The Brotherhood looked splendid in their green mantles and black hose, but even more so with the insignia of a red rose sewn onto the breasts of their tunics. The rose was not only elegant but a symbol of Eustace’s rise in the world, long in the planning but sudden in the execution. It was also a symbol used by the Earl of Leicester.
Eustace took care to keep himself informed of politics, and his network of spies and agents had for a long time been keeping Henry of Leicester under close scrutiny. Through them he had learned that Leicester had no intention of marching to assist King Edward in repelling the invasion. Indeed, the Earl thoroughly despised the King and had done so even before Edward struck down his brother. A consummate politician when he wanted to be, Henry had done well to keep his true feelings hidden in the years since, though Edward was always suspicious and once accused him of encouraging the cult of sainthood that had gathered around Thomas after his death.
Edward would have done well to heed his fears, and the frantic advice of the Despensers to have Leicester attainted for treason. Instead he let the Earl alone, reckoning that whatever sentiment he might feel for his late brother would surely not override his allegiance. In this, as in so many other things in his miserably unsuccessful life, Edward was proved to be completely wrong.
Word of the landing of Mortimer and Isabella’s little army on the Suffolk coast had spread like wildfire through the kingdom, and Eustace’s spies reported on royal messengers hurtling up Watling Street to summon Leicester to his duty. The Earl’s knights, tenants and men-at-arms had been mustering outside the imposing walls of Pontefract for weeks. As soon as word of the landing arrived, the senior knights Leicester had left in command raised his banners and led the host down Watling Street, column after column of gleaming knights on high-stepping chargers, spearmen, pikes, and archers carrying the dreaded longbow.
They marched not to aid the King, but the rebels. And their numbers swelled, as men flocked to join them from the towns, villages and castles they passed en route to the Midlands. Lords and barons with their retinues, poor hedge-knights, gangs of brigands and outlaws, even peasant lads in grubby smocks and armed with scythes, kitchen knives, and makeshift spears. Distrust of their King, and hatred of the Despensers, was shared by all classes of men in England, from the highest to the lowest.
Soon after the advance guard crossed into Leicestershire a band of riders in green emerged from the forest to meet it.
Archers in the Earl’s livery bent their bows to drive off what they assumed were outlaws, bent on plundering the army’s baggage train. They were astonished when the riders dismounted and knelt in the grass, and when their leader, a tall fellow with a curly brown beard, courteously doffed his cap and begged to be taken into Leicester’s service.
The men in green might have received a volley of arrows, had the young knight in gilded armour at the head of the column not trotted forward and waved at the archers to stand down.
Eustace’s agents had informed him that the rebel host was not led by the Earl in person, whose whereabouts were unknown, but by his eldest son, Henry of Grosmont. He knew that Grosmont was but fifteen years old, but was still surprised when he looked to see an almost girlishly pretty youth, fair-haired, blue-eyed, and sporting a pathetic downy attempt at a beard. He rode well, though, and looked supremely confident as he gazed down at the outlaw, one armoured fist resting on his hip.
“You are Folville,” he said in the breaking voice of adolescence, “I was told to expect your coming. I have no liking for outlaws. Do you live in the forests, and plunder the King’s deer?”
“Yes, lord,” replied Eustace, deciding to risk boldness, “but out of stark necessity. We were forced into the forest to escape persecution and tyranny. All those who follow me are no criminals but honest yeomen, the strength and pride of England.”
Outrageous lies, but Grosmont’s face twitched into a smile. Eustace had heard tales of the boy’s obsession with old-fashioned notions of chivalry, and guessed correctly at his response.
“The land is indeed beset by tyrants,” the boy agreed, “and we will need more than knightly lances to bring them down. Your men are all fine archers, I trust?”
“The best, lord.” This, at least, was no lie. “There are no amateurish string-pluckers in my Brotherhood, and every man can hold his own with bow, buckler, sword, and spear.”
That was good enough for Grosmont. “Rise, then, outlaw,” he said, “and join our ranks. You and your Brotherhood are welcome.”
Eustace smiled at the memory. His men had been immediately employed as scouts and outriders, since they were superb light horse and possessed intimate knowledge of the region. Most of them were spread out on the flanks of the vanguard, or else roved through the country ahead, watching for any sign of royal troops.
Eustace took up position about a quarter of a mile ahead of the advance guard. He had six men at his back, including his brother Thomas, who insisted on singing. His pleasant warbling was incongruous next to the throb of the drums in the background, the whinnying of horses and the steady tramp of thousands of marching feet.
Life, Eustace reflected, was a splendid and flowering thing. The only cloud on his horizon was the escape of Sir John Swale from Rockingham, and the distinctly half-hearted efforts of Sir Robert de Vere to hunt for him.
At first Eustace had been annoyed when he heard the news of Swale’s escape, and then amused by the thought of him overpowering three guards and swimming the moat. The humiliation of his escape was all De Vere’s, and there was time enough to win Swale to his side. The King’s man was stubborn, but he could not run forever. Soon, if Eustace’s plans and ambitions all fell into place, there would be nowhere in England safe from his influence.
