by Wayne Grant
Finn had begged to go, pointing out that a squire’s place was with his knight, particularly when they were going to war, but Roland had been unmoved. After all, Finn was only ten years old and while he had managed to survive a hard life as an orphan in Ireland, Roland felt he was not yet ready for the rigors of a war in France. Stymied, Finn had turned to Sir Edgar Langton, Danesford’s Master of the Sword, for support in his plea.
“A squire’s place is with his master, is it not, Sir Edgar?” the boy had argued.
“Well, yes,” the big man said, stroking his tangle of black beard, “but ye’ve barely lost yer milk teeth, lad.”
Having lost his argument, Finn stomped off, but Millicent had felt sorry for him and brought him along to bid farewell to his master. Sir Roger cleared his throat as Roland arrived, then stepped forward and grasped his one-time squire in a bear hug. Releasing his embrace, he turned toward the steps.
“I’ll let you two say yer goodbyes, lad, but while yer in France…”
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Roland said, finishing the sentence for him. It was old advice, but it had served him well over the years.
Sir Roger grinned, then beckoned to Finn. Together the big Norman knight and the Irish squire hurried down the steps to the cobbled street leaving Roland and Millicent alone atop the wall.
For a few moments they simply stood and looked at each other, as though trying to memorize the lines of the other’s face. They’d talked long into the evening the night before and there was not much left to say. They both knew Richard’s war with Philip would be a long and brutal affair. It already was. No doubt, Roland would be gone for months, if not years.
When they’d ridden to Chester, Millicent had left their son, Rolf, in the care of his Aunt Lorea, Roland’s young sister. The boy was two years old and toddled after his father whenever he was allowed. Little Rolf had held Lorea’s hand and waved a solemn goodbye to his mother and father as they rode out of the gate at Danesford and Roland wondered if the boy would even remember him when he finally returned. All this they had shared as they sat before the hearth into the small hours of the morning.
But now, the time to dwell on fears was past.
Below, Patch barked out an order and those not mounted climbed into their saddles. Three men rode through the Eastgate and urged their mounts into a trot. The scouts were out.
“I love you, Millie,” Roland said, and kissed her hard on the lips. She clung to him for a moment then released her hold.
“You come back, Roland Inness. I’ll not forgive you if you don’t.”
Below, the column of riders had lurched into motion, clattering through the arch of the Eastgate. Roland looked at his wife and made the same pledge every soldier made to his woman as he left for war.
“I’ll be back. I swear it,” he said, then hurried down the steps.
Declan handed him his reins and he climbed up on The Grey. On the parapet above, Millicent watched as the Invalid Company rode out of Chester and off to war.
Crossing Paths
The chalk cliffs of the Isle of Wight gleamed in the early afternoon sunlight as the large trading cog ploughed through the swells toward the port of Southampton. William de Ferrers stood near the bow, steadying himself with one hand on the forecastle rail as he watched seabirds swoop and pivot in the sky overhead. He’d never much cared for sea voyages, far preferring to have solid ground underfoot, but this journey was one he’d long yearned for. It was more than just a return home, it was a rebuke to all those who had once condemned him.
Traitor!
The accusation still galled him. Had not many another baron cosied up to Prince John when Richard went missing somewhere in Austria? Yet only he had been sent into exile and stripped of his Earldom. True, he’d commanded the Prince’s mercenary army, but if he had not, some other ambitious lord would have. And he’d believed John when the Prince had sworn that the King was dead. Then, when word reached him that Richard lived and was a prisoner, the Prince had assured him the King’s ransom would never leave England. And it never would have if not for that scheming she-wolf, Eleanor of Aquitaine. But the King’s freedom had been bought and his own ambitions had been crushed.
Traitor!
