Ghosts of Yorkshire

by Karen Perkins

  ‘It appears Strongbow was sent to represent King Henry’s interests,’ Mauclerk said. ‘But then allied himself with King Dermot, insisting, or forcing, that he be made his heir. Dermot died, and sure enough, Strongbow was named. The high king, Rory O’Connor, did not accept that, but Strongbow routed him on the battlefield.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ FitzUrse demanded, his distaste of Morville’s clerk clear.

  ‘I ask questions, My Lord. And I listen to the answers,’ Mauclerk replied, staring at FitzUrse.

  ‘Continue, Mauclerk,’ Morville said, disinterested in FitzUrse’s dislike of his most loyal man.

  ‘King Henry ordered Strongbow home to England, but he did not obey, so the King placed an embargo on supplies to Ireland – including men.’

  ‘What did Strongbow do?’ Brett asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Mauclerk said.

  ‘And Henry will not have a baron call himself king, of any land,’ Morville said. Mauclerk gave a small nod. ‘And so he mobilises his knights into an army and we take Ireland.’

  Mauclerk nodded again.

  ‘Some army,’ FitzUrse said, watching Percy and Courcy, ‘when two of Henry’s most trusted lords avoid all unnecessary time in our company.’

  The four men stared at the two nobles, chilled by the fact – hitherto unremarked – that they had made a place for themselves as far away as possible in the confines of the deck of The Spirit of Aquitaine.

  *

  ‘Ugh, the wind’s getting up,’ Brett said, hauling himself to his feet then being violently sick over the rail. Thank goodness he’d chosen the right board, the wind blew at his back and the contents of his stomach were swept away from the ship, deck and gathered knights.

  ‘Umm,’ Morville said, the tang exacerbating his own distress as his stomach disagreed with the more urgent lurch and wallow of the ship’s motion.

  ‘Oh calm yourselves, it is a gentle breeze, is all,’ FitzUrse scoffed.

  Morville jumped to his feet and joined Brett over the rail to empty his stomach. He sat back down and could not resist a glance at Percy and Courcy. They appeared to have found a subject of much merriment; Morville feared he knew the cause.

  The wind continued to increase as The Spirit of Aquitaine fought her way west. As she did so the waves deepened and the warship may well have been a cork navigating rapids. Within minutes, knights and men-at-arms alike were spewing. The horses, gathered and tethered amidships, squealed their terror, their hooves threatening to stave in the boards of the stinking deck.

  One – Hugh de Morville’s finest destrier – reared, snapping the rope securing him, and the men closest to those flailing hooves screamed in alarm, having no weapons to hand and no room to run.

  The stallion’s distress increased the fear in the rest of the herd, and soon the waist of the ship was a mass of panicking men, horseflesh and blood, as the frightened animals kicked out.

  Morville, FitzUrse and Brett stared in astonishment, with no idea how to calm the beasts in such confined quarters.

  ‘Clear the way,’ a voice roared, and men-at-arms and sailors parted to let Sir William de Percy through.

  He stepped forward, drew the edge of his sword against the throat of one destrier, then plunged the tip into the chest of another.

  He kept going, and in seconds, every horse lay dead or dying on the deck.

  ‘Heave them overboard,’ Percy said. ‘Our king needs us. Not horse nor man would delay us.’

  Chapter 44

  ‘The Emerald Isle,’ FitzUrse said as they waited to disembark. ‘Ha, the greenest things in sight are the pair of you!’

  Morville and Brett ignored him and looked forward to setting foot on terra firma once again; whatever their reception by Henry may be.

  Staring ashore, the town of Waterford was visible in the distance, but before that all traces of green had been commandeered by Henry’s camp.

  Hundreds of gaily coloured tents stretched for near a league in each direction, knights and men-at-arms milling between them; the one almost indistinguishable from the other in the basic living conditions. Each lord’s entourage was marked by colour. Blue and yellow for Leicester, red and white for de Lacy, blue and white for Tyrell; every combination of colour was represented.

