Spy in the House of Fitzwalter

By D. Cullen Nolan

Spy in the House of Fitzwalter is a medieval tale of treachery, tenacity, and truth; of swords and lies, conquerors and spies. Follow Robert de London from Morocco to England and France, while he wages war with whispers in the chapel and swords on battlefields of blood. Whom does he serve, King John or Baron Fitzwalter?

Robert de London is an orphan of the Church, a minor cleric employed in the Court of King John of England. With no family connections, Robert must rely on himself to make something of his life. Given the opportunity to partake a secret mission beyond the Realm, Robert decides this is his opportunity.

Robert finds himself whirling in the maelstrom of English politics, serving a reviled king willing to do anything to stay in power. Secrets are shared, loyalties divided, and blood spilt. From the Tower of London to Nottingham, at the signing of Magna Carta and the Battle of Lincoln, Robert de London discovers what it means to truly serve a cause; reaping rewards and retribution along the way.

Spy in the House of Fitzwalter is the 1st Book of the Lost Crusader Saga; following the life of Robert de London from England to Mongolia and back again (almost).

• Language: English
• Publisher: D. Cullen Nolan
• Release date: Jun 10, 2011
• ISBN: 9780982042809

D. Cullen Nolan

D. Cullen Nolan plots epic sagas while serving undercover as a history teacher at a public high school in northern Virginia. Curious eyes and ears consume information at an alarming rate. Insistent hands write, strum, drum, and quest for the ever elusive more. There was extensive schooling and education, wisdom achieved through experience, multiple paths explored. It all led here.

Book preview

SPY IN THE HOUSE OF FITZWALTER:

Lost Crusader Saga

By D. Cullen Nolan

Published by Phoenix Tree

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2016 D. Cullen Nolan/Phoenix Tree

Smashwords Edition, License Notes-

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Acknowledgments

Without the patience, understanding, support, critiques, and love of my wife, Jaime, this simply would not have been possible. My children, Stella and Carson, are a constant source of wonder and wisdom. David and Phyllis Nolan, my parents, have encouraged me to pursue my dreams my entire life; prepare, improvise, adapt, overcome. I was inspired to write about Robert de London as a result of Gabriel Ronay, historian and author of The Tartar Khan’s Englishman. Russ McIntosh has provided invaluable insight, experience, motivation, and graphic design skills in the process of turning a story into a book. Adam Glazer is the artist extraordinaire who turns my ideas into visions. Jasmine Michelle Clark is the finest grammarian I know; a tough editor, eager reader, and a strong believer in the power of the semi-colon. I offer my enduring and heartfelt thanks for everything you’ve done to see this through to the end!

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Character List

Map

Chapter 1- The Cleric & the Caliph

Chapter 2- The King’s Rules

Chapter 3- The Secret Master

Chapter 4- The Nun from Fontevrault

Chapter 5- Onward to Nottingham

Chapter 6- The Herald’s Burden

Chapter 7- The Herald’s Secret

Chapter 8- Fall of the House of Fitzwalter

Chapter 9- A Brute Baiting

Chapter 10- The Serpent’s Eye

Chapter 11- Between Two Kings

Chapter 12- Harrowing John

Chapter 13- The Gloaming Realm

Chapter 14- The Hammer Rises

Chapter 15- The Hammer Falls

Chapter 16- Saint Albans Promise

Chapter 17- Oaths & Ultimatums

Chapter 18- London Calling

Chapter 18- The Runnymede Armistice

Chapter 19- The Baron’s War Begins

Chapter 20- An Unexpected Christmas

Chapter 21- Winter’s Bitter End

Chapter 22- England Rebound

Chapter 23- My Barony for a Chamberlain

Chapter 24- Devils Brood

Chapter 25-The Devil You Know

Chapter 26- Reunion

Chapter 27- Lincoln’s Edge

Chapter 28- The Lincoln Fair

Chapter 29- The Last Decree

Glossary

Author’s Note

CHARACTER LIST:

Main Characters

Robert de London: Scribe of the Justiciar’s Court

Peter Roches: Lord Chancellor of the Realm, Treasurer of the Exchequer, Bishop of Winchester

John Plantagenet: King of England, Duke of Aquitaine and Normandy, Count of Anjou and Poitou; Overlord of Wales, Scotland, & Ireland

Robert Fitzwalter: Baron of Dunmow, Lord of Baynard’s Castle & Constable of Hertford Castle, Bannerman of London

House of Fitzwalter

Gannora Valognes: Baroness of Bennington, Hertfordshire; wife of Robert Fitzwalter

Matilda Fitzwalter: Lady of Waldon, Essex; wife of Geoff Mandeville, daughter of Robert Fitzwalter & Gannora Valognes

Robin Fitzwalter: Knight of Woodham Walter, Essex; son & heir of Robert Fitzwalter & Gannora Valognes, husband of Anne de Braose, father of Watt & Annie

Anne de Braose: Lady of Woodham Walter, Essex; wife of Robin, mother of Watt & Annie, sister of Giles & Reginald Braose, aunt of Johnny & Pippen

Christiana Fitzwalter: Handmaiden to Aveline de Clare; 2nd daughter of Robert Fitzwalter & Gannora Valognes, plight-trothed to Will Mandeville

Walter Fitzwalter: Knight of Roydon, Essex; bastard son of Robert Fitzwalter & husband of Ida de Vere, father of Obi

Alice Fitzwalter: Lady of Bealings, Suffolk; wife of Baron Gibb Peche, mother of Tilly, Hamo & Alicia, sister of Robert Fitzwalter

Simon Fitzwalter: House Fitzwalter London Steward, Constable of Baynard’s Castle, London Knights Guildsman & Baron of Daventry, Northamptonshire ; brother of Robert Fitzwalter, husband of Sarah de Neville, father of Wally-squire to Rikard Montfichet

William Fitzwalter: Archdeacon of Hereford; brother of Baron Robert Fitzwalter

Adam Fitzwilliam: Knight of Braintree, Essex; bastard son of William Fitzwalter

Alfred Fitzadam: Squire of Baron Fitzwalter; son of Adam Fitzwilliam

Joseph de Bennington: Castellan of Hertford Castle; brother of Steven, father of Jo

Jo de Bennington: Squire to Adam Fitzwilliam, son of Joseph

Steven de Benninton: Castellan of Bennington Castle; brother of Joseph, uncle of Jo

Desmond Chamberlain: Chamberlain of House Fitzwalter; husband of Agatha, father of Arthur and Elsibet

Agatha Chamberlain: Chef of Dunmow Manor; wife of Desmond, mother of Arthur & Elsibet

Arthur Chamberlain: Sergeant of House Fitzwalter; son of Desmond & Agatha

Elsibet Chamberlain: Nursemaid of House Fitzwalter; daughter of Desmond & Agatha

Edgar de Dunmow: Knight of Great Dunmow, Essex; father of Reggy

Reggy de Dunmow: Squire of Noel de Hamlin; son of Edgar

Noel de Hamlin: Knight of Hamlin, Essex; father of Ham & Mary

Nigel de Hamlin: Squire of Emeric de Ongar, Essex; son of Noel

Mary de Hamlin: Handmaiden to Gannora de Valognes; daughter of Noel

Gavin Hawkesworth: Ranger of Fitzwalter’s Honour in Epping Forest; father of Parsival

