To Defy a King (31 page)

Richard put down the flagon and licked his lips. 'There are rumours flying about that--' He broke off at the alarmed expression on the faces of the other men. 'What have I said?'

'Listen to rumours if you will,' Hugh said sharply. 'Heed them if you deem you should, but keep your own counsel - even to me. Even to your father's most trusted lord and friend.'

Richard's freckled complexion reddened.

'If your brother is involved in any of these "rumours" and you are in contact with him, then tell him to be very careful.'

Richard nodded, lips compressed, and moved away.

Jean D'Earley gave Hugh a shrewd look. 'I suspect I do not want to know what that was about.'

Hugh took a short drink from his replenished cup, and then pushed it aside too. 'I imagine you already know as much as I do. From what I have seen, the Marshal household has its ear close to the ground and even members who are hostages are well informed.'

'The boys are cubs,' D'Earley said. 'They have suffered from an absence of their father's control, but it goes no further than the fire of youth. They know the duty owed to their blood.'

'There are different ways of seeing duty, my lord,' Hugh answered, thinking of Mahelt's escapade at Thetford.

'Indeed, but they will not disobey their father.'

Hugh's nape prickled. He had been as good as told that his father-in-law knew everything there was to know about the rumours and the situation. It came as no surprise and yet it set him on edge. D'Earley's remark was ambiguous, but then so were the entire circumstances. Glancing round, he noticed Eustace de Vesci and another northern baron, Robert FitzWalter, slipping from the hall. It might have been for no more sinister purpose than taking a piss, but given what he knew, Hugh thought not. He would confidently wager his last mark that their leaving was probably tied up with the letter that had just arrived.

John did not return to his meal and men finished eating and gathered to talk in huddles and speculate. Hugh left the hall with Jean and Ranulf. They tried to avoid the knots of conversation, but even so were pulled into a couple of them, where they listened and ventured no opinions. They had not been alone in noticing the slinking departure of de Vesci and FitzWalter.

'I had heard there was a plot to murder the King, rape the Queen, kill their children and offer Simon de Montfort the throne,' declared one of the Earl of Derby's men, his eyes gleaming.

'Hah, I don't believe you. Where did you hear that?' scoffed one of his companions, but nevertheless was eager for details.

'I don't know.' The knight shrugged. 'An alehouse in the town. It's common knowledge.'

Hugh was astonished. That was indeed wild rumour. And why de Montfort, who was a Frenchman? He had a claim to English soil, but only on the Earldom of Leicester, which John was currently holding in his own hands.

'Many are indulging themselves by inhaling wishful thinking from the smoke of rumour,' Jean said. 'And as with all rumours, it has grown and changed in the telling.

'Why would they say that about the Queen?' Ranulf asked uneasily.

Jean twitched his shoulders. 'Because of the King's reputation for abusing the womenfolk of other men, de Vesci's wife being a case in point. He has taken his fill in the past, sometimes by force and threat. Husbands and fathers imagine what they would do, given the chance. Dishonouring a man's woman is dishonouring the man. It says he cannot take care of her or his family . . . that he is impotent.' Jean looked at Hugh and Ranulf. 'It is about power and control. It is about one dog marking another's territory and who can piss the highest up the wall.'

'De Vesci and FitzWalter' - Hugh nodded his head at the men riding out of the gates with their knights and serjeants - 'the King is letting them leave.'

Jean rubbed his chin. 'Perhaps he thinks he has no choice. What would happen if he ordered them stopped? How many of this gathering is he sure of?'

Ranulf said nothing. Hugh grimaced. He hated the murk of court life and did not understand how men like his half-brother could relish it - although for Longespee attendance on John was a validation of his royal blood and an opportunity to pose in fine clothes. 'But by leaving they open themselves to accusations of either full treason or desertion.'

'Then they must think they have more to lose by staying.'

Hugh was still pondering a safe reply when a leather camp ball hurtled across his path, pursued by two Welsh youths and the little one who had been with Richard. In negation of all that was happening around him, Hugh launched himself after the ball and grabbed it before the boys could. 'Catch me for it!' he cried, and set off at a sprint. The older ones hesitated, but the littlest one set off after Hugh with a vengeance.

