Longsword

by David Pilling

  He backed away a little. Sir Robert d’Eyvill was the finest swordsman he had ever faced. Quick, agile, skilful. Hugh, by contrast, was a clumsy slasher.

  “I have given you a good scar,” said Robert, lowering his sword again, “so in years to come you can boast to your children of the time you crossed swords with a belted knight, and lived. Let that be the end.”

  “No,” Hugh gasped, sucking in breath. Blood flowed freely into his eye. If he died here, spitted on Robert’s sword, he would never find out what had happened to Esther.

  He threw his sword like a spear at Robert’s face and charged, aiming to grab his opponent around the waist. The sword flew wide. His hands clutched at thin air as Robert twisted away. The knight struck.

  A line of burning agony rippled down the length of Hugh’s trunk, from his left shoulder down to his right hip. He folded up, collapsing to his knees as blood splattered the grass, all thoughts of killing drowned by the unbearable pain. He clutched at his belly, terrified lest his innards fell out.

  Robert stood over him, sword raised for the death-blow. Conflicting emotions warred on the knight’s long face.

  “The Devil with it,” he cried. “You may seek her in York. And be damned to the pair of you!”

  The last thing Hugh saw before darkness engulfed him was the flash of Robert’s sword as it tore into his face.

  32.

  Kenilworth, 14th December 1266

  A long line of bedraggled and starved men slowly filed along the causeway, through the gates of the ruined barbican. They shambled along in twos and threes. Many lacked the strength to stand, or had missing limbs. Some leaned on the shoulders of comrades or used broken-off spears and lances as crutches.

  Their commander, Henry de Hastings, was at the head of this sorry procession. He looked as feeble and wasted as any of his soldiers. His iron will to resist had finally snapped, worn down by cold and hunger. After agreeing a forty-day truce with the King, whereby Hastings agreed to surrender if no reinforcements arrived within the allotted time, he had kept his word and hauled down his banner when the truce expired. With that, the longest siege ever witnessed in England was over.

  King Henry, muffled up in several layers of furs against the cold, sat on a white destrier on the plain south of the barbican. With him were his Queen and their sons, along with Henry of Almain, Roger Mortimer, Humphrey de Bohun, and a great company of lesser barons and household knights. Cardinal Ottobuono was also there, mounted on a palfrey, along with Orazio at his side and a troop of crimson-robed priests. The papal legate wore a look of profound self-satisfaction.

  The royal host was drawn up on the plain, company after company of horse and foot, their polished mail gleaming in the pale winter sun. Cheers rose from hundreds of throats as Hastings and his knights emerged from the barbican. The king and his retinue maintained a dignified silence.

  One notable absentee was Gilbert de Clare. The young Earl of Gloucester had been sent away, back to his estates in the west, having quarrelled with Edward and Mortimer so violently the king had to banish him before blood was spilled. De Clare’s furious departure in a cloud of dust, followed by his servants and men-at-arms, had lightened the atmosphere in the royal camp. The red dog was too unpredictable, almost as bad as Earl Ferrers. There was no telling what he might do next.

  Henry was almost moved to pity as he watched the rebels trudge towards him. Pity and shame. Were these the men that had defied his power for so long? The castle they had so bravely defended was little more than a shattered ruin.

  Kenilworth was surrounded by the debris of a long siege. Broken and abandoned equipment and war engines – the charred stump of the Bear still stood where it had burned - and the corpses of men and animals. Some of the bodies floated face down in the lake, bloated and filling the air with a rotten stench.

  “Keep your distance, Hastings,” barked Edward as the rebel leader came near. Hastings halted and smiled, the papery flesh of his face stretched over fragile bones.

  “I am unarmed, Your Majesty,” he whispered, lifting his arms to show he carried no weapons, “scarce capable of lifting a stick in anger.”

  His joints cracked as he slowly went down on one knee and bowed his head. His knights followed suit, some reluctantly, others humbly, until the plain was filled with kneeling men.

  “Pardon,” Hastings croaked.

  Henry drew himself up. “There will be no pardon, Sir Henry Hastings,” he replied, raising his voice so that all the rebels might hear, “until you meet the terms of the Award of Kenilworth. The same applies to your men. Until then, you are our prisoners.”

  Hastings had no choice but to agree. He remained on his knees as soldiers started to move among his men, pulling them to their feet and snapping chains to their wrists and ankles. Some were so emaciated the manacles wouldn’t fit, in which case they were simply dragged away.

  A slender, dark-robed figure stepped from the ranks of the king’s household. “That man is a servant of mine, Majesty,” said Master John of St Michael, pointing his cane at one of the rebels.

  Henry gave a curt nod. “Take him, then,” he said without looking at the Savoyard. He appreciated Master John’s worth, though found him unsettling.

  At a sign from their master, Master John’s Brabant mercenaries pushed and shoved their way through the lines of kneeling men.

  “You survived, then,” said the spymaster when the unkempt, bearded figure was dragged out and dumped at his feet. “My congratulations. You must be a skilled liar.”

