by Wayne Grant
But, no matter.
William de Ferrers was finished being a pawn in any man’s game. He had a game of his own now. He’d got his freedom and his title restored. He’d convinced John that he was still loyal and he’d learned he could buy Richard’s favour as easily as John’s. It had been money well spent.
All he needed now was more money.
In four days, he would reach the port of Saint-Malo where forty men waited to take sail with him for England. These men were routiers, hired mercenaries, and expensive, but he expected to receive an ample return for his investment. He intended to milk Derbyshire down to the last farthing and these men would see that none resisted him. In a sense, they would pay for themselves as well as help refill his coffers.
And he would diligently send John a portion of what he claimed to collect and who could gainsay him on the amount? As for preying upon Cheshire, he’d known for months that Ranulf was in France. He had spies in the King’s camp as well as in Chester, though the news of the call-up of the Invalid Company had taken him by surprise.
He’d spent three long years planning his return from exile, but there remained one fly in his ointment and it wasn’t Prince Arthur of Brittany. He expected John would find a way to deal with Arthur and the boy’s mother. His one problem was Roland Inness. This man had haunted his nightmares for long enough. He knew not if Inness would cross to France with Ranulf’s band of cripples or stay in Cheshire.
Either way, the man had to die.
Storm Clouds
Friar Tuck was nearing the end of the mass when he saw Sir Robin of Loxley come out of the trees. He hadn’t seen the young knight in three long years, but there was no mistaking the man’s swagger. The stocky churchman looked out across his tiny congregation gathered in a hidden glade in the hills west of Sheffield and continued to intone the words of the Latin rite until he was done.
Sir Robin did not interrupt, but found a stump near the edge of the clearing and sat down to wait. With the mass concluded, men, women and a few children began to drift away into the surrounding forest, though a few lingered to engage the brown-robed priest in private conversations. Some asked for special prayers to be said for ailing family or for the friar to conduct a baptism when he had time. Tuck dealt with each patiently, though he was anxious to know what had brought his old friend to this secluded meadow.
He and Robin had fought side by side in the defence of Nottingham Castle during Prince John’s rebellion and had slipped over the wall when the fortress surrendered rather than bend the knee to Richard’s traitorous brother. Together they had made for the wildwood north of Nottingham and lived as outlaws together until Richard’s return from captivity. With the coming of peace to Nottinghamshire, Robin had found that life as lord of a tiny knight’s fief was dull and tedious and had chosen to follow the King to France and to war. Now he was back.
To what purpose? Tuck wondered.
When the last of his flock had finished their business, the friar strode across the clearing to greet the newcomer as Robin rose from his stump and came to meet him.
“Tuck, you pious old fart, you look well!” he said and wrapped the monk in a bear hug.
“Ah, Rob, it’s good to see you haven’t got yerself killed!” Tuck replied, returning the man’s embrace.
“Well, there was some skill and lot of luck involved there,” Robin said with a laugh and pulled up his tunic to show Tuck a livid scar running from his hip up his side.
Tuck clucked at the sight.
“Looks painful.”
“Hurt like all hell,” said Robin, lowering his tunic. “Still does.”
“So, is this a social call, Robin?” Tuck asked a little apprehensively. “Or are you home convalescing?”
Robin shook his head.
“Neither. I’ve come with a warning. The King has commuted the Earl of Derby’s sentence of exile. I expect he will arrive to take up his Earldom any day now.”
Tuck frowned. There had been three years of peace here in the wilder parts of Derbyshire and Nottinghamshire, an unaccustomed respite for the poorest folk in the Midlands. Sir James Ferguson, the Sheriff the King had installed in de Ferrers’ absence, had largely left them alone and, from all reports, had governed the land with a firm but fair hand. The monk had even met with Sir James once over some minor matter and the two old soldiers had ended up swapping war stories.
Now de Ferrers was back and unless the Earl had experienced some spiritual transformation during his exile, times would again be hard for the forest people and the poor in these lands.