Parsival Hawkesworth: Archer of House Fitzwalter; son of Gavin

Sax Mashbury: Sergeant of Dunmow Militia

Frank Miller: Sergeant of Bennington Militia, son of Henry and June

Emeric de Ongar: Knight of Ongar, Essex; father of Em & Jess

Em de Ongar: Squire to Edgar, son of Emeric

Jess de Ongar: Handmaiden to Gannora de Valognes, daughter of Emeric

Christopher Reeve: Sergeant-at-Arms of House Fitzwalter

English Barony

Brito Albiny: Baron of Belvoir, Leicestershire; cousin to Robert Fitzwalter and Sayer Quincy

William Arundel: Earl of Sussex; husband of Mabel Blunville of Chester, older brother of Philbert

Philbert de Arundel: Sea Lord of Hastings, Sussex; brother of William Arundel

Roger Bigod: Earl of Norfolk & Suffolk; father of Hugh and Ralph, Stepfather of William Longsword

Ranulf Blunville: Count-Palatine of Cheshire; brother of Agnes, Mabel, Hawise, Milicent

Henri Bohun: Earl of Hereford, Constable of England; husband of Matiline Mandeville, father of Humphrey

Humphrey Bohun: Son & heir of Henri; husband of Mahault Lusignan

Giles Braose: Bishop of Hereford; elder brother of Reginald and Anne, uncle of Johnny & Pippen

Reginald Braose: Baron of Brecon, Wales; husband of Grecia Brewer, younger brother of Giles, older brother of Anne, uncle of Johnny & Pippen

Richard Clare: Earl of Hertfordshire; husband of Amice Fitzwilliam, father of Gilbert & Madilyn, brother of Aveline

Gilbert de Clare: Son & heir of Richard

Madilyn de Clare: Lady of Gower; wife of Watt Braose, mother of Jon & Pippen, daughter of Richard

David Dunkeld: Earl of Huntingdonshire; brother of King William of Scotland, husband of Milicent Blunville of Chester, father of Jonathan

Jonathan Dunkeld: Son & heir of David & Milicent, nephew & squire & heir of Ranulf Blunville

Jonathan Early: Baron of Early, knight of William Marshal

William Ferrers: Earl of Derby; husband of Agnes Blunville of Chester

Geoffrey Fitzpeter: Justiciar of the Realm, Earl of Essex, Lord of the White Tower in London; husband of Aveline de Clare, father of Geoff & Will Mandeville

Aveline de Clare: Lady of Essex; Wife of Geoffrey Fitzpeter, sister of Richard Clare, step-mother of Geoff & Will Mandeville

Geoff Mandeville: Baron of Saffron Waldon; son & heir of Geoffrey Fitzpeter, husband of Matilda Fitzwalter

Will Mandeville: Baron of Pleshey; youngest son of Geoffrey Fitzpeter, plight trothed to Christiana Fitzwalter

Gill Forz: Titular Earl of Albemarle, Lord of Holderness, Sea Lord of Raveners Odd

Gilbert Gant: Baron of Stamford, Lincolnshire

Nathan Lacy: Baron of Pontefract, Yorkshire & Constable of Cheshire

Frey Lanvalay: Squire to Will Mandeville; brother to Willum Lanvalay

Willum Lanvalay: Baron of Walkern, Hertfordshire & Lexden, Essex; husband to Tilly Peche, brother to Frey

William Marshal: Earl of Pembroke, Lord Marshal of the Realm; husband to Countess Sybil de Clare, father of Bill

Sybil de Clare: Countess of Pembroke; wife of William Marshal, cousin to Richard Clare

Bill Marshal the Younger: Kingsquire; son of William Marshal & Sybil de Clare

Maud: Nun of Fontevrault Abbey in Poitou

Rikard Montfichet: Baron of Stansted, Essex; Lord of Montfichet Tower, London Knights Guildsman, Forester of Essex; brother of Valery

William Mowbray: Baron of Thirsk & Axeholm, Yorkshire

Gibb Peche: Baron of Bealings, Suffolk & Knight of Bury St. Edmunds; Husband of Alice Fitzwalter & father of Tilly, Hamo, & Alicia

Rohese de Salford: Baroness of Salford, Lancashire & Lady in Waiting to Avisa of Gloucester; widow of Lord Bertram Verdun, mother of Nicholas Verdun

Sayer Quincy: Earl of Winchester; husband of Countess Marjorie Beaumont of Leicester, father of Lora, Rob, & Roger & brother of Orabelle

Lora de Quincy: daughter of Sayer, wife of Lord Liam de Valognes

Rob de Quincy: Son & heir of Sayer, married to Hawise Blunville

Roger de Quincy: Younger son of Sayer, married to Helen of Galloway

Nicholas Verdun: Baron of Alton, Staffordshire, Marcher Lord of Dundalk, Ireland, & Constable of Farnham Castle, Buckinghamshire; son of Bertram Verdun & Rohese de Salford

Aubrey Vere: Earl of Oxford, older brother of Bertran de Vere; father of Gerry & Ida

Gerry de Vere: Bastard son of Aubrey

Ida de Vere: Bastard daughter of Aubrey; husband of Walter Fitzwalter, mother of Obi

Bertran de Vere: Brother & heir of Aubrey Vere

Eustace Vescy: Baron of Alnwick, Northumberland; husband of Margaret le Scot

William Warenne: Earl of Surrey, Warden of the Humber Ports; cousin to Beatrice de Warrene

House of Plantagenet

Isabelle le Angouleme: Queen of England, Countess of Angouleme; wife of John Plantagenet

Hal Plantagenet: Crown Prince of England, son & heir of King John & Queen Isabelle

Rickon Plantagenet: Prince, second son of King John & Queen Isabelle

Joan Plantagenet- Princess, daughter of King John & Queen Isabelle

Aellen: Sergeant of the Crownguard

Aeric Blackmere: Kingshovel of the Kingsmen

Alberd: Crossbowman in Griffon Company

Thoryn Beefeater: Master Sergeant of the Crowngaurds

Fawkes de Breaute: Kingsman, Commander of Griffon Company; uncle of Bauduin Plowsword

Hubert de Burgh: Seneschal of Poitou; husband of Baroness Beatrice de Warrene of Wormgay, father of Hube, brother of Archdeacon Joffry de Burgh of Norwhich

Stephen Crabbe: Captain of royal flagship Eleanor’s Majesty

Cornhill: Kingsgrey of the Kingsmen

Reginald Croc: Kingsdragon of the Kingsmen

Edmond: Knight in Griffon Company; twin brother of Eldrich

Eldrich: Knight in Griffon Company; twin brother of Edmond

Falmouth: Sergeant of the Crownguards

Dick Fitzjohn: Sea Lord of Sandwich, captain of Sea Lion; bastard of King John

Ralph Fitznicholas: Queensman of the Kingsmen

Oliver Fitzroy: Kingsbastard of the Kingsmen; bastard of King John

Nate Fitzroy: Page to Peter de Roches; bastard of King John

Godwyn: Sergeant of the Crownguards

William de Harcourt: Kingsteward of the Kingsmen; husband to Orabelle de Quincy

Thomas Hardington: Kingshield of the Kingsmen

Harry: Clerk of the Exchequer

Nichola de la Haye: Lady Sheriff of Lincoln

Jeffrey: Clerk of the Exchequer

Kenneth: High Sheriff of Norfolk & Suffolk

Brian de Lisle: Kingsman, Steward of York, Forester of Nottingham & Derbyshire, Constable of Bolsover and High Peak Castles

