Edward’s Right Hand

By N. Beetham Stark

Edward’s Right Hand is about a young Irish boy who is a superb swordsman and archer. He grows up with Prince Edward who becomes King Edward I. As a young man, he becomes the Master-at-Arms for Edward and fights in his many battles with the Welsh and Scots. He even accompanies him to Jerusalem to fight the Infidels. Justin falls in love with a beautiful Jewess and secretly marries her, knowing that Edward and his anti-semitic family would banish him or worse if he is found out. Trouble begins when Edward who thinks that Justin is still single, forces him to marry an obnoxious French countess. Lydea, his Jewish wife, finds a way to avoid catastrophe. Later, after Edward’s wife, Eleanor, dies, Edward sees Lydea at the Staines Fair and falls for her until he is told that she is a Jewess. Then prejudice and disaster take over. Justin holds Edward responsible for his real wife’s death and refuses to serve Edward any longer. He joins the Scots and eventually strikes a telling blow for the Scots against the oppressive English. Through the events in Edward’s life, we see him change from a most noble and honest man to a corrupt leader, bent on getting Scotland for his own at any cost. I am sure that King Edward never knew that his life would enlighten men for centuries into the future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: N. Beetham Stark
• Release date: May 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458042019

N. Beetham Stark

Nellie Beetham Stark was born November 20, 1933, in Norwich, Connecticut to Theodore and Dorothy Pendleton Beetham. She attended the Norwich Free Academy and later Connecticut College in New London, CT before graduating with a MA and a Ph.D. degree in Botany (Ecology) from Duke University.Stark worked for the U.S. Forest Service as a botanist for six years and then joined the Desert Research Institute in Reno, Nevada where she worked on desert and forest ecology and later tropical nutrient cycling. She has consulted in many countries, working for some time in Russia, Australia and South America. She developed the theory that explains why tropical white sand soils cannot grow good food crops and described the decline processes of soils. She has also developed a science of surethology, or survival behavior which describes how humans must adapt to their environments if they hope to survive long term. She has 96 professional publications and has published in four languages.Her life long hobby has been English history, with emphasis on naval history. Her family came originally from Tristan Da Cunha in the South Atlantic in the early 1900’s. Her grandfather was a whale ship captain for a time which spurred her interest in naval history. She also paints pictures of sailing ships which she has used as covers for her historical novels. She has built several scale models of sailing ships and does extensive research on ships and naval history, traveling to England once yearly.Stark was awarded the Connecticut Medal by Connecticut College in 1986 and the Distinguished Native Daughter Award for South Eastern Connecticut in 1985. She was named outstanding Forestry Professor three times by the students of the University of Montana, School of Forestry.Today she writes historical novels, mostly set in England. She has published some 21 novels in the past twenty years, mostly on the internet. She lives on a farm in Oregon and raises hay and cows.Stark's two most popular book series are:Early Irish-English History1. The Twins of Torsh, 44 A.D. to 90 A.D.1. Rolf "The Red" MacCanna, 796-8462. An Irishman's Revenge, 1066-11124. Brothers 4, 1180-12165. Edward's Right Hand, 1272-13076. We Three Kings, 1377-1422The Napoleonic Wars at Sea (Benjamin Rundel)1. Humble Launching - A Story of a Little Boy Growing Up at Sea, 17872. Midshipman Rundel - The Wandering Midshipman, 17953. Mediterranean Madness - The Luckless Leftenant Rundel, 17974. The Adventures of Leftenant Rundel, 1797-17995. Forever Leftenant Rundel, 1800-18036. Captain Rundel I – Trafalgar and Beyond, 1803-18067. Captain Rundel II – Give Me a Fair Wind, 1806-18098. Captain Rundel III – Bend Me a Sail, 1810-18139. Admiral Rundel – 1814-1846

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Edward’s Right Hand

1272-1307

An Historical Novel

by N. Beetham Stark

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Discover other titles by N. Beetham Stark at

Smashwords.com or at NBeethamStark.com.

Edward’s Right Hand: 1272-1307

Written by N. Beetham Stark

Copyright 2010 by N. Beetham Stark

Cover art by N. Beetham Stark

Published by Smashwords, Inc.

ISBN 978-1-4580-4201-9

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form

without the written permission of the author or trust agents.

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Dedication: This book is dedicated to Tarsie, Tomid, Tintagon and Picatso with great affection, for had they not kept my lap warm, I might never have finished the work.