For what, trusting Prince John? That was a mistake he would not repeat. Yet what other path to power was there for him? He knew Richard would never fully trust him, even if the King happily took his money. Like it or not, his fate was tied up with that of John. And with John, like the King, his standing was dependent on silver. He’d bought his way out of exile, but that had nearly paupered him, so more money must be found and quickly. For that, he had a solution.
During John’s rebellion, he’d learned a lesson from the mercenary leaders he’d served with. To get what one needed from noblemen or churchmen or peasants, nothing worked quite like fear. And fear was what he was bringing with him back to Derbyshire. He turned to look back at the deck of the cog that was crowded with two score men. Mercenaries and cutthroats all, these men would provide the fear.
As he gazed across the deck, he saw two men approaching. The first was broad-shouldered with olive skin made darker by long days in the sun. It was Savaric Barca, the captain of this mercenary band whose services he’d purchased with most of his remaining silver. Trailing behind Barca was his second-in-command, the pale Englishman, Henry Catchpole.
He had employed Barca and Catchpole two months before to help settle a land dispute with one of his Breton neighbours. Barca was a Gascon, like King Richard’s mercenary general Mercadier, and a routier, one of the mercenary scum made valuable by the never-ending wars between the royal houses of Europe.
Barca had been recommended to him by Prince John who had praised the man’s reputation for cunning and ferocity. De Ferrers knew these sell-swords had so ravaged the kingdoms of Europe that the Pope himself had condemned them. But Richard and Philip had ignored the Pope, making liberal use of these trained dogs of war—so why should he not do the same? For his part, Barca had been looking for a new patron with a deep purse and had found that in William de Ferrers.
The Earl had observed Barca’s ruthless handling of the disagreement with his neighbour with fascination. Within a day, the land dispute had vanished along with the neighbour’s finest horse and youngest son. The son, somewhat the worse for the experience, had ultimately been returned, but the horse and the land had not. Given that success, he’d had the Gascon recruit forty more men against the day he would sail to England. Those men now lazed around the deck of the cog as it neared landfall.
Henry Catchpole was Barca’s right hand man and sometimes translated for his captain. There was talk that Catchpole had fled to the continent while still a boy to escape some heinous crime committed in Suffolk. Making his way to Normandy, the boy found employment in the wars between King Henry and King Louis and developed a taste for blood and treasure.
Tall and pale with stringy brown hair, Henry Catchpole was, at first glance, less imposing than his captain, but then there were his eyes. They were a blue so pale they seemed practically white. It was like looking into the eyes of a corpse. It was Catchpole who’d gone to work on the neighbour’s son, leaving no visible marks on the lad, but no doubt haunting the boy’s dreams for years to come. Such a man had his uses.
“I never been t’ England.” Barca said, as he greeted his employer.
“I think you will find it hospitable enough and profitable as well, Captain,” de Ferrers said cheerfully. “We ride first to London where I have business to attend to, then on to Derbyshire, where I have plans for you and your men.”
“As you wish, my lord,” Barca replied. “England, France, or this Derbyshire, it matters not to me.”
Henry Catchpole looked past de Ferrers to the white cliffs.
“It’s good t’ be home,” he said, but there was no warmth in his voice.
De Ferrers suppressed a shudder and turned away from the man with the dead eyes.
***
Roland t
ugged on the reins of The Grey and the big gelding hopped nimbly over a small ditch that ran beside the road. The horse dipped its head and drank from the ditch as the men of the Invalid Company rode by. Roland watched them with satisfaction. They had been on the road for five days, riding southeast on Watling Street, the old Roman highway between Chester and London. In those five days he’d not issued a single order. None had been needed.
Each day’s ride had been long and hard, but no worse than the monthly rides he’d led over the past year and that training showed. At the end of each day, camp was made with practiced efficiency. Men set cook fires, tended to the horses, fetched water from nearby streams and posted guards with little direction from company officers—simple routines, but important in the business of war.
And war was the Company’s business.
