The Hooded Men

by David Pilling

  Me, Hugh thought miserably. Left to themselves, he reckoned he could talk his way back into Edward’s favour. With Eleanor present, manipulating her husband at every turn, he would be lucky to avoid the headsman’s axe.

  “I do not cast away useful servants,” Edward said after a tortuously long pause. “You have done good service in the past, Longsword, and deserve another chance.”

  He turned his head and gazed out of the window. Outside a heat haze shimmered over the streets of Acre, a city of wide cobbled plazas and neat rows of flat-roofed houses. The great rectangular complex and square towers of the Hospitaller headquarters rose above all, dominating the eastern quarter.

  “I came to the Holy Land to recover Jerusalem,” Edward said bleakly. “I failed. Neither of us have covered ourselves in glory, Longsword. Therefore I will not judge you too harshly.”

  “As you deserve,” put in Eleanor. Her voice was cold and hard, without a hint of forgiveness. Once again Hugh envisaged the headsman’s axe, cruel and sharp.

  Edward lifted a hand. “Please, my love. Do not interrupt.”

  Now Eleanor turned the piercing glare onto her husband. Propped up on his bolster, facing away from her, he didn’t seem to notice.

  “My men fall away from me,” Edward went on. “They beg leave to sail for home.”

  He turned away from the window and looked at Hugh. The prince’s eyes, one of them half-covered by a drooping eyelid, were bloodshot and full of pain.

  Edward raised a thin arm and snapped his fingers. One of his clerks, a dapper little man in sober black, came forward. He carried a roll of parchment, bound with red string and bearing the prince’s seal.

  The clerk delicately placed the roll in his master’s hand. Edward in turn held it out to Hugh.

  “Take this to England,” ordered the prince. “Deliver it to Robert Burnell. None other. You are not to open it under any circumstances, and the letter is for his eyes only. Understand?”

  “Yes, lord,” Hugh replied solemnly.

  “Good. I give you one chance to redeem yourself. There will not be another.”

  3.

  “Master Hugh Longsword. Officially, a clerk of the royal household. Unofficially...”

  The corner of the tall man’s mouth twitched. King Edward’s secret letter lay before him, seal broken and parchment spread out on the polished oak table. Hugh stood at a respectful distance from the table, too far to read the letter upside down (another useful skill taught by his instructors). The letter was written in a tiny, neat hand, probably in code.

  He had been taken, under guard, to an upper chamber of the White Tower, the heart of the great fortress on the north bank of the Thames. Hugh tried to ignore the sweat prickling on his skin. He disliked the Tower. It was a sweathouse in the summer months and a draughty hellhole in the winter.

  Fear and suspicion were ingrained in the very walls. William the Bastard had built this place to nail down the English – a permanent reminder in stone of his conquest, ruled by foreign overlords who had uprooted and destroyed the native dynasty.

  As an Englishman himself, Hugh was uncomfortable with this crude symbol of power and oppression. He didn’t hate the French-speaking Normans who ruled England – many generations had passed since the trauma of conquest – but he preferred to ignore certain harsh realities.

  I am just a slave, he thought sadly. Or a mercenary at best, working for blood money.

  The man seated before him glanced down at the letter. This was Robert Burnell, one of the regents appointed to rule England until the new king returned. Hugh didn’t know the man at all. He vaguely recalled seeing Burnell at Westminster, years ago, before Edward set off on crusade. He was one of Edward’s favoured clerks; a quiet, industrious fellow, always hovering in the background.

  Richard was not present. Burnell had summoned Hugh to a private meeting, just the two of them, so the young man had been sent away to amuse himself for the afternoon. Hugh had no doubt he would find plenty of vicious amusement in the city.

  Master Burnell put Hugh in mind of a groomed crow. He dressed in plain black gabardine, and his pale hands flashed with silver rings. Hugh was trained to notice small details. Those hands were lightly spotted with ink, the nails bitten to the quick. Burnell always appeared calm and spoke in cool, measured terms, yet appearances were generally deceptive.

