Chapter Three

In the Woods between Canterbury and Dover September 1095

As Colin stood before the archbishop, waiting for an acknowledgment, sweat dripped down his brow. The archbishop was entrenched in his chair behind a desk littered with books and papers. His current interest lay in the eradication of an oversized platter of ham and eggs as he shoved the food into his mouth with a large loaf of fresh white bread. Colin’s mouth watered, not at the disgusting sight as the gluttonous Archbishop ate his food, but at the sight of the fare itself. He was lucky to receive a small portion of moldy, dark bread and a small cup of ale as his breakfast. For lunch, he would receive the customary ploughman’s lunch, an unappetizing concoction of leftovers from the manor or perhaps a bit of cheese or fish, or on even rarer occasions, a sliver of meat. Of course, he could always count on that piece of moldy, dark bread to enjoy with every meal. The Archbishop never took his eyes off his food to see the young man standing before him.

Not surprising, the archbishop was a very stout, rotund man with flabby jowls. He was bald with one curly strand of hair growing wildly on the top of his head. Only a chunk of ham remained on his plate. He picked it up, eyed it as a horse trader would eye a mare he desired, and then shrugged his head and threw the remaining ham to a mangy English Wolfhound lounging in the corner where the dog devoured the meat.

A large, grotesque picture of the Crucifixion hung slightly askew behind the Archbishop. To his right was an ornate picture of a golden-haloed Madonna and child and to his left; an even more vivid portrait of the priest himself, or rather how the Archbishop viewed himself, thinner, younger, attractive and dressed in regal attire.

Wearing only his nightshirt, the archbishop looked up at the young man.

“State your business. I am a very busy man.”

With a confused look on his face, Colin said, “But, Your Grace, you sent for me. Colin, Son of Ailwin.”

“I sent for you?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Colin said trying to avert his gaze from the obese priest, sopping up the last grease from his plate with a small chunk of bread.  He picked up a delicate, clean white napkin, and daintily dabbed at his mouth and chin as he leaned back in his chair.

The archbishop looked puzzled for an instant. “Aw… so I did.” He stretched out his arm and presented his jewel-encrusted ring of office to Colin. Unsure at first, Colin bent to kiss the ring. “Why is it that you barbaric Saxons refuse to choose a surname like decent Christians? It is a most egregious sin against the Lord.” The priest interlocked his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “We can correct that sin immediately. From this day hence, you shall be known as Colin Harcourt. I have a relation named Harcourt in Dover.”

Colin, unprepared to debate the religious necessity of a surname, answered, “Yes, Your Grace.”

“You are alone in this world. Is that true, son?”

“Yes, Sir, my father passed the year William the Conqueror passed.” Colin’s eyes lingered on the exquisite rug.

“Your father was a Christian and was afforded his Last Rites and a Christian burial?”

“Are we here to discuss my father’s faults, Your Grace?” Colin asked. His father was never overly religious.

“Of course not, my son.  Allow me to reach my conclusion as to the worthiness of your soul. As I was asking, you are alone. No mother or father? No brothers or sisters? No uncles, aunts?” His Grace continued as if he was talking to the unholy.

“I am utterly alone, Your Grace.” Colin shifted his feet expecting the worst.

“I am not concerned for my soul, Your Grace.” Colin found it difficult to hide his contempt.

“Watch your tone with me, boy. I have the ways and means to lock you in the dungeon for the rest of your mortal life. As I said, I am trying to determine the worthiness of your soul, and I believe I am much more qualified to do so than you.”

“Begging your pardon, but why would you care about my soul, Your Grace? There are others in your congregation whose souls appease your coffers more than mine.” He didn’t mean to sound angry, but there was little doubt in his voice or mannerisms.

“Such hostilities, my son, will come of no use to you.” The Archbishop produced a small white envelope from his desk. “I have needs of an urgent matter. One of utter secrecy and I’m afraid, fraught with danger.”

“And this requires someone with a worthy soul?” Colin asked guardedly. “What other qualifications do I have that would qualify me for such a job?”

“I have a particular…umm... letter that must be delivered to his Lordship, the Earl of Kent, in Normandy, before the first of April. I have been given divine guidance in choosing you for my…our mission. It is your duty as a God-fearing Christian to accept my request and depart post-haste.” The Archbishop glanced at Colin. “Now, run to the kitchen. I’ve provided you with breakfast. You will find transportation saddled and ready for your journey when you return to the stable. Leave at once and do not dally.” The archbishop paused for a moment and glared at an astonished Colin. When he did not hurry out of the room, the Archbishop continued, “Margery’s soul may still be saved.”

