Chapter Five

Dover on the Coast of England October 1095­

“I don’t know how long my affliction lasted or how long I lay in the tall grass. I rubbed my face only to find a slight beard. I couldn’t even estimate how long I lay in the tall grass. I survived the whole ordeal on what little rain fell. It was a harrowing experience. The berries did a job on me and rendered me helpless. I awoke to find myself covered with vomit and a filthy crud matted my hair. I lapsed in and out of reality. I yelled for help, but I was either too weak or could not be heard.”

“What kind of berries would do that to you?” asked the general. “Not that I believe you, yet.”

“I have no idea. They were red. I, of course, ate red berries before. All I know is that it was almost five-hundred years before I would even come close to eating another berry again.”

The general took another puff of his cigar, blew a smoke ring, and sipped from a glass of wine he ordered. “What happened next?”

Colin swished his wine in his glass, mesmerized by the swirls before he chugged it down. He covered his mouth and cleared his throat. “I felt somewhat better, and could no longer handle my stench.”

“I bet you were ready for a good hot bath by then,” Grant buttered another roll.

“In those days people bathed only twice in their lifetime. Once when they were born and once when they died. Don’t get me wrong. We washed semi-regularly but seldom bathed.” Colin absent-mindedly ran his finger over the rim of his wineglass. Grant refilled the glasses.

“You mean to tell me you didn’t bathe after days confined in your own…” The general noticed several diners watching and said no more.

“I said most didn’t bathe, including me. I did the unthinkable. I feebly ran to the stream and dove in, underclothing and all. I found a place to protect and hide the letter beforehand. My one-day ride from Canterbury to Dover stretched into four days, and I wasn’t near Dover, yet. Immersed in the cold stream, I completely forgot my surroundings. I’ll tell you there is nothing like bathing in a good stream to cleanse your mind. It was my fault when I was caught by surprise.”

“You there!” A man on a horse on the muddy bank bellowed.

Colin flinched, startled by the presence of the man. Afraid the man might be the king or his guards he pivoted to see a stranger, and he was alone. The King never traveled alone. The man rode a jet-black horse certainly suitable for royalty but was dressed as common folk. His face was red with freckles, and his blonde hair came to the shoulder. Colin took him for a horse thief.

“Yes, you there. What are you doing in the King’s stream?”

“I beg your pardon, but I urgently needed washing. I won’t tell the King if you don’t tell him,” Colin climbed out to the opposite bank.

A sly smile came to the horse thief’s mouth. He stood in his stirrups, gazed around the area, and spoke when a dozen other riders erupted from the forest and hurried to his side. Colin stood, dripping wet and watched in terror as one rider came to a halt next to the horse thief and said, “Your Majesty, we lost track of the…” then he stopped and glared at Colin. “Shall I gut the intruder, Your Majesty?” he said drawing his sword.

The horse thief raised his hand. “The gentleman and I share a secret. A secret we need to keep from our good king.”

The rider appeared befuddled. “But, Your Majesty…”

The horse thief waived his hand, and the rider stopped in mid-sentence. “Now, my dear friend, perhaps you might be as good as to tell me why you soil the KING’S stream?”

Colin bowed and scraped, “Forgive me, Your Majesty.” Droplets of water fell from his hair leaving a tiny pool of water near his feet.

“Yes, yes, why pray tell are you foraging around in only your undergarments?” King William Rufus asked. “For God’s sake man, get dressed. You will spoil my stream for generations to come.”

“I am sorry, Your Majesty, but these are all that I have.” The king’s men forded the stream as he spoke. Colin searched for a place to run but knew running would be fruitless.

King William motioned for his men to halt. “You left home that way?”

Colin bowed as he presented himself in all his underwear glory. “No, Your Majesty, there is a tale that goes with my attire.”

“I am always good for a story. Beware, your life hangs on the outcome of your tale. See to it that you amuse me. Someone get this man some decent clothing. We can always retrieve any loaned clothing before we stretch his neck.”

Colin spent the next half-hour telling the King about Captain Luke and the poison berries. He told the King he was on his way to Dover to winter with his relatives. Out of breath, he finished his tale as to how he entered the King’s stream uninvited. He left out the part about the archbishop, the letter, and the mission to Normandy. There was no love between the King and his brother, Robert, Duke of Normandy.

The King, remained on his horse said, “A credible tale indeed. What say you, Sir Tyrell?” He asked an imperially dressed man to his right.

Sir Tyrell, a man with sneaky eyes and a pointy chin, leered at Colin, “I say we stretch the vagrant’s neck now and be on our way. He might even be a member of the gang of cut-throats we seek.”

King William swatted a fly from his nose, “There you have it. Sir Walter Tyrell believes you to be a thief and that you should be hung from that tree.”  The riders surrounded Colin and descended from their horses.  The King stopped them with a stare. “However, what does your King think?” He rubbed his chin deep in thought before speaking. “Your King was amused by your tale, false or not.  Make it known that from this day hence; Colin Harcourt has the freedom to wash in my kingdom. Any who harms him harms the King.” Colin bowed and thanked the King. “Give my friend a day’s provisions.” Sir Walter’s eyes showed contempt as he handed Colin a satchel with provisions. “We cannot accompany you. However, Dover is no more than a half-day march southeast.” The King and his entourage rode off in a Northwesterly direction. Sir Tyrell hesitated, giving Colin an angry stare before he joined the others. Colin prayed he would not run into Sir Walter Tyrell anytime soon.

