"Close the shutters Annabel!" Robin called from the massive bed, "Close them ‘ere you catch cold!"
The Dunmow Priory bells tolled the dawn hour of Prime.
"Tis snowing Robin, snowing on Christmas day!" Anne closed the shutters then crossed the rush strewn floor into the warmth of the master bed.
Longsword met with Robert at the London Temple two days ago and they agreed to a Christmas Truce lasting twelve days, starting on Christmas Eve. While Geoff Mandeville decided to stay in the White Tower, Will and Christiana took residence in Pleshey, a half day’s ride east of London. Walter traveled with Ida and Obi to Hedingham, a day and a half northeast of London, for festivities with her uncle Bertran Vere. Desperate to get out of the city, the remaining Fitzwalters returned to the Little Dunmow, a day’s ride north. Since the baron was in Paris with Sayer Quincy, Gannora bid her son and ring daughter sleep in the master chambers as her holiday presents.
"You’re soaked," Robin yawned as Anne drew the thick felt curtains.
In the brief open space he saw his squire, Reggy de Dunmow, dumping coals in the brazier but staring at Anne’s arse clinging to the wet linen undershirt. Anne’s handmaiden, Jess de Ongar, was wrapped up in fur on a cot, staring at Reggy’s growing intrique. Anne shivered, cuddling under the covers, nuzzling her hips against Robin’s. He was half asleep but still felt the urge swelling inside. He placed his hand on her cold, wet breast and was fully awake.
"You simply have to take this off, dear."
She purred and lifted her arms as he pulled the undershirt off.
"However will I stay warm?" she asked innocently, driving her hips further into his. Suddenly she drew back with a start, "Wait, tis Christmas, we can't! Twould dishonor Jesu! And I’m with child."
Robin threw the shirt over the covers then grabbed her about the waist and licked circles upon her left nipple, "We've already nullified the second argument."
He thrust his leg between hers, seeking the warmth. She set her left knee over his hip and started grinding against him.
“I’ve been thinking,” She sighed as his hand’s roamed.
“Always dangerous for a woman,” Robin shifted breasts.
Anne grinned and yanked on his ginger hair, forcing eyes up, “Watt honors your grandfather and will be Baron Walter Fitzwalter one day. Annie is my namesake. If we have another girl, I’d like to name her Gannora. We can call her Jenny.”
Robin stopped kissing her neck and rolled onto his back. She pulled in close, pressing her whole body against his.
“Jenny,” Robin murmured, “I like it, so will Mum.”
“For certes,” Anne ran her fingers langorously through his beard.
“And if we have another boy?”
“I was thinking . . . Giles, after uncle. . .”
Robin pulled her close, kissing forehead, eyebrows, eyelids, nose, and lips. Bishop Giles de Braose of Hereford, a minor baron in his own right and long in wasting away, passed on in November. He made peace with King John if not Pope Innocent, but his brother Reginald reasserted his vow to fight John until one of them was dead.
“Tis a good name,” Robin complimented, “and tisn’t William.”
“Hey,” Anne bit his ear, “My Pa and brother were Williams, as is our ring brother.”
“Oui and if Christiana doesn’t name the babe in her belly William, her next boy will be.”
“We could name our babe something really different, like Robert.”
“How now!” Robin tweaked her nipple.
Anne chuckled, sliding her left leg up his stomach so that her knee rested on Robin’s chest. He felt silky blonde fur pressing hot and moist against his side. She kept rolling the ends of his beard into tight little tendrils.
“If Louis accepts the Crown do you think he’ll honor the Charter and Council?”
“He’ll take the Crown like a dog takes the bone, and so long as we stay united he’ll have to accept the Charter and Council. Philippe will be gone soon enough and Louis will have his hands full ruling France. He’ll assign his own Crownsteward and officers, for certes, and he’ll place froggy allies on the Council, but he’ll have to respect us English lords lest he wants the poison John is feasting upon now.”
“Peace would be nice for once.”
Robin laughed, “A Braose dreaming of peace, who’d of thought?”
“So says a Fitzwalter,” Anne ran fingers down his chest, removed her leg, sliding her hand down his stomach and gripped him. “Shall we joust then, m’lord?”
Robin moaned at her attention, “Oh, I’m going to lance you through and through.”
Anne threw her leg over his hips and climbed upon him, “not if I do first, luv.”
Troublefoot the beagle started barking somewhere down the hallway and little children took up the chant, “Presents! Wassail! Presents! Wassail!”
The door slammed open, Troublefoot rushed in, followed closely by little stomping feet.
“Wait!” Jess bolted out of the cot.
“Nay!” Reggy did the same.
Watt and Annie flew through the curtains, jumping into bed.
“Children!” Robin barked.
“Mum, what are you and Pa doing?” Watt asked, eyes and mouth ocean wide.
“Playing horsey,” Anne ruffled his hair.
“Oooh, can we play?” Annie begged.
“Non!” Robin and Anne agreed.
“Then can we see our presents?” Watt fell dramatically over Robin’s chest.
“Not until morning prayer,” Anne chided.
The children whined.
“Listen to your mother, go wake Robert or Uncle William if you’re so determined.” Robin recommended.
“Brilliant!” Annie raised a finger.
“You little imps! Get out of there!” Elsibet appeared in the doorway, hair all a mess, still in her nightshirt.
“Morning prayer! Morning prayer! Morning prayer!” Watt and Annie chanted as they left the room, Troublefoot beying for emphasis.
Anne looked down at Robin and wiggled, “Well?”
“Quickly now!” He grabbed long strands of platinum hair and pulled her down on him.
. . .
“Have you joined House Quincy, m’lord?” Robert grinned. He was wearing his best brown felt robe & cassock, trimmed & lined with green linen.
Robin felt the tendrils in his beard and winked at Anne, “Solidarity. How’s the leg?”
Robin wore a Fitzwalter cloak of wool, with the crimson signet and trim sewn in velvet. Underneath, his tunic was crimson on the left and cobalt on the right, with middle edges cut in a Valgones wave, trimmed in ivory white silk, and polished brass buttons.
Robert wobbled the cane, “I’m alive, used to willow tea now, and Elsibet has a salve that stings like bees.”
