by Wayne Grant
He walked from grave to grave, solemnly calling out each man’s name in turn and tossing a handful of dirt into the shallow hole where the body lay. He hesitated beside Tom Marston’s grave, then spoke his name.
“Patch,” he intoned.
And strong men wept.
***
As evening fell on the second day after the battle, Roland received a summons from Earl Ranulf. He found the Earl in rather spartan quarters inside the keep of the fortress and was surprised to find Earl William Marshall with him.
“My lords,” he said, and gave a small bow. “You sent for me?”
“Aye, Sir Roland,” Ranulf replied, nodding toward a chair. “Sit yourself down.”
Roland sat.
The two noblemen looked at him, worry in their eyes. Roland knew he looked pale and felt unsteady, but was embarrassed that his appearance should cause these great men concern. The two glanced at each other as though uncertain who should speak first. Finally, Ranulf cleared his throat.
“The King is ordering the Invalid Company back to England,” he said bluntly. “You will command them, Sir Roland. In three days you are to gather all of the men who can sit a horse and ride to Harfleur where you will take ship for Dover. From there, I think you know the way to Chester.”
Roland rose to his feet, his face reddening.
“The King— is he displeased with the fight we made here?”
Ranulf waved a hand in protest.
“No, no! Quite the opposite, Sir Roland.”
“Then why this order?” Roland demanded. “Why ship us back to England?”
“You wish to stay here?” Earl Marshall asked pointedly.
The question brought Roland up short.
“No, my lord,” he answered honestly, “I do not, but I fear the men might take this as a stain on their honour.”
Ranulf shook his head.
“From your own reports, Sir Roland, the Invalid Company has sustained over seventy men dead or wounded since arriving in France. I think that makes their honour secure in any man’s eyes. Now the King does not give a fig for your honour or that of the Invalids, but he does value what you can do in a fight. So he wishes you to take the Company home and rebuild its strength. He feels it might be needed in England.”
Roland frowned at that.
“England, my lord?”
Earl Marshall stood up.
“Aye, Sir Roland. The King has heard that the Welsh are restless and might make trouble in the Marches and beyond. You and your men know the Welsh and Richard feels you can counter any threat they might pose along the border.”
“The Welsh?” Roland asked, incredulous. “Llywelyn is no threat! He’s still trying to put down uprisings from supporters of his uncle. Where did such a report come from?”
Ranulf glanced over at Marshall.
“I must confess, this news came from Earl Marshall and myself,” Ranulf said a little sheepishly, “though you are correct, there is no threat from Wales.”
“You lied to the King?”
Marshall nodded.
“Yes, we did,” he admitted, “but it was done out of loyalty to the man and concern for his throne. When Earl Ranulf and I look around this army, we see the truly loyal barons are all here in France, while most who sided with John have remained at home. We expect no outright rebellion against the King, but there is a great deal of trouble those barons can cause, particularly for loyal men who have answered the King’s call and left our lands to come to France. So you and your Invalids will be sent home to watch the Welsh while you heal and rebuild, but will also be our insurance, should the barons in England get up to mischief.”
Roland shook his head. He’d never had much interest in the dark currents of politics that swirled around the court and the high nobles of the land, though he’d more than once been swept up in them. But if the currents that had swept him off to France were now taking him back home to England, he would protest no further.
“Very well, my lords. I will prepare the men.”
“There’s one more thing you should know, Sir Roland,” Ranulf said. “Our old enemy and yours, Earl de Ferrers, has bought the favour of the King and was released to return to Derbyshire six weeks ago. Keep a close watch on him.”
De Ferrers back in England!
His return home suddenly took on a new urgency. Now he must decide if he would do more than simply keep watch on the Earl of Derby.
He must decide if he would kill the man.
***
The sun had not yet risen above the bulk of Château Gaillard when the Invalid Company mustered in the square of Les Andelys. The mild autumn weather that had hung over the valley of the Seine for weeks had been banished by a frigid wind from the north, bringing with it a hint of winter. Only the faint smell of burnt wood remained to remind the men in the square of the desperate fight they’d made here.