  His gabardine was of finely cut and tailored black velvet. The rings on his fingers were of plain silver except for one, on the middle finger of his right hand. This bore a crest with a strange inscription Hugh didn’t recognise. It looked like some form of code or hieroglyph, chiselled onto the metal by an expert craftsmen.

  “Unofficially,” Burnell went on after a pause, “you are many things. One of our private and special men, as it were. I have followed your career with some interest over the years.”

  He gazed levelly at Hugh, hands folded across his flat stomach. Burnell was still a youngish man, in his late twenties, with the look of one who ate and drank sparingly. The pleasures of the flesh were of limited appeal to him.

  This, at least, was the image he liked to project. Hugh had heard certain rumours of Burnell’s taste for loose women. As a clergyman he was supposed to have no interest in such things, one of the great standing jokes of the church. England, like any other Christian land, was littered with bastards sired by errant priests.

  Hugh could well imagine that this devious, subtle man knew all about his career to date. He would have a file on Hugh somewhere, kept in a secret archive.

  “I am the king’s loyal servant,” Hugh said in his blandest voice. “As we all are.”

  Burnell blinked slowly. His eyes were large and liquid brown under hooded lids. This gave him a slightly mournful expression. He had a widow’s peak, black hair carefully brushed back, and an angular, not unattractive face. Burnell went clean-shaven, which made him look youthful, almost boyish.

  Hugh was on his guard. Everything about this man was carefully constructed. Nobody scaled the heights of power in England, from the lowly rank of clerk, without terrifying reserves of ambition, drive, ability and all the natural compassion of a hungry wolf. He reminded himself that Burnell was the son of a minor gentry family of Shropshire, on the borders of the Welsh March. The Devil’s own country, where murder and blood-feud was a way of life.

  “Your loyalty has never been in doubt,” said Burnell. “Our master appreciates that, else you would not be here. It seems you blundered in the Holy Land.”

  He gave another little smile. “Well. We all make mistakes. I am in agreement with the king. It would be a pity to throw you away.”

  Like a used torch, Hugh thought. Fear gnawed at his guts. He knew where used torches ended up. In the cesspit.

  “In my defence, sir,” he said, “I was not the only one to fail the king. None of his servants and bodyguards realised the identity of the assassin. Yet I am the only one punished for it.”

  “So you feel you have been unfairly singled out?” asked Burnell.

  The question was loaded, but Hugh was in no mood for playing games. He was angry at Edward, and anger always drew out his reckless side.

  “I do,” he replied coolly. He watched Burnell to see how this subtle man reacted to a straight answer.

  He looked sympathetic. “I understand. All the details are in this letter. You did good service in the Holy Land and risked your life on more than one occasion. Perhaps it wasn’t your fault that you arrived too late to warn the lord king. Nevertheless, he holds you responsible.

  “There is no question of fairness, Master Longsword. Ours is a hard service. Our masters struggle to appreciate what we do on their behalf. The risks we run. We might win a hundred little victories, and get small thanks for it. One failure, however, is enough to ruin us.”

  He gave a little shrug. “This is the nature of the work. If you wanted an easier life, you should have become a ploughman.”

  Hugh swallowed, hard. “Am I ruined, then?” he ventured.

/>   “No,” Burnell replied shortly. He, too, was capable of direct answers. “The lord king may be a trifle…vindictive…at times, but he believes in second chances.”

  He tapped the letter again. “I am instructed to take you under my wing. You learned the trade, of course, under the late Master John of Saint George. I knew the man in his last years. A great mind, in his time, though his powers were failing by the end.”

  Hugh vividly recalled the old spymaster. The tough, ruthless little man had taught generations of spies in royal service. He died shortly before Hugh left for the Holy Land, taking countless secrets to the grave with him.

  Burnell is his replacement, thought Hugh. England’s new spymaster, and my new chief.

  “You are required to prove yourself,” Burnell went on. “Or redeem yourself, as the lord king phrases it. Happily, there is no lack of work.”

  He leaned forward suddenly and laced his fingers together. “England is in a sad state, Master Longsword. There is a story that the land cannot flourish without a king. An old pagan tale, from the days when kings were sacrificed to ensure the turning of the seasons. I am a man of God, of course, with no time for ancient superstitions.

