by Dan Davis
No wonder Tuck had lost his mind.
I woke to the searing light of a single candle and was brought up into the world again. Outside, it was dawn. A thin, steady rain gusted down in waves of countless tiny needles. It felt wonderful.
I expected to be brought to the archbishop or to the scaffold.
Instead, it was Jocelyn and Anselm waiting in the rain in the castle courtyard, holding our horses at the ready. Swein was there too, his old brown hood soaked and heavy on his head. He grinned at me over Anselm and Jocelyn’s shoulders. My armour and weapons wrapped and loaded upon my horses.
My men gave me wine and a chunk of tough cheese and I followed them out of the castle gates, holding my tongue until we were gone.
It was strangely quiet. More than subdued, as would be expected, Newark felt deserted.
Guards looked away from us as we rode out and off from Newark Castle, heading west along an empty road. The swollen Trent flowed by to the left, down the hill, rain patterning all over the mud-brown surface.
“Tell me,” I said to Jocelyn after we were well clear of the castle and town, pulling to a stop in the rain right on the road. There was no one around.
“The archbishop had you taken into custody before the king was even cold. We could do nothing. His household knights took the king’s body away to Worcester for burial. And immediately all the great lords fled in the night. They raced each other to be the first to reach Prince Henry, who is all the way down in Salisbury or thereabouts. They will be there by now, I don’t doubt.”
I looked back at the castle. “The archbishop had me taken. And then I was just left there?”
Jocelyn and the others exchanged a look.”
“You are charged with treason,” Jocelyn said. “But no one knows precisely why or any detail. You were supposed to be held.”
Treason. The word hung as heavy as a roll of lead.
“They think that I murdered the king?”
“No man says it is murder. He died of the flux. He has been long on campaign. He ate too much and drank too much wine and he fell ill and died.”
“But it was William,” I said. “The king was poisoned. It was just as I said. Just as Tuck said.”
“We tried to tell them,” Jocelyn said. “Anselm told his father and his brother.”
“You did?” I asked the young man. I knew he was terrified of both of them. The Earl of Pembroke frightened everyone by his fame alone. And the elder four sons of the Marshal were all mad enough to have joined the rebellion, however briefly and Anselm was confused and intimidated by disloyalty. “You have my thanks, Anselm.”
“That is not all he did,” Jocelyn said. “Tell Richard what your older brother did.”
“He gave me gold and silver,” Anselm said, rain streaming down his face. “For bribing the guards.”
“It took us a couple of days to find out who were the right men to pay off,” Jocelyn added. “And they made Anselm swear to wait until the archbishop and the last of his men had themselves left.”
“What treason am I supposed to have committed?” I asked.
“The precise charges are unknown,” Jocelyn said. “But I heard it was because you abandoned your task in the south.”
“The grooms are saying it’s because you are swyving the archbishop’s daughter,” Swein said, grinning. “Stole her away from him.”
“I see,” I said. “How do they know about Eva?”
Swein shrugged. “Servants talk, lord.”
“It is simply a means to do away with you, lord,” Anselm said. “My brother said the archbishop wants you to stay away from Sherwood. And your lord knows you would obey the Marshal rather than be loyal to him, if it came down to it. In an open war between the two Royalist factions.”
“The archbishop and the Marshal are enemies,” I said, seeing the extent of their rivalry for the first time. “What will they do now?”
“Think about it, Richard,” Jocelyn said. “They are going to crown Prince Henry as the new king. Do you know how old Henry is?”
“Young,” I said.
“He is nine years old, Richard. And whoever controls the boy controls the kingdom,” Jocelyn said. “The king’s loyal barons have been fighting a war of access to the Prince for years. Every maid, page and lady within a mile of the boy are in the pay of Anselm’s father or your lord. Or both. Or some other baron.”
“So goes the rumours,” I said.
“We spoke to my brother about it before he left,” Anselm said. “He told us all.”
“So freeing me does what?” I said. “What does the Marshal want me to do?”
Jocelyn pointed south, as if we could see my liege lord. “The archbishop has brought the charges against you himself. With his resources, the archbishop will win. You will be denied the right of appeal through trial by combat and you will be killed. The archbishop is disposing of you. Legally, perhaps, but he has declared you an enemy. The Marshal wants you to fight for him instead.”
“For him and for the Prince and the kingdom,” Anselm said, proudly.
“So I am fleeing justice,” I said. “I am making myself an outlaw?”
My three men looked at each other. I was struck by how they seemed to be friends, companions, comrades. One was the son of a great lord, one a knight who would have a fine career without being sworn to me and one was an outlawed commoner. Any of them could have fled while I was locked up. I would have been convicted and no man would have condemned them for breaking an oath to a treasonous lord. Instead, they had not only stood by me but had worked hard to break me out and save me from the fate that the archbishop had arranged.
“Richard, we have no choice but to flee,” Jocelyn said. “But you are not fleeing justice. You would be found guilty. Do you want to be tried when you cannot win? Is temporary outlawry not the better choice?”
“Temporary?” I said, grasping the word. “Are you certain of that?”
“No,” Jocelyn said, glancing at his squire.
