Sometimes the farmer was a brave man and dared to argue. “The king is on the other side of the world, fighting for Christ,” one countered. “If he was here, he would never allow the likes of you to rob his faithful subjects. You’re no better than the men of Ferrers.”
“Watch your tongue, serf,” the bailiff warned. “Men have been hanged for less, and it is not your place to question your betters. Earl Ferrers is a traitor. We are loyal men, doing what we must.”
If the farmer persisted, he might earn a blow to the face, or even a flogging if the king’s bailiff was in a sour mood. These unpleasant scenes occurred frequently over the long, hot, bloody summer of twelve seventy-two, the first reign of the reign of King Edward.
Edward himself was still somewhere over the far horizon, thousands of miles away. To the average peasant, who hardly ever left his village, the distance was unimaginable. Nobody knew when or if he would return. It was commonly thought in the west that he had died of his wounds in the Holy Land. Such rumours were encouraged by the rebels, who sent preachers through the land to spread word of Edward’s demise.
From his stronghold at Chartley, Robert Ferrers oversaw everything. From here he sent out his riders to pillage, burn and slay without mercy.
“I cannot make the people love me,” he told his men. “So they must learn to fear me instead. I want my banner to haunt their dreams. The very sight of it should cause the serfs to foul their drawers.”
He looked with approval at his captains. They were an unlovely crew, veterans who had fought in his service for almost a decade. He knew every line of their raddled faces, could name the origin of every lump and scar.
Robert liked to copy Julius Caesar’s habit of pinching the earlobes of his most trusted followers, as a sign of affection. He did so now, and squeezed the ear of one especially hideous brute.
“Thomas Curteys,” he said. “I know you, Thomas. There is no better and more faithful man in the whole of England. You lost two fingers at the sack of Worcester, and got your nose broken at Chesterfield.”
Thomas’s apelike face split into a delighted grin. In truth, his nose had been broken more than once. It now resembled a mushroom that had been squashed underfoot, and he had some difficulty breathing through the nostrils. As a result he tended to pant, which increased his already marked resemblance to an old mastiff.
Robert went down the line, naming each captain in turn. He called to mind their exploits in his service, the wounds and losses they had suffered, the people they had killed. His dogs of war, as the earl thought of them, visibly swelled. They puffed out their chests with pride, stood a little straighter, brought their chins up.
“Friends,” he said at last. “Friends and comrades. My fate is in your hands. Only you can help win back what was stolen from me.”
His voice grew angry. “My patrimony. My earldom. All my fine estates and manors, held by my family since Duke William first brought his people to these shores. All of it, stolen from me – snatched away by a foul trick!”
He stopped. Once Robert got on this particular hobby horse, he knew he would never stop. His captains had heard it all before. They were practical men of action, illiterate and with no interest in politics. Their job was to serve and obey, not listen to speeches.
Robert stepped back and rubbed his hands. “So,” he said brightly. “You are cruel men, and at times in the past I have had to rebuke you for being too cruel. Now, I say, go forth and work all your dreadfulness. Do your very worst, and bring this land to subjection.”
His men trooped out. If Robert was capable of it, he might have pitied those they would target in the coming days: poor cottars and villeins, royal garrisons scattered about the west, defenceless towns and villages. Any local militia raised against them would be cut to pieces. Only trained and experienced soldiers could stand against the men of Ferrers in battle. The earl happened to know these were in short supply.
In the shadowy coolness of the great hall, seated on his father’s chair, Robert congratulated himself. His timing could not have been better. The fires of rebellion raged all over England, and the royal council at Westminster could not hope to deal with them all at the same time.
Robert smiled. He didn’t envy Master Burnell and his colleagues. The recent civil wars had beggared England, and the kingdom was given no time to recover. Trade, at home and overseas, was at a standstill.
Kingless and penniless, he thought with satisfaction. The gout in his swollen right leg gave a twinge, but Robert ignored it. Tomorrow, perhaps, he would submit to the agony of being bled. Some important guests were due to arrive at Chartley, and he had to appear strong before them. They were not the sort of men who respected weakness of any kind.
