“You will not hang,” said the other. “At least, not yet. You have my word on that.”
“Whose word?” Roger demanded.
“That of Reynold Grey, High Sheriff of Nottingham, Derby and the Royal Forests north of Trent. I have been sent to clean up the Midlands.”
Grey’s face grew even sterner. He pointed at the ground. “Drop your sword, Godberd, or I will give you to the mob. You have my word on that also. I am a man of my word.”
There was steel in his voice. Roger looked into those true-blue eyes, and made his choice.
His sword clattered on the cobbles.
14.
The ambush was sprung at Wentbridge between Pontefract and Doncaster. A party of twelve pilgrims, on their way to worship at York minster, attacked as they straggled across the ford in single file. Seven owere shot down by archers hiding among the trees. The rest tried to gallop to safety, but the road ahead was blocked by a fallen beech.
Hugh watched grimly as the surviving horsemen reined in. They bunched together and drew their swords as the outlaws moved out of the woods to surround them.
He knew what came next. The King of the North Wind was watching from a stony ridge, high above the roadside. Hugh was required to prove himself.
“We won’t surrender,” barked one of the horsemen. “Not to vermin like you. Thieves and cutpurses, who lurk in the greenwood like foxes, preying on the weak. Cowards, the lot of you.”
You talk too much, my friend, Hugh thought wearily. Now might be a good time to stop.
Several of the bowmen, all in green mantles and tunics, notched arrows to their bows. The horseman had the good sense to fall silent before he was shot from the saddle. He and his companions waited in nervous silence.
Hugh made a quick study of them. Wealthy citizens, fleshy and well fed, mounted on good horses. Their plain clothes were of fine quality lambswool and leather. He reckoned they had dressed soberly to escape the attention of highway robbers. Clever, but not clever enough.
He judged the one who threw defiance to be a knight. The man was in late middle age, just starting to run to fat, but still strong and active. He had the broad shoulders and powerful build of a fighting man, and kept his seat gracefully in the saddle. His companions, on the other hand, were overweight, pasty-faced men who clearly took little exercise.
One had wet himself in terror. A stream of urine flowed down the inside of his flabby thighs, darkened the flanks of his horse and dripped onto the road.
“Get off your horses,” shouted one of the hooded men. “Then strip to your drawers. We’ll have your beasts, clothes and purses, and those fine swords and daggers. You may carry on your pilgrimage to York on foot.”
“Just like Saul on his way to Damascus,” sniggered another. Some of his mates laughed.
Four of the horsemen quickly dismounted and started to tear off their clothing. Only one disobeyed. This, predictably, was the fighter.
“You may have my sword,” he said in a voice of flat calm. “When you prise it from my cold, dead fingers. Not before.”
“Done,” shrugged the first archer. He and six others bent their bows to shoot the rider down.
Hugh stepped out of the forest. “Wait!” he cried. “This is a brave man. Let’s give him a chance to die bravely.”
The archers lowered their weapons. They watched Hugh as he approached the lone horseman.
“You’re a knight,” he said, taking the bridle. “On pilgrimage to atone for his sins in war. Am I right?”
The other’s face was pale and set, still handsome despite his years, with a forked iron-grey beard and closely cropped hair. His eyes were full of arrogant contempt as they glared down at Hugh.
“I don’t exchange pleasantries with thieves,” he spat. “My name and history are no concern of yours, Frenchman.”
Hugh sighed, and patted the horse’s muzzle. She was a dappled grey courser, almost as fine as his own animal.
“I had hoped for more courtesy,” he said. “I could have let these bowmen shoot you down like a dog, and sent you to meet your ancestors with shame. They were all knights, I expect, valiant fighting soldiers who shed their blood in France and the Holy Land, Sicily and Wales. Wherever the Normans have borne arms. Many of them died in battle, face to the foe, sword in hand. So should you.”
He stepped back and slowly drew his blade. “Light down, sir knight, and die with honour.”
