Longsword

by David Pilling

  Stephen advanced towards him with equal care. His stave was thrust out like a swordsman on guard, while his left arm was held up for balance, empty sleeve dangling. He jabbed at Hugh, who instinctively blocked the thrust. The lengths of oak cracked together, jarring his bruised wrists. He slid on the grease and lost his footing.

  Hugh landed hard on the small of his back, sending shockwaves of pain up and down his spine. The bridge shuddered under his weight. For a second he feared it might snap and send both of them tumbling into pit. It didn’t, but his relief was short-lived as Stephen’s stave came whistling down and smashed him across the thigh. The little man’s aim was off, otherwise the end of his stave would have plunged into Hugh’s crotch.

  Hugh’s left leg went numb. He kicked out with the other. His foot caught Stephen a glancing blow under the knee and made him hop back a step, wincing at the pain. The little man’s mouth hung open. A thin line of drool dangled from his bottom lip.

  Hugh sat upright and whirled his stave at Stephen’s exposed ankles, hoping to sweep his legs from under him. Stephen was wise to that, and leaped over the blow. He landed nimbly enough, but his injured knee buckled under him, causing him to skid on the grease. Hugh slammed the end of his stave into Stephen’s belly and tried to pitchfork him off the bridge.

  In desperation Stephen dropped his own weapon and grasped Hugh’s stave. A pathetic tug of war ensued, and the laughter of the watching outlaws threatened to split the sky.

  Hugh heaved on his end of the stave, thinking he could drag Stephen off-balance. The other man was surprisingly strong and refused to be shifted. Hugh launched himself in a clumsy dive at Stephen, aiming to drive his fist into his groin. He missed. The bridge bounced under his considerable weight, his left hand slipped on the grease as he scrabbled for purchase, and he slid sideways into the pit.

  His right hand closed on Stephen’s ankle as he fell. He clung to it with grim determination, gritting his teeth while blows rained down on his head. Stephen lashed out with his stave, frantically trying to get Hugh to release his ankle before they were both pulled under. Meanwhile the wolves leaped at Hugh’s feet, howling like demons.

  It was unbearable. Hugh thought he might go mad. All he could hear was the wolves, the shrieks and laughter of men, the curses of Stephen, his own voice babbling prayers, and the thunderous gallop of his heart threatening to burst from his chest.

  The note of a hunting horn rose above it all.

  23.

  Sir Robert d'Eyvill did not take Esther back to the Isle of Ely. She cared little where she went. Consumed with despair at being recaptured, all she wished for was a chance to get her hands free – the outlaws had lashed her wrists together – and to steal a dagger with which to end her life.

  Life, however, soon acquired fresh interest. As soon as Walter’s men had ridden back up the road to Northampton to rejoin their chief, Robert divided his party. He had brought eight men with him out of the fens, and none of the dogs.

  “Ride back to Ely,” he ordered six of his followers, “and inform my brother I will return to the Isle inside a few days. Tell him I am leading a raid on the villages around Huntingdon.”

  The chosen men looked surprised. “A raid, lord,” one said doubtfully, “with just two men? Why not keep us with you?”

  “Silence,” Robert snarled. “Do as I command, or I’ll have the skin flogged from your back.”

  The soldier exchanged nervous glances with his companions. Esther could see they weren’t happy, but they were peasants, used to obeying orders, and weren’t about to risk their master’s wrath. Without another word they turned and rode away.

  Robert watched them go in silence. Despite Esther’s innate revulsion, she had grown to know him in some ways, and could sense his moods. Right now he was as tense as he had ever been, straight and unbending as a lance, white-knuckled as his fists clenched the reins.

  He only relaxed slightly when the six riders had vanished over the horizon. “I hope,” he said, turning to speak to Esther for the first time, “those dogs did not maltreat you?”

  “No,” she replied, keeping her voice calm, “but I would appreciate the bonds on my wrists being removed.”

  Robert nodded at one of his two remaining followers, a rangy, auburn-haired man whose mouth seemed permanently fixed in a crooked smile. He drew his knife and carefully sawed through the tight leather straps.

  What now? she wondered, rubbing her numbed wrists to get the blood flowing again.

  Her companions were a daunting trio. The tall, stiff-necked Christian knight, the lean auburn villain with the sinister smile, and a glowering black-bearded giant with a massive broadsword strapped across his back. The giant was bald as an egg, with thick ropes of muscle in his neck and shoulders that hinted at terrifying strength.

  “My companion was taken by the outlaws,” she said. “God knows what they plan to do to him. Their chief bears him a grudge for some reason. Can we get him back?”

  Robert frowned. “I have no interest in his fate, and could not save him anyway. Put him out of your mind, my lady. We go north.”

  “Where to?”

  He ignored her and set off up the road at a canter. His men took up position either side of her.

  “Have no fear,” said the auburn-haired man, who gave his name as Shakelock. “Sir Robert is an honourable man. Too honourable, maybe, and would benefit from smiling occasionally, but he will do you no harm.”

  He had a quiet, humorous voice. Despite his unsettling smile, Esther felt comforted by his presence. He took hold of Esther’s reins and rode after Robert. Blackbeard, whom Esther suspected was a mute, brought up the rear.

