by Angus Donald
In the end it was easier than I had feared and less than an hour later, with Cass mounted at my side, I was leading a mob of about two hundred frightened men, women and children down St Margaret’s Street, roughly south, along the riverbank. As we passed out of the town gate, I saw Mastin and a pair of his archers on the walls above, outlined against the pale grey sky.
‘Bastards are not more than three or four miles away, Sir Alan, best hurry your fucking flock along!’ he shouted.
I waved in reply.
Mastin’s words were heeded by the folk of Rochester and some began to make more haste. But, as most people had ignored my instruction to bring only what they could carry, we were a snail-paced column with men pushing carts piled with goods, others staggering under huge burdens and some folk even herding pigs, cows and sheep along with them as they walked. One woman was trying to drive a gaggle of geese in front of her, using only a twelve-foot-long ash wand with a rag on the end.
By noon we had put only two miles or so between us and the town, and the column was strung out over several hundred yards. I looked over my left shoulder, to the north-east, and saw that the enemy host was but half a mile from the town walls, and was already spilling out on either side of the road and beginning to seek out places to pitch their tents. If we could see them, they could surely see us.
Cass and I rode back along the column, urging the stragglers to greater speed as we went, and keeping one eye on the King’s army. At the rear I stopped to berate a very fat, middle-aged woman who was sitting on a great cloth bundle, breathing like a bellows. Her face was the colour of a ripe cherry and covered with pearls of sweat. Her dog, a mangy black-and-white beast with one eye, started barking at me and snapping at my horse’s legs. I was tempted to end the cur and urge the fat besom along with my sword-tip, when Cass called out to me: ‘Sir, over there, sir, we have visitors!’
I twisted in the saddle and saw to my dismay a knot of horsemen spurring towards us across the open sheep pasture. Six, no, seven men. Not knights – light armour, no pennants on their spears – but mounted men-at-arms anyway, probably scouts. I cursed. I looked beyond the head of the straggling column to a wood of beech and ash not half a mile to the south, a possible refuge of sorts.
‘Orders, sir?’ said Cass.
‘Christ. Orders, yes.’ I could not think what to do. There could be no disguising what the column truly was and, poor as the Rochester folk were, they still had goods and chattels worth plundering. Even if they had not, the King’s Flemings might slaughter us just for the joy of it. Cass and I were the only fighting men among this multitude. Two against seven. Not good. Worse, we could not allow the scouts to reconnoitre us and report back to their commander. That would bring down half the King’s army on our heads.
‘Have to kill them all – every single man,’ I muttered under my breath. I hauled out my sword and took a deep breath. ‘Can’t let them escape.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said Cass, slipping from his horse. I looked at him in amazement. Why was the squire dismounting? We had a desperate fight on our hands and he should be dragging out that ugly great falchion he always wore and charging the enemy knee to knee with me. Instead he was unhorsed, bent over and fiddling with something I could not see on the other side of his mount’s head. Did he expect me to take on seven men alone?
The horsemen were two hundred paces from us now and coming on at the canter. Let them come, I thought. I’d rather fight them here, as far from the King’s host as possible. Let them mingle with the column; some of the more able-bodied folk might aid me. I began to consider how on earth I could take on seven men and defeat them all. Robin would have some trick up his sleeve. If I could take the first man unawares, a dagger thrust, perhaps, then maybe the second—
A bow cord thrummed beside me. I saw the flight of the arrow. A black line in the sky. A second followed while the first was still in flight.
I looked at Cass in shock. He had strung his great yew bow and was already drawing and loosing for the third time. I jerked my head round to the knot of cantering horsemen in time to see the first shaft strike. A perfect shot, punching into the chest of the leading rider, knocking him clean out of the saddle. The second arrow transfixed the neck of the horse behind his and I heard the scream of equine pain from a hundred and fifty yards away. The third shaft drove into the face of another man-at-arms – and now all was confusion, the horses rearing, the men shouting in alarm. And still Cass was drawing and loosing. He poured his steel-tipped missiles into them, one after another after another. As one struck, another was in the air and yet another was on the cord. He loosed a dozen arrows in total and I swear he hit a man or mount with every one. I have no doubt he would have continued until they were all dead, had I not seen one of the men, unhorsed, with a bloody fletching sticking from the mail at his ribs, trying to scramble back across the pasture to return to the King’s host.