It was a chivalrous speech, deliberately calculated to impress the King of the North Wind. Hugh was no knight, didn’t have a drop of noble blood in his veins, but he had listened to plenty of chansons at court. The Song of Roland and The Song of the Cid, even home-grown ballads such as The Song of the Barons. He knew how gentlemen of breeding issued formal challenges to single combat.
If only Richard could see me now, he thought wryly. The boy would be amazed to see his cynical, low-born master aping his betters.
Even the horseman looked impressed. “Very well. I agree to fight you,” he said condescendingly. “If I win, your friends will let me go unharmed. A fair exchange?”
“A fair exchange,” said Hugh. He was in no position to make promises, but to hell with it. If he lost, he would be dead anyway.
The horseman slid down from his horse with supple grace. “Since we are to fight, I will tell you my name,” he said. “Sir Stephen d’Eyvill of Cundall.”
Hugh’s blood ran cold. Another of the hellspawn d’Eyvill clan! Was there no end to them? They bred like rats. It was impossible to walk ten paces in the north country without stumbling over the bastards.
He mentally recited the manors held by the family, scattered all over England north of Trent. Cundall was in east Yorkshire and held by Nicholas d’Eyvill, the Beast, worst of all his foul kin. Hugh had ridden in his company once, a pack of utterly degenerate thieves and rapists, and would never forget the experience.
This Stephen would be close kin to the Beast, maybe even a brother. He had a similar powerful build, though his features were sharp and refined, without the Beast’s coarseness.
“I am Pierrot of Orthez,” said Hugh. “I am no Frenchman, but a squire of Gascony.”
“My apologies,” replied Stephen with a polite duck of the head.
The two men held their swords upright in mutual salute, and the fight began. As was his habit, Hugh fought on the defensive at first to gauge his opponent. The other man was big and strong, but out of condition. He relied on brute strength over skill and quickly blew himself out. Soon he started to puff like a winded bull.
Hugh spared his breath. When he was certain Stephen wasn’t shamming, he went on the attack. His opponent was forced backwards, sweat pouring down his face as he laboured to defend himself. Stephen was slow, and grew slower as the fight went on.
At last, with a desperate cry of “Dex Aie!” he aimed a double-handed cut at Hugh’s head. Hugh sidestepped, darted forward and stabbed Stephen in the chest.
It was a clean strike. The big man swayed for a moment, holding the blade that had impaled him with his left hand. He looked down, blinking, at the blood soaking into the grey wool of his tunic.
Stephen sagged to his knees. His sword dropped to the ground. He pressed both hands against the great wound in his chest, then held out his bloody palms towards Hugh.
“My kin will avenge me,” he whispered. The old knight fell onto his face. He twitched and jerked in death-spasm. Went still.
None of the outlaws cheered. Hugh – or rather, Pierrot of Orthez – was still an unknown quantity to them. He understood. Why should they trust some mysterious Gascon mercenary?
Hugh gazed bleakly at his victim’s corpse. He had killed a man for the sake of deception. Granted, the man in question was a d’Eyvill, and Hugh had no reason to pity any member of that family.
If only it was Sir John who lay before me, he thought. Or his brother Robert, or the Beast. I know nothing of Stephen d’Eyvill, for good or ill.
Still, he had to play his role. Pierrot was a
hardened killer who regarded life as cheap. He cared no more for slaying his fellow man than swatting a fly.
He turned Stephen’s body over with his boot and yanked his sword from the dead man’s chest. Then he winked at the cringing merchants, who stood virtually naked in their grubby drawers, pale and trembling. The one who had pissed himself sobbed openly like a frightened child.
“Not a bad fight,” Hugh remarked carelessly. “And he has a decent pair of boots. Let’s see if they fit me.”
He tossed away his sword and started to drag off Stephen’s boots. They were of costly black leather and very fine quality. Whistling cheerfully, Hugh kicked off his own stained and cracked pair and tried on the dead man’s for size. To his disgust, they were a perfect fit.
Hugh was aware of the jingle of harness from above. He ignored it, even as the hooded men all around him knelt and bowed their heads.
“Pierrot.”