William Longsword: Earl of Salisbury, Warden of the Cinque Ports; half-brother of King John, husband to Countess Ela Fitzpatrick of Salisbury

Ricardus Marsh: Chancery Steward

Savaric de Mauleon: Grand Seneschal of Aquitaine, Baron de Niort in Poitou; husband of Bellaze’ & father of Marguerite

Mort: Sergeant in Griffon Company

Hugh Neville: Lord Forester of the Realm; husband of Josephine Fitzgerold, uncle of Ralfus de Neville & Sarah de Neville

Ralfus de Neville: Chamberlain’s Steward; nephew of Hugh Neville

Ropsley: Kingslance of the Kingsmen & knight of Lord Albiny of Belvoir

Russell: Kingsword of the Kingsmen

Samwell: Novice cleric; orphan of St. Bartholomew’s Abbey

Sturmy: Kegshield of the Kingsmen

Ned: Scribe of the Justiciar’s Court

Others

Alan: Lord of Galloway, Scotland & Constable of Scotland; father of Helen & ring father of Rob de Quincy

Berthold von Andechs: Archbishop of Kalocza, Hungary

Andrew: Abbot of St. Bartholomews

Aymeric: Master of the English Temple

Berengar of Bordeaux: Engineer

Philippe Capet: King of France, Overlord of Aquitaine & Occitaine; father of Louis Capet

Louis Capet: Dauphin Prince of France; heir of Louis Capet & wife of Blanche of Castile

Blanche of Castile: Princess of France & Castile; wife of Louis Capet, niece of John Plantagenet, daughter of Queen Lenor Plantagenet of Castile

Catrin mac Cormac: Whore of St. Albans

Jean de Cell: Abbot of St. Albans

Renaud Dammartin: Count of Bolougne

Pierre d’Dreux: Count of Brittany, France; husband to Countess Alix Penture of Brittany

Dumas: Count of Perche, France

William Dunkeld: King of Scotland; father of Alexander, Madge, Margaret, & Belle, ring father of Eustace Vescy, brother of David Dunkeld

Alexander Dunkeld: Crown Prince of Scotland; son & heir of William Dunkeld

Edward: Captain of the Temple ship St. George

Enri: Count of Melun, France

Eustace the Black Monk: Pirate

Ferdinand: Count of Flanders by marriage, Prince of Portugal

Fitzalan: Mayor of London

Gaulo: Papal Legate to England

Greinville: Knight & bodyguard of Peter de Roches through Bishopric of Winchester

Owain ap Gruffyd of Deheubarth: Prince of Deheubarth, Wales & hostage of King John

Hardell: Sheriff of London

Frederick von Hohenstaufen: King of Sicily, claimant Kaiser of Holy Roman Reich

Innocent III: Pope of the Holy Church

Stephen Langton: Archbishop of Canterbury

Laurence: Seneschal of St. Albans

Lucien Lionsblood: Captain of the Magnificent Bastards

Llewellyn: Lord Prince of Gwynnedd, Wales & High Prince of Wales; husband of Joana FitzRoy, ring son of John Plantagenet, father of Gruffyd ap Llewellyn

Gruffyd ap Llewellyn: Prince of Gwynedd, Wales & hostage of King John; son of Llewellyn from a previous marriage

Hugh Lusignan: Viscount of Lusignan & Count of La Marche; brother of Raoul d’Acre, husband of Hilde de Angouleme, father of Hugo & Agathe, uncle of Joffroi & Valens.

Raoul Lusignan d’Acre: Count of Eu, Normandy; husband of Countess Alys of Eu & claimant Baroness of Hastings, father of Mahault & Rollo.

Al Nasir: Caliph of Morocco & Granada

Simon Montfort: Viscount of Leicestershire, Count of Everaux Normandy; cousin of Countess Marjorie of Leicestershire

Pandulf: Papal Legate to England

Ellen Penture: Hostage of King John; eldest half-sister of Countess Alix Penture of Brittany

Michelle le Picardy: Captain of the Free Lance Company

Raymond: Duke of Tolouse; husband of Aileonor of Aragon, father of Ray

Hendrik Reginar: Duke of Brabant

Guillame Roches: French Seneschal of Anjou; elder brother of Peter de Roches

Osric de Ongar: Commander of Cressing Temple; uncle of Emeric of Ongar

Aimery Thouars: Viscount of Thouars, Poitou & French Seneschal of Poitou; elder brother to Hugues & Raymaunt

Wilhelm: Count of Holland

William de Trumpington: Prior of St. Albans

Liam Valognes: Chamberlain of Scotland & Baron of Penmure, Scotland; cousin of Gannora Valognes & husband of Lora de Quincy

Otto von Welf: Kaiser of Holy Roman Reich

Welton: Bishop of London

Map of England

CHAPTER 1- The Cleric & the Caliph

Off the coast of Portugal: April, 1212

Infidels! Infidels! The shout spread across the galley shortly after Terce, the mid-morning prayer. Templars scrambled to the fore deck, engulfing Robert and the other two envoys.

I shall fear no evil as I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death . . . The words came unbidden, they did every time.

Three sleek dhows sliced through the waves, oars churning and sails blown. The dhows surrounded St. George, stalking within bow range. Ballista bolt throwers barbed with javelins mounted the prows, and the rails bristled with archers.

Allahu Ahkbar! hurtled from the Moorish pirates.

A torrent of arrows flew at St. George like some possessed murder of crows; furious, pecking, and clawing everywhere at once. The templars raised their shield, forming a protective dome cracked with blinding light. Robert huddled between the templars with his fellow envoys. The thudding, thwacking rain of iron and wood descended from all sides. The sail ripped, sergeants and sailors groaned at the impact.

The crow’s mate hurtled to the deck, horrifically bent and impaled with multiple arrows. Pierced and bleeding, sailors stumbled and fell, keeping quiet as best they could. Except the one nailed with a ballista bolt, the barbed javelin extruding from belly and back; he screamed and cried and no one faulted him. Two more torrents and the templars absorbed each in stubborn silence. They bristled for a fight, knights and sergeants alike, but Captain Edward was resolute. Finally, the Moors paused, knowing the reputation of templars well.

A deeply tanned man with high cheekbones, wide eyes, and swept-back hair scolded his men in a tongue Robert found strange. An uncertain calm besieged them all as the dhow to St. George’s starboard washed dangerously closer. The Moorish captain shouted up to the templars in a more familiar tongue.

Brother Emilio, Captain Edward called out in Norman French, Where’s my dragoman?

Aqui, el capitano. Emilio emerged from the press of sergeants. He looked much like the Moor, at least to Robert. The sergeant was quivering his arrow, the bow curled around the black tunic with the martyr red Templar Cross.

Templars kept their hair shorn close in the monk’s fashion, leaving moustache and beards to remember their soldier’s creed. Sergeants like Emilio wore thickly padded leather gambesons and their faith for armor. The knights glistened from oiled hauberks, hoods, and leggings of chain mail covered in dirty bone hued surcoats. The Temple Cross upon their chests declared determination for martyrdom, no matter their station.

Emilio stepped to the rail, looked down at the Moorish pirate, and shouted in the Portuguese dialect of Occitan; the common tongue from Iberia to the Alps.

The Moor shouted back, angrier this time; Emilio shrugged.