History has made us who we are. Do not blame our shortcoming on history, but rather learn from the source that is the greatest teacher of governance known to modern man. Open your mind and heart to history.

N. Beetham Stark

Acknowledgements

Much of the material used in this book was obtained through various sources on the internet.

Preface

I have tried to portray Edward 1, King of England (1272-1307) as accurately as possible. He lived in an exciting time and led a life rich with challenge and adventure. He moved about more than most kings of the time and was constantly seeking to influence the lives of his people. His battles were real battles but Justin is a fictitious character, grown entirely from my imagination to interact with the great king in an exciting period of history.

At this time in history, almost all Englishmen still spoke French. Henry and Edward would have been most comfortable speaking French, but would probably also have spoken some English and had at least a reading knowledge of Latin. The persecution of the Jews did really happen and the hapless people were once again shunted to yet another country, France, where they were not wanted either. They always seemed to be a people without a country of their own. I have tried to portray Edward as he really was. The misery of the Jewish people is portrayed as accurately as possible. This story is really about prejudice and its ability to destroy the bonds of friendship between two former friends. There is much to learn from history.

It is not certain whether King Henry actually fought a battle in Gascony in the year 1252, but for the sake of the story, Justin’s tale begins there. The banning of the debased Flemish coins minted for Gui de Dampierre may have happened a year or two later than is depicted here. Lydea (Lie-dea) is a colourful character who did not exist as such but who might well have lived at that time. And yes, the Welsh words are mostly spelled correctly. I leave it to the reader to try to figure out how they are pronounced.

The events in the life of Edward are taken largely from Edward I. Longshanks, by Edward Peele (1974). I believe that most of the incidents in Edward’s life are reasonably accurately portrayed here. What happens in Justin’s and Brendan’s life is largely fiction, built around what was happening at that time in history. The death of Edward is portrayed accurately, but the arrow through the tent pinning him to the English soil is a Hollywood touch that I have added. Many a Scot will thank me for it, I hope. There are a few entries where Peele’s intent is unclear and may have caused confusion. If I have erred in any way, I apologize in advance. One might think that a Medieval tale would be dull, but I recommend that you fasten your seat belts for an exciting, at times frantic, and most perilous ride through history!

Table of Contents

Preface

Chapter 1 - An Irish Tiger

Chapter 2 - A New Family

Chapter 3 - Castille

Chapter 4 - A Jewish, Druid, Catholic Wedding

Chapter 5 - ap Gruffudd

Chapter 6 - Politics and Defeat

Chapter 7 - The Dastardly War

Chapter 8 - Crusading

Chapter 9 - Edward 1, King of England

Chapter 10 - England At Last

Chapter 11 - ‘Til Death Do You Part or I do, but I don’t

Chapter 12 - Wales, Up and Down

Chapter 13 - Return of The Damned

Chapter 14 - War Again

Chapter 15 - The Quiet Years

Chapter 16 - War At Sea

Chapter 17 - Gone Missing

Chapter 18 - Ireland At Last

Chapter 19 - Scottish Adventures - Hammering The Scots

Chapter 1 - An Irish Tiger

King Henry III sat atop his handsome roan horse, looking about the battlefield. The horse pawed the ground nervously, its dark mane flowing in the breeze. The fighting was nearly over, just a skirmish here and there. He had defeated the French yet again and was feeling good because he would soon be going home to his beloved Eleanor and his children. Nonetheless, he shivered as the cold wind blew off the Atlantic Ocean onto the wintry Gascogne shores. Henry decided that no sensible man should leave his warm bed to fight in the French winter.

Off to the right there had flared up a sizable commotion. Henry’s attention was drawn to the small knot of men who gestured and shouted. Men were not actually fighting but gathered in a circle around to watch three of their comrades fighting one lone man. All Henry could see from his vantage point was a man fighting fiercely, his sword flashing through the air slashing here and there with deadly accuracy and unbelievable speed. Henry was intrigued by the sight and kicked his horse into action as he guided the animal towards the ruckus.

As Henry approached he reined up suddenly. In his astonishment he said out loud, That is no man they are fighting. It is but a young boy! But look at the little tiger fight! His sword whips out unpredictable at each of his three opponents, inflicting noticeable injury on their arms and legs. Henry saw Warenne falter after the boy struck him hard in the arm. Then Rawley, one of his best swordsmen, fell back under the tiger’s fierce advance, his sword dropping almost in despair. But the boy pressed on driven by some invisible force that almost exceeded human endurance. Now Gui stepped back, unable to meet all of the thrusts that were aimed at him and bleeding from several hits. Henry sat fascinated, wanting to watch and yet angered that his best swordsmen were being beaten, And by a mere boy at that!

