Thomas Swynford in your grasp. Do you know that?’
‘We do!’
‘Are you sure he was the one who burnt your vill?’
‘It was Swynford all right. You want witnesses?’ The man turned to his followers. ‘Has anybody here seen this fellow carrying a burning brand at the head of a gang of Derby’s retainers?’
‘Aye. I have.’ A man stepped forward. He was simultaneously followed by every man in the grove.
‘And what did they do with their brands?’ demanded the leader harshly.
‘They set them to the thatch of our cottages.’
‘They burnt our houses to the ground so we could not go back.’
‘They fired them with women and bairns inside,’ added another.
‘It’s a damned lie!’ Swynford burst out, flinching from the edge of the sword. ‘I’ve never seen these villains in my life! They’re off their heads on drink!’
There was a brief scuffle as he tried to duck away but he was dragged back to his former position with the sword in place. The men stood in a sober group giving him baleful stares. It was a tense moment. They clearly wanted to string him up from the nearest tree.
Hildegard held her breath. Their baggage wagons with the bodyguard were too far off to be of any use.
Thoughtfully, Neville addressed them. ‘I have a clerk with me.’ He placed his right hand over his heart. ‘I make you this promise, friends. By the grace of God and the power of King Richard, if you present your case to the
bishop I will guarantee that your grievance will be heard and justice delivered.’
‘How do we know we can trust you?’
Neville drew his sword now. It made a rasping sound and the blade glittered as if by its own light. ‘If you wish to prove me a liar, take Swynford’s sword and let God be the judge.’
The leader stepped back. ‘Your Grace,’ he muttered, lowering his head. ‘I will take the risk and accept your word if my comrades agree. What about it, men?’
Murmurs of agreement arose, albeit reluctant ones, and Swynford’s sword was lowered, although his arms were not released yet. Master Edwin, still crouching with open mouth on the running-board, suddenly came to life. He fished around in his pouch for a piece of vellum and opened his writing tray. Unstopping the horn that held his ink he looked expectantly at his lord.
‘Can you read?’ demanded Neville of the spokesman.
He shook his head.
‘No matter. I’ll tell you what it says. Take it to Bishop Buckingham. He will know my seal.’
The message was scratched out, and to show that his word was true, wax was melted and the archbishop’s own signet engraved with the crossed keys of St Peter was pressed into it.
‘Hand it to him,’ he told Edwin.
The leader of the gang took the document and looked at it with suspicion. Then he glanced at the archbishop’s sword.
By now the rest of the convoy could be heard thundering down the slope between the trees.
Stuffing the document into his tunic, the leader hesitated for a moment as if to say something, then, apparently thinking better of it, he and his men melted rapidly into the woods.
In a moment the grove was empty. A bird sang. The rain stopped. The sun made shadow patterns over the trampled grass.
As soon as he knew he was safe, Swynford burst out in a rage of self-justification.
‘You lying dogs!’ he shouted after the vanished men. ‘You have no rights. They are serfs!’ he hissed, turning to Neville. ‘They own nothing! How dare they impugn the honesty of a knight? The Earl of Derby gave me that land. It is mine! I will not barter for it with lying cut-throats.’
‘It seems,’ replied Neville, ‘that you have no choice in the matter. And it seems also that if you feel so strongly about your rights you might have put up a better show in defending them.’
‘One against a dozen?’ Swynford spat into the grass. ‘Better to go to law and get the bastards hanged!’
He went over to his horse and pulled himself into the saddle. His empty scabbard
‘We do!’
‘Are you sure he was the one who burnt your vill?’
‘It was Swynford all right. You want witnesses?’ The man turned to his followers. ‘Has anybody here seen this fellow carrying a burning brand at the head of a gang of Derby’s retainers?’
‘Aye. I have.’ A man stepped forward. He was simultaneously followed by every man in the grove.
‘And what did they do with their brands?’ demanded the leader harshly.
‘They set them to the thatch of our cottages.’
‘They burnt our houses to the ground so we could not go back.’
‘They fired them with women and bairns inside,’ added another.
‘It’s a damned lie!’ Swynford burst out, flinching from the edge of the sword. ‘I’ve never seen these villains in my life! They’re off their heads on drink!’
There was a brief scuffle as he tried to duck away but he was dragged back to his former position with the sword in place. The men stood in a sober group giving him baleful stares. It was a tense moment. They clearly wanted to string him up from the nearest tree.
Hildegard held her breath. Their baggage wagons with the bodyguard were too far off to be of any use.
Thoughtfully, Neville addressed them. ‘I have a clerk with me.’ He placed his right hand over his heart. ‘I make you this promise, friends. By the grace of God and the power of King Richard, if you present your case to the
bishop I will guarantee that your grievance will be heard and justice delivered.’
‘How do we know we can trust you?’
Neville drew his sword now. It made a rasping sound and the blade glittered as if by its own light. ‘If you wish to prove me a liar, take Swynford’s sword and let God be the judge.’
The leader stepped back. ‘Your Grace,’ he muttered, lowering his head. ‘I will take the risk and accept your word if my comrades agree. What about it, men?’
Murmurs of agreement arose, albeit reluctant ones, and Swynford’s sword was lowered, although his arms were not released yet. Master Edwin, still crouching with open mouth on the running-board, suddenly came to life. He fished around in his pouch for a piece of vellum and opened his writing tray. Unstopping the horn that held his ink he looked expectantly at his lord.
‘Can you read?’ demanded Neville of the spokesman.
He shook his head.
‘No matter. I’ll tell you what it says. Take it to Bishop Buckingham. He will know my seal.’
The message was scratched out, and to show that his word was true, wax was melted and the archbishop’s own signet engraved with the crossed keys of St Peter was pressed into it.
‘Hand it to him,’ he told Edwin.
The leader of the gang took the document and looked at it with suspicion. Then he glanced at the archbishop’s sword.
By now the rest of the convoy could be heard thundering down the slope between the trees.
Stuffing the document into his tunic, the leader hesitated for a moment as if to say something, then, apparently thinking better of it, he and his men melted rapidly into the woods.
In a moment the grove was empty. A bird sang. The rain stopped. The sun made shadow patterns over the trampled grass.
As soon as he knew he was safe, Swynford burst out in a rage of self-justification.
‘You lying dogs!’ he shouted after the vanished men. ‘You have no rights. They are serfs!’ he hissed, turning to Neville. ‘They own nothing! How dare they impugn the honesty of a knight? The Earl of Derby gave me that land. It is mine! I will not barter for it with lying cut-throats.’
‘It seems,’ replied Neville, ‘that you have no choice in the matter. And it seems also that if you feel so strongly about your rights you might have put up a better show in defending them.’
‘One against a dozen?’ Swynford spat into the grass. ‘Better to go to law and get the bastards hanged!’
He went over to his horse and pulled himself into the saddle. His empty scabbard
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