What? Captain Edward demanded. His hair and beard were the dirty grey of grumpy sheep, thick eyebrows shaded cerulean eyes, and the templar’s beard scraggled over a similarly stained surcoat.

Emilio shook his head and duck billed his lips, then in bad French said, I tried el capitano. They won’t surrender.

Shut it! Captain Edward barked at the brothers chuckling.

Robert craned his neck and wriggled for a better view of the Moor, but the templars weren’t budging. He was one of three reasons they were risking their lives on this perilous journey. Only yesterday the crew learned Al Cacer, in the very south of Portugal, was not their final destination. From their stares, he supposed they weren’t pleased with him or today’s adventure.

Brother, ask him why they pester us so, Edward ordered his interpreter. Do they not know our banner?

Captain, Sir Thomas Hardington the Kingshield interjected, but Edward ignored him.

Thomas ground his teeth in impotent frustration. He was head envoy of the royal embassy and simmered at such disrespect. However, Edward was lord of the ship. Beyond the three envoys, Edward was the only one who knew where they were heading, even if he didn’t know why.

Ask him, Edward demanded of Emilio.

The dragoman started shouting at the Moor and the two took up a hoarse interchange. When he turned back to Edward, Emilio had everyone’s attention, El capitano, the treacherous Moor thought you were joking. ‘You’re alone!’ he laughed, ‘Who cares!’ he said. He thought it very funny and saluted you for it. Then I told him you were not joking and he said twas an insult to both of you. Madre de Dios, he has his pride.

And three ships! Don’t forget his three ships! Thomas vented.

Three of them! Sir Ralph Fitznicholas the Queensman stuck three fingers up in support.

The templars grimaced at the two sirs and Robert rolled his eyes.

The royal knights were peacocks among the templars. Thomas with the bold eyes, puffy beard, and long black hair pulled through a golden knot. Ralph’s sun blonde hair banged his eyebrows and bowled around his shoulders, braids coiled trendrils of moustache down his jowls. Ears, neck and fingers were covered in gold and silver rings and chains; the most important being the silk scarved, golden royal seal. Thomas’s chain mail was painted red, covered in a blue surcoat; Ralph’s mail was blue under a red surcoat. Three golden lions prowled upon those silk trimmed, fine linen surcoats. The hilts of their swords were inlaid with silver and inscribed with Latin.

Captain Edward sucked his moustache into his mouth and spit it back out. Brother Emilio, tell the heathen sandpig our precious cargo.

The interpreter shouted back and forth with the Moor again, then once more returned his attention to Edward. El capitano, I told the infidel dog we carry a royal embassy from Ingliza to their demon spawned caliph.

Edward sucked up his moustache while the bushy eyebrows drooped over his eyes, And?

Emilio shrugged with upended palms, El capitano, he says we must be hollow brained to offer up our lives for joyful slaughter, but perhaps he can be convinced to spare us.

The ship grunted all at once.

Brother Emilio continued, Indeed, the dirty Muslim whoreson would just as soon sink our hated vessel and all aboard, but he’s intrigued by the oddity of an Ingliz embassy to their devil bound Caliph Al Nasir. They are willing to escort us all the way to Tangier, but on one condition.

Captain Edwards’ lower lip consumed his brushy mouth, eyebrows blocking the sun from his eyes, Name it.

Brother Emilio sighed as he said the words, "They wish to board St. George and inspect for gifts."

Swords screeched out of scabbards and cursing oaths filled the air. Templars were Soldiers of God, Defenders of the Faith. Their duty was to protect the Holy Land and all Christendom’s pilgrims, especially royal envoys. Yet Robert knew it was no pious desire to protect him or his companions that riled these brothers so.

Captain Edward reigned in his troop with a bark to silence kings. Tell the cursed stinking desert monkey five of his pathetic excuses for a crew may board, and that we have little in the way of booty for his grubby, God forsaken hands!

Brother Emilio shouted the essentials to his swarthy doppelganger. The Moor nodded and the dhow inched closer. One of Edward’s crew dropped a hempen rope ladder, but the templars presented a wall of shields as the Moorish crew peered up at the bulky side of the St. George.

The Moorish captain squeezed through templars fearlessly as he climbed aboard, then waded into them all on the fore deck. He shouted confidently and assuredly to the other dhows as he stood beside Robert. Then he went to face down Captain Edward as his bodyguards climbed aboard. He wore a vest of polished scale mail over simple cloth robes and baggy pantaloons. Though dressed simply he had a jewel encrusted, gold inlaid kinjal dagger tucked in his sash.

El Capitano Edward de Temple, Qa’eid Al Fazil al Moor, Brother Emilio announced.

The two negotiated through Emilio, then everyone remained above as Al Fazil, two hefty bodyguards, Captain Edward and Brother Emilio went below. They emerged several tense minutes later with a small chest of oak ingrained with the Temple Cross and a few Biblical verses in Latin.

Al Fazil seemed perturbed, speaking curtly to Emilio. With lowered eyes and clinched fists, the Portuguese templar leaned in and spoke hushed words to Captain Edward, who simply cast his gaze upon the envoys. The Moor eyed them over slowly.

Edward locked onto Thomas the dour demanding one, The treacherous heathen wishes to know why you haven’t any gifts for his caliph.

Thomas and Ralph stepped forward haughtily, chests thrust out and fists defiant against their hips. Robert de London politely sidestepped a wide templar, stumbled anyway, and shuffled beside the knights.

His plain wool robe was the color of a wet log. A rosary girded his waist, and a cherry wood cross hung from Robert’s hip. Bushy brown hair curved around his head in a thick band, the top shaved bald in a tonsure, the style of clerics. Robert’s cheeks had a bit of stubble. His stature was neither tall nor short, and he did not bear himself boldly, but Robert’s hazel eyes were traced with golden green sparks, flashes of understanding, embers of ambition. The royal seal about his neck bore itself boldly.

Oh, we bring gifts, Thomas reached for his sword hip.

Al Fazil’s dagger flashed to strike, and his bodyguards drew their scimitars without hesitation. Ralph and the templars unsheathed swords, bared daggers, and drew arrows. Robert’s hand dropped to the cross at his hip. Eyes slashed right and left as everyone tensed for the bloodletting.

Thomas burst into laughter as he stretched his fingers wide then slowly laid them on his purse. Carefully, he pulled out a wax sealed parchment folded into a neat little square. He waved it at Al Fazil. Everyone glared at the self satisfied envoy and put their weapons away.

Emilio, tell the ugly, dog breathed Saracen pirate that the gifts this embassy bare are listed on this parchment and will enrich his satanic caliph a hundred fold! Thomas bellowed.

The Moor's reply was equally curse filled, and Brother Emilio grimaced. Inglizi. . .

I’m Norman you Iberian mongrel, Thomas preened, Inglizi are the conquered, Norman are the conquerors.

Inglizi, Al Fazil expects three rings as a token of the embassy’s safe passage.

Thomas flushed, turning darker with each smile spreading across the faces of everyone crowded onto the deck. He nearly balled up the letter still resting in his hand and noticed the glint in the rings on his fingers. Thomas’s nostrils flared, and he shot a glance at Ralph, who had clenched his hands into tight fists. If yield we must in the name of King John then so be it. he said through clenched teeth and pulled a sapphire knobbed gold ring from his finger.

Bugger, Ralph grumbled and took off its twin.

Everyone turned to Robert, who burned with embarrassment.

Well scribbler? Thomas demanded.

Aye, what of it? Ralph menaced.

