Chapter Thirteen


On the way to the Royal Oak Tavern, Father Ten filled us in on Sir Mosswood. He had brought along his warden for extra security against highwaymen and marauders from the Spade suit. The tavern was on the way to the capital, Clubdon, and was notorious for highwaymen, So the Warden, a Mr Tom Soams, armed with a huge flintlock blunderbus guarded our rear, on an old nag nearly as big as Betty. Indeed, before we left Father Ten had unlocked a cabinet and armed us all with pistols.  Father Ten’s deep rich voice explained.
‘ Sir Mosswood was a principal Knight who used to attend the Square Table, until his wife left him two years ago after he had made advances to the much younger Princess Collette, unfortunately, her ambition was even more stupid she became a mistress of Prince Victor, still a source of gossip for Clubtown. Sir Mosswood, quintessentially Clubish, was once a grand slam of a Knight, much admired for his skill with the sword and his courage. We were a clique of Knights from three suits called ‘The Pairs, four of us in all: Sir Mosswood,  Sir Isaac, Sir Valentine, and myself, then Sir Stephen. We fought in the Holy Baron Wars, against factions of the Spade suit and the whole of the Gold suit. The Princesses of all three suits colluded with the Earl of Gold, they were badly advised by the then young Queen of Spades, Theophila. They fraternised with the Golds because, except for Princess Theophila, they were all in love with the Earl of Gold, a very rich, powerful and good-looking young man back then.
 At the end of the war the Earl of Gold was exiled, well, he actually escaped. The princesses all paid dearly for their conduct, they were demoted from Ten Princesses to Eights. All other titles were relinquished or sent into exile with the Earl, all the Barons, Earls, Lords and so on. I had been captured, but as you know escaped and joined a monastery for a few years.’
 We were approaching the Royal Oak Tavern. Out side the entrance to the coach yard in the main road were parked two coaches. On the top box seat, the driver in Gold finery, and a man with a musket. Where there might have been a coat of arms on the door was covered over by a cloak. I noticed Father Ten scrutinising them, but he said nothing. We entered the court- yard of the Royal Oak Tavern. Some stable boys, Ones, rushed forward to tie up our horses. Loud exuberant sounds came from within. Father Ten looked at the place with disdain. ‘Well, I must make sacrifices in the name of the Lord. I haven’t seen my old drunken friend for some time. I suppose the ebullient old war horse will be here.’
 When we pushed open the heavy doors the noise level was almost deafening. It was a large pub, and consisted of a main saloon, which we entered, and a couple of small anterooms. It was packed. Men in all states of inebriation sat and stood around drinking and smoking their clay pipes. Some of the pipe-smokers stared into space as if affected by the tobacco, their secret thoughts, rising in spiritual harmony with the spiralling clouds to choke the room in a hanging fog.
 It was late afternoon, the sun was soft over card tables, on everything, except the back of Father Ten’s bald patch, which shone red like Sir Mosswood’s nose. You couldn’t miss him, a corpulent sanguine man, bellowing bawdy songs, standing on a sagging table at the centre of the inn: legs astride, arms out, a tankard of spilling ale in his left hand, like a Sir Toby Belch, or Falstaff of more than three hundred years ago. His clothes were of obvious quality but rubbed and stained by constant indulgences of booze and good fatty foods. His embroidered waistcoat alone would cost a farm worker a year’s wages. His hat, which he never removed, was enormous, white with pearl studding, a rim that would keep out the day, let alone the sun and rain. It was topped with a pink goose feather that must have tickled many a sneezing nose. His drunken companions mostly farmers and wenches, belted along with the raucous singing.
Suddenly, he spotted us and stopped singing. His local audience ground to a halt, turned to look, and toppled. Sir Mosswood delivered a roar of approval. ‘Why, it’s Stephen the Bear heart! My dear old friend! My dear old comrade in arms!’ When the others recognised the Bishop, they shrank away. Sir Mosswood yelled out a huge bray of delight and stamped his feet. The table groaned and disintegrated. Sir Mosswood disappeared under a mist of straw dust. We all rushed over to him. The dust dispersed and all of it seemed to settle on the wide rim of his hat. The hat tilted up, to expose Sir Mosswood’s beaming face. Tim and I pulled him to his feet with some effort he was very heavy.
 Father Ten had been helping to crane him up by pulling on his buckle, and Sir Mosswood leant forward and kissed him on his bald patch. ‘My dear old friend!’ he roared. ‘My dear, dear, dear, friend! What a jig! What a joy to see you again, you old bastard!’ There was a hush all around at this disrespectful address to a Bishop. Father Ten looked solemn. I thought he was about to explode. It was a mistake to be on the wrong side of his rare temper. But he smiled, and I noticed warmth and affection in his eyes as he stared at his old friend.
