew through the open gates of Alnwick into the narrow, muddy streets, scattering a flock of geese from his path. Children swarmed about the place – like lice, Hugh thought – and the houses were mere timber cabins or longhouses, thatched with straw. An atmosphere of poverty hung over the place, along with the shadow of the castle overhead.
Hugh sensed danger as soon as he walked through the gate. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled, and all his instincts warned him of threat. He kept a hand on his sword and lagged behind his companions.
The Brethren were greeted like returning heroes by the folk of Alnwick. It was Durham all over again. People came forward to embrace them and offer gifts of food, even money. Hugh shook his head, smiling, at one ancient woman who tried to press a couple of farthings on him.
“Keep it for yourself, mother,” he said gently. “Your need is greater than mine.”
Her raddled face, a sagging mask of yellow skin and liver spots, twitched in irritation. “It’s for the war, not you,” she rasped, her Northumbrian thick as porridge. “The holy war.”
Still Hugh refused. Blinking in confusion, she hobbled away on her stick to offer her pittance to another. To his anger, one of the Brethren took the money and blessed her. This was a tall, angular fellow with a long snout whom Hugh had always disliked. He was forever toadying to Father Rolle and quoting piously from Scripture, usually some nonsense about the value of self-denial.
He was also fond of hitting Emma. For her own good, so he said. Hugh could tell from his expression how much he enjoyed it. A sadist and a hypocrite.
Hugh’s fists itched. Soon, my lad, he thought, there will be a reckoning between us. One dark night, when I can get you alone…
Father Rolle easily found lodgings for the Brethren. Some were taken in, free of charge, by local hostels and taverns, others lodged in private houses. Hugh accepted the offer of a bed from an attractive girl with striking auburn hair, only to discover she was married to a burly peasant with three young children. The bed was an old wolfskin, bald in patches and riddled with fleas, spread out on the earth floor beside the hearth.
Hugh spent three days enjoying this rough hospitality. He got little sleep, largely thanks to the fleas. His mind gave him no peace. Emma had vanished, whisked away by Father Rolle. During daylight hours he searched the town for her, but found no trace of either her or the priest.
Those members of the Brethen he encountered were of no help. Most shied away, suspicious of his questions and fearful of their master’s temper. The exception was Geoffrey, who was always happy to speak with Hugh. Even he was none the wiser.
“I haven’t seen Father Rolle or the little lass,” said the old soldier as he and Hugh sat together outside a wine shop. Alnwick basked in warm spring sunshine, flooding over the hills to the east. Spring had finally arrived in the north country.
Geoffrey leaned closer to Hugh and lowered his voice. “I don’t like this town,” he whispered. “There’s something nasty at work here. Something rotten. The place stinks.”
Hugh took a sip of his ale. “All towns stink,” he said blandly. “What do you expect, with shit in the streets and chamber pots emptied from windows?”
“Don’t jest,” insisted the other man. “I’ve been a fighting soldier since I was twelve. A man doesn’t last long in such a trade without being able to sniff danger. There is evil here.”
He stabbed his finger at the looming silhouette of the castle. “It comes from there, I’m certain.”
Hugh glanced up at the keep. He could understand Geoffrey’s fears. The castle was oppressive, a constant reminder of where true power lay. What horrors did it conceal? His overactive imagination conjured up images of shadows lurking in the deep dungeons. Nameless things stirring in the darkness. He shivered and took refuge in another gulp of ale.
He was constantly on the alert for pursuit. Had his attacker in York, the hooded giant, come seeking for him in Alnwick? So far Hugh had seen nothing of him, and it wasn’t as if the man could conceal himself. He could have associates in Northumberland. Now Hugh was in the heart of rebel territory, he had to spend every moment on his guard. Along with the lack of sleep and concern for Emma, the strain was wearing him thin.
“When do we get to see the miracles of Saint Simon?” he wondered aloud. “I thought that’s why we came here.”
Geoffrey shrugged his lumpen shoulders. “When the time comes,” he said piously. “God will provide. One cannot rush the Divine.”
Hugh got his answer that afternoon. A lone horseman arrived before the gates, slumped in the saddle and clearly in great pain. One of the sentries led him into the town, where a mob of townsfolk quickly gathered around him.
He was clearly rich, judging by his clothing and fine horse. Hugh picked out other trappings of wealth. A gold brooch fastening his cloak, the ruby ring on his middle finger, boots of new leather, a costly silver-hilted sword inside a velvet scabbard.
