The Ransomed Crown

by Wayne Grant

  “Hannibal did it with elephants, Buc, elephants!”

  An hour later, twenty armed men thundered through the village heading south. They paid no attention to the small road leading up into the mountains. The tracks of the big grey warhorse had been covered by the snow.

  At higher elevations, the world turned white. The sky, the road, the mountains all blended into a swirl of pure white that would have been beautiful had it not been so damned cold. Roger de Laval had seen bitter winters on campaign in France and Ireland, but there had been nothing like this cold.

  He had lost most of the feeling in his feet and the breath came in steamy puffs from his horse’s nostrils as they laboured upwards. If his feet were growing numb, his thigh had become a fiery agony where the lance had ripped across the muscle. He had pressed hard against the wound as he rode and the bleeding had stopped, but now the dried blood stuck to his leggings and any movement tugged at the ragged gash.

  He dismounted when the drifts reached Bucephalus’ hocks and led the horse on foot. For an hour, the road clung to the left side of a narrow defile that dropped off steeply into nothingness on the right. It was now near dawn, but the increasing fury of the snowstorm made the road hard to see. Sir Roger kept one eye on scattered patches of grey that marked the rock face to his left. It was all he had to guide by.

  Coming around a bend, a hard wind sent ice crystals flying from the growing drifts to nearly blind man and horse. The wind-driven snow began to cake on Sir Roger’s beard and the front of his woollen coat. Bucephalus whinnied and shook his massive head as the snow stung his eyes.

  “Hang on, old boy—just a few more miles,” Sir Roger shouted above the roar of the wind. But he had no idea how many more miles lay ahead and the road kept climbing. He thought of the night he told the King he would rather die in a snowbank than be captured.

  “Brave talk in a warm inn,” he said out loud. Bucephalus, hearing his master’s voice, laid his massive head on Sir Roger’s shoulder for a moment. The man reached up a gloved hand to stroke the horse’s muzzle.

  “Sorry I dragged you into this, big fella. But we are not done yet.”

  He bent his head and trudged on. Somewhere there was a bright sun shining in a blue sky, but here, the storm roared around him like some evil spirit, determined to sweep him off the heights to his death. He slipped and fell to his knees, but rose again. The effort to get to his feet shocked him. Some strange weakness seemed to have taken control of his limbs.

  He kept climbing, stumbling into waist-deep drifts. There was no feeling left in his hands or feet. For a moment the path seemed to level and he struggled forward, only to fall once more. It felt peaceful here in the drift, but he fought to free himself. He managed to get to his knees but felt light-headed. The wind sounded like voices screaming into the night and lights danced before his eyes. He tried to rise to his feet, but this time his legs would not cooperate.

  He groaned. His mind was foggy. Somewhere, he thought he heard a dog bark. Bucephalus nudged him with his nose, but he couldn’t move. He had one final thought before darkness took him.

  I’m so sorry, Catherine.

  Part Three: An Uncivil War

  The Old Templar

  Snow was falling softly as the monk made his way at twilight through the Aldersgate and into London. He had come from the London Temple where a distracted clerk had been persuaded to tell him where Sir Bernard Waldgrave had taken lodgings. He walked another block and found himself standing at the door of a man he hadn’t seen in five years. Tuck rapped on the oak and waited. From somewhere above he heard the creak of a shutter and felt himself being inspected by unseen eyes.

  “If that’s you, Bernard, come down and open the door,” he called out. “It’s Augustine.”

  He heard the shutter close and footsteps on stairs. A moment later, the door swung open. A tall man with a shock of white hair stood there. He leaned forward and squinted.

  “Is it you? The eyes aren’t what they once were.”

  “It’s me, Bernard. Can I come in?”

  The man hesitated for a moment, then stepped back.

  “Yes, of course, Augustine, come in.”

  He followed the older man into a small room with a bench and a chair. A small fire gave off a little light, but not much warmth. Sir Bernard settled himself in the chair and looked at Tuck.