“I am obliged to you for the warning, Rob. I knew this day would come, but had not expected it to come so soon. We’ve been left alone for three years now…” he said, his voice trailing off.
“You won’t be left alone now,” said Robin.
Tuck nodded.
“I wonder does Roland Inness know of this.”
Robin shook his head.
“The news won’t have reached Cheshire yet, but it might not matter. By the time de Ferrers reaches Derbyshire, Roland will likely be off to France. The King has called up the Invalid Company. That should take the lad out of de Ferrers' reach for a time, though the war in France is hardly a refuge.”
“That bad is it?”
“Aye Tuck, that bad. The worst I’ve seen.”
The monk rubbed his jaw. He knew the horrors Robin of Loxley had seen in the Holy Land and right here in the Midlands of England. And for France to be worse…It was a sobering thought.
“And what of you, Rob? Are you going back?”
Sir Robin shook his head.
“No. I need some peace after three years of fighting. I’ve seen too many towns plundered and too many folk butchered. I think I’ll take myself back to Sherwood for a bit where I’ll make myself as small as a shrew—too small for any to notice, not even de Ferrers.”
Tuck couldn’t help but grin at the vision of this cocky young man shrunk down to the size of a tiny rodent, but he wondered at Robin’s choice to return to Sherwood, a renowned den of outlaws.
“Killing the King’s deer is still a crime you know, Rob.”
Sir Robin slapped him on the shoulder and grinned.
“Aye, I’ll just live on squirrels and hares,” he said with a wink.
“Then may the Lord’s blessing go with ye, lad. I appreciate yer warning and will give it heed.”
Robin nodded and turned away. In seconds he had disappeared back into the thick woods. Tuck watched him go with a sinking feeling. De Ferrers was back and it was well that he’d been forewarned. He would pass the word on to his flock, who would need to make preparations. Like Robin, they would keep to the wild places and hope to draw no attention to themselves. It was how they had survived their last experience with de Ferrers’ rule. He was less optimistic concerning the settled farmers who filled the lowlands. Those men and their families were tied to a plot of land and could not easily stay out of harm’s way.
Who would help those people?
And he wondered about Danesford. Was there a threat there? Did de Ferrers know Roland Inness had left the country and would that even matter to the man? Best to take no chances. He would send Millicent Inness a warning and pray for all the folks in the Midlands.
Muster of the Invalids
Millicent Inness looked down from Chester’s eastern wall as the Invalid Company assembled on the street below. She’d dreaded this day ever since Earl Ranulf’s summons had arrived calling up the Invalids for service in France, but on this of all days, she was determined not to show it. She was a soldier’s wife after all and would behave as one should when her man went off to war.
It had been but three months since Roland returned, wounded, from Ireland. She’d tended the livid scar tissue beneath his ribs with care and though he’d made light of the pain, she’d watched him grimace a little whenever he drew his longbow. Another month and he’d have been his old self, but they’d not had another month.
Below, she saw her
husband sitting quietly atop the grey gelding she’d given him as a present years ago. It was an unusual horse, big for a palfrey, but fast and sure-footed. The Grey lacked the size, but had the temperament of a warhorse. As the Invalids assembled, the animal stamped and snorted, anxious to be off. Roland patted the big horse’s neck, then bent forward to whisper something in The Grey’s ear.
Millicent smiled. Roland Inness had come far since the day her father brought him home to Shipbrook so many years ago. Back then, she’d been charged with teaching the orphaned peasant boy how to ride, but Roland had never sat a horse before and had not taken easily to her instructions.
As the daughter of the Lord of Shipbrook, she had learned to ride almost as soon as she could walk, and this new squire’s stiffness in the saddle had frustrated her. Roland would bounce jerkily up and down whenever his mount moved faster than a walk. She’d been hard on him and she still felt a twinge of guilt over that, but time and necessity had proven a better teacher than she and, in the end, the stiff boy had become a capable horseman.
