Here Be Dragons - 1 (77 page)

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cue. He was not deceived by John's icy demeanor; he knew the monk had lacerated anew a wound that had yet to show any signs of healing and he acted now to turn attention away from John and to himself.
"We shall need your help, Prior Wilfrid," he said swiftly. "We encountered some difficulty in crossing the River Wellstream yesterday Can you suggest a safer passage?"
"Indeed, my lord Bishop. The safest way is to ford the river at Wisbech, fifteen miles to the south. There is a castle there, so the King's Grace will have suitable lodgings for the night. But since your baggage train is so much slower and cumbersome, I would suggest you dispatch it by the shorter route, between the villages of Cross Keys and Long Sutton. It's some four miles across the estuary, but when the tide is out, much of the sand is exposed, and with local guides who know where the quicksands lie, it can be safely forded."
John had been only half listening to the Prior's long-winded explanation. He looked up, though, as a man rose and approached the high table.
"My liege, might I have a word with you? I am Roger of the Bail, and I"
"I know a Lincoln man by that name, Peter of the Bail. At Michaelmas, I
appointed him as city bailiff. Are you kin?"
"We are cousins, Your Grace." Roger beckoned, and two other men brought forward an iron coffer. As he lifted the lid, the torchlight fell upon a multitude of shimmering silver coins. "This is for you, my liege, from your subjects in the township of Lynn. It's not as much as we could wishone hundred marksbut we wanted to give you tangible proof of our loyalty. Use it, with
God's blessing, to fight the French invaders and drive them back into the sea."
John was touched, for that was no small sum for these merchants and fishermen to have raised. "I thank you; your offering shall be well spent." He gazed about the hall, heartened by sight of so many friendly faces. "In the past
I've granted many a borough the right to elect a mayor, London and Lincoln amongst them. A while back it pleased me to confer such a privilege upon
Lynn." Rising, he unsheathed his sword, handed it, hilt first, to the young merchant. "Here," he said when Roger made no move to take it. "Your mayor shall need a ceremonial sword."
Whatever else he might have said was lost in the sudden explosion of sound, the wave of cheering that engulfed the hall. When John coul
"T will make himself heard again, he laughed and signaled for silence.
of sound, the wave ot cheering mat enguneu me ndu. wucu j^«-- make himself heard again, he laughed and signaled for silence. "I wl drive the French invaders into the sea," he said, "and then I shall corn back to Lynn and celebrate my victory with those who stood by f1 when my need was greatest."
THE sun rose at 6:20 A.M. on Wednesday, October 12, but heavy mists overhung the marshes, did not begin to burn away until midmorning. John crossed the
River Wellstream at Wisbech, turned north along the embankment toward the village of Long Sutton. The cold was damp and penetrating, and the wind whistled eerily through the billowing salt grass. Birds cried mournfully, invisible in the mist, and occasional splashes heralded the passage of unseen animals.
"I hate the fenlands," John said grimly, "hate these barren, accursed swamps.
What man in his right mind would live here of his own free will? Only a water snake could thrive in these stinking bogs."
He'd been in a vile mood all morning, but his companions understood why. He'd been taken ill the day they left Lynn, had spent a sleepless night at Wisbech.
He was still queasy this morning, and at Peter des Roches's troubled queries, he finally admitted that he felt as if one fox were gnawing at his belly,

another at his bowels. But he'd refused to lay over at Wisbech, or even to slow their pace, although he'd twice had to dismount while he vomited into the marsh grass.
"It's no surprise to me that you're ailing, John. I've been with you these six weeks past, have seen firsthand the way you've been abusing yourself. It's a rare day when you do not cover forty miles; there've even been a few fifty-mile days! And then you spend half the night tending to matters of state. You keep burning a candle down to the wick, my friend, and it gets harder and harder to light."
"How profound," John said caustically, and spurred his stallion forward to ride beside John Marshal, the Earl of Pembroke's nephew. They began to trade marshland folklore, arguing whether it was true that men born in the Fens had webbed feet, whether the flickering swamp lights known as will-of-the-wisps were truly the souls of unbaptised babies. Peter des Roches started to urge his mount to catch up with them, but after a few strides he let his horse slacken pace. What good would it do? John was not about to listen.
When they reached the village of Long Sutton, the tide was out and " sands lay naked to a pallid autumn sun. Hungry gulls circled overbad, shrieking. The few houses huddled by the estuary did nothing to essen the bleak desolation of the scene. There was no sign as yet of John's baggage train. But the wind was biting, and John's stomach was Burning, and he let Peter des Roches persuade him not to wait, to press ahead toward Swineshead Abbey.
They turned west, and after a few miles John consented to stop for hlSfiretr- ,,,._---
lrst food of the day. The little hamlet of Holbeach was no less dismal !«_ ^
.. -, . . ...
-.^y lurnea west, ana arter a tew miles John consented to stop for
's first food of the day. The little hamlet of Holbeach was no less dismal a H° 8 Sutton. The awestruck villagers shyly offered John shelter tyhat meagre hospitality they could. But as soon as he stepped in-
°ne of the wattle-and-daub huts, he was assailed again by nausea;

