Longsword

by David Pilling

He padded towards the troop of knights, silently praying they wouldn't notice a mere infantryman.

  His luck held. Henry and his captains were engrossed in the battle, and Hugh was able to creep within earshot.

  “...alive, if possible, ” he overheard Henry bark in a high, nasally voice. “My uncle wants Ferrers taken alive. Send riders to hunt for d'Eyvill and his crew. They must be prowling about somewhere. Why take one stag when you can have a brace?”

  His knights laughed. A troop of gallopers were despatched, one of whom almost rode down Hugh. He wiped spots of earth from his face and cautiously approached Lord Henry.

  “Milord,” he ventured. “I saw d'Eyvill not moments ago. He has fled the field and gone north.”

  Startled, Henry glanced down at Hugh. His expression was that of a man who had unexpectedly stepped on a slug, and a talking slug at that.

  “Indeed, fellow?” he rasped, “and where did you see him, pray?”

  Hugh jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Beyond the hillside, milord. He had a dozen or so lances with him. They will be far away by now.”

  Henry’s eyes narrowed. “Behind us, eh? How very like the man. We shall have to trap him later. For now, there is work to do here.”

  He turned back to his knights. “Crossbows!” the tall lordling barked. “Slay those fools who continue to defy us, and let us be done with this business.”

  The Gascons swung into action with impressive discipline. At the sound of a horn, they shouldered their crossbows and marched confidently down the hill. Hugh watched them flow past. When the last file had gone by, he jogged after them, eager to be in at the kill.

  Fighting still raged outside Chesterfield’s southern gate. There was a lull when trumpets screamed out their song, and the royalist horse turned and cantered back to their own lines. The rebels, a handful of bloody and battered survivors, were left exposed.

  The Gascons halted to load their weapons. This was awkward and time-consuming. Each man placed his foot into the metal stirrup at the front, drew the string into a belt-mounted hook and straightened, drawing the string into position.

  There was a moment of breathless silence as the crossbowmen knelt in three ranks and took aim. Then:

  “Loose!”

  A hail of bolts streaked towards the rebel lines. Hugh winced at the impact. The stubby, powerful darts punched through shields and mail, stuck into flesh and joints and eyes. Men went down, screaming in agony. Others dropped soundlessly into the mud.

  Two more lethal volleys followed. Those rebels still on their feet, less than two score now, chanted defiant war-cries.

  “Traitors! Cravens! Come and fight us like men, if you dare!”

  Trumpets sounded. The Gascons stood back, their work done. Again the royalist horse went in, knights and sergeants, and this time were not repelled. The rebels vanished under churning hoofs, splintered lances flew into the air, swords, maxes and axes rose and fell. Soon the last few helpless wretches were beaten to the ground. A few were taken captive, others threw down their weapons and fled for the gates.

  Hugh could have cheered. The king’s army had won, and the north was saved. More importantly, he was alive, with a chance to profit. There were rich men among the rebels, knights and barons who owned manors all over England. Such men were worth a fortune in ransoms.

  The glint of gold filled Hugh’s mind. Gold, and jewels, oceans of silver coin. More money than he could possibly earn in a lifetime of soldiering at twopence a day.

  He set off across the blood-soaked earth to join in the pursuit.

  *

  Royalist soldiers hunted in packs through the streets, searching for rebels to kill or capture. Their defeated enemies had failed to shut the gates when they fled the battle, and now Chesterfield was at the mercy of Henry of Almain’s troops, flushed and hungry for blood. There was little widespread looting: the royalists were under strict orders not to harm the townsfolk. The enemy, though, were fair game.

  Hugh found a dead squire, spreadeagled inside the mouth of a narrow alley between two houses. A broken-off spear was stuck in his chest, and he had probably crawled there to die.

  He also had a decent pair of leather boots. Hugh was dragging one of them off when a shadow fell across him.