He let the fight continue for yet a few minutes, but finally he called out in his deep voice, Enough there! Cease your fighting and put down your arms, all. Your king approaches.

At that Henry dismounted from his horse and approached the small group of men. The men let their sword tips drop to the ground, and the Englishmen saluted their king. But the boy looked at him defiantly, his black eyes blazing and his sword held at the ready.

Put down your sword young man. The battle is over and I fear that you have won, he said with a faked laugh.

Henry looked at the boy for a time. He was perhaps twelve or thirteen with surprisingly broad shoulders for one so young and a slim waist with legs that moved like lightning. His hands were unusually large and strong. He moved with the grace and ease of a large cat. He had an unruly shock of brown, wavy hair that fell to his shoulders and he wore a long tunic tied at the waist with a leather thong, stained with the many colours of war and hastily eaten meals. He wore low boots that appeared to be nearly worn out. But the child had a marvelously handsome face, dirty but finely carved and pleasant. As Henry looked at his face, he realized that here would someday be a man to reckon with.

What is your name, boy?

I am called Brendan of Athy in my homeland.

And where is your homeland?

I come with my father from Ireland. He lies over there, killed by your men. Now let me get on with my revenge, if you will sire. At that the boy took a fighting stance, raised his sword and lashed out at Gui and slit his arm open. Gui grabbed his arm and shouted in pain. He whipped off his scarf and tried to bind it to stop the bleeding as he stumbled backwards.

I gave you fair warning sir. I said that I was here to avenge my father’s death, and so I will.

Not so fast young one, said Henry as he stepped forward and seized the boy’s sword, struggling to get it out of his tight grip.

And who are you to tell me that I may not avenge my father’s death?

I am Henry the third, King of England and I have just conquered Gascogne. You are standing on Gascon soil I believe and so, you are my subject.

The boy stood with his mouth open, but did not change his attitude. He was prepared to fight with his fists if he must.

One of the bystanders spoke, Boy, kneel to your king and show submission or he will see you beheaded. At that he hit Brendan hard on the back, forcing the boy to one knee.

Henry looked down at him with a faint smile on his face. He drew his sword as if to run the lad through, but at the last minute, he merely struck him on the shoulder with the flat of his sword, saying, I dub thee knight Tiger. At that all the men began to laugh and the tension of the moment melted away.

Young fighter, I will take you home with me and feed you to my favourite hound. But where did you learn to fight like that?

My father taught me all that I know about fighting. He is...was a valiant warrior.

Henry turned to his aide who had just caught up with him. Seize this little tiger and tie him up. Take care to feed him. He looks as if he has not eaten in a week. He will come back to England with us. Send him to Rual. Treat him well, but do not let him lose until we have reached Windsor.

Aye, sire.

At that Henry turned to attend to the myriad details that must be addressed after a battle, men to house and feed, food to be gathered, horses to collect, wounded to be brought in and treated, dead to be buried and plans for the long march to the coast. He still had to receive the sword of his enemy whom he had just roundly defeated. He would need to select a small army to stay behind to protect his territory and men to govern the province in his absence. Henry was always in need of good men and he thought that he had just found one in the making today by the name of Brendan. There was much to do. And likely there would be some treaty or other to sign within a few days. Perhaps we will not fly off to England until all is settled here and I am in full control, he thought.

Brendan stood by the edge of the battle field. The King had thrown his father’s sword on the ground carelessly after he had wrenched it from his hand. Now Brendan reached for the sword and held it with a death grip. He bit and kicked the men who tried to take his father’s sword from him. He refused to let go of Rolf’s foot until he promised that he would keep his father’s sword for him until such time as he could win his freedom. He held the man’s foot in a vice-like grip with his arm wrapped tightly around his ankle. He kept saying, Promise me that my father’s sword will be kept safe for me or I will bite off a toe! Promise me now or I will bite off two toes! He was in the process of trying to remove Rolf’s boot with his other hand.

Let go, you little cat or I will beat you to a pulp. He began to try to pull the boy free from his foot, but soon realized that he was serious about the sword.

I will guard your father’s sword with my life if you will just release my foot so I can walk again.

