The sons of montfort, p.1
The Sons of Montfort, page 1
part #2 of Longsword Series
LONGSWORD (II):
THE SONS OF MONTFORT
David Pilling
Glossary
Destrier - a knightly war horse
Hauberk - full-length mail tunic
Haubergeon - shorter version of the hauberk
Kettle hat - Type of helmet with a wide brim
Rouncie - a common riding horse
Sergeant - a common mounted soldier
Vintner - infantry officer
1 .
Northumberland
The High Sheriff was nervous. He urged his horse slowly along the road, conscious of the dark forest crowding in on either side. The road itself was little more than a narrow, rutted track. In the winter it would be a virtually impassable sea of mud. Weeks of good spring weather had made it dry and hard.
The sheriff wished he had some excuse for turning back. A dutiful man, he swallowed his fear and forced himself to push on. Behind him rode a troop of sergeants. Everyone was as pale and silent as their master.
Soon the trees started to thin out. They opened onto a wide expanse of boggy fields and meadows, bordered to the distant east by the slow-moving waters of the River Aln.
The sheriff’s eyes fixed on the gaunt building that occupied a patch of dry ground to the north. Alnwick Abbey, home to a community of Premonstratensian monks. Their church was bleak enough, a grey stone eyesore built upon a cheerless moor, more fortress than house of God. This desolate spot was but a few miles from the town and castle of Alnwick, seat of the Lords of Northumberland. Here the monks could praise God in peace while staying in touch with worldly affairs.
A bell tolled mournfully across the waste. The sheriff trembled at the sound and turned to his vintner.
“Richard,” he said, “take six men and ride up to the gates. Demand they open, and command the abbot to come out and meet us. Tell him to bring his trinket as well.”
The sheriff thought he glimpsed contempt in the other man's eyes. I send him into danger, he thought guiltily. When I should go myself. He thinks I am afraid. He is right.
“Yes, my lord,” Richard said at last. He called out six men and led them towards the abbey at a trot. The sheriff hung back with the rest, twisting his reins in his hands. He started to perspire.
The narrow slit windows of the mighty square towers flanking the gate were dark and silent. Other than the sounding of the bell, the abbey might have been deserted.
Richard and his men halted before the entrance. They presented an easy target to anyone lurking inside. In his mind's eye the sheriff pictured grim-faced crossbowmen posted at the high windows, slowly taking aim at the soldiers below.
“Open these doors,” Richard shouted. “In the name of the King and the High Sheriff of Northumberland. Let the abbot come forth and bring his false idol with him.”
His voice died away on the moor. The great gates, a pair of nailed and timbered doors some ten feet high, bound with strips of iron, remained firmly shut. Only a ram could break them down, and the sheriff was not about to lay siege to a house of God.
He was caught on the horns of a dilemma. If he attacked the abbey, his soul was in peril. If he failed in his duty, he risked being stripped of office. Perhaps worse. King Henry was not in a tolerant mood.
The bell ceased to toll. Silence reigned, broken only by the moan of a blustery wind, swept in from the North Sea.
The sheriff screwed up his courage. There was no help for it. He would have to go forward himself, show the King's seal, threaten the monks with force if they refused to open their gates.
He was about to dig in his spurs when a horn sounded from the north. Just as the note started to fall away, it was joined by others. Horns, horns, horns from all directions.
Richard and his men galloped back to their comrades even as the horns rose to a crescendo. They were accompanied by something else. The low, drumming noise of hundreds of hoofbeats.
North and south, the moor was bound by thick belts of woodland. Soldiers erupted from the trees, over two score mailed knights and sergeants on barded horses. At their heels came a horde of footmen, baying like hounds. They closed on the sheriff and his men.
At the same time the great gates of the abbey finally yawned open. These disgorged another company of spearmen led by a knight on a black destrier.
Outnumbered at least three to one, the sheriff could only swallow his pride and flee. He swung his destrier about and signalled frantically at his men to ride for it.
