by Wayne Grant
“Aye, your grace. I practice most days, when other duties don’t interfere.”
“Can you still take a melon on the wing?” the King asked with an impish smile. It was the shot that had won the great archery tournament so long ago in London.
Roland laughed.
“I’ve had little cause lately to pick on any melons, your grace.”
“Very well, Sir Roland,” the King said, returning to business. “Would you be so kind as to let me inspect your men? I confess, I’ve heard much of the Invalid Company, but have never set eyes upon them.”
“Of course, your grace,” Roland said. He turned in his saddle and issued a command. “Invalids, right about!” The men in the column dutifully swung their horses’ heads to the right and dressed their line. Roland turned back to the King.
“Please, ride next to me, your grace.”
He turned The Grey’s head around and together, he and Richard, by the grace of God, King of England, trooped the line. The King looked each man in the eye as he passed slowly down the column. There were men with missing limbs, missing ears, blinded eyes and horrid scars, but all sat straight in the saddle as their sovereign passed by. For his part, Richard did not flinch at the wounds, even at the sight of Seamus Murdo’s nightmare of a face. As he reached the end of the line, he halted next to Sergeant Billy.
“I know you!” he said.
Sergeant Billy seemed to swell just a little.
“Aye, yer Grace. It’s William Butler. I served at Acre.”
“You are the one they called…,” the King hesitated for a moment, searching his memory, then brightened. “Billy! Sergeant Billy, I believe. Am I not right?”
“Aye, lord, tis I. I was an honest infantryman until I got this,” he said, swinging his wooden peg in the air. Now I ride like some poxy cavalryman.”
This made Richard burst out laughing.
“Well, I am pleased to have you, afoot or astride a horse, Sergeant,” he said quietly. Then he turned his charger around and trotted back to the midpoint of the column, reining in and turning to face the men. He stood up in the stirrups and addressed the dusty riders.
“Men of the Invalid Company! Your reputation precedes you! Philip of France is no doubt shitting his pants at news of your arrival. Are you ready to give these French a whipping?” he roared.
The Invalid Company roared back.
***
They covered the distance to the fortified village of Les Andelys in less than an hour. Near the top of a gentle rise, the King slowed his horse to a walk. As they crested the hill, the land fell away sharply into a narrow ravine that ran down toward the wider valley of the Seine to the south. From this vantage, they could see the great bend in the river and the layout of the new town growing up on its banks.
The place was bounded by a rectangular palisade of sharpened logs. Behind these temporary fortifications were a large number of buildings that also looked temporary, even at this distance. Entry to the new town was through gates that had been built on the eastern, western and southern walls. Extending from the southern gate was a wooden bridge that spanned a narrow channel between the north bank of the Seine and a sizable island in the centre of the river. That island was also encircled by a palisade of logs. A second section of bridge that linked the island to the southern bank of the river was nearing completion. Even at a distance, Roland could see that bridge and town were swarming with men.
Beyond the town, another escarpment rose, this one higher and rockier than the gentle slope they were on. Perched atop that ridge was a fantastic structure, not yet complete judging by the scores of men they could see working on the fortifications, but nearly so.
“Château Gaillard!” the King announced grandly. “In but one year we have built this—from nothing. It will be the greatest fortress in Europe, lads!”
He gave his horse the spurs and galloped down the slope toward the valley below. Roland and the Invalids followed him to where the ravine opened into the broader valley of the Seine. The King led them through the western gate of the new town and into the main square. He halted there and summoned the captain of the guard and a quartermaster to direct the new arrivals to a transient barracks where they would be quartered for the night. Before he took his leave, he turned back to Roland.
“When next you come to Les Andelys, I will see that you get a better look at the Château, Sir Roland, but for now, I am sending you and your men on to General Mercadier who is besieging the fortress at Gamaches. That place should have fallen days ago, but the French are proving stubborn there. I’m sure Mercadier will make good use of you. I’ll send you a guide. Have your men ready to ride at first light.”