The shadow of a massive knight on horseback fell across him. Still whistling, Hugh glanced up.
He had to admit the King of the North Wind was impressive to look at. He wore a dark green jupon with no device, the same on his shield, and a green scarf wound about the top of his polished steel helm. The padded barding of his destrier was the same colour, as were his gauntlets and the scabbard of his broadsword.
Dark green and silver steel; a striking combination. The King also called himself The Green Knight, and his men encouraged the local peasantry to think their master was not entirely human. They moved in disguise among taverns and villages, talking in hushed tones of a demonic forest sprite, a knight from Hell, who rode the wind and could not be slain by mortal weapons.
Hugh knew his true identity. He had recognised him the moment they met. The King was Sir James Chandos, a knight of the Ferrers household, very much flesh and blood.
Fortunately, Chandos had not recognised Hugh. Nor did he have much reason to. Hugh had only seen him once before, among the prisoners after the battle of Chesterfield. Hugh, on the other hand, had a superb memory for names and faces; Chandos looked much the same after five years – vain of his undeniably good looks, well-muscled and athletic, with long flowing golden locks and a drooping yellow moustache.
Chandos was also every bit as vicious as his master, Earl Ferrers. He took off his helm and looked down at the body of Stephen d’Eyvill with an approving smile.
“You did well, Gascon,” he said. “Congratulations. You’re one of us now.”
Hugh gave an offhand nod and continued to try on his new boots. Inwardly he longed to pull Chandos off his horse and dash the man’s brains out. Patience, he told himself. The day would come when he watched The Green Knight and all his followers hanged on trees.
“What shall we do with these, lord?” asked one of the hooded men. He jerked his thumb at the shivering merchants. One of them got down on his knees and clasped his hands together as if in prayer.
“Mercy,” he begged. “Think of your souls. We are pilgrims! To slay men on pilgrimage is an offence against God.”
“True,” said Chandos. “I cannot fault your logic. But you have seen my face, and I cannot risk you spreading tales that the King of the North Wind is just a man, like any other.”
Sadistic bastard, thought Hugh. He deliberately took his helm off, to give himself an excuse for killing them.
The deed was done. At a word from Chandos, six of the hooded men drew their knives and advanced upon the defenceless pilgrims. Hugh forced himself to watch as they were butchered like sheep, crying for mercy until their throats were slashed. At least it was quick. Chandos’s followers were practised killers, and within moments five pale, fat bodies lay in a sea of blood.
Afterwards the company made its way back to Tickhill, singing cheerfully as they marched in loose order along the highway. Outlaws usually kept to the woods, but these men had no fear of the law. Hugh kept to the rear, burning with shame and anger. Where in hells was the Sheriff? Skulking at York, presumably, too afraid to do his duty. It was the same story all over England. Justice was a bad joke, and criminals performed their evil deeds in broad daylight.
Soon they reached Tickhill castle, once a royal stronghold, now a den of thieves. Montfortian rebels had fired the place during the war and razed much of the old earth and timber castle. Chandos’s men had partially rebuilt the palisade round the bailey and the keep on top of the motte, itself built on a knoll of sandstone. There were still wide gaps in the inadequate fence of turf and stakes. No effort had been made to clear the ditch outside of overgrown weeds and brambles and bits of charred timber. Inside the bailey, a few rude huts were thrown up in place of outbuildings destroyed in the fire.
This was a temporary camp rather than a fortress. Hugh learnt that much from listening to his new comrades talk at night round the supper fires. Chandos had been sent to spread terror and soften up local resistance before the war proper started. As Burnell feared, Earl Ferrers had plenty of supporters in the north country.
There was a steady flow of riders to and from Tickhill, and Hugh would have given much to read the sealed letters Chandos received. How many of the northern barons had joined the rebellion?
If only I could get some names, he thought. Some solid proof of treason to take back to London. That might be enough to redeem him in Burnell’s eyes, and – more importantly – King Edward’s.
When the king returns, he reminded himself. If Edward had landed on English soil, no word of it reached the north. Every day that passed, the confidence of the rebels grew. Chandos sent his men out on increasingly wide-ranging forays, into North Yorkshire and Holderness, even Cumbria.