  Roger Godberd squinted back at him. “Better than you can imagine,” he croaked, managing a grin. Like the rest of the surviving garrison, the outlaw was painfully thin.

  Master John turned to the king. “This man is an outlaw and a rebel,” he said, “who agreed to act as our agent inside Kenilworth in return for a pardon. He has fulfilled his part of the bargain.”

  Henry bridled. He objected to others making bargains with traitors without consulting him. Master John’s tone was arrogant and lacked respect.

  The king’s irritation was tempered with mercy. If the spymaster spoke true, it would be a hard thing to kill Godberd after the good service he had done.

  “He is pardoned,” said Henry. “You may go, Master John.”

  The spymaster bowed gravely and limped away. Godberd and the mercenaries went with him.

  Henry dismissed them from his mind and closed his eyes as a great tide of relief washed over him. Relief, but little joy. He felt old and used-up.

  Queen Eleanor touched his arm. “It is over, my dear,” she said gently, “your trials are over.”

  “Never,” Henry replied with a wan smile. “Not in this life.”

  33.

  Hugh groaned as the dream of pain became reality. There was a dull, throbbing ache in the left side of his head, another running the length of his chest and belly.

  The faint sound of plainchant reached him, drifting through the galleries and cloisters of the abbey. Otherwise all was blissful silence. The peace of the sanatorium was undisturbed, save for the occasional whimper from the inmates.

  Marshalling his strength, Hugh tried to sit upright in his narrow bed, and bit down a scream as pain knifed through him. He gave up the attempt and lay listlessly on his back.

  He owed his life to the monks that dwelled at Hode Grange, a cell of Newburgh Priory, not far from Hode Hill. Intrigued by the horsemen riding to and from the castle, a group had ventured inside and discovered him lying in a pool of his own blood.

  The monks bound up his wounds and carried him on an improvised stretcher to the grange. There he lay for three days, more dead than alive, until he was strong enough to be delivered to the care of the Cistercians at Byland Abbey. Byland was the abbey Brother Stephen had been banished from, though the Abbot seemed a kindlier man than Master John had described.

  The wound across Hugh’s body was ugly, though not deep, and the monks had taken care to wash and stitch together the puckered folds of bleeding
flesh. Despite the poppy milk he was given for the pain, he passed out when they sewed him back together. Robert had used the flat of his sword to knock Hugh unconscious. What might have been a death blow had instead knocked out three teeth and fractured his skull.

  “You may seek her in York…”

  These words echoed inside Hugh’s throbbing skull. He could not fathom why Robert had spared him. A guilty conscience? Regardless, he was grateful for the chance of life, and as determined as ever to find Esther. He had to know she was safe.

  “Who is in York, my son?” said a soft voice.

  Hugh glanced to his left, and saw a monk wearing the magpie robes of the Cistercian order standing at his bedside. Brother Ralph had nursed Hugh all through his convalescence at the abbey. He was a tall, thin man with damp eyes and a sloping chin. Quiet and gentle, Hugh found him a comforting presence.

  “Did I cry out?” Hugh mumbled through the pain of his swollen jaw. Ralph smiled and nodded.

  “A friend of mine is at York,” said Hugh. “When I can sit a horse again without danger of my stitches bursting, I mean to go there in search of her.”

  Ralph gently prodded the poultice, a stinking mixture of herbs and goose grease, on the left side of Hugh’s chest.

  “You will be here a while yet,” he said. “Will your friend wait for you?”

  “I don’t know. But I must try to find her.”

  “What then?” Ralph asked, frowning as he examined Hugh’s jaw.

  Hugh hesitated. After finding Esther he intended to hunt down the d'Eyvills, one by one, and see they met with their own rough justice. He didn’t like to say so, not inside the hallowed environs of an abbey, and not to the gentle Brother Ralph. The monk might attempt to dissuade him from his purpose. Hugh was in no mood for pious lectures.

  “I don’t know,” he replied eventually, wincing as the gentle probing of Ralph’s fingers caused needles of pain in his flesh. “I will pray, and ask God for advice.”

  Six weeks later, he found himself limping down a small lane in the bustling heart of York. The lane was called Jubbergate, and home to many Jewish families and businesses.

  Hugh made for a pitiful sight as he limped through the city’s mercantile centre. He was obliged to walk with the aid of a staff and shuffled along like a beggar, his disfigured face hidden under a russet hood.

  The damage to his skull often subjected him to dizzy spells. Walking unaided made the pain in his chest and belly almost impossible to bear. The sword-wound had healed, leaving a pinkish line running the length of his torso. The monks of Byland had warned him he would not be whole again for months.

  “I cannot stay here any longer,” he had said firmly. “God has spoken to me, and commanded me to be on my way.”

  The monks could not deny the word of God. They allowed Hugh to go back into the world, with a small gift of money to help him on his way.