Do you promise?

I promise, now let loose! He drew Brendan to his feet and trussed him tightly with thong, his hands in front of him.

Promise me that you will deliver the sword to the King and tell him that it is mine by right of birth and that I shall come someday to claim it.

The knight nodded his head, As you wish, little tiger.

Brendan stood sullen, a child beaten by stronger men, but yet a defiant spirit that no man would wish to challenge. That sword is all that is left of my father, my family. Lose it or damage it and I will kill you without mercy.

You speak brave words for one who has just lost a battle and now stands with his hands tied. I will honour your wishes, but only because the King has ordered me to be kind to you. Your sword will be delivered into the King’s keeping. It will be safe there.

Brendan was pushed off towards where the army had its camp. He was turned over to the senior chamberlain who was partly retired but still wished to travel with the King. Men were scurrying everywhere, some carrying wounded, some bringing food supplies captured from the enemy and some carrying the dead to bury. Brendan was used to the aftermath of battle. He had been in France with his father for four years now and they had fought many battles together.

An aged fellow dressed in dark brown approached him. His head and shoulders were bent, his hair a snow white and his neatly trimmed beard was tinged with grey and white. The hand that he held out to Brendan was shaking and shriveled, white as a lily and at the same time gnarled and ancient. But his face was smiling and pleasant, wrinkled like a prune kept too long out of its juice.

My name is Rual, chamberlain and squire to the King. The King has sent me to take care of you. Come, I have ordered food and drink for you.

Brendan was amazed that one so old would want to go to war. He had always thought of war as the work of young men, but then the king was not young either and some of the knights were on in years. He followed obediently. He could do little else with his hands tied and his feet shackled.

Rual led him to a tiny tent made of animal skins. There were two cots within and little room for anything else. Brendan was led to one of the cots.

Sit here. I shall return with your food promptly. Brendan though of escape, but it was hopeless. With his feet shackled, he could barely walk, let alone run and the fields nearby were crawling with knights and mercenaries cleaning up after the battle. And his stomach hurt. The King was right. He had not eaten in two days.

True to his word, Rual returned within minutes. Brendan was busy trying to untie his shackles. This is all I can find at present. The camp followers will fire up the cook fires and there will be hot food later. He handed Brendan a large slab of dark bread and an ample wedge of cheese. The cheese was strong and good and he sank his teeth into it gratefully. Rual watched him eat, rubbing his hands as if to wash them and smiling benevolently all the time.

Then he bent forward, whispering in his ear. I know you are no Frenchman by your abominable abuse of the language. But I have heard the King say that if you prove to be faithful and dependable, he will do great things for you. I always believe the King. I have served him these many years and his father, John, before him. You may not know it, but you are a most fortunate boy. Any other king might have run you through right there in the field.

Brendan did not know what to make of that information. What can the King do for me that would be a ‘great thing’ and would make me a fortunate boy? He more than likely wants to try to ransom me, but if he does he shall be surprised. I have no family anywhere. He took a long drink of wine to assuage his thirst.

Rual stayed close to Brendan, seeing to his needs and often removing the rope from his hands but leaving his feet shackled. He was so kind to the boy that Brendan soon began to like him. He had always thought that he could never like any Englishman. He didn’t like any Frenchman either, for that matter. They are all a bunch of connivers and killers. But Rual was a kindly old man, always supportive of him and eager to please him.

One of the first things that Rual did was to assure Brendan that his sword was safe with the King. He even took the boy to the King’s tent while the latter was away negotiating for peace and showed him the sword. That one act won Brendan’s loyalty. He found it much easier now to do as Rual asked. And the tidbits of meat that Rual brought for him from the King’s cook were finer than any he had ever tasted. It soon became obvious that for a prisoner of war, he was being well looked after.

The second thing that Rual did to win Brendan’s heart was to come to him on the second day. He said, Your father’s body lies atop a hill near here. They are preparing to bury the dead. Perhaps you would wish to go and pay your respects?

Brendan jumped up with a start. He had tried not to think of his father since the battle yesterday when he saw him fall from a mighty blow from an English knight. Now it is time to act!

I would go and dig his grave with my own hands. We are Druids and burial is a special ritual. Take me there now! But no sooner had the words hit the air than he wished that he had never spit them out. He knew that these men were devout Catholics and if it were known that he was a Druid, they might kill him on the spot. He realized that he must tread carefully. He went to Mass regularly and gave lip service to the Catholic faith, but his father had raised him in the old tradition of the Druids. He knew that in his heart he would always be a Druid, wanting to cut the mistletoe and speak with the ancient Druid gods. For him, every spring or well held Danu, the mother of them all.