“This is the beginning of life in earnest,” remarked Eustace to Matthew, who was riding just behind him. “With the Earl’s patronage, and the gratitude of Mortimer, I shall soon be a great man. Not some petty country squire, like my brother John, God bless him for the modest soul that he is, nor an outlaw forced to live like a hunted animal in the woods. A great man, Matthew, with my own livery and a fine castle with a moat and a wife to bear me sons…Who knows? Perhaps I shall even petition for a seat in Parliament.”
Matthew looked dubious. “There will be some hard fighting to do first,” he said. “Many lords cleave to the King yet, and he can hope to raise an army in the West.”
“Well, let us hope so. I would not like things to be too easy. Perhaps you will meet John Swale on some battlefield, and pay him back for the buffet he gave you.”
Matthew smiled, a touch nervously, it seemed to Eustace, but his attention was distracted by the wild blowing of a distant hunting horn. It came from about a mile to the south, where the highway narrowed into an uneven, rutted track through dense woods.
“That will be Coterel, I think,” Eustace said, standing up in his stirrups and shading his eyes to peer at the woods. “Let us find out.”
He clapped in his spurs and drove his mare into a gallop, with Matthew and the others following close behind.
They had barely entered the woods when Eustace spied James Coterel and his followers cantering back up the road. The Derbyshire knight had plainly seen some action, for his armour was dinted and there was blood on the naked sword hanging from his saddle, but his cruel mouth was tightened into a grin. Eustace frowned. He did not trust Coterel overmuch and wondered what he could have to smile about.
It was then he saw the huge figure riding between two of James’ followers, his helmet ripped away and his hands tightly bound.
“Sir Ralph Belers,” Eustace said with a laugh as James and his company drew nearer. “To what do we owe this honour? After Rearsby, I thought you would spend the next ten years skulking in a hole somewhere.”
Sir Ralph was ghastly pale and looked ready to faint. Blood leaked from a great hole in his leg-armour. He still had some spirit left in him, though, and opened his mouth to throw Eustace’s taunts back in his teeth.
He was denied the opportunity by Laurence Coterel, who leaned over and casually hit him, backhand, across the mouth. “Be silent, or I will slice off a few of your chins.”
“We took him on the road, just a mile south,” said James. “He had a few men with him. We killed most of them, but a couple got away. They will be heading back to Leicester, no doubt.”
Eustace was displeased. “You should have killed them all,” he said. “Why were you riding north, Sir Ralph? Do not tell me were planning on offering your sword to Leicester. We have been such good enemies for so long, I cannot imagine having you for an ally.”
Sir Ralph’s face turned an even ghostlier shade as Eustace’s words sank in. “You…” he whispered, “you ride with the Earl?”
“With his son, but it amounts to the same thing. The Earl is indisposed, though I have a good idea of where he might be.”
James reached into a saddle-bag and drew out a crumpled square of parchment with a red wax seal dangling from it. “He was carrying this,” he said, handing it to his master. Eustace took the letter, held it up to the light and squinted at the contents.
What he read made him chuckle. “Troops to hunt me down,” he said. “A bold and ambitious scheme, Sir Ralph. I like it. However did you persuade that mouse, Le Waleys, to put his seal to it?”
The big knight said nothing. He looked old, and utterly defeated. Eustace read on, his smile eroding as he reached the end.
“This was written by Elizabeth Clinton,” he said quietly. “The treacherous bitch has tried to betray me, and after all the kindnesses I have shown her.”
He did not sound angry, but the men around him knew him well, and glanced nervously at each other.
“Matthew,” he said, “take as many of the Brotherhood as you can find and ride with all haste to Leicester. Find the Sheriff and get him to tell you where Elizabeth has gone. Then go after her, and bring her back to me.”
Matthew nodded. “What if the Sheriff refuses to talk, or tries to arrest us?”
“Point out to him that Grosmont’s army is marching on the city, and will not take kindly to his liegemen being ill-treated. Oliver Le Waleys is a timid creature. He should not give you too much trouble. Go.”
Matthew turned his horse’s head south, but before he could ride away Eustace leaned over and seized his bridle.
“I will not be so forgiving this time,” he said quietly, looking deep into the other man’s eyes. “Do not disappoint me.”
A tremor of fear passed over Matthew’s scarred features. “Not you, Coterel,” he said as the Derbyshire knight prepared to turn about and follow the others. “We will take our captured bird here and present him to Grosmont.”
“You mean to let him live?” said James in surprise. “I thought you might like to take the fat bastard into the forest and have some fun with him.”
“Profit before pleasure, Coterel, profit before pleasure,” said Eustace, wagging his finger. “You show promise, but have much to learn. We will advise his lordship that Belers is a rich man, and should be able to afford a decent ransom. Then gently remind him that we were responsible for his capture, and entitled to a share of any profit.”
James shrugged. He could see the logic of the argument, but was sorely disappointed at being denied the chance of maltreating a prisoner.
Sir Ralph briefly rallied, and glared at the outlaws with something of his old pride. “My men will warn Elizabeth that your dogs are coming,” he said. “She will get out of Leicester in time. Lady Clinton is a resourceful, capable woman, and you will not have her.”
“Let her run, if she can,” said Eustace. “She has no allies and nowhere to hide. I will send men to torch that pretty house of hers, lay waste her farms, drive away her cattle and slaughter her folk. That will teach her the value of loyalty.”