  “Yet there may be something to it. Since King Henry died, the realm has fallen into chaos. I do my best, of course, and my fellow regents, but we get little support. The great magnates plot and scheme against each other, raise armies to wage private wars. Fools. Greedy, violent fools, concerned with nothing save their own profit. In many counties, law and order has entirely fallen away.”

  Burnell looked up at Hugh. His voice was entirely serious, and Hugh thought he detected a hint of anxiety, even fear, in the depths of the other man’s eyes.

  “The sheriffs are all corrupt,” said Burnell. “Every one of them. They feather their own nests, fail to do justice, take bribes from the thieves and criminals that plague the land. Often they work hand-in-glove. What can be done? If I sacked all the sheriffs in England, the men who replaced them would be just as bad.

  “England is rotten to the core. Riddled with a cancer that only has one cure. The return of the king. Only the king has the power to restore England, root and branch.”

  “King Edward will not return for months yet,” said Hugh. “Perhaps years. He was still recovering from his wounds when I left Acre, and had set no date to leave the Holy Land. It is a long journey back, with many dangers along the way.”

  “Precisely,” replied Burnell. “And his heir is a child. King Edward must return, Longsword. His death would be a catastrophe. England cannot endure a long regency. Yet there are those who wish him dead.”

  These words struck Hugh with dread. He knew of Edward’s enemies in the Holy Land, but little of those at home. A few surviving Montfortians, perhaps, leftovers of the civil war. Surely the regents could mop up a few embittered diehards?

  Burnell rose suddenly and stalked over to gaze out of the nearest window, hands clasped behind his back. He walked with a slight stoop, head bent forward, like a man permanently weighed down with care.

  “I have spies everywhere,” he said. “Every day fresh reports come in of riots, conspiracies, rumours of rebellion. Master John left me an army of highly trained servants to work with. Even so, we are overstretched.”

  “What task do you have for me?” Hugh asked. He tried to sound purposeful and businesslike, though inside he was quaking. King Edward had made it clear in his letter that Hugh was now expendable, and could be sent on the most dangerous of missions. If he was killed, no great loss.

  Burnell turned slowly to face Hugh. The light from the window rendered his tall, bony figure in silhouette and made him all the more imposing.

  “Robert Ferrers,” he said abruptly. “Earl of Derby. You will recall the man.”

  “Yes,” said Hugh. How could he forget? Seven years ago, one blood-soaked day at Chesterfield in Derbyshire, he had captured the rebellious earl inside a church. Ferrers, who had taken refuge under a pile of woolsacks, fell at his feet and begged for mercy. Hugh’s reward, if it could be called that, was to be taken into royal service.

  He had hoped Ferrers was dead. The man was dangerous, volatile and just the sort to bear a grudge.

  “You have been gone from England for five years,” said Burnell. “In that time Ferrers has tried to recover his lost estates. For a time he lived as a landless outlaw, roaming about the forests north of Trent. I had men watching him, but he was remarkably difficult to keep track of. His family were a great power in the north for two hundred years. He still has many friends and well-wishers. Men willing to fight for him, shelter him.”

  Burnell sighed, and ran a hand through his sleek black hair. “We should have killed him, of course. He was a prisoner at Windsor for three years. But an earl is not in the roll of common men. No earl has ever been executed in England, though several have richly deserved it. The old king did not wish to create a precedent.”

  The contempt in Burnell’s voice revealed his opinion of the old king’s judgement.

  “Nor could he be allowed to rot forever in prison,” he added. “That, too, would have created a precedent. So he was allowed to walk free. Free to gather a band of like-minded savages about him, ravage the land, raise war, hatch plots, shatter the peace.”

  Hugh continued playing the blunt, hard-headed assassin.

  “You want Ferrers dead,” he said frankly. “And someone to stick a knife in him.”

  Burnell gave a dry little chuckle. “Not exactly. At least, not yet. It may prove necessary at some point, but we prefer to wait until the king comes home.”