One hundred twenty men had ridden out of Chester in September and forty-four now stood beside their horses in the square. Had the leeches had their way, that number would have been considerably lower, but any man among the wounded who could drag himself off his cot and not faint, had made it to the roll call. Some swayed as they stood by their mounts, but they answered when their names were called.
Among them was Seamus Murdo. There had been a mighty row at the far end of the barracks that morning when Murdo sat up and demanded his clothes. John Clement, the King’s surgeon had been summoned and ordered the big Scot to get back in bed, only to be ignored. He went in search of more level-heads and found Roland and Declan conferring with Brother Cyril outside the door of the barracks.
“Your damned Scotsman is going to kill himself,” Clement announced without preamble.
Roland looked past the man and saw Murdo gingerly pulling a shirt on over his head.
“You said he’d die a week ago,” Cyril pointed out.
“Aye, and it looked like he would, but the man is as strong as an ox! If it doesn’t fester, mayhaps he will live, but the wound is deep.”
By now, Murdo was standing and hauling up his breeches.
“How soon can he travel?” Declan asked, watching as Murdo began to gather up his kit.
“A week at the earliest,” said the man sceptically. “If that wound opens up or goes to rot, it will kill him.”
“Pardon,” Murdo said as he brushed past the group at the barracks door and walked toward the square.
“Are you going to order him back to bed?” Declan asked.
“I don’t think I dare,” said Roland, as the big Scotsman turned the corner and was lost from sight.
Clement snorted and turned back into the barracks. There were thirty-seven Invalids there whose wounds were too grave to allow them to ride. He’d do what he could for them. If the damned giant wanted to kill himself, then so be it.
***
As Sergeant Billy completed the roll call, a trumpet sounded from the ramparts of Château Gaillard and a party of horseman swept down the long winding road and into the town. The King led the party, which included Sir Baldwin, Earl Marshall and Earl Ranulf. They reined in at the edge of the square. All dismounted save the King who sat atop his black warhorse and simply looked at the men for a long moment. Finally he spoke.
“Cyrus the Great had his Immortals,” he began quietly, “Alexander, his Silver Shields, and the Emperor of Byzantium has his Varangian Guard. But Richard of England,” he said, his voice rising to a roar, “has the Invalid Company!”
As his words still echoed in the square, the King reached into his tunic and pulled out a folded piece of cloth that he shook out and raised above his head. It was the wolf’s head banner of the Invalids. He leaned down and handed the flag to Sergeant Billy who affixed it to a staff and held it over head. The remnants of the Invalid Company cheered until they were hoarse.
Declan leaned over to Roland.
“The man knows how to arrange a send-off,” he whispered.
“That he does,” Roland agreed, as he step
ped into his stirrups and swung gingerly up on The Grey. His wound was still bandaged and he could feel the tug on the scar tissue beneath the linen whenever he moved. He signalled to Jamie Finch, who’d come through the campaign in France without a scratch, to lead them out of Les Andelys and turned back to Declan.
“Let’s go home, Dec.”
Part 4: Return of the Bowman
Danesford
The rider arrived as the first snow of the season began to fall at Peveril Castle. Despite the cold, the horse was lathered from hard riding. The rider dismounted in the castle bailey and was directed toward the great hall where William de Ferrers received his visitors.
“A messenger from France, my lord,” Gilbert announced.
De Ferrers dropped the roll of fabric he’d been examining and motioned the new arrival to him. The man handed him a piece of neatly folded velum sealed with wax. De Ferrers hurriedly broke the seal and read the message from his spy in King Richard’s camp. His face went white and he laid the scrap of paper down.
Roland Inness was coming home.
***
Savaric Barca gave a low whistle. Above his head, branches rustled as a man picked his way down from the top of a tall beech. The tree was at the edge of a wood line a half mile from a log palisade sitting on a small rise overlooking a river beyond. Barca had sent the man up there an hour before sunset to study the fort, looking for a weakness.
