Robert called the youngsters back to him once he finished the family mass. They pouted and rolled their eyes, but returned nonetheless. Robert kneeled on one knee by the altar, urging them in closer. Walter’s toddler Obi and Robin’s Watt looked like brothers. Robin’s little girl, Annie, was the spitting image of her mum, Anne. Then there were the younger sons and daughters of Fitzwalter’s household knights.
“As you know I’ll be leaving with the baron, but that doesn’t mean your lessons will end,” Robert broke their little hearts. “Your old magister will look after your letters and numbers.”
A round of ohs and aghs rumbled through the gaggle of children.
“He’s so old and boring,” Watt whined for the rest of them.
“Can’t you stay?” Little Annie gave her best pout, sad eyes, and squirmy leg.
Robert sighed. “Alas, I must follow the baron where he leads, Annie.” He ran a finger over her silky soft cheek, teasing a giggle and smile out of her.
He looked over them all again. “We all have our duties little ones, and yours is to learn as much as you can. Mind your manners, listen to Elsie and the magister, and aye Watt I’ll check up on you all.”
More moans and stomped feet, but Robert knew he had them.
Elsibet Chamberlain appeared in the doorway of the round chapel. “All right now, you heard Chaplain Robert. I’ll see to it he knows everything you do, and you know he’ll pass it on to your papas. Now down to the hall all of you, we have to prepare the send off.”
The children burst into the energetic chaos of pure youth, stampeding down the stairs. Elsibet reminded each one of their chores, patting and hugging them as they scampered. With the last one heading down, she grinned at Robert, “I keep my promises.”
“I’d have it no other way,” Robert grinned.
Elsibet looked down the hallway at the chambermaids hauling sheets, then gave Robert an impish grin. She reached into her blouse and removed a pristine white linen kerchief. With one hand she took Robert’s scarred palm and traced the scars lightly, silently. She slipped the kerchief into his palm. Fitzwalter’s signet was sewn into two corners and crosses into the other two.
Tis still warm from the heart beating in her oh so lovely breast . . . fourty three plus eighty six . . . one hundred and twelve from two hundred thirty five . . .
“A keepsake,” Elsibet stared deep into Robert’s eyes and chewed on her grin, “For you.”
The room was spinning, Robert’s stomach curled around his spine, and there was hammering in his ears, almost as annoying as the growing tension.
“Now let me hear you say it,” She whispered.
Good Lord, what’s happening?
“Say what?”
“My name, luv,” She traced his palm scar through the kerchief, stepping closer.
Her breasts are brushing against me. . . Oh God, give me strength to endure. . .
“Elsibet,” He sighed and shut his eyes, but she was still right there staring at him, pressing against him. “Elsibet de Chamberlain.”
“Stay safe,” An angel whispered in his ear then ever so slightly brushed soft, honey scented lips against his cheek.
This is so wrong. . . I could take her in my room . . . and . . . God this is so wrong . . .
“Come,” She folded the kerchief in his hand and led him down the hallway.
. . .
Robert entered the hall. Fitzwalter and Gannora were holding hands, whispering to one another. Walter and Ida were standing arms length from one another, Ida looking fretful and Walter over eager. Obi clung to his mother’s skirts and stared up at his father dolefully. Robin and Anne were holding each other close with little Watt and Annie in their arms to each side. Agatha and Desmond Chamberlain were giving parting words to their son, Arthur. Elsibet was helping the kitchenmaids bring out trays of warm bread, boiled eggs, and cheese. Alfred was listening to his father Adam’s conversation with Edgar de Dunmow. Emeric de Ongar and Noel de Hamlin were talking with their daughters, Jessy and Mary, Gannora’s handmaidens. There were easily another dozen of the baron’s most important knights with their wives and children about. The young men and squires hid their fears by flirting with each other’s sisters and cousins.
Troublefoot and her puppies scoured the floors for crumbs.
The men were all dressed in their finest mantles and jerkins, the ladies in their prettiest tunics and dresses. For all that it seemed a festive gathering, there was the underlying dread of what lay ahead. At the London Temple on Epiphany, King John agreed to have an answer concerning the Charter of Liberties by Easter, which had now come and gone with no word from the Crown. However, John had the time to declare his intent to join Pope Innocent’s planned crusade once he settled the problems of his kingdom. His taking the cross was widely seen as a ploy to succor Innocent’s favor. Then a papal decree arrived denouncing the barons and bishops of England for conspiring against their sovereign. Having encouraged them to rebel against King John three years ago, Innocent now declared the same barons malcontents at risk of excommunication.
“Ah, Chaplain Robert,” Lady Gannora identified him from across the hall, swinging the focus of the room his way. “Before we see our men off, please be so kind as to offer a prayer for their safe return.”
“For certes, m’lady,” Robert replied gracefully. Everyone in the room lowered their heads and quiet blanketed them in solemnity. Robert kept it that way for several heartbeats, summoning the words from within. “Lord, I entreat you to keep the baron and all his men in your loving arms, and under your watchful eye, for it is a noble endeavor they embark upon. Let your wisdom and truth guide us through the trials and tribulations sure to follow. Let your benevolence and beneficence shine on them as well as King John, for it is he who most needs the humility of truth and grace of repentance. In all things we are but merely your servants, and we submit ourselves humbly into your hands.”
Robert made the sign of the cross, lifted his rosary to kiss the cross, and then opened his eyes to the hall.
“Thank you, twas beautiful Robert,” Gannora said sweetly.
. . .
“There’s no hiding this,” Earl Geoff whistled beside Baron Fitzwalter.
Sprawling along the banks of the River Wellon, and encircling walled Stamford in southern Lincolnshire was a kailedescope of tents and banners. Amidst the camp and surrounding fields thousands of men sparred for war. Cheers greeted the East Anglians as they made their way towards Baron Gilbert Gant’s heavily fortified manor. William Fitzwalter, Brito Albiny and his sons, Sayer Quincy and his, Henry and Humphrey Bohun, Eustace Vescy, Nathan Lacy, Giles de Braose, and Gilbert Gant waited eagerly in the bailey.
“Welcome my lords of East Anglia!” Baron Gant greeted them with open arms.
Lord Gilbert Gant was tall, lance thin, and bald save for the moustache and beard covering his mouth. His father was Earl of Lincoln for King Stephen during the Anarchy, so the new King Henry refused Gant the shire once the long civil war was over and the Plantagenets ascendant.
“So glad you joined the tourney!” Earl Quincy bowed obsequiously as the Bigods, Clares, Fitzwalters, Lanvalays, Montfichet, Mandevilles, and Veres mingled amongst them.
“Ward brothers!” Baron Nathan Lacy greeted Sweet Willum and Rikard happily, having squired with them while Ranulf raised them all.
“Were you followed?” Earl Bohun wondered.
“For certes,” Baron Fitzwalter waved the concern away, “Weren’t you?”
The Earl of Herefordshire agreed.
Bishop Giles laughed but it seemed to exhaust him. He was skeleton gaunt and spots were spreading across his skin. Some said John had a witch curse the Braoses, others that it was a Breton witch’s revenge for Duke Arthur’s murder, then there was the Welsh witch who cursed the family for the Massacre at Abergavny. “Rest assured the king and half the kingdom know we are here by now!”