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the second room of the cottage was used as a stable, and the rank ^nim odors sent him reeling back into the icy sea air.
One of the peasants produced a blanket, and John's servar»ts un packed a basket of wheaten bread and cheese. John could rrlana e just mouthful, but even though the villagers could offer only a|e . g0at, milk, he could not get enough to drink; he was as thirsj , e sa . bemusedly, as if he'd gorged himself all week on nothing u . Baited herring.
Sitting back on the blanket, he studied the cottage, "truck frame thatched roof. As hard as it is for me to believe it, my dau&ujp joanna passed the first five years of her life in a house not much better tu^n that one." He waved away a preferred chunk of bread. "What wer-e you telling me about the tides, Jack?"
John Marshal took the bread John spurned. "The Prior ^j^ ~e ]ow water is at noon, high water at six. The half-tide comes in ^bout three or so, so they'd have to cross between twelve and two." He scmintfd UP~ ward, shook his head.
"I've yet to see enough of the sun to hazard even a blind guess as to the time now. But I see no cause for Concern/ Your Grace. The local guides know these waters better than the fls^ (JQ )
e kingd0"1 But de Burgh has one hundred forty knights and a full garrison at £>°ver Castle. I'd wager he can hold out against Louis till Judgment fW » need be."
"My lords!" One of the villagers was pointing. "A rider Comes'
The men were already on their feet, swords half dra\vn i\\e fl wore John's colors, was one of the men left behind to wait for tine ^a* gage train. At sight of John, he jerked his lathered stallion t0 an a^ halt, spraying sand in all directions. .
"I waited and waited, my liege, and then ventured out ont'1 5t sands in search of them ..." He swung from the saddle, leaned $ ,$ his horse, sobbing for breath. "Theyoh, Jesus, my lord, ^&, bogged down! They're out there in the river, caught in th^ quick" and the serfs say the tide is coming in!"

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THE villagers of Long Sutton were clustered upon the bank of the Wellstream, kneeling as their priest offered prayers for the souls Of the doomed men trapped out m the estuary They scattered as the horsemen came galloping out of the mist The priest waved his arms fran. tically- ran after them, shouting that the incoming tide would turn the sands to quickmire and they'd all drown
John swerved his stallion jUst ,n time to avoid trampling the man, but he did not slow down, the horse plunged onto the sands Most of John's companions followed
The sounds reached John first, as the wind carried to him the cries Of fear and rage, the shrill neighing of the sumpter horses But until he saw the trapped wagons and animals, he did notcould notrealize the full extent of the catastrophe The heavy carts and wagons were hopelessly mired down in midnver, the more the terrified horses struggled, the deeper they sank John knew at once what had happened The vanguard had become bogged, but the baggage train was more than two miles long, and those coming up behind were unaware of the disaster until they stumbled onto the lead wagons And by that time, retreat was made impossible by the rearward As more and more carts became bogged, men and horses began to panic, and the sight meeting John's horrified eyes was one of utter and complete chaos
Rescue was beyond mortal men, the tide was already sweeping in from the north
John could not see it yet, but he heard it, a low, relentless rumble, getting louder "Cut the traces'" he shouted "Free the horses'"
John Marshal was beside him now, gesturing "We've got to turn back' Or we'll drown, too'"
Some of the men had heard John's shouts, were slashing at the harness traces
Most had abandoned the wagons by now, were floundering in the river John gave one despairing backward glance and then swung his mount about, followed after
John Marshal as they raced the We for shore
Their horses were battlefield destriers, bred for stamina, but they
Were capable of great speed in short bursts, and they were within yards j>f safety when Peter des Roches's stallion splashed into quicksand The
°rse Arched to its knees, scrambled desperately to free itself as its rider n8 helplessly to the saddle pommel Des Roches had enough pres-
e of mind, however, to wave John away when he saw the other man m;ng back "No, John, no' Go on'" Jump dear and I'll pick you up'" "our horse cannot carry us both'"
John Marshal had also wheeled his mount about "Go back, sire' I'll V I swear'"

