by Wayne Grant
Ranulf leaned on the bridge railing, looking down at the dark water surging around the pilings, then looked up at Roland.
“And that, Sir Roland, is why your men stood ready to fight Mercadier’s entire army to save you, and it is why you will command the Invalid Company for as long as I am Earl.”
Roland blinked at that.
“My lord?”
“I am offering you command of the Invalids, Sir Roland,” the Earl said. “Sir John Blackthorne has already been informed and I’ve never seen a man more pleased to be relieved.”
“But my lord, the King!”
Ranulf shrugged his shoulders.
“Marcher Lords such as Marshall and I have great latitude to run our own affairs—more than any other barons of the realm. It’s a freedom we jealously guard. If the King wants me to take responsibility for victualing and training his company of crippled men, then I will choose its commander.”
“And honestly,” he said with a wry smile, “I feared there might be another mutiny to contend with if the King’s order stood. A delegation from the Company came to my quarters last night and threatened as much! They were drunk of course and I sent them packing, but they only reinforced my own view. I thought it prudent to keep this decision to myself until the King was on his way. In due time, he’ll be informed, but by then, Gamaches should be a distant memory.”
“I don’t know what to say, my lord,” Roland managed.
“Do you accept this assignment?”
Roland nodded.
“I do, lord.”
“Good! You will need to report to Sir Robert Mandeville who the King has left as his castellan here, but at present I think you’d best inform the men of your promotion,” the Earl said with a small smile.
Roland bowed and turned to see that the word had already spread. The men of the Invalid Company had quietly followed them down to the river and now stood gathered at the foot of the bridge, watching their Earl and their commander and grinning like drunkards.
The Castellan
Roland and Declan found Sir Robert Mandeville standing just inside the main gate of Château Gaillard. Sir Robert had been left in overall command of the castle and town, and was deep in conversation with the castle’s chief engineer. It was not a cordial exchange.
The engineer was a thin, elderly man with snow-white hair and sharp features. His name was Alfred Blakemore and it was rumoured he’d travelled with Richard on Crusade where he had studied the great fortresses of Acre and Ascalon. He was also said to be the only man the King trusted to build his great fortress. At the moment he seemed exasperated with Château Gaillard’s castellan.
“A month!” he snapped, waving a rolled up set of plans at the castellan. “The King may wish what he wishes, but ditches don’t dig themselves and stones aren’t magically cut and set properly in a curtain wall. Look at the gate, for God’s sake!” he said, pointing at the two huge door panels leaning against the inner wall of the gate arch. “Three times we’ve hung the damn things and three times the hinges have failed to hold. I’ve sent to Rouen for a smith who knows his ironwork, as the ones I have here clearly do not. A month you say? I had two stonemasons ill and three carpenters missing at the morning muster!”
Having had his say, the engineer crossed his arms and simply glowered at the castellan who was slowly reddening. Mandeville was short and broad across the shoulders with arms like saplings and beefy legs. He sported a magnificent black moustache that drooped down past his jaw line and dark, deep-set eyes.
“You are full of excuses, Master Blakemore,” he said sternly. “The King has charged me with completing this castle within the month and I do not intend to let a few faulty hinges or sick stonemasons stop me!”
“Then you can supervise the work!” the engineer said, thrusting the plans into Mandeville’s hands and stalking off.
Mandeville threw the plans in the dust of the bastion floor as he watched the old engineer stomp away. Declan glanced over at Roland.
“Perfect time for us to get acquainted,” he whispered.
Roland sighed. They were standing in the arched entrance to the bastion and there was no turning back.
“Sir Robert,” he called out.
The castellan whirled around, still red in the face from his encounter with the chief engineer.
“What?” he growled.
“I am Sir Roland Inness, commanding the company in the town, sir.”
Mandeville frowned.
“Inness? I though the King had relieved you for leading a mutiny,” he declared.