“I bet she does,” Adam elbowed Robert in the ribs. The dark grey wool mantle, sewn in scarlet, made him look like a tree. The forest green felt tunic underneath and sleeving his exposed arms completed the effect.
“What?” Robert gasped as he fought for balance.
“Does she rub it in herself?” Sweet Willum wondered. His herb green felt jerkin trimmed with albion velvet was cut to accentuate his strong chest and round shoulders.
Aeric coughed on his apple cider. He was clean shaven save for the new moustache, jet hair washed and combed, a sunflower yellow cassock hunched over a scarlet wool tunic.
Robert’s face grew hot, “She just gave it to me. I do the rub. . . what?”
“You’re an idiot, that’s what,” Robin clapped him on the shoulder as the others exploded with laughter.
Holly and mistletoe lined the hearth and arches of the main hall. A massive yule log snapped, crackled, and popped in the fireplace. Baynardsbane and Valorsmith rested on the mantle below the battered Clare shield. Plowsword stood by the hearth’s side. Angels made of hay, sticks, and raw wool hung from strings on the ceiling timbers. Agatha was supervising servants laying out silver plates on clean white linen sheets over trestle tables. Fresh baked bread, roasting meat, and savory herbs wafted from the kitchens.
Watt was sparring with Edgar de Dunmow’s youngest son, using their new sparring swords and shields. Annie, Holly, and the other girls were playing with new dollies in a gaggle orbiting Elsibet. Simon’s son Wally and Alice’s son Hamo were flirting with Jess and Mary, while Reggy and Alfred sipped cider and glared jealously. Nigel de Hamlin and Em de Ongar were wrestling. Gannora, Sarah, Tilly, and the House ladies were babbling about babies with pregnant Anne and Gwennifer. Desmond was outside organizing First Night festivities, while Simon and William were at the priory seeing to the Flitch Trial preparations.
“I need some fresh air,” Robert groused as he limped for the door.
Elsibet watched him go as Robert’s friends brayed and nipped after him. She wore a modest sky blue felt dress, with stitching the shade of sunflower petals. Her hose were the same color as the string, while a waste length wool mantle was dyed forest green. A sprig of mistletoe was tucked over her left ear, her hair braided and plated, covered in a felt cap.
Snow fell lightly from a white, fluffy, sky.
The yule pyre burned in the bailey, the main and priory gates open, holly and mistle toe hung from the timber towers and wall ramparts. Tables were covered in snow topped mounds of bread, steaming bowls, and covered plates heaped with holiday treats. Dozens of people from the hamlet beyond the walls, surrounding farms, and village of Great Dunmow gathered in the snow. The Cocksures were dancing and singing about the pyre, youngters caroling with them and in several smaller circles. Desmond was conversing with Great Dunmow’s elder, Christopher Reeve the Grey. Simon and William were walking with Prior Durand through the Priorygate, under the relative protection of the arcaded path. Gavyn walked the wall’s parapets with a handful of rangers manning the towers. Athur was watching the Cocksures and carolers about the pyre as he greeted newcomers coming through the gate.
Sax and Frank were wandering about with half kegs of hard cider, shouting “Frue, wassail, frau, wassail!”
The children and Troublefoot blasted by Robert, “Watt, Annie, Holly! Come here, I have an important mission for you!”
He bowed low and whispered to them. They giggled mischeviously, dispersing into the crowd.
“What’s this all about, scribbler?” Adam demanded a few minutes later, with crossed arms and a wink, amidst the assembled crowd.
Robert leaned on his cane. “Parsival, Sax, Arthur, if t’were not for ye three I’d of died at Rochester. I can never repay the boon but I will try.”
The crowd chuckled.
Parsival shrugged away a modest grin, “Twas do’in my duty, tis all.”
“Frue frau,” Sax agreed.
“What he said,” Arthur nodded at Sax.
The crowd chuckled harder.
“Adam, Robin, Aeric, you’re my best friends. T’wasn’t till I joined House Fitzwalter that I realized what I’ve been searching for. . . and now I’ve found it . . . well . . . thank you all. Thank you all very much, and to show you my thanks I offer a token of my devotion.”
He nodded to Watt, Annie, and Holly who doled out a gold St. Christopher necklace to each of them. The ladies thought it precious, the six men moved by the gesture.
“They’ve been blessed by Bishop Welton at St. Pauls. Keep them close to your heart and St. Christopher will look after you wherever you go.”
“Robert, you didn’t have to,” Aeric ran his finger over St. Christopher.
“I wanted to,” Robert smiled.
“Come here you mongrel pup,” Adam bear hugged Robert, who moaned and gasped.
Everyone laughed.
“Frue!” Sax rushed forward and clamped his arms around both of them.
Everyone laughed harder, while Anne and Gwennifer put the necklaces over their husbands necks.
“You’re a good man, Robert,” Robin clapped his shoulder, wiping some of the snow off the thick felt robe. “I’m glad you’re with us.”
“I don’t get a pretty necklace, chap’n?” Annie pouted.
“Aw,” The ladies all took the bait.
Robert smiled and kneeled with a grimacing grin. The tight bindings around his left thigh and abdomen itched and pained, but that wasn’t about to stop him. Despite the pain, he hadn’t felt this good in a long time. He whipped his unruly bangs out of his view.
I belong here.
“Annie, Watt, Holly, come here.” He dug into the pocket within his right sleeve and withdrew three more necklaces. “Thank you for praying for me when I was hurt, and . . . well, Elsibet may call you her little imps, but you’ll always be my little cherubs.”
Robert stood slowly as Watt, Annie, and Holly showed the medallions to their parents.
Gannora lightly laid her hand over Robert’s, “You are a blessing.”
“Tis I that am blessed, m’lady.”
He blushed at sight of Elsibet staring intently at him, then Robin and Adam hauled him off for a drink. Aeric politely declined, taking Gwennifer’s hand in his own as they trailed after. Arthur, sauntered up to Elsibet.
“You’re brazen, you know that?”
“What?” She asked innocently, crossing her arms over her breasts.
“He’s a chaplain,” Arthur warned.
“He’s a herald,” Elsibet amended, but Arthur just stared at her.
“I can’t have a chaplain for a friend?” She defended.
“A friend, aye; a husband, nay,” Arthur declared.
