by Wayne Grant
She was going to get her son back.
The Earl in the Tower
Roland had seen the Tower of London years before when he had come to King Richard’s coronation with Sir Roger. It seemed a lifetime ago when he and Declan had stood on the half-finished stone bridge over the Thames, transfixed by the sheer size of the thing. Illuminated by torches on the walls, it had loomed over the taverns and merchant houses that edged toward it from the centre of the city.
On this day, he was standing atop Tower Hill near the site where condemned men were taken for executions. He wondered why it was called a hill. For a man who had spent his boyhood in the high Pennines, this small swell in the land hardly qualified. At its highest point, he still had to crane his neck to look up at the huge bulk of the Tower itself. The sight still awed him a bit.
As he walked down the low hill, he noted that a new curtain wall had almost been completed around the original keep. He wondered if King Richard or Prince John had ordered the defences strengthened. Given the uncertain loyalties of Londoners, he would not have blamed either. In his hand he clutched a scroll signed by Earl William Marshall, Justiciar of England, granting him audience with the prisoner William de Ferrers.
On the long march back to London, he had avoided Marshall, still furious that the man had ordered him to stay his hand against William de Ferrers. In truth, he would have disobeyed that command had it not been seconded by Sir Roger. Marshall had sworn to them both that Richard would have de Ferrers’ head for treason. He also pointed out that Roland could lose his own if he killed the nobleman after he had thrown himself on the King’s mercy.
So the Earl of Derby had been spared that day. When they reached London, he’d been led through the streets with his hands bound and turned over to Sir Nevil Crenshaw, the new Constable of the Tower. Roland would have to wait to see justice done.
For a month they had lingered in London, waiting for word of the King. Marshall had taken up headquarters in the Guildhall, the better to keep a close eye on events in the capital as they waited for the King’s return. With the dispatch of the ransom, the English barons had quickly fallen in line, with many hastening to the capital to assure the Justiciar of their steadfast loyalty to Richard. Marshall received these assurances graciously, but ordered them all to dispatch grain to the Midlands to relieve the famine there. Sir Robin and Tuck departed London for Nottinghamshire with twelve wagons of wheat, taken from supplies John had stored at Billingsgate for shipment to France.
In mid-March, word came that the King had been released, but was making a leisurely progress back towards his realm with lengthy stops at Cologne, Antwerp and Barfleur. It was from Barfleur that news came of Richard’s reconciliation with John. The King’s younger brother had spent a fortnight after the destruction of his mercenary force frantically trying to rally the barons to his cause. Failing that he had fled to the dubious protection of Philip in Paris. In the end he had raced to Barfleur and flung himself at Richard’s feet, begging for mercy.
To the shock of many, Richard forgave his treacherous sibling. It was an act that set a precedent for the judgments he would hand down for other nobles who had been less than loyal to him. With these traitors, the King’s justice had been merciful indeed. To Roland, it was a punch in the gut.
“Banishment? For four years? It is not enough—not nearly enough!”
Roland stood in Marshall’s office in the Guildhall, called there to hear from the Earl’s own lips that the King had decided the fate of William de Ferrers.
“I agree, damn it all,” Marshall shouted, his face reddening as he rose to his feet and slammed a hand down on the table. “I should have turned my back and let you kill him. Had I foreseen this, I would have. I will take that regret to my grave.”
“You said the King would execute him!”
“Aye, the bastard should have been marched up Tower Hill and had his head lopped off. They should have stuck it on pole by the city gates. He was a traitor to his King, and, by God, he should pay, but…but the King cannot very well execute an Earl—if he lets his brother, the Prince, live.”
“These politics makes me want to vomit, my lord,” Roland said, venom in every word. “Good men have died and we’ve impoverished the land to get Richard back and this is the kind of justice he brings with him?”
“He’s the only King we have, my young friend, and were it not for you and others like you, we would have John instead. Then you would see what true misrule looks like.”
The two men stood there glaring at each other.
“I want to see him.”
Marshall shook his head.
“I don’t think that wise. He will be gone in two days. You should let it go, Sir Roland. Nothing good can come of you seeing de Ferrers.”
Roland did not move.
“He killed my father, my lord. I ask you to grant me this request.”
Marshall sat down heavily. He owed this young knight much. It was against his better judgment, but he would not refuse him this. He took out a piece of parchment, scratched out a few lines and signed it.
“Now, before I give you this, you must promise two things or this goes right into the fire.” He jerked his head toward the blaze in the hearth behind him.
“If I can, my lord.”
“You must promise to keep your views of our King to yourself. Your words are close enough to treason they might land you on Tower Hill. I would not want that, Sir Roland.”
Roland was about to give a hot retort, but he saw the look of deep concern on William Marshall’s face and caught himself. He did not, after all, wish to lose his head. He met Marshall’s eyes.
“Agreed, my lord. I will hold my tongue. And God preserve us if John ever becomes king. What is your second condition.”
Marshall gave him a hard look.
“You must give me your word not to kill William de Ferrers when you meet him.”