Jean D'Earley shook his head as he watched Hugh become embroiled with the entire pack of the Welsh hostages, but then he began to chuckle. 'That is the kind of thing my lord Marshal would have done when he was younger,'

he said to Ranulf.

Ranulf rubbed his thigh. 'If I hadn't strained my leg yesterday I'd follow him for certain.'

'He handles himself well,' Jean said with approval. 'My lord Marshal would only choose the best for his daughter and I'm glad to see his judgement borne out.'

'Of course handling a wife bent on her own direction takes longer,' Ranulf said shrewdly.

Jean gave a pained smile. 'Most men don't manage that in a lifetime.'

'They would murder me. In cold blood and treachery they would murder me!' John glared at Longespee and threw the letter at his half-brother and the mercenary captains gathered around the trestle in his private chamber.

'They are hatching a plot to kill me in Wales. To leave me exposed and let the Welsh hack me to pieces. They are poised to announce my death around the country. Men have even been told which day to proclaim it! How many here are involved? How many out there would see me dead? Is there no one I can trust?' He gestured with a clenched fist.

Longespee stared in shock at the document, which was tangible proof of the circulating rumours. Last month John had sent a troop of mercenaries north when William of Scotland had requested aid to put down a rebellion. In gratitude, and in the interests of self-preservation, the Scots king had now sent this warning acquired from his own contacts. John's death was to be accomplished and proclaimed once he reached Wales. The conspirators had covered their tracks too well for most to be known, but Robert FitzWalter and Eustace de Vesci were named.

'You cannot go to Wales, sire, not now,' said Philip Marc, one of John's foremost mercenary captains. 'You must look to your safety and the safety of the Queen and your son.'

John sat upright and Longespee saw the fury blaze in his half-brother's eyes

- and the fear. Longespee was afraid too, and filled with the desire to protect this man whose royal blood he shared.

'I will not let it happen,' John snarled. 'They mean to bring me down, but I will tear out their livers and cast them into the abyss first.' He glared round.

'Whom do I trust when this letter says that no one owes allegiance to an excommunicate king and that all should seize the moment and rise against me?'

'You have loyal men, sire,' said Philip Marc, his rough voice implacable.

'Everyone in this room would do your bidding without hesitation.'

'Because none of you would have anything without my word!' John glared round the cluster of men.

Longespee flinched. 'I can vouch for the Earl of Norfolk, for Aumale and Pembroke and de Burgh.'

John gave a snort of contempt. 'I may trust your loyalty, brother, but dare I trust your judgement? Can you say for certain they will not conspire against me?'

'I hope so, sire.'

'You "hope" so,' John mimicked, baring his teeth. 'Knowing your skill as a gambler, God help us all. Pembroke could argue that his arse was the sun and people would believe him, and if the others were so trustworthy, they'd be here now, in this room.' He paced up and down, the jewelled hem of his robe flaring out as he walked.

'Then surely you need Pembroke to argue on our side,' Longespee said.

'And his support will bring others with him.'

John threw Longespee a fulminating look. 'So they will listen to the Marshal and not heed me. Is that what you are saying?'

Longespee made an open gesture. 'You said he could argue his arse was the sun.'

'He will be useful, sire,' said Gerard D'Athee. 'He has shown that he will not rebel against you.'

'That is because I have his sons and his best knights,' John growled, but his gaze grew thoughtful as he bent his mind to dealing with the situation rather than raging against it. 'De Breaute, ride to the Queen and escort her and my sons to Corfe and hold them safe. I want de Vesci and FitzWalter seized. I will disband this muster immediately and I will find out just how deep this rot has gone and dig it out.' His tread became heavier as if with each step he was crushing his enemies. 'As to the Welsh . . .' His nostrils flared as he looked round at the men. 'Since I cannot go into Wales to bring the Prince of Gwynedd to heel, and since my death was planned to happen on his territory, then let us have the reckoning here and now. Let Welshmen die in my stead and pay the blood debt. Let all see what happens to those who plot against the King of England.'

The mercenaries exchanged looks. Longespee gazed at John. The fear was still present in his brother's eyes, but now it had thorns. There was a sheen on his face and his breathing was swift. 'Hang the hostages,' John said. 'All of them.'