  “I know where Earl Ferrers is hiding,” said a soft female voice. “If you like, I can take you to him.”

  He looked up and saw a slender young woman wearing a shawl and a red woollen gown. She was pretty, with delicate cheekbones and sad crystal-green eyes. In her right hand she held a dagger.

  Hugh was suddenly ashamed of himself. Caught in the act of plundering a corpse! He picked himself up, painfully aware of the dead man’s blood on his hands.

  “Get off the streets, girl,” he said urgently. “Find somewhere to hide until all is over. That little knife won’t deter a soldier from raping you.”

  His words had no effect. Again he was struck by the melancholy in her eyes.

  “I can take you to the earl,” she said, “or find someone else. Your choice.”

  The flat calm in her voice was unnerving. He wondered if she was mad, but decided to take the chance.

  “Lead me to him,” he said.

  She took his hand and led him down a maze of deserted alleys. The sound of killing and looting faded into the background. At last they emerged onto a street with a large church at the northern end.

  “The church of St Mary and All Saints,” said the girl, “he took refuge in there.”

  Hugh looked at her doubtfully. Earl Ferrers was said to be proud as well as cruel. Would he really stoop to hiding in a church while his soldiers were massacred?

  “He had no other sanctuary,” she explained, “none of the townspeople would offer refuge to a man who had billeted troops in their houses and forced them to hand over money and food. You will find him under a pile of woolsacks.”

  “Why have you betrayed him?” Hugh asked warily.

  She gave a bitter smile. “My fiancé was one of the few who defied milord Ferrers, when the Earl came to Chesterfield with his army and demanded entrance. Milord hanged him from an oak tree outside the town. His body hangs there still.”

  Hugh’s greed overcame his doubts. He drew his sword and cautiously approached the church. He could almost sense the heat of the girl’s eyes, burning into his back.

  The heavy black door of the church, nailed and timbered, was unlocked. Hugh pushed it open and stepped into the cool, darkened sanctuary of the nave. A big wooden crucifix stood on the altar at the far end. It bore an effigy of Christ writhing in agony. The eyes of the Saviour glared down the length of the nave at Hugh. Watching. Judging.

  Hugh looked around and spotted a great heap of woolsacks stacked against the eastern wall. Some local merchant must have stored his wares in the church, hoping they would be safe from plunder. Perhaps he thought the king’s soldiers would not dare to commit sacrilege.

  Poor, optimistic fool.

  Hugh needed to hear a human voice. “Milord Ferrers,” he said. “Come out. There is no use hiding, milord. You are discovered.”

  His words echoed and died away in the gloom. Hugh gathered his courage and soft-footed towards the woolsacks. He grasped the topmost sack, heaved it onto the floor, reached for another.

  “Curse you!”

  Hugh’s pulse leaped at the sudden, high-pitched yell. He stepped backwards as the layers of woolsacks were thrown aside. A man jumped out and dived at his ankles.

  Hugh fumbled for his dagger, but there was no need. The man had no fight left in him. He clutched at Hugh’s legs and stared up at him with bloodshot eyes.

  “Mercy!” he begged. “I yield. You cannot kill one who has yielded. In the name of Christ and all the Saints, have mercy!”

  “Leave off,” Hugh snarled. “I won’t hurt you unless I have to.”

  He gave the man a kick, who skidded away on his backside over the smooth flagstones.

  Hugh’s spirits rose. The other wore mail, and his surcoat bore
a familiar red and yellow pattern: Hugh had seen it on the pennons fluttering over the gatehouse of Chesterfield.

  “Milord Ferrers,” said Hugh. “I have you now. Yield as my prisoner.”

  He drew his sword and pressed the tip against the fallen knight’s throat. A flash of anger sparked in his eyes. The face inside the mail coif was pale and hawkish, clean-shaven, marked by a livid black bruise swelling on one cheek. The calf of his left leg was tightly bound up with layers of white linen. Fresh blood seeped through the bandages and dripped down his leg.