“Sir Ropsley the Kingslance and Lady Haye’s undersheriff are camped nearby with the Lincoln Greens,” Gant informed them.
“They shant make a move if none here does,” Baron Albiny promised. Ropsley was more than Kingslance, more than the Lincolnshire Forester, having inherited and married into nearly two dozen knight’s fees throughout the Midlands and East Anglia, a minor baron subinfeudated to Lord Albiny.
Fitzwalter frowned, “And what of Earl David of Huntingdon?”
“He’s in Scotland solidifying Alexander’s hold on the throne,” Quincy explained, “The Highlanders are testing their new king’s mettle.”
“King Alexander should pass the test,” Fitzwalter winked at his blood brother.
“So how many have we?” Earl Richard Clare inquired as they boisterously headed into the main hall, already crowded with lords from the Midlands and Northumbria.
“Just over forty barons now that you’re here,” Gant estimated loudly, “Some two thousand knights easily, perchance five times as many sergeants.”
“Tis almost half the barony and a third of the knights of England,” Robert told Robin.
“My lords, I deliver unto you the East Anglians!” Gant shouted eagerly to a hail of cheers.
“The St. Edmund’s Oath is fulfilled!” Fitzwalter bellowed.
Twice as large as Manor Dunmow, Stamford was a small castle. The main hall was crowded with lords, heirs, younger sons, and their most renowned knights. Trestle tables crammed everyone in tightly, the warmth from hearth and bodies giving the air a thick, pungent, and coating feel.
Once the greetings and catching up between kith and kin was winding down, Baron William Mowbray of Thirsk in Yorkshire climbed atop a trestle table and shouted everyone quiet. He was about waist high on average men, with stunted arms and legs, a thick brow and wide face, long walnut hair combed to the side and braided sideburns. “Me brothers, tis a fine showing here, but all know tis no tourney ring we’re after, so where do we go from here?”
Mowbray was a dwarf by stature, but descended from one of the original Norman conquerors. He went on crusade with King Richard the Lionheart and earned the his respect. When Lionheart was captured in Austria on the return trip, Mowbray volunteered to serve hostage for several years while ransom was paid to the Kaiser. Mowbray held nearly 100 knights fees and sprawling estates throughout Lincoln and Yorkshire, an earl in all but name.
A chorus of encouragement echoed through the hall.
“For certes, you have some thoughts on that, Lord Mowbray,” Clare prodded the dwarf.
Mowbray smiled devilishly. “I say we send you East Anglians down to find the king and demand this Charter of Liberties. In the meantime we strike!” He raised his fist to the Northumbrians and all around him agreed vociferously.
“Strike where?” Earl Bertran Vere inquired, “Nay, let me guess, Northumbria.”
Sir Gerry de Vere yawned boredom.
“Bah,” Mowbray swatted at Bertran’s speculation. “I say we reave the Midlands Crownshires; take Lincoln, High Peak, Bolsover, Kenilworth, mayhap even Nottingham.” Mowbray pulled out a dagger, and slashed the air. “We cut the kingdom in half then bargain the charter for their return!”
“Here! Here!” Baron Vescy and Earl Forz agreed lustily, while the Northumbrians flooded the hall with raucous agreement.
“Reaving makes enemies of potential allies!” Albiny countered. “Reave the Vale of Belvoir and see what happens, Mowbray.”
“Where are the siege machines to take these castles?” Fitzwalter questioned, “Are they hidden in your purse?”
“Nay, up me arse!” Mowbray sneered. “Our Viking forefathers didn’t need siege weapons save the occasional battering ram, so why should we?”
“Good point,” Fitzwalter conceded, “Then your arse will do just fine.”
The crowd laughed, jested, and taunted.
“There’s strength in numbers, m’lords and sirs,” Quincy posited, “Whatever we do, let us not divvy up into little bands that can be picked off one by one.”
“Oui,” Clare agreed, “Our true strength lies in numbers. Whatever we do, we must stick together.”
“For certes, the Crown will try to divide and conquer us.” Geoff added, “Twill be so much the easier if we are already divided.”
“What?” Mowbray mocked, “You can’t dare to stand tall on ye’re own wee southrons? Quick, huddle together before the bogeyman gets ye!”
“Everyone but a newborn babe stands taller than you, you overgrown garden gnome.” Gilbert Clare jumped to his father’s defense. “How many times has House Mowbray rebelled and failed all on its own?”
Mowbray’s face curled into a rictus of rage, and he pointed his dirk towards the Clares, “Call me that again welp and I’ll geld you.”
“Can you reach that high?” Geoff wondered and the hall burst into tirades of laughter. “God’s bowels, what does a man have to do to get a drink around here?”
“Never fret,” Mowbray’s adult and fully grown son, Nigel, dove into the fray, “I’ll knock any down who deserve a good castrating!”
“I stand by Lord Mowbray as well!” A tall, stout, handsome young baron stood by Mowbray’s table. “Tis high time we taught the king his own lesson!”
“Tis Bill Marshal?” Robin leaned to Robert.
“For certes,” Robert agreed, “still upset at seven years the Kingsquire no doubt.”
The Mowbrays and Bill Marshal were backed by a handful of household knights and sergeants, all muttering curses and dares. The Mandeville and Clare men responded with equivalent abrasiveness. Hands grabbed hilts and men readied for bloodletting.
“Gentlemen!” Fitzwlater shouted, “Let us save the rancor for the Crown. As it happens, I perchance have an avenue to securing Northampton bloodlessly. As a strong Crown Castle between Watling Street and Fosse Way, twould send a powerful message without alienating the silent lords!”
“Let us not forget the Rock and Earl Warrenne are crouching to strike in Northumbria.” Clare reminded them of their peril. “Savaric has his Rapscallions and the Gascon Whoresons waiting in Ireland, while Lord Hubert has Poitevans and the Magnifcent Bastards southward in Kent. Lord Marshal, Count Ranulf, and the Brute are mustered on the Welsh March and . . .”
“Blah, blah, blah!” Mowbray shouted. “You sound like an old hag Clare. Why don’t you retire to the monastery and leave the fighting to the real men?”
Clare wagged his finger at Baron Mowbray. “You bloody garden gnome, you’ll have us all hanging from the Black Tower of Nottingham ‘ere you’re through reaving the Midlands!”
Mowbray’s grin flipped to rage, “By God’s bollocks, I promised I’d geld you!”
He screamed and jumped from the table, dagger raised high.
Adam caught him in mid jump to uproarious abandon, “Easy there, Lord Mowbray, remember who the real enemy is.”
Mowbray roared like a bear cub, “I’ll show you the enemy you oversized tree!”
He stabbed the dagger into Adam’s shoulder.
“Ow! You fucking garden gnome!” Adam bellowed, lifted the dwarf lord up over his head and threw him with all his might. Mowbray screamed past his own trestle table, over the next one, and landed hard on the clay dishware laid out on the third table. Bouncing off it, the dwarf lord slammed into Baron Ross, bowled the man over, and fell flat on his head with a cracking thud.