“I led no mutiny, Sir Robert, and I’ve been restored to command.”
The castellan looked him up and down.
“This is most irregular,” he said.
“I’ll grant you that, sir, but it is as I say. Earl Ranulf confirmed my appointment before he left for Neufchatel. Now, may we discuss my company’s duties?”
Mandeville furrowed his brow.
“Very well. I have kept a score of reliable men here with me from the old garrison. They will keep watch over the castle. I’ll want your men to stand guard at the three gates of the town, Inness, but you’ll post no more than two men at each gate. We are behind schedule here and I’ll not have your men loafing about Les Andelys when there’s work to be done. I expect every man you can spare to report for labour detail come morning. Is that clear?”
“Aye, sir. Perfectly clear, but this near the border, should we not send out patrols?”
“Patrols? I hardly think that’s necessary. I expect no trouble from the French. They’re occupied in the north at present. No, Inness, your men will not spend their days romping about the countryside looking for Frenchmen. They will be wielding picks and shovels in the dry moat! Do you understand?”
“Completely, sir. Now that’s settled, I’ll see to my men.”
Roland turned to leave, but Mandeville wasn’t quite finished with him.
“Sir Roland, the King may have a soft spot for you and your company of cripples, but I do not. I will brook no mutiny here!”
Roland turned back and stared at the castellan.
“Then give us no cause,” he said.
Mandeville reddened once more.
“Why you insolent…you threaten me?”
Declan saw Roland’s hand move to the hilt of his short sword and clamped his own hand over his friend’s wrist. He looked at Mandeville.
“My lord, he meant no offense. It’s just that the King himself has ruled on the events at Gamaches and Sir Roland gets…unsettled when anyone questions the King’s judgement. I’m sure you didn’t intend to do that, did you?”
For a moment, the castellan stood speechless. He’d seen Roland’s hand move to his sword, but more tellingly, he’d seen the look in the young knight’s eyes. He bit back the insult he was about to hurl.
“Very well, then…see to your men,” he muttered and turned away.
***
“The man’s a fool!” Roland said as they mounted their horses and back down the hill toward Les Andelys.
“And a coward,” Declan put in, “and lucky for you he is.”
Roland turned to his friend.
“Lucky?”
“Aye, lucky. If the man wasn’t a coward he’d have drawn his own sword when you reached for yours. Then where would we be? I thought it was the Irish who were supposed to be hot heads, not the Danes.”
Roland gave his friend a sour look, but did not reply for a while as they made their way down the dusty switchback. As they neared the east gate he stopped and turned to Declan.
“You know, the Danes have tempers, too,” he said.
***
“No patrols?” asked Patch incredulously. “We can’t be far from the border here.”
“I’ve heard that Gisors is no more than twenty miles away with a garrison of six hundred men,” offered Sir John.
“Across the river there’s a French fortress called Gaillon that’s less than ten miles from here,” Patch add
ed. “That’s but a half day’s march!”
Roland shook his head.
“Mandeville may be right and the French may be occupied elsewhere, but we’d be fools to not watch the approaches. He wants every man we have on labour detail, but he does not know how many men we have. We’ll keep it that way. I want Jamie Finch to pick his best scouts and keep watch on the approaches from Gisors and this Gaillon. Our new man, the Norman…”
“Bertrand,” Patch reminded him.
“Yes, have Finch use Bertrand. He may know the countryside a bit.”
“Aye, my lord,” said Patch. “Four men should do it. I’ll have ‘em come and go after dark.”
“Good! Then that’s settled.”
“And if this Sir Robert learns of this?” asked Sir John. “I have no desire to be promoted again.”
“We must see that he doesn’t,” said Roland.
***
In the hour before dawn, Jamie Finch and Bertrand Dieupart rode out of Les Andelys, one on the road to Gisors and the other over the bridge and on to the river road that ran to Gaillon. Each was to find a concealed spot to watch for any movement by the French that might be a threat to Château Gaillard and Les Andelys. In the town square, the remainder of the Invalid Company formed up. From buildings near the square, workmen began to emerge. Some trudged up the long main street toward the switchback road that led to the castle while others straggled down toward the river where the bridge over the Seine was nearing completion.
