by Wayne Grant
“Your grace, to win the crown will cost you blood or money,” he said, fixing the young English prince with his gaze. “You must either seize the throne by force before Richard can be ransomed or, failing that, outbid Eleanor for custody of your brother. In either case, I am prepared to aid you.”
John looked up at the King. He needed Philip now, more than ever, but he was no fool.
“How can you help me, your majesty?”
Philip smiled benevolently.
“Your grace, I think you will be the greatest English King since Canute. I am prepared to marshal my army at Wissant, where my fleet stands ready to land it on the shores of Kent.”
John stifled a gasp. For a moment he saw the prize finally within his grasp. Despite spending a fortune on his mercenary host he had not managed to get his boot firmly on the neck of the English barons. Many were cowed and many more had been bought, but there was still resistance to his claims to the throne. Having a French army at his back could tip the balance. But he had known Philip since boyhood and sensed there was more to this bargain.
“What will it cost me for this support?”
“A fair price, I think you’ll agree. You will give me possession of Gisors and the Vexin, which your father stole from France. You may keep the rest, but you will do public homage to me for all of the English holdings on the continent—Normandy, Aquitaine, Brittany—the lot.”
John did not flinch. It was a steep price, but not unexpected. He had been prepared to do homage to Philip for the English lands in France as some of his forebears had done. That was a mere formality with little real impact on his domains. The loss of Gisors and the Vexin would be painful, for it placed Philip’s forces in a much stronger strategic position should war come to Normandy. Still, he would have given up these and more to gain the crown.
“When will your army be prepared to sail, your majesty?”
Philip shrugged and waved a hand in the air.
“Of course I must be certain my men will be welcomed and not set upon by your enemies or mine when they disembark. To be certain of that, I will need certain assurances from the greater part of the English nobility, you grace. Give me written assurances of support and we will march to your aid.”
John felt his heart sink. If he could muster that kind of support from the barons, he would have no need of Philip!
“And should I seek to outbid the Queen for my brother, what are you prepared to contribute.”
Philip sighed.
“England is a very rich country. We are sadly poor. But I can guarantee you five thousand pounds of silver against the ransom.”
John was surprised. This was a huge sum.
“And what will you gain from this, your majesty?”
Philip laid a brotherly hand on his shoulder.
“Well, there is the Vexin and Gisors,” he said, “and one thing more. I want Richard.”
John shrugged.
“You are welcome to him.”
The Old Soldier
The ship dropped anchor well into the estuary of the Dee. It was a frigid, blustery morning and the mouth of the river provided a protected anchorage out of the hard wind piling up whitecaps in the Irish Sea behind them. The master of the vessel watched as his lone passenger, a tall, worn-looking knight, climbed carefully down into the small boat that would carry him ashore.
He had wondered from the beginning of this voyage why the Queen had hired his ship to bring a single man to this remote part of her realm. He shrugged. Who could understand the purposes of royalty? He had tried to strike up a conversation as they beat down the Channel in remarkably fair weather for December, but the knight had been in no mood for conversation. He sensed his passenger had lived through something that had taken him to the very edge. He seemed fragile, but in the man’s eyes there was still a fire. The ship’s master decided it was best to leave Sir Roger de Laval to himself.
The small boat drove in among the reeds where the last ford on the Dee crossed the river. Sir Roger rose from the bow and stepped back onto English soil for the first time in over two years. He instinctively looked across the river toward Wales. Nothing moved there. He looked down at the trail that led up toward the higher ground on the English side. There were a few old hoof prints in the frozen mud and nothing more.
He shoved the boat back into the current and slung his sword belt over his head. His battleaxe hung at his side as he started up the path toward home. He thought he had prepared himself for the worst, but his breath caught in his throat when he topped the last rise and looked across the untended fields at Shipbrook.
“Damn…”
He cursed to himself and started across the fields still covered in hoarfrost. No one challenged him. The approaches showed clear signs of a battle, though not a recent one. The gate was down, its wood splintered. The crude ram that had done the deed stood like some strange beast in the entrance. He stepped around it and looked inside. The hall was burnt down and no living thing moved.
He could not bring himself to enter. Anything inside that might have had worth to him was destroyed—or dead. He backed out of the broken gate and looked to the east, toward the besieged city of Chester. Without a word he trudged off in that direction. He knew a mercenary army stood between him and the city, but Catherine and Millie would be there—must be there. The mercenaries had best stay out of his way.
***
The sentry yawned and shook his head, trying to stay awake one more hour until sunrise. It had been a very cold night and the horses had been restless. He’d walked among them during the small hours of the night and it seemed to settle the beasts down, but in the bitter cold, the fire near the picket line kept drawing him back.
Now, as the warmth seeped into his bones, his head nodded—once, twice, then came to rest on his chest. He dreamed of his mother in Antwerp. She was baking a tart. He never heard the man come out of the woods behind him or saw the flash of the sword as the heavy hilt took him in the temple. His mother and the tart dissolved into utter blackness.
