“Where are we, Hastings? This is charming countryside, but I’ve had enough of it.” Edward was cold and hungry, as they all were, but he kept his tone light. William Hastings, swaddled to the eyes in a stained hunting cloak, turned back and grinned at the king, his white teeth bright in the gloom.
“There is good news, my liege. We’re close. Only five leagues or so south down the coast to the walls of the Binnenhof and a warm welcome from the sieur de Gruuthuse. This man says there’s a good track all the way, with only a few fishing villages on the dunes. We can avoid them easily.”
The weary party of men had just reached an intersection of the farm track they were following with another. The light was fading rapidly and Hastings had been pleased to see a farmer trudging home from working his strips of land. It had been an odd conversation, an exchange composed of the few crumbs of Dutch possessed by the Englishman plus scraps of old high German and the farmer’s one or two French phrases, but it had told William what he needed to know. By the grace of God, they were close enough to s’Graven-hague and the Binnenhof, the erstwhile seat of the Counts of Holland, to reach it tonight. William crossed himself gratefully. It had been a risk to ask for directions, but their case was urgent enough to gamble on information of their presence spreading, even from this most isolated place. If they could just get to the Binnenhof ahead of the news of their arrival, it would be worth it.
He’d had little to trade for this welcome information, however, and that worried him. He’d given his last piece of coin to the man, an English threepenny bit, but it might not have been enough to buy a night’s discretion. The coin had been good silver, though, that was something. Truly God did move in enigmatic ways. In his previous life as England’s chamberlain—such a short time ago—William had reformed the English currency against the abuse of corrupt coin dealers, who “clipped” the edges of legitimate coins, mixing the stolen metal with lead or tin and issuing false coin. Such activities had caused confidence in the currency to plummet, with disastrous results for England, and for trade. But Hastings’s work had put a stop to the practice, and the Dutch farmer, after biting the coin to test it for hardness, seemed to approve. William had almost laughed. Perhaps God had guided him to improve the metal weight of English coins just so they could command one night of silence from this Dutch farmer.
Amused by the thought, William moved through the party of men, taking stock of their resources. There were only five horses among them all and that meant slow progress, even though the end of this weary journey was now so close. By their looks, and their silence as they waited for orders, the men were dangerously tired. After weeks of cold and dangerous fighting in England, they’d endured the hardships of a sea voyage and then walked south for two days with little food. Mostly they’d traveled at night, the nobles, including the king, taking turns to ride while the rest walked. During daylight hours they’d slept under their cloaks among the dunes, huddling together like dogs for warmth, not daring to light fires. By this morning what food they’d had was gone and the king had taken the decision to travel by daylight as well to make all speed. Perhaps the boldness had paid off. William fervently hoped so, but only the last leagues ahead would tell the case truly.
“So, my liege, if you would give the order?”
Edward slid down from the bony gelding he’d been jolting along on for some hours. “Your turn, William. Up you get.”
Hastings protested. “No, Your Majesty. I will not ride while you walk.”
“My legs could do with a stretch.” Edward smiled. “Here, let me help you up.” He cupped his hands so William could mount more easily. What he did not say, as he swung back to face his weary bunch of companions, was that he was more than grateful to ease his aching arse as well. The gelding’s gait was particularly trying at a slow trot, which was all that could be managed if the men were to keep pace with the horses. “Not long to go. My good friend the sieur de Gruuthuse will make us a noble welcoming feast in his hall tonight.”
It was the slithering hiss that alerted them—the sound of steel being drawn from a metal scabbard—but too late. Edward’s hand flew to the pommel of his own sword but he knew it was pointless.
“Drop your sword, messire.”
Edward’s heart hammered painfully as he made out the number of men surrounding his own small band. How could they have been so careless, and so stupid? The crossroads was ringed by trees, many still in last leaf. It was a perfect hiding place for armed men, and now they were caught.
His assailant repeated the request. “Your sword, sir, if you please.” Edward nodded reluctantly and carefully extended his sword arm, his mind racing. The man had spoken in courteous French, presuming he was understood, and Edward was suddenly hopeful. Perhaps their captors did not know whom they had bailed up.