Patch was given charge of gate security and twelve hour watches were set for the three entrances to Les Andelys. The remaining men followed Roland and Declan out the east gate and up the switchback road, following the skilled craftsmen on the winding route to the castle. They were met halfway up the steep slope by Alfred Blakemore.
Roland halted his men as the chief engineer approached.
“Sir Roland Inness and the Invalid Company, at your service, Master Blakemore,” he announced.
Blakemore stared at the men in the column and shook his head. There were men with wooden legs, hooks for hands, missing arms and a host of other disfigurements. Roland saw the look. It was one he’d seen many times before.
“Is there a problem, sir?” he asked mildly.
“I…well…I was going to assign them to deepen the dry moat up near the southern bastion, but…”
“These men took the wall at Gamaches, sir. I believe they can dig a ditch.”
The chief engineer looked embarrassed, but quickly recovered.
“Of course, Sir Roland, of course. I meant no disrespect. If you’ll follow me I’ll show you what dirt and stone needs to be removed.”
“Lead on Master Blakemore.”
The engineer led them up the slope to the bridge that spanned the dry moat and led to the main gate of the castle. On either side of the bridge, scattered along the bottom of the moat were shovels, picks and carts for hauling away earth and stone.
“I think we could use some deepening along here,” Blackmore said pointing to a section of the moat to the right of the bridge.
Roland needed no command as his men broke ranks and picked their way down to the bottom of the rocky ditch. Men with one good arm grasped picks and began chipping away at the limestone. Men with two good arms manned shovels. As one of the men struck up a Yorkshire drinking song, Roland and Declan shucked off their shirts and picked up shovels, scooping up dirt and broken rock in time with the bawdy verses.
“Fresh air and honest work!” Declan declared. “I’d hoped t’ put that all behind me by now.”
Roland just smiled and scooped up another shovelful of dirt.
Part 2: A Scourge Upon the Land
Tuck and the Sheriff
“Brother Tuck!”
Friar Tuck snapped opened his eyes. He’d found a sunny spot to take an afternoon nap, only to be jolted awake by young Osbert Miller. Miller was tall and pimply-faced and had appointed himself as something of an apprentice to the monk. While interested in heaven and hell and how to achieve one and avoid the other, the boy had shown no interest in entering any of the many abbeys in the vicinity, preferring to trail around after the mendicant friar like a stray cat.
Taking an apprentice monk was against all church custom and law, but so was much of Tuck’s approach to Christian virtue and Osbert had proven useful, so the monk had kept him on. The burly friar yawned and sat up.
“It’s the Sheriff!” Osbert exclaimed. “I just saw him down on the road. He’s all alone—not a soldier in sight. It’s most odd, Master Tuck. I think he’s looking for something.”
Tuck yawned again and climbed to his feet.
“Looking for something? What would he be looking for up in these hills?”
“Dunno, sir, it’s just what it looked like to me.”
Tuck scratched his head. Osbert might be young and a bit excitable, but he was no fool.
“Well, perhaps he’s looking for me,” he said. “Let’s go see.”
With that, he set off across the small meadow toward the road that lay a good quarter mile away in a narrow cleft in the hills. Osbert, all knees and elbows, hurried along in his wake. There was a fringe of trees by the road but they were thin enough for Tuck to see that it was, indeed, the Sheriff of Derbyshire. The man was on foot, leading his horse slowly along and casting his gaze from one side of the road to the other as he went. Either the man was fearful of ambush or he was, as Osbert suggested, looking for something or someone.
Tuck made his way through the fringe of trees and stepped out on the road to hail the lone man.
“Sir James, welcome to the high country!”
