by Wayne Grant
As they emerged from the narrow cleft, Millicent saw the small market town of Castleton in the valley below. And looming over it was Peveril Castle, brooding and grey.
***
As they neared the outskirts of the village, the score of riders turned off the main road and followed a switchback trail that led to the top of a broad ridge. Here the track ran straight toward the outer bailey that guarded the west gate of Peveril.
Near the edge of town a young man wearing a bloody smock was dumping a barrow full of offal that even a butcher had no use for. Will Yardley, the butcher’s son watched the riders come down from the high pass and turn up the track to the castle. He counted heads as they rode by and was surprised to see a bound woman in their midst. Finishing his chore, he hurried back to his father’s shop and left the barrow and the smock in the back.
He hurried through the alleyways until he reached the edge of town. He knocked on a door and it opened a crack to reveal a man’s face peeking out. The door swung open and Will slid inside.
“What news?” the man asked, dispensing with pleasantries.
“Tell the Sheriff that the score of mercenaries that rode out two days ago are back. And they’ve brought a woman as prisoner with them.”
“A woman? What’s she look like?” the man asked.
The boy rubbed his chin.
“Young…pretty…weary.”
The man nodded.
“I’ll pass it on.”
The butcher’s son did not tarry at the house at the edge of town. The village was patrolled by de Ferrers’ mercenaries and any suspicious activity might lead to him being seized and taken up the hill. Two other men from the village had already gone up the hill to the castle. Neither had returned. Yet Will Yardley took the risk. For life in Castleton had grown intolerable since the Earl’s return from exile. People hereabouts had just begun to recover from the pillaging that had beset the region during Prince John’s rebellion when de Ferrers arrived and unleashed his hired brigands on the land, picking people’s purses, stable and larders clean. The fat pig he’d just butchered yesterday belonged to one of their neighbours but had been seized by these damned mercenaries from France. The ham and sausages would all end up on the Earl’s table while his neighbours went hungry.
It was the same everywhere in Derbyshire and people had to choose. Flee into the hills, bend their knee, or resist. Many who resisted were dead now, but like most young men, Will Yardley thought death could never touch him and so he chose to resist. His report, he knew, would work its way to wherever Sir James Ferguson was holed up.
In the months since de Ferrers’ return, his men had searched high and low for the banished Sheriff, but had not found him. All the while, Ferguson’s band of rebels had grown. They’d begun attacking the Earl’s patrols whenever they ranged far from Peveril castle, which had driven the Earl into a fury—or so it was whispered in Castleton.
As Yardley turned into the lane toward his father’s house, he saw two of de Ferrer’s foreign hirelings swaggering down the street toward him. As they came near, he gave them a cheery wave and they passed by without incident.
“Bastards,” the young man whispered under his breath.
***
The cords that bound Millicent’s hands were cut and Barca thrust a water skin into her hands. She turned it up and drank slowly, though she longed to guzzle the precious liquid down. When she at last brought it down from her lips, Barca took it back and Catchpole seized her arm.
“Let’s not keep the Earl waiting, my lady,” he said with a crooked grin that showed yellow teeth. “He’s right anxious to have you as a guest!”
Together, Barca and Catchpole led her from the small entrance parlour of the great hall of Peveril Castle and into a much larger room that was richly furnished. Inside, they released her arms, but did not leave the room. Minutes passed as the three stood there in silence. Millicent chafed her wrists where the cords had cut into them, trying to get the blood flowing again. Then a door on the opposite side of the room swung open and William de Ferrers stepped through it.
Millicent had only seen de Ferrers twice in her life. Their first meeting was at a ball given by Queen Eleanor in London. The young Earl had invited her to dance that night, but their conversation had turned frosty when he chose to bring up her father’s squire. He’d ignored her the remainder of the evening, much to her relief.
Their second encounter had been in London. He hadn’t seen her on that occasion, but she’d seen him. He’d been marched through the Newgate in shackles, on his way to the Tower, presumably to await his execution for treason. But the King had spared him that fate and now here he was, come back to England to trouble her life once more.
The Earl was dressed in fine clothes and moved with the confidence of a man who’d been given a new lease on life. He smiled at her as he approached and opened his arms, as though welcoming an honoured guest.
“Lady Millicent!” he exclaimed. “I’m so pleased you’ve come to pay me a visit!”
Millicent looked at him coldly.
“Are you reduced to kidnapping women for your company?” she asked.
“Would you have come if I’d sent a written invitation?” the Earl snapped, his smile gone.
“I do not respond to invitations from traitors or murderers, so, no, I would not have come. But I’m puzzled as to what you want with me. I know you fear my husband, but he’s in France.”
De Ferrers eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“So you haven’t heard?”
“You have news of him?” she asked, trying to conceal the fear in her voice.
A sly smile returned to de Ferrers’ lips.
“Indeed I do! It seems he’s been gravely wounded.”
Millicent’s breath caught in her throat and her heart seemed to skip a beat.
“But sadly, they say he’ll recover,” the Earl continued. “The King has proclaimed him a hero and has sent him home! I expect he should be arriving in Chester in a matter of days.”
