by Wayne Grant
“Kill an Earl?” Sir James Ferguson countered. “I’ll grant you he deserves to die for what he’s done to you and to the folk of Derbyshire, but would that not bring down the wrath of the nobility and that of the King himself on any who had a hand in it? Are you all ready to face the axe?”
“Even if we escaped the axe, or the noose, we’d be outlawed,” Tuck added. “I think you might take to that life, Rob, and I practically live like an outlaw now, but what of men who have families?” He turned to Roland. “What of you, Roland?”
Roland had been sitting quietly listening to the debate. He looked around the small gathering.
“We kill him,” he said quietly. “For Millie’s sake and for the sake of my son, I was prepared to forgo my blood oath and put aside vengeance for my father’s death. But an executioner’s axe or outlawry is hardly worse than what William de Ferrers has done and intends to do to me and my family. I say we get Millie back, then we kill him.”
Roland looked around the circle at each man in turn, their faces illuminated by the candlelight.
“The bastard killed Sir Alwyn!” growled Declan. “The Irish never forget. I say we kill him.”
Roland turned to Sir Robin.
“They’ll have to catch me to lift my head and I don’t think they’d find me in Sherwood,” said Sir Robin. “I’ll not say nay!”
“Nor I,” said Tuck. “It will be but one more sin I’ll have to answer for when I meet the Lord.”
Roland turned to Oren, the youngest man there. His brother nodded slowly. “For father,” he said, his voice gone husky.
Finally he turned to the Sheriff. Sir James rubbed his chin, then nodded his agreement.
“I’m an old man. My neck’s not worth so much and the folk of Derbyshire will never know peace as long as that man lives. But how do we do it? He has forty men up there in his garrison and more than three dozen armoured horsemen. That’s twice what he needs to defend Peveril.”
“And those horsemen are always a threat,” added Sir Roger. “They can sally out to strike at us with no warning.”
Roland had been thinking on that since seeing the smoking ruins of Danesford.
“Aye, no matter what plan we devise to get to Millie and de Ferrers, we will need freedom of movement here in the valley and that won’t be possible as long as these routiers are a threat. They must be dealt with first. We can’t face them on open ground, so we must lure them into a trap where our bowmen have the advantage.”
“They only sortie from the fort a half dozen at a time,” Robin said. “If we’re to lay a trap it needs to be for the lot of them.”
Roland nodded.
“Aye, this can’t be done a bit at a time, but I know one thing that should bring them out of the fort in force. De Ferrers expects me to come for my wife and in the morning, I’ll oblige him. Once I present myself at the gate of Peveril, I’ve no doubt he’ll send more than a small patrol out after me. When he does, I’ll lead them into our trap.”
“And where do your propose we set this trap, Sir Roland?” asked the Sheriff. “This valley is mostly open farmland and bare heath. Not good ground for men on foot against mounted men.”
“Aye, I know the valley well, but there is one place that will serve.”
“Where is that?’ the Sheriff asked, genuinely curious.
“Castleton,” Roland answered.
***
William de Ferrers picked at the sausages on his plate. The breakfast was good, but his appetite was poor. It had been three days since the raid on Danesford. Word of the attack on the fort would have reached Chester two days ago. If the Invalid Company had arrived there as expected, then Roland Inness would know by now that his miserable little fort had been burnt and his wife taken off. And he’d know who’d ordered it done.
Then he would come. Whether he’d beg for his wife’s release or try some heroics to free her he couldn’t guess, but either way, Roland Inness would never leave Derbyshire alive. It was only a matter of time now, but the waiting made him anxious.
As usual, he dined alone. While he valued the men he’d brought with him from France, he felt uncomfortable being in close quarters with them. They had the smell of death about them and though that suited his purposes, it was not something he chose to have at his feast table.
He speared a sausage with his knife, raised it to his nose and sniffed. He caught a whiff of parsley and took a tentative bite, chewing slowly. His mind was drifting back to a young French woman he’d bedded in Brittany when a page burst into the great hall.