“My father is certain that he will make things right,” Anselm said. “He will soon be in a position to help you.”
“So long as he seizes control of the boy king before the archbishop,” I said.
“The archbishop is known for governing well, for making his own lands richer and for passing on his wealth for others. The barons all want to be rich,” Jocelyn said. “Yet we are still at war with the French. There are two kings of England, one French and the other a young boy. The barons will want a warrior in charge. They will turn to the Marshal as they have before. He is the steadiest hand in the kingdom. He wants you. He will have you. Legally. We simply need to wait it out.”
“A perfect time to go to Sherwood,” I said. “I will be out of sight and we can dig William out of his hole like the parasite he is.”
“For the love of God, Richard,” Jocelyn cried. “Will you forget William for once? How can we four take him? We do not all have your strength. You think only of yourself. What about your house? You manor? My sister? Have you considered her at all? Emma has been running your manor all summer. What happens to her when your property is seized?”
“But the archbishop is not here,” I said. “His attention will be on young Henry, you said so yourself.”
“Come, Richard,” Jocelyn said. “He has a practice of taking lands. From his own men. From anyone. He has men who do this for him. Men learned in the law, from London. They will be acting upon the archbishop’s orders to take everything you own. Anselm’s brother told us.”
“I will fight them,” I said. “We shall man the walls of Ashbury and fight off any man who comes.”
“That is your answer for every challenge,” Jocelyn said. “A blade will not work in this case. Will you kill men acting within the law of the land? Will you cut down men armed with writs and lawfully charged bailiffs? You will never climb your way back from outlawry then.”
I sat and looked at the soaking land around me. The hedgerows hanging heavy with water. Fields running
with tiny rivers downhill toward the Trent through the lines of alder and willow along the banks.
“You are right. Let us go and collect Emma and everything we can carry. With no income and nowhere to go, I will not be able to take any servants. They will have to serve their next lord.”
“Only until we return,” said Jocelyn.
I prayed that he was right.
***
It was two days before we arrived at Ashbury to collect Emma and put my affairs in order. By that time, we had almost dried out and the sun struggled through.
The thought of abandoning my manor was unsettling. Approaching my home along the familiar lane was something I had done countless times but every detail was imbued with significance. We forded the stream that had burst its banks at the bottom of the hill and flooded the woods at either side. It had always been a boggy area, surrounded by bladderwort and bog myrtle but when I was very young I had tried to catch sticklebacks as they darted over the pebbles.
All woods are wet places. Even in a summer drought, go into an English lowland wood and you may immediately plunge your fingers down into cool, wet earth, full of fat worms, perfect for tempting fishes and making girls scream. Two or three spade depths and you are into sucking black water amongst the tangled roots.
The pigs from the village snuffled at the edge of the wood and hedgerow, gobbling up the acorns and beech mast, roaming under the loose guidance of the local swineherds.
In the hedgerows around my manor house, I had encouraged my men to plant blackthorn. I loved blackthorn though my servants and villagers thought the wood half-evil or, at least, magical and, therefore, to be mistrusted. Perhaps they were right. The wood certainly burns like the devil.
That stuff was dense and hard and made the best walking sticks and poles for sword training. It kept the sheep and cattle out of the gardens. I always enjoyed the way it blooms before Easter and before any leaves grow so the white blossom explodes over the bare black branches. In autumn, my servants picked great basketfuls of the blue-black berries harvested and boiled them with fat game from my woods. That day, I noticed that no one had picked the berries.
Snails clad in their yellow and purple armour spotted over the sodden timbers of my gateway as I rode through at midday. Bert the Bone’s pack of elderly dogs howled and bounded around me as I dismounted, scattering the chickens.
Would I ever see any of it again?
Although it had been well over ten years since we built it, the palisade around Ashbury manor house still felt new. I had dug out the ditch and piled up the bank alongside the rest of the labourers from the village and beyond. Those that did not know me had not liked it. They thought I was showing off, making them look bad by throwing more muck than they did. And also, that I was there to keep my eyes on them continuously so that they would work harder and take few breaks.
My own servants had explained to them that I simply enjoyed a physical challenge. That I liked being up to my knees in mud, seeing how hard I could work, testing my strength and endurance. I well remembered being struck by how well they knew me and I felt immoral for having to abandon them to an unknown fate.
“Some of you stood by my family after the tragedy that occurred here twenty-five years past,” I said to my gathered servants in the hall.
It had turned into a warm, bright autumn afternoon and the doors and windows were thrown open and the golden light flooded in across the men and women standing together.
“More of you came after, trusting that there was no curse in this place and no curse on me. I am sure that some of you do believe me cursed, because of what they say about me. And that I have a youthful countenance though I am as old as a grandfather. Well, perhaps you are right. But no matter what you believe in your hearts, you have stood by this place and you have each done your duty. You have served me and I hope you feel I have served you well in return. I have tried to be fair in my judgements. I have tried to give to you as much as I could.”
I was pleased to see nodding heads and hear murmurs of assent. I took a breath.
