Gloucester
Date: 1357
They stayed off the road and far enough away to be out of sight. It didn’t take them as much time as Roger expected to reach Elysian Fields. He thought Oliver, being older, might need to move at a slower pace. With that in mind, he chose to travel along the banks of a creek so Oliver would have less foliage to fight through. They hadn’t gotten far when Oliver told Roger to pick up the pace.
“There it is in its glory days.” Roger had only known the castle as a ruin. Alex’s home of long ago was a remarkable structure, the perfect combination of intimidation and beauty. The blonde stone was similar to the stone of his chateau. This one had a double set of perimeter walls, where his did not. He understood the tactical advantage of forcing the enemy into the small space between curtain walls and having your archers fire down upon them. His ancestors settled on a twenty-foot high curtain wall but no second wall. Should an enemy get past his men on the wall, they’d have a large expanse of bailey to cross, all the time exposed to archers front and back of them.
“Let’s go left. Put some distance between us and any patrols from the castle,” he told Oliver. “When we’ve gone far enough, we’ll make our way to the riverbank. From there, we’ll double back. If we’re seen, we’ll look like two locals walking along the river.”
“You’re not planning on trying to sneak in today, are you?”
“No. I want to see what the weakest point for entry is. I imagine the back. I also have to see Electra or Emily to know for certain they’re still here. It’s pointless to risk getting caught if they’ve gone.”
“What will we do if they are gone?”
The scientist expected the former medieval knight to have an answer, and Roger sincerely wished he possessed one. “I don’t know. I’ll cross that bridge when or if we come to it.”
They made their way to the riverbank without running into anyone. Roger gave a silent thank you to the heavens for the small measure of good fortune. Here and there along the riverbank, men fished, competing with several boats manned by small crews anchored further out. If things were the same as they were in France at the time, those fishermen sold their catches to the local markets. They’d offer first choice to the local noble, of course. In this case, the cook at Elysian Fields would get the best of the lot.
When they were positioned directly beneath the castle, Roger told Oliver, “Stop. We’ll rest and eat here.”
Two men stopping for a midday meal and wine wouldn’t be noticed. If their attention drifted up to the castle, no one would think twice.
Roger ate slowly, not tasting the bread or cheese he brought, his mind fixed on the problem. Like Chateau Marchand, his Norman holding, Elysian Fields sat at the edge of a hilltop overlooking a body of water. A cart-wide path led from the castle to the Severn River. Chateau Marchand had no such path; only a narrow trail that led to the English Channel. A rocky shelf in shallow water made attack from the sea almost impossible.
Elysian Fields was vulnerable to attack from the river. It’d be a difficult task, fraught with risk of an enemy taking many casualties but doable if they were a determined group. One of the Guiscard ancestors clearly recognized the danger. Armed men kept watch on the cliff and river below from two towers, one on each end of the rear curtain wall. One way to avoid it and the rear gate, which they also had a clear view of; was through the garden. The other weak spot was a short wall, little more than a man’s height that enclosed what appeared to be the chapel and the family graveyard.
“The only way to see if the sisters, are there and allowed to move freely, is from some position along the front of the castle,” Oliver said, giving voice to Roger’s thoughts.
“True. I can’t guess whether they’d be allowed that freedom or not. I’m not sure I’d have given strangers who came to my gates such freedom.”
“Let’s hope the Baron’s people are nicer than you were.”
“You’re fortunate we’re not in the France of my time. You’d be breaking bread with the rats of my dungeon for that slur.”
A fisherman had changed locations and moved close to where they sat. Roger turned in time to see the man eyeing him. As soon as Roger made eye contact the man looked away and cast his line into the water.
“Let’s leave,” Roger said, uncomfortable with the man’s attention. “Walk casually away. Don’t act suspicious.”
Oliver nodded.
Roger intended to return using the same path to the top that they used to reach the riverbank, but that way was now blocked. Men were unloading cargo from a boat docked at the weathered pier.
“We have to go the other way. Keep your eyes peeled for a path on the cliff we can negotiate.”
At the first bend in the river, Roger found a section with decent footing and they began to climb. A cormorant colony had nested on the flat shelves that jutted out from the rocky cliff. Roger and Oliver came under continued attack by the different bird parents, who screeched and dive-bombed them, pecking occasionally, one digging his claws into poor Oliver’s scalp, as the men made their way up. Both were shit on, more than once.
“Disgusting,” Oliver said, wiping at his sleeve with a leaf after they’d reached the top.
Roger bent his head. “Is there any in my hair? I thought I felt a plop.”
“No. But they got you good on the back of your shoulder. I’ll wipe it off.” Oliver plucked a handful of leaves from a big alder tree and rubbed at the bird fouling.
When he finished, Roger said, “We need to find a good place to keep an eye on the bailey. Whether the women are allowed into the courtyard or not, if they even come to a window on this side of the castle, we must set up where we can see them.”
“Out of sight from the road but with a place we can shield ourselves should someone from the castle come along.”
Roger hadn’t given a tremendous amount of thought to Oliver’s age and physical agility. The man wasn’t a layabout but age takes a toll in the strongest of men. “You do realize we’ll have to sit in a tree for much of the day. I hadn’t considered the castle’s curtain wall. The fact Elysian Fields was sure to have one and how it would block our line of sight escaped me when you said you wanted to come. I didn’t think to warn you.”
“I can manage. I’ll switch off with you so neither of us is a crippled, aching mess at the end of the day,” Oliver said.
