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    King's Ransom
    King's Ransom
    King's Ransom
    Ebook354 pages5 hours

    King's Ransom

    By Tabitha Ormiston-Smith

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    About this ebook

    What really went on back in 1193? Was Richard Lionheart really the hero we think? Was John really that bad? And who was Robin Hood, no really, who was he? Find out the answers to all these questions and more, in this hilariously funny counter-history.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTabitha Ormiston-Smith
    Release dateSep 1, 2016
    ISBN9781310500893
    King's Ransom
    Author

    Tabitha Ormiston-Smith

    Tabitha Ormiston-Smith was born and continues to age. Dividing her time between her houses in Melbourne and the country, she is ably assisted in her editing business and her other endeavours by Ferret, the three-legged bandit.

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      Book preview

      King's Ransom - Tabitha Ormiston-Smith

      CHAPTER ONE

      NOTTINGHAM

      JULY 1189

      An hound is trewe to his lord or to his maystere… an hounde is of greet undirstondyng and of greet knowynge, a hounde has greet strength and grete bounte, an hounde is a wise beast and a kynde, an hound hath greet mynde and greet smellyng… an hounde is of greet wurthynes and of greet sotilte... an hound is of good obeysaunce, for he wil lerne as a man al that a man wil teche hym, a hound is ful of good sport...

      Edward, Second Duke of York: The Master of Game

      The sun was low in the sky when John awoke. He lay still for a few moments, savouring the looseness of tired muscles and the cool play of the breeze, refreshingly chill on the damp patch on his face.

      The damp patch on his… the damp… what? John sat up uneasily, putting a hand to his cheek, which felt vaguely slimy. He looked suspiciously around the tiny glade.

      Tall oaks rose majestically towards the lavender sky, in which the first faint star of evening was almost, but not quite, visible. A single willow leaned gracefully over the chattering brook, seeming to sip daintily from the cold, pure water. John had drunk from the brook earlier, and had washed the day’s sweat from his face, enjoying the fresh tang, so much better than the flat stuff from the castle well.

      Everything seemed normal. The grassy sward ran down a gentle slope to the brook, unmarred by weeds or any blemish. A chaffinch trilled from somewhere nearby. From the edge of the clearing, a monster glared at him.

      Adrenaline surged into his blood like a kick in the stomach. He struggled upright, grabbing at his sword, which he was not wearing. His groping, panicked fingers encountered only a small knife, suitable for trimming quills. He froze.

      The monster was large, grey and attenuated, rather taller than a wolf, with madly staring eyes. A huge mouth gaped open, crammed with rows of enormous, needly-looking teeth. John cast about for a means of escape, wishing he had stayed in the solar with his books, or could fly, or had not been born. The monster moved, angling towards him on long, stick-like legs. Its action was rather like that of a praying mantis, he decided, the thought floating transparently across the surface of his stalled mind.

      Could he get to his horse in time? He could not, for the horse was nowhere in sight. Besides, he’d loosened the girth when he stopped here. What about leaping up a tree? He cast a hopeful glance upwards, and saw sky. The monster was between him and the trees. It was edging closer. He took a step back, and fell into the stream.

      The stream was cold; not deep, but unpleasantly lined with pebbles. John scrambled to his knees, tugging desperately at his penknife. Water! Perhaps the monster was a troll and could not cross running water. Holding up his now saggy breeches, he lurched across the stream and squelched out, losing a shoe.

      As he turned, he was just in time to see the monster sail gracefully across the stream.

      "Ave Maria, gratia plena–" was all he could get out before the monster was upon him. It fetched him a mighty blow with its foot. John, overwhelmed, fell over. The monster leaned over and delicately licked his face. Its beard was slimy. He screwed his eyes tightly shut and commended his soul to God and St Wulfstan.

      He waited to die, cold, alone and damp. The sun had gone right off the ground now, and it was quickly becoming quite chilly. There was no priest to hear his confession and bring him the comfort of the church in his last moments. There were no wailing maidservants. There was no trouvère to immortalise his dying battle. Perhaps just as well, he thought ruefully, becoming aware that once again he had failed to Measure Up.

      A volley of loud, clopping sounds assailed his shrinking ears. Well, he decided, at least he would die with his eyes open, and not be totally shamed in his own estimation and that of the world. Not that there would be anything left of him to find; the monster definitely looked as though it needed a square meal.

      He edged his eyes open a tiny way and squinted out. The monster was lying down a few feet away. The noise was made by it rapidly snapping its ferocious jaws together, quickly and repeatedly, as it tossed its head about. He opened his eyes the rest of the way, forgetting to be alarmed in his astonishment. This was nothing like the behaviour he had been led to expect from monsters. First they roared, then they ravened, then they either devoured you or were vanquished in single combat and their heads stuffed and hung in the hall. There might be details about their eyes gleaming like the coals of hell, hot sulphurous breath, etc.

