Warlord (Outlaw 4) (21 page)

While the truce talks between Chancellor Longchamp and the French were taking place at the castle of Tillières, ten miles east of Verneuil – and King Richard, we heard, was continuing to win a series of minor but brilliant victories against the rebels in the south – Hanno, Thomas and I found ourselves accommodation in the stone castle of Rouen. Things were not at all well in the Norman capital: Prince John had been holding the city for Richard for the past two months, but while Richard had been covering himself in glory in the south, Prince John had been struggling to hold his own in the Duchy against King Philip’s marauding men. A few weeks before our arrival, the French had captured the small stronghold of Fontaines, a bare five miles north of the walls of Rouen. Worse, Robert, Earl of Leicester, a renowned and reliable warrior – who had been charged with the defence of Normandy along with Richard’s brother – had been captured by the French while raiding the lands of Hugh de Gournay and was now being held for ransom. There was an air of defeatism in the castle, servants tiptoed, knights wore long faces and talked among themselves
almost in whispers. Prince John, on the other hand, complained long and loud to anyone who would listen that Richard had not given him sufficient men-at-arms to hold the Duchy, and was to be heard suggesting that the string of reverses that his men had suffered were, in fact, no fault of his but a result of Richard’s meanness with his available troops.

I had determined to stay out of Prince John’s presence, and I came to his attention, I believe, only once during the ten dull days I spent there. At dinner one day – a surprisingly lavish feast, given our circumstances, of swan baked in its feathers, stuffed crane, roast boar’s head and stewed lampreys – I found myself staring with deep contempt at John while he talked loudly in his harsh croaking voice about secret traitors within the walls of Rouen who were undermining his heroic defence. The look I gave him was unguarded, betraying all the derision that I held in my heart for the man, and he caught my eye while he was in mid-flow about the suspected perfidy of the Jews of the town. Our eyes locked for an instant, then I quickly glanced away – it does not pay to confront royalty, it can be as dangerous as teasing a wild bear – and I saw a glow of dark anger in his eyes. Clearly he had not forgotten me, and my ‘betrayal’ of his cause a year earlier. But he said nothing, and neither did I, and the talk between him and his cronies passed to other matters, chiefly, the hunt – for John, if he was a poor warrior, was extravagantly fond of sport, war’s tamer shadow.

I took care to stay away from Prince John for the remainder of my stay in the castle, and filled the hours with battle practice with Hanno, and in the training of Thomas, who was becoming at least half-decent with a sword and shield, for all his tender years. I also took the opportunity to re-equip myself and my men, spending some of the Tourangeaux silver on new shields painted with my boar device and bundles of lances, fresh provisions and other necessities, and buying a spirited palfrey for Hanno to ride and a swift, well-mannered, three-year-old courser for myself.

When the news arrived in late July that Chancellor Longchamp had indeed secured a truce with the French at Tillières, which was agreed by both sides to last until November the following year, Hanno, Thomas and I were rested, ready and equipped to take advantage of the cessation of hostilities and make our way onwards to Paris.

We rode out of the walls of Rouen on a blustery summer morning heading for the manor of Clermont-sur-Andelle, which stood about fifteen or so miles to the east of Rouen. This was the manor that Richard had endowed me with after the siege of Nottingham earlier that year, and as Robin had rightly pointed out, it was largesse with very large strings attached. The manor stood at the eastern edge of Normandy and it had been one of the first to be gobbled up by the French during their initial advance. It was a royal gift that I could not enjoy until King Philip and his barons had been pushed out of Richard’s domains; certainly I was not receiving its rents and the fruits of the worked land – and after the truce of Tillières, which stipulated that each of the two warring sides should keep the territories that they had captured, it looked as if I might never receive them. But I was curious, and although it was out of our direct path to Paris, I wanted to see Clermont-sur-Andelle to know the lands that one day, with God’s help, I might possess.

