The Hooded Men

by David Pilling

  John looked round the hall. Except for himself and his brother, it was deserted. Yet shadows lurked in the corners, and John was ever suspicious of prying ears.

  He leaned over the table and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Perhaps it is time to accept the earl’s offer,” he murmured. “Ferrers is not the fool he was. He has learned some hard lessons.”

  Robert looked wary. “It is treason,” he murmured over the rim of his cup. “Mind that, John. We were fortunate enough to survive the last war. Do you truly think Edward would forgive us? Remember Evesham.”

  His brother needed no reminding. None of his family had fought at Evesham, where Simon de Montfort and his exhausted, dysentery-riddled army met their doom. No quarter was shown. Under stormy skies, with rain lashing down in torrents, Earl Simon and his knights had been hacked to pieces. The earl himself was horribly mutilated, the limbs cut from his living body, his manhood chopped away, balls hung either side of his nose. It was said that Edward wept afterwards, though few doubted all was done on his orders.

  “Also bear in mind the feud between Edward and Ferrers,” Robert added. “They have loathed each other since they were boys. Ferrers says he only wants to recover the lands that were unjustly taken from him. Horseshit. I never knew a man so driven by hate. Ferrers wants Edward’s head on a platter. To drown the kingdom in blood, simply out of spite.”

  John mulled this over. He wasn’t too proud to listen to advice, and Robert had inherited the family brain.

  “We must do what is best for us,” John said slowly. “Always. We’re not powerful enough to decide our own fate, so my task is to choose which of the great powers to follow. You say Earl Ferrers is driven by revenge. That is true. But he has gathered some friends to his banner. His envoy told me that Clare and Warenne signed a compact with him at Chartley. A bond of mutual aid. James Audley as well.”

  This shook Robert a little. He put down his cup and rubbed his unshaven jaw, a sign of deep thought.

  “It will mean open war,” he said at last. “The two sides will be evenly matched. I wouldn’t like to lay odds on a winner.”

  “Which way do we jump?” asked John. “Ferrers has asked politely for our support. The next time it will be a summons. If we refuse and he emerges the victor, our family is doomed. He has destroyed men for failing to obey him in the past. I won’t live to see our castles thrown down, bondsmen slaughtered, good land burnt to ash. On the other hand...”

  “On the other hand,” said Robert, “if he loses, and King Edward returns to claim his own, our heads will be spiked over the Tower.”

  There was another long moment of silence. John tried not to look anxious as he waited for his brother to think of an answer. He had wracked his own brain for days over the problem, ever since the departure of Ferrers’s accursed envoy, and come up with nothing useful.

  His family were poised on a knife-edge. As punishment for their crimes, the late king had loaded them down with debt. This was a way of ensuring the d’Eyvills could never stir up another rebellion. Without money they could not raise soldiers, buy armour and equipment or stock castles against siege.

  His brother Robert was still an outlaw. Most of the family had received the king’s pardon after the last war, for a price, but Robert was too poor to buy himself out of trouble. He had every summer in the years since dwelling in the forests of Sherwood and Barnsdale, along with those men who chose to stay with him. Over the winter months he took shelter with kinsmen and well-wishers. Nobody save the most desperate or friendless spent the cold seasons, when the River Trent itself turned to ice, living out of doors.

  Robin of Hode, he called himself, after the pet name of his childhood and his family castle on the windswept heights of Hode Hill. Minstrels had started to compose ballads of his deeds, most of them exaggerated. They shortened his name to Robin Hode and called him the poor man’s friend.

  He cannot spend the rest of his days in the greenwood, thought John. He cared for Robert, in his gruff way, and closer inspection revealed signs of wear. Under the permanent tan his brother’s face was lined and weathered. There was a tiredness about his eyes. The life of a hunted animal in the forest was taking its toll.

  Finally Robert surfaced from his thoughts. “We must play both sides,” he said, “and not commit ourselves too deeply. Like this.”

  He grabbed a hunk of bread, tore it in three and placed the larger pieces opposite each other. “Here is the royal army, and here is the army of Earl Ferrers. Drawn up to face each other in open battle.”

