The outlaws, p.30
The Outlaws, page 30
Young Henry would want to know this.
But more important, Marshal, the real war leader of the Young King’s party, would need to know.
If Robert could bring back information as valuable as this, perhaps Marshal might accept him, even respect him.
Close held secrets of this kind dwelled in two places Robert could think of: the minds of the leaders and the chancellery. It was unlikely that Duke Richard or any of his confidants would share secrets with Robert or that he would chance to hear any by accident. But the chancellery was another matter. That was the place letters were written and received, and if anyone was coming to help Richard, he would be preceded by letters.
So all Robert had to do was get into the chancellery and steal the letters.
It was mad, of course. No one guarded chancelleries. Although the secrets in chancelleries might be worth the gold in any treasury, no one considered that anyone would try to steal them. But they were in the center of things, someone was always around, and there was never a chance to get in and do a burglar’s work. This was even more the case with a traveling chancellery such as this, which was housed in a black tent a few steps away from Duke Richard’s own towering red and gold one. Guards were everywhere, and the chancellor and his clerks slept in the tent with their vellum treasures.
Robert watched the comings and goings in the black tent for almost a full day before making his move.
The staff in the chancellery was small for a person so lofty as a duke: less than a dozen men. It wasn’t long before he had all their names and a sense of where each of them stood in the hierarchy.
He decided to approach an Italian named Giuseppe, who appeared to be the chancellor’s chief clerk. He was an older man, tonsured as a priest, with a kindly face and a bulbous belly out of keeping with the scrawniness of his arms and legs.
“Yes, yes, what do you want?” Giuseppe turned rheumy eyes at Robert as he stood at the entrance to the tent. “I’ve seen you standing there all day. We have no alms here.”
“I wondered if, perhaps, you might be able to take me on,” Robert stammered in his most modest, unassuming and respectful voice.
“Take you on? As what? A woodcutter?” Giuseppe laughed at his own witticism. “We have no need of woodcutters here.”
“I can read and write.”
Giuseppe looked him over from head to toe. “I find that hard to believe.”
At that moment, the chancellor himself appeared at the flap which divided the tent in half. William Longchamp had an aspect that could put fear into children and came close to putting it into Robert, who was used to formidable men: beak-nosed and sallow, sunken gray eyes that regarded the world with hatred and suspicion, a wispy fringe of dull brown hair sticking out like so much straw from beneath a squashed cap, and a stooped posture that was so bad he was almost a hunchback. He regarded Robert with unconcealed animosity and asked: “What is this?”
“He asks us to take him on,” Giuseppe in a voice that suggested he was still amazed at the request.
“Send him away.”
“He says he can read and write. We are short handed, after all, my lord.”
“Humfph. Let me see your hands.”
Robert turned his palms toward Longchamp and spread his fingers. Longchamp bent close to examine them. He paid particular attention to Robert’s second finger on his right hand, where he had a small chafed spot, almost a callous, from copying over messages de Born had dictated for him to take to other Aquitainian lords.
“I’ll be damned,” Longchamp said, straightening up. “You don’t do much writing, but you do some.”
“Yes, m’lord,” Robert said.
“Have you references?”
“Not exactly.”
“No?”
“I had to leave my last master in a bit of a hurry.”
“Why?”
“I owed a man money. He threatened to cut off my hands if I didn’t pay.”
“Why did you owe him money?”
“I had a bad day at dice.”
“And you’ve been wandering ever since? I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”
“Oh, I have, m’lord,” Robert said with all the sincerity he could muster. “I would like nothing better than a chance to prove myself.”
Longchamp turned to Giuseppe. “See what his hand looks like,” and he swept back into the other half of the tent.
Giuseppe found a wax copying tablet, the kind used for giving writing lessons. He passed it along with a bronze stylus and an old letter to Robert. “Let me see a few lines.”
Robert sat cross-legged on the ground with the tablet in his lap. He copied the letter, which proved to be a copy that the duke had sent to the master of Bordeaux calling on him to send more grain. When he had filled up the tablet, he handed it back to Giuseppe, who rubbed the bridge of his nose and held the tablet out to arm’s length.
Guiseppe saw Robert’s odd look and said, “My eyes are not what they used to be.”
“Is it all right, sir?”
“I’ve seen better.”
“Oh,” Robert said, worried.
Longchamp came back. “Is he finished yet?
Giuseppe passed him the tablet.
“This is awful,” Longchamp said.
Robert picked up his satchel, certain he was about to be dismissed.
“How are you with horses?” Longchamp asked.
“I was a groom before I was a clerk. I managed my master’s string when he went on buying trips even after I was clerk — well assistant clerk, actually.”
“What did your master do?”
“He was a wool merchant.”
“You’re a failure as a clerk. But you’ll do for a groom. I need one. See to him, Giuseppe.”
“Yes, m’lord,” Giuseppe said with a faint smile. When the flap had fallen on the divide to the tent, he leaned forward and whispered to Robert: “It really wasn’t that bad. We may make a clerk out of you in time.”