He reminisced about the historical things he witnessed. Meeting a King or Sir Tyrell might have changed the fabric of his life, but such things are best forgotten and hope that fate would be kind to him. Of course, there was no way of knowing that destiny made plans for him.

“You might find this a bit ironic, general,” Colin, poured him another glass of wine. “Three years later the King and Sir Walter were hunting deer when Sir Walter spied a stag and shot an arrow which glanced off a tree hit the King in the chest. He died instantly. Sir Walter claimed the death was an Act of God. England did not mourn William’s passing. He was no better a King than his father, except for the kindness he showed me. Curiously, Sir Walter died shortly after that. Centuries later historians uncovered that the death was not an Act of God but the clever plot and extraordinary archery talent of a single man, Sir Walter.”

“I entered Dover just after midday the last day of September in the year of our Lord, 1095. I was tired and penniless.” Colin wondered if his listener believed his tale. Then he worried if he should tell his tale at all. He kept his life a secret for so long and then he told only friends. He should have remained silent. It was too late to turn back now.

“Did you search out your relatives first?” asked the general.

“They weren’t my relatives. They were the archbishop’s relatives. The first thing I did was to go to the harbor to secure passage to Calais on the first ship out to sea…”

Dark clouds rushed in from the sea and threatened the once beautiful day. The smell of salt and fish surrounded the wharf, a new sensation for Colin’s senses. Seagulls swooped in and out of the masts and a lone pelican perched on the bow of a ship searching the harbor for its next meal. The ships bobbed lazily in the harbor, waiting for the promised wind to send them off to faraway places. After searching for over an hour, Colin finally found a sea captain who was setting sail for Calais in the morning.

The leathery face of the captain showed no emotion as he inspected the sealed envelope handed him by Colin. The captain turned the letter over and peered closely at the seal. He smelled of thirty years of sea, salt, and sweat. A frown came to his weathered, wrinkly face. “This letter be from the Archbishop his-self, you say?” his foul breath almost knocked Colin over. He tried not to stare at the man’s toothless grin, which for some reason made the wrinkled old sea captain looked downright evil. His left eye roamed lazily, refusing to align with his other eye. A crooked smile made Colin uneasy.

“Yes, it is, Captain.” Colin noticed that sailors in the near vicinity stopped what they were doing and watched him suspiciously.

“Uinfrey, Uinfrey Flainbard of the good ship Hope. This letter just might be for real,” he said waving the letter at Colin, “and then again, it might be something else altogether.”

“I assure you the letter is official. I am on an important pilgrimage for the Church,” Colin reached for the envelope.

Uinfrey raised a bushy eyebrow and handed the letter to Colin. “What sort of pilgrimage might that be?”  Unruly, wild gray hair fell to his shoulders when he removed his cap to scratch his head.

“I am not at liberty to discuss the details of my journey. Suffice to say. I have business in Calais, urgent church business for the archbishop.” Colin inspected the letter; to be sure, there was no damage.

“Thar be naught in Calais but wool merchants this late in the season, nothing there to concern the church.” Captain Flainbard scratched his crotch and barked an order to the observing crew-members. The order was in a language unfamiliar to Colin.

“It is your duty as a Christian to see me safely on my journey,” Colin said in desperation.

“My Christian duty, eh? I’m as much a God-fearing Christian as the next. I am also a loyal subject to our King. It’s no secret that the mighty Archbishop and King William have a few disagreements and I have no intentions of wearing a noose around my neck for a letter I cannot read. It will take three silvers and five coppers for accommodations, and I don’t know nothing about no letter.”

Colin saw no Christian mercy in the captain’s stare.

“Have you the coins? I thought not. Good luck with your pilgrimage. Perhaps the good Archbishop should have sent you with coins instead of this letter,” he said.

“I could work for my board. I need to get this accursed letter out of my hands,” Colin said, grabbing a coat sleeve.

Uinfrey pried Colin’s hand from his arm, thrusting it to the side. The force almost sent Colin to his knees. The captain gained his composure and asked politely, “Have you ever worked on a vessel before?” Colin shook his head no. “Thought not. Just what do you mean by accursed letter? I won’t be having no cursed letters on my boat. Be off with you and don’t let me see your cursed face again.”

There was no other choice for Colin he would find another way. The Archbishop mentioned that the Harcourt’s owned an inn.  Perhaps his new relative could employ him long enough to earn passage to Calais. Colin drew his cloak tighter around his neck and kicked a rock into a bitterly cold wind that blew in from the ocean.

A large crowd gathered in the streets jeering as they shook hands at an unseen person. Colin jostled and elbowed his way to the front of the crowd. A tormented man lay in the street; he had a noose tied around his neck; the other end secured to a horse. There was a blood-soaked stump replaced both hands, and one eye gouged out. He struggled to his knees as the crowd pelted him with rocks.

He asked a woman next to him, “What happened?”

A toothless old woman with straggly gray hair, wearing a grimy brown apron said, “The knave sold medicinal oils to our sick, and five of our young ones perished in the night. Poor fool spent the profits away at Harcourt’s Inn. We found him quickly. So, are you kin to this devil?”

The crowd’s cacophony voice became silent when the sound of a hand as it slapped horseflesh, followed by the neigh of a horse and the unforgettable sight of the poor soul as the horse galloped down the street.

“No, No. Never seen him before in my life. I am kin to Harcourt,” he said, in sudden fear for his safety.

“Funny,” a gruff voice said from Colin’s right, “I remember no kin the likes of you.” The angry crowd, losing interest in the hapless merchant, spun to face Colin. Their wrath was not yet been satisfied.