***
Roland reached the bottom of Tower Hill and came to the drawbridge that spanned what passed for a moat. There was a foul-looking trickle passing underneath the span, but otherwise the ditch was dry. The new curtain wall still had scaffolding at the end nearest the Thames, but was complete otherwise. There was a square stone tower that housed the main gate and it was now guarded by loyal men. Most wore the livery of the Earl of Oxford, but other noble arms could be seen on tabards. The Captain of the Guard stopped him at the entrance. Roland handed over the scroll.
The Guard Captain studied it carefully.
“What’s yer business with de Ferrers?’ he barked.
“Personal,” Roland replied. “Earl William has authorized it.”
“I can see that,” the man growled, but then shrugged. “Well, if the Justiciar has no problem with you talking to a traitor, I’ll not object, but ye’ll have to get the approval of the Constable.”
“Thank you,” Roland said and was waved through, though one of the men-at-arms followed as escort.
Inside the curtain wall, the great square keep loomed, its bulk almost blotting out the sun. His escort led him across a small courtyard, past a narrow tidal inlet that showed nothing but mud and flotsam at low tide and through an archway that pierced a low inner wall running from the southwest corner of the tower to the curtain wall by the river. When he emerged into this inner courtyard he saw a flight of wooden steps leading up from ground level to a narrow, first floor entrance.
Roland had seen enough fortifications to appreciate the cleverness of this design. If pressed, defenders could simply retreat to the keep and destroy the wooden stairs behind them. Any attacker would have to reach the entrance by ladder or some other device and then force an entry where only one man at a time could advance. No place was impregnable, but it would take some serious time and engineering to breach the Tower of London.
He followed the soldier up the wooden steps and into the arched entrance at the top. The walls of the place were over ten feet thick here and this long narrow passage into the fortress woul
d have been a death trap for any attacker. Once through the entrance, Roland almost gasped at the size of the room he had entered. It stretched to the far side of the building, though the space was filled with all of the necessary gear for the garrison.
The Constable of the Tower had the luxury of a small chamber of his own, carved out of the larger room. After a quick rap on the wooden door, the guard entered and announced the visitor.
“My Lord Constable,” the man intoned. “Sir Roland Inness of Kinder Scout, here to see the prisoner, de Ferrers.”
Roland looked at the man who was seated behind a small desk pouring over some sort of ledger. Sir Nevil Crenshaw was a stockily-built man with powerful shoulders and an impassive face. He was William Marshall’s sworn man and had stood with the Queen in the streets of London when the King‘s ransom had been threatened. He had the look of a constable.
When the guard had begun his announcement, Crenshaw had not lifted his eyes from the ledger, but his head shot up when he heard the name of Roland Inness.
“Inness? Are you the commander of the Invalid Company?”
Roland bowed.
“I am, my lord—at least for the moment.”
The Constable scrambled to his feet and came around the desk.
“Sir Roland, I knew those men of yours when they were fit for nothing but the bawdy houses and gutters of this town and now they are the toast of London! Well done! Well done, indeed, sir, but you must tell me—how did you get drunks and cripples to fight like that? Extraordinary!”
Roland searched the man’s face for any hint of mockery there—and found none. The Constable was genuinely pleased that these veterans had redeemed themselves.
“My lord, the Invalids are men like you and I. All they needed was for someone to believe in them and to give them a cause to fight for. They did the rest.”
“And you believed in them?”
“My lord, in truth, I had no one else available to believe in, so, yes, I did. And they have repaid that belief many times over.”
“I should say! My lord William tells me they held the centre of the line against the mercenary cavalry. I should have liked to have seen that!” This last he said a bit wistfully.
“And I heard you faced down twice your number to protect the ransom, Sir Nevil.”
Sir Nevil waved off the praise.
“It was the Queen that done it. Frightening woman, the Queen. I wouldn’t want to cross her.”
“Nor I, my lord. Now, if you please, I have been granted permission to see your prisoner, William de Ferrers.” He handed the scroll to Sir Nevil who read it through quickly.
“It is fortunate you came today, Sir Roland, for I’ve just been told the ship that will bear away our traitor to Brittany has come early and will be at the Billingsgate docks in the morning. May I ask what your business is with the prisoner?”
Roland met the man’s eyes.
“It’s personal, my lord…personal.”
Sir Nevil arched an eyebrow.
“Very well, young sir, but you must give me your word of honour.”
“For what, my lord?”
“That you will not kill him. I do not like that look in your eye, sir.”
Roland blinked.
“You have it, my lord, as does Earl William.”
“Very well, I will take you to him.”
The Constable buckled on his sword belt and led Roland back out into the great hall. They walked the entire length to the opposite corner of the keep where a spiral stair led to the upper floors and to the basement. Sir Nevil headed down.
“We have ensconced him under the chapel. There’s no window, but it’s dry and better than he deserves, I daresay.” The Constable led Roland through another large room that mirrored the one on the floor above, but was filled from one end to the other with every sort of weapon. Lances, swords, pikes, axes and crossbows were lined up with precision.
Finally they reached a heavy wooden door with a small grate at head height. The Constable inserted a massive key in the lock and swung the door open.
“Look lively, you swine,” he roared. “You’ve a visitor.”
