Longsword

by David Pilling

  “Godberd,” snapped Hastings, “here you are at last. This, my friends, is the man I told you about.”

  Pattishall and de La Ware studied Godberd with detached interested. He half-expected one of them to come forward and check his teeth.

  “Lord Hastings says you fought at Chesterfield,” said Pattishall, “got most of your men out alive, and brought them safe to Kenilworth. A neat piece of work.”

  “Thank you, Sir Simon,” Godberd replied with stiff courtesy.

  “You have the look of a veteran,” added de la Ware, fingering his heavy moustache. “Got plenty of experience, have you?”

  Godberd could not resist a smile. “Garrison duty at Nottingham, Sir John, otherwise hiding in forests and running for my life. I was born a farmer and would still be one, if I had my way. Earl Ferrers insisted on making a soldier out of me.”

  They looked disappointed. “No false modesty, Godberd,” growled Hastings, “we have no time for it. We are cut off here, with no prospect of relief from France until the autumn.”

  The news was a blow, not least because Godberd didn’t expect these great men to confide in him. They were rich knights, landholders with manors all over the country, while he was a mere yeoman, bound to serve and obey.

  “I was told Simon the Younger was poised just across the Channel, waiting for a fair wind to cross,” he said. “At Chesterfield we were told that Earl Simon’s sons had collected a great force of men and ships in France.”

  Hastings gave his long nose a pull. “Someone lied to you. Earl Simon’s sons have raised barely a hundred men in France. We are alone.”

  Godberd pictured the enormous host outside. The great coils of the steel serpent, tightening its grip on Kenilworth.

  “Have you looked out the window, my lords?” he demanded angrily. “We cannot hold out until the autumn against the power of the King. There must be ten thousand men out there, with more to come.”

  Hastings bared his teeth. “Hold your tongue!” he snarled. “You’re here to take orders, not give us the benefit of your cursed opinion.”

  Godberd had the sense to fall silent. “Insolence aside,” added Hastings when his high colour had faded a little, “you’re an able captain of horse. More useful outside the castle than in. We may not be able to shift the men outside our walls, but we can make them uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable. I want you to pick the best of your men, and leave the castle tonight, under cover of darkness. The barges will pole you across. There should be enough gaps for you to slip through their lines. Once ashore, disappear into the forest and establish a camp. Harry the enemy’s supply lines. Attack their wagons and baggage trains on up the highway. Disrupt, rob, kill. Do as much damage as possible. Understand?”

  “Yes, milord,” replied Godberd. “You want me to sting our enemies in the rear, until they dare not sit down.”

  Hastings’ grin made him look more wolfish than ever.

  *

  The night was cold, with a sliver of moon. Just enough pale light to guide the men as they crept through the postern gate of the outer curtain wall. The dark waters of the artificial lake opened before them. Beyond the lake was thick forest, illuminated by a scattered line of torches. The royalists had moved fast to encircle the castle, but as yet only a thin line of pickets held the opposite bank.

  Godberd led his horse on foot down the slope to the waterside, where half a dozen flat-bottomed barges waited to ferry his men across. The bargemen stood like statues, hooded and silent.

  “Listen to those drums,” whispered Devyas, just behind his chief. “More soldiers on the way. They’ve been coming in for hours.”

  “Quiet!” hissed Godberd. He had taken as many precautions as he could think of; his men wore dark clothes and soft boots, smeared their faces with mud and bound mufflers to the hooves of their horses. His nerves were on a knife-edge.

  He had picked out thirty men for this fool’s errand. Besides Devyas and his brother William, they included some old comrades from the Nottingham garrison. The rest were poachers, foresters, and outlaws. Hard, capable men, not overburdened with scruples.

  “Filthy rabble,” Hastings had sneered when Godberd’s company were gathered for inspection in the courtyard.

  “Rough to look at, I grant you,” said Godberd, “but they can ride, hunt, fight, and live off the land as well as anyone.”

  Hastings shrugged. It was an eloquent shrug, full of meaning. Take your villains, it said, go and slit as many throats as possible. Don’t come back.

  Godberd was secretly glad to get out of the castle before the siege started in earnest. Playing tag in open country with the king’s soldiers had its risks, but was preferable to being cooped up for months on end inside Kenilworth, while food and water ran low and the castle was bombarded with rocks and disease-ridden corpses.

  His horse shied at the water’s edge. He had to coax her onto the gently swaying barge, stroke the beast’s neck and whisper into her ear.

  “Get the animal aboard, or make love to her,” muttered Devyas, prompting stifled laughter from the men behind him. Godberd shot him a furious glance, wasted in the darkness.

  At last his horse agreed to step aboard. To Godberd’s relief, the rest of the animals were persuaded aboard without too much noise or trouble. One beast slipped and almost tumbled into the water, but her rider managed to wrestle her back from the brink.

  When all was ready, Godberd uttered a low whistle. The bargemen poled off from the bank and guided their heavily laden vessels slowly onto the lake. They floated across the water in ghostly silence, bar the odd snort or muffled whinny from the horses. Godberd silently thanked God for the mist that hid the barges from the pickets on the far shore.

