by Wayne Grant
You have to start somewhere, he thought.
“No, lass. I’ve come because my hut was burned two days ago by that bastard Earl of yours. I’ve come to pay the man back. Who might I see about that?”
The girl blanched and dropped the pitcher of ale, shattering it on the floor. She fell to her knees and began hurriedly picking up the broken shards. The disturbance did not go unnoticed. The three men at the far table were staring at him now. One by one they stood and buckled on their sword belts.
Robin sighed as he watched them come.
“You’d best move away, miss,” he said to the girl as the three men approached. Looking up from the scattered pieces of the pitcher, she saw them as well and scurried over to where the innkeeper stood. Robin rose slowly to his feet as the men crossed the room. The leader stopped and opened his mouth to speak, but Robin knew conversation with such men was pointless. In one quick motion, he grasped his heavy stool and swung it like a club, smashing it into the head of the lead man before he could say a word. A spatter of blood and bits of teeth struck the men behind. As their leader crumpled to the floor like a poleaxed cow, they stood frozen to the spot, shocked by the unexpected eruption of violence.
Robin did not wait for them to recover. He bolted for the door and jerked it open, stopping only for an instant to toss a coin to the startled innkeeper.
“For the ale, and the pitcher,” he shouted, then sprang out the door, running squarely into two men about to enter the inn. They cursed him in a foreign tongue and drew swords. He did not stop to make apologies, but ran for the warren of booths and stalls that filled the square. Behind him he heard a growing uproar as the men from the inn piled into the street. Soon more voices were raising the alarm and all seemed to converge on the market square.
It was as though he’d kicked a hornet’s nest.
He sprinted down a narrow passageway between the stalls making for the far side of the square and hoping to find his way back into the dark alleys of the town. He turned a corner and blundered into two more men with drawn swords. Unable to turn aside, he lowered his shoulder and ploughed into them. One seized the tail of his shirt, while the other swung wildly with his sword, almost striking his comrade in the head.
The tail of his shirt tore away as Robin bulled his way past the two and ran for his life. Recovering, the men gave chase, taking up the hue and cry as their quarry fled back toward the middle of the square. Robin turned a corner and dropped to his knees, crawling beneath a drapery that enclosed one of the merchant booths. He lay still and held his breath as his pursuers hurried past.
As their footsteps faded, he stood and parted the heavy wool cloth at one corner and peeked out. He counted seven men moving up and down the rows of booths and pens and knew there would soon be more. It was only a matter of time before they began carefully searching each stall and booth in turn. He scrambled to the opposite corner and peered out. Nothing was moving in that direction and he did not tarry.
Sliding beneath the side of the stall he scrambled to his feet and ran. Behind him he heard two men yell. He ran faster. From out of the darkness a pale hand reached out and grabbed at his sleeve, making his heart lurch. He jerked his arm away.
“Sir!” a voice called out urgently. “This way!”
It was the girl from the inn. She did not look to see if he followed, but set off running along a narrow space between stalls, nimbly hopping over ropes used to anchor the canopies over the stalls. Robin raced after her as she led him through the maze of market booths to the western edge of the square. She stopped and looked both ways, then darted into an alleyway.
He followed her into the darkness. The bright moonlight barely penetrated the cramped passages and he stayed close so as not to lose sight of her as she wove her way through the maze of buildings. In time, the noise from the square became fainter and at last, the girl stopped. They were both breathing hard, as much from their narrow escape as from the run.
“I’m most obliged to you, lass,” Robin managed between great gulps of air. The girl was bent over with her hands on her knees trying to settle her own breathing. She looked up and a ray of moonlight lit up her young face.
“You were kind to me, sir,” she said between deep breaths. “A serving girl doesn’t forget that. And the Earl is a bastard. If ye wish to pay him back, I know men who might help.”
Robin smiled though he doubted she could see his face clearly.
“What’s your name, lass?”
