Knight of Betrayal

by Karen Perkins

  ‘I like the idea of this hunt less and less,’ he said. The other two nodded.

  ‘We need to make our allegiance plain,’ Plumton said. ‘William de Courcy is holding a tournament at Harewood Castle next week. We should attend, and fight under the red and gold of King Henry, make sure they know whose side we are on.’

  William and Henry nodded their agreement, but before either could say more, Richard le Brett spoke.

  ‘A tournament at Harewood? God’s blood, that’s just what we need – we’ve been cooped up in this damned place for too long.’

  The three lesser nobles looked at each other in dismay as Brett strode over to the squabbling knights.

  ‘Stop that, save it for the tournament next week – at Harewood Castle!’

  ‘What’s that?’ FitzUrse got to his feet and gave Morville a withering glare that stopped his next attack before it began. ‘A tournament? Hugh, William, did you hear young Richard? A tournament, by God, there couldn’t be better news. I for one am sick of the rain, the sights and the smells of this damnable town. A knights’ tourney at Harewood? A hundred marks to the best placed of us. Who shall take the bet?’

  All three took him up on it, their dispute forgotten.

  Plumton, Goodricke and Stoteville stared at each other.

  ‘They were not supposed to know about it,’ Plumton whispered.

  ‘Don’t fret, Nigel, they were likely to hear a loose word from a groom or serving girl. But we shall make our own way there, we shall not travel with Morville and the other assassins.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Plumton and Goodricke said. ‘Agreed.’

  *

  Morville led the hunting party into the marketplace, glancing warily around him as he did so. A complement of men-at-arms accompanied the nobles – a larger quota than Morville had ever needed before in Cnaresburg, but the townsfolk offered no threat. They simply and silently turned their backs as the knights rode past.

  ‘Hugh,’ Stoteville said, pointing down a narrow alley as they emerged on to the muddy high street.

  Morville peered into the gloom, then quickly drew back his head as the smell of the rotting heap of meat struck him. It was the Easter meat the knights had foregone and given to the peasants and villeins.

  ‘Even the bloody dogs don’t want our food,’ Morville growled, both angry and hurt at the dishonour shown him. The other knights were close behind and grumbled at the waste.

  ‘Á Morville,’ FitzUrse shouted, the battle cry a warning to all present. Then he laughed. Loudly.

  ‘Shut up, you fool,’ Stoteville said, pulling his courser up and turning to face the man.

  FitzUrse’s colour rose until his face was nearly as red as the cloak he wore.

  ‘You do not speak to me like that, boy.’

  ‘Then do no more to antagonise this town,’ Stoteville replied, equally angry. ‘These are my people. My family has lived amongst them since they arrived on these shores with King William.’

  FitzUrse made to reply, but Morville intervened. ‘Stop it, both of you.’ He glanced behind FitzUrse at Tracy and Brett, then beyond them. The knights turned in their saddles to see the way behind blocked. Judging by the tools the men carried, peasants, villeins, butchers and more had gathered together to stand against the man they called lord.

  The knights and men-at-arms positioned themselves to meet an attack, riding abreast boot-to-boot, and brought their boar spears to bear.

  As one the townsfolk dropped the tools of their trades and turned their backs.

  ‘They’re pretending to be Becket,’ Stoteville said with a glance at Morville. ‘Non-threatening and unarmed.’

  Morville ignored him, stared at the wall of backs before him, then yanked his courser’s head around, kicked, and galloped towards Haya Park.

  The other nobles glanced at each other, then followed. William de Stoteville brought up the rear with Plumton and Goodricke, at a walk, noticing how worried both Tracy and Brett looked as they continually glanced behind.

  The three local men said nothing as they walked their mounts on, each of them lost in their own thoughts.

  Chapter 23

  April 1171

  ‘Harewood Castle is at the top of this hill,’ Morville said for the benefit of FitzUrse, Tracy and Brett, ‘the other side of that wood.’

  Nobody acknowledged him. They were all exhausted by the early start and seven-league trek, although it was the palfreys they rode that had done all the work.