Too late. A dozen or so outriders to the north galloped ahead on swift rouncies to cut off his only escape route. The sheriff ripped out his sword. His only choice was to ride straight through these men, cut down any who stood in his way.
“Charge!” he bawled, driving in his spurs. His destrier flung herself into a gallop and thundered straight at the horsemen blocking the road to Alnwick. They in turn formed line and rode to meet him, spears levelled.
Before he could get to grips, the nearest rider drove his spear into the neck of the sheriff's horse. The beast reared onto her haunches, bloody foam pouring from her mouth. She stood unsteadily for a moment, forelegs cutting at thin air, then twisted and keeled over.
The sheriff landed heavily on his side, one leg trapped under the horse's dead weight. He shrieked in pain as his thighbone snapped. The dying animal bucked and writhed and threatened to roll over him. Shadows passed overhead, the roar of battle thundered in his ears, purple lights flashed and wheeled before his eyes.
Groaning, he managed to drag himself clear. His broken leg trailed uselessly behind him in the dirt. Above swirled the din of battle; curses, war-cries, clash and thump of weapons, men and horses screaming in pain and terror.
He could do nothing to help his soldiers. They were outnumbered, caught, encircled. Unless the enemy – whoever they were - chose to show mercy, they would all be slaughtered like cattle.
The sheriff could have wept. To die, here, on this blasted moor! Is this what God had in store for me?
The sound of fighting petered out, replaced by the groans of wounded and dying. A man loomed over Wischardus, who had to blink to make him out.
“Lord Vescy,” he murmured, “so it is true. You lead this pack of traitors.”
Baron Vescy, Lord of Alnwick, looked almost apologetic. His surcoat bore a black cross against a yellow field, the arms of his house. Tall and muscular, a fighting soldier in the prime of life, his face was framed by a mail coif, iron helm tucked inside the crook of his arm. Vescy’s boyish features, adorned by a clipped yellow moustache, were streaked with blood. The young lordling’s most notable feature were his eyes. These were large and blue, with long lashes like a girl’s.
“I am sorry for your fate, Sheriff,” said Vescy with a note of genuine regret. “You would take no warning, and insisted on sniffing about in affairs that did not concern you.”
“I did my duty,” the fallen man snarled, determined not to let his pain show. He glanced about him at Vescy’s followers, busy finishing off the wounded. After slitting throats they fell to pillaging the corpses.
Vescy was far from alone in his treason. The sheriff recognised the hard faces of Neville, Clifford and Percy among other great Lords of the north. If only he had listened to the rumours and thought twice before riding out with so few men.
“This is the second time you have raised your banners against the King,” he spat at Vescy. “How do oath-breakers such as you sleep at night?”
A dangerous light kindled in the Lord of Alnwick’s blue eyes. Not the light of anger, but fanaticism. “You shall see,” he said. “Before you die. You shall see what we fight for.”
“Go,” he ordered two of his sergeants. “Tell the monks to bring forth the relic.”
His men rode back to the abbey, where a group of monks in the white habits of their order waited at the gate. After a brief exchange of words, they turned and vanished into the shadows.
The sheriff was made to sit upright. Soon he caught the sound of plainchant from the abbey. Deep, sonorous male voices raised in a hymn to God.
The monks emerged in double file, led by the tall, spare figure of the abbot. Their chanting grew louder as they walked slowly towards Vescy and his prisoner. One carried a holy pennon on the end of a staff, bearing the image of a saint.
Every one of the rebels knelt, bowed their heads and made the sign of the cross. The ranks of the monks parted, and a wizened old man came forward. He carried an oblong silver casket in his gnarled hands.
The chanting abruptly ceased when he lifted the lid. A dreadful stench rose from the interior of the casket. The sheriff looked inside and beheld a severed human foot nestling inside. Its flesh was rotting and greenish, and the foot had been severed from the leg by some terrible sword or axe-blow.
He struggled for words. “This is blasphemy,” he cried. “Abomination!”
“No,” said Vescy in a quiet voice. “We follow the path of a true saint. He summons us from beyond the grave, to finish the work he started. It is you, my Lord Sheriff, who will need to beg forgiveness.”