  “It’s been a long time, Augustine. Are you still preaching to the heathens up in the hills?”

  Tuck looked at the aging Templar and thought back to his first days in the Order when this man had been his guide. Sir Bernard had been as tough as boot leather and breathtakingly lethal with a blade. He had taught the young miller’s son from Derbyshire the mysteries of the Order and the finer points of swordsmanship. Together they had travelled to the East and had served long years on the dangerous pilgrimage route to Jerusalem.

  The bond between them had been strong, but, in the end, Tuck had lost his stomach for the killing. The two had quarrelled bitterly over his decision to leave the Order and their parting had been cold. Now his old guide had retired from active service with the Templars. It seemed the years had not softened the man.

  “Sorrowfully, I’ve had to give up that calling for a time, Bernard. My flock are dying faster than I can save their souls.”

  “Dying?”

  “Aye, have you not heard of the famine in the Midlands? Our good Prince John is starving the people to pay for mercenaries to gain the throne.”

  Waldgrave grunted.

  “Everyone knows about John and his mercenary army, but famine in the Midlands? There have only been rumours.”

  “Children are dying in the villages, Bernard. I’ve seen it. We try to help, but it’s not nearly enough.”

  “We?”

  “Aye. There are over a hundred men with me in Nottinghamshire, all now outlawed. We steal what grain we can, but the Sheriff has the land in an iron grip. We save some, but…”

  In the firelight, Waldgrave’s face grew mournful.

  “Augustine…you…an outlaw?”

  “What choice does a man of God really have when children are dying, Bernard? But it is going to take more than a band of outlaws and my prayers to prevent the disaster that is visited upon the people of the Midlands. John must be stopped. We need help—and soon.”

  Sir Bernard shook his head sadly.

  “Surely these are dark times, Augustine, but you know our Order’s purpose—and it is not to save starving peasants in England. And it is certainly not to interject ourselves into a royal civil war. You’ll get no help from the Templars.”

  The old man was quiet for a while. He leaned over and threw a stick on the fire, then spoke again.

  “We did not part friends, Augustine, and I’ve regretted that. It pains me now to see you about to throw your life away to no purpose. John will be a terrible king, but men who are in a position to know are betting that he will have the crown by the end of the year. When that happens, bands like yours will be hunted down and you will swing—or worse. You should come back to the Order, Augustine. This doesn’t have to be your fight.”

  The older man leaned forward as he spoke, looking into the eyes of his old comrade, but saw nothing there but calm resolution. Tuck shook his head.

  “Oh, you’re wrong there, Bernard. This is my fight. It’s the fight I fled from as a young man—to my lasting shame. I found a refuge here in our Order, but I always felt I had abandoned the people out there. I won’t abandon them a second time.”

  Sir Bernard sighed and sat back.

  “Very well then. The best I can do is send you to a man who is as stubborn as you. He refuses to see that John has all but won and he’ll probably swing along with you. But if there is any chance that the Prince can be stopped, William Marshall is the man who will stop him. I can give you a letter of introduction. I saved the man’s life once when he made his own pilgrimage to Jerusalem.”

  Tuck rose to his feet.

  “Marshall? Didn’t he lead
the relief force that tried to save Nottingham Castle?”

  “Aye, and he failed. In fact, the man has never won a battle—as far as I know.”

  Tuck smiled broadly for the first time.

  “Then perhaps he’s due.”

  ***

  The snow had stopped, but a cold wind was blowing as Tuck made his way east through the centre of the city. It was late, but yellow light and the sound of revelry leaked out of tavern doors along the way. The country might be tearing itself apart, but Londoners seemed hardly troubled by the turmoil. He paid little attention as he picked his way along the street, stepping around the usual effluent and offal now lightly dusted with white. Marshall had quarters near Tower Hill and Waldgrave had assured him the Earl was currently in the city.

  William Marshall.

