There was something oddly unsettling about her relaxed posture, and the way she calmly looked Hugh up and down. The lady of Egmanton was somewhere between forty to fifty, comfortable in her own skin, confident in her power.
Too comfortable, thought Hugh. He gave a little bow and cleared his throat. “My lady, thank you for granting this audience. Here is my licence.”
Hugh produced the letter of warrant and held it up. Clemence briefly glanced at it, then back at him.
“I am sent direct from Master Burnell at Westminster,” he went on. “He received your complaints of the disgraceful raids upon your manors. Villages burnt, villeins murdered or driven away, livestock taken. He sent us to investigate the matter.”
Clemence tilted her head up slightly. Her little mouth pursed with disapproval. The pale blue eyes either side of the arched nose glittered with malice.
“Just two men?” she rasped in a surprisingly deep, throaty voice. “We had hoped Burnell would send a troop of horse. Proper men-at-arms, and plenty of them. The thieves who ravage my estates need to be taught a sharp lesson.”
Hugh assumed his most diplomatic tone. “The council has to cope with many demands,” he replied smoothly, “as I’m sure Your Grace can appreciate. Burnell will not send soldiers to Egmanton unless he is certain of the threat.”
“Certain? Certain? Is my word not good enough for him?”
Now the eyes flashed fire, and the voice was hard as diamond. “He thinks much of himself, does Burnell – too much! The man is naught but a jumped-up clerk, the son of a nobody. How dare he question me! Does he know who I am? Do you?”
She stabbed a long finger at Hugh. “My family are of right noble blood. Some of the best and oldest Norman blood in England! Our fathers followed the Conqueror to these shores. They fought at Senlac, and were given lands for our share. We have held it ever since. I would die rather than part with a single acre!”
Hugh waited patiently for the storm to blow out. He judged Clemence for a reasonably fine actress. This little performance was for the benefit of her servants and guards. Several were in the chamber below, eavesdropping, and her trumpet of a voice was strong enough to carry outside.
“Your family pride does you credit, madam,” he said quietly, with another courteous bow. “Please understand, our master meant no insult. He merely wishes to know the identity of those who ravage your land, and why.”
Clemence’s nostrils flared. “He knows the answer to both questions! My wretched uncle, Sir John, wishes to wrench my estates away from me. I won’t give them up, so he sends men to burn and slay and harass my people. He seeks to gather all the land and money of our family into his hands.
“John is greedy and selfish. He piled up a mountain of debt in the last war, and now seeks to repay his army of creditors by stealing from me. I won’t let him. That, sir, is the start and end of the matter.”
She hadn’t yet asked Hugh his name, nor did she seem remotely interested. To her eyes he was just another servant, albeit one who carried a royal warrant. He decided to seize the advantage from her.
“Not quite, my lady,” he said. “There is also the matter of the royal officer who came here, three months gone. He was found inside Sherwood, sorely wounded and left for dead. You will remember the man.”
Clemence hesitated. Hugh was gratified by the flicker of uncertainty that passed across her face.
“He still lives?” she asked stiffly.
“Indeed,” he replied. “Thanks to a skilled surgeon, he recovered from his wounds. Somewhat.”
No thanks to you, my lady, he added silently.
“It was the work of outlaws,” said Clemence. “Sherwood is rotten with them, like fleas on a dog. That is another reason why Burnell needs to send troops. Nothing short of an army can drive the robbers from my land and root out the thieves and poachers in the forest!”
“It seems a coincidence,” remarked Hugh, “that a royal servant should be attacked at the same time your lands were plundered. Perhaps the outlaws of Sherwood work hand-in-glove with your uncle.”
Clemence seemed to consider this for a moment. Once again Hugh studied her performance. She played the injured innocent rather well, but the display of outrage was a touch too shrill. Her attempt to look relaxed, arms folded and back against the wall, now came across as defensive. The posture of a woman who had something to hide.
“Perhaps,” she conceded. “But it cannot be proved.”
“We shall see,” said Hugh. “Tell me, madam, what is the strength of your garrison?”
Clemence straightened, and the corners of her little mouth turned downward. Hugh found her intimidating.