Elsibet’s cheeks flushed.
Arthur triumphed, “Elsie, you’ve got to stop choosing men you can’t have.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Elsibet pouted.
“Pish-posh,” Arthur countered, “Look, I like Robert too but he’s a man of God. Before him twas . . .”
“Shush already,” Elsibet’s shoulders slumped.
“Frue frau, hallelujah,” Sax passed as he headed for the pyre with Parsival.
Arthur eyed them and nodded at his sister.
“Nay,” Elsibet shook her head.
“He comes from freemen,” Arthur recommended, “Unswervingly loyal, heir to the largest farm in Mashbury, and a great soldier.”
“And incapable of conversation,” Elsibet stood her ground.
“Bah,” Arthur waved.
“There’s Frank Miller,” Arthur jutted his chin at the boy faced sergeant watching the gate.
“Too short,” Elsibet nullified.
“What about Parsival then?” Arthur optioned. “He’s perfect.”
Parsival was clothed in forest green with red stitching from cassock to trousers, a hunter cap cocked at a jaunty angle. A hall maid and farmer’s daughter vyed for his affections, urging Parsival to join their carol. Verbena Cocksure spun away from the pyre in mistletoe skirt over white linen hose, a white linen blouse under a thick felt vest; all chimes, tinkles, and taudryness. She grabbed Parsival and twirled him away from the stunned young women. He was easily the handsomest, unmarried young man in the manor, his father in blonde. Elsibet stopped counting all the women he’d slept with when she ran out of fingers and toes.
“He’s the man you can’t have, luv,” Elsibet dared.
Arthur reddened and shook, “I don’t . . . I don’t. . . tis ridiculous!”
“Oh, shush,” She pushed him, “Think I care? Tis Papa’s heart you’ll break.”
He stared at Parsival with painful eagerness, then stomped off.
. . .
“Sit still, you’re worse than Watt,” Elsibet leaned into Robert.
They were back in the manor hall. He sighed, trying not to think about her breasts brushing against his shoulders, her belly rubbing against his back. God give me strength, God grant me the will to persevere. Why must you test me so?
Elsibet clipped another strand of hair, her present. Robert ran his left fingers over the palm scars, and his right fingers over rosaries. His right foot tapped in cadence to the music outside.
“There, finished, luv,” She stepped back.
He was relieved and sad, “You forgot to shave my tonsure.”
So bad!
“I didn’t forget.” Elsibet sauntered over to the small chest and bent over to remove a looking glass. Of course, it was at the bottom and she spent several tortuous moments bent over, shifting her weight while she looked.
Nay, don’t, oh why must you tempt me so?
“Here luv,” She said, handing him the polished tin. “A chaplain’s cut.”
Robert peered at his reflection, startled at first. He’d not seen his face since staring into the fishpond at St. Albans. He looked much older. I guess almost dying will do that.
“What do you think?” Elsibet rested her hands on her hips.
Robert looked at his hair, short but all one length. He’d worn a tonsure since becoming a Scribe of the Justiciar’s Court. A cleric no more.
“I like it, thank you.”
“For certes?” Elsibet chewed her lip.
Robert ran his fingers through his hair, “Aye, twas time for a change.”
Elsibet reached out, running a finger over the crossbolt scar high on his forehead. Robert trembled and thought about math to distract his growing attention. “When it grows no one will even notice this.”
“I . . . uh. . . merry Christmas,” Robert pulled a white silk hankerchief from the pocket in his left sleeve. The edges were trimmed with intertwining gold and green vines, interspersed with pink flowers, and in each corner were the letters EC in red.
“Robert,” She gasped while tracing the gold and green entanglement, “Oh my.”
“I . . . um. . . well. . . you gave me one and I ruinted it, so. . .” He smiled and the look on her face made him feel warm, whole, alive.
I could kiss her. I think she might possibly let me. I . . .
“What’s all this then?” Arthur asked as he entered the hall.
Robert startled. Elsibet shot her brother a sour glance as she stuffed the kerchief down her blouse.
“Elsibet cut my hair,” Robert explained.
“Twas my gift,” Elsibet nodded daringly.
Arthur squinted at her and her heaving bosoms.
“Don’t look at me like that, you’re next,” She said.
“Oh, non,” Arthur disagreed. He turned to go but she grabbed him by the pony tail. “Hey!”
“You aren’t going anywhere, big brother,” She yanked.
“Ow!” Arthur yelped.
Elsibet bumped her hip against Robert, “Up, tis Arthur’s turn.”
“You can’t make me!” Arthur defied, but she yanked his hair again.
Robert stood from the stool and headed for the door, “I’m staying out of this one.”
Elsibet jerked Arthur down onto the stool by his pony tail. Robert made his way back outside and headed for the mulled Devil’s Blood steaming in a pot. Gavin was taking a break from the parapets and poured him a cup.
“Ye know, they really were just doin’ they’re jobs,” Gavin grinned.
“And I’m glad of it,” Robert winked as Gavin clicked his cup.
“Wassail,” Gavin offered and headed towards the carolers.
“Nice hair cut,” Adam came up behind Robert, palmed his skull and gave it a good shake.
“Adam . . . Adam, what am I to do?” Robert pleaded.
“About what?” Adam wondered.
“Elsibet,” Robert whispered.
Adam slugged back hot Lusignan Sin, shrugging his shoulders. “Make peace with her or God. I don’t think you can have both. My Pa will tell you the same.”
“Aye,” Robert grunted unhappily. “Adam, may I ask a question of you. I’ll understand if you don’t wish to answer.”
“Ask away,” Adam shrugged.
“What was your mother like? I . . . I never knew mine.”
Adam’s eyes grew distant as light snow fell between them, “Never knew my mum either, she died when I was born. She was a daughter of Wilfred Hatch, the Thaxted reeve. My father’s love for her was true even if twas a sin. Pa was devastated, blamed himself for breaking his vows, saw her death as God’s punishment. Twas then he requested to transfer from Dunmow Priory to Hereford. I saw him little growing up. Since I was a Church bastard King Henry couldn’t claim my wardship. The baron’s father and ring mum, Lord Walter Fitzrobert and Lady Margaret de Bohun, raised me. Lady Margaret was the only mum I knew,” Adam chuckled, “I feared her more than Uncle Walter, oh how she could cut with a word or a glance, Robert. Yet, her praise felt like Heaven on Earth.”
