Folville's Law (I) Read online

  FOLVILLE’S LAW (I):

  INVASION

  By

  David Pilling

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2022 by David Pilling

  All rights reserved.

  Chapter 1

  Leicestershire, England, 19th January 1326

  Fifty men on horseback, miserable in their sodden cloaks, were making slow progress along the muddy, winding road. It was a bad winter – not as bad as some in recent years, but bad enough. The rain pelted from a lead-grey Midlands sky, and the men grumbled at being ordered out in such rough weather.

  They rode armed for war, in steel bascinets, greaves, and gauntlets, with swords and maces hanging by their sides, and shirts of boiled leather under their red and black livery.

  Their master was Sir Roger de Belers, lord of much of the shire, justice of the peace and baron of the Exchequer. He rode at the head of the column, a heavy man, puffy and red-faced. Athletic and muscular in his youth, advancing age and good living was gradually turning his thick muscle into fat. He kept a tight grip on his sword and nervously watched the trees flanking the road.

  The forest of Charnwood, like forests all over the country, was home to thieves and outlaws. Roger did not fear random bands of wandering criminals, for they were an ever-present threat, but he had many enemies in the shire. Too many.

  He licked his dry lips, and ran a hand through the black bristles on his chin. He and his men had started from Melton Mowbray at dawn, passing through his manor at Kirby Belers on the way. Now they were descending into a thickly wooded valley. Smoke could be seen over the tops of the trees to the south, rising from the chimneys of the little village of Rearsby. From Rearsby it was but four miles on to the city of Leicester, and safety.

  There had been no trouble so far. All was quiet. Nothing more sinister than rabbits and foxes stirred in the hedgerows.

  Roger sent up a few more silent prayers, just for luck. He was a devout man, and for the good of his soul had founded a chantry of secular priests near Kirby Belers. True to his grasping nature, he had paid for it by plundering his neighbours and other religious houses.

  Thunder rolled in the distance, and the grumbling of Roger’s men increased, spiced with curses. Dark clouds were massing to the south, promising a heavy downpour long before they reached Leicester.

  The quiet woods suddenly came alive with the sound of war-horns and vomited armed men on horseback. One group of horsemen rode to block the southern end of the valley, while another cut off any hope of escape to the north. The rest swept down in two wings to envelope the hapless men stranded in the middle.

  None of the attackers were wearing livery, but Roger recognized their faces. “Traitors!” he shouted as he dragged out his sword.

  His men were outnumbered, two to one if not more, but they made a fight of it. They had little choice. Screams, oaths, and the ring of steel on steel erupted, shattering the peaceful silence of the valley.

  Roger exchanged cuts with a man-at-arms, sheared off two of his fingers and punched him in the mouth. His assailant reeled away, leaning over his pony’s neck with his maimed hand pressed against a mouthful of broken teeth.

  Meanwhile a young red-haired knight named Nicholas Folville steered his horse through the melee, urging her towards Roger. He was careful not to strike at any other man, guarding against blows when they came, but returning none.

  “Ivo!” he shouted at one of his companions, and pointed frantically with his sword at Roger.

  Ivo La Zouch, another youthful knight, heard Nicholas’s voice and looked where he pointed. He spotted the big man and drove his horse towards him.

  Others converged on Roger, battering aside any of his retainers loyal or stupid enough to get in their way. It was the shepherd they wanted, not the sheep, and they meant to get him.

  Roger knew death was close, and laid about him with the fury of despair and outrage. He had tried to enforce the king’s justice, to bring criminals to book and restore some order in the land, and this was his reward.

  Well, damn them. Damn the King, too, damn his feeble justice and his failure to protect his servants, and damn the perverse sense of duty that had brought him, Roger de Belers, to this squalid end.

  Ivo was eager, but his brother Ralph even more so, and reached the quarry first. He had lost his sword in the fight, and drawn a long knife in its place. He came up behind Roger as the man was fighting off two attackers at once, reached around and yanked his head up to expose the soft white meat of his neck.