“That didn’t sound good at all,” Robert said under his breath.
Adam pulled the dagger from his shoulder and threw it on the ground before Nigel Mowbray.
“Are you hurt Papa?” Alfred came running up to Adam.
“Eh,” Adam blinked as he fingered some blood from the cut. “Tis only a flesh wound.”
“Bastards!” Mowbray’s son screamed after checking on his father, unconscious on the floor. “I’ll kill you all!”
“This is bloody anarchy,” Albiny muttered beside Fitzwalter.
“Enough!” Gant stood on the dais. “Shall we war with ourselves, right here and now? Won’t that please the king! All of you come to your senses and calm down!”
Cooler heads on both sides slipped between the Northumbrians and East Anglians.
Quincy curled some braids and tugged on his beard, looking to Fitzwalter, Clare, and Geoff, “If the Garden Gnome stays down long enough we might actually agree to something.”
“My lords!” Fitzwalter shouted, “You have heard Mowbray’s plan, now here mine!”
. . .
Earl William Marshal and Archbishop Stephen Langton rode into Stamford with Sir Ropsley the Kingslance and a Temple escort.
William Marshal was a living legend with a long white beard flowing down his green and gold surcoat, his mail painted the same colors but on opposite sides. Having faithfully served as a queensman for Queen Eleanor and kingsman for Young King Hal, he earned his own banner after a decade of success on the tourney fields. With Hal’s early death, Marshal became Henry’s Kingshield and remained loyal when all the remaining Plantagenet sons rebelled. As Richard Lionheart was chasing his sick father from Angers, it was Marshal that jousted the prince and knocked him off his horse. With Henry’s death, rather than persecute Marshal, King Richard married him to Countess Sybil de Clare of Pembroke. He then served as a Crownsteward during the Lionheart Crusade. King John relied on Marshal heavily for the defense of Normandy, then there was the bitter Irish exile after he refused to choose between his English King, John, or his French King, Philippe. Yet Marshal was ascendant again.
Everyone Lord Marshal passed bowed their heads in respect. The three men entered the hall filled with lords from East Anglia, the Midlands, and Northumbria. The heirs, clerics, and knights watched silently from the galley above. Baron Gant received them formally and pages brought them refreshing mead. Looking about, Marshal had his first surprise.
“Junior?” He squinted and frowned.
“Papa,” Sir Bill Marshal grimaced.
“M’lords, we’ve been sent by his majesty to discover your intentions,” Langton announced through Marshal’s stunned silence.
The silence stretched as they all stared each other down.
“King John knows our intentions,” Baron Fitzwalter spoke up for them. “We presented him the Charter of Liberties, he agreed to have an answer by Easter, Eastertide has come and gone, and now we intend to hear his answer.”
“Listening does not require arms and armor,” Marshal entered the fray.
“Tisn’t that how you approached him after swearing fealty to King Philippe for your Norman estates?” Fitzwalter countered to a chorus of laughter.
Marshal nodded his head and brows in slight acquiescence. “He does not have an answer.”
A rumbling of mumbling churned through the hall.
Fitzwalter gave them an ‘I told you so’ shrug.
“So what do you mean to do then?” Langton continued the counterpoint.
Fitzwalter smiled and opened his arms wide. “If the king shant fulfill his promise, we are prepared to fill ours.”
“You mean to bring arms against the king then,” Marshal posited.
“We mean to have an answer one way or another,” Earl Clare articulated beside his cousin.
Again, the oppressive silence.
“Very well then,” Marshal finally said with sad solemnity. “His majesty wishes me to say any one of you who attempts to compel him to anything by force will be declared a rebel, a traitor, and dealt with accordingly.”
“In this he has the full backing of his holiness, Pope Innocent,” Langton added hollowly, “Excommunication awaits all who rebel against the crusader king.”
Again, the oppressive silence.
“Then we know each other’s intentions,” Baron Vescy broke the silence as he ran two fingers down the three scars of his cheek.
The officialness over, Marshal and his son went upstairs to meet privately. Soon enough the shouting started, with Bill breathing the hottest air. He accused his father of cowardice and blind loyalty, words Marshal had killed men over in his youth. While Langton discussed Church matters with the assembled bishops in the chapel, Fitzwalter and Albiny sought Ropsley the Kingslance with Robert in tow.
“M’lord,” Sir Ropsley nodded dutifully to Albiny. “I pray we do not come to blows.”
Albiny sighed, “We are all bound to uphold our duty and honor. I have no desire nor do I intend to clash with our king, yet I agree whole heartedly in the Charter of Liberties. Not even the king should be above the rule of law or custom. Tis a shame such has come to pass.”
“I concur, m’lord,” Ropsley whispered.
“Sir Ropsley, we haven’t seen you in some time,” Fitzwalter greeted him, “You should visit your East Anglian estates when you get the chance. We’d love to guest you.”
“I’ve been meaning to and thank the kind offer,” Ropsely grinned tightly. He looked eternally young for a man in his forties, despite the grey creeping into his short hair and trimmed beard. He wore the crimson and gold of a kingsman. “Twill be some time, I think, before I can afford the tour.”
Ropsley glanced at the baron’s chaplain and nodded, “I see you’ve found new patronage, Master Robert, good for you lad.”
“I thought you might have considered the same after La Roches to La Rochelle,” Robert reckoned.
Ropsley’s vision grew distant, “We lost a lot of good men, didn’t we?”
“Aye,” Robert agreed curtly.
Ropsley shook his head sadly then refocused on Fitzwalter, “I was wondering if I might ask a boon, m’lord?”
“Oh?”
“I’ve heard much of the Charter of Liberties, but haven’t seen it myself,” Ropsley shrugged.
Fitzwalter grinned, “For certes, all lords of the realm should know exactly what we stand for.”
Robert dug into his satchel, produced a copy, and handed it over.
Ropsley looked up to the door where the Marshals were arguing, “I say this in strictest confidence, should the king refute the charter and unleash his dogs, there are far more who will come to your side than you might think. . . far more.”
Fitzwalter stared deep into the Kingslance’s eyes,”I thank you this boon, m’lord.”
Once Ropsley moved on and as the archbishop headed upstairs, Fitzwalter asked Albiny and Robert, “What do you know of Ropsley’s late estrangement with John?”
“I know only the gossip, m’lord.” Robert confessed.
“Well, gossip away fishwife,” Fitzwalter winked.
“This should be interesting,” Albiny crossed his arms and stared hard at Robert.
They were heading upstairs to meet with Langton, hadn’t much time, with men above and below on the steps, “The king demanded First Night rights with an Irish princess, sending Ropsley to fetch her. He refused so John took Ropsley’s daughter to bed instead. The ensuing argument has several versions . . .”
Fitzwalter stared at Albiny, who sighed through his nose, nodding slightly.
“Tis enough,” Fitzwalter choked back anger. “He’s one of us.”
Twould seem the King’s cock might be his worst enemy.
Langton met with the Fitzwalter brothers and Albiny, Clare and Quincy, Bishops Giles and Welton, and Barons Gant and Vescy. “M’lords, I say this not as Crown envoy but as a Prince of the Church, take a lesson from King John.”