Sir James had been looking up the opposite slope and hadn’t seen the monk come out of the trees. The hail caused him to jump, and reach for the hilt of his sword, but he dropped his hand to his side at the sight of Tuck.
“Father Augustine,” he said. “You are not an easy man to find.”
“And yet you’ve found me,” Tuck said with a broad smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Sir James did not return the smile.
“Earl William took possession of Peveril Castle four days ago.”
That removed the smile from Tuck’s face.
“So soon?”
“You knew of his coming?”
Tuck nodded.
“Aye, Sir James. We heard a fortnight ago that he’d bought his way out exile, but thought it would take him some time to set his affairs in order in Brittany before he returned.”
The Sheriff shook his head, a chagrined look on his face.
“I knew nothing of this until the bastard rode into Castleton unannounced. How do you know these things?”
Tuck wagged a finger at the old knight.
“Now wouldn’t it be foolish of me to tell all our secrets to the Sheriff?”
Ferguson nodded.
“Fair point, but you needn’t worry. I’m Sheriff in name only these days. De Ferrers ordered me out of Derbyshire or he’d hunt me down like a dog. Those were his words.”
Tuck arched an eyebrow.
“And yet her ye be, in Derbyshire still. You seem in no hurry to leave, Lord Sheriff.”
Tuck saw Ferguson’s jaw stiffen.
“I served Earl Robert de Ferrers honourably for thirty years, but the son, William, is a rotten branch of that great tree. Derbyshire is my home and I will not leave it to that man’s tender mercies!”
The Sheriff paused and fixed Tuck with a look.
“You’ve known for a fortnight that de Ferrers was returning Father Augustine. You must know what this means for you and your flock. Yet here you are as well.”
Tuck gave a little sigh and spread his hands.
“I was born in Castleton you know. This is my home as well,” he said simply.
“De Ferrers has brought forty of the most evil-looking men I’ve ever seen with him from France,” the Sheriff said. “If you resist him, you’ll be killed or outlawed.”
“I’m not that easy to kill, Sir
James, and it would not be the first time I’ve been outlawed, though I’d guess it would be the first time for you!”
“Aye,” said the Sheriff, ruefully. “Perhaps you can show me how it’s done, Father.”
“My pleasure,” said the monk, “and you may call me Tuck.”
Blood and Money
Henry Catchpole sat placidly atop his horse, his pale blue eyes taking in the small farmstead. He’d almost ignored the place as he led his patrol south to begin collections around Bakewell, but the farm had the bad fortune to be near the road and he’d heard a pig squeal.
The place was small, no more than a quarter of a hide, but the man who farmed it proved inordinately proud of his humble steading and foolishly belligerent in the face of five armed men on the Earl’s business. He stubbornly refused to part with the fruits of any of his labour, claiming he’d paid a good sow in the spring and had nothing to spare.
It was the same everywhere. Catchpole had been leading these patrols for a week now and from Buxton in the west to Chesterfield in the east, the folk of Derbyshire had protested every shilling of tax collected.
But they’d paid. He’d seen to that!
Now two of de Ferrers’ local boys had the proud farmer’s arms pinioned behind his back. A few feet away his wife stood in the doorway of their wattle and daub house, a wailing infant on her hip, pleading for the men to release her husband. Catchpole wearily dismounted and motioned to the two men not grappling with the farmer.
“Take the shoats,” he ordered, pointing to the sty attached to the side of the house. The men scurried to obey, dragging three young pigs from the muck, their squeals now drowning out the woman’s pitiful pleas. As his men stuffed the young piglets into large bags and secured them to the pack mule, Catchpole drew a long dagger from his belt. The woman screamed at the sight of it, but the farmer just looked at the tall, pale man with the dead eyes and spat on the ground.
“Something to remember me by,” Catchpole said quietly as he used the tip of the blade to carve a deep furrow across the man’s cheek. The woman moaned, then fainted dead away.