  Tuck knew of the man, though they had never met. Marshall had begun acquiring fame very young. He had been one of the great tournament knights of the age, the victor in hundreds of jousts. Such was his reputation in the lists that minstrels sang songs of him. Tuck had always considered these organized combats a ridiculous spectacle, but no one could doubt that the men who fought in them had courage aplenty.

  Tuck passed by St Olave’s church, old before the Normans had conquered the land, and couldn’t help but cast wary glances at the white mass of the Tower rising above the hill. The thing was more than simply a fortress. William, Duke of Normandy, had ordered it built to make it clear who ruled this town and this land. For over a hundred years it had glowered down on the city of London, daring any to challenge Norman rule.

  When he arrived at the place Sir Bernard had described, he noted that, from the second floor, one could likely observe the drawbridge that led into the Tower. Marshall had chosen a strategic place to call home. He climbed a short set of steps and knocked on the door. It opened almost instantly and an armed guard gazed at him suspiciously.

  “What’s yer business?”

  “I’ve come to see Sir William Marshall. I have a letter of introduction from Sir Bernard Waldgrave.” Tuck thrust the parchment toward the man.

  The guard looked him up and down. He took the parchment, broke the seal and looked at it.

  “Wait here,” he said and slammed the door shut.

  Long minutes passed before the door swung open once more. A tall, handsome man with broad shoulders and piercing grey eyes looked down on him.

  “Father Augustine, please come in. I am William Marshall. I was about to have a late dinner. Would you join me?”

  “I’d be pleased to, my lord.”

  Marshall led him toward the back of the house. Tuck saw stairs leading up to the second floor and wondered if there was a man at the window up there noting who came and who went from the Tower. They entered the kitchen, where there was a rough table set with cold meats and bread. A pot hung over the fire, giving off the unmistakable aroma of stew. Marshall motioned for Tuck to sit, then filled a cup from a pitcher and passed it to him.

  “Wine from Aquitaine. Nothing like it here in England.”

  Tuck took a moment to inhale the heady fragrance of the liquid but waited for Marshall to drink first. He had not had wine in over a year and as he followed his host and turned his glass up, he felt the warmth spread in his belly. He forced himself to drink only half of the cup and set it down.

  Marshall had already returned his cup to the table and waited for Tuck to speak.

  “My lord, I’ve come looking for help.”

  Marshall nodded.

  “Most who show up at my door are looking for help, Father. Sadly, I’ve had little of it to give lately. I’ll confess I would have turned you away had you not had the note from Sir Bernard. Did he tell you he saved my life?”

  “Aye, my lord, though he gave no details.”

  Marshall’s eyes took on a faraway look for a moment.

  “It is a long story, Father, but I was venturing in places a pilgrim to Jerusalem should not have been. Thank God Sir Bernard and his Templar brethren were nearby or I would be long dead.”

  Marshall blinked and seemed to return to the present.

  “Sir Bernard’s note says you were once in the Order but are now ministering to folk in Nottinghamshire. What kind of help are you seeking, Father?”

  Tuck cleared his throat. He hoped the Earl appreciated directness.

  “My lord, there is famine in the Midlands and it is no act of God. Prince John is bleeding the land to pay his mercenaries. Children are starving. Let me go right to the heart of the matter. A year ago, the King sent me home from the East with a message for the Queen. In his message, he promised that he would be home before Christ’s Mass. That day is but weeks away. I trust the King’s return will put an end to this madness, but we’ve heard no news of his approach. Where is the King, my lord?”

  Marshall raised an eyebrow.

  “I will tell you honestly that we’ve had no news of Richard since he sailed from Cyprus in early October. It is anyone’s guess when or if he will return to England. I’m familiar with this message you carried. I was present at Oxford when two young knights gave the same message to the Queen.”

  At that, Tuck slammed a palm down on the table top and smiled broadly.

  “I know those lads, my lord, and I’m right happy to hear they survived their journey home! I fought with Sir Roland and Sir Declan at Acre. They are loyal men and more deadly than they look.”