Suddenly it all became clear to her.
“I’m to be bait,” she said incredulously.
De Ferrers shrugged.
“Crudely put, but true, my dear. You see, I gave this a lot of thought during my three years in exile. I’m sure your husband would prefer to stalk me at a time and place of his own choosing and kill me at a distance with that bow of his. But I’ve chosen to make him face me at a time and place of my choosing. Once he learns I have you, he will no doubt rush to your rescue. And I will be waiting for him.”
“He’ll kill you,” Millicent said.
“Oh, I doubt that, my lady. You’ve met some of my new followers,” he said, nodding toward Barca and Catchpole who were standing behind her. “They are killers one and all, the best money can buy, and your Sir Roland will have to get past them to get to me!”
Millicent turned and stared at Barca and Catchpole.
“This lot won’t stop him,” she said flatly.
“So full of bravado,” de Ferrers said with a nervous laugh. “We’ll see how brave you are when your husband is dead and you are still in my hands. You see, my lady, I’ve grievances against you as well.”
“You flatter me,” Millicent shot back.
De Ferrers stepped closer to her, his face flushed.
“It was you I believe who helped your Earl escape Chester when I had him in my hands! Had we executed Ranulf back then, things would have gone differently for me.”
Millicent looked at the man and shook her head.
“Yes, I helped the Earl escape and if you did not know, it was I who killed your creature, Father Malachy, as well!”
De Ferrers slapped her across the face, his eyes bulging in fury.
“You are going to regret the day you ever crossed paths with me,” he snarled.
Stung by the slap, Millicent lifted her gaze to the Earl.
“I regretted that at our first meeting.”
De Ferrers shoved her backwards into the arms
of Barca and Catchpole.
“Get her out of here!” he shrieked. “Get her out!”
***
They threw her roughly into a small room with a cot. It could have been a servant’s room, but the lock on the door marked it as a cell. There was one window high up on the wall and a narrow slit cut in the door itself that allowed a guard to keep an eye on anyone unfortunate enough to be locked up inside. Millicent sat down on the cot, then lay down on her side, exhausted from her ordeal. She wanted to sleep, but her mind was racing.
Roland was hurt. But he was coming home. She didn’t know quite what to make of that news. It was a comfort and a worry. She knew her husband well enough to know he would not rest as long as she was held here and that was what de Ferrers was hoping for.
She thought of Sir Edgar, dying to save her and her family. He was the second Master of the Sword to have died defending her. First, Alwyn Madawc and now Edgar Langton—both on the orders of William de Ferrers. She thought of Rolf and Lorea and young Finn. She trusted that they’d got clean away. The raiders had been too occupied with slaughtering Danesford’s defenders and capturing her to pay any mind to a few missing children. Finn was a resourceful lad and would see the others safely to Oren’s farmstead. Of that she was certain.
Oren.
What would Oren do? He was a skilled woodsman and could follow the tracks they’d left in his sleep. She had no doubt he’d be coming after her. Oren could be a hot head, but her husband’s younger brother was no fool. He’d not attempt to free her from this castle alone. He’d find where they’d taken her and get word to her father. And what of Roland? No matter how wounded he was, he would come for her. What might happen then her mind was too tired to conjure, but it filled her with hope and dread. Exhausted, she closed her eyes and slept.
Homecoming
Roland reined in The Grey as the road emerged from the patch of woods. Across the open fields covered in stubble from the fall harvest lay the walls of Chester. Declan reined in beside him.
“A fine sight,” he said quietly.
“Very fine,” Roland agreed and clucked to The Grey. The big horse pricked up its ears and headed for the east gate of the city like some farm horse heading to the barn at the end of the day. Behind them rode the remnants of the Invalid Company. They’d left Les Andelys with forty-four men, but had left three behind in London where surgeons could check wounds that had reopened or threatened to fester.
Roland twisted in the saddle to look back at the column of riders. That simple motion caused a quick stab of pain to lance through his chest, reminding him that the wound he’d taken at Château Gaillard was far from fully healed. The men behind him were hardly in better shape. It was a much different scene than the day they had ridden out of Chester. A few of these men had survived the assault on Gamaches and the bloody defence of Les Andelys with hardly a scratch, but even those men were in need of a respite. It was going to take a long time to rebuild the Invalid Company.
Roland swung back around to see the Eastgate being hastily shut and barred as they approached. He smiled. The garrison that was left behind with the departure of the Invalids had not grown careless in the interim. No doubt Sir Roger de Laval had seen to that! As he neared the gatehouse he reined in. Half the men on the wall recognized him and Sir Declan and orders were called down to open the gate.
It was just past noon when they rode through the gate and into the town. Roland ordered Blackthorne to settle the men in their old barracks and see to the horses. He and Declan rode on to Chester Castle. A boy in the livery of the Earl of Chester brandished a lance and stopped them at the gate. Unlike the men at the Eastgate, he had no recollection of these two dust-covered riders.
“State yer business!” he ordered officiously.
“Here to see the Constable,” Roland answered.
“And who might ye be?” the boy demanded.