“And what lesson is that?” Giles de Braose sneered as he leaned on his cane.
“Divide thy enemy,” Langton urged, “He pulled the sails from King Philippe’s invasion by bringing Innocent to his side.”
“And then burned the French fleet to the water line,” Fitzwalter pointed out.
Langton refused to be distracted. “If John’s oath at Ewell proves anything, tis Innocent’s willingness to change sides; send envoys to Rome m’lords. Hold out as long as you can without resorting to rebellion. Seek counsel from the English Church when demanding the charter. Make yourselves servants of the Holy Church and mayhap Innocent will change his mind.”
“Sage advice,” Albiny agreed.
“A fat bribe shant hurt either,” Clare huffed.
The other lords agreed with chuckling, while Albiny scowled at them.
Langton sighed, running his hand through salt and pepper hair, “Take the Cross! Innocent hasn’t much life left, but he’s determined to see his crusade bear fruit. Promise to crusade with the king if he accepts a charter.”
“John may have taken the Cross, but he will never crusade.” Bishop Welton of London argued with cold vehemence and complete agreement amongst the others.
“Think of something then, anything to ween Innocent from John,” Langton pleaded.
“There’s truth in his words, m’lords,” Robert advised.
“Truth indeed,” Albiny urged the argument.
“Aye, but first we must assure John we hold true to our oath,” Fitzwalter affirmed.
. . .
“Why is there no sign of Sheriff Braybrook?” Baron Vescy asked Fitzwalter.
As the charter lords headed south from Stamford most of the Northamptonshire barons and knights either joined or vowed solidarity to the charter. All across the shire, Crown estates were being raided or occupied. The rebellion was spreading to neighboring Bedfordshire as well.
The vanguard was settling into Northampton town, having found the gates open and manned by the burgh militia. The sun was slowly waning on the western horizon and the main column was an hour or so up Watling Street. The townsfolk were polite and hospitable, but nervous as burghers tend to be when hundreds of armed men ride into their neighborhoods.
While some remained at Stamford, and others halted at Bedford, Fitzwalter, Quincy, and the East Anglians were ambling their horses across the open square towards Northampton Castle; a fortress rebuilt strong and imposing by John’s father. Braybrook had also spent the last year extending the fortifications. The moat was wide and fed by the River Nene. The curtain walls were mounted with wooden galleries and catapults on round towers, while the barbican was two imposing double round towers. The drawbridge was down and portcullis up. The keep, a tall rectangular sentinel, held rectangular towers. The Plantagenet flag flew from the keep and barbican, but there was no second banner signifying the constable in residence.
“If he’s with us, why isn’t he here to greet us?” Baron Gant wondered and rubbed his bald head.
“I talked with him before Easter, m’lord.” Earl Quincy assured, “He’s with us.”
“Perchance he’s out on duty,” Sir Will Mandeville postulated.
“Mayhap,” Baron Fitzwalter agreed, “We’ll see what the castellan has to say.”
Just then a buzzing blur cut over Fitzwalter’s shoulder.
The crossbolt ripped Geoff Mandeville’s wineskin from his hand. “How rude!”
Quincy’s horse gargled, spitting blood as it was pelted with bolts, then crumbled to the ground. Quincy had just enough time to roll, landing hard on his right shoulder.
“Pops!” Sirs Rob and Roger de Quincy both jumped from their horses to check on their wincing father.
“M’lords, get back!” Fitzwalter’s Sergeant at Arms, Christopher Reeve, spurred his horse in front of the highborn, still holding the baron’s banneret atop his lance.
A crossbolt slammed through Christopher’s head, the bolt sticking out his right eye socket, the eye dangling as he slumped over his pommel; the high wooden ridge keeping him aloft. The Fitzwalter banneret clattered to the ground.
“Jesu’s blood!” Sir Robin shouted, “Christopher!”
The horse started panicking as bolts slammed into its haunches.
“Are your heads full of shite?” Sir Adam bellowed as he spurred his horse forward, “Get back you daft fools!”
“Oh!” Earl Clare exclaimed as he fell from his horse, a bolt sticking through his arm into his side.
“Papa!” Sir Gilbert shouted and jumped from his horse.
The portucullis screeched shut, closing the castle to the town.
“We’ve been betrayed!” Vescy cursed while wheeling his mount about. “Wiles, men, back to the church!”
The Vescy’s fled and the crossbolts hailed deathly quick, thudding deep into the ground; hitting a slew of soldiers, knights, and horses. Christopher Reeve’s horse finally fell over close to Quincy’s dead mount. The sergeant flopped between the two dead beasts like a dropped rag doll.
“Braybrook! Tis the charter lords! For God’s sake, stop!” Fitzwatler shouted, manhandling his fidgeting horse.
Cloudstar was backing Robert up slowly, despite his protests.
“Bastards!” Rob de Quincy shook his fist at the barbican as Roger shuffled back with their father.
A bolt took Rob high in the chest, bowling him over.
“Father, get back!” Sir Walter shouted.
Another bolt slammed into Rob’s hip and he screamed.
“Now!” Robin insisted.
“Christopher!” Fitzwalter choked, “I’m not leaving without Christopher, Clare, and Rob!”
Adam’s horse was hit with several bolts. The Braintree Bull slipped from the mount and dragged the warbbly legged beast over to the other two dead ones. He slit its throat and laid the animal down atop Christopher’s mount.
“Bloody shite!” Walter cursed, spurring towards Adam and the horseflesh bulwark. “Adam, help me get Christoph. . . ah!”
Walter stared down at a bolt sticking into his left thigh.
“Son!” Fitzwalter shouted. “Nay!”
“Get down, Damnit!” Adam pulled his nephew down roughly, the bolt protruding through Walter’s leg.
“Christ! Ohhhh! Shite, shite, shite!” Walter screamed.
Once Walter was down, Adam slammed his dagger up the horse’s throat into its brain and bullied it onto the bulwark. Bolts kept piercing the dead and dying horses and stabbing into the ground as Adam pulled Walter close to the horses.
One of Clare’s knights was helping Gilbert drag the Earl of Hertfordshire towards the horse bulwark until a bolt slammed into his back. He went down stiff as stone, falling on his face, taking Gilbert and Clare with him.
Another bolt nailed Rob in the shin, the bone shattering with a loud crack. “Ohhhhhh!”
Fitzwalter’s unruly stallion reared its head and a bolt slammed through the snout, panicking the horse. Several more bolts struck the animal’s chest but Fitzwalter managed to jump free, rolling his ankle as he landed hard on his back. The air escaped his lungs in a loud huff.
“Papa!” Robin screamed and jumped from his horse.
Enough!
“Cloudstar!” Robert jabbed the horse with his heels and whipped the reins, “On!”
The stormy horse shook its head and snorted but rushed forward. Robert wasn’t thinking anymore, his heart was in command. He pulled Cloudstar to a stop in front of the baron and Robin, reaching his hand down. “Come with me, my lord!”
“Nay!” Fitzwalter grimaced and waved the hand away, “I’m not leaving without my brothers!”