CHAPTER 5
Duke Richard’s camp outside Limoges
February 1183
A courier arrived on a lathered horse. Robert could tell he must have important messages because he was a knight and had an escort of six men-at-arms. Ordinary messengers were often lowly men like Robert who operated by themselves. The courier slipped from his horse, tossed Robert the reins, and entered the chancellor’s tent while the men-at-arms dismounted and stood around waiting for him.
Robert didn’t know what was expected of him regarding the horse, so he also waited outside the tent to see what would happen next. He had come to appreciate that you could learn a lot just from keeping your eyes and ears open.
“Come a long way, have you?” he asked the nearest man-at-arms.
“From the king,” the man replied.
“Which king would that be? There are so many.”
“Our king, idiot. The only one that counts. Where you from?”
“The March in England. And you?”
The man nodded, and went on in English with an accent Robert did not recognize. “I’m from Devon. I hate speaking French. That asshole won’t speak to us in anything but, though he knows how well enough.”
“I take it he’s not your lord.”
“And thank God for that. He’s a demanding little priss.”
“Aren’t you worried that he’ll hear you?”
“He’s probably so deep in a wine cup by now that he hasn’t the ability to attend anything else.”
“Any word on what the king’s going to do next?”
The man-at-arms’ eyes narrowed. “We aren’t supposed to talk about that.”
“I just wondered when he’d be arriving is all.” It was a shot in the dark.
The man-at-arms put his face so close to Robert’s that their noses nearly touched and confirmed the suspicion. “Nobody’s supposed to know about that, hear? And you best not repeat it.”
“Well, I hear things, is all. You know, owing to my position.”
“Best you pretend not to.”
“Of course.
One of the clerks working for Longchamp parted the tent flap. “His lordship wants to see you,” he said to Robert.
“Lord William?” Robert asked, thinking he meant Longchamp.
“No, his other lordship.” He dropped the flap, not bothering to wait for Robert.
“Hold this, will you?” Robert handed the horses reins to the man-at-arms and entered the tent.
The courier was seated on a folding chair with a brass wine cup balanced on a knee. “He’ll want water and corn. No oats, understand? He can’t abide oats.”
“He?” Robert asked.
“My horse, you idiot.” The courier waved fingers at Robert. “On with you.”
“Of course, sir.”
Robert backed out of the tent and retrieved the horse.
“So you play dice, do you?” Giuseppe asked Robert after supper.
“I used to,” Robert said. Many apprentices of his acquaintance in Gloucester had been fond of dice games, of which there were many. But every penny had been so dear then that he had not dared to play because to lose would have incurred his mother’s wrath. Anyway, dicing required no skill. It was like throwing money to the wind.
“Ah, well, we have a nightly game. I thought you might like to join it.” He glanced toward the tent divider. “I can count on your discretion, of course.”
“I wouldn’t mind watching.”
Giuseppe grinned as if he suspected shaky resolve. “Come along, then.”
Giuseppe led him to a maroon and gold tent near the fence of stakes. It was crowded and stuffy inside from an iron brazier smoldering in the center, but the warmth was welcome, given the bitterness of the evening.
Three games were already going, each within its own circle of players. Giuseppe joined one of the groups and was greeted as an old friend. Robert stood over them to watch.
Robert saw they were playing the French version of hazard, which used two dice rather than three as in the Spanish game.
He knew the rules as well as anyone. The caster, the person throwing the dice, selected a number between five and nine, which was called the main. If the caster rolled the main, he won, or nicked. If he threw a two or three, he lost, or threw out. If he rolled an eleven or twelve, whether he won or lost depended on the main. With a main of five or nine, he threw out with an eleven or twelve. With a main of six or eight, he threw out with an eleven, but nicked with a twelve. With a main of seven, he nicked at eleven but threw out at twelve. If the caster threw any other number, it became the chance. If a chance was in play, the caster continued to roll until he either threw the main or the chance; he won if he rolled the chance and lost if he rolled the main. Spectators bet against each other on whether the caster would nick or throw out. It wasn’t a complicated game, but sometimes it was hard to keep track of things when people were drunk, which they often were.
Giuseppe lost his very first bet, when he laid down a full pence on whether the caster, a man-at-arms from Carcassonne, would nick on the chance. He threw the main of five on the third cast.
His next bets were equally, if not more, lavish: two pence here, five pence there, for these games were high stakes. He did not always lose, but the trend was against him, and about two hours in, after darkness had fallen and the curfew had been called, he had reached the bottom of his purse.
Giuseppe tapped his upturned purse into the palm of his hand as if surprised to find it empty. The top of his head and ears were red from all the ale he had been drinking. He asked, “Would any of you care to spot me a sou?”
“No,” one of the players said.
Giuseppe looked distressed.
Robert caught Giuseppe’s eye. He motioned toward the tent flap and went out.
“What is it, my boy?” Giuseppe asked when they were outside.