  Hugh vaguely recalled that the Earl of Derby suffered from gout. This man had recently been bled, a common treatment for the illness.

  “I am Robert de Ferrers, sixth Earl of Derby,” the man said with a trace of dignity, “and will only yield to a fellow knight. Your name, fellow.”

  Hugh bridled at being spoken to like a servant. “I am Hugh Longsword of Southwark, a common sergeant,” he replied coldly. “No more a knight than you are an emperor, milord. Yet you will surrender to me, here and now, or I’ll cut your throat and leave you to bleed.”

  Ferrers bared his teeth. “Shed blood in a church? You would commit murder on holy ground? Think of your soul!”

  Hugh smiled at the desperation in the earl’s voice. “How many churches and abbeys have you desecrated, milord?” he asked mockingly. “I’ll happily send you to the Devil, and answer for my soul’s price when the time comes.”

  He pricked the earl’s throat slightly, drawing a bead of blood. Ferrers jerked, and shot Hugh a glare of pure hatred.

  “Very well,” he said after a long moment, “I yield me as your prisoner. But I will have my revenge on you, Hugh Longsword of Southwark.”

  He smiled mirthlessly. “When the time comes.”

  4.

  Alton Pass, Hampshire, 20th May

  The grim state of England continued to be reflected in the foulness of its weather. Wars raged up and down the land, while endless rain tipped onto the helmeted heads of the soldiers who had to fight them.

  One such drenched troop of horsemen rode into the deep forests of Hampshire. It was dawn, and a pale sun laboured across waterlogged skies. Hot on the trail of a band of outlaws, they had set out along the highway towards Alton Pass, on the main route from London to Southampton. The pursuit soon led them off the road and deep into the wooded hills of Hampshire.

  The sergeants were led by a mounted knight, massive on his white destrier. This was Edward Plantagenet, heir to the throne. A head taller than most men, his long legs dangled over the flanks of horse. Wary of snipers in the woods, he rode in full armour, faceless in his great helm. A naked broadsword glimmered in his hand, while his left flank was covered by a heater shield, emblazoned with the golden pards of Anjou.

  At his side rode a smaller figure on a chestnut pony. This was their guide. He looked anxiously about him at the trees, as if expecting an ambush any moment.

  The guide raised his left hand. The signal was pre-arranged, and the troop of riders clattered to a halt.

  “There, milord,” the little man hissed, pointing straight ahead. Before them stretched a clearing, man-made from the look of it.

  Edward’s heart beat faster. The far end of the clearing was blocked by a row of timber barricades. He quelled his excitement and studied them with a calm soldier’s eye. They were made of tree trunks, crudely spliced together with rope. A rough breastwork, but strong.

  “Beyond lies Sir Adam’s camp,” said the guide, in the same low voice. “They won’t expect us, milord. The wretches will be as stubble to your swords.”

  Edward glanced at the man in contempt. He despised traitors, though on occasion made use of them. The guide, whose name was Robert Chadde, was one such useful turncoat. Once an outlaw himself, he had come to Edward’s court at Windsor and offered to betray his companions in exchange for a pardon and a handful of silver.

  I would see this man’s head on a pike, Edward thought angrily. Yet he had given his word, and Chadde’s head would remain on his shoulders.

  Much was at stake. News of his cousin Henry of Almain’s victory at Chesterfield had reached Windsor three days previously. Now the rebels north of the Trent were scattered, Edward’s task was to crush the rebels in the southeast. For months a band of roving outlaws under a rebel knight, Sir Adam de Gurdon, had plagued the highways and forests of Hampshire, preying on travellers along the coast roads. For the sake of the kingdom, he had to be dealt with.

  Not only for the kingdom’s sake, but Edward’s reputation. He had no intention of being outshone by cousin Henry, his rival since their days in the royal nursery.