“In more peaceful times, Egmanton was defended by just twenty men,” she replied icily. “I have been obliged to increase their number to fifteen sergeants and thirty archers. They eat like horses, and the cost of their wages has drained my treasury. Yet I prefer bankruptcy to surrender. My accursed uncle shall not have Egmanton.”
“You are wise,” said Hugh. “In times such as these, one cannot have too many good fighting men. I must ask you to lend me your garrison.”
His request was met with silence. Hugh braced himself for an explosion. Clemence’s dark eyes widened, and her hands curled into fists. They were big hands, delicate and well-kept, but powerful. The d’Eyvills and their kin bred for strength.
Hugh had taken a gamble. Would Clemence dared to refuse? He was a servant of the council, and she had asked for the council’s help. To deny his request would look suspicious.
He thought of the guards downstairs. Or she could simply cut both our throats and dump us in the forest. Claim we fell victim to outlaws. Is she stupid enough to think Burnell will fall for the same ploy twice?
She was not. “Very well,” Clemence replied after a long moment. “Take my men, if you must, but leave enough to defend Egmanton.”
The tension in her voice was palpable. Hugh gave another polite bow, his third in a row. They were meant to be irritating.
“Many thanks, my lady. A dozen archers will be sufficient to guard Egmanton in our absence, I think. The castle is not large, and you have plenty of able-bodied servants to make up their numbers.”
“Most kind,” Clemence replied coldly. “What do you mean to do with my soldiers? Do not waste them. If you march into the forest, they will be shot down before you catch a glimpse of any outlaws. The archers of Sherwood are the best in England.”
“I am well aware of the danger,” he replied. “I have crossed swords with these men before, and carry the scars to prove it. Never fear. I have no intention of blundering into Sherwood and getting all your men killed. Even if that would ease the pressure on your treasury.”
Clemence’s smile could have frozen water at twenty paces. “Thank you. It is a comfort to know Burnell has sent an experienced and competent man. I wish you the best of fortune. Happy hunting, Master...”
“Longsword. Hugh Longsword.”
“Master Longsword. What a memorable name. One I shall not forget.”
Hugh had no doubt of that.
6.
The caravan moved slowly through the northern part of Sherwood Forest, a few miles south of Newark. Six ox-drawn wagons rumbled along the rutted and uneven roads, axles creaking under the weight of goods piled aboard. The beasts were sullen and resentful in the heat and had to be constantly goaded by the whips of their drivers.
A covered litter brought up the rear. This was a gaudily painted wagon, pulled by a team of four snow-white horses.
The interior was cool and shady, veiled from the sun by a gauze of purple silk. Inside a man lolled on purple cushions. He was obviously rich, rather fat, dressed all in black and gold. More gold flashed at his throat and fingers. A successful wine merchant, perhaps, some well-to-do peasant, born without a scrap of taste or style.
I should have been on stage, thought Hugh. He rather enjoyed the character he had created, and meant to play him to the full. One of the perks of the spying g
ame was the opportunity to play-act, to hide oneself under a series of masks. Hugh suspected there were a few strolling players in his ancestry. Such people were utterly despised by respectable folk, considered little better than thieves or beggars.
Hugh had to admit he enjoyed playing dress-up a little too much. His cheeks were rouged, his mousy brown hair powdered and carefully combed. A touch of paint under the eyes covered up the dark circles (he was a poor sleeper) and he had even plucked his eyebrows. His straining belly was a cushion, stuffed under his tunic.
The jewellery and clothes were borrowed from Lady Clemence, who lent them with ill grace.
“Have a care, Master Longsword,” she had warned him. “These rings belonged to my mother. If they are lost, I shall hold you responsible.”
“Of course, my lady,” Hugh answered lightly. “Though I have no money. Your best course would be to send a bill to the Exchequer.”
The look on her face caused Hugh much private amusement, though he knew it was foolish to goad her. Lady Clemence was not a woman to cross. Hugh reckoned she had marked him down for death anyway, so he might as well enjoy himself.
There was a knock against the side of the litter. Hugh twitched aside the curtain to see Richard. The young man’s face was stained with dirt and sweat, and bore an expression of grave concern.