Hugh rode on some of these expeditions, forced to play his role in the grim work of burning settlements and stealing goods and livestock. His comrades picked soft targets, isolated farmsteads, defenceless churches and the like. They murdered and burnt and raped their way across the northern counties, laughed at Pierrot of Orthez when he refused to join in.
Hugh pretended his character was too proud to get his hands dirty. “In my homeland,” he explained, inventing wildly, “men of gentle birth do not taint their swords with the blood of peasants, much less defile them. The very thought of it disgusts me. Serfs are pigs. What kind of man lies with a pig?”
This annoyed one of his comrades. “I’m a serf,” he growled. “And as good a man as you, Gascon.”
Hugh looked down his nose at him. “Indeed?” he replied haughtily. “What was your father, pray?”
“A swineherd,” came the reply.
“Ah! Then you prove my point. You’re the son of a man who lay with pigs.”
The man coloured, even as his mates snorted with laughter, and reached for his dagger. Hugh held his gaze. After a long moment the other dropped his hand and moved away, muttering to himself.
Hugh breathed again. The outlaws had all seen him fight, and none wished to share the fate of Stephen d’Eyvill. Even so he was careful to sleep with one eye open. He was already making enemies, and the hooded men would be more than happy to stick a knife in him one dark night.
Fortunately, events moved quickly. He had not been a month with Chandos before the broken arrow came to Tickhill. This was the signal for war. The hooded men marched out of the ruined castle the same day and advanced north towards Doncaster, where the town was held fast against them. The banners of King Edward fled from the walls, and the mayor refused a formal demand to surrender.
Chandos was enraged. “Tell him we shall storm his town in a single day,” he shouted at his messenger, “and leave it a pile of bones and ashes! Tell him the King of the North Wind shall not leave a single dog alive!”
The mayor and his fellow citizens treated these empty threats with scorn. Hugh was encouraged by their defiance. There was a flicker of loyalty left in the north. Chandos had made his first mistake. He had no siege equipment, and relied on the terror of his reputation to open the gates of Doncaster. Instead his men were forced to march past and endure the hoots and insults of the citizens.
“The country folk fear us,” remarked one of the archers in front of Hugh. “But the towns don’t.”
“Aye,” replied his mate, staring grimly at the earthen ramparts of Doncaster. “They’re not fool enough to believe in tales of forest demons and green knights. We should be marching south, not north. No wonder they jeer at us. It looks like we’re running away.”
The same thought had occurred to Hugh. He had learned enough at Tickhill to know the main centres of revolt were in the Midlands and the west. Chandos ought to be marching to link up with one of his allies, either Ferrers himself or one of the great earls said to have joined the revolt.
Chandos is hiding something, he decided.
Hugh’s spirits rose. Perhaps the king had returned after all, or the rebels in the south had suffered a defeat. As they drew further away from Doncaster, Chandos insisted on quickening the pace. His men were in good condition, but still grumbled as they force-marched through sweltering July heat. They had expected a quick war with plenty of rich rewards at the end of it. Instead they were fleeing north with their tails between their legs.
The highway wound onto the high hills and gaunt, windswept dales of North Yorkshire. D’Eyvill country. Hugh looked about him nervously, half-expecting the dreaded Sir John to leap out from behind every tree and drystone wall. This was a starkly beautiful part of England, but he could take little pleasure in it. The shadow of his past hung too heavy.
With a sense of dread, he realised they were moving straight towards Kilburn and Hode Castle, Sir John’s northern stronghold. Chandos was not blindly running away after all. He meant to join forces with the d’Eyvill clan, who had doubtless thrown in their lot with the rebels.
As he marched, Hugh looked frequently over his shoulder for any sign of pursuit. He longed to hear the thunder of hoofs, catch a glimpse of the royal standard over the tops. Both stubbornly failed to materialise. If the king’s men had given chase, they were taking their sweet time about it.
The Hooded Men Page 16