Robert turned out bare palms reluctantly.

Fie you! Thomas cursed, Nothing, not a whit on you or in your bags?

Robert gawped.

What a shite lot of good we have with us, Ralph! A real diplomat he is! Give me another ring.

Give you another ring? Ralph balled his fists again.

Give me another ring so we can do King John’s bidding and get this bloody mess over with! Do you not think the king will remember us? He will give you a better ring, a prettier maid, a larger estate, a richer ward, stop being so daft you miser.

He will? Ralph wondered, All of it?

Give me a ring, Thomas demanded once more, sliding a contemptuous glance at Robert’s backside. He will pay his own way.

Pay it forward, he will, Ralph grimaced as he gave up a gold ring inlaid with silver crosses and a tiny diamond.

Al Fazil fit them onto his fingers and smiled confidently, Inshallah, Tangier!

Wait! By God’s blood I’m going to have my say! Sir Thomas shouted. What guarantee do we have that this sandpig doesn’t sink us now that he has what he wants?

Captain Edward grunted, I agree.

Brother Emilio asked Al Fazil, who immediately ordered his bodyguards to remove the chest from the boat. Everyone tensed but Al Fazil stood his ground proudly, boldly declaring his intentions.

He says his life will serve as guarantee, if his word is not good enough, Brother Emilio explained. He will remain aboard.

The crew scowled and muttered, glared and sneered.

Thomas glared from Al Fazil to Edward.

On behalf of God, Edward muttered.

When the bodyguards were back aboard their own ship, and Al Fazil was aft deck with the pilot, Captain Edward returned to Sir Thomas, You owe the Temple fifteen hundred pounds.

Jesu wept blood! What for? Sir Thomas spat indignantly, his face flushing a violent crimson. Fifteen hundred pounds was a magnificent sum for a kingsman, one of John’s Household knights. Little in the way of booty, my arse! Sir Thomas spat. What was in that chest, the True Cross?

Edward ignored him and headed for the main deck. Passing a crewman impaled on the deck with a ballista bolt, Edward went to calm a sailor tugging on the arrow pierced high in the chest of his mate. The wounded mate’s horror stricken eyes were going dim.

Tis okay son. Leave it be. God wills it, Captain Edward consoled.

On behalf of God, The trembling sailor whimpered as he let go his friend’s mortality

The arrow was deep, but the stricken sailor relaxed now that his friend wasn’t tugging on it. Then he gasped and coughed up blood. He stared at the arrow as he visibly paled, then collapsed. Edward pulled the traumatized sailor aside and bent down to his dying crewman, listening carefully to whispered words.

. . .

They felt Africa before they smelled it, a hot breath of blasting wind. They smelled Africa before they saw it: soil and wood, dust and green. Gradually, the coast emerged.

Rising up from the blue sea, a rugged golden expanse shaded by clouds of purest white, a majestic mountain chain guarding the coast from the sandy Sahara. Morroco stretched with orchards of almonds, dates, figs, and olives; forests of cypress and cork. Tangier beckoned with an alabaster glimmer, gleaming white minarets pointed to the heavens, while golden domes crowned monumental mosques and palaces like miniature suns. A maze of white-washed houses and shops, archways and gardens, sprawled within the city’s dusty walls. The glare off the city hurt Robert’s eyes, but he stared all the more for it.

Coiled about the walled city was Caliph Al Nasir’s army like some bloated serpent feasting on golden apples off the Tree of Life. The scales of the great serpent were countless tents and pavilions arrayed in orbital clusters by tribe, clan, and nation. Horses, donkeys, sheep, and strange hump backed long necked beasts mingled like ants on their secret errands. There were thousands, upon thousands, upon thousands, of infidels churning up the dust of war.

God help the Iberians, Captain Edward whispered to himself, committing everything he saw to memory.

Thomas glowered and Ralph picked at his nails with his dagger. Robert looked upon it all intently, avidly, eagerly. His hand squeezed the scribe’s satchel then fell to the cross. They were greeted first by the great armada assembled for Al Nasir’s jihad into Iberia. For the royal envoys the fleet was a jumble of familiar buses, cogs, and galleys, with exotic dhows, boums, and baglahs of the Muslim world. Undulating cries erupted from myriad sea vessels in the harbor, spreading quickly to the wharf and then into the city itself.

Al Fazil climbed atop the very prow of St. George, basking in the adulation.

El bastardo, Emilio cursed.

Captain Edward chuckled and passed a glance at the envoys. How does King John expect to stop the Moors from invading Iberia? Hasn’t he enough coals in the fire?

Ralph frowned and Thomas grimaced. Robert watched his fellow envoys.

Tis his concern, now isn’t it? Thomas replied.

Tis not our place to question a king, eh? Ralph backed up his friend.

What say you, scribbler? Edward asked Robert in Northumbrian English.

Robert cleared his throat and spoke in Anglian, the dialect surrounding London, If King John can negotiate a peace here, then God is with him. If God is with our king, then perhaps Pope Innocent will forgive John his transgressions.

Captain Edward smiled at such innocence.

God’s arsehole, why couldn’t we get a scribbler that speaks Norman, Ralph dug dirt from his middle finger. He barks like a dog.

A mangey mutt at that, Thomas chuckled, His Latin must be proper or the Rock wouldn’t have stuck him with us.

As if the Rock’s Latin is proper, Ralph snickered. He’s John’s favorite because he’s crooked as a Jew, not holy as the pope.

Coins before the Cross! Thomas laughed.

Robert pulled a small leather bound book from his satchel, then a slim wooden case that opened to reveal quills, ink pot, and a bag of sand. With his eyes fixated on Tangier, the cleric opened the book to an empty page and scribbled quickly. Thomas grunted and snatched the book out of Robert’s hand, inspecting the script.

Looks like proper Latin to me, Thomas spat over the rail and shoved the book at Robert.

Ralph switched the dagger to his left hand and started cleaning his right fingernails, As if you can read.

Thomas smacked Ralph across the face, I’ll wipe the pretty right off of you, Queensman. Then who’ll Isabelle joust when John is breaking a new maidenhead?

Go block a crossbolt, Kingshield! Ralph muttered. For certes, it won’t be you.

You’re supposed to guard her body, you horny fop, not plunder it, Thomas accused.

Jealous much? Ralph jabbed his dagger Thomas’ way.

They both burst into laughter as Robert blew sand onto the page to soak up smeared ink.

. . .

Al-Fazil the Moor kept the galley surrounded with his dhows. After the ships docked, Al-Fazil made it clear St. George was under his protection. Then he left to seek counsel with the Amir of Tangier.

As the sun peaked overhead, a wailing song filled the air and the city’s teeming life paused. Boisterous Tangier became silent and the streets all deserted; the city was frozen in the heat of the day. The silence reminded Robert of Sext, but the templars had all retreated down into the aft quarters for their private mass.

Robert led a prayer with the wounded down in the open hold. No one on board knew how to deal with the arrows other than to break them off and try to push or pull them out. It was a shrieking bloody mess. The arrows always resisted and the pulling only did more damage. Even Richard the Lionheart succumbed to an arrow’s fate. So the wounded were left to wait for the inevitable infection calling them to God.

Robert had been squeamish before, but these men needed consolation. Despite the stench and horrible state of the men, the prayers comforted him as much, if not more than, the men wheezing and groaning under every painful breath. While he prayed over the men, Robert wondered if there wasn’t something, anything, to help them other than one of God’s rare miracles.

