Chapter  9      A Mesnie Redirected

 

 

 

The sun rose in fog and painted a wet, early morning glow to the forest trimmed fields outside Winchester.  Ned, Cyril's squire plucked an herb growing beside the road and took a sniff, then crushed the bulb and crammed it into a pouch around his neck.  Thomas, Cyril, and Burke, Thomas's squire, waited.  "It wards off bad air," Cyril's squire said in answer to their unspoken question.  "All this rot around us," he said with a sweep of his young hand, "It makes bad air.  Might make me sick."

"We could all use some, I suspect," said Cyril.  "Keep a little extra."

The young squire seemed overjoyed at this appreciation of his work and hastily gathered some more of the herb for his knight.  Cyril winked at Thomas, but his face also revealed some satisfaction at having a squire who knew herb lore.

"We had best tend ourselves to breakfast," said Thomas.  "We shall not have anything else warm 'til evening."

Agreement was unanimous and they turned to the pleasant task of warming their bellies with hot porridge and huge chunks of juicy salt pork.

After the meal was done and the wagons packed, the knights mounted their palfreys and nudged them onto the road.  The march began.  They had little time for talk and little energy for it.  The day passed in a cool, hazy lightness, but night came early, and the mesnie settled into a weary encampment in a glade a few dozen paces from the road.  Camp fires glowed and dwindled, and as ash settled into soft piles, so too the men and knights of the mesnie settled into exhausted sleep.  It did not rain though the threat hovered about them the entire night.

Next morning, the lord roused everyone early, passing along word that they would be in Southampton by nightfall.  Shortly after, it began to rain again.  It rained as they passed through the gate into the city of Winchester, crossed the intersection of Westgate and High Street, then exited the city through the south gate, having seen nothing but a magnificent stand of buildings surrounded by bustling rows of two-story shops selling everything imaginable, and overpoweringly dominated by a mountain of stone, the great Winchester cathedral, housing the throne of the bishop.  It was like touring paradise.  The whole experience seemed designed for disappointment.  Thomas was certain they had lost a few men afoot as they passed through the city, despite the best efforts of the marshals and their deputies.

The wide Roman road continued south, and so did the rain.  The oil in Thomas's oil skin had by now gone the way of candle wax in a burning candle.  No one actually sees it depart, but sure enough, it disappears, and so did the waterproofing on his cloak.  He was soaked, and so was everyone else.

Stephen or the lord passed round a skin of good wine or a keg of ale each night, not forgetting the men afoot.  Morale hovered buoyant, but damp.  Polyglot grousing caused peace in the camp to flicker each night, but except for a few fights and considerable shouting, each night passed in dripping boredom.  The men were tired of the weather and anxious for a battle.  The lord and Stephen stood before the fire each evening consulting one another's council, then speaking humorously to the men about rusting mail and flopping boots.  But, despite their best efforts, the passage to the channel was miserable.  The sooner they got the army loaded on board dories bound for the continent, the better.

On march, Cyril pointed out a wooden sign with a crude picture of a ship tied to a peg-like tooth in an enormous mouth.  An arrow indicated the way.  "Portsmouth!"  he shouted.

"Just keeping us on the path," nodded Thomas.  "I heard banneret saying there were several port towns around here, down this road or that.  I guess the competition gets pretty severe sometimes.  This one was founded by Richard, himself, you know."

"I remember hearing that."

The road passed several crossroads with minor thoroughfares, one with a gibbet prominent to passersby, then shot straight toward the mouth of an estuary.

Abreast the gibbet, Cyril's squire slogged over to the structure and began poking around beneath the cross beam where the condemned would dangle.  He probed with his iron spoon.

"Squire," called Cyril, "what on earth are you doing?"  Ned was embarrassing him.

"Mandrake!" shouted the squire, holding aloft a twisted root that looked like a wizened dwarf with a leafy topknot.  "Very potent."

The boy wiped the root in the wet grass, scrubbing off the mud.  He rejoined his knight.

"How on earth did you know it would be there?" asked Cyril, clearly impressed.

"It always grows where the hanged man drops his seed," said the squire in a hushed voice.  "Best not talk more about that, what with dark coming on."