  His method for tracking down Esther was simple. He shuffled from door to door along the street, knocking on doors and asking any who responded if they knew of a certain Esther, widow of a moneylender named Simon of Lincoln, recently arrived in York. The politer occupants murmured in the negative, while others gave him hard looks and harder words before slamming their doors in his face.

  He refused to be discouraged. His ruined face, he knew, was a sight to frighten the unwary, while strange Gentiles asking questions about the whereabouts of individual Jews were hardly likely to be well-received.

  “I swore an oath to find her,” he muttered to himself as he laboured down the street, patting the hilt of the dagger at his belt for reassurance. “An oath before God.”

  At last he came to a large stone house, larger than most, with an upper storey and a tiled roof. It had a solid, enclosed look about it, more like a small fortress than a private dwelling. There were no windows on the ground floor, just a heavy portal of blackened oak, studded and bound with iron. The door looked as though it could withstand a siege ram.

  Despite its uninviting appearance, Hugh hammered the end of his staff against the timber. The echoes died away, replaced by hesitant footsteps and the jangle of keys.

  The door opened a crack, and a florid face peered out. “Who’s there?” demanded a woman’s voice. Her shrewd blue eyes took in Hugh. They widened as she caught sight of his face under the hood.

  She made to close the door, but Hugh wedged his staff in the gap. “Please,” he said in a friendly tone, “I mean no harm. I am looking for a friend of mine. Her name is Esther. She is the widow of Simon of Lincoln.”

  The door opened a fraction wider. More of the woman became visible. She was plump and middle-aged, and her hard face was framed by grey hair under a cotton headdress. Her mouth set in a firm line as she took a closer look at Hugh.

  “Name?” she snapped.

  “Hugh Longsword.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Southwark,” he said impatiently. “You have heard of me, then?”

  Her eyes flickered. “Yes, though we were given a different description. We were told to expect a large, powerful man. You’re a cripple.”

  “My good fortune ran out when I needed it most,” Hugh explained patiently. “Must we talk out here, on the doorstep? I have walked all the way from Byland to York. I am cold and hungry and in pain.”

  “Wait.” She kicked his staff away and closed the door. Hugh was left out in the cold, wondering what other trials God had in store for him. Two small Jewish children passed by, staring at him with frightened eyes even as their mother ushered them away.

  The door re-opened. “You can come in,” said the Jewess, “but give me that knife first. I’ll give it back when you leave.”

  Reluctantly, he unsheathed his dagger She snatched it and stood aside to let him in.

  Hugh stepped inside and looked around. He was inside a vaulted undercroft, divided into bays and supported by vaults springing from two square-headed central columns. The chamber was dark and stuffy, thanks to the lack of windows, and poorly lit by candles in a series of sconces in the walls. The walls were lined with rows of shelves, groaning under the weight of boxes and ledgers.

  There was a large desk of carved oak at the far end of the furthest bay. A man sat behind the desk. His hands were laid flat on the polished wood, palms down. His eyes glinted in the semi-darkness.

  “Come closer into the light,” his voice rapped out, harsh and high-pitched. Hugh obeyed, his staff clicking on the flagstones as he moved forward a few paces.

  “Leave us, Rachel,” the man ordered. The heavy woman, whom Hugh assumed to be a servant, quietly vanished down a side-passage.

  “Push back your hood.”

  Hugh did so, and the man’s eyes narrowed further. The swelling on the left side of Hugh’s face had all but disappeared, leaving a reddish-black bruise that covered the whole of his cheek and jaw. Robert d'Eyvill’s sword had crushed his cheekbone, giving that side of his face a flattened, uneven look.

  “You are Hugh Longsword, the Christian who helped Esther to escape from Ely?”

  “I am,” Hugh replied simply. “Is she here? I have come a long way to find her.”

  The man steepled his fingers. He was at least sixty, with a fine head of white hair and skin like old parchment..

  “She is,” he said at last. “You may not see her. Esther is my cousin. My name is David ben-Shaul. I am a moneylender.”

  Hugh stifled his anger. “Why can I not see her?”

  “Because Esther has no desire to see you. She has found safety among her own people, and desires safety above all other things. Who can blame the girl, after her recent experiences?”

  “Tell me, Christian,” he asked, “why did you help her? What is a Jewish woman to you?”

  “We helped each other,” Hugh answered truthfully, “and I took pity on her.”

  Ben-Shaul nodded slowly. “Pity. That seems to be the finest emotion my people can rouse in yours. Not that I am ungrateful. But for you, she could be dead.”

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nbsp; And if you had paid her ransom, my efforts might have been unnecessary, Hugh thought. He clenched his fists and forced himself to remain civil.

  “I can see you have suffered,” said ben-Shaul. “Who hurt you?”

  “Sir Robert d'Eyvill, brother of the knight who took Esther hostage at Lincoln. I was foolish enough to think I could fight him.”

  “I recall the man. Esther spoke of him. The brute actually proposed to her. One cannot fight such people with their own weapons. The only effective weapon against barbarism is the passage of time. Given time, civilisation shall prevail.”