  Marshall returned the smile.

  “Aye, Father. They gave a good account of themselves when they returned to Chester, but now that city is besieged and I expect your friends are hard pressed.”

  Tuck sighed.

  “We knew that the mercenary army had marched west after the fall of Nottingham Castle, but had not heard much since.”

  Marshall frowned.

  “The loss of Nottingham was my fault, Father. I tried to break the siege, but we took a drubbing at Leicester. Somehow word of our approach found its way to our enemies. The garrison had no choice but to surrender. To my shame, John made every man bend a knee and swear loyalty to him.”

  “Not every man, my lord.”

  Marshall looked at him curiously.

  “After delivering the King’s message, I intended to find a bit of peace and return to my flock in the mountains of Derbyshire,” Tuck said. “I travelled with Sir Robin of Loxley and we were sickened by what we saw in the villages we passed. When John threatened the castle at Nottingham we knew its fall would make the Prince’s grip on the Midlands stronger. So Sir Robin and I joined the garrison there.”

  “And after the surrender? I can see you weren’t hung, but how did you avoid bending the knee?”

  Tuck shrugged.

  “I, and my comrades, avoided that indignity, my lord, by going over the wall and escaping into Sherwood Forest. We’ve been outlawed, but our numbers have grown. Sir Robin is our leader and we have over a hundred men now. But we cannot match the strength of the new sheriff who is stripping the land of everything. We have few weapons—some of the men have only staffs and pruning hooks. My lord, women and children are starving in Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire. Something must be done. Can you help us?”

  Marshall stood up.

  “Eat first, then we’ll talk. Perhaps we can help each other.”

  ***

  They talked long into the night. Marshall offered Tuck a bed but he refused. As he left the house that looked out over the grounds of the Tower, he felt the wind press his coarse robes around his legs. It had turned colder while he and the Justiciar had discussed a way forward.

  As he reached the street and turned back toward the west, he had the odd sensation of being watched. He looked down the street behind him. It was empty. Then he looked up. Someone was standing in the second floor window of Marshall’s house watching him.

  It was a girl.

  A Lion in Chains

  By the highest window in the tower, a woman sat and looked to the east. She had always enjoyed this view from the castle of Tancarville, perche
d high on a bluff overlooking a lazy bend of the Seine as it neared the sea. But now the land was grey, the last leaves had fallen from the trees and a cold wind rattled the shutters. Another winter had come and with it, a feeling of growing despair.

  It had been six months since the messages from her son had stopped coming. Walter of Coutances had learned through his contacts that Richard had made an extended stop in Cyprus before sailing west in early October, but no further word or sign of his approach had reached her. Her spies had kept watch in every major port around the northern shore of the Mediterranean, but none had seen the King or heard any hint of his coming. And now, for the past month, the tattered remains of his army had begun arriving at the ports of England and Normandy.

  So where was Richard?

  The wind changed direction and an icy gust blew her grey hair back. She still wore it long. Men had once written poetry about Eleanor of Aquitaine—the lustre of her hair, the brightness of her eyes, the grace of her neck. She pulled a shawl closer around her bony shoulders, but did not move. Men had worshiped her beauty well into her forties, but now she was nearly twice that and men either feared her or depended on her to save them from their follies.

  It was wearisome. She had held Richard’s kingdom together against determined enemies for over two years now, but those enemies were growing bolder. John now held the royal castles at Windsor, Lincoln and Nottingham and was actively plotting with Philip of France to gain that slippery ruler’s support to take the crown itself. Her short visit to England the previous winter had slowed the designs of her ambitious younger son, but had in no way ended them.

  The surprise reappearance of the Earl of Chester from Wales and the recapture of his city had been a setback for the Prince and his favourite lackey, William de Ferrers—and a rare piece of good news for supporters of the King. But John had responded by sending his mercenary army to besiege the city. It had taken them six months to starve Nottingham into submission. How long could the men at Chester hold out against a force such as that?