The outlaws, p.57
The Outlaws, page 57
Giselle lingered at one glover’s window. She sighed and took a step forward for a better view. Robert told her if she took another step or tarried a moment longer, he would carry her bodily away. She laughed at that. It was a happy moment amid all the troubles.
“Next year,” he said as they turned toward Burgess Street. “It will be better next year.”
“It will be. I’m sure of it. Eustace will be gone. We’ll be safe then.”
At the intersection of Burgess and Church Street, which led east to the priory, stood the Angry Cat Inn, where they planned to stay the night. It was the best inn in town, and Giselle had made Robert promise that they would not have to sleep in a barn, like the men from the village who had driven the carts.
“I wonder why they call it the Angry Cat?” Robert mused as they approached the doorway. “It’s an odd name for an inn.”
“I heard that the original owner had a cat that sat in ambush on a rafter just inside the door, and it would leap on people’s heads.”
“It’s a wonder no one killed it.”
“It was too quick and crafty.”
They were within ten feet of the door when four men spilled out into the street. The four were carrying swords in their hands, and just now began to belt them on. As in many towns, it was forbidden to carry swords, but Leominster was so small it had few bailiffs to enforce the ordinance. However, innkeepers were on the spot and eager to remove the tools that sometimes led to riot and disorder, so they collected swords at the door. Robert and Giselle would have just got out of the way, except one of the men was Reginald le Bec.
Robert’s mouth went dry. He gripped the scabbard of his own sword with the left hand, easing the blade out an inch with his thumb in preparation for a quick draw. He was about to grasp the handle with the other hand when Giselle spat, “Bastard!” and stepped forward. Her fists were balled and for an appalling instant he thought she meant to strike le Bec. He grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back.
If le Bec was surprised to see them, he covered it. “That’s no way to greet a neighbor.”
“You thief!” Giselle cried.
“You need to restrain your wife, Attebrook. People die over words like that.”
“Perhaps you deserve to,” Robert said.
“We were such good friends as boys. Look what’s become of us. At each other’s throats at every opportunity.”
“We were never friends.”
“What is it, Attebrook? You want trouble here? Now?”
“It’s as good a place to settle our differences as any.”
“In the street, like beggars? I don’t think so. But wait! You’ll be a beggar soon, in any case.” Le Bec circled away from them, hand on the grip of his sword, yet giving every indication that he did not intend to draw it.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Giselle asked.
“It means that Eustace has your measure. He’s bought your note. When you can’t pay next summer, we’ll take the manor. You can go door to door and beg for your supper then. Or scuttle back to that hovel in London where we found you.”
“You won’t fight then?” Robert asked.
“With you? You’re just a cotter’s boy with airs. Your words don’t sting. I cannot hear them. Besides, Eustace won’t like it if I deprive him of the pleasure of your ruin. You two go on. Have a good day. You won’t have many more.”
Giselle sat with her elbows on the table, face in her hands. Robert could still see her eyes through her fingers, and they were frightened. Around them was the low hum of conversation in the Angry Cat as supper was laid on the tables for the evening’s guests.
“That’s that then,” she said, her voice muffled by her palms.
“That’s what?” he asked.
“The end. Even if we kill Eustace, his heir can take the manor.”
“The only reason we will have trouble paying is because of his interference.”
“What are you saying?”
“It’s obviously his plan to prevent repayment. If we can’t earn enough by summer, we could always take out another loan to cover that one. We’ll be longer in debt, but at least we will still have the manor. There is one thing, though.”
“What?”
“You must have no part in the accusations.”
“Why not?”
“You forget. The loser in trial by combat is convicted as a perjurer if he isn’t killed outright. The penalties for that should fall on me. Not on you. Since the manor is your dower, it cannot be confiscated.”
“What do they do to perjurers?”
“If they have no property, they cut off their noses for a start. Anyway, I’ve never fancied the one I have so it will be a small loss.”
PART 6
1185
CHAPTER 1
Ludlow
January 1185
The king’s descent upon a place was never a cause for celebration. The king did not travel alone, of course. He was always accompanied by a great entourage of followers, noble and gentry, who had servants of their own, not to mention the uncountable number who served the king, which included chaplains, pages, a steward or four, secretaries, waiters, surgeons and physicians, grooms for the horses which outnumbered the people, waiters, carvers and servers, musicians, kitchen staff, and drivers for the many carts and wagons that now so cluttered the town’s streets that passage could hardly be had on some of the lesser ones. And all of them expected to be bedded and fed at the host’s expense. They could suck an estate dry of its surplus in a matter of days, leaving little to get through a winter.
The Earl de Lacy, being quick to seek his best advantage, pushed some of the host’s responsibilities onto the town. Since he owned every square inch of it, there was nothing the burghers could do, although they did their best to recover their costs by raising prices on everything in sight.