  They travelled north for four days, following Watling Street and the Great North Road past Leicester and Nottingham, into Yorkshire. The roads were dust-dry under the late summer sun, and traffic grew less the further north they ventured. The whole of England was racked by war, but the midlands and the north especially so. They passed groups of refugees from burned-out villages and towns, wretched families of peasants trudging along with their meagre possessions. Their dead eyes and pinched faces bore testament to the suffering these folk endured.

  “You can almost smell their terror,” remarked the auburn-haired man as they rode under the ramparts of Tickhill Castle. The little company of riders moved on quickly: Tickhill, a huge and forbidding stone sentinel, was a royal fortress. King Henry’s banner, three golden pards against a red field, hung limbly from the keep and turrets of the gatehouse.

  England is rotten with fear, thought Esther, glancing up at the firmly shut gates of the castle. Sunlight reflected off the steel helms of the sentries on the flinty walls. She imagined the faces under them, frowning and suspicious as they watched travellers pass to and fro on the highway far below.

  Robert was as tight-lipped as ever, replying curtly to her questions when he bothered to answer them at all. Esther had come to find him tiresome rather than disgusting, and her fear had dwindled to apathy.

  Shakelok, at least, was friendly enough. ““My family are tenants of the d'Eyvills,” he told her. “I have ridden under their banner for the past five years, and witnessed the sack of Sheffield and other places. Have you ever seen a town given over to the sack, my lady? It is a terrible thing.”

  Esther thought she heard the screams of her people dying in the streets of Lincoln, and smelled the fires.

  She answered his question with one of her own. “Where did you come by your name, Master Shakelock? It is an unusual one.”

  He smiled his crooked smile, and gave his long nose a pull. “It’s a corruption or play on my real name. I was a house-breaker in a former life, and an expert in forcing doors. Shake-lock, you see? That was until I tired of being chased around the dales by bailiffs. I offered my services to Sir Robert as a soldier. He was happy to accept. If you can ride well, shoot straight, and handle a sword, his family don’t give a damn about your past.”

  “So what is your real name?”

&nb
sp; He stonewalled the question and jerked his thumb at Blackbeard. “He’s another like me, a Yorkshireman from our lord’s manors in the North Riding. Aren’t you, big man?”

  To her surprise Blackbeard replied, not in the deep rumbling voice that she had imagined, but a pleasant North Country accent similar to Shakelock’s. “Aye, from Thirsk,” he said. “My name’s Jean le Petit. I apologise for not introducing myself sooner. My manners aren’t what they should be.”

  Esther nodded graciously. “Is that where we’re going now?” she asked, “to his northern estates?”

  Shakelock shrugged. “Don’t know. Sir Robert hasn’t told us. He keeps his own counsel. I reckon he sent those men back to Ely because he didn’t know them well enough to trust.”

  He glanced sidelong at Esther, who said nothing. To her it was perfectly obvious what Robert intended. He intended to carry her off to some remote northern fastness, without waiting for his brother’s approval or consent.

  She couldn’t fathom his long-term intentions At some point he would have to overcome his crippling reserve and explain them to her. Until then she could do nothing except allow herself to be swept along, like a leaf on the wind. At least they were headed in the direction of York, where she had family. Esther had no intention of waiting for a response to John d’Eyvill’s ransom demand. At the first opportunity she intended to escape and flee to York. To that end, it was in her interests to try and befriend Robert’s followers.

  Her thoughts were torn between plotting escape and the fate of Hugh Longsword. Esther knew she owed Hugh a debt of gratitude. For now all she could do was try not to speculate on his sufferings among the outlaws, and remember him in her prayers.

  When they came within sight of Doncaster, Robert led them at a furious gallop through a little wooded valley north of the town. Esther glanced enquiringly at Shakelock as they raced along a narrow dirt track that wound through the trees.

  “This is the valley of Barnsdale, lady,” he cried, “a notorious haunt of robbers. I should know. I used to be one of them.”

  Esther shivered, imagining sinister hooded figures lurking among the trees. Robert didn’t allow the pace to slacken until they were north of Pontefract, a market town dominated by another enormous castle. Esther thought they might halt there to rest. Instead they gave the town a wide berth and hurried on.

  Shakelock explained why. “Pontefract is a royal castle,” he said. “The castellan and his men-at-arms would be after us like a swarm of wasps if they knew Sir Robert d'Eyvill was in our company.”

  They continued north, past a little village and a pretty town next to a river. Shakelock named these as Wetherby and Boroughbridge respectively. Esther could tell he was happy to be back in his native Yorkshire. Jean was also in high spirits, and as they turned north-east and passed another small village the big man started to sing. Esther listened politely, though the song was not to her taste. It was crude, violent stuff, about an unnamed master outlaw who repeatedly tricked the Sheriff and had a habit of beating and binding corrupt clerics.

  Her attention was distracted by the changing landscape. They were riding through open country now, wild and bleak and the most beautiful she had ever encountered. Windswept rolling moors and high dales stretched away in all directions, with no sign of human life save the occasional lonely farmstead. The air was so pure Esther felt she could drink it. The cold wind seemed to blow away all her recent cares and terrors. She experienced a sense of euphoria, and laughed for the first time in months.