By late afternoon, Hanno, Thomas and I were sitting astride our mounts at the edge of a patch of thick woodland, almost completely hidden from human sight, and gazing down at a broad water meadow beside the reedy banks of the River Andelle. In the distance, on the far side of the slow river, on a low hillock, I could see the manor that was rightfully mine: a spacious compound, well fortified with a stout wooden palisade, a large L-shaped, thatched, timber hall inside it, and a scatter of other buildings. By the river, a mill wheel turned in the race and half a dozen figures could be made out moving around the mill itself, some burdened by large sacks
of grain or flour. On this side of the river, across a narrow wooden bridge, was a fenced orchard of pears and apples – it was too far for me to see, but, at that time of year, I could imagine that the first tiny fruits must be beginning to show. Standing in my stirrups, I could also make out a high cross atop a small wooden church beyond the fortified compound of the manor and a score or so of villeins’ hovels scattered between the two. Beyond the village, as far as the horizon, were broad fields, some greeny-yellow with standing wheat and barley, others fallow and thick with weeds. But it seemed an orderly place, did Clermont-sur-Andelle; not perhaps as prosperous as Westbury under the care of my efficient steward Baldwin but remarkably untouched by the ravages of war.

In the foreground, perhaps three hundred yards from our position in the trees, were four well-mounted horsemen; by their trappings and clothes, at least two of them were knights, the other two grooms or servants. The knights were bareheaded and they appeared to be related by blood – a father and son, perhaps. I could not see their faces clearly at that distance, but both men had a similar posture in the saddle and shared the same shade of pitch-black hair. As we looked on, the younger of the knights launched a large blue-grey peregrine falcon from his wrist, and we joined in watching that majestic bird soar up into the air and circle almost beyond the range of human sight.

My hands on the reins of the courser tightened into fists, and the big horse moved under me, feeling the stirrings of my outrage, but unsure of my intentions. Who were these men, and by what right did they hunt my lands? It crossed my mind, only for a brief moment, I swear, that I should ride down to them and take my sword to them for their impertinence. Hanno and I could handle the knight and his son, I was sure of it: we were armed for war, and clad in mail, our weapons keen. We could very soon have overcome these men who were accoutred only for a day’s pleasant sport. I would teach them to appropriate my fief!

The moment passed. We were here on enemy territory. Even if I were to kill these men, take the village and occupy the fortified compound, I did not have enough men to hold it against the vengeance of the French King. And my own King Richard would not be best pleased if, after agreeing a sacred truce with the enemy, one of his unruly knights were to break it in a rage. No, I said to myself, I will keep the truce, as a true vassal should. I loosened my grip on the courser’s harness and felt the beast relax.

Dusk was not far away. One of the servants released a liver-and-white water dog and it galloped eagerly into the forest of reeds beside the slow-moving river, barking with joy and sending up ribbons of brown water with every hectic stride. It quested round for a moment or two, taking the scent, and then charged forward and launched its body into the deeper water. A pair of mallards rocketed out of the reeds, their wings slapping the air as they hurried to escape the splashing canine. The pair of birds beat strongly away from the Andelle, making for the wood in which we were hidden. But one duck at least was not fated to escape. A long blur of blue-grey, like a javelin flung down from the heavens, and the peregrine struck, hurtling into the right-hand mallard and striking with an explosive puff of bright green feathers, killing the bird instantly. The falcon bore the duck to the ground, no more than fifty paces from us and, spreading its dark wings over the limp water-bird like a cloak, as if from some avian shame it wished to hide its actions from the world, it began to feed. The hunting party spurred their horses towards the peregrine, now mantled over its prey, pecking and tearing at the mallard’s flesh. Eager to confiscate the falcon’s plump victim for their larder before that noble bird had eaten its fill, the horsemen were heading towards us at a gallop. I nodded at Hanno and Thomas and the three of us turned our mounts back into the wood and slipped quietly away into the gathering gloom.

* * *

The next morning, after a cold night under the stars, we found ourselves on the arrow-straight Roman road that led through the border county known as the Vexin and into Paris. We were not the only travellers on the road, and we soon fell in with a gang of rowdy, joyful English students, a little younger than me, who were heading for the great University of Paris to study under a renowned teacher: Master Fulk du Petit-Pont. The students’ leader, Matthew of Oxford, was slightly older than the others; he was a dark-haired fellow, too mocking and worldly wise for my tastes, but a clever man, and he had been to Paris before; indeed, it seemed that he had studied at several places in Europe: Modena, Montpellier, and even in Rome. I never warmed to Matthew, there was something about him, a kind of shiftiness, that made me distrust him instinctively, but he was a fund of information about our destination, and he was certainly a diverting companion. He and his four fellow students were much given to pranks and japes, to jesting with each other in Latin, and to drinking. I liked them: and their sober clerical robes and high spirits put me in mind of my father’s youth in Paris. Had he been anything like one of these carefree tonsured youths? I imagined so.