The Frenchman leaned down from his horse and twitched the blade from the king’s fingers. His eyes glittered in the gloom when he saw what he had.
“But this is a very good sword, messire. Where did you get it?” The Frenchman spoke quietly; perhaps he did not want his men to hear. Suddenly it made sense. These men were outlaws, wolvesheads. Perversely, that gave Edward confidence.
“I will give it to you, and more besides, if you will help us.”
The leader of the wolfpack laughed heartily. “‘If you will help us’? Us, help you! Now, that is the strangest thing I have heard in all the days of my life.”
Suddenly the man’s sword was at Edward’s throat. English hands went to English swords in a dangerous breath.
“I do not think it is for us to help you, messire. On the contrary.” Confident he was backed by his men, the Frenchman leaned from his horse again and ripped Edward’s expensive sword belt and scabbard from his body. Richard’s riding cloak was about to follow when Edward whispered, “Do not be a fool, my friend. You’ll get more money in letting us live. Draw!”
Edward’s bellow rang through the gloom and in an instant the English were clamped around their king, knee to knee in a dense mass. The overconfident outlaw leader was suddenly in their midst, on his increasingly panicked horse. He was ringed by drawn blades, English blades, and the air was dizzy with the promise of blood.
The Frenchman sat back in his saddle and removed his sword from Edward’s throat. “Ah. Touché. Clever. And well disciplined.”
Edward held out his hand. “My sword.”
After a moment, the Frenchman gave it to him, though his men protested loudly. He had no other choice.
“But this will not save you, sir, because, as you see, my condition as your… guest… can only be temporary.”
The outlaw had courage and Edward liked that, especially since he now had his own sword point at his former assailant’s neck.
“Get down.” The king said it mildly, but when the Frenchman appeared not to understand, he repeated it in a frigid tone. “I said, get down.”
The Frenchman shrugged and slid from his horse’s back. “And so, what now, Englishman?”
Edward smiled as he mounted the outlaw’s horse. Though thin, it was a much better animal than he’d been riding for the last few days. “You depress me. I thought I spoke your language without accent.”
“Speak French like a Frenchman? Bah! English arrogance.” Even off his horse, the little man was cocky, a bantam with formidable spurs. That, too, made Edward smile.
“Tell me your name, Frenchman. I should like to know it.”
“Before you die, Englishman?”
They were bantering now, quite enjoying themselves, while the men from both sides waited tensely to see what would develop.
“Hold him a little tighter, if you please, Richard.” The king gathered up the reins of the outlaw’s rangy bay and settled himself comfortably into the saddle, adjusting the short stirrups to accommodate his own long legs. “I repeat, messire, what is your name?”
“Julian de Plassy.” It was said with pride and the small Frenchman held himself straighter, puffing out his thin chest.
“Well now, Julian de Plassy, you bear an honorable name but you are engaged in a dishonorable occupation. Would you like me to help you change that?”
The Frenchman raised his head, surprised, and the sallet he was wearing caught the light from the rising moon. His men pressed forward a pace, uncertain.
“No! Back,” he commanded, and his followers paused.
“They obey you. You lead them well, it seems.”
The Frenchman nodded, his confidence undimmed. “Englishman, how can you help me?”
Edward laughed. “Oh, I might know someone, who might know someone else. You know how it goes. But first, you must be our escort to s’Gravenhague tonight.”
The outlaw’s eyes narrowed. “And what would our reward be if we agreed to protect you?” He said “protect” with the most subtle of sneers. The English pressed tighter, the points of their swords nudging the Frenchman in a way that was distinctly unfriendly.
“Your life will be your reward, Julian de Plassy. And the freedom of you and yours. I shall have the attainder against you lifted. I’m sure there is one.”
Julian de Plassy bowed ironically, in recognition. “My lord is wise beyond all telling.”
The king grimaced. “Not so wise as you might think. Yet I can tell you what the future holds, on this occasion. If God decides to call you home to his loving embrace, I can arrange that as his instrument on earth. However, a long life is better than a short one and God is merciful, even to you. You have this choice. Which is it to be, Julian de Plassy? Choose now.”