Roger chuckled at the optimism. He’d had the childhood of a typical boy: tree climbing, frogging, rough-housing with the other boys at his father’s holding. He doubted the cerebral Oliver shared the same wild childhood. He looked like the sort who came out of the womb wearing his glasses and a bowtie. “No matter what we do, I’m sure we’ll ache like plow horses by nightfall. Been many, many a year since I’ve climbed a tree.”
They passed an open space with a tall oak that Oliver thought perfect. “No clearings,” Roger told him. “That’s where people will stop to eat or rest.” He started again but then stopped and put his hand out to stop Oliver. “Did you hear something?”
“No, just normal woodland sounds. Why?”
“I thought I heard a horse snort and rustling close-by.” He waited, listening, but didn’t hear anything. Roger kept an ear out for sounds out of the ordinary, but all he heard were the usual ones in the woods: birds, small animals, and the like.
“This is a good spot,” Roger said when they came to an overgrown area surrounded by tall oaks. He dropped his backpack on the ground. “I’ll take the first watch.”
“Stand where you are,” a man ordered and four mounted knights with their swords drawn emerged from the trees and formed a circle around them.
Roger immediately drew his sword. From the corner of his eye he saw Oliver pull his knife from his boot. Without relying on Oliver’s help, he calculated his odds. Obviously, the knights had the advantage, not just in numbers: mounted, he’d have to contend with both the large horse and an armed man able to slice down at him. He’d aim to injure the horse first, try to get the horse to rear and throw the rider. On the ground, one-on-one, he stood a good chance of taking two of the knights. More than two? Defeating them would require nothing short of a miracle. But, miracles did happen. After all, the English claimed two incredible miracles, at Crecy and at Poitiers, when they managed to defeat the French.
Roger’s accent would give him away for French, and the enemy. Perhaps there was a way out of fighting. If Oliver did the talking, the knights might let them go on their way.
“That’s them. Him, the fair-haired one, is the Frenchy I told you about.” The fisherman from the river stepped forward, the one who Roger feared might overhear their conversation.
Merde!
His meager meal turned to stone in his belly. The same sense of dread he felt seeing his knight carrying Yves’ limp body engulfed him. Dread. Not for what they might do to him, but that whatever they chose would keep him from finding Electra. He didn’t fear death. He faced death at Crecy and Poitiers. Without him, what would become of her? He’d failed those he loved in the past and sent a silent plea to St. Jude, patron saint of lost causes, that he not fail Electra too.
“Are you sure you want to challenge us...monsieur?” the knight who was their apparent leader said. “We are four...” He glanced at Oliver and smirked. “And, you are one.”
“See here, I am neither a coward nor without skill,” Oliver insisted. “You want to have a go? Let’s do it.”
Roger applauded his sincerity, although the claim was a big stretch of the imagination.
A bald knight nudged his horse forward to where Oliver stood. “Quiet old man or you’ll feel a cuff from the back of my hand.”
“Bloody bugger,” Oliver muttered.
His sword drawn, the lead knight jumped to the ground. “Lay your sword on the ground,” he ordered, keeping his sword pointed at Roger’s chest.
Roger recalculated his odds. With one on the ground, they were better. Oliver might keep one of the others occupied long enough for Roger to defeat a second but not three. That was to invite his death and all hope to save Electra and Emily. It shamed him to do it. If it wasn’t for the safety of the sisters he’d refuse. Out of options, he laid his sword down.
“If either moves, run him through,” the leader told the other knights as he sheathed his sword and picked Roger’s up. “Fine craftsmanship,” he said, inspecting the hilt’s decorative scrollwork and lapis inset pommel. He turned the blade over and read the inscription. “Courage et Honneur.” He raised his eyes to Roger. “You handled this sword like a man used to swordplay and this is no ordinary sword. You’re no French peasant. It begs the question: what are you doing in England?”
He turned to Oliver. “You are an Englishman or at least you sound like one. Now, what would a loyal Englishman be doing with the enemy?”
“I’m not a traitor, if that’s what you’re suggesting,” Oliver answered.
“As it’s a hanging offense, only a fool would admit to helping an enemy spy. Tie them up.” He waved the bald knight down. “Search him.”
The knight took Oliver’s knife from his hand and his eating dagger from his boot. He handed them up to one of the mounted knights and then swept a finger along the inside of Oliver’s other boot. He found the ballpoint pen Oliver had clipped there and pulled it out. Looking wary, he rolled it between his fingers and shrugged, clearly not having a clue to its purpose. He handed it to the lead knight.
“What’s this then?” The leader also turned it around, this way and that, looking more puzzled than wary. He tapped the plastic exterior. “What sort of material is this?”
“It’s called plastic. Let me show you how it works.”
“Hold right where you are traitor,” the leader ordered.
“Careful Harold, I fear it might be a sorcerer’s wand,” another knight warned.
“It is my version of a quill. Go ahead, press the silver toggle on the top. You’ll see a point pop out and you can write with the point,” Oliver said.
“What a load of twaddle. How can this be a writing instrument with no feather?” The knight pressed the top, flinching slightly when the tip came out. He sniffed the tip and ran it across his palm, streaking his hand with ink. He threw it hard into the bushes. “What manner of deviltry is this?” He held his hand up for the others to see. “We’re taking you to Elysian Fields where you’ll be interrogated Frenchy and then meet your fate, as will the English traitor.”
The knights tied Roger and Oliver’s hands and then roped them to the backs of their saddles, forcing them to trot behind on the way to the castle. Both men had to jog every few minutes to keep up.
Maybe St. Jude had taken pity on him.
Or,
Maybe the worst was yet to come.