I put spurs to my mount and covered the ground to the enemy in twenty heartbeats. He saw me coming, or felt the pounding of hooves through the turf. As I reached him, he dodged left and I knocked him down with a hard chop from my shield edge. Past him, I wheeled, dug in my spurs, making straight back for him – and he was up again and running, this time in his confusion towards the column of Rochester townsfolk. I closed on him easily. He looked up once as I neared, his face a white terrified blur, and I hacked down with Fidelity, splitting his helmet and the skull beneath, dropping him to the grass in a twitching heap.
I circled back to the bodies of the men skewered by Cass, scattered in a long line along their path of advance. Three of the foes were still alive, bloodied and moaning, some trying to crawl. I killed them all with swift, merciless blows. And when I was certain none had survived I trotted back to our column to find that Cass had managed to get the fat woman up off her bundle and waddling down the road after the rest.
‘That was some fine shooting, youngster,’ I said to him, breathing heavily after my exertions. ‘You saved me a deal of hard labour.’
Cass smiled shyly. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘I have been practising since I was a lad. And my lord of Locksley has been kind enough to give me some personal instruction, too. He says I show promise.’
In truth the young man’s archery had been nigh-on supernatural but there was no time for flowery compliments.
‘I don’t believe our little dust-up has yet been observed,’ I said, looking over my shoulder, ‘but those riderless horses will not go unnoticed for long. We must get the people into that wood yonder as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Cass, nodding his red-golden head.
And between us, with much cursing and harrying of the sluggish Rochester folk, with cajolery well mingled with dire threats of bloody violence, we did just that.
Chapter Six
I was astounded to discover that the abbot of Boxley was a man I had known more than twenty years ago. He had undertaken a long and dangerous journey with me in Germany, and between us we had discovered the whereabouts of the captive King Richard and helped to secure his release and return to England. I had been a mere stripling then and even King Richard was now long dead, but the abbot – although become frail and very elderly, and entirely bald but for a few silver wisps of what had been his tonsure – was still hale and whole and delighted to see me, and he remembered our German adventure with startling clarity.
Abbot John welcomed us to Boxley with true Christian kindness late that October afternoon and while I washed the dust of the road off my face and hands, he set his monks to finding nourishment and accommodation for the two hundred and thirty-three Rochester townspeople.
We had had the Devil’s own luck on the five-mile journey from the wood outside Rochester to Boxley – or God’s mighty hand had shielded us on our pilgrimage to His House, if you prefer – for we got into the trees just in time. As the last of the stragglers entered its bosky sanctuary, I saw two dozen King’s cavalry come cantering over the pasture to investigate the dead m
en-at-arms and their horses standing forlornly beside the bodies.
Cass stood at the edge of the wood, ready to discourage them with his bow if they came too close, but they evidently decided it was a wiser course to loot the bodies of their fallen comrades, collect up the horses and report back to their commanders, than to follow our trail into what might be an archers’ trap. I thanked God for it anyway and the rest of the journey was uneventful, despite it taking several hours to travel a distance I could have covered on foot in half that time. We saw no one but a few shepherd boys with their flocks.
Nevertheless, we were now safe at Boxley, and the abbot was insisting I dine with him and tell him everything that had happened to me in the past two decades of my life.
For a man of God, an elderly and doddering one at that, living in seclusion in the tranquil Kent countryside, the abbot had a surprisingly good grasp of the events of the wider world. His table was lavish, too, which I much appreciated after several days of little but greasy mutton broth.
He told me with sadness that the abbot of Robertsbridge, his great friend and our companion on the German adventure, had died a few years ago.