“I can spot you five denier.”
“Oh, my, could you? That would be much appreciated.”
Robert handed over five pennies from the secret purse that de Born had given him for expenses. “Try not to lose it.”
“Ah, never fear. My luck always turns. I sense now is the time.”
Now was not the time, however. Guiseppe lost every penny.
“I’ll pay you back when we are paid,” Guiseppe said as they walked back toward the chancellery tent. He did not seem the least unhappy at the fact he had lost so much money. “Never fear.”
“I hope I last that long.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t think Longchamp likes me much. I fear I won’t hold my position very long.”
“Oh, never you mind. He’s like that way with everyone. He has the disposition of an old prune.”
“He seems more like a vulture to me.”
Giuseppe chuckled. “Vulture. That’s good.”
“Well, perhaps I should consider other employment anyway. I hear the Old King’s coming. When he gets here, there will be more opportunities.”
“Who told you that?”
“Everyone seems to know.”
“People talk more than is good for them.”
“Is it supposed to be a secret?”
“It was.”
“I don’t see what’s to be gained.”
“Duke Richard is afraid that if word reaches his brother, Young Henry will run away.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Because the Old King is bringing five thousand men — eight-hundred of them knights! We’ll show Young Henry what’s what when they get here, that’s for sure. Don’t you repeat any of this.”
“I won’t. You can count on me.”
God bless drunks and gamblers, Robert thought.
The next morning after breakfast, Robert walked out of the camp. There was always so much coming and going at the gates at that time of day that no one paid him any mind. He went south about three-and-a-half miles to a point where the River Vienne bent from northeast to west and another, smaller river ran into it. There had been a wooden bridge near this place but it had been burned while Robert was in the enemy camp, to deny Richard the opposite bank. Robert swam across upstream from the remains of the bridge. Four women washing clothes on the south bank regarded him with alarm and backed away as he waded out of the water. Even a smile and wave did not allay their suspicions since it was not normal for grown people to swim in rivers let alone cross them that way. These were strange times, though, when anything could be expected, none of it good.
Then he walked up the trail along the bank until he reached Limoges.
CHAPTER 6
Limoges, Limousin
March 1183
The door to the guard room at the water gate opened. One of the gate wardens entered, followed by Alphonso de Born.
“You know him?” the guard asked.
“He may not look like much, but he’s a reputable fellow.”
“If you say so.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll see that he doesn’t get into any trouble.”
Robert rose from the bench where the guards had put him and threatened to take cudgels to him if he strayed even to the piss pot. Alphonso clapped him on the shoulder as they reached the street. “We thought you’d been killed. Even Marshal’s stopped asking about you.”
“We need to see your father straightaway.”
“What is it?”
“The Old King will be here in less than a week with a big army. Meanwhile, Richard’s building a ram and scaling ladders.”
“You don’t think they are going to assault the town?”
“I will let Marshal and your father decide what it means.”
Bertran de Born was waiting for Robert at the castle’s main gate, a sign that he was more than eager to hear what Robert might have to say.
“He’s supposed to be at Chinon,” de Born said when Robert finished his report. “How do you know this?”
“A man who reads Richard’s letters told me.”
“It must be true then. People will lie to a man’s face but less often in their letters.” De Born sighed as they crossed the bailey to the donjon. “It’s the end of our little game, I’m afraid.”
“How so?”
“Oh, the Old King will forgive Young Henry in the end and make peace — with him at least. Not with the rest of us. He’ll blame us for his son’s decisions and we’ll pay dearly.”
“There’s no chance?”
De Born shook his head. “Richard will talk the king into picking off the rebels. We’ll fall one at a time, like ripe fruit, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”
“Can’t we make an army without Young Henry? We could join and fight.”
“We’ve no money to pay the mercenaries. And alone we aren’t strong enough against six thousand, which is what our enemies will put into the field if your report is accurate, and without Young Henry’s support, our people won’t have the heart to fight,” de Born said with some bitterness. “When the prince finally deserts us, they’ll run for their holes, hoping to make the best deal for themselves as they can.”
“You really don’t think he’ll leave us!”
“My boy, Young Henry is a charming companion and a dear friend, but as changeable as the wind.”
“You bet everything on him.”
“I bet everything on him against Richard, and on the fact I could keep him on a leash. They have enough anger at each other to sustain them both. But against his father?” He shrugged. “He’s never been able to stand up to his father.”
“Then why not submit and seek forgiveness yourself?”
De Born shot him a hard look. “I’m sick of bending my knee to Richard. He never appreciates his friends. He measures his regard by how much he can squeeze out of people.”
They reached the wooden stair that led to the first floor of the donjon, where Marshal awaited to be alarmed and disappointed.
De Born eyed the doorway above as if he had second thoughts about going in and delivering the news. “Well, you might as well come up and get some supper.”
Marshal appeared at window above their heads. “Damn it all, boy!” Marshal shouted. “Where the devil have you been? Get up here and give your report.”