Rual said nothing and led Brendan to the hill and stood watching as the boy tried to force back tears. He was such a fine father. No one could have asked for a better mentor. And now he goes the the Otherworld and will know no pain or suffering ever again, he said under his breath.

Then he began the ritual for the dead as practiced by the now long lost Druid culture. He grabbed a shovel from one of the men who stood near by. Then he turned to a knight who was watching the bodies being dumped into the grave that they had dug. The dead were Frenchmen mostly. The English were buried elsewhere. He reached towards one man pulling at his sleeve, a tall knight with a long sword at his side. Please, sire. Cut off the head of that man there, as he pointed to his father’s body lying nearby.

That was such a bizarre request that the knight at first did not comprehend, but Rual knew. The boy really is a Druid! I must protect him. The King should never know of this! Rual nodded to the knight to do the boy’s bidding.

Slowly, the knight turned and drew his sword. He stood for a time looking at the dead body of the fallen Irish warrior. Then he crossed himself and raised his sword. In one swift blow, he severed the head from the body.

There! Now does that satisfy you! He is really dead now, with no head to guide him. I can’t believe anyone would hate so deeply as to sever the head of the dead. At that he turned and went back to the pit.

Brendan began to dig with the shovel but the hard frozen ground resisted his every attempt. Rual took pity on him and untied his hands, leaving his feet loosely shackled. He watched as Brendan measured off the grave, mumbling to himself that there was no grave measurer here so he would have to do the work. Then he dug a hole about four feet deep. He pulled his father’s body and laid it gently in the hole, saying strange words in Gaelic that Rual pretended not to understand. He filled in the hole and placed the head on top, saying in Gaelic, Now great Donn, God of the Otherworld, I hope that you can find my father’s head so far from home so that he may move swiftly to his rest. Then there followed other words strange to Rual’s ear, but words that Brendan had heard his father say over the grave of other fallen Irish heroes. Finally, he walked right handed around the grave eleven times, chanting as he went.

Rual stood by, looking frequently about to see if any of the knights had seen or heard what the boy was saying or doing. Only one Rufus of Hertford might have heard, but he prayed that he knew nothing of the Druid religion. Rual had already come to like his young charge and wished to protect him. The boy had a commanding way about him that made men want to obey him.

The next five weeks were spent with the King and his guard off to settle ownership of the conquered territory with the French King. Brendan saw little of the King during that time, but he thought that he saw his head poked into his tent when he was supposed to be sleeping. He also often found a warm blanket thrown over him as he slept, but he laid that at Rual’s door. The old man was kindly, but Brendan soon realized that the old man often shivered in his sleep and did not have access to such fine blankets as warmed his own bed. What Brendan did not know was that the King asked after his little tiger each night when Rual came to see him to his rest.

Life bound to a tent was miserable for a young man as active as Brendan. It was cold, raining or even snowing most of the time and he could not go outside. His clothes were threadbare, not suited to summer, let alone a Gascon winter. But he was resourceful. Soon he cleared a space on the floor and with a sharp stick began to draw wondrous designs full of dragons, chevrons, gargoyle, and castles on a spot of bare soil perhaps two by two feet. Rual watched with amazement as this talented youth drew, erased and drew yet another fine scene.

Sometimes Rual would tell tales of his years with John and Henry. That seemed to amuse both men and soon it was clear that they would be good friends, whatever might happen. Rual told of the time that King John had tried to cross the Wash when the tide was coming in. He had wagon loads of jewels and all of the treasures of the crown that he always carried with him. He didn’t trust anyone, you see, so he dared not leave his treasure behind him in London. The first wagons made it safely across, but the last wagons were swamped by the sea as a rogue wave came in to lap at them like some mighty dragon. It was a terrible sight to behold, the wagon wheels undermined by the clawing waves, men scrambling to get ashore only to be pulled back and sucked into the sea to drown. The animals too were in panic, screaming, fighting their harnesses, but they too were soon pulled into the cold North Sea by the relentless waves. In a few minutes it was all over. All was lost, including the men and the jewels. John was, of course, safely across and stood for hours lamenting his lost riches. He was a very headstrong man, more so than his son, but you should be wary of Henry as well.