“Report,” Barca ordered as the man dropped to the ground.
“The place is well guarded, Captain,” the man said, still breathing hard from the climb. “There’s a lookout in a tower near the gate and at least two men patrolling the wall walk. The gate was open until the sun went down. It’s shut up tight now. There’s a timber house and a few small buildings inside the walls.”
“Anything else?”
“Aye, captain. I saw a woman with a small child and a girl tending a garden outside the walls.”
“De Ferrers said Inness had a wife. Maybe the children are his as well.”
“They went back inside as the light began to fade,” the lookout added.
Barca nodded and signalled for Catchpole to come forward. The tall Englishman had seemed bored with this reconnaissance, leaning on a sapling sharpening a knife while the lookout scaled the beech, but shambled over at Barca’s summons.
“When it’s full dark, Catchpole, we need that gate opened. Can you manage it?”
Catchpole looked across the open ground toward the little fort and smirked.
“It ain’t the citadel at Gisors,” he said. “Should be easy work, Captain.”
***
Midnight was an hour away when the guards on duty at Danesford saw two figures coming slowly up the road. One seemed to be limping badly and leaned on the other as they entered the circle of torch light near the gate.
“Hello the fort!” the taller of the two called as he half carried and half dragged his companion forward. “This fellow’s horse threw him a mile north of here. I reckon his leg is broke. Can anyone inside set a bone?” Next to him the injured man let out a loud moan.
John Berrycloth, a local boy who had taken service with the small garrison at Danesford only a month before heard the plea and turned to Gunnar Delgaard, another new man who’d drawn the first watch with Berrycloth.
“What should we do?” he asked.
“Dunno,” Gunnar replied. “Don’t think we’re supposed to open the gate after dark.”
“But it’s just the two and the one has a broke leg.”
Gunnar considered that for a moment, then shrugged.
“I’ll go fetch Sir Edgar. You open the gate.”
***
Sir Edgar Langton, Danesford Master of the Sword, heard the hinges on the gate groan before Gunnar reached him. He leapt to his feet and grabbed his battleaxe, almost bowling over the young Dane in the doorway.
“Why is the gate open?” he roared at the startled young guard.
“My lord,” Gunnar sputtered. “It’s but two men and one was throwed from his horse and has a broke leg.”
But Langton had not waited for Gunnar’s reply. He was rushing toward the gate in the odd half-run, half-hop he used when hurrying, the effects of a wound at Acre to his left leg. Across the small bailey, he saw a tall man grab young Berrycloth and slit the boy’s throat. A second man was pulling the gate wide open. In the near distance, Sir Edgar heard the thunder of hoofs and knew that Danesford was about to fall.
He grabbed Gunnar by the arm.
“Get to Lady Millicent! Get her and the children out of here—under the back wall—now!”
Seeing the disaster looming at the gate, Gunnar did not hesitate. He raced for the hall where the mistress of Danesford had her quarters. In the tower that stood beside the gate, the guard saw Berrycloth fall and heard the horsemen coming. As a boy, the tower guard had been part of the Dane’s flight from the high country of Derbyshire, with de Ferrers cavalry in hot pursuit. He knew the danger these mounted men posed and nocked an arrow.
Sir Edgar saw one of the intruders at the gate go down with an clothyard shaft in his neck and prayed he could dispatch the other man in time to secure the gate, but it was a prayer unanswered. Out of the gloom a score of horsemen loomed, all armed to the teeth and driving their mounts toward the open gate. Behind him Sir Edgar heard some of his own men stumbling out into the bailey.
Too damned late, he thought and prepared to meet the first rider through the gate.
***
Savaric Barca had waited with his mounted men in the dark and watched Catchpole talk his way into Danesford. As soon as he saw the gate swinging open, the mercenary captain knew the die was cast. He dug his spurs into the flanks of his mount and charged the opening. He’d had no doubt he could take this primitive little fort, but had not thought it would be this easy.