“You bloody stubborn oaf!” Robin cursed his pa.
“Respect you’re elders!” Fitzwalter groaned as Robin pulled him up.
Robert’s back never felt so exposed.
“Fine then!” Robert spat.
He dismounted and smacked Cloudstar’s rump. She obliged and clopped across the square. Robert hunkered underneath Fitzwalter’s right arm as Robin held him up on the other side. Together they rushed him to the bulwark. A bolt zipped through Robert’s robe between his legs, another slashed across Robin’s shoulder.
More and more sergeants and knights were running and riding across the square to retrieve their lords. Quincy’s knights formed a protective wall around him and Roger as they stumbled towards the church. Sergeant Arthur Chamberlain ran up with a shield and stood in front of Gilbert, still trying to get his wounded father up.
“Frue frau!” Sergeant Sax Mashbury shouted valiantly as he hefted Clare up and helped Gilbert get him to the bulwark.
“They got my wine!” Geoff sat with his back against dead horse. “What did my wine ever do to them?”
“Oh, shut up brother!” Will cursed as he piled his saddle atop the bulwark, then sent his horse galloping.
Edgar de Dunmow and Noel de Hamlin, two of Fitzwalter’s finest knights braved the bolts to drag Rob over as well. Several Quincy and Clare sergeants helped provide cover for them with their shields. Robert was making the sign of the cross over Christopher, drawing his eyes closed with his fingers. Clare was gasping, Walter screaming, Rob bleeding profusely.
“Cousin, are you alright?” Fitzwalter asked Clare.
The earl’s face was a visage of turmoil. He was pale but not as ivory as Rob.
“Hurts . . . to . . . breathe,” Clare wheezed.
Adam bobbed his head over the bristling wall of bloody horseflesh.
“Damnit!” He cursed, “Braybrook’s not in there.”
“What?” Fitzwalter gasped as he held his ankle.
“There’s a red griffon banner atop the barbican.” Adam groused as a bolt stuck through the wide pommel of Will’s saddle. Everyone groaned.
“I thought the Brute was in Wales!” Gilbert exclaimed hysterically.
Robert took a deep breath, having finished blessing Christopher’s soul with the Extreme Unction. He looked at Arthur, “Shield me, would you?”
Arthur looked at the chaplain as if he were crazed but nodded his head. He stood, holding the shield high with both hands, ducking his head like a turtle. Robin held onto the young sergeant’s shoulders and peeked over the shield. A bolt struck through the shield, the iron tip scratching Arthur’s cheek.
“I hope you’re enjoying the view!” Arthur yelled.
Robert recognized Alberd Hoodrat’s ugly face and uglier gambeson. Beside Alberd, he saw a kingsman’s grin on the pale face covered in freckles. Alberd nodded at Robert then sent a bolt skidding off the top of Arthur’s shield.
“Those are the Brute’s crossbowmen,” Robert confirmed, “And the Kingsdragon.”
Robert ducked down, clapping Arthur on the shoulder, “Okay.”
Robert felt sweat dribbling down his forehead. His fingers sought the stinging atop his head, coming away bloody. His hand shook and the blood coursed down his nose, into his eyes.
I shall have no Fear as I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death . . . Die English Dog. . . You stupid goatfucker . . . I hope you’re enjoying the view . . .
“God’s bollocks, you’re hit!” Robin grabbed at Robert’s head, a red streak slashed up his bald pate. “Thank Jesu, you’ve got a thick skull!”
“Next time, put on a bloody helmet!” Adam berated him.
Robert’s ears hammered in time to his heart, his clerical band of hair was soaked and dripping. He stared at the blood grooving along the scars on his left hand, dribbling onto his robe and the ground. Feeling dizzy. . .
“How do you know the Brute isn’t hold up in the keep?” Gilbert sneered.
“If the Brute was here, he wouldn’t be hiding in the keep,” Will defeneded Robert.
“He’d be charging us with hammer and sickle,” Adam agreed.
Robert’s hands started shaking as the blood kept pouring down his face. He dug into the pocket in his sleeve and pulled out Elsibet’s kerchief, wadding the cloth and pressing it hard against the wound. He was feeling light headed, dizzy, his head heavy. The wound ached and burned and throbbed.
“Papa, what do we do?” Robin pleaded, “We can’t just sit here.”
“I’m parched,” Geoff announced. “Who has wine?”
“Shut up!” Will yelled at his brother.
Fitzwalter looked to his son Walter, holding his bloody leg and sucking every breath. Clare looked weak and haggard. Rob de Quincy was passed out, the rise and fall of his chest a subtle sign of life. Christopher Reeve was gone, looking asleep were it not for the bolt sticking out his eyesocket and blood coating his body. Robert was staring through the baron, ghost pale. The kerchief was soaked through, blood running like martyr’s tears down his face. Another fury of bolts slammed into horseflesh and ground just beyond them.
Fitzwalter scanned the square. Some men were holding place, small islands of shields as others sprinted from group to group. A Quincy sergeant got hit in the back and went down hard. Vescy and his men were advancing on foot behind a wall of shields, collecting others to widen the human barricade.
“Vescy’s coming for us,” Fitzwalter assured them, “We get back to the church, tend our wounded, morn our dead. . . and then tomorrow . . . tomorrow we taking that fucking castle!”
“Aye,” Robert agreed and felt so suddenly tired he slumped to the ground, staring at the bloody kerchief as his friends’ voices faded and darkness settled over all.
. . .
Sheriff Harry Braybrook, Herald Samwell, and Sir Oliver Fitzroy rode into Northampton with a small escort of templars under a white banneret. Black, acrid funnels of smoke curled into the sky from the rubble of destroyed and burning shops and houses. The castle garrison took to hurling lead balls, stones, and jars of flaming pitch once they noticed the burghers helping the charter lords. The dead were piled on the corners and the townsfolk watched them pass malevolently. Even St. Peter’s church, the headquarters of the charter lords, was battered.
The space between burgh and castle was interspersed with corpses and wooden bulwarks. The bulwarks expanded into rows of protective shielding closer to the moat. There were more corpses, several shattered wooden ramps, and ladders floating in the murky moat. Northampton stank of fire and death. A cold reception awaited the Crown envoys inside the church, despite the heat of the day.
“Where were you?” Baron Fitzwalter glowered.
“M’lords,” Sheriff Braybrook gritted his teeth, “I was played a fool. Sir Harcourt the Kingsteward beckoned me to Leicester for . . . bah . . . twas just bait. He relieved me of the shrievalties of Bedfordshire and Rutland, and all my wards by the king’s command. John claims I’ve been too lax collecting the Poitevan shield tax. Only when I was setting out did Sir Harcourt inform me Northampton was in Sir Reginald’s hands.”
He raised his eyes to the holes in the church roof, down to the shattered pews and rubble strewn about the the church. The deacon and his acolytes were praying for nothing else to strike the church.
“Now look at my city!”
“If the burghers kept the city gates closed to these traitors none of this would’ve happened,” Sir Oliver stabbed, eyes boring into Fitzwalter, Geoff, Sayer, Vescy, Giles, and the other charter lords in turn.