  The sea of canvas was broken up by a mesmerising array of siege engines: mighty trebuchets towered over smaller catapults and ballistas, each of them capable of hurling enough rock and iron to batter down any curtain wall, not to mention more creative payloads such as beehives or hornets’ nests; the bloody carcasses of soldiers felled in battle; or the worst of the lot, Greek fire. A substance brought from Hell, it would stick to any unfortunate until it burned out; not water nor sand would dowse it, the only chance a man had was for his friends to piss on him as copiously as possible. Of course, it would only help if they had also pissed on him, at least twice, before he’d been hit by the sticky flames. Morville shuddered. He had seen its effects more than once. The very sight of a siege engine had given him chills ever since.

  The highest point of the camp was taken by the most magnificent marquee. Adorned in the red and gold of Plantagenet, it was a palace of canvas. King Henry’s quarters, along with his household.

  The three knights stole a brief glance at each other, the only betrayal of their anxieties, then followed Courcy and Percy down the gangplank and set foot on Irish soil.

  The party of five, followed by a gaggle of men-at-arms and retinues, marched through the narrow alleyways formed by rows of tents towards Henry’s abode.

  Morville, FitzUrse and Brett kept their heads high and their feet moving, refusing to react to the stares of every man they passed.

  ‘Assassins!’ someone hissed. ‘The traitorous assassins.’

  Morville caught hold of FitzUrse’s arm and heaved him forward. ‘It is King Henry’s opinion that is important, once we know how he holds us, then all else will too. Brawling on our first audience with him in four months would not endear us to him.’

  FitzUrse controlled himself with clear difficulty, his face flushed and fists clenched white, then gave a curt nod and continued to move forward. He faltered for one pace on seeing Courcy smirk, then continued onward, staring at the Lord of Harewood until he turned his back and marched forward.

  Morville and Brett glanced at each other in consternation. Morville had used the word audience, but in truth it felt more like they were about to attend their own trial and execution.

  *

  At long last, they reached the brow of the hill and were admitted to King Henry’s presence. All five knights dropped to one knee and bowed their heads in deference to their king.

  ‘Ah, I have been wondering when you would arrive, I bid you welcome,’ Henry said. Dressed in his habitual hunting clothes of hose and short tunic he strode over to the group of kneeling knights. The knights rose, the relief of Morville, FitzUrse and Brett almost palpable.

  Henry grasped the hand of Courcy then Percy, wrapped an arm around each of their shoulders and led them to the high table, laden with meats and delicacies. ‘How went the voyage? I hear the Irish Sea was rough today.’

  ‘We fared well, Sire,’ Courcy said.

  ‘Some better than others,’ Percy smirked.

  Morville glanced at FitzUrse and Brett to see a look of consternation on their faces, no doubt mirrored on his own. Their king had ignored them.

  ‘What think you of my siege engines? An impressive sight, no?’

  ‘Indeed, Sire,’ Courcy said. ‘Strongbow and O’Connor will be in no doubt of your intentions.’

  ‘Ha! Strongbow has already capitulated, he is due soon to pledge fealty. That upstart shall never call himself King of Ireland.’

  ‘Indeed not, Sire. He has shamed himself and his house by his actions here.’

  ‘Verily,’ Henry said. ‘Far too many do the same.’ He glanced at Morville and the others. ‘Now, be seated and feast while I deal with these three reprobates.’

  He turned back t
o the three knights, each of whom now dreaded his attention.

  ‘So, you saw fit to ignore my instructions. Only Tracy had the good sense to depart for Rome?’

  ‘We fully intend to join him, Sire,’ FitzUrse interjected.

  ‘Once you learn of his punishment and not before, I suspect?’

  ‘No, Sire. We had heard of the difficulties Strongbow has been causing you . . .’

  ‘Strongbow? Show some respect. He is Sir Richard de Clare, ensure you address him as such in future.’

  ‘I humbly beg your pardon, Sire,’ FitzUrse said, falling back to one knee.

  Henry stared at him and made no indication that he should rise. He glared at Morville and Brett, who both hastily joined FitzUrse in his gesture of humility.

  ‘What a pity you did not ignore my words spoken in anger in the way you ignored my clear direction to present yourselves to Rome.’

  ‘Sire?’

  Henry stamped his foot. ‘Damn and blast it, you snivelling buggers, you know well to what I refer!’

  The three knights bowed their heads, knowing from long experience not to respond when Henry was in the grip of one of his furies.

  ‘Do you understand what you have done? Do you?’ He screamed and hurled his goblet to the floor. Fine Rhenish vintage soaked into the fresh rushes.