  Morville glanced behind him and grimaced at the state of his fellow knights; too much indulgence the night before a tournament never boded well, but there was no stopping Tracy and FitzUrse when they had the taste of wine in their gullets. And Brett was just as bad, as was Morville himself. Morville laughed out loud at the truth of it, to the consternation of his mount, which shied at the sudden noise. But it was no surprise that they took to the table and their cups quicker and more enthusiastically these days.

  There had been no further word from King Henry since Hamelin Plantagenet’s ‘welcome’ at Cnaresburg in January, and it was becoming apparent that his favourites – not only Plantagenet, but Courcy and Percy in particular – were keeping their distance. Even Goldesburgh, Plumton and Goodricke were more often staying away, and he was well aware of Stoteville’s view. Though the two of them had never been friends, they had tolerated each other since Morville’s marriage to Helwise; the marriage which had brought Morville a castle, the Stoteville’s titles, and was an excellent match.

  Morville glanced back again, this time at the destriers, the warhorses the knights would ride at the tournament. A risk to bring such fine beasts, but Morville at least recognised they were sorely in need of friends, and if the sacrifice of a destrier in ransom bought them a friend or two, it would be well worth the loss of horseflesh. That was relatively easy to replace.

  The cart with their armour and weapons lagged behind, the two packhorses barely able to drag it up the steep hill, but Thomas de Screven and Hugh Mauclerk were in attendance and would ensure that their belongings did not fall too far behind.

  *

  ‘Ah, it feels like civilisation again,’ Tracy said with a broad grin at the sight of knightly entourages approaching the gates of Harewood Castle from three separate directions. ‘It is good to be in the company of knights rather than peasants.’

  ‘And what in God’s name do you think we are?’ FitzUrse demanded.

  ‘Calm yourself, Reginald, I was including you in my observation. Is it not good to gaze on colour and riches rather than dirt and poverty?’

  FitzUrse grunted, his temper calming, and a rare smile was just discernible behind the hair of his full beard. ‘Is that not Stoteville and Plumton?’

  ‘Yes, it is indeed,’ Morville said. ‘Goldesburgh too, even Gamellor.’

  ‘Why did they not ride with us?’ Tracy asked, his voice petulant.

  ‘There’s far more prestige in accompanying William de Percy, it appears,’ Morville said nodding at the blue and yellow livery of the men-at-arms.

  ‘More prestige?’ FitzUrse growled. ‘Shame on them. We’re the only men with enough courage to have cut out the canker of England!’

  Morville said nothing, and noticed that Tracy looked worried. Very worried. Maybe the drunken sot had some sense in his head after all, not that it would do him much good if he persisted in toadying to Reginald FitzUrse.

  It escaped none of the knights’ attention that not a single greeting was passed their way, but as one they all chose to ignore the fact.

  *

  ‘William,’ Morville greeted his brother-in-law. ‘I did not know you would be attending.’

  ‘Hugh! What are you doing here?’

  ‘That’s a fine way to greet your sister’s husband, why would I not be here?’ Morville said, knowing full well that Stoteville had been aware of his intentions to attend.

  ‘Well, with the Church’s attitude to tournaments, I assumed you would not risk antagonising them further.’
/>   ‘I do not answer to the Church, William, only the King.’

  William de Stoteville nodded. ‘Begging your pardon, My Lord.’

  Morville changed the subject. ‘It seems Courcy has attracted a good turnout.’

  ‘Yes, Henry is more confident in the Church’s favour after events just past – it has been a very quiet few months, more than time enough to tourney.’

  ‘Most of the barons and knights of England have made the journey,’ Morville remarked, glancing around at the garish colours declaring the wealth and status of their wearers; or their wearers’ masters.

  ‘There has been scant opportunity to win coin or settle old scores this year,’ Stoteville said then added sotto voce, ‘Mandeville is here. Beware him, Hugh, he was furious that you reached Becket before him and has been disclaiming your name to anyone with an ear.’

  ‘What? Because he was tardy and we accomplished the task in his stead?’

  Stoteville grimaced but stilled the retort ready on his tongue.