  “Do you think it will come to that?” John asked doubtfully. Pitched battles were rare. No soldier with a grain of sense wanted to fight in one. They were wasteful, unpredictable and almost never decisive, which meant a lot of men died for nothing. Even the bloodbath of Evesham, in which one side was virtually wiped out, failed to put an end to the war in England.

  “Perhaps,” answered Robert. “Ferrers might look to risk all in a single engagement before the momentum of his revolt starts to falter. Before King Edward returns, bringing the army of the Holy Land with him.”

  “So,” he went on, tapping his bits of bread. “Here we have the two armies. We are here.”

  He picked up the third and smallest piece and placed it away from the others. “We wait on the sidelines,” he explained. “Stay aloof for as long as possible, and join in the winning side.”

  John nodded his agreement. This made sound practical sense. It was also in the tradition of the family.

  “What if Ferrers sends a formal summons?” he asked.

  “Answer it,” said Robert. “Raise your tenants to arms and march to join him. Make a great show of loyalty. But hang back. When – if – it comes to battle, stay in the rear.”

  He gave his elder brother a knowing smile. “Come, John, I don’t need to tell you all this. We know how to play the game. Play it well, and we may yet sweep the board.”

  John’s mood was lifted. For the first time in months, he could see a shaft of light at the end of a very long and dark road. He called for more ale and turned the conversation to other matters.

  “What of our dear niece?” he enquired after they had drunk to each other’s health. “Has the vinegar-faced bitch agreed to give up those manors yet?”

  “Not yet,” Robert said regretfully. “Clemence is stubborn. I’ve hit her lands time and again, taken cattle, burnt crops in the fields, cut up her soldiers. It doesn’t make any difference. The blasted woman scorns every demand. The last time I sent an envoy to Egmanton, she cut off his right hand and hung it round his neck.”

  This was sour news, but not unexpected. John had sent his brother into Sherwood to carry on the feud against their niece, Lady Clemence, and persuade her to surrender the manors of Egmanton and Baildon. So far all of Robert’s efforts at persuasion, whether by force or diplomacy, had fallen on stony ground.

  “She has appealed to the council in London, you know,” Robert added. “That was the second reason I came to see you.”

  He looked uncomfortable, and a blush rose to his sallow cheeks. “Go on,” said John, a little nervous. It wasn’t like Robert to lose his composure.

  “Burnell sent two men to Egmanton. Some of my lads posted along the Great North Road tried to waylay them, and got a bloody nose for their efforts.”

  He paused a moment and chewed his lower lip. “Stop dragging it out, Robin,” John snarled impatiently. “What’s so special about Burnell’s lackeys?”

  “One of them is an old friend,” said Robert. “Hugh Longsword. You may recall the man. He took Earl Ferrers prisoner at Chesterfield, and crossed swords with me, here, outside this very hall.”

  John hadn’t thought of Longsword for years. “I remember well enough. You had some rivalry with him over that Jewess. The last I heard, he had gone off to the Holy Land with the Lord Edward.”

  “Just so. Well, he has returned before his master. My man Littiljohn confirmed it. When the men of Ferrers raided Nottingham, Longsword was among
the defenders. He fought Littiljohn and managed to draw blood.”

  “So that’s why the brute walks with a limp,” said John. “Not so invincible after all, eh?”

  “Perhaps not,” replied Robert. “Littiljohn spared the man’s life, just as I did. They have fought twice now. The last time was in York, during the time of the Alnwick affair.”

  “Ah, yes,” John grunted. “All that business with a silver shoe and Earl Simon’s foot. Baron Vescy made a damned fool of himself. He’s a proper little royalist now, of course.”

  He looked narrowly at his brother. “As for this nuisance, Longsword. You and your men have had three opportunities to kill him. He is still alive. Why?”

  Most unusually, Robert looked embarrassed. “I let him live because he was brave. He didn’t know how to use a sword, and yet challenged me to single combat, all for the sake of a woman we both loved.

  “I never did find the Jewess,” he added wistfully. “I would give much, just to see her again. Speak with her.”

  John rolled his eyes. Robert was ever soft-hearted, probably a result of listening to too many courtly romances when they were young.