He clucked to The Grey and the horse raised its head from a patch of dandelions it was cropping. A gentle touch of his heels on the gelding’s flanks and the horse hopped back over the ditch and onto the road. Roland fell in beside Brother Cyril, who, as always, seemed in good spirits.
“My lord, isn’t it a grand day?” he said, waving his free hand around toward the deep blue of the sky and the gold of ripe grain that gleamed in the late afternoon sun.
“Aye, Cyril. It’s a very fine day indeed. The men look in good trim.”
The skinny monk nodded vigorously.
“Aye, lord. Ye’ve worked ‘em hard enough,” he declared with a wide grin. “They should be fit!”
He slapped the monk on the shoulder and spurred The Grey forward, joining Patch and Declan at the head of the column just as the spire of Saint Paul’s came into view off to the east. A moment later, they saw Jamie Finch galloping up the road toward them. He’d been up and gone before first light to scout the situation in London and reined in his lathered horse as Patch raised an arm to signal a halt.
“The Greyfriars are apparently celebrating Saint Matthew’s feast day and have tied up traffic at the Newgate and Aldersgate as well,” he reported, a little out of breath. “We’ll need to ride in through the Ludgate if we want to be through the city and over the river by nightfall.”
Patch glanced at Roland who just nodded.
“Get a fresh mount and lead the way, Jamie,” Patch ordered, standing up in his stirrups and looking back down the column of men. He made a circular motion with his hand that was passed back down the line and a rider came forward leading a spare horse by the reins. Finch hopped nimbly onto the new mount and set off at an easy trot.
Another mile on, the young Londoner led the column off Watling Street and on to a dirt track that ran south toward the Thames and the Strand. When they reached that grand boulevard, they turned east toward the Ludgate. As the long line of hard-looking horsemen moved up the Strand, they eyed the fine town houses and mansions that lined both sides of the street. There was some traffic, though not the crush Jamie had seen on Watling Street. It was mostly domestics going about their daily chores serving the nobles who would be taking their leisure inside their grand houses along the road.
Roland wondered if the sight of the Invalids riding by would alarm any of the high-born folks in their mansions. London had been secure and at peace since King Richard’s return three years ago, but memories were long. Just four years ago it had been anyone’s guess who would rule in the capital. Then, troops loyal to William Marshall clashed in the streets of the city with those loyal to Prince John. The folk inside these fine houses would not have forgot that.
Closer to the city, they rode past a house he knew belonged to William de Ferrers. There were a half-dozen horses tied up in the courtyard at the front of the dwelling and as many tough looking men lounging about near the entrance. He knew the Earl of Derby still had a year of exile left and wondered who might be lodging there. Perhaps he still had retainers who used his handsome London home.
Roland hadn’t forgot his blood oath to kill the man. The memory of his father’s murder had not faded, nor had recollections of de Ferrers’ attempt to exterminate the Danes living in the high country of Derbyshire. William de Ferrers richly deserved to die, but Roland was no longer just a boy with a bloody score to settle. He was a husband and a father and an ill-considered act on his part could bring down ruin on Millie, Rolf and everyone he loved. It was a problem that gnawed at him, but after a last look at the house, he put de Ferrers out of his mind.
***
A servant held a looking glass up for William de Ferrers to consider his reflected image. He frowned a little at the deeper lines around his eyes and mouth, marking as they did the passage of three wasted years in exile, but all-in-all, he was satisfied with his appearance. He would be dining with Archdeacon Poore, Prince John’s man in London, at the hour of vespers. The churchman was to be his link to the Prince and it was important to strike the right tone at this first engagement.
He’d arrived at his townhouse on London’s Strand at noon along with his retinue of mercenaries and was pleased to see the staff were well-prepared to receive him. He’d sent word ahead of his arrival and it seemed they had not forgot how to properly treat an Earl during his absence!