Al Fazil returned to the wharf accompanied by throngs of shouting admirers. The docks were already filled with curious and belligerent onlookers. Some of them heaped praises on Al Fazil, hailing him as a hero. Al Fazil brought a few carts of supplies with him, and they were hauled onto the St. George to the great shock of the spectators. They were mostly bags of a round fruit with bright flaming skin and a tangy-sweet scent. Al Fazil peeled one himself and ate it with delight to prove they were not poisoned.

Tis called a naranj. They are gifts from the amir, Brother Emilio delighted.

As Robert peeled one Al Fazil informed Sir Thomas that Allah blessed his embassy, for Caliph Al-Nasir was in his residential palace within Tangier, so they did not have to travel to his mountain capitol of Marakesh. Robert tried to imagine Marakesh but his mind boggled and the fruit was so delicious it distracted him.

The Moor says the caliph is making final preparations for the jihad. However, he is willing to accept the embassy of King John of England, Emilio informed Sir Thomas.

Then off we go, Sir Thomas grunted and smacked the naranj out of Robert’s hand.

In an hour, the envoys found themselves secluded within a private three-room apartment in the caliph’s palace. The rooms were large, bright, and airy. The tops of the walls were bordered with gold paint and inscribed with fluid black script. The floor was a smooth and shiny collection of oddly shaped blue tiles, cool to the touch, but much of it was covered in colorfully intricate rugs. There were ornately crafted tables and chairs, polished silver trays and goblets. A small tree with bright yellow fruit and a heavenly scent was potted in one corner. A pleasant sea breeze wafted in from open door frames covered in white cotton sheets. Outside, a balcony overlooking fountains and the central garden had stuffed cushions lying all about.

Robert was the first to find the private bath with a fountain of running water. There was even a spigot in the shape of a fish, that when pressed, spewed a fragrant oil. Running water in a palace! A private bath! Their chambers surpassed anything any of them had ever seen.

There was a knock on the antechamber door, then it opened from the outside. A tall thin man with a thick manicured beard, dressed in a baggy white linen robe and black skull cap entered. He spoke in Arab tinted French, saying, I am Ilius of Cordoba, Chief Interpreter of the most gracious and enlightened Caliph Muhammed Al Nasir ibn Almohad, Magnificent Ruler of the Maghrib and Spain. You must be very tired from the long journey so the caliph will allow three days respite. He will then see the embassy from the English King. Walk freely through the palace except where guards are posted. Caliph Al Nasir’s every indulgence is at thy beck and call. If there is anything thee might want or need, just ask and it will be done.

Sir Thomas was momentarily stunned to hear French, though mangled by the Moor’s tongue. He smiled and nodded his head, I thank thee and thy lord for this kindness. However, our embassy is of the most urgent portence, could we not have an audience with him sooner?

Ilius’ face remained open and kind, he even smiled. Inside he sneered at the infidel barbarians’ insolence and impropriety. By his dress he was a warrior who aspired to more. His manner told Ilius these men were even more pathetic than the Iberians; worse still, they thought they were civilized. Conversation and the manners of an enlightened embassy were obviously subtle arts looked down upon in their heathen domain.

Alas, the caliph is quite taken with final preparations for the jihad. T’would serve the embassy of King John well to appear at the appointed time. . . and no sooner. Ilius then clapped his hands.

Half a dozen girls clad in sheer garments of rich yellows, reds, blues, greens, and pinks entered from the hallway. The flowing clothes let the eye wander all over their bodies and the Normans were taken aback. They could see thighs, buttocks, and breasts lasciviously displayed under the gauzy material.

The girls bore trays of dates and almonds, flat bread, spiced and sweet meats, roast lamb in a honey sauce, hardy olives, sweet onions, a pile of grain called cous cous, and tangy yellow and green fruits similar to the flaming naranj. The embassy feasted and gorged. Some of the girls took empty trays and filled cups with delicious fruit juices while others played strange sounding stringed instruments, drums, and a tambourine. Still others danced before them, hypnotically swaying their hips, bellies, and breasts. Several of the slave girls yielded to Thomas and Ralph's pawing demands. They were soft, pliant, and full of wicked ideas.

Robert retired to the balcony and prayed for God to remove the lust from his mind. Concubines were common enough among the clergy, yet Robert deigned to remain true to the tenants of priesthood. After the years at St. Bartholomew’s touching wasn’t something he cared for too much. He fell asleep on the breezy tranquility of the balcony and awoke in the middle of the night to the most intense sensation bursting from his crotch. The girl giggled and joked in her strange fluid tongue. The darkness inside burst into gales of laughter. Thomas and Ralph were rolling on the carpet and braying like lunatics.

Robert pushed the girl away, screamed at her, and crawled into the corner. He prayed for forgiveness. He felt angry enough to kill but remained bundled in the corner, petrified to move lest they harass him further. He wasn't sure whether or not to put it in his report.

Thomas’ impatience evaporated, and the following three days were spent indulging. While the kingsmen glutted themselves with carnal pleasures, Robert found wandering through the gardens and praying by the fountains eased his sinful thoughts. He took a bath for the first time since Christmas. Usually Robert washed his face and hands, underarms and privateness. Captivated by the large bath, he submerged himself in the oily water and scrubbed his whole body clean. He felt blissful and pure for the first time in his life. He prayed God intended him to find this sublime sense of being among the infidel.

. . .

Thomas paced back and forth in the antechamber to the Caliph’s Court. Ralph sat silently staring at his nails on a stone bench built into the wall. Robert sat opposite Ralph, reciting his Terce prayer.

Thomas stopped and pointed his finger at Robert with an accompanying sneer. Stay out of the way scribbler. I want to hear not a word from you, not even a fart. If you annoy me there’ll be an accident and you’ll be lost at sea, understand?

He’s a dog, Ralph commented behind Thomas, You have to show him.

Thomas lunged forward and Robert curled back against the wall.

Hah, just what I thought, Thomas chuckled, A dog knows his master.

The Muslim guards thought his antics funny.

Robert turned his head, grasping the golden seal about his neck. It felt hollow just now. Gazing down the hall, he tried to calm himself remembering how he’d come to be here.

A fortnight ago Robert was leaving evening prayer at St. Bartholomew’s Abbey outside London. Bart’s Boys were prized clerics serving London’s guilds, aldermen, and wealthy merchants; as well as the Crown Household, Chancery, Courts, and Exchequer. Robert left the church with his three best friends: Ned, Harry, and Jeffrey.

It was pouring cold rain, so they stuck to the covered walkway leading to the dorms. He was looking forward to a rare night in a warm room with friends, fables, and a bed of his own. Robert just returned from Scotland, where he scribed for Fawkes de Breaute. The tough Norman captain of the Griffon Company helped hunt down a rebellious Celtic rival to crippled King William’s throne. Fawkes caught the proud Scot and hanged him after entertaining his men. Robert wrote the proclamation claiming the lands of the dead man and all his followers for King William of Scotland, loyal vassal to King John of England.

Tell them what you told me about Sir Oliver, Ned urged Robert in English. They were both Scribes of the Justiciar Court under Earl Geoffrey Fitzpeter of Essex, long serving Lord Justiciar of the Realm.

Oliver Fitzroy the Bastard Boy? Jeffrey japed.

How many other Oliver’s ride with the Brute? Harry harangued. They were both Clerks of the Exchequer under Bishop Peter de Roches of Winchester, Lord Chancellor of the Realm.