The young nobleman seized the sheriff’s wrist. “Come,” he said eagerly, “your leg can be healed. Join us. When you are whole again, you can serve in the army of God!”
“Liar,” rasped the sheriff. “Blasphemer. Traitor.”
Vescy gave a gentle sigh. He stood up and nodded at one of his soldiers. The sheriff heard the soft hiss of steel on leather as a blade was unsheathed.
He barely had time to offer up a prayer before the knife sliced into his
2.
Westminster
“One.”
The wooden foils touched lightly, then parted.
“Two.”
Sancho, the tall Aragonese swordmaster, struck at his opponent's shoulder. Hugh Longsword caught the blow on his buckler and turned it aside.
“One.”
The Aragonese stabbed. This time Hugh parried the blow with his own foil, then punched with the iron boss of his buckler. Sancho twisted aside. He dropped to one knee and smacked the edge of his foil against Hugh's calf.
“Two. You have lost a leg, my friend.”
Hugh cursed. He was always slow to warm up to these sparring bouts. Sancho, on the other hand, was infuriatingly swift and agile from the off.
The swordmaster flowed to his feet. Slender as a lance, he was in his forties, yet retained the dexterity of a man half his age. Dark-skinned, almost as dark as a Moor, his good looks were only just starting to fade. Heavy bags under his eyes hinted at the swordmaster's over-fondness for strong hot wine, yet he had no paunch.
They were alone in a large, airy chamber next to the palace armoury. Racks of weapons hung on the walls alongside fencing masks, padded jacks and leather gloves. Sunlight streamed in from arched and mullioned windows set high in the wall.
Hugh had come to think of this room as a torture chamber reserved exclusively for himself. Sancho was paid handsomely to turn Hugh, a clumsy swordsman, into an expert.
The Aragonese was both artist and perfectionist, and a stranger to mercy. Every day for the past three months he had put his student through hell. Forced him to stand in a guard position until Hugh's muscles creaked, only to grab his arm and wrench him into an even more painful stance. Made him strike at mannequins until the sweat rolled off Hugh in waves. Until the hated sound of Sancho's shrill, heavily-accented voice echoed in his skull at night.
“Doublez! Dedoublez! Un! Deux! Again - strike harder, swifter! God's death, it is like teaching an ox how to dance!”
Every lesson began and ended with a sparring match. These daily humiliations tore Hugh’s pride to shreds. Sancho danced about him in a blur. After a few minutes Hugh would be dizzy and breathless, his body aching from the countless strikes of Sancho's foil. His flesh was a mass of bruises.
“Save your breath,” Sancho snapped, “don't commit yourself. Think. Breathe. Mind your feet. Turn quicker. Keep your guard up. There! You are dead again.”
Three months passed before Hugh managed to hit his opponent. By this point he had come to loathe Sancho. Hate him with a bottomless passion. He dreamed every night of beating the wretched man to a pulp and making him eat his damned foils. When he finally managed to strike him – a deft cut to the shoulder – it was one of the proudest moments of Hugh's life.
His muscles soon warmed up. He could match Sancho for skill now, if not quite for speed. Their foils click-clicked as the two men sparred back and forth across the bare stone floor. Hugh tended to fight on the defensive, but got in the occasional jab or counter-thrust to give Sancho pause for thought. Soon they were both perspiring.
After half an hour or so Hugh became aware of another sound in the chamber. The rhythmic tapping of a stick on the flagstones, echoing the clash of foils. Utterly focused on his task, Hugh strove to ignore it. It was impossible. The sound was maddening, like dripping water or nails down a slate. Hugh’s temper, always his weakness, came to the boil.
“Seven Hells!” he shouted, hurling his foil against the wall. Instead of taking advantage Sancho stepped backwards and lowered his own weapon to rest.
Hugh spun around to confront the source of the noise. A curse died on his lips when he saw the dwarfish figure of his employer, Master John of St Michael.