‘Alas, he was called far too soon,’ my host said solemnly. ‘He cannot have been much more than eighty-nine years of age. And yet it seems that God had more need of him than I.’
I commiserated with the abbot and then I told him a little of my exploits over the past twenty years.
‘You have seen too much of battle, my young friend,’ he said, when I had finished. ‘Too much killing hollows out a man, leaves him empty inside, like a dry leather cup. His soul leaves his body and wanders the universe and all that can fill the bodily void is blood and yet more blood. Take care that you do not end up in that condition, my son. Take very great care. I shall pray for you and for your preservation from sin.’
I thanked him and told him that I wished for nothing more than to lay down my sword and be at peace, but my duty to my lord forbade it.
‘You could renounce the world, my son – many a fighting man has done it. Why, the abbey here would welcome you as a brother should you choose to embrace the way of Christ and forsake the sword. Or you might look for a House nearer to your home. You could spend the rest of your life in the service of God and perhaps – forgive me if I presume too much – atone for some of the innocent blood you may have spilled.’
For a moment then, just a brief moment, the abbot’s offer seemed the most wonderful idea. From that good man’s chamber, I could hear the beautiful but haunting chanting of the monks at practice in the church across the courtyard and the skin puckered into tiny bumps on my arms. I took a sip of my friend’s fine wine. A life filled with this Heavenly music; a life dedicated to God’s love. Why not? So peaceful, so simple, so godly. I’d make an end to all the killing, all the horror, pain and death.
The moment passed. I had been entrusted with a vital mission by my lord and by d’Aubigny. My friends were counting on me and there was my son Robert to consider, too. I could not yet abandon my boy to face the cruelties of this world all alone.
I shook my head. ‘Perhaps one day, your grace,’ I said. ‘Perhaps one day.’
Our talk naturally turned to the war between the barons and the King. The abbot had strong opinions but he adamantly refused to take sides in John’s dispute with his rebellious noblemen. Each, he insisted, was as bad as the other.
‘I am a man who serves God,’ he said. ‘Although I believe I am loyal to England as well. I would not help to put another man on the throne.’
‘If you are worrying that Lord Fitzwalter seeks the crown, I can assure you I and many other men would prevent that from happening. All we ask is that the King respects and abides by the charter to which he has already agreed and set his seal.’
‘I do not fear Fitzwalter’s ambitions, prodigious though they undoubtedly are. It’s the French I fear.’
‘The French?’ I said, surprised. ‘What have they to do with England?’
‘You have not heard?’
I shook my head.
‘There is some talk that the rebels are seeking arms and men from the French – perhaps even a small army.’
‘What of it?’ I said.
‘I fear that a French army might seek a suitable recompense for their aid – the throne of England, perhaps.’
I laughed out loud. The notion was absurd. ‘My lord Fitzwalter proudly calls himself an English patriot. He would not offer the crown to Philip of France, even if he had it within his gift. No Englishman would – all men, rebel and royalist alike, would take up arms to repel the common enemy.’
‘Can you be so sure?’ the abbot said.
‘I’m certain. Fitzwalter would not do it. And my lord of Locksley would never allow a French tyrant to rule here. Never. And, for that matter, neither would I.’
‘Perhaps it is only idle talk, Sir Alan,’ said the abbot soothingly, ‘mere dairy maids’ gossip. Have a little more wine and tell me about your family and your manor – you reside at Westbury, did you not say? Tell me about it.’
‘Thank you but no, your grace. I must be away to bed,’ I said. ‘I am grateful for your hospitality, your prayers and for succouring the people of Rochester in their hour of need, but duty dictates that I ride to London at first light to speak with Lord Fitzwalter.’