***
A guard at the Northgate saw it first. Just as dawn arrived there was movement to the northwest. A rider was coming toward the town and moving fast. The man on the horse had got clear of the tree line by a hundred yards when more riders burst from the woods. The guard atop the Northgate counted five riders trying to close on the one.
“Sergeant of the Guard!” He called.
Sir Edgar Langton had just left the gatehouse to conduct his dawn rounds of the city walls when the call came down to him. He instinctively looked to the north and saw the rider, his horse at full gallop heading toward the city gate. The riders who pursued him were whipping their horses to close the gap, but the man in the lead looked sure to beat them. But the gate was closed and barred. He knew it could be a trick, but something told him it wasn’t.
“Open the gate!” he roared. “Call up the archers.”
This last command was hardly needed. At each of the city gates four longbowmen were assigned to each watch and they had heard the sentry’s first alarm. The four were already scrambling up the ladder to the top of the barbican.
“Archers,” Sir Edgar ordered. “Cover that man!”
The fleeing rider was within two hundred yards of the gate and coming hard when his horse stepped in a cleverly concealed hole in the road covered over with hide and dirt. The Chester garrison had pocked the approaches to the city with these traps to slow any approach to the walls.
The beast lunged forward, its leg snapping like a twig. The rider was catapulted over the animal’s head and onto the roadway. Sir Edgar thought he might be dead, but saw the man lurch to his feet, his left arm hanging limply at his side, and begin to stumble toward the safety of the now open Northgate. Behind him the riders slowed—made cautious by the fate of the horse in front of them—but they were closing quickly on the lone figure staggering up the road.
Atop the barbican, the archers took aim. Four arrows flew and two men toppled backwards off th
eir mounts. The other three had had the presence of mind to fetch their shields before giving chase. They had seen far too much of the deadly Danish archers that manned Chester’s walls. Another flight of arrows rained down and a horse was struck in the head. He bucked off his rider and fled back toward the woods. Still, two men refused to let their quarry escape.
Sir Edgar hurried down from the wall walk to the street. A group of guards quartered near the Northgate had been roused by the uproar and were pouring out of their barracks.
“Follow me!” he bellowed.
The portcullis had been raised at the first command and a half dozen men followed Sir Edgar through it, but there was no way to reach the man before he would be ridden down by the two horsemen. The lead rider closed in, leaning forward, his sword raised for a killing stroke.
The man on foot must have heard the hoof beats draw near. He stopped abruptly, fumbled for an instant at his waist then twisted violently to the rear. It was too late for the rider to check his momentum as he saw a gleaming battleaxe rise up in a vicious arc toward him. It took the horse in the jaw and the animal fell as though its bones had turned to water. The rider screamed as he fell under the horse’s bulk.
The last rider fended off another hail of arrows from the Northgate and reined his horse to a stop twenty paces from the man who now stood facing him, his battleaxe hanging loosely in his right hand. It took him but a moment to decide the chase was over. He sheathed his sword, swung his horse’s head around sharply and flipped his shield over his shoulder to protect his back before whipping his horse toward the safety of his own lines.
The man standing in the road swayed from side to side as he watched the last of his pursuers flee. His head swam and he felt his knees start to buckle. As he went down, he felt strong hands catch him, then the world turned black.
***
It was a dream he’d had before—many times. Catherine was sitting near him, speaking softly. He strained to hear what she was saying but couldn’t quite make out her words. But the simple sound of her voice was like a balm. He started to drift off again.
“Roger!”
His eyes flew open. It took a moment for him to focus and in that moment nothing made sense. He saw grey stone and a high ceiling. He blinked and looked down He prayed he wasn’t dreaming, because Catherine, his Catherine, was there—right in front of him. Her brow was furrowed as she looked at him with concern. And her hair—it had wisps of grey!
“Roger!”
He sat up. He felt a sharp twinge in his arm, the pain confirming that this was not a dream. After two and a half long years—he was home.
“Cathy…”
A sob escaped Catherine de Laval’s throat as she wrapped her arms around him.
“Oh God, Roger” she croaked. “You’ve come back. I’d almost given up…”
He sat there in this dream that was no dream and smelled her hair. It smelled the same as it had the first day he had ever held her close. He reached to return her embrace, but his left arm would not move, so he wrapped his good right arm around her waist. She shuddered and buried her face in his neck.
“I promised I’d be back, Cathy,” he said gently. “Have I ever broken a promise to you?”
She lifted her head and looked at his face, so gaunt and worn and dear. She kissed him on the lips.
“No, Roger de Laval, you haven’t. And I’ll have your promise right now that you’ll never leave England again—no matter where the King may wish to take you.”
He managed a weak smile for her.
“I promise it.”
She drew back.
“I’ll hold you to that, Roger. Now that the King has returned, there are more than enough things to set right here in our own land.”
He gave her an odd look, then realized there was no way the news could have reached Chester yet.
“Catherine, the King has not returned,” he said in a pained voice. “He has been taken as a captive in Austria. To my shame, I…I couldn’t protect him. I was sent to give word of it to the Queen. God help us if she cannot get him back.”