I can already say I told you too much, Ned. Robert feigned insult, So after Fawkes and Oliver took their first night right on all the girls and women, the Bastard Boy chose seven of the prettiest youngsters. They had their way with them all the way to York, then he sold them to a brothel.

Tell them what he said, Robert, tell them! Ned demanded like a giddy boy.

So Oliver is ushering the girls off the cart and tells them, ‘I’ve taught you a trade and you know the way home, lassies. God helps those who help themselves.’

Exactly, Jeffrey agreed. Like I said, Robert gets all the girls.

What? Robert gawped.

This is why we should invade France tomorrow, Jeffrey extrapolated.

Jeffrey, Harry pleaded.

Foreign wars mean foreign girls, Jeffrey explained,

And foreign girls mean fornicating, Ned finished.

It’s not like that, Robert tried telling them as they laughed and jested, lied and exaggerated. Well, I mean . . . not everyone. . . I didn’t. . .you bloody well know . . .

They were making their way in to the dormitory when a novice appeared from behind the last pillar of the covered walk. He was pale with a dark, curly tonsure and ale brown eyes. Are you Robert de London?

Aye, Robert answered.

The prior wishes to see you, The teenager stated.

Now? Robert asked.

Aye, The novice responded.

He’s found you out again, Robert. Jeffrey said slyly.

No ink for a week for you! Ned proclaimed the familiar punishment from their novice days.

Right, Robert waved them away, Don’t listen to them lad, they’ll only corrupt you. Go find a spot to yourself. I know where his office is.

Robert knocked on the dark wooden door to the abbot’s chamber and it opened. Venerable, old Andrew was trying hard to stay awake sitting in his cushioned chair before the hearth. A sergeant serving in King John’s Household, commonly called a crownguard, stood behind the robed abbot. He wore a garnet tunic with a golden prowling lion over a black leather jerkin studded with iron rings, an iron bonnet hung low over his eyes, a hand axe and a short sword called a dirk were strapped to his belt. Another crownguard, with a golden chevron stitched over the lion’s head, stood beside the fireplace. Both were dripping water all over the hay strewn floor, and neither looked pleased at being cold and wet.

Robert paused to catch his breath as his heart sank into his stomache.

You wished to see me master? Robert asked in Latin as he quivered.

Non, I did not wish to see you Brother Robert, but someone does, Abbot Andrew yawned, waving an opened letter absently at the soldier by the fire.

Robert de London, Scribe of the Justiciar’s Court? The crownguard asked with a thick Cornish accent.

Roobeh deloonun. . .

Tis me, Robert agreed in English.

Come with us, Sergeant Falmouth headed for the door.

Coomwitoos.

It was pouring outside, adding wet misery to the cloistering dark. Robert sat in the saddle behind the sullen sergeant. St. Bart’s was just outside the old Roman wall so he stared at the bulk of the twin towered barciban called Aldersgate. The thick oak drawbridge was shut up for the night, a powerful stench rising from the sewage filled moat called Houndsditch. Aelthrad’s Auldtime Tavern was open with glowing windows and rawkus cheer, while across Alderslane Saint Botolph’s Alderschurch welcomed the poor and modest travelers waiting for curfew to end in the morning.

Instead of heading for Aldersgate though, the crownguards led their horses out to Smithfield Square then headed south through the taverns, inns, shops, and homes of the London suburbs.

Sergeant, I know a quick way to the White Tower, but we need to enter the city through Aldersgate.

The crownguard grunted and spit.

They crossed over Watling Street, passing the Newgate barbican and continued all the way down to Ludgate. The bulky shadow of St. Pauls Cathedral loomed over London’s ancient Roman wall alongside Montfichet Tower and Baynard’s Castle; two stone brothers protecting the west end of London. The briny sewer smell of Houndsditch, the Thames, and the Fleet melded with the clean wetness of rain. Spanning the Thames was the shadowy London Bridge, thirty years under construction and completed just three years ago. The great stone bridge had twenty different sized arches. It was covered from end to end in shops and manors with shuttered windows and hanging lanterns aglow amidst the dark, hay, rain laden night. A chapel shrine to Saint Thomas Beckett stood in the center of the bridge, just beside a three story barbican gatetower and drawbridge separating the two sides.

Instead of turning left on Fleet Street and heading for Ludgate and London, the sergeants turned right.

Westminster?

What is this all about? Robert asked the other rider. Have I done some wrong?

Sergeant Falmouth grunted and spit.

Two of a kind.

They crossed the short, wooden Fleet Bridge, passing the walled fortress complex of London Temple on their left. Robert marveled at the round Temple Church modeled after the Holy Sepulchre of Jerusalem; the center of the holiest city on earth, now occupied by the Saracens, and once the headquarters of the Order of the Poor Knights of Christ. Templars, warrior monks, I wonder where I’d be if my mother had dropped me off there instead?

Along the right side of Fleet Street stretched Lords Row, a neighborhood of low walled palatial manors owned by some of the wealthiest and most powerful magnates in England and beyond. There was Vere Manse, Bigod Manor, Arundel Estate, the Whitehouse of Albermarle, Kaiserhaus, Casa del Navarro, Raymond’s Retreat, the Braose House recently taken over by Fawkes de Breaute and renamed Fawkeshall, Neville’s Chamber, Warrene’s Welcome, and a half dozen more stretching northward behind those. Along the riverfront and just beyond London Temple was the notorious Black Manse of John’s favorite pirate, Eustace the Black Monk. His manor was encircled by a moat fed by the Thames and half was perched over the river, with an enclosed wharf so the Black Monk might slip in and out at a moment’s notice.

Taverns, shops, and inns surrounded the east end of Kings Crossing market square and beyond stood the walls and halls of Westminster. Although the abbey and cathedral dominated the moated complex, it was also home to the kingdom’s Exchequer, Chancery, first Treasury, and a Crown residency. The barbican’s drawbridge was down, portcullis halfway up, and the sergeant at arms greeted them with a curt nod.

Soon enough and still dripping wet, Robert stood beside a door at the end of a dark hallway for what seemed an eternity. The hallway stretched alongside the Painted Chamber where King John held court when in London or the Exchequer operated in his absence. Robert had been in the Painted Chamber many times and his friends in the Exchequer spent most days there, but he’d never been in the Kingschamber. Behind the door with the golden crown painted upon it, metal clanged and a dog barked viciously, while men grunted and cursed at one another.

I shall fear no evil as I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death . . .

The words came unbidden, they did every time.

There was a loud crash, a louder shout of surprise and pain, and the cacophony ceased.

The door finally opened. A boy in an azure velvet jerkin and scarlet silken hose beckoned Robert in. His head was too round, eyes pulled to slats. Snot was running down the boy’s nose into his mouth, but he was smiling the bliss of a pure ignorance. A mastiff beside the door growled and sniffed at Robert’s crotch as he walked through the entrance. Half as tall as Robert, the beast of a dog probably weighed the same. He stood two steps in the room, frozen in place as the dog positioned itself in front of him.

A balding man wearing a sweat soaked undershirt, leather breeches, and deerskin shoes was collecting the pieces of a broken chair. A dull edged sparring sword lay on the rush strewn plank floor. A shirtless man, glistening with sweat over his hairy torso, with a long red bruise across his left arm panted while a sword dangled from his hand. Baggy red velvet hose and black leather boots covered his legs and feet. He kept his face shaved to a stubble and dark blonde hair shorn short. A ruby ring glistened off his finger.