Longespee's breath caught in his throat. 'Sire, there are almost thirty of them.'

'Then the sooner it begins the better.' He snapped his fingers at Philip Marc.

'See to it.'

'I'll give the order,' Marc said with a bow and strode for the door. The others followed him.

'But one of them is an infant - a little boy!' Longespee gagged, appalled.

John's nostrils flared. 'So is my own son.'

'Sire, I beg you to reconsider. Show mercy!'

'What mercy would have been shown to me in Wales?' John's eyes glittered. 'What mercy would my own sons receive in the wake of my death?

Hang them, each and every one, and let it be an example.'

Mud-streaked and laughing, stripped to his shirt and hose, Hugh avoided the leap of the Welsh youth and in the nick of time tossed the ball to his brother Ralph who had predictably seen the game and raced to join in. Welsh insults and yells mingled with similar ripostes in Norman French and English.

Several more Bigod squires and retainers had attached themselves to the broil, as had Richard Marshal, and the game was proving to be a boisterous, exhilarating scrimmage.

The littlest one, Rhodri, running hard, tripped over a loose shoe thong and went sprawling. Hugh, who was nearest, picked him up, dusted him down and set him back on his feet. A three-cornered rip showed his knee through his hose and little beads of blood were filling a graze up his sleeve. The child's eyes were liquid, but he clenched his jaw, defying his tears and anyone who dared to offer sympathy.

'Those are honourable battle wounds,' Hugh said. 'Have you still got all your teeth? You didn't knock any out?'

The boy shook his head and bared two neat pearly rows to prove not. As Hugh pretended to recoil, the boy's gaze widened in sudden shock. Hugh started to turn and was roughly seized by two mail-clad soldiers, who pinioned his arms, one grabbing a fistful of Hugh's fair hair to jerk back his head. An instant later, Rhodri himself was grasped by another one and borne away under his arm like a piglet, wriggling and shrieking.

'Come on, you Welsh son of a whore, the King says you've a wooden horse to ride with a rope rein,' snarled one of Hugh's assailants in a heavy Flemish accent.

Hugh fought and struggled in their hard, steel grip. 'I am Hugh Bigod, lord of Settrington, heir to the Earldom of Norfolk and son-in-law to the Earl Marshal!' he gasped. 'Take your filthy hands off me!'

For a moment they continued to grapple with him, as if what they were seeing and what they were hearing did not tally, but as Hugh swore at them again in their own language, they released him and stood back, licking their lips. Belatedly they bowed to him.

'I am sorry, sire,' one of them said. 'I surely thought you were a Welsh hostage. I did not know . . .' He gestured lamely to Hugh's stained, sweat-soaked shirt and muddy chausses.

Hugh's flesh burned where they had gripped him. 'What do you mean about riding a wooden horse?' Looking round he saw that the Welsh boys had been herded together and were being prodded with spears towards the castle's high outer wall facing the town. Rhodri was still shrieking and pummelling at the soldier who had him tucked under his arm. Hugh's gaze widened. 'Christ in heaven, you are surely not going to . . .' He swallowed his gorge.

'King's orders, my lord,' said the second man with grisly relish. 'String them up and see them kick . . . all of them.'

Ralph rejoined Hugh, having also been briefly mistaken for one of the Welsh. 'You can't!' He looked aghast as he rubbed the mark of mailed fingerprints on his neck.

'Such an act is beyond all Christian decency,' Hugh said hoarsely.

The soldier shrugged. 'The King's an excommunicate. What does he have to lose, except the lives of a few Welsh maggots that won't bedevil him by growing into flies?'

Hugh shoved past the soldier and ran towards the curtain wall facing the town. Philip Marc was directing operations with another mercenary, Engelard de Cigogne, and already a dozen of the Welsh youths, still hot and sweaty from their game of camp ball, had nooses round their necks and were being confessed by a chaplain. Their eyes were huge and terrified and bewildered. The other ends of the nooses were looped around the merlons of the outer wall.

Longespee was watching, his throat rigid and the veins in his neck standing out like cords. His right hand gripped his sword hilt as if to draw his long weapon from the scabbard. There was no sign of the King. Hugh strode up to his half-brother. 'Make him stop!' He shook Longespee's arm. 'In God's name, William, make him stop!'