The little Savoyard had crept noiselessly into the room and sat on one of the long benches against the wall. As ever, he wore his shabby dark robe and skull-cap. His face put Hugh in mind of a wizened fruit; a mask of wrinkled, leathery old skin stretched over a fragile skull. Master John's mouth was small and mean, his nose hooked, his hair thin, white and unwashed. Sharp little eyes peered out from under tufted white eyebrows. Altogether there was something of the bird of prey about him. An elderly sparrowhawk, waiting to pounce.
“Milord,” said Sancho, bowing gracefully in Master John's direction. The spymaster's attention was fixed on Hugh.
“Much better, Longsword,” he said in his nasally, sing-song accent. “You have shed weight, and move faster. Sancho has drummed some skill into you. I am pleased.”
Hugh was not tempted to relax. The old man may have looked like a decrepit dwarf, but his mind was sharp as a knife. Master John enjoyed laying traps for his servants.
“How is your wound?” he asked.
“Much better, Sir,” Hugh replied truthfully. “I hardly feel it these days. I owe much to the monks of Byland.”
Master John sniffed. “Perhaps. And our own surgeons. We have spent much time and effort on you, Hugh Longsword. Just as a smith does when honing a sword.”
Hugh knew he was fortunate. The wound in question was a livid pink scar running diagonally from his left shoulder to right hip. He owed it to his own folly. Hugh had recently blundered into a duel with Sir Robert d'Eyvill, a rebel knight, and been carved open for his pains. Hugh would have died save for the monks of Byland Abbey, who found him lying in a sea of his own blood.
Thanks to the skill of the doctor in the sanatorium at Byland, and Master John’s surgeons, Hugh had recovered. The scar would stay with him for life, a disfiguring reminder of his folly.
Honing a sword, thought Hugh. I am just a weapon to these people. To be used until worn out, and then tossed aside.
“Sancho has given me good reports of your progress,” said Master John. “You are fit to return to duty. Not a moment too soon.”
He stood up, wincing as his limbs cracked. The spymaster had taken to walking with the aid of a staff in recent weeks, and was in constant pain from the rheumatism in his joints. Hugh half-expected him to die at any moment, yet the wiry little man refused to retire. Master John’s failing body was in the grip of his iron will.
“Come,” he snapped. “We must speak together.”
Hugh exchanged a brief nod with Sancho and followed his master out of the room. Master John took him along several sets of winding stairs and narrow corridors towards the rear of the palace complex. This musty warren, away from the splendour of the royal apartments and audience chambers, was the spymaster’s private domain. The pallid clerks and quiet men and women with forgettable faces who flitted about the dark passages were his servants.
They arrived at Master John’s office, a dark little room entered via a narrow side-door at the end of a long passageway. It was always too warm in here, even in the summer months, thanks to the constant fire kept roaring in the hearth. This was the spymaster’s only concession to comfort. The walls were bare, there were no rugs on the floor, and his hard wooden chair had no cushions or padding. A shaft of pale sunlight reflected through the thin sheet of tallow horn on the window.
Master John sat down at his desk, produced a silver flask from his belt and took a long swallow from it. He grimaced at the taste and went into a violent coughing fit. Hugh waited patiently for the little man to recover. The flask contained some concoction of powerful drugs that killed the pain in Master John’s body, at least for a few hours. Freedom from pain, as he liked to say, gave him freedom to work.
“What,” panted the spymaster when he could speak again, breathing heavily and wiping his mouth, “do you know of the situation in Northumberland?”
Hugh had kept himself informed during his months of convalescence. “Unsettled,” he replied promptly. “The most powerful man in the region is Baron Vescy, Lord of Alnwick. He supported de Montfort in the recent wars. Vescy came into the peace after Evesham, but there are still doubts over his loyalty.”
“Good,” said Master John with a slight nod. “Yet there is little Vescy can do on his own. The north country is poor, and even the Lord of Alnwick cannot raise an army on his own. He will need friends. Plenty of friends. And money. Unfortunately he has acquired both. Thanks to recent events.”