The stone manor house had been built by his father, Earl Robert, and was one of the finer examples of the palatial new dwellings that lined the Strand. England’s barons, who ruled domains that lay as far as ten days ride from London, had come to recognize the advantages of keeping a residence in the capital, close to the seat of ultimate power. And so these houses had popped up like mushrooms along the stretch of road between Westminster Palace and the Temple Church near the city’s Ludgate.
The upkeep of such a place, not to mention the retention of his house servants, had been expensive, but he’d wanted to remind Londoners that his exile was temporary and that the house of de Ferrers was not to be taken lightly. He might have been sent away in disgrace, but he was returning with his title, if not his reputation, restored.
He took another look at his reflection in the mirror, then sent his servant to fetch Barca and Catchpole. Somewhere in the distance, abbey bells were calling the monks to vespers. It was time for his dinner with the Archdeacon. As he turned to go, a rumble of hooves on the Strand reached him. He stepped to the window of his chamber and parted the curtains, looking out on a column of horsemen riding past. They were armed to the teeth and looked to number over a hundred.
Replacements for the war in France, he thought idly and closed the curtains.
***
Patch signalled for the column to slow to a walk as they reached the stone arch of the Ludgate. The crowd had grown here, others taking note of the congestion at the other western gates of the city, but all stood aside and gawked as the company passed through the gate and into the city.
“Oh my Lord, it’s them Invalids,” a portly man standing outside a butcher’s shop wearing a bloody apron cried out, pointing to the column. Others quickly took up the cry and the crowd thickened as people pushed and shoved to get a better look at this famous band of crippled warriors. An old crone forced herself through the throng and stepped in front of Patch’s horse, forcing him to rein in to avoid trampling the woman.
“God bless ye, lads. God bless, I say!” she declared in a surprisingly strong voice and the crowd quieted a little. Having gained centre stage, the woman whirled around to face the Londoners along the street. “These lads sent those Flemish bastards to hell—or back t’ Flanders at the least—with their tails tucked they did,” she announced and swung back to look up at Patch and Roland. “So God bless ye lads and welcome to London.”
That prompted a general round of cheering and soon, men, women, girls and boys crowded in to shake a hand or pass a mug of ale or a loaf of fresh bread to the men in the saddle. Progress came to a halt and Jamie Finch, who’d scouted this route, looked mortified. He swung toward Roland.
“My lord, I…I never thought.”
Roland waved him off and stood in his stirrups.
“Good people of London!” he shouted abov
e the roar of the crowd. “The Invalid Company thanks you for your kindness, but we are on urgent business for the King and you must stand aside now.”
And just like that, the crowd began to edge back. Relieved, Finch led the way forward until the riders emerged onto the large open square south of Saint Paul’s cathedral. From there, the column wound through narrow lanes until they reached Fish Street, which led east toward the bridge.
The sun was beginning to set behind them as the column crossed the old wooden bridge over the Thames. Just downstream from the old bridge was the new stone structure that had been under construction for years. Roland fell back to ride beside Declan as they reached the middle of the span, then reined in and pointed to the new bridge.
“Remember that first night in London, Dec?”
“Aye, indeed I do. I had never seen such a place as London and I reckon my eyes were as big as saucers. I’m surprised Sir Roger let us roam free that night. We walked out to the end of the stone bridge there and looked back at the city.”
“Aye, it was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen,” Roland said as they both stared back toward the northern shore and the city. The white stone of the Tower glistened as it caught the fading rays of the autumn sun.
“Pretty still,” Declan agreed as the last of the Invalids passed by behind them. “Wonder when we’ll see it again.”
Roland had no answer for that and Declan didn’t expect one. Both men took a last look at London then turned their mounts to the south and followed the Invalids into Surrey.
***
Archdeacon Poore was waiting at the door of the stone villa when de Ferrers arrived.
“My lord Earl, welcome!” he exclaimed as he ushered de Ferrers inside.
De Ferrers gave a short bow to the older man and unhooked his cloak, handing it to the hovering servant standing nearby.
