The Ransomed Crown

by Wayne Grant

  ***

  Roland saw the downed horse first, then caught movement off the road. A man was half running, half stumbling, across the frozen field that led down to the river. There could be no mistake—it was William de Ferrers. Roland swung his horse’s head to the left and went after him.

  De Ferrers saw the horse veer off the road and knew he would never reach the safety of the woods. He stopped and drew his sword. Roland guided his horse to a spot between the Earl and the trees and was out of the saddle before the animal came to a full stop. He drew his sword.

  “Roland!”

  Declan O’Duinne reined in his own mount and swung down onto the frozen ground. He had never seen William de Ferrers up close before and as he ran to catch up to his friend he studied the young Earl. There was something in the way the man stood and held his sword that gave the Irishman pause. As he drew even with Roland, he whispered out of the side of his mouth.

  “He looks like a skilled swordsman. Perhaps I should do the honours.”

  “No!” Roland snarled. Many men might have reason to kill William de Ferrers, Declan included, but Roland had no intention of ceding pride of place for this task. He watched de Ferrers standing there, twenty feet away, and could see what Declan meant. The man might be afraid, but the way he stood, with his weight balanced and his sword resting at ease by his side, spoke to his experience with the blade. Roland turned back to Declan and spoke quietly.

  “If he beats me—kill him.”

  Declan nodded.

  “It will be my pleasure.”

  ***

  William de Ferrers watched Roland Inness come for him and felt his heart hammering in his chest. He had lived this moment many times in a recurring nightmare that had plagued his sleep for over three years. But something was different now and it gave him hope. Inness was coming for him with a sword, not the longbow that had troubled his dreams. Without a bow, Roland Inness was no nightmare at all. He felt his gut unclench. He flexed his wrist and began to move the sword in shallow circles.

  He just might escape this trap after all.

  He had been trained to the blade since he was a boy and had a reputation as one of the finest swordsmen in the Midlands. Surely he would overmatch some peasant who was more accustomed to killing with a longbow from ambush. But as he watched Roland close the distance, a nagging thought struck him. In all his years of training, he had never faced a man who meant to kill him. His gut began to clinch once more.

  ***

  As Roland closed on his old enemy, he felt years of pent up rage prodding him into an all-out attack. He wanted to cut the guts from this man who had brought so much death and sorrow to him and to those he loved. Caution against a better swordsman might be the more prudent tactic, but he knew prudence had no place here. The words of Sir Roger’s old Master of the Sword came back to him.

  “When swords are crossed, lad, technique alone is not enough,” Sir Alwyn had said. “Ye’ must have the battle fury—the will to kill the man in front of ye’!”

  He came straight in and swung at de Ferrers head. The man parried the blow easily, but the power of it forced him back a little. Roland bore in, taking a scything stroke at the Earl’s midsection, then a sweeping backhand slash toward the man’s chin. Like the berserker rage that had gripped his Viking forbearers when they had gone into battle, a reckless anger drove him. He left de Ferrers no time to go over to the offensive as he kept up a relentless attack.

  For long minutes de Ferrers used his superior skill to turn aside every killing blow. He saw openings where his enemy was vulnerable, but the fury of Roland’s attack kept him off balance and unable to launch an attack of his own. There was no grace in the blows he was parrying, but the power in them began to sap the strength in his right arm. He switched to his left. His breath now came in tortured gasps as the unrelenting assault continued.

  Roland saw the scene in front of him in a red haze of murderous hate. He felt de Ferrers’ strength starting to falter. Over the man’s shoulders he saw riders coming. He kept up the rain of blows as the Earl’s parries grew more laboured.

  Across the frozen field, William Marshall and Sir Roger de Laval spurred their mounts to where Declan stood watching the unfolding drama. Both men dismounted. Declan turned to them, excitement in his voice.

  “Roland has him!”

  ***

  William de Ferrers saw William Marshall arrive on the field. There was no mistaking the most famous knight in the kingdom. He shielded himself from another overhand blow, his left arm shuddering from the impact. A few more such and he would be finished. But the arrival of Marshall gave him hope. He leapt backwards and threw his sword down, stretching his empty hands wide. He looked past Roland to where the Justiciar of the Realm now stood and shouted to him.