  Speed, Edward’s favourite weapon, was vital. He swung about to address his soldiers. “Dismount,” he barked, “leave the horses and get those barriers down. Move!”

  Agile for a big man, Edward swung down from the saddle. “You too,” he said, jabbing his sword at Chadde, who blanched.

  “M… milord,” he stammered, “they will kill me!”

  The prince grinned inside his helm. “And if you refuse, I will hang you. Come. A man should face his demons.”

  Edward’s slight lisp only lent his words greater threat. Pale as a sheet, Chadde reluctantly dismounted. Meanwhile Edward’s sergeants hurriedly formed up into ranks. A hundred men, picked veterans of Lewes and Evesham and countless other fights.

  Edward led them forward at a jog. They moved in silence over the wet undergrowth, even as distant thunder rolled in the east. The heavens opened. Hard rain pattered through the trees and rebounded off their steel helms.

  Men appeared at the top of the rough breastwork. A handful of ragged bowmen, their dirty faces contorted with fear. Somewhere a horn sounded, voices raised the alarm.

  The element of surprise was gone. Edward threw aside caution and roared the ancient war-cry of his ancestors.

  “Dex Aie!”

  The cry was echoed by his men and split the silence of the forest. Ahead, the rebel archers fumbled arrows to bowstrings and took aim. Every one had his arrow pointed directly at Edward’s chest.

  He crouched behind his shield and was almost knocked to the ground as three arrows slammed into the curved wood. The fourth skimmed past his head. A scream erupted behind him as the shaft found another mark.

  Edward’s savage temper, inherited from his Angevin forebears, boiled over. They dared to shoot at him - his future subjects, fellow Englishmen, who owed him their fealty! He galloped straight at the central barricade, a crude latticework of rough-hewn logs and branches, and leaped, holding his shield over his head.

  The lattice sagged under his weight. Something struck against his shield, jarring his arm. He accidentally bit his tongue. Blood and pain filled Edward’s mouth, fuelling his rage. His shield shuddered. An iron spear-head burst through the wood and stabbed into the links of the mail on his shoulder. Cursing, Edward glanced up and saw a man in a sleeveless jerkin, bald and red-bearded. The muscles on his thick arms rippled as he drew back his spear for another strike.

  A hand-axe whirled through the air and imbedded in the spearman’s neck. He dropped his spear and fell out of sight, clutching at his severed jugular. One of Edward’s bodyguards, seeing the danger to their royal master, had aimed true.

  Encumbered by his weapons, Edward struggled over the barrier. No-one tried to stop him. His men swarmed eagerly over the flimsy defences, baying like hounds. Rather than stay and be slaughtered, the lightly-armed rebel spearmen and archers abandoned their position and fled into the forest.

  Two of Edward’s squires helped him down. They waited nervously while he fumed and turned the air blue with curses. The anger was genuine, but exaggerated. Edward used his notorious temper as a weapon to impress subordinates.

  He looked around. Some of his men were hacking and pulling apart the barricade for their comrades to pass through. Others stood quietly, waiting on his command. A few dead men lay scattered about the trampled grass. One was the redbeard who had tried to skewer Edward with his spear. He stare
d vacantly at the sky, blood pumping sluggishly from the hole in his neck.

  Edward untied the laces of his helm, ripped off the cumbersome, bucket-shaped headpiece and gulped in air. “The hunt is on, lads,” he shouted, “twopence for every rebel head you lay at my feet!”

  His men cheered lustily and streamed after him. Chadde led the way, prodded along by Edward’s sword in his buttocks.

  The narrow entrance to Alton Pass swiftly broadened into a wooded, fertile valley, watered by an offshoot of the River Wey. Edward smelled meat roasted over cooking figures, glimpsed scattered tents among the trees of the valley. He slid down a muddy bank and waded knee-deep through a stream. His men tumbled after him, howling for blood.

  To the south, trumpets echoed among the trees. Edward’s reinforcements, despatched before he entered the forest, were closing the noose.