“You’re too pretty,” Baron Vescy warned Oliver as he ran fingers across the scarred cheek.
“Tisn’t what your whore wife said when I wiped my seed on her chin,” Oliver grinned.
“Shall we duel?” Vescy’s hand fell to his sword.
“M’lords,” Master Samwell cleared his throat. His face was maturing, especially around the eyes, though he was still pale as bone. “We are here at his majesty’s behest under a banner of truce.”
“Later then?” Vescy dared.
“Delighted,” Oliver agreed.
“M’lords, King John wishes to end this dispute as quickly and peaceably as possible.” Samwell announced formally to stony silence. “In a most generous gesture, our majesty is willing to submit everyone’s claims to a Council of Lords; four chosen by the Crown and four chosen by Archbishop Langton, with Pope Innocent as final judge. Furthermore, King John vows he won’t use force against any lord who submits a claim to the council and accepts the ruling.”
With the pause came a low milieu of discussion amongst the charter lords.
Samwell’s eyes widened at the the dark scabbed scratch high up Robert’s forehead, his marrow sick complexion, and mute gaze. He quickly lowered his gaze and shut his eyes trap tight, willing himself to heraldom. “In addition, King John acknowledges he’s done wrong by several of you. He offers safe conduct with a templar escort to those lords so they may settle their differences in person.”
Samwell reached into his satchel and lifted a pack of parchments with names on them for all to see. “I have the writs of passage here. I will dole them out to any and all of those who wish to do so.”
“What does he have to say about the Charter of Liberties?” Fitzwalter demanded.
Samwell frowned, Braybrook sighed, and Oliver laughed.
“Very well,” Fitzwalter glanced at his companions, “Inform King John we will not be swayed by puppet councils and divisive promises. We have assembled to demand a Charter of Liberties that will restore justice to the realm, and a return of the properties and hostages taken from us. We will accept nothing less. Inform him we have renounced our fealty to the Crown until such a charter is in place. Furthermore, we have made common cause with the English Church through Archbishop Langton, and by vote I’ve been honored as Marshal of the Army of God. We shall invite all the lords and prelates of the realm, as well as Pope Innocent, to join our just cause.”
“Marshal of the Army of God?” Oliver chuckled, “You’re fools, all of you.”
Braybrook sneered at the Bastard Boy and shook his head, “I’m through with this farce.”
He stepped forward, ripping the crimson and gold Plantagenet surcoat off, until he was covered only in chain mail. He removed his dirk and offered it hilt first to Fitzwalter. The baron grinned and accepted the long dagger gladly. Braybrook took a knee but didn’t bow his head.
“My lords, I hereby disavow my oath of alliegance to King John, humbly request to join in common cause with the charter lords, and serve as I may in the Army of God.”
“I should slit your throat,” Oliver muttered at Braybrook’s back.
“Try,” Vescy prodded.
“We welcome you gladly Lord Braybrook,” Fitzwalter announced proudly, “Rise a brother in arms for the Charter of Liberties.”
He handed the dirk back then smiled at Oliver, “You were saying?”
They refused to let Oliver cross into the castle, but allowed him to visit the brothel. While the charter lords mined Braybrook for information, Samwell and Robert huddled in the chapel. After clasped arms and the kiss of peace Samwell let out his worry.
“Are you okay? What happened?”
“God was looking over my shoulder,” Robert sighed as he scratched at the scab. “The baron was kind enough to give me some salt to wash it with, itches like the Devil’s arse though. Damn griffons.”
Samwell hissed, having tried the cure once.
“Twas a fine performance, Samwell,” Robert complimented, “You held your voice steady and smooth, very well done.”
“Someone has to do it,” He grinned.
“You need to work on maintaining eye contact though,” Robert recommended, “The eyes speak as powerfully as the tongue. How are our other Bart’s Boys?”
“Busier than ever,” Samwell shook his head in bewilderment, “Tis all shite, Robert.”
Robert chuckled, “Now tell me something I don’t know.”
Samwell nodded, “Lord Peter is at Richmond castle in Yorkshire. On John’s word, he and Earl Warrene are set to reave Northumbria mercilessly. Rapscallion is on his way to Winchester, awaiting more Aquitainians. Lord Hubert’s Constable of Dover and Warden of the Cinque ports. Longsword and the Marshal are putting down some trouble in Devonshire. . .”
“Devonshire you say?” Robert was surprised, “Tis deep in the heart of the southern Crownshires.”
“Earl Redvers isn’t long for this world and his son supports the charter.”
“Well, well,” Robert nodded as he ran his fingers over his palm scar.
“Robert,” Samwell gripped Robert’s scarred hand, “King John named the Brute his Seneschal of Midanglia. He’s on his way.”
Robert sucked in his breath, “How long?”
Samwell shook his head, “Days, a week? No more, for certes. When he arrives, the Brute has free rein to deal with all rebels in the region. I’ve already drawn up the list of those to be arrested.”
Samwell dug into his satchel and removed a small folded parchment with a circled cross on it. He put it in Robert’s scarred hand.
“Thank you, Sam.”
“Don’t,” Samwell gulped, “You’re on the list. You, Fitzwalter, the Mandevilles, Clare, the list goes on.”
Twin bolts of terror and rage blinded Robert momentarily.
“I know not your intentions,” Samwell whispered, “Nor do I wish to, but whatever you do get out of here.”
. . .
Atop Aldgate, Robert de London stifled a yawn as he picked at the fearsome scab. The sky was overcast grey, the air sticky, the stench of Houndsditch rancid sweet. Gospels wafted from the St. Botolph churches outside London, as well as Holy Trinity Priory behind them. Wormwood was grown thick on the banks of Houndsditch and the open spaces between the suburban taverns, houses, and manors huddled close to London Wall. Roses, tulips, and lilies bloomed in gardens. The city was Sunday morning still, most people tucked into their neighborhood church for Sunday Mass. Baron Rikard Montfichet was conversing quietly with Sirs Will Mandeville and Simon Fitzwalter, while their squires and city sentinels watched the treeline of Great Essex Forest.
“Saint chaplain, are thy scabs holy?” Sir Will grabbed his attention.
Robert forced himself to stop picking amidst the jests, jibes, and tale telling. His left fingers ran the scar ridge creasing his palm, his right scratching at the scar mole on his neck. He switched to the prayer bead belt and tapping his foot. Eventually, a vanguard of mounted sergeants and standard bearers emerged from swaying ash and elm, poplar and oak.
“Here they come!” Robert cheered, remembering the decision to march on London.
The Midlanders and Northumbrians argued for Lincoln and York, but neither guaranteed a hearty welcome.
“M’lords, you’re heading in the wrong direction,” Baron Fitzwalter reckoned.
“What are you talking about?” Barons Gant, Mowbray, and Vescy all resisted.
Fitzwalter grinned, “Time and again, John has cowered from a bold, defiant gesture.” He started ticking off his fingers, “Philippe’s invasion of Normandy and Anjou, Innocent’s Interdict, Llewellyn’s Welsh rebellion, the Nottingham Plot, La Roches to La Rochelle.” Fitzwalter held up his open hand. “We have to face him boldly and smack his bloody face.”