      He sat up cautiously. Catching the movement, the monster crawled towards him, dragging itself along on elbows and belly, and whining. It put its head down flat on the grass and stared up at him, making him feel that something was expected of him. This was nothing new; John had spent most of his life with a vague feeling that something was expected of him and he had no idea what.

      Well, he was going to die anyway. Probably going to die, a small voice of hope whispered to him. Almost certainly going to die, he corrected it sternly. He reached out to pat the monster’s head. It whined again, and licked his hand.

      A friendly monster? He supposed there must be such things, but he had never heard of one. He looked again. Viewed with calmer eyes, it was rather an ordinary-looking monster as these things went. There were no twisted horns dripping gore, or extra heads, or bats’ wings. Lying down, it really looked more like a pile of dirty rags than anything else. And wasn’t there something teasingly familiar about the position in which it had arranged itself? With one front leg sticking out and the other hidden? Didn’t it really look a bit like a hound, sort of? He just wasn’t sure.

      Of course, if the monster was friendly, as it now seemed to be, he faced a really horrifying dilemma, worse in some ways than if it had been ravening. There was no precedent in any of the tales or songs for dealing with a friendly monster. Of course, you killed monsters, but then they were always trying to kill you. Might it not be dishonourable to, as it were, murder one? On the other hand, everyone knew it was a Sacred Duty to slay monsters. God’s Legs, they practically existed to be slain. It might be a craven and cowardly act not to kill it. On the other hand, it was looking at him so trustingly that he didn’t think he could do it, even if armed with the sword that in his mind’s eye he could see so clearly, propped in a corner of the solar, the cheerful light of the fire gleaming on its scabbard.

      Suddenly John wanted a hot bath more than anything in the world.

      ***

      Clattering into the courtyard, John felt infinitely more cheerful. He was, after all, a Prince of the Realm, and here he was at Nottingham, his favourite castle. You had to look on the bright side, he reflected. Besides, he had thought of a terrific plan for dealing with the monster, who had followed him all the way back at a discreet distance, leaping and bounding in the long grass and occasionally running ahead to peep shyly out from behind a bush.

      Page! he shouted, in tones as stentorian as a counter tenor may command. Tell that lazy old man to get me a bath ready. Good and hot, mind. And bring a dish of hot milk up to the solar. Mind it’s not too hot, I don’t want Pansy burning her tongue. Well, come on, boy, hop to it or I’ll give thee a thrashing that will curdle thy bones.

      The boy was staring in horrified fascination at Pansy, who had one leg up and was attempting to lick her balls while standing on the other three.

      My lord…

      Well, get on with it, what are you standing about for, are you witless? Haven’t you seen a hound before?

      My lord, the news… your father….

      Father? What father?

      Pansy fell over.

      Your father is dead, my lord. William, the slimy steward, stood wiping his hands obsequiously together, having apparently materialised from thin air. He lies at Azay-le-Rideau. Your brother bids you make all speed to Fontevrault.

      Azay-le-Rideau? What the By Our Lady kind of stupid name is that? Where is it? Feeling vaguely conscious that some kind of gesture of respect was called for, John dismounted.

      His breeches fell down.

      ***

      Half an hour later, as he sat in his bath, warmed externally by hot water and a raging fire, and internally by a quart or so of mulled wine, John had another really, really good idea.

      Boy!

      My lord?

      Send up that washerwoman.

      ***

      And I’m telling you true, Master Aelfric, I never did see such a thing, not in all my born days, was it ever so. There he was, in that dressing robe thing with all the fur, and the bath water is still steaming, and he goes to me – he goes – ta, lovie, don’t mind if I do – he goes, this is Pansy, I want you to give her a bath. Well! I was all of a weasel, wasn’t I. And this great hairy thing staring me in the face, nearly eye to eye, I swear to you, Master Aelfric, and stinking like you wouldn’t believe, not unless you was in my job, of course, dearie, a course we do see some things. Some of the drawers I’ve had through my wash-house after a tournament – yes, yes, well I’m getting to it, aren’t I? Don’t rush me.

      ***

      Half a world away, King Richard the First (coronation pending) stared at his pet minstrel in disbelief.

      And what, may I ask, is an Image Problem, by God’s head?

      Well, it’s a sort of a, a thing I’ve noticed, when, well, you know, Sire, when people don’t quite sort of….

      Blondin! Do you want a thick ear?

      Sorry, Sire. What I mean to say is, when people, as it were, fail to realise one’s true nature. Take yourself, for instance, Sire – courageous, valiant, dashing on the battlefield–

      Yes, yes, I know all that. Tell me, do you think the rose velvet would be better than the lavender for Papa’s funeral?

      Blondin quailed for an instant, then rallied gamely. I think the lavender would be more discreet, Sire.

      Hmmm. Go on about the image thingy.

      Well, when you’re valiant, courageous…. Blondin rambled on, trying to stave off the evil moment as long as he possibly could. Why, oh why, had he opened his mouth?