“My lord, Captain Barca sends word that there’s a man outside the west gate. Says his name is Inness and he wants to talk to you.”
De Ferrers dropped the sausage on his plate and leapt to his feet. He grabbed his sword belt and strode to the entrance of the hall, trying not to appear in a rush. He crossed the drawbridge to the outer bailey and climbed to the wall walk where he was met by Barca and Catchpole. Barca didn’t speak. He just pointed off to the west where a lone rider sat just outside of crossbow range atop a big grey gelding.
De Ferrers turned to Barca.
“Gather your men, Captain—all of them. I want that man brought to me, alive or dead!” Barca nodded and hurried down the steps to the barracks in the outer bailey to roust his men. De Ferrers looked back over the parapet. The horseman was still there. He’d feared Inness might disappear like some apparition before his men could ride out after him. He mustn’t let that happen!
“Inness!” he called out. “Come for your wife?”
“Aye, de Ferrers,” the answer came back. “Send her out. If she’s unharmed, the matter will be forgotten.”
“Send her out? Why would I do that?” de Ferrers shouted back. “If you want to see her alive, then come inside the bailey and we can talk.”
“I think not,” Roland shot back. “Your reputation precedes you, de Ferrers. Your word is shit. You’d kill me the moment I stepped through the gate! But if you want to discuss terms, here are mine. Give her up now or die!”
“Bold talk for a man alone—or did you bring some companions?”
“I’ve brought Sir Roger de Laval, Constable of Chester, with me.”
“Ah…the gallant husband and his redoubtable father-in-law, come to the rescue!” de Ferrers called back. He glanced over his shoulders and saw his mercenaries mounting in the small courtyard of the outer bailey. Just a little longer and they’d burst out of the gate and ride down this bastard of a Dane who’d been a thorn in his side for seven years.
Below him, de Ferrers heard the great oak gate begin to swing open. He whirled around to see if the fool had realized the danger he was in. Inness hadn’t fled. Instead he’d nocked an arrow, drawn his longbow and loosed the shaft in his direction. De Ferrers flung himself down behind the parapet as the arrow buzzed by just over his head and buried itself in a wooden beam behind him. Below he heard thirty riders erupt out of the gate.
As his routiers thundered by beneath him, de Ferrers did not move, did not lift his head to look over the wall. He huddled behind the stone, staring at the arrow buried in the oak beam, his heart hammering in his chest.
***
In the tiny locked room in the great hall, Millicent heard the sound of the horses as they thundered out of the west gate. The young guard she’d spoken to the day before had come back on duty and had just cracked the door to hand her a bowl of thin gruel when the noise reached them.
“What’s happening?” Millicent asked desperately.
The boyish guard looked up and down the hall to be sure no one was about, then leaned in close.
“They said it was your husband, miss,” he whispered. “I was comin’ from the cooks with yer breakfast when I seen him ride up on a big grey horse.”
“What happened when he rode up?” she asked, trying not to show her impatience.
“That I don’t rightly know, miss. I had to bring you yer food ‘fore it got cold.”
Millicent couldn’t decide if she
wanted to hug the boy or grab him by the shoulders and shake him. But she knew things were coming to a head outside her little cell and she needed to get free of it.
“You know my husband is a great warrior,” she said.
“Aye, I heard that, miss.”
“He’s come to kill the Earl and he’ll do it. And when he does, what do you think will become of the Earl’s men who’ve held me captive?”
The boy squirmed.
“Don’t know,” he muttered.
“I think you do,” said Millicent, “but if you were to help me…”
The young guard stiffened at that. He stepped back and gently closed the door. Millicent heard the key turn in the lock.
***
The horses Barca and his troop brought from France were fine animals, heavily-muscled and swift, but they could not match the speed of The Grey. At a quick signal from its master, the big gelding wheeled around and lunged back down the trail, reaching a full gallop in a few strides. When the horse reached the main road that ran from east to west through the valley, Roland swung its head toward Castleton only a half mile away. By the time Barca’s troop reached the road, there was nothing but dust to be seen hanging in the air on the outskirts of the town.