“Dora, sir,” she answered.
“Well, God bless you, Dora.”
***
Will Yardley guided him through backstreets to the edge of town then picked up a small trail that led up a hill and into a narrow ravine that was home to a swift-flowing stream. Young Dora had led Robin to the rear door of the village butcher, where the butcher’s son answered her whispered summons. Will was a strapping young lad who was growing into the shoulders common among men in the butcher’s trade. Robin saw the looks that passed between the serving girl and the boy in the silvery moonlight and a wave of sadness swept over him. In a better world, these two would be sneaking off in the night for a tryst instead of slinking through darkened alleys to avoid foreign killers.
Someday, God willing, he thought.
As they followed the ravine, the track clung to a narrow ledge between the steep walls and the stream’s bank. The butcher’s son stopped from time to time to listen, but no sound rose above the rushing of the stream. As they travelled further into the ravine, the boy stopped once more and made an odd noise with his mouth, something like a frog’s croak. A moment passed then the same call came out of the darkness from somewhere ahead.
A torch flared and the sudden light blinded Robin for a moment, but as his vision returned he saw that the ravine ended abruptly, with steep embankments on three sides. Ahead he saw that the stream emerged from a sizeable cavern in the side of the mountain. And there in front of the black hole in the wall stood Friar Tuck.
“Bless my soul,” the monk said with an amused grin. “It’s you!”
Part 3: The Honour of the Invalids
Plots
As the Bishop of Beauvais made his way down a long corridor within the new royal palace of the Louvre, he wondered if it was a good time to disturb his cousin, the King of France. Philip had been in a foul mood for weeks now and it was painful to deal with the monarch at such times.
It had all begun with their failure at Aumale. The town had surrendered to them as expected, but Richard and the English army had escaped the trap they’d laid there, sending the French king into a towering rage. This he took out on the local commander at Aumale, the Count of Dreux. The Bishop watched the poor man slink from the King’s tent after being positively blistered for his failure to somehow keep the English army from retreating out of harm’s way!
The Bishop was not exempt from censure when Philip was in one of these moods, even though he was a kinsman. But he had not risen to become the King’s spymaster and most trusted counsellor by being timid. When he reached the end of the long corridor he paused and taking a deep breath entered the chamber where Philip attended to the daily duties of governance.
He found the King sitting behind an ornate desk studying a set of maps. Behind him tall windows had been opened to catch the fresh breezes that swept into Paris in the autumn.
Philip’s head came up as the Bishop entered the room.
“What is it?” he snapped.
“Your grace, I have a report that will interest you.”
The King stopped shuffling the maps on his desk and turned his attention to his spymaster. When the Bishop of Beauvais said he had something of interest, he rarely disappointed.
“Has Richard’s wound festered?” he asked dryly.
The Bishop shook his head.
“No, sadly, I hear he’s made a full recovery, your grace.”
“Pity,” Phillip said without a trace of sarcasm. “So what do you have for me, cousin?”
The Bis
hop rubbed his hands together and began his prepared report.
“You recall the news we received a fortnight ago of a mutiny among the English at Gamaches?”
“Yes. It came to nothing, I believe. The town had already fallen.”
“True enough,” the Bishop agreed, “but I’ve learned the men who mutinied at Gamaches have been assigned to labour detail and garrison duty.”
Philip sighed. None of his other advisors had the subtlety of mind his cousin possessed and he valued the man’s counsel more than any other, but the churchman had a tendency to flaunt his cleverness at every opportunity. His spymaster loved to spin out his bits of information a little at a time, teasing and often exasperating the listener. This exercise in vanity irritated the King, but he let it go.
“I’m surprised they weren’t all hanged,” he said with a shrug. “So they are in disgrace and have been set to digging ditches and standing watch. What of it?” he asked mildly.
The Bishop grinned, delighted that the King was allowing him to have his fun.