Cyril shrugged, but he glanced at the gibbet as he passed and felt a little chill run down his back.  He did not like hanged men, and he knew for a fact their ghosts would not be fond of the living.  A scrap of rope still hung from the timber.  Best to move on.

Gray mist clouded the air, and as they tramped along the muddy road, the cleared fields became more and more common and at last, the town materialized.  It simply melted out of the mist like cream rising to the top of fresh milk.  The tallest building, the church, stood out as soon as buildings could be identified at all.  It loomed larger and darker as they approached.

The street turned and paralleled the quay.  From the street the church faced, the army could see a throng of small ships rubbing against one another at tie.  They had not yet been hauled ashore and into their braces.  Briny gusts pushed bark against bark, and the mist thickened into a dewy rain.

Lord William and Stephen led the troops straight down the empty street into a block of barns used for housing cargo for shipment.  Most of the barns, the larger ones with full mortised lofts, stood empty and inviting.

William divided the men into suitable sized groups, billeting them as he strode down the street as if the structures belonged to him.  Soon, each contingent of men had a dry, if cramped, lodging for the night.

Knights, horses and servants all crowded into the buildings.  Wagons and carts remained outside.  Grooms immediately began drying off the destriers and brushing them down, feeding them grain from a shipment they found in one of the barns.  Town ricks were robbed for bedding, accommodating men and horse alike, and through the brief but efficient episode of appropriation, no townsman protested, though faces stared at them from glassless upper story windows all around.

Thomas, Cyril, James and their squires, prickly but restrained in one another's company, waited to see which structure William chose, and followed him in.  Not being fools, they chose quarters in the midst of those who could make a knight's life comfortable and revered.  They chose a bay in the middle of the barn, gathered straw for bedding, and pitched their blankets.  Rain hissed on the roof and dripped from the eves.

Lord William and Stephen looked about delightedly congratulated themselves on finding such snug quarters.  They began to talk.

"Quiet!" whispered Cyril.  "Let us listen."

Thomas and James immediately perceived the opportunity and stopped their activity.

Stephen pointed to something beyond the door.  "There's a guild sign outside," he said.  "There will be the Devil to pay when the Masters find us."

"Oh, they know already, you can be sure of that," said William with a smile, "but I doubt if we will be set upon for damages until morning."

Stephen made a question with his eyes.

"Would you want to face the ill-temper of a hundred and a score men at arms on a rainy night?" asked William.  "Besides, this is king's business, and even if John's influence dwindles, he still commands considerably more power than an irate merchant.  They will keep their counsel to the hairs of their beards.  Of that, you can be sure."

Stephen contemplated the men, now lounging about, shedding wet clothing, lighting lamps, and exchanging some rare laughter.  He smiled.

The lord laughed outright.  "Guild masters are very practical about guests like us!"

William surveyed the men again.  In the center of the barn, interesting things were taking place.  Flint struck steel and sparks glowed in the fluff of well-dried tinder.  The cook spoke gently to the glow and it surged into flame.  He touched the flame to dry shavings and the shavings to splintered kindling, and over the burning splinters he built an airy structure of finger kindling.  He carefully added thicker wood to the pile until, in minutes, the fire roared and curled around quarter-split logs.  The cook and his helpers erected two tripods and slung a spit between them skewering fourteen recently dispatched hens, also gifts of the Portsmouth masters.  Iron pots filled with roots and water sat on trivets in the growing spill of coals.

In a short time, meaty aromas filled the barn.  Mouths watered.  Spoons tapped nervously against bowls.  The cook held men's imaginations, and along the waterfront, in every barn, men waited greedily for cooks to work their magic.

Lord William turned to Stephen.  "By God's Bonnet, that smells good!"

Stephen nodded, not taking his eyes from the slowly turning spit.  The smell of hot ale began escaping from one of the vessels and approving cheers sounded from appreciative knights.  On the periphery, stewards and servants finished assembling trestle tables and benches.  As the knights took their places, the servants retreated into covetous groups, watching the spit, knowing their meal still lay some time off.  They ate when the knights were done, sharing whatever was left of the knightly feast and adding additional foodstuffs as befitted their stations.

William motioned for a servant.  A boy detached himself from a group and trotted up.  William leaned against a barn timber and offered the boy his boot.