“He’ll be fine, Millie,” said the man standing beside her.
She turned and arched an eyebrow at Sir Roger de Laval. It was the sort of thing men always told women at such times—not exactly a lie, but not the truth either. Her father well knew the dangers the men on the street below would soon face in France. He had fought there himself in his younger days and would have gone now had Earl Ranulf not named him Constable of Chester. It was a duty he detested, full of administrative matters that he found tedious, but Sir Roger de Laval had never been one to shirk his duty, even when it kept him from his beloved Catherine and his home of Shipbrook down by the River Dee.
Once the Invalids rode to war, Millicent would return to Danesford, the little fort on the River Weaver. It was the home she and Roland had built from nothing and it was where she would wait for as long as need be for her husband to come home from the war. She felt her eyes starting to brim and pinched her arm. Tears would not do at a time like this. Dry-eyed, she turned back to watch the Company make its final preparations for the march.
***
On Eastgate Street, Roland watched as his company officers moved up and down the long column checking the men. Tom Marston, known to the men as Patch, barked out terse orders as he walked up and down the line. Sir John Blackthorne, the one-armed former Constable of Sheffield and master swordsman, was already mounted on his beautiful black charger near the end of the line and was conversing with Brother Cyril, the Company chaplain.
Behind him, Roland heard some tuneless whistling and turned to see Declan O’Duinne on his chestnut mare sidling up beside The Grey.
“They look a sight better than last time they mustered for war!” he said cheerily.
Roland nodded. The day they had last mustered at the Northgate to ride to Prince Llywelyn’s aid two years ago, the men could barely sit straight in the saddle. As had happened in London, the boredom of garrison duty at Chester had led to drunkenness and lechery among the men. On that occasion, it had taken the better part of a week to work them into any shape to fight.
Roland had sworn then to never again let these men lose their edge. Once a month, with no warning, he rode to Chester to lead the Company on extended exercises. He ordered forced marches that strained men and horses. He had them practice assaulting the walls of Shipbrook, laying ambushes, and forming shield walls. The men groused to their sergeants as was the sacred right of soldiers everywhere, but no word of complaint ever reached Roland.
“Shall we troop the line, Dec?”
“As you wish, captain,” Declan said with a grin.
Roland had to grin back. For him, answering Earl Ranulf’s call to join the fight in France was strictly a matter of duty. He’d been raised in the mountains of Derbyshire to be a hunter and a farmer, not a soldier, and he would have much preferred to remain at Danesford with his wife and child. It had only been chance—and ill chance at that—that had set him on the warrior’s path.
But Declan O’Duinne was a man always game for the next adventure. The young Irish knight seemed especially delighted to be mustering along with the Invalids. Declan had joined Roland on his monthly exercises and, along with Blackthorne, he’d supervised sword training for the Company. As Shipbrook’s Master of the Sword with responsibility for the security of a long stretch of the Welsh Marches, he’d argued long and hard with Sir Roger before the Lord of Shipbrook would release him for this campaign. He’d pointed out that since Earl Ranulf’s ally, Prince Llywelyn, had gained control of Gwynedd, there had been little trouble from across the River Dee.
“My lord, where am I most likely to be of greater service to you?” he’d asked. “Watching in vain for Welsh cow thieves or watching the back of your son-in-law?”
That question has settled the matter.
Roland clucked to The Grey and rode slowly down the column of mounted men. There were six score of them, formed up two-abreast with the line extending up Eastgate Street almost to the centre of the town. He saw many familiar faces as he rode. There was Seamus Murdo, the mountainous Scot with a face disfigured by Greek fire. Murdo had fled Scotland for some long-ago crime and joined King Richard’s crusade, taking his wound outside the walls of Messina. Slung over the big man’s back was the wicked long-handled axe he’d used to such deadly effect in the fight at Deganwy. The big man never smiled, but gave Roland and Declan a respectful nod as they rode by.