“These mutineers, your grace, these unreliable men, are standing watch over Château Gaillard,” he said, with all the satisfaction of a man who had just won a game.
***
Through the darkened alleyways of Paris, René de Sancerre hurried toward the banks of the River Seine. The hour was late, well past midnight, and the sound of his boot heels echoing in the deserted lane put him on edge. He ducked into the shadows of a doorway and looked back the way he had come. Somewhere nearby he heard two cats snarling and hissing at each other, but otherwise saw and heard nothing to cause him alarm. As he slid out of the shadows, the cats started up again.
Fighting or mating, he thought, as he resumed his journey.
As the third son of the powerful Count William de Sancerre, René had been bound for the priesthood, but his frequent debaucheries and expensive tastes had convinced his father that the boy was ill-suited for the clergy. So the Count had arranged for his wayward son to join the many courtiers at Philip’s grand new palace in Paris.
Keeping watch on the royal court was a matter of great concern to the Count. His hilltop fortress at Sancerre was four day’s ride south of Paris, but only a day’s ride from the border of Aquitaine. When one dwelled so near to the front line during a time of war, one had to stay well-informed! At the Louvre, René could serve as his father’s eyes and ears when the Count himself was not at court. It was a useful arrangement.
To be a courtier required little more than noble birth and some degree of charm and the Count’s youngest son had proven himself ideally suited for the role. He was handsome and well-spoken and soon ingratiated himself with Agnes, Philip’s new Queen, and her ladies-in-waiting. And while René complained endlessly about a shortage of funds, his father was more than satisfied with the steady stream of court gossip his son provided.
But unknown to the Count, René was supplying another patron with news from Philip’s court. Within a month of arriving in Paris the young courtier had been approached by a man in the street with an offer of enough silver to make his life in the French capital much more comfortable, if he were willing to keep the man informed of affairs at court.
The money had been tempting and bore little new risk as he was already spying on the King and his court for his father. But it was not the silver that made him accept. It was the chance to do something, anything, that was not controlled by his father. That chance made the offer one he could not refuse.
If René de Sancerre wondered where the money was coming from, he did not seek to discover its source. As he quickly came to learn, there were always intrigues afoot at court and there were many, beyond his father, who might want to know which way the wind was blowing in Paris. Other French barons kept watch nervously on the growing power of their own King, while ambassadors from all the European powers drifted through the marbled halls of the Louvre, all seeking to know the King’s mind. The man who paid him could be working for any of them, or even for the King of England for all he knew. To the young courtier, it didn’t matter.
Tonight would be his sixth meeting with the man who listened to his secrets and paid him the silver. In their first few meetings he had little information to pass on, but the agent had been patient and encouraging. Then René had been lucky enough to charm his way into the bed of a Madame de Mornay, widely known to be the long-time mistress of the Bishop of Beauvais. Luckier still, the lady had been the talkative sort. Not long after they began their liaison, she’d given him something of real value he could deliver to his paymaster. It was news of a secret French plan that could swing the war in Philip’s favour.
Madame de Mornay knew only that the French planned to strike sometime around All Saints Day and were to seize a place they deemed to be of great value. She’d paid no attention to where the attack would come. This news had finally impressed the agent, who’d urged René to learn more and promised him a substantial bonus if he could fix the place of the attack.
It had taken flattery and a bit of pouting to convince the Bishop’s mistress to seek out the information he needed and now as he neared the river, de Sancerre was eager to see the look on the agent’s face when he told the man where Philip planned to strike. It was news worth all of the silver he’d been paid and more.
The little shack that sat next to a rotting pier looked as it always did at this hour, but he approached it cautiously. He looked back over his shoulder at the dark outlines of the warehouses that lined the quay along this stretch of the Seine. Nothing moved there. Without knocking, he opened the door and stepped inside.