  Robert signalled a halt. They reined in behind him on the crest of a ridge. The land to the north was dotted with little villages, each surrounded by a patchwork of tilled fields.

  “That’s Thirsk,” said Jean, pointing out one of the villages. “I was born there.”

  “Built, more like,” remarked Shakelock. Jean grinned at him.

  Esther’s eye was drawn to the land about a mile south-east of Thirsk. Here there was a line of dramatic hills and escarpments, separated from the moors by a river valley.

  Robert spoke for the first time since they had crossed into Yorkshire. “Those are the Hambleton Hills,” he said, “look, Esther.”

  He indicated a steep hill set apart from the others. Esther peered hard at it, the wind whipping her unbound black hair about her face, and made out the outline of a small castle on the summit.

  “Hode Castle,” said Robert. “My home. Now it is your home too.”

  24.

  Charnwood Forest, Leicestershire

  The trial of Walter Devyas was conducted like an official trial, with Godberd acting as Chief Justice. All the outlaws were summoned to attend. Over a hundred men crowded into the grounds of an old grange, deep inside the forest, which Godberd chose for a courtroom. The grange had once belonged to Rufford Abbey. It was abandoned, and consisted of a few tumbledown barns and storehouses arranged in a hollow square. Sentries were placed on the gates and the crumbling walls to deter any unexpected visitors.

  The sentries were also there to guard against attempts at a rescue. Not all of the outlaws had obeyed Godberd’s summons. About thirty men, almost a third of the band, had stayed away. These were Walter’s friends. Godberd had intended to put them on trial beside their chief, but they were wise enough to flee.

  No matter, he thought as he stepped into the courtyard, flanked by his brothers. I have the shepherd. The sheep can be rounded up later.

  A stool and a little table were set up at the rear of the courtyard, in front of the old stables. One of the outlaws sat at the table, sharpening a quill and leafing through a sheaf of parchments. He was an unlikely-looking forest brigand, prim and pale, and had been a clerk before raping the local miller’s wife and fleeing his village, one step ahead of the hue and cry. As one of the few literate men in the gang, Godberd had made him clerk of the court.

  The outlaws fell silent as their leader stopped to exchange a few words with the clerk, and then turned to confront them. “Bring forward the accused,” he ordered.

  Their ranks parted, and Walter Devyas was led forward by a couple of guards. A length of heavy chain was wound several times about his chest and shoulders, pinning his arms to his sides. He still looked dangerous, and bared his yellow teeth at any who dared to meet his eye.

  “That’s far enough,” said Godberd. “Read out the charges.”

  The clerk coughed and shuffled his parchments. “Item,” he recited, “that the accused, having been left in a position of command and responsibility while his captain was absent, did abuse and ignore that trust in favour of personal gain. Item, that the accused deliberately disobeyed orders, which were to harry and engage enemy troops and provisions as they passed through Charnwood. Item, that the accused instead chose to prey on any persons, religious and secular, that travelled the King’s highways, and rob and murder them as he saw fit. Item, that the accused, by his actions, has acted like a common thief and cut-throat, and is therefore charged with oath-breaking, neglect of duty, homicide, and highway robbery.”

  Godberd felt his temper rising as the charges were read. He was supposed to act as an impartial judge; in truth he was furious, and determined to punish his former lieutenant.

  Recent events played through his mind. Godberd had left Charnwood two weeks previously, taking half his command with him. He chose to disregard his original orders from Henry de Hastings, which were to harry and disrupt supplies heading for the royal army at Kenilworth. The convoys of wagons creaking down the highways were too well-guarded. Godberd had no intention of wasting the lives of his men in a series of futile ambushes.

  Instead he tried to follow up his victory over William Leyburn by attacking patrols and small groups of royalist soldiers around Leicester. Godberd had fought a few skirmishes with the Sheriff’s troops, bloody affrays in which both sides lost men and equipment.

  Tired of the deadly game and discouraged by the Sheriff’s fighting spirit, Godberd retreated to the sanctuary of Charnwood, to lick his wounds and check on Walter�
�s progress. He arrived at the outlaw camp just in time to witness two captives forced to fight on a bridge over a pit full of starving wolves. Outraged, he charged into the clearing at the head of his men and broke up the fight. The captives were dragged to safety and the wolves slaughtered.

  He tried to read Walter’s face, looking for any sign of contrition. There was none. The man’s virtues began and ended with physical courage.

  “Well,” he said when the clerk had finished reading the charges, “how do you plead?”

  “Guilty,” replied Walter with a flat, careless contempt that took Godberd’s breath away. “Guilty on all charges. Why should I deny them? I would do it all again.”

  “The accused is condemned out of his own mouth,” said Godberd, raising his voice to be heard above the murmur that rippled through the outlaws. “All that remains is to decide on his punishment.”

  Godberd shifted uncomfortably as the voices grew louder. He found it difficult to gauge the mood of his men. Some of them looked angry. For the first time he wondered at his ability to control them.