  Ralph was a good man with a knife. He thrust the point down, through Roger’s collarbone. The big man coughed, and his rich, red blood spurted into the air as the metal punctured his heart.

  The oversized body shuddered violently in Ralph’s grip. He pulled out his knife and allowed Sir Roger to topple sideways from the saddle. The dying man’s lifeblood pumped from the hole in his shoulder, adding a tinge of red to the wet, churned-up ground.

  “Dead!” screamed Ralph in triumph, waving his bloody knife in the air, his face flushed with pride and excitement. “The bastard’s dead! I killed him! Me!”

  His raw, exultant shout was taken up by his comrades, until it echoed through the valley. Roger’s remaining followers, with no reason to fight on, scattered and fled. A few of their more vindictive opponents gave chase, hacking down the fugitives as they scattered into the woods, but the ringleaders gathered around the body of Sir Roger.

  Flushed and sweating from exertion, their armour spotted with other men’s blood, the six young knights grinned at each other. In their minds, they had not committed a brutal and illegal killing on the king’s highway, but won a great victory.

  “Well struck, Ralph,” said Ivo, clapping his brother on the back. Ralph grinned, raised his bloody knife to his lips and ran his tongue along the blade.

  “I can taste wine, the sweat of whores, and too many puddings,” he declared. The others shouted with laughter, with the exception of the eldest, a tall, broad-shouldered fellow with a thin, foxy face and a curly brown beard.

  “Best make sure,” he said, climbing from his horse and walking over to where Sir Roger lay face down in the mud, a thick trail of dark blood still gushing from his fatal wound.

  The foxy-faced knight, whose name was Eustace Folville, held out his hand. “Axe,” he said, impatiently flexing his fingers. One of his younger brothers urged his horse forward and handed him one from the assortment of butcher’s tools hanging from his saddle.

  It took four blows to get Roger’s head off. After it was done, Eustace wiped the sweat from his brow and kicked the headless corpse in the gut.

  “A stubborn pig, even in death,” he remarked, reaching down to pick up the bleeding head by its thick, oiled black hair.

  Eustace mounted his horse and held up his trophy, to be greeted by a wave of cheers. The men in the valley shook their fists at the hated head, shouting curses and ribald songs, some even jostling their fellows to get close enough to spit at it. In the nearby village of Rearsby, frightened peasants hid in their houses and prayed.

  Justice, though not of a sort that Sir Roger de Belers would have recognized, had been done.

  Chapter 2

  La Palais de la Cité, Paris

  Roger Mortimer, first Earl of March, third Baron Wigmore, adventurer and exile, dearly loved to plough his mistress. It was a great consolation, one of the few since he had fled England, and not quite enough to make up for all the money and estates he had left behind.

  As the more cautious partner, she insisted that he deposit his mess on her belly or back, rather than inside her. When he had finished, he got up and waddled over to the heavy silk curtains, his damp, shrivelled manhood slapping against his thighs. The curtains were tight
ly drawn, and the air in the chamber stuffy and thick with musk. Whistling cheerfully, he wiped himself off against the rich fabric.

  Isabella turned onto her back and studied the man she had abandoned a king for. She found Mortimer’s body fascinating. It was forty-three years old and shaped by his active, violent life, the life of a man who had been a soldier and knight at arms from his youth.

  His legs were slightly bent from years of constant riding, which caused him to waddle. He was barrel-chested and muscular from constant exercise with weapons, and his right arm, his sword arm, was slightly longer than the other. There was hardly any part of his body that did not bear the brunts and scrapes of combat, but he was still a handsome man for all that, with close-cropped black hair, going grey at the temples, and a strong, square face with a dimple chin. His grey eyes always put her in mind of a stormy sea, being windows into his turbulent, passionate nature.

  Physically, Mortimer was her idea of the perfect, gentle knight, all that a warrior should be. Mentally he was just as attractive, and on a different planet to the royal eccentric she had been obliged to share a bed with for over twenty years.