As the bells were ringing out for Vespers, we drew rein, my party of three and the five young students, at the gates of the enormous Priory of St Martin-des-Champs. To the south, less than a quarter of a mile away, I could see the tops of the larger churches and houses of Paris under a smear of smoke from the cooking fires of a multitude.

The hosteller of the Priory was summoned and he showed us where we could stable our animals, and the location of the dormitory. After a very fast wash in the horse trough in the yard in front of the church, we joined the monks of St Martin’s, who were streaming out of church after the evening service, for supper in the refectory. It was simple fare but in generous portions – a rich bean stew, loaves of barley bread and a hard yellow cheese. The monks
also supplied several earthenware jugs of wine to wash the meal down. I was tired and a little out of sorts – the riddle of the ‘man you cannot refuse’ was preying on my mind – and I wanted to be away from other folk, no matter how congenial. And so, after supper, I left Hanno and Thomas with the students – passing around a big glass wine cup called a
henap
and calling ‘Wassail! Drink hail!’ before every draught in the old English manner – and went to scale the bell tower of the priory church.

It was very nearly full dark on that warm summer night by the time I reached the top of the tower and found a little shelf that served as a seat for the lookout. I could see for miles in each direction. To the south was Paris and, while I knew that it held as many as sixty thousand souls, I was still surprised by its size and its strange beauty when I saw it first that night – the watch fires in the streets, and as-yet-uncovered family hearths, and candlelight leaking from a thousand windows, where earnest young clerics were hard at their books after supper. It looked like a carpet of stars, spread out before me, or a vast field of burning embers.

Somewhere in that sprawling mass of humanity was the answer to the mystery that tormented me. Half of my heart told me that Robin could not truly be the ‘man you cannot refuse’, and the other half told me I was fooling myself because I cared for him. I knew that Robin had some feeling for me, too: he had saved my life on several occasions, at very great risk of his own – and therefore he could not be the man who had sent those knights of the blue cross to kill me. Yet the evidence against Robin was there; and had been there all along. Had I been so blinded by my affection for my lord that I had failed to see it?

I fell to my knees in that high bell tower, bowed my head and prayed to St Michael, that Robin might not prove to be the man responsible for my father’s death, and that my old friend would not be revealed to me as my secret enemy. I would find the truth in Paris, I vowed, and I swore a holy oath to St Michael,
alone, in the darkness above the edge of Paris, that I would not leave that city until I had found out the truth. I am certain the saint heard me, for having so sworn, I felt eased in mind and spirit and descended the tower with a much lightened heart to seek out my bed. And for the first time in weeks, I slept like a newborn.

For me, Paris shall always be associated with the acrid smell of masonry dust and the shrill ringing of metal chisels on hard stone, for the city that we rode into early the next morning seemed to be one huge builder’s compound. The chink-chink-chink of tools cutting into limestone blocks began shortly after dawn, drifting on the cool air from the new headquarters of the Knights Templar that the Order was building a quarter of a mile to the east of the Priory of St Martin, in the broad fields there outside the city.

As we approached the half-built wall of the city of Paris, the metal-stone chinking sound intensified and mingled with the cries of workmen, the sharp crack of axe on wood, and the rumble and crash of falling rubble. At the Porte St Martin, I announced myself as a pilgrim wishing to pray at the cathedral of Notre-Dame before a most sacred relic, a lock of the Virgin’s hair. I paid the toll to the Provost’s men-at-arms and entered the city itself. As we emerged from the gatehouse, I looked to my right and beheld a huge finished wall, four times as high as a tall man and dotted with strong round towers every sixty yards, which curved around and down to the right towards the River Seine. It was a fortification to daunt even King Richard’s mighty castle-breakers. To my left, however, there was a stretch of half-built wall, thirty yards long and teeming with workmen even at that early hour, and then, almost shockingly – nothing; only the wide vegetable gardens of the householders of this suburb of Paris, open to the world, with no obstacle to an invader more impressive than an occasional sheep hurdle, low garden wall and rickety wooden hut.