“Seven miles,” he hissed. “And not a sign of any outlaws. How much longer do you mean to keep up this farce?”
Hugh smiled inwardly. It wasn’t pleasant for Richard, having to ride in the heat and dust. He posed as the captain of an armed escort, ten sergeants “hired” by Hugh’s fictional merchant to see the caravan safely through the forest.
This was all part of Hugh’s plan. If he had simply marched into Sherwood at the head of a band of soldiers, the outlaws would have either shot them to bits or vanished into the depths of the forest. Sherwood was huge, some ten miles wide and twenty miles long. Lady Clemence was quite correct; it would take little short of an army to flush out men who did not wish to be found.
A merchant caravan, on the other hand, presented a soft target. With luck, the outlaws would yield to temptation. They were thieves, after all, who lived off poaching and highway robbery. Hugh knew these men of old, and they were quite bold enough to attack despite the presence of an escort.
Richard didn’t like the plan. He considered it dishonourable and would much rather have charged into Sherwood like an honest knight, lance in hand, banners unfurled and trumpets blaring. Hugh ignored his complaints. The boy could get himself killed some other time.
“We keep going,” Hugh replied cheerfully. “All the way to Nottingham. If nothing happens before then, we’ll spend the night in the town and make the return journey tomorrow. In the meantime, try to look stupid.”
He whipped the curtain shut and grinned at Richard through the gauze. The other man’s face clouded with anger, and his knuckles turned white as he clenched the reins. Hugh could almost hear the grinding of his teeth.
Curse me all you like, my friend. You’ll get your sword wet soon enough.
At last it came – the sound Hugh longed to hear. A single, high, pure note; rising it echoed and re-echoed through the trees.
The caravan stumbled to a halt. Hugh peered through the thin purple curtain. Outside the forest seemed empty. He looked for tell-tale shadows flitting among the ancient gnarled oaks and saw none. No arrows zipped from the darkness.
Hugh flexed the fingers of his sword hand. He carried a dagger in his belt, and his short-bladed falchion lay hidden under the cushions.
After a few seconds the horn died away. It was replaced by another, louder this time. Closer. The oxen started to low in panic. Hugh cursed under his breast. If the wretched beasts bolted, taking their wagons and drivers with them, his entire plan would unravel.
The note had barely died away before Sherwood erupted. They seemed to rise from the earth, hooded men in dark green, bristling with swords and bows and arrows. Even as his heart rattled with fear, Hugh managed to admire their discipline. The outlaws knew their business. Instead of rushing the caravan in a disorderly mob, they split in two. Half of the archers stayed back to cover their comrades, while the rest advanced to form a circle around the wagons.
Some of these are soldiers, Hugh thought as he watched them spread out in calm, unhurried silence. Experienced ones, too. Men of Earl Ferrers, perhaps, moonlighting as highway robbers.
When the caravan was surrounded, another man emerged from the forest. Hugh’s blood ran cold at the sight of him.
Walter Devyas! Now may God give me courage.
He knew this man of old. Seven years ago, Walter had forced Hugh to fight for his life on a narrow plank bridge, set over a pit full of hungry wolves. In his nightmares Hugh had often pictured Walter’s yellow face, blubbery lips peeled back to reveal teeth like brown needles. He and his cronies had laughed themselves sick as they watched the duel over the wolf-pit. It amused him to torture men, subject them all kinds of cruel and unusual punishments. Hugh had encountered many hard characters, but rarely one born with no pity whatsoever.
Apart from his cruelty, there was something essentially nauseous about the man. He sweated constantly, no matter the weather, and his squat, powerful body put Hugh in mind of a wild boar. Or a hog.
Walter had aged badly since Hugh last saw him. The mane of greasy black curls was thinning and almost completely iron-grey, and there were deep lines scored in his ugly waxen mask of a face. When he looked closer, Hugh saw the man’s cheeks were fallen in, his eyes sunken. He looked ill.