‘Why the hell don’t you come and see me any more? You’re a bad deal!’ Sir Mosswood accused.
‘I am devoted to my Church and my God of all cards.’
The blithe Sir Mosswood laughed again. ‘You always were a sanctimonious old fart!’ He hugged Father Ten and slapped his back. ‘ But a great friend, in war at least.’ He looked at us with hasty interest. His bushy eyebrows lifted as he noted my uniform, and he held my eyes for a moment. ‘Who are your companions?  This gentleman, a Captain from my old regiment.’  He gave me a drunken salute. Father Ten smiled, and nodded at me.
 ‘Yes, yesterday Jeffery here was a Two Club, now, with a purse of diamonds, he has a commission and promotion to Five. It seems that after God, money is the most powerful agent on earth. I think you have met Tim with his father Mr Hobbs, and you know my Warden, Tom.’ Sir Mosswood nodded at us briefly, swilled some more beer then looked around the room for a free table. Father Ten placed a hand on his shoulder.
‘James, my old friend, (he said with gravity), we have come with some urgent news, come back to my place, we need to speak.’
 Sir Mosswood seemed almost alarmed at the prospect of leaving his beloved Tavern. ‘Speak? We can speak here. How can I leave this beautiful ale behind, and these women! I mean have you seen the jugs on that one?’ Father Ten looked uncomfortable. ‘Please restrain yourself James.’
 ‘Oh, sorry, my old Bishop, the trouble is, my body gets older and my eyes get younger,’ Sir Mosswood said, jubilantly slapping a passing bargirl on her ample swaying behind. He turned and walked towards a corner table were there were eight rowdy farmers, all Two and Three Clubs, he drew his sword with consummate ease, and cut down to slam it on to a pie, It cut the pie and pewter plate in half. There was a potent silence. The occupants all looked warily at Sir Mosswood. ‘Vacate!’ He yelled. ‘ Or I’ll have your pips!’ Because of his rank and the reputation that he still had as a swordsman par excellence, they moved grudgingly away. We all sat. Sir Mosswood, due to his station (in the Tavern anyway) sat at the end. Father Ten at the other. I sat in the middle, facing the door. Tim, my friend, and Tom the Warden sat opposite.
 ‘So what is this vital news that interrupts my drinking?’  Sir Mosswood asked, stuffing a piece of the pie into his mouth and mumbling through it, added, ‘And my eating!’
Father Ten leant forward. ‘It’s quite simple, James. Our Clubland is in danger.’
  Sir Mosswood stared at Father Ten for some moments while he finished chewing on the pie and washed it down with his ale. ‘How? The Taverns are always open, the wenches are still lusty, and our Club Prince John still pays me drinking and whoring money.’
 ‘Exactly, James, to keep you occupied and drunk.’
 ‘Rubbish! I check the King’s horses and barracks.’
‘When?’
 ‘Well, once a year.’
 ‘When was the last time you checked the army enrolment and armoury?’
Sir Mosswood spat out a piece of pie, and thought about the question. ‘Well?’ Father Ten prompted.
 ‘I don’t know, two years ago…’
 ‘You see!’ snapped Father Ten. ‘Half our army is missing!’
 While they argued, I spotted a face at the next table. Not familiar but I’d seen him somewhere before. I racked my memory. He was dressed inconspicuously, wrapped in a large grey cloak, about forty, bald, a scull-like face, with a pale almost sickly hue, a paunch and a gold and diamond ring attached to the tail of his powdered white wig. I was incredulous, how could a man with a cheap sack- like cloak afford such a wig and ring. Then I noticed fine blue silk cuffs just showing in a crack of his cloak. Yes! I remembered! The Diamond Castle courtyard, he was walking out of the porter’s office, just before the fight. It was one of those things you sort of partly take in, if I had never seen him again he would have been forgotten. And yes! At Gossip’s Corner at the back, pretending to listen to the seedy conversation but actually watching me… I think… I caught him now looking at my uniform with agitation. The voices of my party gained prevalence in my hearing again, as I noticed they did with the stranger, he was leaning closer. Father Ten was talking.
 ‘James, listen to me, unless we start to prepare our forces immediately they will…’
 I stood up. ‘Father Ten!’ I yelled interrupting. They all looked up at me, startled. I leant forward and lowered my voice. ‘I will swear to you that I have seen that man at the next table…No! Don’t all look at once! (But they did all glance.) He was in that Jackson’s office just before my fight. I saw him leave and he was up in the palace, I mean what would a man in those rags be doing up in the palace?’
Sir Mosswood belched. ‘What fight?’ Tim quickly explained my fight, Sir Mosswood looked impressed, his bushy eyebrows lifted like two restless caterpillars. ‘Oh that was you young fellow, very plucky.’