“Tis true,” Quincy agreed, quickly backed by the Clares, Veres, Mandevilles, Montfichet, Giles de Braose and Sweet Willum Lanvalay.
“And how are we to smack his face without being annihilated?” Baron Vescy asked grimly, quickly backed by Gant, the Bigods, Braybrook, other Midlanders, Northumbrians, and several bishops.
“We take the one city he can’t afford to lose,” Fitzwalter rested his hands on his hips. “The one I guarantee will greet us with open arms.”
“Finally,” Will’s squire, Sour Frey Lanvalay, heaved.
Ald Street filled with horsemen making their way by Barking Abbey and through the suburbs sprawling between wall and forest.
“Sergeant, raise the banners,” Montfichet commanded as his shoulders relaxed.
“To the mounts, lads!” Will laughed, dashing downstairs with the squires.
As the drawbridge lowered, the Fitzwalter banner raised beside those of London and the mayor. Along the ramparts, hasty flagpoles mounted a host of House banners: Bigod, Bohun, Braose, Clare, Fitzwalter, Gant, Lacy, Lanvalay, Mandeville, Marshal Younger, Montfichet, Mowbray, Quincy, Vere, Vescy, and more. A cheer droned up from the elongating column.
Robert clasped his hands and whispered a prayer of thanks before joining the others. Entering London, the sergeants and men at arms wore their arms and armor, but the lords and sirs brought their ladies and wore their finest riding attire. The clouds started drizzling. Sheriff Fitzalan, who’d lost the mayorship to the previous Sheriff Hardell, lead the vanguard on a circuitous route.
“Welcome to London, my lords and ladies!” Simon greeted them in front of Holy Trinity Priory.
“Good morning, Marshal of the Army of God!” Will bowed atop his horse, Isulder.
“Thank God you made it!” Montfichet sighed.
“God bless your arrival,” Robert bowed modestly amount Cloudstar.
“Enough of that,” Fitzwalter smacked at the air, “Join us, poltroons!”
They all laughed and jested, Simon and Rikard pulling out in front as escort.
“Sir Will, you’re looking quite handsome this morning,” Lady Gannora complimented her soon to be ring son from beside her husband.
He’d bathed and combed his hair, wound his blonde moustache into fresh and tight braids, and put on his finest crimson tunic embroidered with his brother’s golden wheel. “A mere shadow of your beautiful radiance, m’lady,” Will flashed a contagious smile.
Fitzwalter feigned a groan. Behind the baron, Walter rolled his eyes and Ida dared a longing glance.
“Hey, that’s my mother you’re courting!” Robin prodded beside Anne, who was whispering giggles to her husband.
“Sir Will, don’t forget you’re marrying me!” Christiana laughed three rows back.
“Ah, but complimenting your mother is the same as courting you, my beloved.” Will winked.
“How’s your third eye?” Adam stared down at Robert from his stallion, Clydas.
Robin burst out laughing but Simon and father’s gaze glared him quiet.
Adam dropped back from Christiana for Will, and Robert siddled beside the Braintree Bull.
“I’m fine, Adam.” Robert relented, “Just tired is all, tis been a long week.”
“Don’t I know it,” Adam huffed, “winding through East Anglia kept us from King John’s glare but the roads were a trudgery of mud.”
“How’s your arm, how’s everyone?”
Adam chewed his lip. “Young Quincy is doing well . . . considering, he’ll be a cripple at best, God willing.”
“God willing,” Robert agreed.
“Bless his stubborn pride, Lord Clare’s holding up too; hates riding in a wagon litter but the doctor insists. For once he’s listening.”
“Bless him,” Robert hoped.
“Baron Mowbray,” Adam grunted to stifle a chuckle, “He’s strapped and braced to his saddle. God help him if the beast frets overmuch.”
“God help him,” Robert scanned Adam’s beefy arm for signs of the dagger wound, but the sleeves billowed from his finest riding mantle.
“I’d say you don’t fret overmuch,” Robert teased.
“He should’ve rolled,” Adam shrugged. “Tis Sir Walter that needs to stop screaming like a stuck pig, but then he ruts.”
They filed down Fenchurch Street, passing the guild houses of the bricklayers and ironmongers. The avenues and alleyways were barren save for the usual dogs and rats, chickens and cats, the occasional pig, wandering drunkards and leches, hoods and harlots. Turning left, the procession continued riverwards until Tower Street, where the thousands of incoming soldiers could be seen by the White Tower’s city barbican. Plantagenet banners remained atop the Crown fortress. The columns headed down Tower Street and merged onto Cheap Street.
They passed the merchant houses of the Bolougnese, Flemings, and Germans, the guild houses of the chandlers, salters, and drapers. Veering right onto Watling Street they passed the Mayor’s Manse, and the guild houses of the mercers and grocers. The charter lords halted in St. Paul’s square, grouping their men by House before the cathedral.
The unignorable mumble of thousands of men and hundreds of horses caught the attention of several acolytes darting their heads out the arched doors. With Sunday Mass complete, the doors opened and London’s ranking prelates, sirs, aldermen, wardens, and burghers slowly emptied onto the cathedral steps. Most of the charter lords dismounted and walked up the steps to greet Mayor Hardell and Bishop Welton, a chorus of cheers rising through the square as they knelt and bowed heads. Fitzwalter offered Welton his sword, Baynardsbane, and received it back respectfully.
Charter lords and Londoners mingled, a gladswell of good tidings easing all. Servants were called for, trestle tables, kegs of ale and wine, wheels of cheese, loaves of bread, meat and vegetable pies were laid out. Street hawkers and vendors, prostitutes and minstrels, fools and beggars, pickpockets and cutpurses all plied their trades. Amidst the revelry, plans for garrisoning the army, refortifying and defending London’s walls, spreading the revolt, and presenting the charter to the king were firmed up.
Although Simon Fitzwalter oversaw the construction of a manor and warehouses on the site of Baynard’s Castle, and its wharves were still in profitable use, the baron accepted Bishop Welton’s invitation to stay in his palace between cathedral and wall. It was far more roomy and well defended for the headquarters of the Army of God. The day’s light was fading when Robert found Elsibet and the children playing in the palace gardens.
“Now who hasn’t been keeping up with their numbers and letters?” Robert asked to a furious charge of little people bellowing questions, hugging and squeezing and prodding.
“Gosh, did that hurt?” Watt wondered.
“Aye, quite.”
“Are you truly a saint now?” Edgar de Dunmow’s youngest inquired.
“Not at all.”
“Are we gonna live here forever?” Noel de Hamlin’s little boy fretted.
“I doubt it.”
“I’m tired of being five, when I can be seven?” Watt wondered.
“In two years.”
“Why is the sky always grey?” Emeric de Ongar’s youngest daughter queried.
“Tisn’t, just feels like it.”
“I like tulips but Holly likes lillys!” Annie gave her Lanvalay cousin a tight hug.
“I like them both.”
Troublefoot wiggled through childish legs and beyed.
Robert rubbed behind her ears, “I missed you too, girl.”