“She sounds like Lady Gannora,” Robert commented
Adam smacked him on the back, almost knocking Robert over he laughed so deep, “I think you’re onto something there!”
“And. . . and your ladywife?” Robert ventured.
“Ah, Robert. My Elly. . .” Adam covered Robert’s shoulder with his enormous hand, “Lady Elynor de Braintree, only child of Sir Markys Braintree, the finest knight of East Anglia. . . I think about her every day, her laugh, the way she rolled her eyes, how tiny she was but such a strong spirit.” Adam laughed and sniffled, “She had to tip toe and I bend over to kiss, twas easier for her just to jump into my arms and I would twirl her and throw her in the air. . . she gave me peace, a kind of peace I’d never known possible. The kind of peace I hoped to find on the Lionheart Crusade.”
“I thought Lord Walter remained in England to hold London?” Robert interrupted.
“He did, but allowed myself, father, and Sir Markys Braintree to go. . . Father and I returned. Sir Markys. . . on his deathbed, he bade me wed his only child and upon our return Uncle Walter agreed. Anywho, I thought I knew bravery from the battlefield, but a woman’s war is greater, for they are fighting to make a life not take one. Elly’s womb swelled thrice but each time ended in blood and tears. Finally, the Lord God blessed us with Alfred, and oh how she loved him with endless patience. She was fearless and giving, truly, even when the Flux slowly drained her life away. God, how I miss her.”
Robert didn’t know what to say as Adam stared into the sky to soak the tears back into his eyes.
“Do you know what her last words were to me, Robert?”
Robert shook his head, afraid to speak.
“She said find someone who will love you as I did, who will raise Alfred as I would,” Tears rolled down Adam’s eyes into his beard as he peered straight into Robert’s.
And he hasn’t married again.
“I. . . I’m sorry. . . I didn’t . . .” Robert stammered.
“Don’t be,” Adam took a long swig and shook the tears from his eyes, “I only regret not taking the path to light with her. I’ll have a lot of explaining to do if I ever get there.”
“When,” Robert assured Adam, “When. . .”
“Mandeville’s a comin’!” Dex the ranger announced from the southern tower.
. . .
The Cocksures sang and strummed the last verse of Twelve Days of Christmas. Verbena had Ranger Parsival and Master Gavin Hawkesworth locked in her arms. Arthur and Elsibet de Chamberalin were leaving the manor hall. Little Annie Fitzwalter and Holly Lanvalay dashed for Elsibet. Arthur paused on the stone steps to eye Jehan Cocksure.
Little Watt Fitzwalter was riding around on his cousin Squire Wally Fitzwalter’s back, while Squire Alfred Fitzwilliamn chased them with Squire Reggy de Dunmow on his. Squires Nigel Hamlin and Em de Thaxted were having a snowball fight with Jess and Mary. Lady Tilly Peche and Baron Willum Lanvalay were kissing in the doorway to the guesthouse. Lady Anne de Braose was showing Sir Robin Fitzwalter the mistletoe she’d fastened to her belt and he grabbed the belt, pulling her close to whisper enticements into her ear.
Sirs Edgar de Dunmow, Noel Hamlin, Emeric Thaxted, Aeric de Blackmere, and Adam Fitzwilliam were wagering who could eat an entire roast hen first. Ladies Gannora Valognes, Gwennifer de Lakeridge, and Sarah de Neville were complimenting Madame Agatha de Chamberlian for the frumentary pie. Sergeants Sax Mashbury and Wee Frank Miller were trying not to pass out as they sat on empty kegs by the open Dunmowgate. Sir Simon Fitzwalter was reviewing the Flitch Trial ceremony with Master Robert de London. Father William Fitzwalter and Prior Durand were heading for the open Priorygate since it was almost time for mass.
Over a hundred free folk were singing and dancing, eating and drinking, playing and making merry in the bailey. Sir Will Mandeville, Lady Christiana Fitzwalter, Squire Sour Frey, and a handful of sergeants charged through the Priorygate on steaming, lathered horses. William and Durand hustled out of the way. The riders were covered in snow, mud, blood, and twigs. Christiana took one look at her mother and let out a hysterical scream.
“Mum! They’re right behind us! Oh my God, they’re right behind us!”
“Good Lord!” Gannora gasped, dropping frumentary and running for the Priorygate with gathered skirts. Sarah followed by her side and pregnant Gweniffer waddled after.
Rumbling hooves and strange shouting filtered through the walls. Free folk and monks beyond the walls and in the priory yard started screaming.
“Close the gates!” Will shouted and waved, “Close the gates! Those aren’t my men behind us! Frey, get Christiana into the manor! Women and children get in the manor now!”
“Squires to arms and armor! Go boys, arms and armor now!” Simon shouted.
Simon, Robin, Adam, and the other knights rushed towards the commotion. Robert limped behind them. Three mounted sergeants swept throught the Priorygate, the first one swinging a mace underhanded that bashed Durand against the back of his shoulder and down into the snowy mud. William just missed a spear with a Mandeville banneret but stumbled and fell. The third sergeant brought an axe down on a cottar’s head, letting go the axe as the man fell dead. Chaos erupted as men, women, and children already gathered near the Priorygate scattered in all directions.
“Reavers!” Dex shouted from the Southtower, loosing an arrow.
Will drew his broadsword while reining his horse around, then spurred towards the three horsemen. His sergeants turned about, raising sword, spear, and iron club. More riders poured through the Priorygate, several with Mandeville bannerets upon their spears. Durand was stumbling towards the pyre, grimacing in pain, his right arm hanging useless.
William was rushing for the manor, “Ladies, children, to the manor, to the manor!”
Desmond was at the doors, waving to his wife, daughter, and the little ones, “Inside!”
Sarah was corralling free folk towards the manor, while others panicked towards the northern Dunmowgate.
Anne rushed for the door, had Annie in her arms while Watt just kept asking , “What?”
Holly was crying in Tilly’s hold, clinging to her neck, as she followed Anne.
“Robert, are you coming?” Elsibet waved at him.