“What ails you, sir?” asked the mayor, a grossly obese redbeard in late middle age. “Why did you come here alone? The roads are dangerous.”
The stranger’s thin face was grey of hue and slick with perspiration. He clutched his belly with one hand as he worked up the strength to speak.
“I’m a burgess of Newcastle,” he gasped. “Ten days ago I was struck down by sickness. No doctor could help me. I was paralysed, helpless, unable to stir from bed.”
His voice was faint, so Hugh edged closer to listen. “I preferred to die,” the stranger went on, “so great was my pain. Then, only yesterday, I heard a voice in my dreams. I was told to rise and go to Alnwick, where the holy fragment of Saint Simon is kept in the abbey of the Premonstratensian canons. From the fragment, the voice promised, I would obtain a cure.”
Tears gleamed in the mayor's eyes. “Take heart,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. “It was the voice of the saint who told you to come here. Saint Simon!”
A murmur passed through the crowd. The devout fell to their knees and started to pray aloud, heads thrown back, arms lifted to Heaven. Hugh kept his eyes fixed on the burgess. Was the man shamming, or in genuine search of a miracle?
His malady seemed real enough. He shivered constantly, like a sick dog, and the sweat rolled down his face in waves. He groaned and would have fallen from the saddle if the mayor hadn't reached out to steady him.
“We must take you to the abbey at once,” the latter declared. “The saint will heal you!”
The burgess almost collapsed into his arms, sobbing with gratitude. Accompanied by prayers and singing, the crowd filed out of Alnwick.
Hugh brought up the rear. He recognised several of the Brethren among those in front, including the long-nosed scoundrel who liked to beat Emma. There was still no sign of Father Rolle or the girl. Hugh would have preferred to stay in Alnwick to search for them, but his duty came first. This was a golden opportunity to see the relic of Saint Simon for himself, the source of the Montfortian saint-cult in Northumberland.
They were not long out of the town, heading east over the dank, misted fields beyond, when Hugh heard running footsteps. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Emma. Thin as ever in her soiled brown shift, bony legs flailing as she scampered over the wet turf.
Hugh waited for her. She halted, panting for breath, eyes shining with a strange excitement. He noticed she had acquired a pair of shoes from somewhere, and there was a streak of fresh blood on her skirt.
“Leaving without me?” she asked with a grin. “For shame. I thought we were friends!”
Her voice contained a playful note Hugh hadn't heard before. It made him uncomfortable. There was an edge to it, and a brittle quality to her smile.
“I have spent the past three days worrying about you,” he said sternly. “Where have you been? Where is Father Rolle?”
She bit her lower lip and stuck one arm behind her back. “I'm sorry,” she replied. “I didn't have any choice. As soon as we got into Alnwick, Father Rolle took me away to share his lodgings. He had a house all to himself. The family who lived there were ordered to leave.”
A dreadful suspicion crawled into Hugh's mind. “Did he... did he touch you?” he asked, hating the question.
“Yes,” she said, with a carelessness that took his breath away. “He was an old brute, and he hurt me. I hurt him back, though.”
She produced a knife from behind her back. It was long, and very sharp, and stained up to the hilt with blood.
“I cut his throat this morning,” she said happily. “He was asleep next to me. I had gained his trust, you see. He thought I was his dog.”
Hugh stared at the knife. “Dogs can turn on their masters,” he murmured. She gave a solemn nod and knelt to wipe the blade on the grass.
“Now,” she added, straightening up. “Where are we going?”
10.
“We have visitors, Father Abbot.”
Abbot Benedict looked up in annoyance from his letters. The unlovely form of Brother Samson stood in the doorway to his cell. A picture of careful meekness and obedience, as usual, though Benedict wasn’t fooled for a moment. He knew the raging ambition behind that sheep-like expression. The envy and hatred.
“What visitors?” Benedict demanded. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“A band of citizens from Alnwick,” came the reply. “Led by the mayor. They have an invalid with them. A burgess of Newcastle. He is very ill and wishes to experience the miracle.”
The abbot scraped back his hard chair. His letters could wait. “I must be there in person when the mortal remains of the saint are exposed,” he said. “Go and instruct the sacristan to make all the usual arrangements. At once. Move!”
Samson gave a little bow. The abbot could have sworn a smile played briefly on his lips. “I have already done so, Father Abbot. I knew you would wish it.”