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But by then it was too late; the tide was upon them. John had time only to turn his horse so the water did not strike them sideways. As he was swept downstream, he caught a last glimpse of Peter des Roches The force of the surging waters had freed the stallion, only to engulf both horse and rider.
John saw Peter's head break the surface, but the current was too swift to fight. His stallion was swimming strongly now striking out for the embankment;
he could do nothing but give the horse its head.
John's stallion came ashore several miles south of Long Sutton. As he slid from the saddle, John found himself alone in a vast, empty marshland. The ground squished under his boots, his footprints filling with water. He shouted, in vain. Even the swamp birds were suddenly stilled. After a time, he heard a cry, saw a man struggling toward shore. Wading back into the shallows, he helped the man scramble up the embankment. Then they both slumped down upon the muddy ground, too exhausted even for speech. Out in the river, men and horses were drowning, but their death cries were muffled by the tide, muted by the rising wind. An unearthly silence blanketed the Fens.
John Marshal was the first to find them, followed by some of the villagers.
John accepted the mantles they offered without comment, ignored their pleas that he come back with them to Long Sutton. But within the quarter hour he saw
Peter des Roches limping slowly along the embankment. The elegant Bishop of
Winchester was covered with fetid swamp mud and slime; even his hair was matted with it. But he was alive and smiling, and he and John embraced like brothers.
"The Almighty never showed me greater favor, John. I grabbed my horse's tail, held on so tightly that I could scarcely unclench my fists once we reached the shore!"
He gratefully accepted a wineskin, drank in deep, noisy gulps. "There are some of our men downstream. A few who knew how to swim. A few more who had the wits to clamber up onto loose sumpter horses. They told me those in the rear of the train may have made it back to Cross Keys ere the tide came in. But most of the horses drowned, for certes, and too many men. How many we'll likely never know; only Christ All-merciful can say where or when their bodies will wash up-
"What of my treasure?" John said huskily. "Think you that any °f|t can be recovered at the next low water?"
No one spoke; he had his answer in their averted eyes. The vi priest at last said, "Some of it might be salvaged eventually. But mo it is gone, my lord."
,ea
He spoke so matter-of-factly that it was obvious he had n what John had just lost. His treasure, jewels, gold plate, coronan° galia and crown, his wardrobe, his chapel, holy relics, tents, iur
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argue with me on this. You're soaked throueh an/JifT V Ot out here in the Fens could be the death of you'" A "&*
John was not about to argue, for never had he been so cold H
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35 th^lnoepVeenebdeen °nC f°r hSteninS'" Peter »* dryly, spun around ^e«? How does he?"
^ a^harseaepr;etoto be,choosing his w°rds wi* «« -* ^ ^«^^^^rm ^ - p-p- *
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N*fcSt?U8hed 3t the PeremPtory tone. "Very well, my lord '' ^ ^'s t0o LCten'
^ t0 the Kin8'S SpidtUal need- But - ^an

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"You were not with him very long. How can you be so sure?"
"He is passing clotted blood," the Abbot said bluntly, and they no longer doubted, stared at him in bleak silence.
As he entered John's chamber soon afterward, Peter des Roches wondered why he'd needed a stranger to tell him John was dying. {-fe had only to look into
John's face. The shocking gauntness, the relentless wasting away of flesh, the ominous ashen cast to his skinthe signs were there for all but the blind to see, attesting to an illness that was mortal. Only the eyes were still John's, hollowed and feverish but utterly lucid, all too penetrating.
John struggled to sit up at sight of Peter. "I'm not overly impressed with
Abbot Adam. But I expect you'll want him to accompany us to Newark on the morrow?"
"Newark? Jesus God, John, you cannot! That's twenty miles from here!"
"And a damned sight safer, so let that be an end to it. Now fetch me some wine, Peter. You'd not believe the noxious concoction your Abbot would have me drinkegg yolk in rosewater!"
Peter laughed, approached the bed. As he did, John reached up, grasped his wrist. "Tell me," he said, "what you're keeping from me. I heard servants talking, know a courier arrived from Hubert de Burgh. Why did you not want me to see him, Peter? What message did he bring?"
Peter hesitated, but John had never been easy to lie to. "The news is bad, John. Hubert de Burgh has asked Louis for a truce whilst he consults with you.
Their supplies are running out. He says if you cannot come to his aid, he may have to surrender Dover Castle to the French."
John's grip loosened; he sank back upon the bed, and then turned his face toward the wall. He heard Peter's footsteps retreating, heard the door quietly close. He shut his eyes, but the tears squeezed through his lashes, seared his skin like hot rain.
TO the Abbot, Adam of Croxton, the world as he knew it was encompassed within the white walls of his abbey of St John the Evangelist his was a narrowed focus, he felt no lack, had never yearned to break free of the familiar, to embrace the unknown. He had not welcomed summons from the Bishop of Winchester, for he was not a ITiaIV) worldly ambitions, and his every instinct warned him that no g could come to him at the King's court.
His instincts were sound. He found himself treating a dying ^. while fearing that he might be held accountable for that death. HIS ^ cal experience had been confined to the treatment of the canons an