  “I throw myself on the mercy of the King!”

  To Kill a Queen

  Millicent de Laval felt worse than useless. It had been four days since William Marshall had scraped together his small force and marched out of the Newgate and up Watling Street to decide the fate of the kingdom. The Earl had left behind only Sir Nigel, Andrew Parrot and one of his bodyguards when he had marched out, so the house seemed empty and, for her, the days had been much like all those that had gone before—full of fruitless watching for a spy who had yet to reveal himself.

  She had considered visiting Saint Paul’s and putting a coin in the beggar’s cap, but knew that the Archbishop was gone, dispatched by the Queen to the Emperor’s court to make final arrangements for the exchange of the ransom and release of the King. Mary Cullen, she was certain, would be wholly taken up with attending to the Queen, who was being quartered at the Archbishop’s house. This was no time to add to the young woman’s burden.

  She walked to her window and looked out on the afternoon sun shining off the white ramparts of the Tower and wondered what the garrison might be planning, now that Marshall had stripped the city of men loyal to the King. Sir Nevil had told her there were no more than a hundred men now guarding the ransom in the crypts of Saint Paul’s. She was lost in thought and jumped when she heard an urgent tapping on her door. She hurried across the room and opened it. It was Jamie Finch.

  “My lady, the clerk, he just passed me in the hall and went right out the front door. He looked…agitated.”

  Millicent did not hesitate. She reached for her winter cloak hanging behind the door. Finch looked at her sceptically.

  “My lady…”

  “I’m sick of sitting in the house, Jamie. I will follow your lead, but hurry, we don’t want to lose him.”

  Finch nodded and sprinted down the stairs. He did not wait for her and bolted through the door. Millicent hiked up the front of her skirts and ran after him. As she reached the street she slowed. She could see Finch a block ahead of her. He had stopped running and appeared to simply be a man going about some urgent business. The clerk was not in sight.

  She picked up her pace to match that of Finch and followed him. It was cold and windy, but a good number of people were on the street. She took care to keep her eyes fixed on the young man ahead of her, who she presumed had eyes on Andrew Parrot. As they neared the market at the heart of the city, the streets grew more crowded and Millicent walked faster, afraid that Jamie Finch would turn a corner and be lost to her.

  She saw him glance over his shoulder, then turn into an alleyway. Millicent forced herself not to break into a run. It was best not to draw notice. She walked faster and reached the opening to the alley. It curved around between buildings and Finch was not in sight. She ducked into the passageway and hurried along, trying to avoid stepping in the disgusting mess that nearby residents had deposited there.

  The passage was narrow and, as it was nearing sunset, the shadows were deep. When she came around the curve of the alley, she saw a figure stopped ahead. It was Finch. He looked over his shoulder and motioned to her. She hurried to join him. He stood in the shadows at the far end of the alley. The passage opened onto a small courtyard wi
th three buildings facing inwards. He turned, pointing to the one directly facing them and whispered to Millicent.

  “The White Mare.”

  Millicent nodded. This was where Parrot had been coming for months. It had always been a dead end. While she had never ventured down this alley or seen this courtyard, she recognized that they were very near the Guildhall. After a while, she pointed to the door and whispered to Finch.

  “Is that the only way in or out?”

  Finch blinked, as though he didn’t understand the question. Then comprehension hit him.

  “Shit! Oh, beg pardon, miss, but I am a stupid ass! There is a back door—opens onto another alley. I shoulda’ thought of that!”

  He grabbed Millicent by the wrist and bolted out of the shadows and across the courtyard. He rapped on the door of the White Mare, and turned to Millicent.

  “This is the quickest way.”

  A large woman opened the door a crack and tried to close it just as quickly, but Jamie Finch inserted his foot in the jam. He put his shoulder into it and the woman staggered backwards.

  “Jamie Finch, you….!”