He spent the rest of the morning on the summit of the donjon, anxiously watching the horizon. The great tower offered a spectacular view of the countryside for miles around, all the way to the borders of the March. To the west and north, Robert could see plumes of black smoke rising above the hills. His men were hard at work.
Will they come? Robert chewed his nails, a nervous boyhood habit he had never shaken off. Everything, the success or failure of his revolt, depended on the next few hours.
Finally, just before noon, he spotted a cloud of yellow dust to the southwest. His heart leaped at the sight. It moved rapidly, swelled, and then his ear picked up hoofbeats. Sunlight flashed on metal: lances, spears and helms, polished mail.
The road to the southwest rose and then dipped suddenly into a thick belt of woodland. Robert saw a column of riders, moving two by two at the gallop, flood over the hillside. They vanished into the trees, then burst onto the open ground in front of the castle. He could see the banners carried by the leading men. Three red chevrons against a yellow field. At the head of the column, driving his horse on as though he meant to kill the beast under him, rode a tall, thin man with an unruly mane of flaming red hair.
Robert bowed his head. He wasn’t a naturally pious man, and had plundered many a church in his time, but now he gave silent thanks.
God is merciful after all. And generous.
A wave of relief swept through him. The most important of his guests had come.
He made his way eagerly down the spiral stair of the great tower, several times almost slipped on the narrow steps. Trumpets screamed outside, heralding the arrival of one of the most powerful men in the kingdom. Chains rattled as the heavy portcullises were raised. The castle was suddenly full of excited shouts, the jingle of harness, the pounding of drums. Somewhere a pipe started to tootle – this could only be Crooked Tom, the earl’s Fool. The ugly, misshapen little man would be capering about the courtyard in his tattered jerkin and dirty hose with a hole in the backside. He only knew one tune on the pipe, and was in the habit of playing it over and over until someone kicked him. Or, if he was fortunate, gave him a penny to go away.
Robert hurried across the bridge to the inner bailey. Thirty soldiers of the garrison were assembled here to welcome the visitor. They stood in neat rows, silent and watchful, every man with spear and shield. Their shields bore the red and yellow arms of Ferrers, as did the badges on their chests.
He regarded his soldiers with pride. These were his household guards, chosen men who had helped him to retake Chartley back in the spring. Then they had come creeping at night, like thieves, dressed all in black. Now they bore his arms with pride, in broad daylight, as men should bear the arms of their lord.
The gates of the bailey yawned open. Moments later the red-headed man trotted through on his charger, followed by his troopers. The flanks of his horse, a glossy black courser, were heaving with sweat. His limbs trembled, and steam rose off her in a cloud.
“My lord Clare,” cried Robert with a bow. “Welcome to Chartley – a thousand times welcome!”
Gilbert Clare, Earl of Gloucester and Hertford, swung lithely down from the saddle. He was a lean, sour-looking man, his thin face twisted in a scowl, long nose twitching for mischief. Robert knew him of old,
and how Clare’s tough exterior concealed a vain and brittle soul. The man was immensely powerful, able to summon over four hundred knights to his banner, but not as formidable as he made out.
Except, that is, when his anger was roused. Clare was known as the red dog, after his mane of red hair and fiery temper. When his blood was up, the red dog was capable of anything. The trick was to soothe and flatter, and tell him what he wanted to hear.
“Fine place,” he remarked with a sniff, looking about him. “I’ve not visited Chartley before. Your father never saw fit to invite me.”
His pale eyes stared at Robert, full of accusation. Clare never forgot a grudge, no matter how slight.
“My father made a poor choice of friends,” Robert replied lightly. “We have been enemies in the past, Gilbert. I hope we can leave the past where it belongs, and come to a new understanding.”
Clare gave an impatient shrug. He has the manners of a serf! Robert thought angrily. Very well, my lord. You wish to talk business, so let’s get down to it.