Catherine felt a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. So much of their hopes had rested on Richard’s return and now what hope was there? Since they had burned the trebuchets in the autumn, the mercenary army had settled into a deliberate siege. With extra mouths to feed among the refugee Danes, the city had been on half rations since the Feast of All Saints. Even so, there was little more than a month of food left. After that, the city would be forced to surrender—a grim prospect, but…Roger was home and that was enough for now. She touched his cheek.
“I’ve no doubt you did your duty to the King. Now, you need to rest a little more. You’ve broken your arm it seems.”
He looked at the wooden splint on his upper arm and gave a little snort. Then he looked past Catherine.
“Millie…”
Catherine had been dreading this question.
“She’s in London, Roger, and as safe as she would be here. There is so much to tell you. She has done extraordinary things since you’ve been gone. I believe you will be proud.”
He started to speak. Questions swirled in his head. London? What was Millie doing in London? He opened his mouth, but Catherine put a finger to his lips.
“I know you have questions, husband, and I will answer all I can, but for now you must rest.”
Her words made him aware of the crushing weariness he felt. He was helpless against it and slid back down onto the bed and back into darkness.
***
It was morning when he woke once more and Catherine was still beside his bed. He reached to her with his good arm and she took his hand.
“You have visitors, Roger.”
He turned his head and saw his two former squires standing across the room, anxious looks on their faces.
“Ah, my boys!” he said and hoisted himself up in bed.
“My lord!” they said at the same time and rushed forward.
He hadn’t seen Roland or Declan in over a year and neither had much the look of a boy any longer. Both visitors to his bedside began to talk at once, words tumbling out in a rush.
“Gentlemen, please,” Lady Catherine said, stepping in. “All can’t be told in a single breath.” They both stepped back sheepishly. “My husband knows nothing of what has happened here and at Shipbrook since you all took your leave. It is time he did.”
For an hour the three sat beside Sir Roger’s bed and told the story. Lady Catherine spoke of the summons from the Queen, her recruitment of Millicent to spy on Ranulf and their daughter’s role in saving the young Earl from sure execution at the hands of Prince John and William de Ferrers.
“Millie a spy—you allowed this?” he asked his wife, shock written on his face.
“Roger, do you not recall your daughter’s nature?” she asked gently. “She has grown into a young woman while you were away. She was asked by the Queen and did not seek my permission. It was her decision. And please consider, had she not been there, Ranulf would be dead. Where then would our family be?”
The big Norman knight shook his head, trying to digest this dire news. It was as though he had returned to a world turned on its head. Catherine took his hand and continued the tale. She told of their exile in Wales, kept safe by the young Welsh rebel, Llywelyn, how they had languished for months in the wilderness—until things changed on Christ’s Mass day. She glanced at Roland, who took up the thread of the story.
“My lord, Master Sparks and Boda saw us safely home to the Dee. It was the day before Christ’s Mass. We found Shipbrook burnt and occupied by de Ferrers’ men. We saw them off, but feared the worst. Then Sigbert, the swineherd, found us and gave us hope that Lady Catherine and Millicent had fled safely into Wales. We went looking for them.”
“Good lads!” Sir Roger said and laid a big hand on Declan’s shoulder. “Though landing at the Dee seems an odd route to get to the Queen in London.”
“My lord, the King did not specify a route, b
ut cautioned us against being waylaid—as so many of his messengers had been. We thought it was unlikely that the King’s enemies would be watching the west country.”
“And you thought you should visit my family before going to the Queen…” Sir Roger’s voice grew husky as he realized that these two young men had found a way to honour their loyalty to his family without violating the orders of their sovereign.
“Aye, my lord. That’s what we figured. The Dee would be a clever landing place and, as it happened, Shipbrook was on the way to London.
Sir Roger allowed himself a small smile.
“Go on.”
“We found Lady Millicent and she was determined to reach the Queen to seek aid for Earl Ranulf. We rode with her to Oxford where the Queen was holding court. She did not know that Ranulf had survived the fall of Chester, but was heartened to hear it. She gave us what aid she could—a troop of men who had come home wounded from the Crusade. They call themselves the Invalid Company and they are men to be reckoned with, my lord. With those men and with the help of Prince Llywelyn, we were able to take back the city. Now, we just have to hold it!”
Sir Roger had been listening intently and when Roland paused, he spoke.
“Alwyn…you’ve not spoken of Alwyn,” he said, his voice anxious. “I saw what they did to Shipbrook…”
Declan shot a quick glance at Roland, who gave a short nod. The Irishman cleared his throat. He wanted some gentle way to say this, but there was none. As he spoke, his voice was near to breaking.
“We were crossing the Dee, my lord, when Baldric hailed us. He told us what happened at the ford.” He paused for a second to gather himself, then plunged on.
“My lord, when the Earl and your family fled into Wales, Alwyn guarded their retreat across the Dee. He slowed the pursuit at the ford and killed many of de Ferrers’ men. But there were too many. My lord,…Sir Alwyn died at the ford and is buried on the far side, on the high ground there.”
For a moment Sir Roger looked like he did not understand what Declan had said, then a look of inconsolable grief played across the big man’s face. He sat up in bed, then tried to rise but could not find his balance. He slumped back down.