***
Lady Millicent stood at the top of the steps that led from the great hall up to the sleeping quarters. She’d heard the commotion in the bailey and knew there was trouble. Gunnar’s breathless appearance in the hall below confirmed it.
“My lady,” he shouted. “Armed riders—they’re through the gate!”
“Bar the front door, Gunnar,” she ordered, trying to keep her voice steady, “and fetch Finn.”
“Aye, my lady,” he answered and dashed to lower the bar across the door.
Millicent turned back and opened the door to Lorea’s room. Roland’s sister had come to live with them when she was but six years old and at ten was already growing tall and willowy. The girl was not yet sleeping. She sat cross-legged on the floor, playing with small stick figures Finn had crafted. She looked up anxiously as her sister-in-law burst through the door.
“Lorea, bad men are inside the fort. We must go.”
The girl, who’d been orphaned at three, was no stranger to the threat from bad men and wordlessly leapt to her feet, grabbing a cloak and a pair of leather slippers.
“Gunnar and Finn will be in the hall,” Millicent told the girl. “Wait for me there. I’ll fetch Rolf.”
Millicent did not wait to see what the girl did. She ran back into her bedchamber and scooped up the sleeping Rolf, who groaned in protest.
“Stay quiet, little man,” she whispered.
From his mother’s voice, the boy sensed the danger and quieted. As Millicent moved to the door, she leaned down and grasped the handle of a short sword kept there for times such as this. Clutching the two year old to her side, she ran down the steps to where Gunnar had gathered Finn and Lorea. She tumbled Rolf into Lorea’s arms then spoke to the small group.
“We’ve practiced this,” she said calmly. “You go out the bolt hole in the back wall.”
“I should stay and fight them!” Finn declared, waving his own short sword.
“You will not,” Lady Millicent ordered. “I hold you responsible for these two, Finn,” she said, nodding toward Lorea and Rolf. Get them to Oren’s place and for God’s sake don’t get caught.”
This duty seemed to satisfy the Irish boy who nodded his agreement.
“Now, off with you,” Millicent said and the three headed for the rear entrance of the hall.
As they disappeared toward the kitchen, Gunnar summoned up his courage and spoke.
“It’s my fault, my lady. I had John open the gate. It’s all my fault.”
Millicent nodded.
“We’ll sort all that later, Gunnar,” she said firmly as she headed for the barred front door of the hall. “For now, let’s see if this can be salvaged.”
“My lady, you should go,” Gunnar pleaded. “Please go.”
Millicent gave the boy a dark look.
“Do you hear that, boy?” she asked pointing toward the sound of battle in the courtyard. “Someone is still fighting out there. I’ll not leave while my men are still trying to defend my home.”
She turned on her heel and headed for the main entrance of the hall. Gunnar groaned, but followed close behind her.
***
Sir Edgar cursed when he saw the mass of horsemen charge through the open gate. This failure was on him. Somehow he’d not drilled it into his lads that the gate was all that separated them from a world of bloody violence. Now that violence had found its way into the peaceful little world of Danesford and there would be hell to pay. He shot a quick glance over his shoulder and saw that three of his men had managed to form up behind him, but knew it was too little to stem this tide. Now the best that could be done was to buy time for Lady Millicent.
He ducked a rider’s spearpoint and his axe took the front legs from the man’s mount. The rider pitched forward as the horse collapsed, landing hard behind Sir Edgar. There was a short scream as one of the Danesford guards dispatched the intruder with a knife to the throat. Meeting unexpected resistance, the intruders, still mounted, fanned out and circled the small group of defenders.
From the watch tower, another arrow struck a man in the arm and Barca motioned to two of his riders with crossbows. They dismounted and began to pepper the tower with bolts whenever the guard showed his face. Seeing the riders distracted by the archer in the tower, Sir Edgar lunged at the ring of horsemen, causing one man’s mount to rear. Thrown backwards onto the packed earth of the courtyard, the man struggled to his feet, only to lurch forward, a spear in his back.