  “Sorry Girt, no time to talk of old times. We’re just passin’ through!” He dragged Millicent down the hall and past the women lounging in the parlour. He reached the end of the passage and flung open the door, pulling her behind him.

  “I shoulda’ known that little clerk was not a patron of this place! It’s been a blind all along. I’m a damn bad spy, my lady!”

  The door opened onto an alleyway so narrow one could barely walk without touching the sides. The sun was now behind the walls of the city and it was dark as night as they hurried through it. Millicent could see light ahead over Finch’s shoulder and finally they burst out onto a broad street.

  It was Wood Street. Parrot was nowhere in sight, but directly across from the passageway was the meeting house of the Archbishop. Finch and Millicent looked at each other. This could not be a coincidence. Together they crossed the street and climbed the stairs. Finch started to knock, but Millicent grasped his wrist and shook her head. He nodded and slowly turned the lever. The door was not locked. He pushed it open. In the light left from the dying sun, they could see into the front hall.

  Andrew Parrot lay there, face down. There was a small pool of blood beside him. Millicent knelt down by the clerk and rolled him over as Finch drew his knife and hovered over them.

  “He’s alive—barely!”

  Andrew Parrot’s eyes snapped open. He gave an odd cough and a little blood frothed at the corner of his mouth. It took him a moment to focus.

  “You…how?”

  “Andrew, who did this to you?”

  He coughed again and more blood came up. Millicent looked up at Finch who shook his head.

  “Who did this, Andrew?”

  “The priest…”

  “Priest?”

  “She said…she said she loved me. She promised…”

  Millicent felt the hair rise on the back of her neck.

  “Who, Andrew—who said this?”

  He looked at her and there was a lifetime of longing and pain in that look.

  “Mary…Mary Cullen.”

  He coughed again and the breath seemed to catch in his throat. There was a small retching sound and his chest went still. Andrew Parrot was dead. Millicent saw he had a piece of vellum clutched in his hand. She pulled it free and looked at it. It was a poem. This was what he had been scribbling late at night, afraid for anyone to see—love poems to the woman who had led him like a lamb to slaughter.

  Millicent turned to Finch, stunned.

  “Mary Cullen is the French agent! Oh dear God, the Queen is in that house!” She grabbed Finch’s collar. “Run! Get to Marshall’s house and tell Sir Nevil to come at the run to the Archbishop’s. The Queen is in grave danger!”

  Finch did not hesitate. He bolted out the door and sprinted down Wood Street, dodging idlers and tradesman as he ran. Millicent was out the door a moment after him. She gathered up her dress and ran west, toward Saint Paul’s and the Archbishop’s house, oblivious to the stares the people on the street gave her.

  Millicent knew there was ample security around the perimeter of Saint Paul’s square to protect the ransom and the Queen, but guards would not stop or question the Archbishop’s trusted servant. Perhaps Mary Cullen was not planning to harm the Queen, but the corpse of Andrew Parrott suggested otherwise. And she had help. Who this priest might be she did not know, but he had already committed one murder this day.

  She reached the northeast corner of Saint Paul’s and ran along the northern border of the churchyard. She saw armed men loitering at the entrance to every road and alleyway. These were the few men Marshall had left behind when he marched out to meet the mercenary army. They watched her run past, a curious sight, but hardly a threat to the treasure in the crypts or to the Queen. Millicent did not stop to raise an alarm. These men didn’t know her and there was no time to persuade them of the danger she feared threatened the Queen.

  They’d think me daft—or drunk.

  She reached the northwest corner of the churchyard and turned south. A block away, she could see a guard standing at the door of the Archbishop’s residence. He seemed untroubled and she prayed that he had no reason to be. She ran up to him, breathless. He watched her come, curious at the sight of a young woman running as though pursued by demons. He started to ask her if she needed assistance, but she cut him off.

  “Listen to me carefully,” she said, gasping for breath. “I am Lady Millicent de Laval. I am an agent of the Queen, and I believe her to be in grave danger. I need you to take me to her—now!”

  The man blinked, then smiled at her.