  “And Littiljohn?” he demanded. “Presumably he isn’t in love with the blasted Jewess as well.”

  “Littiljohn follows orders,” Robert replied with a hint of annoyance. “He remembered that I spared Longsword’s life and won’t kill the man unless I tell him to.”

  John made the sign of the cross. Something about Master Longsword made him nervous. The man led a charmed life.

  “I want him dead,” he said firmly. “As quickly as possible. Three times he has escaped us. There won’t be a fourth. Understood?”

  John spoke in a tone of command, and nobody ever disobeyed him to his face. Robert nodded in silent assent.

  “Good. Littiljohn aside, who’s your best man for the job?”

  “Will Scarlet. A born killer, that one. He’s from the mountains of Wicklow in Ireland. Spent his youth working as a head-taker for the government in Dublin. He was paid a bounty of twopence per head, fourpence if the head belonged to an especially wanted criminal.”

  John grimaced in distaste. “God’s nails, you have some right savages in your company. Very well, set your dogs on Longsword. Twopence a head in Ireland, was it? We can do better than that. Tell Littiljohn and Scarlet their bounty for Longsword’s head is twenty shillings apiece.”

  Robert laughed out loud. “Twenty shillings! That’s more than an archer could hope to earn in two years. Have you taken leave of your senses, brother, or discovered a pot of gold under the keep?”

  “No,” John said grimly. “I believe in payment for services rendered. Master Longsword is a threat, and one we should have dealt with years ago.”

  He looked hard at his brother. “I blame you for the mistake. Now you have a chance to redeem yourself. Don’t fail me again, Robin Hode.”

  Robert tried to look unconcerned, but John wasn’t fooled. He knows what kind of man I am, thought John. He knows I am without mercy, even to my own kin.

  10.

  Chalon-Sur-Marne, France

  “They are gambling on your lives,” said Eleanor. “On your horses and gear, and the lives of your men. The pigs think they will win all tomorrow.”

  Her voice, tinged with the heavy accent of her native Castile, was full of anger.

  “Good,” replied Edward. “Let them drink and dice all night. Only a fool rides into the lists with a hangover.”

  He tried to sound careless. In his heart Edward was troubled. Knights and men-at-arms had been pouring into the town of Chalon for the past three days. They came from all over France or even farther afield, to join the party of the Comte d'Chalon.

  The Comte was his opponent. Not for the first time, Edward wondered if he should have refused the challenge to tourney against the Frenchman and his knights. Nobody could have blamed him if he did. Thanks to his exploits in the Holy Land, Edward’s reputation had soared. All over Christendom, from Cyprus to Aquitaine, his name rang like a trumpet. French and Aragonese minstrels composed martial ballads in honour, hailed him as the best lance in all the world.

  Such a reputation came with a price. Nobody would have dared to call Edward a coward if he refused to fight the Comte; a pilgrim who risked his life on crusade, in the holiest cause of all, had no need to prove his courage. Nobody, that is, save Edward himself.

  Damn my pride, he thought, staring gloomily at his reflection in a steel helm. His face, distorted by the brightly polished metal, was long and thin and pale. So was the rest of him. The long voyage from Acre to Italy, followed by an equally difficult trek across the Alps into France, had taken its toll. His wounds were taking a long time to heal, and on occasion he had been forced to the indignity of being carried in a litter. Edward could ride and fight again now, but lived in fear of his scars cracking open.

  He knew his pride had gotten the better of him. Again. Edward wasn’t some penniless knight-errant, free to spend his time on quests and tournaments. He was the King of England, with massive responsibilities. The entire fate of a kingdom rested on his shoulders. If he had any sense, he should have laughed at the Comte d'Chalon’s vain challenge and sped home as quickly as possible.

  Guilt gnawed at him. He had no idea of the state of England. Not a word had reached him from home since the news of King Henry’s death the previous November. Like his father, Edward was easily moved to tears, and wept like a little child over the old man’s passing. Whatever their differences, father and son had loved each other deeply.

  A man may have many sons, Edward thought gloomily. But only one father.