“Men at arms!” Gavin Hawkesworth shouted, cupping hands over his mouth, “Men at arms! To the walls, to the towers, men at arms! Parsival, our bows!”
“Shut the bloody gates!” Arthur yelled across the bailey, “Shut the bloody gates!”
Sax and Frank were trying to shut Southgate but the free folk were already rushing through.
“Frue frau!” Sax cursed at them.
“What he said!” Frank screamed, as an old woman smacked him across the face, but at least they got the gate shut and bolted.
The other riders were surrounding Will and his sergeants, focused intently on the Mandeville men. Simon and Robin ran up, grabbed a reaver and pulled him off his horse. Simon brought his foot down on the man’s face. Adam pulled a dirk from another reaver’s belt and started stabbing him in the belly. Aeric had a spit of grilling piglets and impaled a third reaver with it.
“Robert!” Elsibet screamed as Desmond gripped her by the arm, urging her inside.
“Come on, luv!” Agatha waved at Robert.
You stupid goatfucker. . .
“Keep the kids calm!” Robert yelled and let go the cane.
Smoke was rising from the priory and the screaming was growing worse out there. Half a dozen ladders smacked against the walls in several places. The handful of Fitzwalter guards upon the ramparts rushed towards the ladders, but most of them were struck off the walls with crossbolts. Dex dodged a bolt then loosed another arrow and cursed victoriously. Clay pots arched over the walls and crashed into flames in the bailey.
“Dex, get your arse down here!” Gavin shouted.
Noel and Edgar were shutting the Priorygate, trapping the few reavers left on horseback. Yet reavers were gaining the wall ramparts, a few had crossbows and started bolting random men, women, and children down. Two of Mandeville’s sergeants were dead on the ground among the reavers and Will had a long slash from left shoulder to elbow. Sir Robin noticed one of the dead reavers had a white patch on his bloody jerkin with a red erect cock and balls upon it.
“Who are these bastards?” Emeric questioned.
“Whoresons!” Robert grimaced at the corpse, “The Gascon Whoresons! That must mean. . .”
“The Rapscallion!” Will raged, “Lord Savaric ignored the truce, attacked Pleshey yesterday afternoon, caught us off guard. We were lucky to get out alive!”
I shall have no fear as I walk into the Valley of the Shadow of Death . . .
“Arms, m’lords, arms!” The squires were rushing out of the manor and shed by the guesthouse.
Arthur was helping Alfred with hauberks, while the others carried arm loads of weapons.
Sweet Willum was already covered in his hauberk, armed with sword and hand axe, waving towards the Dunmowgate. “They’re makin’ their way ‘round!”
“Gavin! Arthur! We need some time!” Robin ordered as Simon sorted through the squires, doling out hauberks.
“Aye!” Gavin agreed as eighteen rangers gathered around him, notching arrows. “Keep eyes open and arrows ready.” He pulled back an arrow, loosing it straight into a whoreson’s chest on the ramparts. “On my lead! Clear the ramparts!”
A rapscallion crossbowman on the parapet threw a torch onto the roof of the stable against the curtain wall. Another threw a jar of oil and the wooden tiles lit up.
"Draw!" Gavin shouted. Three lines of six archers drew hempen bowstrings back. "Raise to the ramparts!" Arrows lifted on cue, "Loose!"
A twang and whoosh; a blur of wood, feather, and iron gliding. The arsonists and other whoresons fell full of arrows. Still, more climbed the ladders to keep hold of the ramparts. Whoresons, rapscallions, and a handful of men in green and gold surcoats rushed through the Dunmowgate. Flaming arrows rained over the walls, several striking the smith shop, kennel, and carpenter’s shack. Sweet Willum, Sax, Frank, Arthur, and another half dozen sergeants were near the Dunmowgate, stabbing, slashing, and weaving between horsemen. The knights were pulling on hauberks over their finery, not bothering with gambeson or surcoat.
Robert helped Alfred lace up the back of Adam’s mail coat.
“Those green men, damnit look, tis Killcairn!” Adam shouted.
Robin squinted through the snow and ash, “Verdun is out there, that sniveling lamprey!”
I shall fear no evil as I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death.
“Attack my children will you?” Robin brandished Valorsmith and rushed towards the Dunmowgate.
Simon raised Baynardsbane. Adam swung Plowsword in a giant arc over their heads. Aeric hefted a throwing spear and morning star with his burnt hands. Will, Edgar, Emeric, Noel and a half dozen sergeants followed, shouting ‘Fitzwalter!’ and ‘Mandeville!’ More mounted rapscallions, whoresons, and verdunmen galloped through the Dunmowgate. The ones on the ramparts shot bolts down at the Fitzwalters and Mandevilles. Several sergeants went down.
"No hostages!" Will railed, "No bloody hostages!"
His shield was struck with three bolts.
Gavin set the cadence for another volley.
The clatter of iron, wood, and flesh slammed through the snow as royalist and rebel embraced in hate. A horse screamed as Willum split its guts open. The rapscallion knight fell with a crash into the mud, Sax and Frank stabbing spears into his back again and again. Edgar and Emeric traded blows with a whoreson rider on one side, while Robin swung into the exposed side with all his might. The whoreson fell, though his mail saved him from being cut in half.
Edgar and Emeric finished the doomed knight off, for even mail couldn’t shield stabbing.
“Loose!” Gavin shouted.
Reavers on the ramparts crumpled bloody, wounded, and dead, but more climbed over. A whoreson knight brought down his axe on a Fitzwalter sergeant’s shoulder and the right arm fell into the mud. Arthur lunged with his spear, glancing it off the man's chest, up into his throat. The whoreson brought his axe down on the haft, splintering it. The axe head deflected and struck a glancing blow off Arthur’s head. His pot helmet fell and blood streamed into his face. Arthur let go the broken spear. The whoreson turned and fled, a red fountain bubbling down his surcoat. He fell off the horse within the Dunmowgate.
Sax and Frank came to Arthur’s defense. With Sax hulking close, Frank pulled a hand sword and dirk free. He bobbed and weaved around a whoreson’s mace strike, slicing behind the knee, then stabbing the falling man in the neck; ducking another’s wide axe swing then stabbing the man’s armpit and groin simultaneously. Sax deflected a sword blow, slicing open the Irishman’s neck with his spearhead as he brought it back around. Sax the boar and Frank the fox backed to either side of Arthur, trying repeatedly to fold his bleeding forehead up over his eyes.