"Ah, Stephen," said the lord, as the page removed his muddy boots, "I must confess a reluctance to be so far from home.  The country is as confused as boiling water.  The farther away I march, the more I know my hearth is as dear to me as Normandy is to John."

Stephen listened politely.  He respected, but not altogether shared, the lord's sentiments.  A jaunt over the channel to France to fight Augustus had its merits.  Stephen surveyed the amber shaded cavern of the barn, the harsh, flickering shadows, the cold, wet, blue of mist beyond the open doors, and glanced back at the fire.

It felt good, away from the comfort of the hearth, away from the talk of women.  He looked at the lord, who was ramming a hissingly hot poker into a tankard, warming the contents.  Yes, this was the life of legend.  The hearth kept you comfortable and obscure.  Here, in this setting, a man could make a name for himself.  He could understand Lord William's reluctance, but then, he was a baron, and had nothing to prove.  He, Stephen, was merely the son of a baron, young and choosing as did a dice thrower, the correct side in civil war, the outcome of which would mean the difference between having a great estate and not.  Stephen had, as had his father, chosen John in the face of baronial desertions right and left.  Pray God, he chose wisely.

King John, John Lackland, John Softsword.  The king was known by many names, none flattering.  Which would prevail at the end of his reign?  The future seemed clear only in retrospect, never in prospect.  What a brew.  But enough of weakening thought!  The cook had risen from his stool.

     At a nod from the cook, eight servants quickly spread the tables with food.  The head table, closest to the fire, retained ample space for the premier men of the mesnie.  In that space, five men seated themselves with good humor and dignity:  Lord William, Stephen, the banneret, and the two marshals.  The priest, who always ate alone, came at Stephen's beckon and said a prayer.  Then, by common consent, the feast began.  And what a welcome feast for a marching army!  It turned out one of the barns also contained several casks of Irish brandy.

At mid dinner, Stephen stood and proposed a toast, which was, considering the state of his inebriation, fairly coherent.

"When the storm lets and the winds shift, we will off for France and victory!  All for the sword, let him shout thanks to Heaven!"

And they did, pouring out a flood of voices, the litany passing from one barn to the next, until the entire district must have believed devils were among them.  As evening wore on, the storm worsened and the barn doors were closed.  The knights cursed and relaxed, frustrated or content, according to the wonts of each, for it was certain that no boats would sail on the morrow.

The next morning, as rain whipped around the corners of buildings, and thatch and slate were tested, and all inside were glad they were not outside, a lone rider, hooded and mud splattered, bearing a waxed leather pouch, galloped down the main street.  Noticing the carts lined up before the quay-side barns, he approached the miserable sentry under the eve of the first barn.  As the rider approached, the sentry called inside and four men appeared.  One took the rider's horse as he dismounted.  They spoke briefly, then the other two led the rider toward the barn in which Lord William and Stephen weathered the storm.  Word spread faster than men slogging through mud, and by the time the stranger arrived, he was well met by a sturdy wall of knighthood.

"Ho, rider," said William, advancing to the door as the rider entered.

The rider shrugged off his cape and hood.  He was young, of knightly dress and bearing, and wearing the emblem of King John, three gold lions.

"Am I found in the encampment of Baron William of Norbury and Baron Stephen of Chipping Ashby?"

"You are.  I am William.  This is Young Stephen, eldest son of Baron Stephen."

The rider bowed.  "I am Hugh of Dover en route to your encampment, bearing dispatches bound by royal seal."

William, conscious of the many interested faces behind him, motioned for Hugh, the banneret, marshals, and the priest, to enter an empty bay to the side.  Stephen took a tallow lamp from a beam and carried it in, motioning for the priest to precede him.  The nearest knights withdrew, creating a small theater, on the stage of which, the actors turned their backs to the audience and spoke in whispers.  Hugh of Dover unfastened his pouch and withdrew a short roll of parchment.  William accepted the roll and handed it to the priest.  The priest examined the red wax seal and nodded to his lord.  The seal was correct.

"Read it," said William.

With a knife offered by Hugh, the priest cut the ribbon girdling the roll and pulled the ends of the parchment open.

"It is from the court of King John," said the priest, with some surprise.  He began to read the salutations.

"Just the message, father," said William.

The priest scanned the document.  He cleared his throat.