William de Ferrers had been reclining on the lone cot in the room. He leapt to his feet, staring anxiously at the visitors. Sir Nevil looked at the Earl of Derby and thought, for not the first time, how forlorn the high and mighty seemed when residing in the Tower.
“He jumps every time he hears the key in the lock,” Crenshaw said with disdain. “Thinks the King might have a change of heart and…” the Constable grinned and drew a finger across his throat.
Roland barely heard him. He was watching the man in the cell. It took de Ferrers a moment, but then a flash of recognition and fear played across his face. As the Constable began to back out of the cell door he barked a command.
“Stay! You there, Constable—you will stay here! This man intends to murder me and I am not armed.”
“Sir Roland isn’t armed and I have his word he will not kill you, though you richly deserve it,” Sir Nevil said as he stepped back into the hall, leaving Roland alone in the doorway.
Roland took a step into the cell and de Ferrers retreated, looking frantically around the bare room, but there was no exit and no weapon to grasp. He stopped and watched balefully as Roland came closer.
“I have taken a blood oath to kill you, de Ferrers, but I have given my word that it will not be today,” he said. “Would that I had not missed the chance, that day on Kinder Scout.”
It took a moment for William de Ferrers to comprehend that Roland had not come to kill him here alone in his cell. A bitter smile came to his lips.
“You Danes are all the same. You’re all cowards—afraid to meet your betters, face-to-face! You shoot at men from hiding!”
Roland stepped closer and de Ferrers edged backwards.
“I used no bow when we met a month ago on Watling Street. We both know I could have killed you then.”
For a moment, de Ferrers met the challenge in Roland’s eyes, then dropped his own and turned away.
“You Danes have skulked like rats up in those hills for too long. My father should have driven the lot of you out years ago, but he was too soft. It took me to do it. Me!”
“And look what it has got you,” Roland said, gazing around the barren cell.
De Ferrers barked a laugh.
“This? This will not last. I leave tomorrow for my estate in Brittany. It’s lovely there in the spring you know.” He gave Roland a sly smile.
“Or did you not know my family has lands in Brittany? Of course you wouldn’t. And those lands are bountiful, Sir Roland.” The Earl of Derby spit out the honorific with complete scorn. “They will allow me to give generously to good King Richard and he will, no doubt, appreciate my financial support for the wars he will be waging against Philip. Don’t you think?”
Roland felt the grip he’d held on his anger begin to loosen.
“All you say may be true, de Ferrers, but you have a debt to pay—for Rolf Inness, for Alwyn Madawc, and for all the Danes you’ve killed. Four years in exile does not begin to pay it. That debt will be paid one day and I will be the one to collect it. It could be the day you set foot back in Derbyshire, or the day after that, or perhaps I will visit your lovely lands in Brittany.”
As he spoke he walked calmly across the room. As he approached, de Ferrers backed away until he could retreat no further. Sweat broke out on his brow, despite the chill in the cell.
“Constable!” he called. No one responded.
Roland grasped de Ferrers by the collar and twisted it beneath his chin. The man tried to jerk away, but Roland pressed him against the dank wall of the Tower, fifteen feet thick here in the basement. There was nowhere to escape.
Roland drew his face close to his old enemy.
“Remember this, my lord. One day, when you are in a place you think safe, I will be nearby. I will be unseen, and I will put an arrow into your chest. No one will know who struck you down, but you mi
ght just live long enough to know it was Roland Inness who killed you.”
He released his grip and de Ferrers slid down the wall to the floor.
“Constable,” he wailed.
Roland turned and walked away.
The King’s Peace
The bans were posted at Easter and they were married in May. Earl Ranulf had offered the chapel of Chester Castle for the ceremony but Millicent chose Saint Mary’s on the Hill. Father Augustine was invited to provide the official blessing of the union and arrived a week in advance with Sir Robin of Loxley. Together they made the acquaintance of every tavern keeper in the city.
A box from the Queen arrived in Chester on the same day as the men from Nottinghamshire. In it was a beautiful silver chalice and a note from Eleanor. Millicent read it aloud.
“To Sir Roland of Kinder Scout and Lady Millicent de Laval, please accept my wishes for a long and happy marriage and this small token of my esteem. I pilfered it from the Germans after they weighed the ransom and thought it an appropriate gift.”
On the day before the event, Griff, the taciturn Welsh archer, arrived with gifts from Lord Llywelyn for the bride and groom. He carefully read the message that the young Prince of Gwynedd had sent.
“To Sir Roland Inness, champion archer, commander of the Invalids and friend; and to Lady Millicent de Laval, champion rider, intrepid spy and friend—please accept this first foal sired by Llamrei, the finest stallion in all of Wales or England.”
On a lead was a colt, a young stallion with a distinctive roan coat.
“My word, it’s the son of The Surly Beast!” Declan declared. Llywelyn had coveted Roland’s bad tempered warhorse, known to all, save the Welsh Prince himself, as The Surly Beast, from the moment he saw the animal. Roland had given it to him for his help in retaking Chester. The Irish knight stepped forward to take the lead and the young stallion first backed away, then lurched forward and tried to bite his hand.