With that, the King of England put the spurs to his big roan and rode through the east gate of the town and up the hill toward his fortress on the heights above, his bodyguard trailing behind him. The two young knights watched as the King and his escort climbed up the switchback road to the castle. Declan shook his head.
“He’s like a whirlwind.”
The Once and Future Earl
William de Ferrers reined in at the top of the pass and looked down into the narrow cleft that wound down between towering limestone cliffs on either side. The locals called this place the “wind gates” and it was aptly named. Though the air was calm on this day, in winter it swept through the gorge like a tempest, howling like a lost soul in perdition.
The peasants in the valley beyond avoided this high pass, frightened of evil spirits, but for de Ferrers the wind gates were a welcome sight. At the bottom of this cleft in the mountains lay a broad valley and the tiny village of Castleton. And on a steep crag above the village sat Peveril Castle.
The Earls of Derby had fine residences at Tutbury and Derby, but since boyhood, Peveril had always been de Ferrers favourite. Perched above the little market town and the broad valley, the fortress dominated the surrounding countryside. From atop the castle keep a man could see the dark mound of Mam Tor across the valley and, on clear days, the topmost summit of Kinder Scout was visible in the distance. For William de Ferrers, this was home.
He’d been gone from his lands for three years now and there was much to set right back in Derbyshire, beginning with the Sheriff the King had appointed in his absence. Sir James Ferguson had once been his man but had deserted him during the civil war. Ferguson’s appointment as Sheriff had rubbed salt in his wounds. Now, with the return of the Earl, a Sheriff could be dispensed with. He touched his spurs to the flanks of his white stallion and led his band of mercenaries down into the wind gates.
***
Sir James Ferguson looked up from a parchment he was studying and, across the cramped room, Gilbert Blythe, his clerk, paused from his scribbling as they heard the sound of boot heels coming down the circular stairs from the rooftop lookout. No doubt the guards had seen something of interest, but Sir James was not concerned. There had been little to trouble the peace of Derbyshire in years. But when the guard burst through the door, Sir James could tell by the anxious look on the man’s face that this was no usual sighting. He set the parchment aside.
“My lord, there is a large party of armed horsemen in the town,” the guard announced breathlessly.
Sir James arose from his stool.
“How many?” he asked calmly.
“A score or more, my lord.”
The Sheriff nodded.
“Then let’s have a look.”
He let the guard lead the way up the spiral stairs and followed as best he could. The climb was painful, his aging joints protesting with every step. It reminded him once more that he was in his sixth decade on earth, but he ignored the pain and hurried to keep up with the guard. Reaching the roof, he made his way to the western side that overlooked the valley below.
He could see the column of horsemen passing through the centre of town, sunlight glinting off their helmets and spearpoints. The sight made him cringe, though it was not the heavily armed riders that brought a frown to the Sheriff’s face.
It was the flag they flew. Even at a distance there was no mistaking the black horseshoes emblazoned on a field of white. It was the banner of the Earls of Derby—the House of de Ferrers.
Ferguson muttered a curse under his breath. William de Ferrers was not due back for another year, but who else would dare to fly that banner here but the Earl himself? Somehow the man must have had his exile lifted.
I wonder what it cost him, Ferguson thought shaking his head.
He’d served Robert de Ferrers, the old Earl, for many years and had watched young William grow from a spoiled child to a malignant young man. When word reached Derbyshire that Earl Robert had died at the siege of Acre, Ferguson had tried to remain loyal to the family. He’d followed William to Cheshire where they had used treachery and surprise to seize Earl Ranulf’s capital. That had troubled him, but it was the floggings and hangings his new master inflicted on the poor people of Chester that had turned his stomach.