  “So,” he said, clapping his hands together as he turned to face her, “is your brother going to give us any soldiers, or not?”

  Isabella sighed and stretched out on the bed. Even the perfect, gentle knight could be disappointing at times. Her two main passions were sex and politics, but she preferred to keep them as separate as possible.

  “I don’t know,” she answered, stifling a little yawn. “All I know is that he won’t let Edward have the Aquitaine back. The King of France doesn’t make me privy to all his secrets.”

  She stretched, and Mortimer gloated over her body for a moment, as she knew he would. He was an extraordinarily virile man, at least with her. Isabella knew she was still attractive, if growing plump and marked by hard living and four children, but her body was not the only aphrodisiac. Mortimer wanted Isabella for her power, her direct link to the royal French house of Capet, the possibilities she offered him.

  He crossed back to the bed and sat down heavily next to her. “He’s your brother,” he said in a low voice, gently running his fingers down her arm, “and he despises your husband as much as we do. He knows my worth as a soldier. Work on him a little.”

  “We have both been working on Charles for months. He nods and smiles, calls me his sweet sister, and makes all manner of promises. But it’s all piss and wind. He does not trust us to destroy Edward for him.”

  Mortimer’s face clouded, and blotches of angry blood began to creep up the side of his neck. “Just because he won his little war, two years ago. A child could have ripped away the Aquitaine from Edward, but even then your brother couldn’t do the job himself. The lumbering slug had to get his uncle to do the actual fighting.”

  Alarmed, Isabella gripped Mortimer’s arm. “Less of that,” she snapped. “You forget our situation. We are entirely dependent on my brother’s kindness. If he should turn us out…”

  Mortimer shook her off impatiently. “If he does, there are others who will welcome us. We can go back to Hainault, if need be. Charles lacks vision. He knows we have support, here and in England, and that Edward’s kingdom is falling to pieces.”

  “You must have patience. A little while longer, and Edward’s throne will surely crack beneath him. He commits folly after folly.”

  “I know the situation.” He rose, snatching up his robe from the floor, and drew it around him as he paced about the room. There was a jug of tepid Gascon wine and two cups on the long table in front of the bed. He poured himself a generous measure, greedily slopped down the wine, and poured some more.

  Mortimer was a sensual, ambitious creature, alive to the pleasures and pains of the world. He lived from one heady rush to the next, craving money and power and drink and sex and violence. He had been driven out of England for opposing King Edward of England and his favourites, the Despensers, and was hot for revenge. When Edward had sent his Queen to negotiate with her brother, the King of France, Mortimer had charmed her into bed and initiated a passionate affair that shocked Christendom and threatened to bring war and death to two kingdoms. All because he could, and enjoyed doing it.

  He was also an ambitious political creature, and for months he and Isabella had been trying to raise an army, by whatever means. Mortimer dreamed of sailing back to England and tearing the Despensers to shreds and pinning Edward against the wall and shaking him until all the wealth of a kingdom fell out of him, gold and silver and manors and titles and estates and glory and women.

  And the crown? There was a dangerous thought, one he was careful not to share with Isabella. She had brought her eldest son, another Edward, to France, with her, and was determined that the boy should succeed his father.

  “Another fucking Plantagenet,” Mortimer muttered, staring at the dregs in his cup.

  “What did you say?” Isabella was sitting on the edge of the bed, dabbing at her naked body with a towel.

  “Nothing.” Mortimer sucked down the last of his wine, waddled to the curtains and flung them apart.

  The window seat beyond offered a wonderful view of Paris in the winter rain. Mortimer stared down at narrow, rubbish-filled streets beneath grey skies, citizens trudging about on their little business, dogs barking, beggars pleading, the occasional wagon creaking back and forth.

  He had no time for such humdrum realities. The warm glow of the wine spread through his body, and his mind lit up with images of fire and battle, flames licking at the walls of cities and towns, swords clanging, gates tumbling, knights, archers, and men-at-arms drowning in their own blood. All of them were wearing Plantagenet and Despenser livery.

