Leicestershire, England, 19th January 1326
Fifty men on horseback, miserable in their sodden cloaks, were making slow progress along the muddy, winding road. It was a bad winter – not as bad as some in recent years, but bad enough. The rain pelted from a lead-grey Midlands sky, and the men grumbled at being ordered out in such rough weather.
They rode armed for war, in steel bascinets, greaves, and gauntlets, with swords and maces hanging by their sides, and shirts of boiled leather under their red and black livery.
Their master was Sir Roger de Belers, lord of much of the shire, justice of the peace and baron of the Exchequer. He rode at the head of the column, a heavy man, puffy and red-faced. Athletic and muscular in his youth, advancing age and good living was gradually turning his thick muscle into fat. He kept a tight grip on his sword and nervously watched the trees flanking the road.
The forest of Charnwood, like forests all over the country, was home to thieves and outlaws. Roger did not fear random bands of wandering criminals, for they were an ever-present threat, but he had many enemies in the shire. Too many.
He licked his dry lips, and ran a hand through the black bristles on his chin. He and his men had started from Melton Mowbray at dawn, passing through his manor at Kirby Belers on the way. Now they were descending into a thickly wooded valley. Smoke could be seen over the tops of the trees to the south, rising from the chimneys of the little village of Rearsby. From Rearsby it was but four miles on to the city of Leicester, and safety.
There had been no trouble so far. All was quiet. Nothing more sinister than rabbits and foxes stirred in the hedgerows.
Roger sent up a few more silent prayers, just for luck. He was a devout man, and for the good of his soul had founded a chantry of secular priests near Kirby Belers. True to his grasping nature, he had paid for it by plundering his neighbours and other religious houses.
Thunder rolled in the distance, and the grumbling of Roger’s men increased, spiced with curses. Dark clouds were massing to the south, promising a heavy downpour long before they reached Leicester.
The quiet woods suddenly came alive with the sound of war-horns and vomited armed men on horseback. One group of horsemen rode to block the southern end of the valley, while another cut off any hope of escape to the north. The rest swept down in two wings to envelope the hapless men stranded in the middle.
None of the attackers were wearing livery, but Roger recognized their faces. “Traitors!” he shouted as he dragged out his sword.
His men were outnumbered, two to one if not more, but they made a fight of it. They had little choice. Screams, oaths, and the ring of steel on steel erupted, shattering the peaceful silence of the valley.
Roger exchanged cuts with a man-at-arms, sheared off two of his fingers and punched him in the mouth. His assailant reeled away, leaning over his pony’s neck with his maimed hand pressed against a mouthful of broken teeth.
Meanwhile a young red-haired knight named Nicholas Folville steered his horse through the melee, urging her towards Roger. He was careful not to strike at any other man, guarding against blows when they came, but returning none.
“Ivo!” he shouted at one of his companions, and pointed frantically with his sword at Roger.
Ivo La Zouch, another youthful knight, heard Nicholas’s voice and looked where he pointed. He spotted the big man and drove his horse towards him.
Others converged on Roger, battering aside any of his retainers loyal or stupid enough to get in their way. It was the shepherd they wanted, not the sheep, and they meant to get him.
Roger knew death was close, and laid about him with the fury of despair and outrage. He had tried to enforce the king’s justice, to bring criminals to book and restore some order in the land, and this was his reward.
Well, damn them. Damn the King, too, damn his feeble justice and his failure to protect his servants, and damn the perverse sense of duty that had brought him, Roger de Belers, to this squalid end.
Ivo was eager, but his brother Ralph even more so, and reached the quarry first. He had lost his sword in the fight, and drawn a long knife in its place. He came up behind Roger as the man was fighting off two attackers at once, reached around and yanked his head up to expose the soft white meat of his neck.
Ralph was a good man with a knife. He thrust the point down, through Roger’s collarbone. The big man coughed, and his rich, red blood spurted into the air as the metal punctured his heart.
The oversized body shuddered violently in Ralph’s grip. He pulled out his knife and allowed Sir Roger to topple sideways from the saddle. The dying man’s lifeblood pumped from the hole in his shoulder, adding a tinge of red to the wet, churned-up ground.
“Dead!” screamed Ralph in triumph, waving his bloody knife in the air, his face flushed with pride and excitement. “The bastard’s dead! I killed him! Me!”
His raw, exultant shout was taken up by his comrades, until it echoed through the valley. Roger’s remaining followers, with no reason to fight on, scattered and fled. A few of their more vindictive opponents gave chase, hacking down the fugitives as they scattered into the woods, but the ringleaders gathered around the body of Sir Roger.
Flushed and sweating from exertion, their armour spotted with other men’s blood, the six young knights grinned at each other. In their minds, they had not committed a brutal and illegal killing on the king’s highway, but won a great victory.
“Well struck, Ralph,” said Ivo, clapping his brother on the back. Ralph grinned, raised his bloody knife to his lips and ran his tongue along the blade.
“I can taste wine, the sweat of whores, and too many puddings,” he declared. The others shouted with laughter, with the exception of the eldest, a tall, broad-shouldered fellow with a thin, foxy face and a curly brown beard.
“Best make sure,” he said, climbing from his horse and walking over to where Sir Roger lay face down in the mud, a thick trail of dark blood still gushing from his fatal wound.
The foxy-faced knight, whose name was Eustace Folville, held out his hand. “Axe,” he said, impatiently flexing his fingers. One of his younger brothers urged his horse forward and handed him one from the assortment of butcher’s tools hanging from his saddle.
It took four blows to get Roger’s head off. After it was done, Eustace wiped the sweat from his brow and kicked the headless corpse in the gut.
“A stubborn pig, even in death,” he remarked, reaching down to pick up the bleeding head by its thick, oiled black hair.
Eustace mounted his horse and held up his trophy, to be greeted by a wave of cheers. The men in the valley shook their fists at the hated head, shouting curses and ribald songs, some even jostling their fellows to get close enough to spit at it. In the nearby village of Rearsby, frightened peasants hid in their houses and prayed.
Justice, though not of a sort that Sir Roger de Belers would have recognized, had been done.