  ‘All is lost! My court reforms, the Constitution of Clarendon – all gone! The clergy will never be accountable to me now. Instead I am accountable to Rome! Me! King Henry of England, Duke of Normandy, Duke of Aquitaine accountable to a feeble old man in Rome.’

  Henry paused for breath, his face puce. A steward handed him another goblet of Rhenish and he drank half of it in one swallow. Not one of the gathered knights, men-at-arms or servants made a sound nor dared to move for fear of attracting their king’s ire.

  He thrust his face into Morville’s, who resisted the urge to flinch back from the hatred in his king’s eyes and the stink of sour wine on his king’s breath.

  ‘Alexander banned me from entering a church. Me – banned from the heart of God! He threatened to excommunicate me – me! And Thomas . . .’ He paused to catch his breath. ‘Thomas, that brilliant, frustrating, true and treacherous friend, whom I raised up from naught. Thomas will be canonised. Canonised!’ The last word was screamed as the King lost all semblance of control; all memory of having already told the knights this news lost. He fell to the ground and hammered his fists and feet upon it. As he rolled in his fit and spilled Rhenish, only occasional words were audible: ‘Saint’, ‘Devil’, ‘Friend’, ‘Martyr’.

  The knights dared not so much as glance at each other, all shocked that their actions had reduced their king to such paroxysms of fury. They had observed such behaviour before – all the men in King Henry’s service had witnessed such displays – but had never before brought their master this low themselves.

  The sound of heralds’ trumpets outside the canvas palace finally penetrated Henry’s awareness and he stilled, rose, adjusted his clothing, held out a hand for more Rhenish, emptied the goblet in one, then took his seat, waved the knights aside and awaited his visitors, all composure restored.

  *

  ‘Sir Richard de Clare, Lord of Strigoil and Pembroke. Sir Maurice de Prendergast, Sir Richard Tuite, Sir John Baret.’

  Four nobles entered as their names and titles were announced, removed helmets and mail hoods, unbuckled sword belts and handed them to waiting servants, then approached Henry and fell to one knee in obeisance.

  Henry nodded, then the first man, Sir Richard de Clare – Strongbow – stepped forward, once again fell to one knee, then clasped his hands together as if in prayer and extended them. Henry placed his own hands either side of Clare’s and grasped them for a moment.

  A Bible was brought close as the men loosed hands, Clare placed his right hand upon it, and met his king’s eyes.

  ‘Sire, My Lord King Henry, I beg you to hear my oath. I pledge on my faith that I would for all days be faithful to you, never cause you injury, and would give my life to your service. I would observe my homage, reverence and submission to you completely, against all men in good faith and without deceit.’

  ‘I, your Lord King, Henry of England, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, accept your fealty, Sir Richard de Clare, and grant upon you the fief of Leinster. May you serve me equally in peace and war, and with loyalty and honour.’

  ‘I thank you, My Liege.’

  Clare rose and backed away, allowing Prendergast then Tuite and Baret to take his place and make the same oath.

  Once the rebellious barons had been accepted back into Henry’s fold, FitzUrse stepped forward but was checked by Morville’s hand on his arm. These proceedings had been negotiated and agreed in advance. Henry had no use for a spur-of-the-moment pledge of fealty from them, no matter how deeply meant. He would need to forgive them first. And that did not look likely.

  Chapter 45

  Morville, FitzUrse and Brett set up their tents on the outskirts of the main camp, ensuring their temporary homes were surrounded, and well-protected, by those of their men-at-arms.

  They sat around the campfire with a plentiful supply of wineskins and Brett poked at the brace of coneys roasting above the fire; the only meat they had been able to find. The mood in the camp was so hostile they had forgone the supply tents and caught their own dinner in the surrounding woods; woods that had been hunted daily for weeks. There was no bigger beast left in them than the bobtail coneys, and their entire party had caught not nearly enough to feed the knights and men-at-arms. Thank goodness they had thought to bring a plentiful supply of wine in their haste to depart Cnaresburg.

  ‘That was not the reception I had expected,’ FitzUrse said at last. ‘We did as Henry instructed, we carried out his orders and carried them out well. And look how we are vilified.’

  ‘Hush, Reginald,’ Morville said. ‘You do not know who may be listening, this is no time to speak ill of the King.’