“The others have not come,” said Clare as he followed Robert into the great hall. The coolness of the vast chamber was a blessed relief from the heat outside
“Not yet,” replied his host. “I suspect you beat them for pace. Lord, how you raced across the fields! Such a fine seat. I doubt there is any man in England who is your equal in a race.”
The compliments melted on Clare’s chilly slopes. “I came quickly for a reason,” he snapped. “Burnell will have his spies out, you may depend on that. We must work quickly before any hint of our doings can get back to the council.”
Robert could hardly disagree. He took his guest through the hall and then up a spiral stair to a solar chamber on the highest floor of a tower.
“We can talk in private here,” he said. “And in confidence. The guard on the door is one of my most trusted men. He would die rather than betray me.”
Clare looked sceptical. “I find that fear, not trust, is a better way of ensuring servants keep their mouths shut,” he replied sourly. “But as you will. This is your house.”
They sat down at two chairs before the hearth and talked business. In this, at least, Clare was a straightforward man to deal with. He knew what he wanted, and the most direct way to get it. Robert shared this attitude, and the two dealt well together.
“I am prepared to help you,” Clare began, “but only on condition.”
His pale eyes once again bored into Robert, searching for weakness. “Name it,” said the other man.
“You wish to regain your lands, snatched away from you by the old king and his sons. Very well. I will help you, give you money and soldiers and arms, anything you might need.”
Robert waited for the other man to name his price. It would be heavy enough. The red dog never gave something for nothing.
“In exchange you will quit all right to your estates in Gloucestershire, and sign them over to me.”
The two men gazed at each other, like a couple of wary old dogs. Robert knew Clare had him over a barrel. He also knew that Clare knew it.
He calculated. Four years ago all of the Ferrers estates had been taken from him – stolen – and given to King Edward’s younger brother, Prince Edmund. These included the lands in Gloucestershire that Clare demanded as the price for his support. They could only be recovered by force, which meant civil war.
I can afford to make this promise, he thought. If we win, I will be the most powerful man in England. I could then break my word and destroy Clare. Or he could destroy me.
Taken in all, he judged the risk to be worth it. His fate hung in the balance anyway, so a few more gambles hardly make any difference.
“Done,” he said, and the two men shook hands on it.
They were drinking a toast to celebrate when the peal of trumpets sounded from outside. Robert swallowed his wine in one gulp.
“Our friends have arrived,” he said. “Excuse me while I greet them.”
Robert met his two further guests in the bailey. These were John Warenne, Earl of Surrey, and James Audley, a lord of the March. Like Clare, they came accompanied by strong retinues of knights and sergeants. These men joined Clare’s retainers in the great hall, where they were plied with meat and drink while their lords went upstairs.
Warenne and Audley were also anxious to have the business at Chartley over and done with as soon as possible. Robert marvelled at how such powerful men could live in fear of Burnell and his spies. In his view Burnell was naught but a clever peasant who had been allowed to get above his station. When the time came, he would be cut back down to size. Robert meant to impale his head on a spike at the Tower, next to King Edward’s.
“Welcome, my lords,” said Clare when the two newcomers stepped into the audience chamber. “Better late than not at all, as they say.”
Warenne regarded him with contempt. “Your own sense of timing has been off in the past, my lord,” he snarled. “I recall the old king, God rest him, inviting you to join him on many occasions. You seldom turned up.”
The atmosphere in the room curdled like stale milk. Warenne referred to Clare’s shifty behaviour during the civil war, when he had changed sides on at least three occasions. He was hardly alone in this, but it left a permanent stain on his reputation.
“Come, my friends,” Robert said quickly. “Let’s not pick at old scabs. We’re all friends here, or should be.”
Warenne snorted, spat into the empty hearth, and accepted a cup of wine with ill grace. Robert silently cursed his need of such a man for an ally. The young earl of Surrey was a pugnacious, grasping brute, heavy and ponderous in body, blunt in speech and manner. During the wars he had acted as a big stick for the crown, crushing the rebels on his estates in Surrey and Sussex without mercy. He and the sour, vinegar-faced earl of Gloucester made a fine pair.