The moment he entered, he knew it was wrong. He lurched back toward the door but strong hands seized his arms and wrenched them behind his back. He started to cry out, but a man grabbed his hair, yanking his head back and forcing open his mouth. A foul smelling rag was forced between his teeth, gagging him. The man who held his hair in his hand leaned in close to René’s ear and whispered to him.
“Ye can’t fool the Bishop, pretty boy.”
***
Two miles downstream of the shack, Arnaud Villabeau leapt over the side of a rowboat and dragged the small craft up the bank. Having secured the boat, he bent over to catch his breath. It had been a narrow escape and only his long habit of caution had saved him. Still, he cursed himself for not having seen the danger coming.
I’m getting too old for this game, he thought, as he made his way from the riverbank to a copse of trees where he’d hidden his horse. In four previous meetings, young René de Sancerre had provided little more than the usual court gossip, but on their fifth rendezvous, the spy had said he was on to something big, a French plan to upend the stalemate that had locked them in an endless war with the English. Tonight he was to learn where Philip planned to strike. He’d brought along an extra purse full of silver should the young Frenchman’s information prove valuable.
The shack by the river had been a good meeting place, but he should have changed the location after five meetings. He hadn’t, but when the day arrived for this sixth rendezvous, some instinct convinced him to come hours early to keep watch on the meeting place from a dockside tavern.
A little before midnight, he’d seen three men walk slowly past the little shack and knew, even then, that his spy had been compromised. Villabeau considered intercepting young de Sancerre in route to the meeting, but knew the young nobleman would be followed, and he was not willing to risk his own neck for a spy who had already been unmasked.
So he’d simply walked away. He’d gone to the dock a hundred yards down the riverbank where his rowboat was tied up and slipped into the channel of the Seine. There was a bright half-moon that shone off the dark water as he rowed past the looming bulk of the half-finished cathedral of Notre Dame on his left. He passed beneath the two bridges linking the Ile de Cite to the right bank of the Seine and on downstream past Philip’s new fortress of the Louvre on the right bank. Reaching the bend in the river where the channel turned to the southwest, he pulled in to
shore.
Nothing to be done now, he thought as he clucked to his horse and started on the road south from Paris. They would torture the poor boy, but de Sancerre had been remarkably uncurious about where his silver came from, so there was nothing damaging he could tell his inquisitors. But what Arnaud Villabeau had learned was enough to send him riding south to carry word of a this French plot to his master who was no French baron, nor European ambassador. Nor was it the King of England.
It was the Queen of England.
***
Eleanor of Aquitaine clenched her teeth as the two novitiates helped her rise from her couch. The pain was bad today. She still had days when it wasn’t so, when she could get up on her own damned feet and take a brisk walk, but not today when every joint of her aging body ached. She looked at the two girls who hovered around her and wondered if she had ever been that young. She might envy them their youth, but after seventy-four summers, she took a grudging pride in having outlived two husbands and countless enemies.
But as old enemies died and faded into memory, new ones always seemed to emerge and that had kept her from giving in entirely to the ravages of old age. Once Richard had been ransomed back from the Holy Roman Emperor, she had retired to the Abbey at Fontevraud near the valley of the Loire. It was a peaceful refuge when she needed one, but carefully chosen.
The abbey lay near the borders of Poitou, Anjou and Touraine and she had settled there, like an old spider at the centre of her web, taking in news from across the Angevins’ continental domains and beyond.
Her old friend and spymaster, Walter of Coutances, had given up the reins of Justiciar, returning to his post as Archbishop of Rouen and while his successor, Archbishop Hubert Walter, was a brilliant administrator, she had not yet decided if he was the right man to manage her agents in England. Time would only tell and, in the meantime, she had intrigue enough in France to keep her occupied.
That meant leaving the peace of Fontevraud from time-to-time and moving nearer the source of information. For three nights now she had resided in the Abbey of Saint Taurinus at Evreux. The abbey was a pleasant enough place and she’d been fussed over by the Abbess, but she had not come here for the hospitality.