  The lake only took a few minutes to cross. It was the longest journey of Godberd’s life. He kept a tight grasp on his horse’s reins as the barge gently pitched and rolled under him, his eyes fixed on the line of fires glowing dimly through the mist. At any moment he expected to hear a challenge, followed by a flight of arrows. His skin crawled with fearful anticipation.

  Nothing happened. The eerie silence held until the poles of the bargemen hit the shallows.

  “Disembark!” the man in charge of Godberd’s barge whispered.

  Godberd passed the word to the man behind him. He stepped lightly off the barge and sank up to his knees in icy cold water. His horse refused to follow, no matter how he dragged at her reins.

  Someone dropped into the water next to him. “There’s a light coming towards us,” said Devyas, jerking his thumb at the shore. “One of their pickets, probably. I’ll deal with him.”

  His little eyes glittered under his hood. Bright steel gleamed in his hand.

  “Take a couple of men with you,” said Godberd.

  “No time,” Devyas replied tersely, and vanished into the night.

  That one needs reminding who is in charge, thought Godberd. He gave another tug on the reins, and his horse made the leap off the barge. He guided her towards the bank, wading through soft, clinging mud and bunches of sodden reeds until he reached firm ground.

  He turned to watch the rest of his men disembark. The other barges floated into view like sea-monsters emerging from the mist.

  Godberd nervously chewed his lip. He cast occasional glances behind him at the long grass and the shadowy forest beyond. Where had Devyas got to? The man was capable of anything on his own.

  He heard running footsteps, and the undergrowth parted to reveal the ugly form of his lieutenant. Devyas was breathing heavily. Godberd glanced at the knife in his right hand. The blade was wet with blood.

  “One man,” whispered Devyas when he had caught his breath. “I did for him and hid his body in the bushes. Six of his mates are sat around a fire, not fifty paces to the west of here. I say we kill them all. They’ve got some good gear and horses.”

  Godberd thought for a moment, and decided it wasn’t worth the risk. A bloody brawl in the woods at night was fraught with danger. The king’s army wa
s too close for comfort.

  “No,” he said decisively. “We need to get away from here, and quick.”

  Most of his men were ashore now, or leading their horses through the shallows. The barges sculled back towards the jagged silhouette of the castle. When everyone was accounted for Godberd led his horse into the woods. Lights glimmered to the west, so he veered northeast.

  His men followed him in single file, and the silent procession was swallowed up by the forest.

  8.

  Kenilworth

  The trebuchet was called Mars after the Roman god of war. Hugh had dragged himself out of bed at the crack of dawn, just to watch it being pieced together. As the grandson of a craftsman, though in a different sphere, he was drawn towards any feat of engineering.

  Five other teams of workmen laboured to put their trebuchets together. They competed at the behest of the Lord Edward, who had promised a bag of silver pennies and a barrel of free ale to the crew that got their machine up first.

  Edward himself could be seen riding to and fro, just out of range of the rebel archers on the barbican. Every morning he inspected the defences and shook his fist at the defenders, daring them to hurl missiles at him. A troop of household knights trailed after him. They didn’t share the Prince’s tireless energy and struggled to keep up with the pace of his high-spirited destrier.

  Hugh was keen to learn more of the engines. The previous night he had shared a jug of ale with the workmen, who appreciated his interest.

  “We’re using the old traction kind of trebuchet,” one told him. “It relies on a short lever to hurl shot. We should be using the new counterweights, but His Majesty wants to fight this war on the cheap.”

  “ My uncle worked on Kenilworth Castle when Earl Simon had the place rebuilt, some years back,” added another. “The traitor spared no expense. They’ve got all sorts of engines in there. Just you wait. Anything we throw at them, the garrison will throw right back at us.”

  Piles of ammunition were strewn about near the engines, including a heap of massive stones that Hugh judged to weigh about two to three hundred pounds each. The stones were complemented by bags of sand and lead, casks of tar and oil. He was especially intrigued by a pile of hard-baked clay balls.

  “We call them beehives,” said the first workman. “Lots of little stones are burned into the clay, and they shatter on impact. God help any poor soul who happens to be in the way.”

  Next morning, the workmen of Mars won Edward’s wager. After downing their ale four rushed to heave a stone into the sling, while the rest made ready to heave on the ropes and send the missile hurtling across the lake.

  Hugh studied the machine. He saw the sling was attached to a long beam, at the other end of which were the pull ropes, joined to the beam via eye-holes. Twin uprights with bracing timbers supported the sling beam. Some doubts entered his mind as he calculated the distance between the trebuchet and its target, the fortified barbican protecting the walled causeway. The barbican was over three hundred yards away. Hugh’s brow creased as he did the math. A stone weighing upwards of two hundred pounds, hurled by a sling reliant on the pull strength of sixteen men…

  The sergeant in charge of Mars looked to his left, at the Lord Edward and his retinue. Edward nodded, and the sergeant drew in a mighty breath.

