I
Thynghow, Sherwood
6 February, 1194
SIR RICHARD DE Percy turned his horse about, his eyes scanning the mounted men surrounding him in the dark of the icy glade. “Then we are all in agreement?” Some cried a hearty “Aye!” Others merely gave a curt nod. It did not matter. The question itself was superfluous—simply by turning up here they had shown accord—but de Percy wanted to have them declare it, all the same. And if some had come merely out of curiosity, or to see him fail, what of it? They had come.
He stopped at the top of the large, low mound and drew himself up in his saddle. “This is a historic place of gathering,” he said. “Used by men since centuries past. Now it is witness to a new union, no less historic. All the lords of the North, together, for the first time. We have had our differences, God knows”—there were a few chuckles at that—“but tonight those are put aside. We stand united against the common enemy.”
He held out a gloved hand, and at the signal a squire darted forward and pressed into it a leather flask. De Percy raised it high in the freezing air, his breath misting about him in a moonlit halo. “I drink to you, my lords—to unity, to God and to our certain success...” There came a gruff chorus of approval. The wine hit his throat like ice; a stray drop coursed down his chin and made him shudder. He heard the clap of one leather-clad hand against the back of another: his liegeman Thomas of Ferham, right on cue.
As others took up the applause, de Percy tipped the flask and gave a splash of wine back to the cold earth upon which they stood. An old superstition. It meant nothing to him, but much to some of those here. They would see good fortune in it.
The sound of gauntleted hands clapping against palms, thighs, and saddle pommels now filled the glade like rain. De Percy turned about again, surveying the sea of faces suspended in the glowing fog that rose from the horses. Even the naysayers, now, were with him. Grudgingly or not, he did not care; it was not their love he was after.
A rain began to spit down, but in spite of the numbing cold, he felt a smile of satisfaction spread across his face. He, Richard de Percy, still only twenty-four years old, had done this—had done what others thought impossible, and by sheer force of will. It had taken weeks of persuasion, a lifetime of talk, but he had shown them, friends and rivals alike, that he was now a force to be reckoned with. Every one of them, not so long ago, had believed the house of de Percy spent. Since the death of his father, all eyes had been on his brother Henry, the Fourth Baron—but Henry was weak in mind and body, and more often in France than England these days, patronising some shrine or other. He would not find what he needed there, and it did not help his standing, absenting himself whilst crops failed and tenants starved. Strong leadership was needed now, and Richard would supply it. Soon his brother’s health would fail entirely. When it did, he would be ready. Even if it did not, he meant to show that he alone knew what was best for the house of de Percy. What was best for England.
All that remained tonight was for him to introduce the agent of his plan. Then, his standing would be assured. At the thought of it—at the unwelcome, niggling doubt that it raised—he lifted himself up in his saddle again and gazed towards the north. The position he commanded upon the top of the ancient mound—carefully calculated to place him head-and-shoulders higher than even the nearest of the surrounding barons—gave him a clear view beyond to the impenetrable black of the forest. Nothing stirred.
“When is he coming, this man of yours?” called a voice.
“He’ll be here,” said de Percy.
“May we not at least know who it is?” said another. “I like to know what my gold is paying for.”
De Percy recognised the gruff, cynical tones of Roger de Montgard and grinned. “Believe me, Sir Roger, you will not be disappointed.”
They were politician’s answers—speaking without saying anything. But they were delivered with such conviction he knew none could possibly doubt him. This was something he had learned from his father in the ten short years he had known him; another of the many lessons his brother had never quite grasped. People do not need answers. They need only to believe you have them—that you will do what is needed on their behalf. They say faith will move mountains, his father had once said, shaking his head. It will not. But it will move men. And if enough men will follow you, you may do anything. Anything at all. Richard had always taken that as a sign that he, and not his brother, would one day lead the family. And was it not he who had brought them to this hill?
Even with the agreement of the Northern lords, however, this night had not been without its challenges. In order to preserve the secrecy of the gathering, each had been required to set out at a different time—even on different days. All were heading to a variety of destinations for perfectly plausible reasons, their journeys nonetheless carefully timed to converge on this place, at this time. Many had muttered at the wisdom of it, gathering in the forest past the witching hour, in a place said to be haunted by shucks and draugs—never mind outlaws whose arrow-points thirsted for noble blood. Then there were the unresolved disputes, the unsettled scores, the predatory opportunities—all the more keenly felt during the hardships of recent months. Since arriving, many had looked askance at old rivals, for the moment less concerned about ghosts and outlaws than a neighbour’s dagger in the back.
But none of that mattered now. Provided this damned, never-ending rain finally lifted and—God forbid—his final guest didn’t fail him. Already a muttering was filling the awkward silence of the glade, the barons’ thoughts drifting to their beds. It was, de Percy judged, time to remind them of their purpose.
“My lords!” he called out. All eyes turned back to him. “Hood has become a problem for us all. There’s not a man here has not suffered some loss because of him. It was not always so. In the past, some of us profited from his presence—standing by whilst the outlaw humiliated the Prince and his lackeys...” He let his eyes rest on those few in the gathered party who remained loyal to John. They would go with the prevailing wind when there was nothing left to cling to. Their mere presence here said as much.
“I have even heard of those who thieved their own revenues and blamed it on Hood so they might keep it for themselves and deny the Prince his due.” There was laughter at that—some, de Percy knew, more out of nervousness than amusement. He wanted them to know he knew their secrets. Urging his horse forward, he wheeled before his guests, meeting the eyes of each. “Now, with the King’s return imminent, our Prince is fled to France, and the game has changed. Hood’s influence has grown. It is no longer a question of the damage he inflicts, the coin he thieves. He mocks us.” There was a mutter of agreement. “He undermines our authority daily, sets himself up as a king in the forest. The common folk flock to his cause. They hunger, and not just for food. How long before he moves to wrest our own lands from us?” As his voice grew in volume the mutter became a rumble.
“Our King returns, but he is not here yet. His justiciars listen not to our entreaties. The Prince—a protector to some—has left these shores. Now our crops fail, and famine stalks the land. Discontent spreads like a sickness. And it is a long, long way to London...” He turned his horse and brought it to an abrupt halt. “These are difficult times. It falls to us to take action—to end Hood’s rule before he exploits the weakness of the land—aye, and of us too, to his own ends. For this task I have no doubt that the King, when he comes, will show his gratitude. For let us be under no illusion—it is no longer a question of mere robbery or humble poaching. It is a question of treason!”
Some cheered. Their horses stamped. Such was the din that de Percy barely heard the whistle from the trees. He looked past the assembled throng to the branches of the forked oak, and saw the watchman perched there uncover his lantern three times. De Percy raised his hand.
“My lords! He approaches!”