***
Recovering from his panic, William de Ferrers ran from the outer bailey to the top of Peveril’s keep to watch as his routiers chased Roland Inness into Castleton. Strangely, the big horse and its rider did not emerge on the far side of the village. Castleton was a small town with few places to hide and it made no sense for the man to turn and face his pursuers. As he watched his men disappear into the town, de Ferrers felt a seed of doubt began to grow in his mind like a weed.
What was Inness up to?
***
Savaric Barca whipped his mount and his men did the same as they thundered into the village. It was a market Sunday and as always the small town square was filled with booths and stalls. After mass was said, these would be crowded with butchers, smiths, horse traders and every other sort of tradesmen ready to make a coin from any who had a need to fill or business to conduct.
As the mercenaries reached the square, Barca raised his arm to halt their headlong gallop. He could see that the road that ran out of town to the east was empty, which meant the rider had gone to ground somewhere in the village. He swung out of the saddle and his men dismounted behind him. A few drew swords, but most didn’t bother. It was but one man. They’d show steel when they’d cornered the fool.
One man had not dismounted. Henry Catchpole stood up in his stirrups, using his tall frame to run his gaze over the tops of the merchant stalls. He stopped when he saw the grey gelding tied up in front of the Nag’s Head.
“Cap’n,” he called. “He’s at the inn!”
Barca walked his horse around the stalls until he had a clear view of the far side of the square. There stood the big grey gelding that had outrun them, tied up in front of the only inn in the village.
“Maybe runnin’ fer ‘is life made him crave some ale, Cap’n,” Catchpole said. Barca ignored his second-in-command’s comment as he looked around the square. He did not like the look of this. It was not yet the hour for mass. Tradesmen should have been making last minute preparations for market day before hurrying off to church, but nothing moved in the town save for a few stray dogs.
Barca issued terse orders to his men. Ten fell in behind their leader and eight more headed east to circle around behind the inn. He left Catchpole with a dozen more to watch the square and the roads coming into the town. The Gascon was a veteran of many battles and he’d not survived those fights by ignoring his instincts. Now they were telling him that something was not right here in this little village.
He waited patiently until his men disappeared into the alley behind the inn. He couldn’t fathom why Inness had been foolish enough to stop at an inn when he had the faster horse, and that troubled him. But his orders were clear—the man was to be taken dead or alive. He headed for the inn door. Sensing their commander’s unease, the men who followed him now drew their swords.
***.
Barca passed the grey horse tied up outside the door of the Nag’s Head. It was a fine beast and he would claim it for himself once its rider was dead. He motioned two of his men forward and they pushed open the door of the inn. He followed them inside and was surprised to see the horse’s owner sitting at the far table sipping ale from a cup. Around the table were three other men. Barca recognized the innkeeper standing in the corner behind a counter. The man stared at him as he dried a cup with a rag.
The mercenary leader’s eyes darted around the room. It was empty save for the four men at the table and the innkeeper. His feeling of unease grew as the men at the table rose and made no move to flee. The tallest of the four, a big knight clad in mail, picked up a wicked battleaxe off the table and jammed a steel helmet down over his bald head. Another, a monk, drew a broadsword. Behind him, his men had crowded into the room.
There could be no turning back now.
For the first time, Barca drew his own sword and took a step toward the far table. He didn’t take another. The two men who hadn’t drawn weapons now raised drawn longbows. Barca felt his stomach knot and he cursed himself for leaving his shield lashed to his saddle in the square. He grabbed the man next to him by the shoulders and jerked him to the front.
“Back!” he screamed, as the two archers loosed. The man he’d used as a shield took an arrow through the neck and a man to his right dropped to the floor, pierced through the chest. Barca lurched back through the ranks of his startled men.