  Eleanor paced about the tent. Usually a picture of calm, she was nervous and agitated on his behalf. She wore a nightgown of pale blue silk and kept fiddling with one of her long black tresses, unbound from their linen coif. Every so often she would glance outside, as if expecting masked killers to burst in at any moment.

  Edward pitied her. She had been this way since Acre, and the failed assassination attempt that left five permanent knife-scars in her husband’s flesh. There was little he could say or do to reassure her.

  “Please be still,” he said softly, reaching for her hand. “This is not Outremer. There are no assassins lurking in the hedgerows. The Comte means to humiliate me in broad daylight, in front of an audience, not sink a knife in my back.”

  Mention of knives made his ribs twinge. He grimaced and shifted again. The dagger that pierced his flesh had been tipped with poison. How much of the stuff was still swilling about his body?

  Perhaps the sultan’s assassin had succeeded after all. Perhaps Edward was condemned to a slow death, over years or even decades, as the poison seeped into his organs. His brain. His soul. Eventually it would drive him insane, as he rotted from the inside out.

  Cold sweat beaded on his forehead. Christ help me. I would not be mad. Give me a clean death in battle or the tourney field, but not that. Never that.

  Edward thought of the band of lepers he had passed on the highway a few days earlier. Poor doomed wretches, in white robes and cowls to hide their diseased faces, ringing little bells to warn the healthy of their approach. Edward had tossed them some coins and then spurred his horse into a gallop. His pity for lepers was mixed with terror and loathing. The mere thought of such physical decay made him sick. Nor did God spare the great: there had once been a leper-king of Jerusalem.

  Eleanor’s voice intruded on his dark thoughts. “Listen to them,” she murmured. “Listen to them mocking us.”

  Edward, seated on a pallet bed, glanced out of the pavilion. Beyond the stockade, where his little army had pitched camp outside Chalon, the sound of laughter and singing drifted on the gentle night breeze. The noise was mixed with drums, pipes and the occasional squeal of a trumpet.

  It was well past midnight, yet the carnival atmosphere showed no sign of fading. Lights blazed inside the castle, and in the streets of the town below. The Comte and his knights were lodged in the castle, or b
illeted in the town. Every tavern, hotel and wine-shop was doing a roaring trade. Why stop now? The constant flow of money was worth the loss of a few hours’ sleep.

  “The Comte means to humiliate you,” Eleanor said angrily. “He’s a jumped-up, arrogant little turd looking to make a name for himself. What better way than taking the King of England prisoner in a tournament?”

  She looked out again at the castle. “By my reckoning, the French will outnumber your knights at least two to one, maybe more. The Comte must have sent out the invites before he issued the challenge. We’ve sleepwalked straight into his trap.”

  “Thank you, my love,” Edward said drily. “I can always rely on you for straight talk.”

  He got to his feet, wincing again as pain shot through his left armpit, where the assassin’s dagger had slid into his flesh.

  Edward placed a hand on his wife’s delicate shoulder. “Peace. Why should we fear a parcel of dainty French knights? It matters not if they outnumber us twenty to one. We survived the Holy Land. We defied Sultan Baibars to his face, the Father of Conquest, and all his host of Mamluks, the fiercest fighters on earth. Do not fear the Comte d’Chalon or his treacherous friends. It is they who fear us.”

  He tugged aside the collar of his tunic. “Remember. So long as I wear this, I cannot be defeated or taken.”

  Around his neck Edward wore a tiny silver casket on a chain. Inside the casket was the tooth of a saint, a holy relic brought back from the Holy Land. The bishop who gave him the relic claimed it protected the wearer from harm in battle. As a fiercely devout man, Edward never questioned the power of relics.

  Eleanor’s answering smile was brittle. “What of your knights? Will the saint protect them as well?”

  “I am sure of it,” said Edward, and kissed her full on the mouth.

  * * *

  The tournament was due to begin at mid-morning. Edward and his followers spent the small hours before dawn in prayer, then armed and breakfasted. Every one of them took the sacrament and confessed his sins. Tourneys were dangerous. Injuries or even death were commonplace. A knight could fall from his horse and have his brains trampled out, suffer crushed and broken bones, or be crippled for life.