  ‘He will have to beware me should I spot him in the mêlée,’ Morville continued, oblivious to Stoteville’s reaction.

  ‘There will be no mêlée, Hugh, it is a joust of peace – the quintain and ring.’

  ‘What? By the name of all that is holy, why?’

  ‘Henry does not wish to antagonise Pope Alexander further. No swordplay and no mêlée. Courcy did well to obtain permission for this only.’

  ‘God’s blood, what is a tourney without swords or mêlée? Where’s the opportunity for ransom?’

  ‘There is none, the knights entering the joust are required to pay a fee. The best man will take the purse.’

  ‘But where’s the fun in that?’ Morville asked.

  Stoteville glanced at him in frustration. If the oaf could not recognise the enmity in the glares of the gallant knights, and realise they all suffered the consequences of his and his cronies’ actions that fateful night, Stoteville would not be the one to enlighten him.

  Chapter 24

  The heralds’ trumpets silenced the crowd of nobles and men-at-arms, and every man turned their attention to the lists.

  ‘Earls, Barons, Knights, Gentlemen. Sir William de Courcy, Lord of Harewood, bids thee welcome at Harewood Castle,’ Courcy’s pursuivant-of-arms announced as the trumpet notes faded, ‘for a celebration of the joust.’

  The knights roared approval and FitzUrse turned to Tracy and said, ‘Though we are not per se jousting.’

  ‘No, indeed, a mere practice,’ Tracy said.

  ‘Although it is good to be away from Cnaresburg, even if only for a day or two,’ Brett said. Morville glanced sharply at him, but his words were drowned out by another blast of trumpeted notes.

  ‘Bid thee welcome to Sir Hamelin Plantagenet, Earl of Surrey. Most esteemed guest of honour, and our first contender!’

  The gathered noblemen and their entourages burst into tremendous applause and cheers, each plying further admiration for the King’s brother, despite the fact that his entire head was enclosed by the steel of his modern helm and he was essentially deafened.

  Although Plantagenet’s opponent was a mere quintain, he rode into the lists in full armour: padded gambeson; mail coat, hood and even legs; spurs attached to his boots, and heavy lance held erect.

  He circled the field, then guided his destrier to the head of the lists. A wooden rail ran down the centre of the field, and a blue shield adorned with the golden fleur-de-lis of Louis VII was mounted on a crossbar attached to a ten-foot pole.

  He flicked his visor closed: an act of affectation as he faced no opponent, but the gathered nobles got the message nonetheless. Plantagenet would do this virtually blind, no man could beat him.

  Plantagenet kicked his horse, who strode straight into a canter, then a gallop. He levelled his lance, balancing it on his thigh, and aimed it at the quintain dead ahead. He leaned back to adjust his aim and struck it squarely. The shield sprung back, allowing the Earl safe passage.

  He pulled his mare up, wheeled around and circled the field, delighting in the applause as the quintain was reset.

  ‘Will he not attempt the ring next?’ Brett asked, confused.

  ‘No,’ Morville replied. ‘Each man will have three tries at the quintain today, three attempts at the ring tomorrow, then the best of them will strike at both the day after.’

  They looked up as Plantagenet took a second turn at the quintain, a glancing blow not as true, but the quintain swung away nonetheless. The applause was just as raucous. The King’s brother could fall and still be heralded, at least in public, as champion.

  His third attempt was as clean as his first and he lifted his visor, stood in his stirrups, and thumped his chest in triumph as he completed his final lap of honour.

  *

  ‘We’re losing the light,’ FitzUrse said. ‘We have not been called yet, it will soon be dark.’

  ‘Maybe that’s the idea,’ Morville said, then looked up as his name was called. ‘Damn them, they give me no warning? Mauclerk! Bring my horse, now!’

  Brett helped him into his mail, he grabbed his helmet – of the older and most common design: conical with only a nose guard to protect his face – and hurried to the entrance to the lists, accompanied by the impatient slow handclap of the waiting nobles.

  Flustered, Morville grabbed the reins from Mauclerk and lifted his foot, ready for his clerk to clamp his hands together and heave him into the saddle.