* * *
Although the walls of London were well manned by disciplined troops, as I clattered over the bridge and rode into the filthy narrow streets of the city, I sensed an air of revelry, wild gaiety, almost outright debauchery everywhere. Many of the citizens I passed appeared to be drunk; others were sleeping in the streets, sprawled like dead men. Slatternly women, lips painted carmine, their abundant breasts spilling out of their chemises, called to me from the upper storeys of the houses, inviting me to spend time with them. Gangs of purple-faced men at the street corners roared and jostled and swilled from wine flasks and tankards. It might have been the aftermath of a great victory, as if we had already triumphed over the enemy – or the opposite, that disaster had fallen, all hope lost and the desperate folk were snatching a few moments of pleasure before perdition.
Cass had pleaded with me the night before to allow him to visit his family home not far from the south coast of Kent. He had heard from one of the Boxley monks that his father was sick, and did not know if he would live long. I allowed him to go, but I gave him instructions to join me in London as soon as he could and, if I had already left with the relief force when he arrived, to make his way back to Rochester. I was grateful to the youngster for his fine shooting in the sheep pastures – he had probably saved my life and the lives of many of the townsfolk – and felt he was more than owed a little time off duty to bring order to his family affairs.
Lord Fitzwalter was to be found in the great hall of the Tower of London. I made my way there and was announced by a herald at the vast double doors. Upon seeing my face, Fitzwalter gave me a friendly, long-armed wave from the centre of a throng of knights, priests and merchants, a dozen yards away. Then a servant quietly told me that his lordship was extremely busy at present and asked with exquisite politeness whether I would prefer to wait for what might be some little while or return the next day. I elected to wait and was shown to a bench by a window, served a cup of wine and told to possess my soul with patience.
I was not the only one waiting for a chance to speak to the great man. There was a young dark-haired fellow, evidently a man of wealth, dressed entirely from top to toe in cream-coloured velvet and silk embroidered with silver stitching. Even his shoes were pure white kidskin. The man was playing with a tiny tortoiseshell kitten in his lap, teasing it with a long white feather, tickling its pink nose and jerking the feather out of the way when the little bundle swiped at it with its miniature claws. He looked up as I sat on the bench a few feet from him, and smiled. His long, lean face was bloodless, white as a lily, and with the same soft yet dense waxy texture as the petals of the flower, as if it had never once seen the light o
f the sun. His eyes were pale blue, and brilliant, but lacking humour or warmth. They did, however, display a keen curiosity and intelligence. Overall, he seemed to project the impression that he was somehow less – but also more – than completely human: indeed, he had a rather ethereal, angelic quality that was most disturbing, as if his soul were superior in every way to an ordinary mortal’s. The friendly smile he offered did nothing to change the blank expression in his chilly blue eyes.
‘God’s blessings on you, sir,’ he murmured in French. This, in itself, was not that significant: many, indeed most members of the English nobility in those years spoke to each other in French. But his accent was strange. It was not the jocular, barrack-room, no-nonsense Norman French spoken by the turbulent knights of England, his silky accent and precise intonation came straight from the perfumed courts of France. Indeed, his voice carried more than a whiff of the great city of Paris itself.
‘Sir Alan Dale, knight of Westbury, at your service,’ I said in the same language, taking care over my pronunciation and trying, perhaps not very successfully, to echo his sophisticated Parisian style.
‘Thomas, Comte du Perche, minister to His Royal Highness King Philip Augustus, at yours,’ he said, then extinguished his smile and resumed playing with the kitten, driving it to a tiny frenzy with the feather tip.
So, he was an ambassador from Paris and Fitzwalter was either in talks with or contemplating talks with the French about military aid. Well, after what Abbot Boxley had said, it was only to be expected. And, God knew, a few score well-trained, well-armed French knights on our side would be most welcome in the struggle against the King and his legions of brutal Flemish mercenaries.
I looked at the man under my brows. He did not look like much of a fighting man. He was too slim in the shoulder and chest. And his long, pale hands were unscarred – most unusual in a man who wielded a blade with any degree of regularity. My own two fists were criss-crossed with old yellow and white cicatrices, purple lumps and bumps and even a few fresh scabs.