Another day he spent hours telling about all of the events that led up to the ‘Magna Carta.’ It was 1215 and the barons were as angry as a nest of hornets stirred up by a big stick. They were unhappy about the high taxes, especially scuttage, to support one war lost after another. He seemed to betray his friends and constantly plotted against this one and that, even his own family. Finally the barons, fed up with useless wars and high taxes, cornered John at Runnemede and made him sign the ‘Magna Carta’ which guaranteed justice for all Englishmen, even persons such as myself. Of course, John convinced the Pope that he had been forced unjustly to sign the document and the Pope released him from his promise. The barons hounded him until his death in 1216.

I never knew much of his brother, Richard ‘Coeur-de-lion.’ He was a legend. He spent only a few months of his reign in England. The Great Island was simply a huge bank from which he could draw the money needed to carry out his Crusades. He spoke no word of English. Most of the time he was off crusading leaving his beautiful wife to linger far behind. When he was captured by the King of Austria, his mother, Eleanor and others managed to find 150,000 marks in this dry, drained land to pay his ransom so he could come home. It was not long before he was off to France where he died of gangrene from an arrow wound. He was a savage fighter, a man with no heart and yet one with all heart in battle."

And what can you tell me of Henry III?

He is not the most efficient of Kings. He had a bad start, inheriting the crown when he was only nine years old. The country was ruled by the most able William Marshall, Earl of Pembroke as Regent for much of his minority, until Pembroke died. Then another regent took over, but by the time Henry ascended to the throne, he was beset with many troubles. His wife is very religious and very French. So you may want to watch your tongue around the family. Henry is religious also. He constantly showers favours and prime lands on her French relatives, which makes the English barons angry with him. He has been a good mentor to me, but I think that England will have a much stronger king when young Edward ascends to the throne.

He continued. Alphonso X, the new King of Castille, has wanted this land to connect to his own for sometime. He fought a battle that might best be called a draw. But Henry is now busy trying to negotiate a settlement that would offer his son Edward in marriage to Alphonso’s sister, Eleanor. That will cause a good bit of confusion when there are two Eleanor’s, one wife and one mother! I wonder what Edward would say of his father’s plans if he were here. He had to practically tie the young man up to keep him in England, you know.

He continued. Henry is making this battle look like a win because there is so much dissatisfaction with his war taxes at home that he must show some gain, but really the French carried the day. He really went to Paris to pay homage to the French King for lands that have belonged to the English for some time now. They had many such conversations and Brendan was quickly learning about the English. Not all of what he heard was to his liking. But it helped to while away the dreary days. Then finally word came that they would be setting out for the English Channel in two days. The King had sent men forward to find places for them to camp with orders to acquire by any means food adequate for the 1,200 men who were returning to England and their horses. Cogs with their strange fore and aft high castles, fighting platforms and rounded hulls were ordered to await their arrival at Calais in about a month. The five hundred soldiers and knights who were to be left behind were most unhappy, grumbling about their misfortune and expressing their wishes to return home to any one who would listen. They had been sent to a castle nearby which would be their home for months to come. Brendan was anxious to see what would happen to him. Clearly he was not to be left behind. Rual took off the thongs that bound his hands so he could assist with taking down the tent. He had not seen or spoken with Henry in the five weeks that they were camped at Verdun.

One day Brendan asked why they did not take ship from some nearby port such as Arcachon or La Rochelle. Rual’s answer was that, the sailors of the Cinque Ports and Yarmouth are always fighting, but neither would sail their small ships out into the Atlantic. So we must walk to Calais and sail the Channel.

The next morning the tent was torn down, loaded on a wagon and Brendan and his new guards, Gui and Pierre, set out. Rual was called forward to tend to the King since his two squires had to be left behind. The knights were mounted and Brendan walked behind, tethered to Gui’s horse. The latter was not a friendly sort, still nourishing a grudge for the deep cut in his arm that Brendan had given him the day that he was captured. Brendan tried to humour him, but he had to practice trickery in order to get anything to eat. Gui would toss him a crust of bread and give him nothing else to eat. Brendan often pretended to see something moving behind the men, pointing urgently. Regardez! They would turn to look and he would snatch away a leg of fowl or a chunk of cheese or meat.

There was one comfort however. Rual had found a cured sheepskin and had made him stitched shoes with the fleece on the inside. His old shoes had worn out months before. But with the sheep skin shoes, he could walk and be only tired and not foot