  *

  Morville took a deep breath to steady himself. He scanned the silent crowd, then tapped his helmet to ensure it was secure on his head. He was unnerved. He knew he had kept everyone waiting, through no fault of his own, but he had never known a cavalcade of knights be so quiet.

  He took another breath, brought his lance to bear, and kicked his spurs into his horse’s flanks. Shutting out the disapproval of his peers, he focused on the quintain, aimed, and hit it square. The wooden shield sprang back and he heaved on the reins to slow.

  Morville glared at his silent audience, determined not to show his unease. One gaze in particular caught his attention. A priest, no doubt Harewood’s parish priest, stood with arms crossed, his eyes full of a hate so malevolent, Morville had only seen the like on a battlefield.

  Shaken, he turned his destrier’s head and trotted back to the head of the lists for his next attempt.

  Once again he pushed his helmet down hard on his head, took a calming breath and kicked. He leaned to his right in a last-minute adjustment of his lance, but was too late, his mind not on the task at hand. The ten-foot lance connected with the edge of the quintain, and the force of the blow was thrown back into his shoulder, knocking him off balance. The quintain stayed in place and his body connected with it at full gallop.

  Winded, he allowed Mauclerk to help him to his feet, pulled off his helmet, then wished he hadn’t as the crowd’s cheers and catcalls penetrated through the ringing in his ears.

  He limped away from the lists, head hanging as Brett chased down his horse and the pursuivant announced FitzUrse.

  *

  Sir Reginald FitzUrse, mounted, sat at the head of the lists and surveyed the crowd of silent barons, knights and assorted lords surrounding the jousting field.

  He reached up to secure his helmet, then changed his mind and snatched it from his head and threw it to the turf. If they would force him to the lists at dusk, he would not hamper himself any further – no matter what Hamlin Plantagenet had done in full daylight.

  Shutting out the mutterings of the gathered nobles, he brought his lance up, couched it against his shoulder and focused on the quintain. He could only just see it. No wonder Morville had missed.

  He kicked his horse into action, adjusted his direction, and aimed. Dead centre.

  He turned his horse into a lap of honour, but heard not a single cheer. His peers were silent.

  He realised the futility of what he was doing, realised he could not win, and finally realised they held his recent deeds in abhorrence,
no matter that the act had been instigated by their king.

  He cast his eyes around the crowd in contempt, lingering on those of Hamlin Plantagenet as the man closest to Henry, then turned and cantered out of the lists.

  Morville, Tracy and Brett were at the gates. With one gesture they followed him, back to Cnaresburg.

  Chapter 25

  ‘But how could they treat us so?’ Tracy whined before emptying his goblet.

  ‘Does this mean that the King has forsaken us?’ Brett asked before any answer was given.

  ‘How the damnation do I know?’ FitzUrse said. ‘We’re cut off here, far from Normandy. Has Percy not said anything to you, Hugh?’

  ‘Of course not, I would have told you should he have spoken to me. This turn of events is as much of a surprise to me as you.’

  ‘But what shall we do?’ Tracy said. ‘We are naught without the favour of our king.’

  ‘The Church must be holding sway over him,’ Morville said.

  ‘And you know Henry, he’ll put himself above all others,’ FitzUrse added.

  ‘Indeed,’ Morville said. ‘If he is in such straits with the Pope, he would not hesitate to cast us aside.’

  ‘So, we are on our own,’ FitzUrse said.

  ‘Yes, we are on our own – at least for the time being,’ Morville said. ‘If only you had stayed your hands and merely arrested Becket.’

  ‘Hugh! You saw how hard I tried to talk sense into the man,’ FitzUrse said. ‘I was the only one who tried, if I recall. The rest of you scurried away like rats.’

  ‘Yes, but what else could we have done?’ Tracy said. ‘We did all we could to persuade him.’

  ‘You call slicing off the top of his head persuasion?’ Morville said.

  ‘I was only trying to help!’ Brett said. ‘Put him out of his misery.’

  ‘Yes, but murder, Richard. Murder,’ Tracy said, emptying another goblet and reaching for the flagon of Rhenish.