James Audley, the least powerful of the three, was a slightly more attractive character. A soldier to his boots, sallow and taciturn, he had the sense to listen while the great men talked; or rather, bickered like jealous children. Robert wanted Clare and Warenne on his side for their wealth and the number of soldiers they could raise. He wanted Audley for his brains and military reputation. The man had held his lordship on the March for twenty years, against the fury of the Welsh and neighbouring Marcher lords. The chaotic, war-torn frontier was a natural training ground for the best fighting men in the kingdom. To have any hope of victory, Robert needed such men on his side.
Warenne was still put out. “I’m not your friend, Ferrers,” he muttered, “any more than I am Clare’s friend, or Audley’s.”
He stared into his cup with bloodshot eyes. Warenne drank too much, and it was already starting to show. “I don’t have any friends. I’m a man of business.”
“We’re all men of business,” said Robert. “And I only meant friendship in the political sense. Like it or not, my lords, we have need of each other. It would be best, I think, to forget the past.”
He gave Warenne a hard look. The young earl of Surrey had been among those who conspired to deprive Robert of his earldom. He had put his seal to the deed of disinheritance. Robert was prepared to forgive and forget.
For now.
One day he would have his revenge on them all. Warenne was an instrument, nothing more, a means to an end. With luck, he was also too stupid to realise it.
More wine soothed the troubled waters. Robert had had an iron-hooped barrel of finest Bordeaux carried up to the chamber. He made sure Warenne and Clare’s cups were always full. Audley was more temperate, and drank as little as he spoke.
Hours went past. Robert and his fellow conspirators hammered out terms, bickered over fine details, carved up England between them like a rich meat pie. Clare wanted to reign supreme in the March and the west country. Audley was content to be his seneschal, with a few wealthy manors thrown into the bargain. Warenne wanted to expand his already impressive power base in Sussex and Yorkshire.
“We will have to fight at least one bat
tle,” he warned gloomily. “Prince Edmund has raised an army near London. His friends will join him against us.”
“Lacy and Grey,” said Clare. “Both are raising troops in the north. Those are the three we have to destroy.”
“A tall order,” remarked Audley. Everyone looked at him. He had said nothing so far, except to grunt along in agreement with the others.
“You’re a good judge of fighting men,” said Robert. “How do you rate our enemies?”
Audley thought for a moment. He stared at the floor and rubbed his fingertips together, a gesture Robert found strangely irritating.
“Edmund and Henry Lacy,” Audley said at last, “are competent soldiers. Nothing special. They will do everything we might expect, and nothing that we don’t. Reynold Grey, now...”
His shrewd eyes narrowed. “Grey is different. Grey is exceptional. The one man we ought to fear. I followed the course of his career in the recent wars. The old king had no better captain of light horse in his service, save Roger Leyburn and perhaps the Lord Edward.”
Audley smiled thinly and put a hand over his mouth. “Apologies. King Edward, I should say. Leyburn is dead, thank the Lord, and as for the lord king...well, who knows? There has been no word from the Holy Land for months.”
“If the king returns, it is over,” Warenne declare gruffly. “I will not bear arms against my liege. No man shall accuse me of treason.”
Clare gave a nasty snigger. “But you will bear arms against your liege’s followers. Spare us your hypocrisy, William. It is treason all the same.”
Warenne gave him another furious look, and half-rose from his seat. “I am no traitor!” he bellowed. “I shed my blood for the king in the last conflict, and would do so again – where were you, my lord Clare, when battle was joined at Lewes?”
The red-haired earl burst out laughing, and Warenne’s hand went for his dagger. Robert hurriedly put himself between them. In his rage, Warenne was quite capable of murder. He had done so before, at Windsor, in the late King Henry’s very presence.
The Hooded Men Page 8