“Sir Roland Inness and Sir Declan O’Duinne, lad.”
The guard may have only been recruited into the garrison the month before, but he recognized those names.
“Oh…then pass, my lords,” he stammered.
“Obliged,” Declan said as they walked their horses into the courtyard of the castle. An alert stable boy saw them and took the reins of their horses as they headed to the receiving hall of the castle.
The found Roger de Laval sitting alone, bent over a table and holding his bald head in his big hands. Lost in thought, Chester’s Constable did not hear them enter.
“My lord,” Roland said, as they crossed the hall toward their old master.
Sir Roger’s head shot up at the greeting and for a moment he seemed not to recognize the two young men he’d practically raised from boys. Then his eyes grew bright.
“Lads!” he shouted, as he leapt to his feet and came around the table. “By God, I knew France couldn’t kill ye!” He reached the two and threw an arm around each, pulling them to his chest. Roland winced a bit at the tight embrace, but did not fight it. The big Norman knight finally released his grasp and stepped back.
“France very nearly did kill us, my lord. And we lost over half of the Invalid Company, Tom Marston among them.”
“So many, and Patch? He was as fine a soldier as I’ve seen and tough as boot leather. Come, sit, tell me it all.”
He led them back to the table and they found stools. Declan began.
“It was bad, lord. The worst I’ve seen,” he said. “We went over the wall at Gamaches…”
His recounting of the campaign in France was cut short as a guard stepped into the room.
“There’s a boy here to see ye. lord. Says it’s important.”
Sir Roger frowned.
“Does he have a name?”
The guard tilted his head trying to recall.
“Finn, I think he said.”
Roland stood.
“Send him in,” he ordered.
Finn Mac Clure walked through the door and gaped at the sight of his master sitting with Sir Roger.
“Don’t just stand there, Master Mac Clure, spit it out!” Roland ordered.
***
“Danesford burnt?”
Sir Roger de Laval, Lord of Shipbrook and Constable of Chester, looked at the young Irish boy and did not try to hide his shock.
“Lady Millicent and the boy?” Roland asked urgently before the breathless squire could continue with his carefully rehearsed message.
“Master Oren says the raiders took Lady Millicent, my lord. Her body was not found among the dead. I got Master Rolf and Mistress Lorea safe away. They are with Master Kjeldsen and his family on their farmstead.”
Finn watched his master’s face as it warred between relief and cold fear.
“Master Oren says the men who attacked Danesford fled east. He said he will track them until he finds where they’ve taken Lady Millicent.”
“East, you say, Finn?”
“Aye, lord. That’s what Oren said.”
Roland looked at Sir Roger and Declan.
“You know who did this,” he said flatly.
Declan nodded.
“Aye, but why now? De Ferrers has been back in Derbyshire for months!”
Sir Roger shook his head.
“He’s waited for you to come home, Roland. This is a trap!”
Roland nodded.
“Aye, and it’s one he knows I will ride into. So let’s not keep the Earl waiting!”
Sir Roger called for the guard.
“Fetch Sir Anthony Belford immediately and have my horse saddled,” he ordered. The guard gave a quick bow and ran off to find the commander of the Chester garrison.
Declan touched Roland’s arm.
“Muster the Invalids?”
Roland shook his head.
“We can’t do that, Dec. You know they’re not fit and this isn’t their fight. If we must kill an Earl, I’ll not have it on their heads. I’ll send word to Sir John to take command and get them settled.”
As he spoke, Roland noticed
that Finn, having delivered his dreadful news, now stood pale and shaky in the middle of the large hall. He walked over and grasped the boy by his shoulders.
“Ye saved my sister and my son, Finn. I could ask no more of a squire. Are ye fit to ride with me back to Danesford?”
“Aye, lord,” the boy replied. “What will you do?”
“I’ll get my wife back,” he said simply.
***
The sun was low in the sky when the four riders splashed through the ford on the River Weaver, and urged their horses up the rise to where Danesford had stood. A still-smoking ruin was all that remained of the fort. Roland reined in and stared at the burnt timbers and the stone hearth, standing like a blackened gravestone in the middle of the debris. He dismounted and handed the reins of The Grey to Finn. A score or more Danish farmers had gathered near the gate, as though standing vigil over the ruins. One hurried up to the Roland as he approached. It was Odo Kjeldsen, his old neighbour from Kinder Scout, and there were tears in his eyes.
“Roland, oh lad, for you to come home from war to find this!” he sputtered. “The place was ablaze and the bastards that done it were gone by the time we got here. Oren’s gone after them.”
The old Dane stopped, overcome by the calamity.
“Lorea and Rolf?” Roland asked gently.
Odo used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe his eyes.
“Safe at my place,” he said, nodding toward Finn, “thanks to the Irish lad there.”
Roland nodded grimly.
“You have my thanks, Odo. I’d be obliged if you and your family would look after them until my business here is done.”
“My wife will see to it, Roland. I’ll be going with you when you hunt down the men who did this—and so will every Dane who can draw a bow,” he said, motioning toward the men who stood near the gate. “They’ve been arriving all day.”