When Ranulf retook the city, Sir James threw off his allegiance to de Ferrers and took service with the Earl of Chester. His appointment as Sheriff of Derbyshire in the aftermath of John’s rebellion was no doubt Earl Ranulf’s doing, but no one was more shocked than James Ferguson at his new assignment. He’d taken his duties as Sheriff seriously and after the horrors inflicted on the people of Derbyshire by the Prince’s mercenary bands, he’d done his best to govern with a light hand—and the people had prospered, enjoying good harvests and fat times.
Now, that might well be for naught.
For an instant, Sir James thought to bar the gate and refuse the Earl entrance, but knew that would be futile in the end. He’d received no warning of de Ferrers’ return, but if the Earl was here now, it must be with the blessing of the King. And if the King had commuted the Earl’s sentence, then he had no legitimate basis to bar de Ferrers from his own castle. Sir James turned to the guard who had followed him up to the roof.
”They’ll be coming to the castle, Udo. Get down to the captain of the guard and have him open the gate. Earl William has returned.”
The young guard nodded and hurried off on his mission. Sir James walked slowly back down the stairs, his knees and hips protesting with every step. When he reached the second floor, he paused and looked into the office. Gilbert had turned his attention back to whatever record he was annotating. He glanced at the locked cabinet behind the clerk where the tax rolls were kept. He was grateful that the year’s assessments had already been collected and recorded. De Ferrers would have to wait a year before applying his usual heavy hand to the tax gathering.
I am still Sheriff, he thought, but the fact gave him little comfort. Sheriffs were the King’s men, but they did not wield power over the great barons. He reached the entrance hall of the keep and took the wooden steps that led down to the bailey. He made his way around the base of the keep and saw the eastern gate swing open. He steeled himself and prepared to greet his old master.
***
De Ferrers saw Sir James Ferguson waiting in the bailey as he rode through the arch of the eastern gate. He rode past the man, studiously ignoring him. Reining in at the foot of the wooden steps that led to the entrance of the keep, he dismounted. Behind him, forty men rode into Peveril Castle, nearly filling the bailey with their mounts. De Ferrers watched as Sir James stepped back to avoid being trampled. When the old soldier turned to look in his direction, he finally condescended to notice the man and beckon him forward.
“Master Sheriff!” he called out as Ferguson walked stiffly up the slope toward him. “I don’t think I’ve seen you since you left me to serve under Earl Ranulf. That defection wounded me deeply, you know. But you’ve clearly prospered from it! Look at you—High Sheriff of Derbyshire—when once you were but an obscure knight serving my father.”
“I asked not for this position, my lord.”
“No, no, of course you didn’t,” de Ferrers said with a wave of his hand. “You are far too noble to be that self-serving and yet, here you are, lording it over my lands like you yourself were the Earl of Derby.”
“I’ve never had pretentions to join the high nobility, my lord. They make poor company.”
De Ferrers face flushed at the insolence of the man.
“It’s well you did not, Ferguson, for your time ruling over what’s mine is done!” de Ferrers said, spitting out the words between clenched teeth.
Ferguson stood impassively through de Ferrers’ outburst.
“It was the King that appointed me Sheriff,” he said calmly, ”and it must be the King who relieves me of my duties, my lord.”
De Ferrers stepped closer to the man until he towered over the old knight.
“I’m here because I’ve bought the King, damn you. You will find no recourse with him! You have until sunset tomorrow to absent yourself from my lands. If you are found within the borders of Derbyshire beyond that time, you will be hunted down like a dog and die the traitor’s death you deserve.”
Sir James looked up at the Earl, then over at the mercenaries who were dismounting. He thought of the small garrison of the castle. If he chose to resist, his lads might follow his orders, but they might not. Challenging a great baron like the Earl of Derby would be utterly foreign to these boys. And even if they did obey him, they would be no match for the men who now crowded the bailey of Peveril. Ferguson had seen such men before and knew his garrison lads would be like lambs to slaughter against them. He wouldn’t have those boys die to make a point. He bowed his head to de Ferrers.
“Very well, my lord. Derbyshire is yours—and may God have mercy on the place.”