Colin grimaced and clenched his fist and just a quickly he submitted to the Archbishop. “What about services, Your Grace? It is a sin not to attend.”

A stern look overtook the clergyman’s face, “Do not pretend that I don’t see you walk away from my sermon on any given Sabbath, boy. Your soul is in jeopardy. Complete your mission, and we might just save that lost soul of yours.” Colin’s heart fluttered. How did the Archbishop know of his trysts? Fear followed. If this fat priest knew about Margery, to what else was he privy? He made unfavorable remarks toward the Crown and boasted of his conquests while drinking with Herlewin. Could his friend betray him? His sins were punishable. Of course could very well spend the rest of his life in chains or worse. He couldn’t care less about his soul. I want to live.

Colin wiped some sweat from his forehead. “I thought you chose me because my soul was already worthy and therefore qualified to undertake your quest, Your Grace.”

“Worthy?” The archbishop shook with uproarious laughter, his belly, and his jowls wiggling. “On the contrary, my son. I chose you solely on the fact that you have no family and therefore, it will be no great loss if you should be captured and hung for treason.”

Resisting was not an option, and that upset Colin. Deep down he knew the archbishop was right. He could disappear this very moment, and nobody would be the wiser. His knees went weak, and his stomach knotted. He tried to brush his feelings aside, convincing himself they were due to a lack of breakfast and not the threat of treason. “And if I refuse to go?”

“Then I will have no other choice but to find another. There are many lost souls to choose from, my son.  However, afterward, I will have you hung for crimes against the church.  The church forbids copulation without the benefit of a Christian marriage. Colin, you will not hang alone.  Several lovely young ladies shall stand beside you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Colin’s eyes trained on the floor. The Archbishop coerced him into a clandestine, treasonous mission with no promise of return. He clenched his fist behind his back, conquering his wishes to beat the clergyman into his eternal life. The journey promised danger and most likely a very unpleasant death. However, there wasn’t much to look forward to in his current station in life either. Masking his anger, he stood, emotionless.

The Archbishop picked up a brown purse lying on his desk and tossed it to Colin. “There should be enough here to secure passage from Dover to Calais.” He turned away from Colin and reached for his Holy robes. “You may say you are on a mission for the Church. That may come in handy until you reach Calais though other than that you are on your own.” He sat at his desk and flipped through the grease soaked bible.  Without looking at Colin, he ran a finger down the selected scripture.

“But sir, winter is afoot. What shall I do if I run into severe weather?” Bile rose to the top of his esophagus. No, he will think me weak. I must compose myself. He swallowed the bitter vomit and met the archbishop’s eyes.

“Once you are a distance from Canterbury, you may travel at your speed as long as the letter is in the Earl’s hands by April 1st.” The Archbishop dripped red wax on the envelope and sealed it by unceremoniously squishing his ring to the wax. “Now, be off with you, I have a sermon to prepare. Tell no one of our meeting. You are bound by secrecy and eternal damnation.” The archbishop dismissed Colin with a wave of his pudgy hand.

Colin spun on his heels and lumbered away and slammed the Sanctuary’s door behind him. A banishment to hell would have been preferred, and a better ending to his meeting with the archbishop. Normandy was an unacceptable punishment. Normandy was the home of William the Conqueror, the Butcher of Britain, and the vile serpent to blame for his father’s premature death.

Colin had taken three steps before his knees gave out, and he dropped to all fours, vomiting profusely on the grass. When he regained his strength, he stood and wiped the spittle from the corners of his mouth. Onlookers stared in disbelief. Some offered Colin assistance, but he swatted all hands away. After leaving the Archbishop he went to the kitchen and wolfed down his breakfast of one old cake and stale ale. Looking around he made sure none of the kitchen staff saw him as he stole a plate of biscuits. Then he turned to the  left as quickly as he entered, hiding his the biscuits as he walked toward the stable with a glare in his eye. He viewed his new quest with unequaled fear but with a touch of curiosity. His mind was full of doubt, and he left the stolen food near where the mule was tied up.