  Hugh understood. Nobody on the regency council wanted to explain to King Edward their decision to have the Earl of Derby, his own cousin, murdered. Even if the man was a rebel and an outlaw and a threat to the peace. Even though Edward and Ferrers had been deadly rivals in the past. If Ferrers was to be assassinated, the instruction had to come from the king’s own lips. Royalty could be strangely delicate about such things.

  “Ferrers has spent the past few years trying to recover his lost castles and manors,” Burnell explained. “Two years ago he attacked Stanford in Berkshire but was driven out. After that he vanished again, only to pop back up last month, in Staffordshire. He and his men stormed the castle of Chartley at night. They caught the garrison napping.”

  A note of irritation entered his voice. “He is still in possession of Chartley. My agents tell me his men are felling the timber of the forests to sell in local markets. He needs money, and probably hopes to raise an army.

  “The situation cannot be allowed to fester. Ferrers must be crushed, his nest of rebels smoked out of their hole. Even now, the earls of Lancaster and Lincoln are raising troops to march against him.”

  Hugh waited. If Burnell didn’t want him to kill Ferrers, what did he have in mind? Not, he prayed, to join the royal army. Hugh had no wish to return to a life of soldiering. A man of his specialist skills and experience was wasted in the ranks.

  Burnell stepped out of the light and turned to a multi-tiered row of shelves behind his desk. Each shelf contained neat rows of leather folios, every one marked on the spine with a system of Roman numerals. Burnell picked out one from the end of the top row and turned to face Hugh, browsing the letters inside.

  Hugh noted the letters were in consecutive date order. They were recent, written in different hands. The one Burnell picked out was dated the fifteenth of May, 1274.

  Six days ago.

  “You will also note,” said Burnell, without looking up, “the shakiness of the handwriting. This letter was written in haste by a man in terror of his life. With good reason. His body was found three days ago, not half a mile from here, washed up on the banks of the Thames. Terribly cut up, poor fellow. Loyal to the last, but unlucky.”

  Hugh swallowed. That might well be his obituary one day.

  “He managed to send this message before they got to him,” said Burnell. “It must have been terribly frustrating for his killers, knowing they wer
e too late. Which explains what they did to him, of course. They were...inventive.”

  He paused a moment. His jaw clenched, and for a moment Hugh thought he glimpsed a spark of anger in those deep-set eyes.

  “I swore a vow to find them,” the regent said quietly. “When I do, they will be a long time dying.

  “The note is a vital piece of evidence. It gives the names of those who have joined Earl Ferrers in his conspiracy against the crown. The principals are Gilbert Clare, Earl of Gloucester, John Warenne, Earl of Surrey and James Audley.”

  Hugh blanched. Clare and Warenne were two of the most powerful men in the kingdom. Audley was a lord of the Welsh March. All three were capable of raising armies on their own account. Clare alone could summon over four hundred knights to his banner, and held vast estates all over England and Wales.

  “An unholy alliance, you will agree,” said Burnell. “Ferrers has learned a trick or two. He wishes to start another civil war and reclaim his lost earldom. Perhaps he aims even higher.”

  Hugh pictured Robert Ferrers sat on the throne of England, a golden crown on his head, gouty legs wrapped in bloodstained bandages. While Hugh didn’t relish the return of King Edward, the prospect of King Robert the First was infinitely worse.

  “Ferrers cannot start a war without allies,” Burnell went on. “Powerful allies. He has struck a deal with Clare. In return for Ferrers giving up his stake to lands in Gloucestershire, Clare has promised to help Ferrers recover his lands elsewhere. Warenne and Audley have been offered similar rewards.”

  “Scratch each other’s backs,” said Hugh. Burnell gave a brief smile.

  “Just so. These are all the details we have. Our late colleague was unable to discover any more before they got him. Clare’s men, I suspect. The earl of Gloucester is a turd, Master Longsword. A stinking, treacherous, cold-blooded sack of dung.”

  Hugh was surprised at Burnell’s choice of language, and the passion in his voice. Spymasters were supposed to keep their emotions in check. He found himself warming slightly to the regent.