As De Ferrers watched the man walk toward the stables to fetch his horse, Barca sidled up to him.
“Kill him?” he asked nodding toward the Sheriff. De Ferrers stood quietly for a moment pondering the prospect.
“No, Captain. I think not. Did you see his face? Mark my words, he’s a beaten man. He’ll run to London to protest to the Justiciar, but by now Archbishop Walter will know where the money is coming from to pay the King’s bills. Sir James Ferguson will find no relief there. I think we’ll not be troubled further by the Sheriff of Derbyshire!”
***
As Sir James rode out of the west gate of the bailey and onto the drawbridge, De Ferrers entered the keep of Peveril Castle and climbed to the second floor with Savaric Barca following close on his heels. He stepped into Ferguson’s small office as Gilbert leapt to his feet.
“My lord! Welcome home,” he said.
De Ferrers smiled at the clerk. Gilbert was not the only local he’d employed to watch over his domain while he was in exile, but he was the most important.
“It’s good to be home, Gilbert. I trust my generosity has made life comfortable for you here in my absence?”
“Oh, most comfortable, my lord, most comfortable indeed!”
“Good, good. You have served me well, Gilbert. Your reports have been timely and thorough. Did not Sir James suspect you?”
Gilbert laughed at that.
“Nay, my lord. The Sheriff is a trusting soul and I was most careful.”
“Excellent!” de Ferrers said and slapped the clerk on the shoulder. “Now our first order of business is finance.”
Gilbert nodded eagerly.
“As my reports show, with peace here in England it’s been a prosperous time, my lord. Our fees to the royal treasury in London were delivered but a fortnight ago, and the vault here at Peveril still holds over forty pounds of silver.”
De Ferrers nodded at that. It was a considerable sum.
“And what of the tax rolls, Gilbert?”
“I have them sorted and stored in the cabinet here, my lord, along with a record of payments,” the clerk said, taking out a large key and opening an upright chest set against the wall. Inside were dozens of neat rolls tied up with twine.
De Ferrers barely glanced at the stacks of documents.
“Keep the rolls. Burn the payment records,” he ordered.
“Burn them, my lord?” Gilbert asked
, confused. “How will we know what’s been paid and what hasn’t?”
“I don’t care what’s been paid, Gilbert. I want a clean slate. No tax collected by this illegitimate sheriff will count against what’s owed me, the rightful Earl. As of today we start anew here in Derbyshire. As of tomorrow, we begin a new collection.”
“But, my lord, people will protest!”
De Ferrers sneered at that.
“Let them,” he said nodding toward Barca. “My men will make examples of the first who do and the rest will fall into line soon enough.”
Gilbert bowed his head and turned to begin gathering up the scrolls, but De Ferrers was not finished with him.
“One more thing, Gilbert. You haven’t given me any news of Inness. Is he still ensconced in some miserable little fort on the border of Cheshire?”
The clerk blanched at that.
“My lord…did not my message reach you in Brittany?”
“What message?”
“You did not inform me of your return, my lord,” the clerk explained plaintively. “I sent a courier to Brittany straight away when news reached me that Inness had mustered with the Invalid Company for service in France. They departed ten days ago, my lord, as did my messenger. He might well have passed you on the road.”
De Ferrers nodded.
Roland Inness was in France.
He’d heard from Prince John that the Invalid Company had been called up for service in Richard’s war, but had not known if Inness had mustered with them. For three years he’d feared the damned bowman would make his way to France and find him in Brittany. He’d outlaid a considerable amount of silver to provide for his personal security there, but had always had the nagging dread that one day a clothyard shaft would come out of nowhere to strike him down. Now he was back in England only to find that Inness had passed him in transit.
He didn’t know whether to be angry or relieved. He brightened at the thought that Inness might simply die in Richard’s bloody war, saving him worry and silver, but then he frowned. This up-jumped peasant had shown an uncanny ability to survive the bloodiest of campaigns and if he lived through this one and came home…