Farther on, he saw Blackthorne had finished his pleasantries with the chaplain and was giving one of the men a hiding for some infraction of harness or equipment. For his part, the ever- cheerful Brother Cyril was walking along the line handing out blessings and smiles.
Roland reined in The Grey beside a wiry young man who greeted him with a wide grin. Jamie Finch was one of the few Londoners among the Invalids and had proven that a boy who’d grown up in the back alleys of the great city could ride and fight as well as any of the country lads in the troop. He’d also proven to be one of the company’s best scouts with a keen eye for danger and opportunity.
“Jamie,” Roland hailed him. “You’re not on scout duty?”
“Not to begin with, my lord,” he answered cheerily. “Patch wanted some of the new lads to be out front today as we’ll be on familiar ground. I’ll have the duty when we pass through London and cross over the Thames.”
“Makes sense,” Roland said. Getting a hundred twenty mounted men through the crowded streets of London and over the narrow London Bridge to the south bank of the Thames was in nowise a simple effort. There would be none better than Finch to see it safely done.
As they reached the end of the column, there was a smattering of new men. King Richard’s war against Philip of France had created a ready supply of maimed and grievously injured men—enough to form a dozen Invalid Companies. But Patch, Sergeant Billy and Blackthorne had been careful in selecting which of these would join their brotherhood. Englishmen formed the bulk of the new recruits, but there were a few Gascons, Normans and Bretons as well, all damaged in one way or another.
These were men from the Angevin provinces on the continent, men who’d fought for the Lionheart but found no welcome for a maimed man returning home from the wars. Many had been drawn across the Channel to the far west of England by the reputation of the Invalid Company. Like so many others, they had come to Chester looking for a purpose and perhaps for redemption. Some had been accepted and some not. How well Patch and the rest had chosen would be known soon enough. War had a way of sorting such things.
In the meantime, these unproven men would bring up the rear of the column, leading strings of fresh mounts for the Company and eating dust in their wake. Roland reined in beside a rider he’d not seen before. He glanced down and saw that the young man had his sword and scabbard belted on his right hip and was missing his right hand.
“Your name?” he asked.
“Bertrand Dieupart, lord.” The man spoke in a thick accent that seemed familiar, but Roland could not place i
t.
“Where do you hail from, Dieupart?”
“I am Norman, my lord,” the man replied.
“How did you get your injury?”
The young man hesitated as though searching for words.
“It was in a…stupid way, lord. I was wounded when Gisors fell to the French,” he said, holding up his right arm and displaying the stump. “One of my amis…my…comrades, he did not look where he was striking.”
“You’re left-handed?” Roland asked, curious.
“I am now, lord,” the man said with a faint smile.
Roland nodded.
“Fair enough, Bertrand. Welcome to the Invalids.”
Roland clucked to The Grey and the big horse started forward, but Bertrand spoke once more.
“Is it true you can kill a man at two hundred paces with a bow, my lord?” he asked, half curious and half sceptical. “I’ve never seen such a thing.”
“You shouldn’t listen to such fanciful tales, Bertrand. The men are jesting with you,” Roland said and rode on.
Declan hung back for a moment, leaning near to the Norman recruit and speaking in a hushed voice.
“I’ve seen him drop a man at near three hundred paces, but the fellow was a deserter and deserved no better,” the Irish knight lied.
“Mon dieu!” Bertrand whispered back.
Declan nodded solemnly then trotted up beside Roland.
“Best say yer farewells,” he said, motioning toward Tom Marston who had climbed up on his own mount. “Patch is about to move them out.”
Roland nodded and swung off The Grey, handing his reins to Declan. He hurried up the steps to the wall walk by the Eastgate where his wife and his old master were waiting along with his new squire, Finn Mac Clure. The Irish boy looked as though he was about to cry, but kept his chin up and wiped his runny nose absently with the sleeve of his tunic.