“What’s that rumbling and cheering I keep hearing?” Watt cocked his head towards the wall.
“Some of the charter lords are . . . well, they’re making rubble to fix the city walls.”
The rumble of Jewish homes being pulled down and cheering the smoke of Jewish debtor rolls.
“I prayed for you chap’n. Did you hear?” Annie pleaded.
“We both did!” Holly took Annie’s hand and they stared at him with earnest little girl eyes.
“I did, thank you so much. It made me feel much better.”
“Alright now!” Elsibet pulled Obi and Watt off him, beckoned Annie and the others back to give their chaplain room.
Although they’d heard about Northampton from their parents, they wanted to hear Robert tell the tale and he obliged. Once the kid’s catlike attention shifted, Elsibet wasted no time.
“Let me see,” she grabbed Robert’s cassock and tugged.
He dutifully lowered his head. The cut was a finger wide, the surrounding skin red and puffy, the scab crusty and puss soaked. Robert felt her hands tremble then still, her breath suck in a gasp then hold. She exhaled, picking at the wound here and there.
“Ow!” He flinched then realized her bosom was inches from his face.
Good Lord, protect me from temptation!
“What have you done for the wound?”
“Leeches, bleeding, the baron gave me some salt to wash it with but I ran out.”
Elsibet tsk tsked and fretted, “I’ve got a salve of goose fat and moss that smells horrible and stings worse, but it’ll fend off this infection.”
“Okay,” Robert felt powerless. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” Elsibet let go and Robert raised his head, gazed in her honeypot eyes.
He pulled the blood stained kerchief from the pocket in his sleeve, “I ruined it.”
Elsibet sucked in her breath again, staring at the pink and red linen. She grabbed it from his hands. “No bother. I’ll make you a new one, tis all.”
Elsibet lowered her head, still staring at the soiled kerchief. A tear tracked down her cheek.
“Are you alright, Elsibet?”
“I’m fine,” Elsibet turned and called to the kids playing Hoodman Blind by the rose bushes.
“Robert!” William Fitzwalter called from the far side of the garden as he approached eagerly, holding up the skirts of his archdeacon’s robe. “Robert, today we are truly blessed!”
“Whatever do you mean, William?” Robert wondered as Elsibet craned her neck to listen.
“Longsword is at the Temple!”
“What?”
“Aye, apparently John suspected we might be moving on London and sent him to hold the city, but he’s half a day late! He tried entering Westminster but Montfichet and Mandeville men already held the walls!”
They stared at one another in awed excitement.
“Hallelujah!” Robert gasped.
God be praised, that was a close call!
“Tis not all,” William wagged his finger, “Guess who my brother wants to give Longsword the sad news?”
“Who? What sad news?”
“You!” William poked him in the chest, “The charter lords want you to inform Longsword London is no longer his for the taking!”
“Me?”
Elsibet sighed, “I’ll see to your wound when you return, then.”
She drifted off towards the children as the men discussed the coming meeting. William glanced from Robert to Elsibet and back again, staring at the chaplain curiously.
Robert shrugged, “She’s mad I bled on the kerchief she gave me.”
William eyed a corner of blood stained linen wrapped carefully around Elsibet’s finger, the rest held protectively. She ran her thumb over the corner and let out another heaving sigh. William shook his head and grinned. “Robert, I hate to say this but you’re an idiot.”
“What?”
. . .
“There he is sai. . . Robert,” Squire Alfred jutted his chin through the slats of the window. He was almost as tall as his father, Adam, and still growing. “He’s walking the ramparts.”
Robert headed for the upper window of the Tower’s Shadow Inn and peaked through the shutters. Sir Aeric the Kingshovel was inspecting the barricades and rebel troops holding the streets leading to White Tower’s city wall. Though his surcoat looked faded and in sore need of mending, the chain mail underneath gleamed in the noon day sun.
Robert patted Alfred’s shoulder, “Good job. I’ll be off then.”
“Give him the what for,” Baron Fitzwalter winked.
A bit later, Robert took a deep breath as he nudged Cloudstar towards the gatehouse. The White Tower’s wide moat, smelling of brine and excrement, separated the city bailey from the two inner ones. Plantagenet Lions bustled in the breeze.
I deeply and truly hate this part. I shall have no fear you stupid goat fucker.
Robert held a white kerchief aloft as bowmen took his mark.
“Good day crownmen! The charter lords offer parley and news!”
Soon enough, there was Aeric.
“Master Robert de London, is that you?”
“Sir Aeric, may I enter or shall you jump down from the battlements?”
Aeric’s face remained stern but his eyes eased, “Are you in mortal danger?”
“I don’t know, am I?”
Aeric smirked, “Open the gates but watch for surprises!”
With Cloudstar quartered in the small stable, Aeric escorted Robert to Lion Tower, the stone barbican protecting the bridge across the moat.
“I’ll send word to Sir Greinville. He may not be in the mood,” Aeric shrugged slightly, smelling of rank musk and seal oil. His jet hair was as bedraggled as ever. The Kingshovel was never one for small talk and silently lead Robert up to the Lion Tower ramparts. A long wooden bridge, divided with a drawbridge at the center, crossed the moat to a second barbican. A sergeant rode a mule across the bridge. Half a dozen of Fitzwalter’s ships guarded the Thamesgate. The usual activities droned though the baileys.
“How’ve you been?” Robert broke the silence.
Aeric grunted and spat into the moat.
“Shrewsbury’s fallen to Prince Llewellyn,” Robert offered.
Aeric nodded grimly.
“Adding wood to the fire, the Irish are up to their usual shenanigans. The Marshal is sending his Anglo-Irish knights back from Wales, working in Llewellyn’s favor, for certes.”
Aeric stared at the White Tower.
“My new lord, Baron Fitzwalter, has a widowed vassal. There’s no children, though they were married quite some time. The fief is a mix of woodland and fields, lots of game, sheep, a herd of cattle. The knight was a drunkard, so the fief is a bit haggard, needs a firm hand to get it right again.”
Aeric swiveled his stare to Robert, looking deep into his eyes.
“Northampton is in our hands now, Aeric, despite the Brute’s best efforts. Lincoln has fallen too, except for the castle. Young Lord Redvers has rekindled the rebellion in Devonshire. More lords are joining us every day. I have word the Exchequer is shut down and the Black Monk has a strangle hold on the Channel. King Philippe is reinforcing him with new Frog warships.”
“What happened?”
“Everyone is done with John, tis only a matter of time.”
“Nay,” Aeric’s eyes raised to Robert’s wound.
“Oh,” Robert ran fingers over the scab, “Alberd Hoodrat.”
“Why?”
“We were at Northampton. . .”
“Nay,” Aeric shook his head and spit over the ramparts again. “Why’d you quit?”
Robert sighed, “I was sick of settling for less, Aeric.”
And the Rock wanted me dead!
Aeric nodded, returning his gaze to the White Tower. The silence dredged on until a sergeant on a mule and Greinville on a fine stallion appeared in the mouth of the far barbican.
“Tell me more of this fief, Robert.”
Robert smiled, “Tis Lakeridge in Bennington Hundred, Hertfordshire . . .”