 Father Ten was staring at the stranger intensely.  ‘My God! (he exclaimed), it can’t be! Sir Mosswood turned to look again and also seemed to recognise the man.
‘Holy Hearts! It is, what’s happened to him? He used to be a handsome fellow.’ Father Ten nodded. ‘Yes, age has been most unkind to him. How just, for such an unkind man.’
I noticed that the man in question had turned away again, and had taken up the pretence of talking to his mob. I say mob, because at his table were the biggest bunch of villains I had ever seen. Like pirates; bearded, scarred and dirty, the window behind them was open and the breeze sent over a foul smell. I counted eleven packed shoulder to shoulder. Father Ten stood up. ‘Excuse me sir, but do I not have the dishonour of addressing the Earl of Gold?’ The Earl turned slowly to look squarely at Father Ten, but did not reply. He scratched his wig, and on so doing, I noticed that the top of his left ear was cut off and there was a scar that seemed to underline his left eye, no doubt sword wounds. ‘With your silence, is assembled your guilt. Of that, sir, I have no doubt. So may I ask what your vocation in our Clubland is, Lord Gold? Especially since you were sent into exile abroad for life, not twenty years.’
 Lord Gold stopped scratching and looked around his men. ‘This, my pack of hounds, is what is called a hypocrite. He speaks to me with the pious conviction that I suffer from some guilt and that, when exiled, I should have achieved sufficient grace to assuage my pain. While in Goldland I returned to alchemy and left my princess Theophila in her sin-stained bed.’
There was now quite a hush in the pub. I didn’t understand much of that, and I don’t think the farmers understood anything. Sir Mosswood stood, knocking his chair over. ‘You, sir, are a criminal and a scoundrel! My friend and bishop is a veritable saint he helps the poor and sick and is much respected!’ There was a general murmur of agreement around us.
 The Earl stood and dropped his cloak to expose the fineries of his suit. A gold jacket that shone like a crown, and a beautifully crafted waistcoat of black and gold. He held two pistols that pointed at the hearts of Father Ten and Sir Mosswood. On this cue his men also stood and produced old rusty-looking pistols, one I noticed pointed at my chest to blow my heart to Heartland, and it was on a hair trigger. If the man got some of the straw dust up his nose… I prayed that Sir Mosswood would never take his hat off.   ‘Are you with the Black Prince?’ Father Ten asked calmly, a brave question, still seeking information facing pistols.
 The Earl smiled. ‘I do not need his help tonight.’ In the corner of my eye, I could see that the farmers were moving forward to help us. Suddenly the Earl swung around and shot the leading farmer. A black hole appeared on his forehead and he slumped to the ground, his legs kicking like a strangled chicken. I felt very shocked, I knew the man, a kind gentle giant. The Earl smiled and his thin lips were devoid of humour. ‘This is quite a bounty. I came to kidnap the drunken Sir Mosswood, and then continue on to your Palace, Stephen, for you. But now I have the Bishop, a captain and swordsman of new repute and his reputable friend.’
 The Warden Tom stood with his blunderbuss. ‘And a small little Warden with one hand and a big gun,’ he said with a lopsided grin. I began a slow and undignified descent under the table, I was in the path of his fire. As the tip of my head sank below the edge of the table I twisted around and looked up. The faces around the Earl looked anxious, they knew of the painful damage of a blunderbuss, full of rusty nails, what it could do at close range, its spread would reach them all in bloody carnage.
‘I think this is a stand-off. I suggest we move out-side and use our swords, you will still have a big advantage, agreed?’ Father Ten offered. The Earl nodded agreement, and stood. The trouble was the next table stood as well, another eight men, that was twenty men including the Earl. Father Ten motioned us to move to the door, we slowly backed away, then turned for the door, leaving Tom still walking backwards guarding our backs.
 My heart was racing with excitement, here I was with Tim about to join two of the most famous swordsmen in Cardland, Sir Mosswood and Father Ten in a sword fight against the infamous Earl and against many more superior numbers. The fight would be talked about for years. Three and a half against twenty.
What fame, what an honour! Sir Mosswood and Father Ten drew their swords.
 ‘Run!’ Father Ten shouted.
‘What?’ I asked dumbfounded.
 ‘Run!’ Now it was Sir Mosswood.
‘We are gentlemen of honour! We cannot run!’ I protested, and drew my sword. Father Ten grabbed the collar of my coat, and pulled hard. ‘Run, you idiot! We cannot fight such odds in the confined space of the yard.’ I instantly understood. Each of us would have to fight five men or more, for that you needed space to run, stop, attack, run, jump, leap this way and that, impossible, in a confined space.