  Finally, and best of all, the image of himself sitting in St Edward’s chair at Westminster, in cloth of gold, with the Archbishop of Canterbury lowering a golden crown onto his head.

  These delicious musings were interrupted by a soft knocking at the door. Three knocks in swift succession, then two slower ones.

  “That will be Gawain,” said Mortimer, swinging around and stalking across the room. Isabella sighed and reached for her shift.

  “Why do you insist on these ridiculous games?” she said, sitting up and pulling the thin cotton garment over her head. “Insisting that our servants use secret codes and signs? They are hardly subtle. If my brother wishes to spy on us, there is little we can do about it.”

  Mortimer ignored her. He opened the door a crack, and in the gloom beyond, recognised the pale, beardless face of Isabella’s squire, Gawain Cordier. The youth nervously held out a piece of vellum. Mortimer snatched it and abruptly shut and locked the door in his face.

  He ripped away the crude seal and unfolded the vellum, which was damp and stained from a long journey. Mortimer’s grey eyes flitted from right to left as he quickly absorbed the contents, and then he scrunched the note into a ball and walked over to a side-table, where a gold candlestick-holder engraved with the royal arms of France stood. He held the crumpled ball over one of the flames.

  “Wait!” Elizabeth cried, swinging her long white legs off the bed. “Don’t destroy it yet. Let me see!”

  He held out his arm to ward her off. “No.”

  Despite its dampness, the vellum slowly blackened and burned to a crisp. Isabella stared at it bitterly. Her lover seldom allowed her to see letters sent to him from England, claiming that it was for her own protection.

  “Was it news from England?” she asked. “At least tell me that much.”

  Mortimer dropped the charred remnant before the flame could burn his fingers, and looked up at her. To her relief, he smiled.

  “Yes,” he replied, “splendid news.”

  Chapter 3

  In another part of the Palais de la Cité, King Charles IV of France was drinking spiced wine of rather better quality than Mortimer’s.

  He studied the various maps scattered about the table before him. He may have been a fat king, but never a neglectful one, unlike his
rival across the Channel.

  He kneaded his brows and tried to think through the fog of alcohol and exhaustion. The situation was complex. Two years previously his uncle, Charles de Valois, upon whom he much relied, had successfully invaded the Aquitaine and wrested it from English control. The conquest had been an easy one, since the English garrisons were few and far between, and in some places non-existent.

  Not long after, Edward of England had sent his wife, Isabella, to negotiate with her brother for the return of the lost territory. A compromise had eventually been reached, whereby France retained her conquest but England resumed administration of their remaining lands in France, but that wasn’t the interesting bit. The interesting bit was that Isabella, under the pretext of acting as a diplomat, had abandoned her husband and fled to the shelter of her brother’s court. She had brought her son with her, and soon after arriving embarked on a passionate affair with another exile, Roger Mortimer. Charles had at first been surprised at his sister’s shocking infidelity, then amused, and finally bent his mind to a way of twisting the situation to his advantage.

  The table before him was littered with a mass of bread and cheese crumbs, the remains of a late meal. He blearily pushed the crumbs about, imagining them to be towns, castles, and people. Shifting his weight in his chair, Charles reflected that he ate and drank too much, and exercised too little. The people called him Charles the Fair, after the fleshy good looks he had inherited from his father, but he feared that he was well on the way to being Charles the Fat.

  England, he knew, was in a dire mess. King Edward’s hapless dependence on his awful favourites, the Despensers, his inability to defend the north against the Scots, to maintain law and order, to control his finances, to behave with the slightest degree of common sense, had pushed his kingdom to the brink of another civil war. All it needed was a spark to set off the blaze, and an invasion of an army led by Isabella and Mortimer could be that spark. Mortimer was keen enough, God knew, and Isabella was constantly badgering Charles for money and men.