All this bother was made worse by the fact that a council had been called at Ludlow to address the recent disorder in the March and the breach of the king’s peace. Fortunately for the town, those who came for the conference had to pay their own way, which relieved the burghers of a good bit of the burden imposed by the visit of the court itself.
But it meant that the town was so bursting that not a bed was to be found within the town, and many people resorted to sleeping in tents as they did for the autumn fair. In fact, it was rather like a fair, with festivities in High Street every day and impromptu, unlicensed markets springing up like mushrooms as country people took advantage to sell whatever they could. The town bailiffs were busy from morning to night patrolling for these illegal markets and exacting fines whenever they could catch one at work. Oddly, they had considerable trouble doing so, although in the evenings many bailiffs could be found in the town’s better inns drinking more than they could usually afford.
The Attebrooks might have missed this great event even though it was just up the road from Hafton, isolated as they were with unfriendly neighbors all about, had it not been for a rider who delivered a writ ordering Robert to attend.
There was more to the writ than what was on the parchment, and in compliance with the messenger’s instructions, Robert and Giselle did not arrive until the day before the conference. This left them no choice but to put up a tent on the field to the north of the castle, but the rider had instructed them to do this rather than stay in the town, as well as not to lift any banner or colors that would draw attention to them, and for Robert to keep the canvas cover on his shield, which might also have identified him.
Although it was middle January, a week of warm weather had melted the snow so that crusty patches remained, and the ground was sodden and squelched at every step, with puddles everywhere in the brown grass. No wood could be had from anywhere that wasn’t wet as well so they had no fire for cooking or comfort. This was miserable enough, but shortly after they arrived, clouds slid in from the west and it began to drizzle, cold and stinging to the cheeks.
They had one tent for themselves and Burghard and Osgar, and with the bad weather there was nothing to do but huddle inside on folding stools with blankets wrapped about them.
As the light began to fade, Giselle cracked the tent flap. “It’s almost sundown. Time to get going.”
“Osgar,” Robert said, rising and giving his blanket to Giselle.
“Where are we going, exactly, my lord?”
“I explained that already, an inn in Bell Lane. That’s the first right down Broad Street from the High Street.”
“And we’re meeting whom, exactly?” Osgar stood up.
“I don’t know. Just make sure there’s a feather in your cap. He’s supposed to know us by that. You haven’t lost it, have you?”
“No, it’s around here somewhere.”
A few minutes were lost searching for the feather, which had been mislaid among the piles of blankets and pallets of straw they had brought along so they wouldn’t have to sleep on the ground.
The feather had been almost snapped in half, and the end drooped. Osgar stuck the feather in his hat band. “How do I look?”
“Like an idiot,” Burghard said.
“I wasn’t asking your opinion.”
“Sounded like you were. And you have it anyway. Now get on and find out what the lord wants. The sooner we’re out of here, the better.” Burghard hugged his blanket about his shoulders against the draft that rushed in at Robert’s and Osgar’s departure. “Lord, what I wouldn’t give for a decent barn right now.”
“And a decent meal,” Giselle said, settling down to await their return. She glanced at the tent flap. “I wish Hugh would hurry.”
“This weather will slow him down, my lady,” Burghard said. “Wet roads are slow roads.”
“And he has a long way to come.”
Bell Lane was in the shadow of late afternoon by the time Robert and Osgar reached it. Robert had never been down it and had no familiarity with the lane other than the off-hand glances he had given it as he passed its mouth on other business. He did not have any idea what the inn looked like. Fortunately, it advertised itself with a sign, a turtle sitting on a bundle of grapes. Otherwise, they might have missed it, since it looked no different from any other house.
They wiped the mud off their feet on the threshold and went in. A fire burned so hot on the hearth in the middle of the floor that they could feel the heat as soon as they entered. The inn’s servants were just clearing off the remains of supper, and there was quite a lot of that since the tables and benches were packed with guests. There seemed to be no vacant benches anywhere. Robert stood near the fire wondering what to do now when a well dressed fellow in a green coat touched his elbow. “This way, sir, if you don’t mind.”
Green Coat conducted them to a corner, where a lean man in a crimson coat and yellow stockings occupied a small table all to himself. Not one but two candles stood upon the table in puddles of wax for lack of candle holders. Between the candles lay an inkpot and a pile of parchment sheets covered with writing. The quill belonging to the inkpot rested between the long fingers of the lean man occupying the table. He had the air of a lawyer, an impression reinforced by a glance at the writing on the parchment. He was working on a part headed “Quid sit magna asissa,” which Robert, whose Latin was rudimentary, at least understood to mean, “The nature of the grand assize,” which was a gathering where the king himself decided legal cases.
The lean man looked at Osgar. “That is the saddest feather I have ever seen.” The remark did not seem to require a response, and Osgar kept prudently silent. The lean man turned his attention to Robert. “You must be Attebrook. Please, have a seat.”