Adam cut off a rapscallion’s head, swept the longsword over his own and brought it down against a horse’s leg, cleaving it in two. The whoreson rider fell, pinned under the horse. Adam crushed the knight’s throat with his boot.
The roof of the stable blazed and crackled, the horses screaming fear. The stable master and several grooms brought horses out, wading through the brawl and mud, leading the horses towards the manor. The houndsman uncaged his dogs and they scurried about, several on fire. Butchersbreath and Boarsbane vaulted into the fight.
Another woosh, arrows arched up, bounced off stone, stuck in timber, piercing leather gambesons and flesh. Some of the whoresons and rapscallions on the ramparts survived and made their way into the top room of the Dunmowgate, while others started shooting into the bailey.
Close to Gavin, Robert watched it all with fascinated horror; too gruesome to watch, too terrible to turn away. He was shaking with fear, shivering from cold, trembling with excitement. His ears and scalp were stinging cold, lungs burning frozen, shoulders and feet soaked with melting snow. He kept rubbing left fingers over the palm scars; the scars on his neck and forehead throbbed.
Gavin turned to him, gripped his arm tightly, gurgled, and sank to the stones.
"Papa!" Parsival screamed. He'd felt the air split over his left shoulder.
Gavin crumpled, a crossbolt stuck deep into his chest.
“Hawkesworth!” Dex disparaged, breaking the ranger’s concentration.
Robert felt apart from himself, watching Parsival hold up his father's head, seeing the desperation in the young man's eyes. Blood was pooling around Robert's feet as Gavin spat red, whispering to his son.
Another archer fell with a cry of pain. The crossbowmen hiding atop the Dunmowgate had excellent cover. The rapscallions, whoresons, and verdunmen were pulling back to the Dunmowgate slowly, calmly defending every backwards step. A few mounted rapscallions charged through the gate. The lead rapscallion lowered his lance at Noel, finishing off a fallen verdunmen. The rapscallion slammed the lance into the side of Noel’s chest, ramming it through the other side. Noel shuddered and shook his head in horrendous pain, then fell as the lance snapped in half.
“Noel!” Adam raged, “Non!”
“Papa!” Nigel screamed from behind Edgar.
Adam raised Plowsword and lowered it on the horses head, splitting it in half. The rapscallion fell back against a fellow sergeant mounted beside him. That horse reared as the other fell. Adam charged, gutting the second beast, shoving it over as a boy would a dead sappling.
Robert looked up and saw Robin urging the men forward, waving his bloody sword in a long swoop. Pools of mud were glistening red. Dead and wounded men, women, and children lay silent or moaning. There were hacked pieces and entrails amidst snow and mud. It seemed half the shops in the bailey were afire, the flames licking higher, spreading up the curtain wall. All of the soldiers were covered in the muck of battle. The young soldier beside Sax grabbed at his chest as a crossbolt slammed into it, then fell face first into the abyss of death.
Killcairn and a whoreson were bashing at Simon, who brought Baynardsbane down on the whoreson’s shoulder. Killcairn twisted around and slashed him hard against the back. The hauberk took the cutting edge of the blade, but Simon stumbled and winced. Killcairn stabbed Simon in the side, pushing hard to pierce the mail, shoving the blade halfway into his gut. Simon fell to his knees groaning, the tip of the sword jutting underneath the hauberk on the other side of his abdomen.
“My lord!” Aeric shouted and threw his javelin at Killcairn.
The whorseon with the bloody shoulder stumbled and the javelin stuck him in the face.
“Papa!” Wally screamed.
Simon dropped Baynardsbane, his eyes glazing over. Several rapscallions and whoresons gathered quickly around Killcairn, the last remaining verdunman. They dragged Simon towards the Dunmowgate. Aeric was closest, surging forward to prevent his capture. Two rapscallions pounced at Aeric, who swung his morning star around the first ones spear into the side of the man’s head. Aeric charged forward so that the other’s axe pole whacked his shoulder while Aeric head butted him with his spiked helmet. Aeric’s left arm hung limp as the reavers dragged Simon into the gate.
Gavin hacked up blood, a desperate look centering on his son, “Parsival. . . son. . . deliver my mark. . . hold . . . Dunmow. . .
"Nay Papa . . . I can't . . . we need you!" Parsival cried. "Chaplain, can you not save him?"
Robert felt his tongue thicken and bowels tighten. He'd not confessed the man, not performed the Extreme Unction, was standing there like a dumb ox while Gavin's soul drained from his body. Robert kneeled, cradling Gavin’s head in his arm, and felt his robe soaking around his legs.
Gavin grabbed Robert's hand, looked from him to son, choked and spat blood, "Don't let them . . . take . . . you must . . . hold on."
"We will,” Robert assured Gavin, then raised his head to Parsival. “In the name of your father, take the line and deliver his mark! Let this not be in vain!"
Gavin lifted his bloody hand, held it against Parsival’s cheek, turned away and spat more blood. He shuddered, moaned, gurgled, and grew very still. Parsival shook with white rage and utter desperation. Tears were streaming down his face.
"I’ll deliver your mark, Papa. Rangers to the line!" Parsival stood and drew an arrow from his quiver. "Aim for the Dunmowgate! Come on! Draw!"
Robert stared into the bailey. The hounds were tearing into the wounded indiscriminately, fighting over severed limbs and lapping at bloody pools. Robin, Adam, Willum, Aeric, Edgar, Emeric, Will and his knights were fighting grimly towards the Dunmowgate. The sergeants were forming a loose coral on either side.
"Kill them! Kill them all!" Adam kept shouting maniacally as he scythed Plowsword, disemboweling a rapscallion and slashing open a whoreson’s thigh in one swing.
Edgar flinched and held his left shoulder, falling back with a curse and crossbolt wedged into flesh. Several horses were free of the stables and roaming about in panic, while the trapped ones screamed as the stables burned around them.
“Papa!” Reggy cried and rushed to his fallen father, blocking him with a shield.
"And loose!" Parsival’s voice cracked, but the arrows flew. Reavers fell from the ramparts but there were none to replace them.