Peter de Roches, Lord Chancellor of the Realm, Bishop of Winchester, the Rock.

Greinville? Peter asked.

Oui, m’lord? The beaten man turned his head to feel the smack of steel upon his cheek.

Never turn your back to your enemy, lest you have trusted eyes upon him still, The Rock recommended in Poitevan French.

But your not my enemy, m’lord, Balding Greinville sighed.

Peter flipped the sword, catching the dull point in his palm and chucking it to the floor beside the other one.

And that is why I beat you, Peter nodded with a predatory grin.

A warrior monk who is neither warrior nor monk, how did he do that?

For certes, m’lord, Greinville agreed, then walked over to the firey hearth on the opposite wall and fed the flames.

The Chancellor’s seal of golden links and a huge medallion hung from the post of a high backed, cushioned chair by the hearth. Chests and wardrobes lined the walls. A massive canopied bed with curtains drawn took up a fourth of the room. Armed and mailed winged angels were painted protectively on either side of the bed. Underneath St. Michael was a desk covered in neatly arranged piles of pipe rolls, stacks of vellum sheets, a pile of books, ink wells, quills, and other scribely assortments.

Nate! Peter bellowed over his shoulder as he commiserated with Greinville.

Bollocks! The simpleton clapped his hands once.

The dog sat obediently, but kept his eyes on Robert’s crotch.

Nate fetched a towel from the bed, made his way to Peter, and started drying him off.

Another youth stepped from the shadows of a corner. His hair straggled over his eyes above a natural scowl. He wore tailor cut jerkin and trousers of fine wool, even if they weren’t the latest lordly fashion. The youth glanced with disdain at Peter then back at Robert.

This shite bag sheep shagger wants to know if you know who I am, and how you came to speak my tongue, The insolent young man sneered in Welsh.

Greinville grumbled passed Robert with both swords under his arm and shut the door behind him. Robert glanced at Peter, who grinned satisfactorily and raised an eyebrow. Robert noticed the crownguard who spoke at St. Bart’s drying off quietly as he leaned against the hearth mantle. His eyes drooped, but his hand rested on the pommel of a long bladed dirk. Nate finished toweling Peter and headed for a cupboard to pour a goblet of wine.

You’re Gruffydd ap Llewellyn, first son of Prince Llewellyn of Wales, and I speak Cymrii because Owain ap Gruffyd of Deheubarth taught me.

Bollocks, Gruffydd spat, the dog growled at Robert’s crotch again, Owain says you spoke Cymrii when he met you.

As a babe babbles, Robert shrugged, eyes on Bollocks. Cymrii is not all that far from the Gaelic I learned during the Irish campaign two summers ago.

So you travel here and there, near and far, in service of King John, writing his words and pretending tis ink not blood securing loyalty. You learn our tongues the better to seduce us, a far more sinister conquest than the Brute or Blunville’s bloodshed. Why fight like a wolf when you can bark like a dog, oy?

This is some kind of test.

Robert felt the heat on his face and knew it wasn’t from the fire, Bold words for a hostage prince whose lost his crown to John’s bastard grandson.

Gruffydd shouted a string of Welsh curses too fast for Robert. The meaning was plain enough for Peter, who chuckled with satisfaction, though he knew not a word of Welsh.

Enough, Peter called them off as he accepted Nate’s cup.

He began as a scribe of King Henry Plantagenet’s seneschal of Tourraine, but quickly earned the trust of Lionheart when they were both young and keen for adventure. It didn’t hurt that he was good with sword and quill. From prince’s chamberlian to lord chamberlain of the realm’s steward, Peter rose under the Lionheart. He proved cunning enough to cultivate Prince John’s friendship, earning himself even greater offices under his third Plantagenet King.

He’s your stooge, too right. Gruffydd switched to Welsh accented Anglo-Norman, the bastardized mix of Anglian, Saxon, Norse, and French common to England’s nobility, A real English dog, fair and true.

Falmouth, see Gruffydd to his quarters, Peter chinned at the crownguard, Thank you so much for your service sweet prince.

Fie you, Gruffydd cursed before Falmouth shoved him out the door.

Bollocks, Peter called and whistled as he sat with relish by the fire.

The dog went from demon to happy dumb in a heart beat and loped over to his master for a good scratch behind the ears. Peter summoned Robert, who slowly crossed the room.

Grace, I’m ready to confess! A breathy pixie girl voice escaped the curtained bed.

Think of a few more sins, lovey, Peter chuckled, I’ll deliver the sacrament soon enough.

The unseen girl let out an exasperated sigh, Idle hands are the Devil’s . . . oh . . ooooh.

Robert de London, Peter lingered on the name as he smiled into his goblet, Whose your father, a London knight, mayhap an alderman, a guildmaster, some wealthy merchant whose cock found a juicy purse mayhap?

Robert’s cheeks burned hotter, his heart raced like a hunted rabbit. M’lord, the Church is my father. I’m just a Bart’s Boy.

Peter glanced at the meek and wet cleric. He offered his ringed hand. Robert stepped forward and kneeled, kissing the ring obediently. He felt Bollocks’ panting hot breath on his cheek. Peter stared into the fire a moment longer and tapped his ring on the silver goblet.

Go, warm yourself by the fire, Peter offered.

Robert nodded and shuffled to the crackling fire, I thank thee, thy grace, m’lord, uh . . .

Cut the courtliness, Robert. Tis irrelevant here, Peter waved away the words with distaste and stretched out long legs with popping knees. Your French is quite Norman, typical for Barts Boys I suppose. I hear from Fawkes you handled yourself well in Scotland.

The Brute told me to keep quiet and stay out of the way.

I tried not to get in the way, Robert rubbed his hands together like a hot prayer.

Good, Peter complimented then queried, Tis true you were the scribe who wrote the charter between King John and Prince Llewelyn last year?

Robert smiled proudly but kept humble, I wrote what I was told.

Oui, but you translated a few passages into Welsh for Llewelyn, and you managed to piss off Gruffydd in his own tongue. There are precious few clerics around here who can do that.

Is there pressing business in Wales, then? Robert wondered.

He was unfamiliar with such informality among a lord of the realm.

Always, Peter agreed but grinned at his wine again. Yet that is not why I called you here. Tis a miserable evening, Robert, so I’ll be abrupt. King John has need of you.

Of . . . of me? Robert stammered.

Of a man with your . . . skills, Peter emphasized, There is a task we want you to perform. You are a young man of keen intellect and quick wit, good with tongue and quill, the sort of cleric that can go far if he has the right . . . patron.

Robert stilled himself, a deer sensing wolves in the woods.

This task, Robert, Peter returned to his offer, It shall be both delicate and dangerous, you’ll have to take note of all you hear and see; especially of those with you, the king is quite particular on this point. Twill serve John best if the other envoys think you a simple English cleric. I assume you know the English tongues, as well.

Would you prefer I speak Cornish, Anglian, Mercian, or Northumbrian?

Peter leveled leaden eyes at Robert, Your name is de London.

Anglian then, Robert nodded.

The Rock tapped his ring once more, Most importantly, this task requires a cleric well aware of his place.

I’m nobody, a Bart’s Boy, expendable, but I’ve already proven myself. I’ve passed tests I didn’t know I was taking. I’m useful. I’m a useful, expendable nobody.

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