Robert settled on a stool on the other side of the table. “And you are?”
“My name is Hubert Walter. I am secretary to my lord Ranulf de Glanvill.”
“The chief justicar?”
“You’ve heard of him even here?” Walter seemed amused. He had kindly eyes that were well suited for amusement, almost as if that was their natural light.
“We know that much, at least. You are rather too important yourself to deal with the likes of me.”
“But you are rather important yourself, at the moment.”
“How could that be so?”
“You have an important part to play in tomorrow’s mummery.”
“Mummery?”
“Well, the majestic procedure of the law is not exactly that, but we must be sure that certain things occur as his grace wishes them to do.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Look, my dear fellow, this is not just some random visit by the king. He is here for a purpose. Mortimer, FitzWalter, and several of the other Marcher earls have appealed to the king to reconsider the peace. They have been making a great deal of the troubles in the March, exaggerating the ordinary theft of cattle and such into a cause for war. The king does not wish there to be a war, and it is your part to help ensure this does not occur.”
“What am I supposed to do? Disavow what happened to my property?”
“Not at all. In fact, we are quite interested in your testimony, in particular what was said at this Iowerth’s hold. There are, however, some who may not wish the king to hear it, and who may be keen to prevent you from appearing at court when the council is convened. So we are making certain arrangements to see that you get there untroubled, and remain unnoticed until the proper time. I will tell you what those are in a moment.” Walter sat quiet for a few seconds gazing at a spot beyond Robert’s shoulder. “You are not the ideal witness, I have to say that.”
“Why not?”
“Your conflicts with FitzWalter provide fodder for accusations of interest. I’ve heard all the stories, how you grew up on FitzWalter land, how you broke your uncle out of Earl Roger’s gaol, how you killed his cousin, and so on. And then there is the problem of your wife.”
“What about my wife?”
“Why, she is FitzWalter’s cast off.”
“She is glad to be that.”
“So I’ve heard. So many have said, just as many have said you were dipping into the jar before she was set free.”
“A lie. People will say anything.”
“Oh, they will, and the worse they can say about someone the more they enjoy it. In any event, is there anything else I should know about your tortured relations with FitzWalter that I have not mentioned?”
Robert pondered whether to say anything more. “There is the murder of Giselle’s father.”
“Sir William? What about it?”
“We have evidence that FitzWalter was behind it.”
“Dear me, what could you possibly know?”
“William was found with an arrow in him. Lady Blanche said that it was an arrow belonging to FitzWalter. She said he fetched the arrow at night from his tent the night Sir William was killed.”
“Hmmm,” Walter muttered, his lips pursed as he considered this evidence. “And I suppose you mean to accuse him?”
“Yes.”
He spoke sternly. “You are not to appeal against FitzWalter for this murder you contend he committed.”
“I cannot let it lie,” Robert said. “It may be nothing to you, but it is no small matter for us.”
“Oh, please believe me, homicide is a direct offense to the crown and we never view it as a small matter. You are free to make your appeal against FitzWalter before the next assize. Just not now.”
“That’s not till the autumn!” After the note was due. God knew what other plans Eustace had to prevent any effort to repay the note.
“It will have to wait. These are your orders. Your testimony must appear to be as free from prejudice as possible. But we don’t need to add to your considerable pile of grievances yet. It is already known there is ill feeling between you, your wife, and FitzWalter, and it must appear that his ill will exceeds yours and you are but its innocent victims. I assume you are innocent, correct?”
“We have done nothing to merit his attentions but occupy ground he wishes to take for his own.”
“Ah, just so. Be sure you repeat that statement tomorrow with that exact tone of righteous indignation. As for the other, the king does not want the well poisoned any more than is already publicly known, for it will empower those who would claim you are a liar. You understand this, do you not?”
“I am not sure I do.”
“Well, whether you understand the king’s motives is not important. What is important is that you understand what is required of you. Do I have your promise you will do as expected?” The amusement had gone from Walter’s eyes, replaced by a steely purpose.
“You do, my lord.”
“Thank you. That is good.” Walter blew out the candles and gathered the parchments into a neat stack. Green Coat hastened to his side with a leather pouch and slid the stack into it. “Now as to our arrangements for tomorrow . . .”
The following morning, Robert and Giselle presented themselves at Ludlow castle’s main gate. They wore their poorest cloaks with the hoods pulled up to conceal their faces, a gesture that could not be taken for a ruse since it was cold enough to bring a sting to their faces.
Green Coat was there waiting for them. Without a word, he slid down into the castle’s ditch and led them around toward the river. The ditch ended where the ground fell steeply toward the river. A mill sat on the riverbank below them, its wheel creaking loudly enough for them to hear. A miller’s boy was unloading a cart at the door. He paused to look at them as they turned the corner. There was no ditch because of the steepness of the hill, but they crept along under the outer bailey’s embankment and palisade.