"Gavin," Robert breathed, "Gavin, confess to me. You must . . ."
Gavin paled to the color of snow before Robert's eyes. His breathing was hoarse. He tried speaking but he only drooled blood.
"Te absolvo. Te absolvo." Robert shuddered, making the sign of the Cross.
He laid the man down, about to perform the Extreme Unction, but saw the last light fade from Gavin's eyes. Another archer fell with a groan, holding the bolt in his stomach. Robert stood and looked at the Dunmowgate. The wind was shifting, blowing smoke over it. The passageway under the tower was blocked by a heap of dead men and horses. Robin was standing atop it, swinging Valorsmith down. Will, Willum, and Adam were on either side of him, stabbing and hacking. They all let out a guttural shout then descended into the passageway. Aeric, Emeric, Arthur, Sax, and several other sergeants were right behind them.
An arrow wooshed by Robert’s head.
Damn you! No more!
Robert went numb with a calm certitude. Fear and cold, pain and anger dissolved. He’d never felt more sure or confident in his life. It made no sense.
“Enough of God,” He whispered, bent over and grabbed the bow from Gavin’s hands. He pulled several arrows from the quiver and stood beside Parsival. The men atop the Dunmowgate made for the ladders.
“Raise to the ramparts!” Parsival screamed in white rage.
Robert lifted the bow.
“Draw!” Parsival ordered.
Robert pulled the string back to his cheek, focused on keeping the arrow pressed against the bow. His left shoulder and abdomen burned and healing wounds ripped, the bandages soaking from the inside. The string cut into his fingers. It was nothing now. Robert took aim at the last rapscallion climbing over the wall.
“And loose!” Parsival exulted.
Robert let his arrow go.
It flew over the soldier’s head, but several arrows bowled the man over the wall.
Fuck You! Fuck you John! Fuck you Peter! Fuck you Savaric! FUCK YOU ALL!
Robert heard screams of surprise, outrage, pain and victory. A wall of Fitzwalters stood inside the Dunmowgate, covered in gore but daring more. Knights and sergeants stumbled and trudged through the bloody mud, finishing off wounded whoresons and rapscallions without mercy. They fended the dogs off their wounded brethren. Emeric and Sax pulled Edgar up off his back as he cursed the crossbolt in his shoulder. Robert looked down at the bow in his hands. A rivulet of blood streamed down his left wrist, into his scarred palm.
Beyond the walls, someone was strumming a lyre and bellowing, “On the first day of Christmas my reavers gave to me, Mandeville’s Castle Pleshey! On the second day of Christmas my reavers gave to me, 200 flitch of bacon from Dunmow Priory!”
Robert grabbed Parsival’s arm, “Come with me.”
“Aye,” The young ranger agreed.
They slogged through the mud for Dunmowgate, swerving around their brothers in arms. The Rapscallion was up to his third day and looking forward to a forest bound, unguarded abbey. Once inside Dunmowgate they took the ladder to the second floor. Parsival pulled the albatross feathered arrow from his sheaf, his father’s Christmas gift. Robert peered out the tower, while Parsival crept into the causeway over the gate. The rapscallions were loading already heavily filled wagons with flitches of bacon. They were withdrawing from the manor walls, and outriders were already heading north up the path towards Stane Street.
Lord Savaric was hard to miss by St. Botoloph’s shrine; strumming his lyre and bellowing his song, golden hair ablaze over a foxfur lined scarlet mantle. His mail cap’s ventail was unlaced, and dangled from his right cheek. Soft felt gloves were tucked in his belt, but his hands were bone white from handling the instrument in the cold. He was mounted beside Baron Nicholas Verdun.
“On the fourth day of Christmas my reavers gave to me, the vaults of St. Edmundsbuh . . . ”
Savaric cringed and wheezed, his strumming strangled by an arrow piercing lyre, mail, gambeson, and chest. In a pain addled haze, he saw two men standing in the causeway over the gate, one holding a bow, the other making the sign of the Cross. Savaric spurred and whipped the reins, gasping for breath that wasn’t there, a white hot ache pulsating from his ribcage. His whole left arm ached, and his chest was in a vice. The white snow blended with grey sky. He felt himself passing out, slipping out of the saddle, there was a sudden jerk and then . . .
Robert and Parsival watched Savaric slip off his horse, and Nicholas take hold of the ventail. He pulled Savaric into his arm, covering the lord’s back with his shield. A rapscallion on the other side took control of the horse’s reins. The reaver’s slowly stopped singing when they noticed Savaric wasn’t leading the jest.
Parsival’s momentary epiphany of triumph was immediately humbled by the thought of his father lying in red snow.
“Let’s go,” Robert urged him, “we have people to take care of.”
. . .
The manor doors slammed open and they were assailed with the savory aromas of the Christmas feast. Joey Jehan, Dee Dee, Marky, and Verbena Cocksure braced defensively, raising giterns, lyres, tambours, sackbuts, and bread knives. William, Desmond, and the butlers held kitchen utensils, pots, and pans. Will, Robin, Adam, Robert, Sax, Edgar, Arthur, and a half dozen other shocked and wounded men stared at them. Watt, Annie, Holly, Obi and the other little ones screamed.
“We promise not to boo,” Edgar hissed, blood and snow staining his Fitzwalter surcoat.
“Fair enough,” Verbena lowered the bread knives, “We promise nah ta steal yuir plate.”
“Arthur, oh my God!” Agatha passed out.
“Mum!” Elsibet dropped to check on her mother.
“Son, good lord!” Desmond let go the pan.
“Tis just a flesh wound,” Arthur pushed half of his forehead back up on the bloody skull, then almost crumpled. He was covered in blood.
“Frue,” Sax wrapped his arms around him.
“Aeric, your arm!” Gwennifer held her belly.
“I’m alright, honey,” Aeric tried to shrug.
“Make room!” Robin commanded, “We have to see to the wounded!”
“Are we safe, son?” Gannora asked.
“The reavers are moving on!” Adam bellowed.
“Desmond!” Gannora gathered her wits, “Take the free folk outside to see to their own and mayhap put out the fires. Sarah, Tilly, get all the little ones upstairs. Elsie dear, we have to get Agatha awake or out of the way. Forget the feast, put the wounded on the tables and benches.”