We ran flat out for the entrance to the main road, as we reached it shots rang out behind and echoed noisily around the yard. We reached the road and glanced at each other, we were all unhurt. Following the example of Father Ten, Sir Mosswood, and Tom, we rammed our swords in to the ground something all cavalrymen were trained to do, when dismounted, so we could fire our pistols, then grab our swords, it also contaminated the blades.
 Suddenly a shot snapped out from the box seats of one of the coaches. We all aimed our pistols and were about to shoot at the man with the smoking pistol when a deafening explosion rang out next to us. Tom had fired his blunderbuss and not only had the coachman disappeared but so had part of the coach. We all turned to inspect each other again and laughed when we observed a musket ball hole at the top of Sir Mosswood’s hat.
 The assassins were almost upon us and still firing, but their shots were going very wide as they were running. Indeed one of them suffered a misfire his pistol blew up, sending black smoke and gunpowder cinders back in to his face, giving him the appearance of a chimneysweep. He dropped like a sack.
 As the yelling men advanced, they spread out more and I could see the Earl behind them raise his pistol, aim and fire at me. I saw the puff of smoke and almost immediately it was as if someone had hit me with a hammer on the shoulder blade. I angled my head and looked down to see that his bullet had smashed the silver mesh of my epaulet, leaving a groove but no blood on the top of my shoulder. I felt relieved that he had gone for a headshot, virtually imposable at that range.
 We all drew our pistols and fired at the charging men. I looked down the length of my arm, held my breath, squeezed the trigger, the pistol jumped in my hand and the man’s chest imploded as he was lifted off his feet by the force of the lead ball. Four men dropped to the ground, one of them screaming in agony as a shot must have shattered a bone, a fifth, I think shot by Tom had his arm shattered and was spinning like a top and yelping. Now it was every man for him-self. Two men almost fell on me with murderous intent, slashing and thrusting. They hardly seemed to know what they were doing. I had seen better swordsmen at a bear-baiting contest. One of them tried an angulation, his blade incorporating an exaggerated angle. I made an easy riposte and hit him below his ribcage, no time for a deep wound for the other man was lunging, I parried and struck upward into his underarm. He yelled, dropped his sword and ran off.
 I heard Tim yell my name in warning, heard a thump behind me and before I could turn a man who had tried to stab me from behind, fell on my back and for a moment in his death throes held me and groaned in my ear. ‘I think he loves you, Jeffery!’
Tim yelled. I laughed nervously and threw him off. Tom ran past laughing hysterically, as four men chased after him, one of them had his sword caught in his hook, I just had time to see Sir Mosswood trip two of them, and club them with his empty pistol. Then, as if from nowhere the Earl was in front of me. ‘My dear Captain, before you discover your true identity I will kill you.’ He kissed the hilt of his sword and I took the opportunity to lunge, bugger etiquette and manners, the odds were too unfair.
 He was quick and experienced, he made a derobement, sliding off my blade, an appel, a flick, a lunge and finale. I made a body evasion, surprising how quickly one can move to avoid death. Recovering, I made a balestra, a jump followed by a lunge and there was a ripping sound as I tore his fine gold coat. With a slight advantage I made a fierce fleche attack. It was his turn to run and as he did so in a panic of flaying arms he called for help. A large man blocked my path, attacking with surprising speed and skill, at the same time I saw four men chasing Sir Mosswood, I tripped one who fell on Sir Mosswood’s Sword. ‘Thank you Captain! Better odds now!’  He yelled, taking on the remaining three. Then for an instant I was facing sure death. That distraction, trying to help Sir Mosswood, would cost me my life. It was as if in slow motion, the man who was attacking me… his blade had reached my chest.
 In a flash of steel, and to my intense relief, Father Ten’s blade had thrust away my opponent’s sword. As a reaction, a survival instinct, I thrust my Mangouch, my left- hand dagger upwards into the young man’s chest. He stumbled forward and clutched me, pulling me close, as if perversely, for comfort. He looked deeply in to my eyes as if begging for his life back and died.
 And then it was over, that quickly. I saw one man jumping over a fence into a field to run off into the dusk. Accompanied by the lonely sobbing of wounded men, and our panting, the silence was strange, eerie. There was a noise of a whip cracking the air behind. We all turned. The Earls coach was turning and he was off at a gallop up the road, which was now in the long shadows of Elm trees.
 A cheer went up from the farmers who had been watching the fight. I don’t know why but I began to feel dizzy. I dropped to one knee. I felt a pain in my chest and looked down to inspect a chest wound. The pain intensified, even though it wasn’t deep. I looked up at the others. They were bowing at the crowd, except for Father Ten, who was on his knees praying. I joined them. What grace a bow could have in victory. Alas, shallow, we were bowing over dead and dying men. One of them cried for his mother. We had one thing in common, neither of us would see her again.