  “Miss, how am I to believe a young girl like yerself is an ‘agent of the Queen’? But don’t trouble yerself. The Queen is safe and sound. I’ve been here all morning and no danger has got past me!”

  “Is Mary Cullen inside? If she is, then a world of trouble has got past you, man.”

  The mention of Mary Cullen, by name, set the man back a bit.

  “Miss Cullen just came in a minute ago, Miss, but she lives here. The Queen sent her to fetch a priest.”

  “Mary Cullen is a French spy,” Millicent said, in a fury, “and if she’s brought someone with her, you can be sure he is no priest! Now take me to the Queen, or be known as the man too thick to protect the King’s mother!”

  The man blinked again. He wanted to dismiss this girl as a lunatic, but something in her manner told him not to. For if her story was true…. He frowned, but turned and worked the latch.

  “Come along then, miss, but if all is well inside, you will have to answer to me!” He led her into the entrance hall and saw immediately that all was not well inside. The man who stood guard inside the door was lying in a pool of blood, his throat cut.

  There was no time to contemplate this horror, as the sound of footsteps came from the landing above. The guard brought his lance up to the ready and ran up the stairs, with Millicent right behind him. When they reached the second floor, Millicent saw Mary Cullen standing at the door at the end of the hall, her hand on the latch. Beside her was a tall priest in black robes. He turned at the sound behind him. It was Father Malachy.

  Mary Cullen saw them as they reached the top of the stairs and cursed aloud. She twisted furiously at the latch that led to the Queen of England, but the door would not open. Malachy turned to face this new threat and drew out a long dagger from his robes, blocking the hallway while the woman continued to try to force the door. The guard edged forward, poking the lance in short jabs, forcing the priest back toward the wall at the end of the hall.

  Millicent saw Malachy look right past the guard and meet her gaze with a cold stare.

  “I should have strangled you in your sleep in Chester,” he said calmly, keeping his eyes on her and the point of the lance as well.

  “I should have cut your throat when I heard you lead Lady Constance into treason,” Millicent replied. The gua
rd took another pace forward and Malachy took a half step back then lunged to his right, quick as a snake. He grasped the lance behind the steel head and forced it down. The guard fought to free it for a killing thrust, but could not. He dropped the weapon, lowered his shoulder and bulled his way into the priest. They both crashed to the floor.

  At the end of the hall, Mary Cullen saw them go down. She turned back to the door and raised her foot. She kicked twice and the latch gave with a rending crack. Millicent watched the two men flailing at each other on the floor of the narrow hall and, when they rolled to one side, sprinted by them.

  Mary Cullen turned to meet her. Her face, always so full of good humour, was now contorted in fear and rage. She reached into the loose sleeve of her dress and was drawing a knife when Millicent grasped her wrist and drove a fist into her jaw. The blow staggered her, but she did not go down.

  She tried to wrench her knife hand free, but Millicent had it in an iron grip. She brought her free hand up and tried to grasp Millicent by the hair, but it never got that far. Millicent drove her fist once more into the centre of the girl’s face and heard bones break, whether hers or Mary Cullen’s she could not tell. The girl fell backwards, dragging Millicent with her to the floor, her nose gushing blood, the knife skittering out of her hand and through the railing. It clattered on the floor of the hall below.

  Behind her, Millicent heard wood splintering. She drove her fist once more into Mary Cullen’s mangled nose and the girl’s eyes rolled back in her head. She turned to see the guard down and Malachy shoving the shattered door open.

  Millicent scrambled to her feet. She reached down for the dagger her father had taught her to always keep in her boot and followed the false priest through the door. On the far side of the room Eleanor of Aquitaine stood with a fireplace poker in her frail hand, ready to put up a defence—even if a feeble one.

  Malachy raised his blade to strike, but instinct warned him of danger. He swung around—but too late to ward off Millicent’s blade. She drove it with all of her might into the man’s chest. He flailed with his own blade and it raked across her shoulder, but she hardly felt it. The man staggered backwards and gave an odd cough. He reached for the handle of the blade that still protruded from his chest, but could not seem to get his hands to obey his commands. He looked at Millicent, venom in his eyes.