For months, de Ferrers mercenary band had met little resistance as they plundered Derbyshire, but that had changed in recent weeks. Men had lain hidden in ambush and killed their comrades at astonishing distances. They’d learned that it was the English longbow the rebels were using against them and had come to rightly fear the weapon. Shields could protect them, but none of the men scrambling to flee though the door of the Nag’s Head had thought a shield was needed to take a single horseman.
Seeing their leader turn and run, the routiers in the inn panicked and rushed for the door. But the Nag’s Head door was narrow and it was instantly jammed with the bodies of desperate men, pushing and clawing at each other to get out into the square. Savaric Barca managed to squeeze out, but the men behind became wedged tight and flailed at each other to get free.
Inside, Sir Roger de Laval advanced toward the packed knot of mercenaries at the door, his axe in hand. Someone in the crowd shouted a warning and men turned to face the new threat.
“You scum laid hands on my daughter!” the big Norman thundered as he drew back his battleaxe and brought it down like a woodsman splitting logs. Men tried to fend off the blow with raised swords, but these were no match for the heavy axe head as it drove through the steel blades, striking the nearest man in the shoulder. It ripped through his mail coat, though the bone and muscle of his shoulder and lodged in his rib cage. Sir Roger left it there and reached for his broadsword as the man toppled backwards.
Seeing the big knight suddenly weaponless, a man darted forward and thrust his short sword at Sir Roger’s belly. He’d paid no attention to the stocky monk who followed the big Norman across the room and never saw the friar’s blade as it found his unprotected throat. The mercenary’s short sword dropped from his lifeless hand.
Another man, seeing the door still blocked behind him made for the rickety stairs that led up to the inn’s upper floor. The innkeeper moved to block his path, but panic had given wings to the man’s feet and he hit the stairs at a dead run. At the top of the steps Dora Clive saw him coming. She screamed and hurled a heavy pitcher at him, striking the man in the chest. Unbalanced he tumbled backwards down the stairs. Scrambling to his feet, he uttered a curse and, started back up. By now the innkeeper had come around the counter. In his meaty hand he held a sturdy oak club. He swung it with a vengeance, striking the mercenary in the temple and dropping him like a rotten tree in a winds
torm.
“Bastards never pay their bills,” he muttered over the prone body. He looked up at his daughter. Dora stood at the top of the stairs and for the first time in his life, the innkeeper saw respect in the girl’s eyes. He turned and advanced on the mercenaries still clustered at the door, club in hand.
***
Oren Inness lay flat on the roof of the Nag’s Head watching the party of mercenaries slip into the alley below him. He waited until they were clustered around the back door of the inn, then rose. Three Danes with longbows stood up with him, arrows already affixed to bowstrings.
Below, Barca’s men could hear the cries and the clash of steel from inside. They waited with drawn swords, their eyes fixed on the back door of the inn. Oren drew his bow and the Danes did the same. Something, perhaps a sound, caused the mercenary leader’s eyes to drift up from the door of the Nag’s Head to the roof. The man gasped when he saw the drawn longbows.
“Archers!” he cried and rammed his shoulder into the rear door of the inn. It gave way and he tumbled inside. Two of his men, heeding his warning cry, crashed in behind him, but four went down screaming between the buildings, bleeding out their lives in a dirty alley far from their homes. One man, not struck in the first volley, tried to escape by running for the far end of the alley. He did not make it out of the alley that had become a slaughterhouse.
The three men who’d burst through the back door of the Nag’s Head’s found themselves in the inn’s small kitchen. One saw a Dane drop from the roof into the alley outside. In a panic, he slammed the rear door and barred it.
Across the tiny kitchen, another door led into the main room of the inn. The leader edged forward and put his ear to it. The sounds of violent struggle had grown quiet. He motioned for his men to follow and shoved the door open. Their sudden appearance did not go unnoticed. The man on the grey gelding they’d chased into town stood there holding a longbow. A second man with a bow stood beside him. Both drew and pointed their weapons at him.