The sun was directly overhead, and he traveled a good three miles from Canterbury before Colin stopped for lunch. The mid-September cool breeze rustled the trees. His back ached from an hour atop the mule that awaited him at the stable. A mule? Surely, the archbishop could afford a better ride for such a dangerous quest. Anger gripped him, followed by horror. Fear because he was now in the King’s forest without permission, an act punishable by prison. He was angry with himself for being too foolish to run the other way. Tethering the mule where it could graze, Colin dragged his knapsack from his saddlebag and sat beneath a huge oak tree. He expected generous portions, but after unfolding the knapsack, Colin found scarcely enough for one meal. Dover was a little less than one full day ride from Canterbury. If he were diligent and kept his stops to a minimum, he would be in Dover by nightfall. He consumed the dark bread as if it was manna from heaven and still hungered for more. The ale was warm but satisfying. He leaned his tired back against a tree trunk and watched a wooly worm inch across a fallen tree branch.  The worm was a solid white, a definite sign of a harsh early winter.

Colin’s mind faded back to the winter of his tenth year and his mother and brother. Every winter he felt the same pang of loneliness in his heart. He couldn’t help but remember the uncaring fire as it eagerly consumed their disease-riddled bodies. This year the emptiness bothered him more.

The light breeze sang an old familiar song to him, the ale and bread working with it to lull him. A twig’s snap yanked the sleepiness from him. Another snap followed by voices validated that he was not alone. Colin stood to meet his new companions. Unseen men restrained him from behind, two, perhaps three. A man stepped out from another tree brandishing a dagger. Colin’s heart beat quickened. 

“What do we have here?” the man asked. He bowed to Colin. “Captain Luke Bonneville at your service. My associates and I… um… patrol these woods on behalf of our benefactor, the Good King William Rufus. Who might you be? And what is your business?”  The captain was dressed in a tattered blue and gold overcoat, a dirty ruffled blouse, black britches, and a Tri-cornered hat. His face bore marks of scars from both blade and pox. His right hand was missing at the wrist, a good indication that he was a thief. It was doubtful he was ever really a captain in the service, but more likely, he stole the clothes from someone instead.

Colin refused to speak. Instead, he shifted his head as best he could to see his tormentors, but it was of no use, he could not get a glimpse of his captors. Avoiding their stench and foul breath was just as futile. The captor to his left was missing two fingers on his hand, while the other a scar on his arm appeared, snaking to his elbow.

“Ah, you wish to be released before you speak?” The thief took a step forward, “Very well. Release our guest.” Luke took another step forward until he was nose to nose with Colin. His breath was putrid. His eyes were steel gray. “I shall ask you one more time. State your name and business before I gut you like a pig.” The captain pressed his dagger to Colin’s chest, the tip of the knife ripping the shirt and leaving a pockmark.

Colin took a deep breath and fought the desire to gag. “I am Colin...” He could not recall the Norman name bestowed upon him by the archbishop. “My business is my own. I am off to winter with my uncle in Dover.”

“Dover? You must make haste if you desire to reach there before nightfall” The captain took two steps backward. “Forgive me for any delay we might have caused you. You are free to go on your way.” Colin heard a murmur and a snicker, but Luke cut them off with an icy stare.

“Thank you, kind sir.” Colin gathered his belongings.

“Say nothing of it.” The captain whirled. “By the by, your journey will be an arduous trek. You are too weighed down. My associates and I can rectify that.” He smiled and extended his hand. “Your purse, if you please.” Colin felt fingers untie the purse from his waist. “Oh, and we will have your mule also, as I’m afraid he will only slow you down.” The captain spun and stomped away. “Remove his britches and boots. They’ll come in handy.”

A thud on the back of his head prevented Colin from protesting. His face pressed into the dirt.  He was vaguely aware the thieves removing his pants and boots. He wanted to fight back, but his muscles would not respond to his commands. His last memory was the face of Margery, or was it the baker laughing at his embarrassing situation? His consciousness faded.

“Did they get the letter from the Archbishop? How close to Dover were you?” General Grant asked in rapid sequence.

“They overlooked the letter. Thank the Lord. I was still about eleven miles from Dover. Without my boots, the walk would have been difficult. The road was dirt and rutted with cart tracks, and unavoidable animal piles were littering the way. They didn’t send workers out to clean up such messes in those days. And, although I am not a prude, I was in my underclothing and society favored modesty at that time.”

“Well, immodesty is frowned on today, also. Why didn’t you look for the scoundrel?” asked the general, engrossed in the tale.

“That would not have been prudent. The King’s woods were full of these less desirable chaps. There is no telling what my outcome might have been. It would be better off to cut my losses and continue on my way. I was probably lucky they only robbed me. They could have been killed, and my body thrown into the woods never to be seen again.” Colin stared at Grant, searching for any sign of doubt in his eyes. Grant hung eagerly on every word