They layed the badly injured on the tables, knocking over cups, baskets of bread, bowls of nuts, platefuls of food. Blood soaked into white linens, splattered over the food. Anne and Robin were moving about, checking on everyone. Aeric and Frank were sitting either side of Arthur, keeping him focused. Robert was helping Parsival carry his father in, then made the young man sit by the fire.
Nigel joined him, blithering. Emeric, Em, Will, Frey, and several sergeants were bringing the rest of the wounded in. Wally was walking around in a daze, mumbling. He vomited all over himself, but didn’t seem to notice. Jess, Mary, and a few other handmaidens were crying, shaking, paralyzed with shock. Troublefoot kept barking.
A Christmas Bloodfeast, Robert thought as Adam and Sax eased Edgar onto a bench.
Sax looked at the crossbolt and shrugged at Adam, “Frue?”
“Get it out! Get it out!” Reggy demanded hysterically. “Now, get it out now!”
“Reggy, calm down, I’ll see to your father,” Adam separated son from father with a firm but gentle sweep of his arm.
Robert looked at Arthur, Edgar, and thought of the Hospitallers, “Bandages and wine. Alfred, take Reggy, Wally, and Frey and get as much wine as you can from the cellar! Jess, Elsibet, Mary go upstairs and fetch all the bed sheets!”
“What?” Wally looked at Robert like he was a fool. “Now’s not the time to get drunk!”
“Now’s a great time to get drunk!” Edgar moaned.
“We’re going to clean the wounds with wine, and wrap them tight with strips of sheets,” Robert explained, “Tis what the Hospitallers do. I’ve no idea why they use wine, but God works in mysterious ways.”
“Do what the chaplain says!” Gannora snapped and they scuttled, then she crouched to calmly talk Agatha awake as Elsie rested her mothers head in her lap.
Adam inspected Edgar’s shoulder, “The good news is the bolt went clean through.”
“The bad news is there’s a God damned crossbolt in my shoulder,” Edgar groaned.
Adam quickly took hold of the bolt and snapped the tail.
“Bloody Hell!” Edgar sucked in the pain. “Warn a man!”
“I’ve got to pull the bolt out or the wound will fester,” Adam explained.
“I know!” Edgar complained, “Do it.”
“Sax, Robert,” Adam waved them over, “Take hold of Edgar’s arms lest he attacks me.”
“Good idea,” Edgar nodded, shutting his eyes tightly.
Robert took hold of Edgar’s left while Sax took the right.
“Right then,” Adam picked up a mug, gripped Edgar by the back of the neck and slammed the base of the cup against the bolt.”
“Ahhhhhh!” Edgar shouted, the men strunggling to keep hold of his arms.
Adam unlaced the back of Edgar’s hauberk, opening the left side to expose the bolt head, “Keep hold of him, almost done.”
“We’ve got sheets!” Elsibet shouted, the other girls right behind her with arms full.
“Start ripping them into strips for bandages.” Robert nodded, “We’re going to need a lot of them.”
“Papa, we’ve got wine!” Reggy staggered in with a half keg barely gripped, the other boys struggling with their own.
“I swear to God I get one of those to myself!” Edgar demanded.
“Wuss,” Adam yanked the gory bolt free.
“Christ’s bollocks nailed to the Cross!” Edgar growled.
“Reggy, wine!” Robert shouted as the blood poured down Edgars chest and back, “Pour it over the wound! Elsie we need bandages!”
“Was that a bow I saw in your hand out there?” Adam asked as Wally handed Robert a clay bottle.
Robert grinned grimly as he poured some onto the wound in Edgar’s back, “Aye.”
“I didn’t know you could loose,” Adam looked down at the blood on his hands.
“I can’t,” Robert stepped back and let Reggy wrap up his father.
“Make it tight, lad,” Robert explained.
Adam flicked blood onto the floor, “We’ll have to remedy that.”
Robert nodded, “Good. I’m going to see about washing more wounds, Wally, Frey?”
“For certes,” Wally mumbled as Robert limped towards Arthur.
“Aeric, how’s that shoulder,” Adam asked.
“Ugh,” Aeric tried shrugging and failed.
“Lay down on your belly, Blackmere,” Adam shoved at him.
“Oy,” Aeric sighed, “Can I punch you after?”
“A black eye is a small price, I suppose.” Adam chuckled.
Jess came crying up to Edgar. “Papa! Oh, Papa!”
“Tis okay Jessybear, I’m alright.” He assured her. “They’re taking good care o’ me.”
“Oh, Papa!” She clung to him, crying while he whispered comforts to her.
Robert made it to Arthur just after Elsibet, “My turn to take care of you. Sax, Frank, can you make certes the squires stay on task, more wine and sheets?”
“Aye,” Frank agreed then nodded at Sax, “Frue.”
“Fraue,” Sax agreed and they headed out.
“I can’t see,” Arthur whined.
“Tis the blood,” Robert folded the flap of skin up over Arthur’s right eye.
Elsibet was shaking, paling white and looking nauseous.
“Help me clean him up?” Robert asked.
Tears streamed down here face.
“Alright, pour some wine here then we’ll wrap some bandages good and tight.”
Once Arthur was taken care of, Robert looked around at Anne hugging Robin, unconcerned about all the blood staining her Christmas dress. William was organizing the care of the other wounded. The Cocksures were helping. Christiana was crying and holding her belly, while Will consoled her. Gannora and Gweniffer were inspecting wounds with clinical detachment, ordering others about assuredly. Aeric was watching Gwennifer with pride.
“Papa? Papa? Have you seen my Papa?” Mary Hamlin asked Robert, Elsibet, and Arthur. Tears were streaming down her cheeks and she was shaking uncontrollably.
“Sissy,” Nigel’s chin trembled and tears streamed off his cheeks, “Oh, God.”
Mary balled and fell into her brother’s arms.
Robert looked over towards the door, then back to Mary and Nigel. “Sax, Frank, there’s something we need to do outside.”
Sax was wiping the blood, gore, and mud from his face. He looked at Mary, “Frue.”
Sarah appeared at the base of the stairs under the archway into the round tower, “Simon? Where’s Simon? I can’t find Simon!”