Walter carried a quarterstaff, thick enough to shatter a man’s skull. With his careful eye for detail, Hugh noticed how the outlaw leaned on the staff slightly as he approached the litter. He was trying, not very well, to hide his reliance on it. The master of a band of cut-throats could not afford to show weakness.
Hugh pulled his cap firmer over his wig of grey curls. Now came the performance.
“I see you, fat man,” cried Walter. “Come out and lay your gold at my feet, or I’ll come in there and get you.”
Hugh twitched the curtain aside and squinted fearfully at the outlaw. He did his best to cringe, and look as if he was on the verge of fouling himself.
“What’s this?” he demanded in a ridiculous high-pitched squeak. “What’s this? I am an honest merchant, and this is the king’s highway. Be off, gallows-bait!”
He flapped a hand at Walter, whose little eyes lit up at the sight of the gold rings on Hugh’s fingers.
“Will,” he grunted, turning to one of his men, “get up on that litter and sink your dagger into the fat fool’s backside. That should get him moving.”
Will, a long-nosed ruffian with a manic gleam in his little eyes, drew a long Irish knife. He sniggered as he tested the point with his thumb.
“Say the word, master,” he hissed, “and I’ll spear his ballocks on the blade and serve them up for supper.”
Hugh’s brief show of defiance crumbled away. “Wait!” he squealed. “Don’t set your mastiff on me. I’ll come out. I’ll come out!”
He struggled to his feet and limped outside. A ripple of laughter passed through the outlaws as this pathetic, wheezing figure emerged into the light. Hugh knew how grotesque he must look. Painted and rouged like some vain old whore, weighed down with age, debauchery and rolls of fat. And wealth. He knew their eyes would be fixed on the gold chains round his neck, the bracelets on his wrists, the rings on his fingers. With luck, sheer greed would distract them from peering too close at his rather crude disguise.
Hugh’s fingers shook with fear and excitement as he fiddled with the binding of the short ladder. More laughter from the outlaws, mixed with filthy insults. His own men were silent.
Will they fight for me?
Only now, at the crux, did Hugh realise the enormity of the risk he had taken. Apart from Richard, his men were all soldiers taken from Lady Clemence’s garrison at Egmanton. He had chosen to gamble on their loyalty. If Clemence
really was secretly allied with the outlaws of Sherwood, her soldiers could easily turn on him.
He had tried to avoid this by offering each of them an extra bounty, paid from royal coffers, once his mission was completed. When he inspected the garrison at Egmanton, Hugh picked out those he judged to be professional fighting men, mercenaries with one solid, reliable motive above and beyond any awkward loyalties: love of money.
“You’re taking too many risks,” Richard warned him before they set out. The young man was usually careless of risk, so Hugh took this as a victory. Finally, he had put a dent in the boy’s ironclad confidence.
“We shall see,” he replied casually, and now they would.
Hugh puffed and limped his way down the steps. Once he reached the ground, he gazed at Walter with a terrified expression, like a dog waiting to be kicked.
The outlaw spat at his feet. “Look at the fucking state of you,” he sneered. “Bah! The likes of you disgust me. England is full of poor men with lean bellies, unable to feed themselves or their families, while the likes of you grow fat off their misfortune.”
He glanced at the nearest wagon, stacked high with hogshead barrels. “A wine merchant, I take it?”
Hugh made his teeth chatter. “Y-yes, master,” he gibbered. “I buy and sell the best wine of Bordeaux. Only the best, you understand.”
He twisted his face into an ingratiating leer and rubbed his hands together. “I can see you are a man of business. P-perhaps we can come to an arrangement? Take some of my men as hostages, and I promise to pay a ransom. Let us say, five hundred pounds? My servants will bring you the money before the end of the week.”
“Do you hear that?” Walter shouted at his men. “This rogue is trying to bargain with me! Offers to pay me five hundred pounds if I let him go.”
The outlaws roared with laughter. “You bloated scoundrel,” Walter growled once the mirth had died down. “Do you take me for a fool? Hostages be damned. I know your kind. Money-grubbers and liars. You would say anything at all to save your greasy hide, make all kinds of promises. Offer me the weight of the moon in gold, why don’t you, to be paid in regular instalments?”
The Hooded Men Page 6