  ‘Indeed it is not,’ a new voice said, surprising the knights. Its owner stepped into the firelight.

  ‘Mandeville!’ Morville exclaimed.

  Sir William de Mandeville, Earl of Essex, grinned, although there was nothing friendly in the rictus. A second and third man stepped up, all three dressed in full mail and helmets, swords at their sides. Richard de Humez and Ranulf de Broc. The two men who had originally been sent to arrest Becket and whom Morville, FitzUrse, Tracy and Brett had beaten to the prize. And Broc, the man who had encouraged and led them to Canterbury, then turned his back on them and left them to suffer the consequences. They had not heard a single word from him since they had left Saltwood Castle nearly a year ago.

  FitzUrse glared at his old master, who stared back with equanimity; no emotion or expression evident on his face.

  ‘What is this, Ranulf?’ FitzUrse asked.

  ‘What does it look like, Reginald?’ Broc replied, his tone mild. ‘You have shamed our king, and by doing so you have shamed all of us.’

  FitzUrse worked his mouth for a few moments before he could find coherent words. ‘We shamed you?’ he said quietly. ‘We shamed you? We shamed you?’ His voice and temper rose with each utterance of the phrase.

  ‘You did.’

  ‘But, but, it was you . . .’ FitzUrse stopped, speechless once more.

  ‘I gave you every assistance and opportunity to arrest Becket. Yet you slaughtered him in his cathedral and made him saint and martyr. You betrayed your king, your earls and your fellow barons and knights when you did so.’

  ‘But, but . . .’ FitzUrse spluttered.

  Broc smiled. ‘You have much to learn about politics, my friend.’

  ‘Friend? Friend? You have been no friend to me!’

  Broc shrugged and unsheathed his sword. Morville and Brett stepped forward, having taken the opportunity of FitzUrse’s ‘conversation’ to don mail and helmets. Brett slapped FitzUrse’s helmet with slim nose guard on his brother-in-arm’s head. There was no time for FitzUrse to don mail, b
ut all three had kept their weapons close, unnerved by Henry’s reception of them.

  FitzUrse glanced around and realised Broc, Mandeville and Humez’ men had surrounded their outlying camp. He was gratified to see their own men-at-arms had remained, and stood between the gaggle of knights and the small encircling army. Then he realised these same men had let the visitors through and his pleasure soured.

  ‘So you intend murder?’ FitzUrse asked Broc.

  ‘No. Murder is despicable and unchivalrous,’ Mandeville said in his stead.

  FitzUrse’s temper rose once more and both Morville and Brett stiffened, recognising they were being taunted into stupidity. ‘Reginald, care,’ Morville warned.

  FitzUrse didn’t hear him. Or, more likely, chose not to.

  ‘This is your fault,’ he said, advancing on Broc. ‘This is all your fault.’ In one quick movement he unsheathed his sword and struck. But Broc was fast and parried with apparent ease. Morville recognised a smile on his face and realised he had intended to taunt FitzUrse into striking the first blow, yet he also felt a respect for the man; he knew well from their many practices with swords at Cnaresburg Castle how strong FitzUrse’s blows were. Even in his fury, The Bear’s strength made little visible impact on his old master.

  ‘To arms!’ Morville shouted, drawing his own sword and stepping up to William de Mandeville. He held his blade defensively, determined not to fall into the same trap as FitzUrse. Unfortunately Brett did not have the same sense or experience, and he flailed his blade at Humez, who defended with ease, with plenty of breath to taunt the young knight further.

  FitzUrse, meanwhile, had lost all sense, striking at Broc quickly and ferociously, delivering a devastating sequence of strikes. Broc’s mail held up to the blows that he was unable to deflect. He would be badly bruised on the morrow, but as yet his skin was unbroken.

  The surrounding parties of men-at-arms were in much the same mind as FitzUrse; months of uncertainty at the actions and manoeuvrings of their masters releasing in the familiar arena of battle. At last, all was simple. The masters of the opposing men meant to harm their own masters. They would fight to the death to defend their lord. They had all spent their lives in training for these moments. This was what they knew. This was what they did. They fought. Some with swords, others with axes, still more with maces. Whatever their weapon, they struck, parried, ducked and danced around their opponent, then struck again.