Chapter 23: Taken!

(Lady Alwen narrates)

Today, our peaceful life in Oaklea is brought to a swift and brutal end.

I am held at the inn by a mysterious and cruel Count Gervais De La Warre, someone I have never heard of before in my life. I have no idea what he wants with us. Even his men at arms seems to know him little, but follow his orders as if he has always been their master. One of them, with a clear Bartonshire accent, answered my question about where he and the Count come from, saying he was normally a servant of Lord Gerald of Wellock, loaned to this Count for this present quarter of the year, spring to summer. The Count was apparently from Flanders but rumour had it that his lands were sequestrated by the Duke of Burgundy, after the Count switched allegiances at the last moment during a battle but too late to affect the outcome, which was lost, his lands with it.

I have heard Will tell of this Lord Wellock before, though never met him. I would never welcome him here, as he sounds a mean man apparently prejudiced against both Saxon and Welch alike. My father was a Saxon, for as far back as his father could made him learn and recite; my mother was half Saxon and half Welch, to the extent that I bear my mother’s mother’s name, so I see little merit in the racial opinions of this crass Norman Lord. The Count Gervais De La Warre, I have never heard of before, but now that he parades up and down in front of me, he seems to me to be a fat weasel, with little to recommend him to anyone of my acquaintance.

The Count boasts in front of his men and I, as witness, that William, the true Duke of Normandy and heir to Robert, the older brother of Henry, should have had the English crown by right when William the Rufus died, and declares that soon he will be William the Third, King of England and, through conquest in time, all of France, though it be King Louis of the same that finances the rebellion and enthronement.

What care I, of Kings and Dukes? Only the love of a family, God in our hearts, and a daily loaf of bread on our plates is all I crave. It is only war and pestilence that can take those simple pleasures away from me. So I care naught of who is King, only the peace or violence of the transition between their contrasting reigns is of concern to me.

I had checked the pigeons before the brew house, making sure they had fresh seed and water. A quick toting up found everything satisfactory, with no birds missing and no newcomers in the coop. All satisfactory.

When I got to the brew house, though, I was instantly concerned. There was nobody there, nobody at all. The brew house is the only place in the village that is left locked up when empty of brewers. It was still locked, and with no sign of any of the dray carts and horses either. Again, once I let myself in, I count up the barrels, just in case. No, my trusty brewers hadn’t worked through the night and left early loaded with water or ale, they simply hadn’t come back from their expeditions yesterday!

I remember that the front of the Inn crowded with people, while I had rushed home the previous day. I had determined, at that time, to leave Stephen to deal with it. But then this morning, there was the spectacle of the Black Knights being turned away. In light of the missing brewery men, I paid my memory of that recent incident more attention. I recalled that I saw those Knights ride their beasts at a walking pace over the bridge and away from the direction of Bartown in the east, and only slowly, reluctantly it seemed to me, head away towards the Welch Marches. I remembered then, that seeing them in single file over the bridge, it had occurred to me that one looked odd, being so much shorter and smaller than the rest, with three Knights before and three Knights after. The Knights were all dressed identical in black chain mail, black breast plates and shields with no coats of arms marked upon them. The middle one, though, seemed a child in comparison and wore no chain mail or carried a shield. Perhaps one squire to serve them all?

Before running up to the Inn to raise the alarm about the missing brewers and draymen, I looked in on the pigeons one more time.

When I reached the Inn, Stephen stopped me as soon as he saw me enter and steered me round and back towards the door. He whispered to me.

“Ma’am, we have been invaded by a Norman knight and his men, upward of twenty, fully armed, with talk of more reinforcements to come. He has been asking after you—”

“Invaded?”

“They have taken over the Inn, my Lady, by force. Apparently they hoped to find you and Sir William in residence. I told them that you were both at the Castle, which explained to them why I was left in charge of the Inn.”

“Do you know what they want?”

“No, Ma’am, the Count in charge of the men at arms is a beast and his men no better. They have terrorised the rest of the guests, yet won’t allow any of them to leave. They have all been herded into the minor hall, my Lady. They arrived yesterday, bringing our brewers and draymen with them, tied together on one of the carts. They appear unharmed and are also guarded in the minor hall. I dared not send anyone to inform you of what was happening, Ma’am, or they surely would have discovered you. I just hoped they would leave empty handed and head towards the Castle to the east, and not see the Manor House, but they seem content to stay here presently. I think they are waiting for someone or something to arrive here.”

“Hey, who are you?” A huge guard loomed from the shadows within the hall.

“Oh, this is just one of the workers at the brew house,” said Stephen, “there is no-one working there this morning, as you brought all the brewers and draymen here last night, and the brew house is still all locked up.”

I was wearing everyday work clothes, with a smock covering my baby bump. I looked nothing at all like the Lady of the Manor.

“I will be gettin’ on back to me cottage then, Sir, thank ‘ee,” I said, casting my eyes down to the ground as deferentially as any chamber maid, as if starting her first day at work for a new master. I turned towards the door and the guard saw me in profile. There is no disguising that I am heavily pregnant.

“Wait!” the guard growled. “The Count is after a pregnant Lady...”

Stephen stepped in front of me and said, “This is no Lady, sir, but just plain Mary from one of the cotts beside the village green. She sloshes out the ale barrels, and scrubs the brew house floor and, when she were a lot thinner, she climbed in and cleaned the brew tuns—”

The soldier responded to his intervention by hitting Stephen over the head with a cudgel that the brute carried. Stephen collapsed unconscious to the floor, blood pouring from a wound in his head. I knelt down and held his head in my lap, trying to staunch the flow of blood with my apron.

“Get me some clean water and those linen strips from the package in the pantry, Nelda,” I called to one of the serving girls, who stood open-mouthed and had stopped cleaning down the tables, “be quick about it, girl, and wash your hands first.”

“So,” said a voice from the stairway door, “you mus’ be la Lady Alwen, you look too juvénile to be the mère of that scoundrel fils of yours, Robin de Oaklea. Do you know ‘is whereabouts?”

The man was fat and bald and no taller than I. He certainly cut no fine figure of a man in his grubby nightshirt. His face is red and blotchy from drinking too much wine and not getting enough fresh air and exercise. Or maybe too much exposure these past few days that he is unused to.