“It is also a lord’s duty to be often away from his home. And whenever I have been on campaign or on other business, you have continued to serve faithfully under good stewardship. This past summer you have done without me once again and I am certain you have followed the Lady Emma’s commands as if they were my own. Indeed, you all know she makes a better job of things than I ever have.” They laughed yet it was unfair of me to seek refuge in levity. “But now I must go away again. Only, this time it will be different. You know that we are in a time of war, our land divided. I have had a disagreement with my liege lord, Hugh de Nonant who is also the Archbishop of York. He has brought a charge of treason against me.”
Their astonished muttering rose to cries of alarm and I waved them down into low murmuring.
“I am told by other great lords that my enemies conspire to find me guilty, no matter the evidence I can bring before judges. And so I must flee. In fleeing, I condemn myself to outlawry. My property will be confiscated. That means this house and these lands will be sold by the crown. Soon, you will have a new lord. You must serve him well, whoever he is. With no income from these lands, I can take none of you with me. But, I swear to you, I shall return. I shall defeat my enemies and I shall claim back my home. For now, I ask only that you all help me and my family to prepare for our absence. With the steward, we shall work out how what is left can be shared amongst you all, rather than fall into the hands of the next lord of Ashbury. God be with you all.”
They clamoured again and begged me for more words but I could not face them and I pushed past into the courtyard.
“That was the longest I ever heard you speak in my entire life,” Jocelyn said, grimacing as he walked out with me. “You are not very good at it.”
“Pack your things,” I said. “I must have a word with the prior.”
***
I walked through Ashbury’s fields, then the Tutbury Wood and waded the Stickleback Stream to go to speak with Prior Simon before leaves for outlawry.
Simon was young to be a Prior, as I understood it. But he had been at Tutbury since he was a little boy. He had always shown a great aptitude for monkish things. The young Simon had even travelled away somewhere or other to study for a few years.
The man, when elected Prior by his brothers, had become a nuisance to me. Always he was seeking to improve the lot of the priory, which in practice meant pressing me for more money or for more rights or privileges. Money that I never had.
His monks worked hard for him. He was a Godly and practical man both and I admit that I admired his resolve and his aptitude.
I never liked him as a man.
“Where will you go?” Prior Simon asked in the privacy of his own house.
“Away,” I said. “Just away.”
“You do not trust a man of God to keep your secrets?” the Prior said, with absurd familiarity.
“It is better for you and everyone else if you do not know, surely?” I said, attempting to keep the irritation from my voice. “I came simply to ask that you do what you can to help everyone through this period.”
“Of course, Sir Richard,” the Prior said. “It is my God-given duty to do so. Do not think of it as a favour to yourself.”
His self-aggrandising and pretentiously pious answer made me want to smash him in his chinless face.
“Before you flee into the wilderness,” Prior Simon said, shifting closer in his seat and lowering his voice. “You should unburden yourself. Your life’s tragedies weigh upon you, I know that they do. I have seen it.”
He leered at me, his lips wet with anticipation.
I considered tearing his throat open and drinking him dry.
“Whenever thoughts of my life’s tragedies occur to me,” I said, speaking truthfully. “Or if feelings of anguish intrude upon a waking moment, I simply do not think on it any longer. I ignore the thought. I push away the feeling. Such things are too much to endure.”
My answer seemed to excite him.
“God wishes you to face your sin,” Prior Simon said, placing his sweaty palm on the back of my hand. “That evasion is your guilty heart. God wishes you to be unburdened of your crimes. Tell me and feel free.”
“I am guilty. I have sinned,” I pulled my hand from his sweaty grasp and stood. “And yet it is not my own crimes that concern me but those of enemies. And I will be the instrument of God’s vengeance upon the guilty.”
“Which enemies do you speak of?” Prior Simon asked, his eyes looking up at me, voice wavering.
“All of them.”
***
Two days of activity at Ashbury later and we were heading south once more. There was only really one place in all England that I could hide and also give me a chance to fight my way into a king’s pardon.
I had to go to Kent.
There was little news of what was happening elsewhere in the kingdom. It seemed everything was happening far away. Whether our king was to be King Louis the French prince or King Henry the child.
Emma had taken our sudden flight with good grace. All her life, God had thrown bad luck at her. Her father had died when she was a baby. Her mother killed, violently when she very young. Brought up with Jocelyn by family she barely knew. Married young to an older man, whose seed had been weak. Pregnancies came to bloody ends. Her husband died leaving her nothing but debts and a manor that was overrun by Saracens. When Jocelyn had failed to claim his Poitevins inheritance, she had come to Ashbury with him. Through it all, she had remained remarkably accepting and had not turned bitter. She prayed often. Perhaps that was her secret.
I tried to speak to her of it, our first day riding.
“Good grace?” she said to me, her eyes flashing. Suddenly, she looked very much like her mother. “Taking it all with good grace? How else am I to take it, Richard? How could I have changed anything with public anger? Or displaying self-pity? When I say I am going to pray, it may mean that. Or it may mean I am weeping in the darkness. But what difference does it make how we accept God’s will? You are a knight with a disagreeable temper. You charge your lance at anyone who offends you and then you end up friendless and alone, just as I am.”