  “Pull!” he roared. His voice was echoed by cheers from the crowd of soldiers who gathered to watch the performance.

  Sixteen men heaved as one. With a loud creak the sling beam was propelled upwards and lobbed its cargo high into the air. The lump of stone rose like an ungainly bird wobbling into the blue summer sky.

  Hugh shaded his eyes to watch its progress. His heart sank, along with the cheers of the soldiers, as the stone fell well short of its target and plunged into the lake with a tremendous splash, throwing up a great spray of water.

  Jeers from the rebels at the barbican drifted over the water. The crew of the Mars looked utterly deflated. Hugh glanced nervously at the Lord Edward, but the prince looked thoughtful rather than angry.

  “Range is too great,” Hugh said to no-one in particular. “The engines should be moved closer.”

  These words were no sooner out of his mouth than a series of thudding noises echoed across the lake. For a moment the sky was blotted out by a hail of stones.

  Soldiers and workmen scattered in panic, while Hugh took cover behind an upturned cart. Most of the stones overshot and ploughed harmlessly into the trees behind the camp. Another smashed into a supply wagon and sent clouds of grain flying in all directions.

  Only one was on target, a square piece of flint that smashed straight into Mars, shattering one of the uprights and the bracing timbers. The crew howled in rage as they witnessed the damage done to their precious machine. One man removed his cap, threw it on the ground and stamped on it.

  Hugh shook his head in dismay. It would take hours to repair Mars. He didn’t envy them the labour.

  “If you have quite finished watching this idiocy,” said a dry, wispy voice behind him, “perhaps we can return to more pressing matters.”

  Hugh slowly turned to confront the speaker, Master John of St Michael. His constant companion and shadow in the past weeks, ever since Hugh entered royal service. Master John was a Savoyard and officially a senior clerk in the Lord Edward’s household. Unofficially, he was Edward’s spymaster.

  “At your service, sir,” Hugh replied with a courteous bow. He knew a dangerous man when he saw one, and gave Master John every respect.

  The spymaster was a bony man of indeterminate age, always dressed in shabby black. His skin was the colour of old parchment, stretched too tight across a narrow, birdlike skull, inside which his little eyes shone like hot coals.

  In the golden glare of a hot June morning, he looked sicklier than ever. Master John was a creature of the dark, and disliked showing his face in daylight hours. At first Hugh assumed he suffered from some wasting illness, but Master John’s appearance was deceptive. He possessed an intense, feral energy, belying his dry manner, and seemed to thrive on lack of sleep. Hugh found his company exhausting. During the feverish preparations for war, while King Henry mustered his army to march on Kenilworth, Hugh had spent hours closeted with this strange, ferociously intelligent man.

  Edward had ordered both men to accompany the army when it marched on Kenilworth. He could not do without his chief intelligence agent, and so Hugh’s political education continued on the road. Master John had drummed into him all he could ever wish to know (and a lot more besides) about Sir John d'Eyvill and the Disinherited.

  “Come inside,” said Master John, shading his weak eyes against the sun. “We have a few things left to discuss, and then it is time you were gone.”

  Hugh followed the stooped figure into the small grey canvas pavilion that served as Master John’s headquarters. Nearby stood a cluster of royal pavilions, splendid affairs of red and gold silk.

  Inside was stuffy and dark, lit by a single lantern placed on Master John’s little desk. He sat down heavily on one of the two stools and gestured at Hugh to take the other.

  “You know the task that lies before you,” said the Savoyard, “and the role you are to play.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hugh replied promptly. “I share my late father’s opinions and was a committed Montfortian. I believe in all the miracles said to occur at Earl Simon’s tomb, and wish to join the Disinherited because I sympathise with their cause.”

  Master John drew his knife and wagged the hilt at Hugh. “You do not hate the King, or the Lord Edward,” he said. “You are to give the impression of being staunch, but not fanatical. In their hearts, many of the Disinherited are still loyal. They would gladly make their peace if given the opportunity.”

  “Sir John d'Eyvill is not in the moderate camp,” said Hugh.

  “No. He holds with the Provisions of Oxford, is heavily in debt to the Jews, and fears for the security of his manors. Name them!”

  Hugh closed his eyes and concentrated.
“Kilburn, Thirsk, Deighton, Egmanton, Cundall, Thornton, Adingfleet, Gargrave and Newark,” he recited. “All forfeit to the Crown. He still holds most of them, save Gargrave and Newark, seized by royal officers.”

  “Good. Where is his power base?”

  “Yorkshire, where most of his lands lie. Egmanton is in Nottinghamshire, inside Sherwood Forest, where he and his followers spent the winter of last year. Adingfleet is next to the Isle of Axholme, a waterlogged mere inside the North Lincolnshire fens. D'Eyvill has built a fortified camp somewhere inside it, a place of refuge where none dare follow.”

  “And your task?”

  “To make contact with d'Eyvill’s followers in Sherwood and serve them faithfully until I have their confidence. If all goes well, I will try to join the main body of rebels in Axholme. Once I have an idea of strength, their plans, and the easiest way to reach the camp in the mere, I will desert and come south.”