      … and, and, some people don’t see that. Sire, he finished lamely.

      What by Christ’s toenails are you blithering about? See what?

      Well, about you being valiant, courageous, manly–

      Well, so what? Not everybody knows me, do they? Really, Blondin, sometimes you’re an ass. Now come and help me pick out a pair of shoes to go with the lavender robe.

      ***

      Pansy, dammit, not again… there can’t possibly be anything left… oh, help! Boy! Boy! Fetch another basin, quickly!

      Pansy had already filled three basins. Sea travel didn’t seem to agree with her.

      ***

      Blondin?

      Yes, Sire?

      What do they see instead?

      ***

      Another basin please, sorr.

      I’ll a-basin thee, boy! What be these basins all for? ’On’t grow on trees, tha knows.

      Please sorr, it do be for they gurt dog, ’e be a-sickin and a-sickin be-out ’indrance nor let, sorr. Roight poorly ’e be.

      Wot be milord a-doing with that dog?

      The boy sniggered. Well, so far, sorr, ’e be mainly a-holdin of its ’ead.

      ***

      Effeminate? Effeminate! Blondin, do you dare, do you seriously dare, to stand there and tell me that people think I’m effeminate? What in God’s name does it mean, anyway?

      Blondin hung his head and muttered something unintelligible.

      What? Speak up, man!

      Blondin mumbled something else, not unintelligibly enough.

      A SISSY! How dare you say I’m a sissy! Take that, thou caitiff!

      OW! Ow, have mercy, Sire, I’m telling you for the good of the realm, it wasn’t me that said it… ow!

      ***

      Pansy, no! There isn’t room! Get off this instant! Get off, do you hear me? Faugh! Your breath stinks! Boy!

      ***

      Sigh.

      What do ’is lordship be wantin now?

      Please sorr, ’e be arstin for some sweet-smellin ’erbs.

      CHAPTER TWO

      And therewith he yielded up the ghost. And then was he interred as longed to a king.

      Sir Thomas Malory: Le Morte D’Arthur

      On deck, the air was fresher. John breathed in long, grateful gulps and rubbed his tired eyes. It had been, he now realised, a Serious Tactical Error to permit the monster to follow him home. Several vigorous attempts to cause Pansy to chew rosemary and lavender had met with no success, although it had not been difficult to get her to open her mouth; the problem lay in getting her to chew. The situation was exacerbated by the fact that rosemary (or perhaps lavender) seemed to make her sneeze; John was quite damp.

      After what had seemed like several hours of struggling, the cabin boy had suggested that if Pansy had a drink of water, her breath might not smell so bad. Ready to grasp at any straw, John had immediately dispatched him for yet another clean basin. Unfortunately, by the time he came back, Pansy had already discovered the chamber pot.

      John leaned against the rail and stared out into the night. It was still, he thought, some hours before dawn, but sleeping on the narrow bunk with Pansy’s foetid breath blasting into his face was out of the question. It was all very well ordering her off; he had tried that a few times, reinforcing the command with a good heave, but then he had to listen to her miserable cries as he fell asleep. If he got to sleep in spite of the noise, with its concomitant lacerations of guilt, she immediately leapt back onto the bed and slobbered on his face. At least she’d finally emptied her stomach; that was something to be grateful for, he supposed. He had left her sleeping, on his bunk. No doubt it would be full of fleas when he returned.

      John sighed. Why was he obsessing about the creature, anyway? Didn’t he have enough worries with his by-our-lady father kicking the bucket when he was only fifty-six, leaving him, John, smack in the direct line of succession, unless Richard married and produced an heir, which, considering what John knew of his habits, was hardly likely? John could see his peaceful, happy existence slipping away with every mile they drew closer to France, and the inevitable confrontation with his father’s actual, undeniable death. He stared out at the dark, monotonous sea and allowed himself a small dream.

      Henry would not really be dead. He would turn out to have been in a deep sleep of exhaustion, caused by the constant overexertion of the last twenty years. When John arrived, he would be just dashing off to settle an obscure point of law in Poitiers. Or perhaps he would arrive from an extended hunting trip, and the corpse would turn out to be some other short, fat, bandy-legged old man, to whom he’d given one of his old mantles.

      Or Richard would marry and produce a dozen healthy boys. John sighed again and turned away. The odds of that happening, as everybody knew, were a hundred thousand to one. But if a maiden were found, beautiful enough to captivate even Richard? She’d have to be pretty damn stupid, too, or her parents would, at least.

      John mentally kicked himself and quickly recited three Aves and a Paternoster. God is watching you all the time, he admonished himself sternly. He sees you when you’re sleeping. Satan can tempt you even in your dreams. He shuddered. What sins had he already committed this morning, and the sun not yet up? He recited another Ave and made an act of contrition, and then another, in case he might have missed a word in the first one. We sin even in our prayers, he remembered Brother Oswald telling him in the monastery where he’d been brought up. John spent a good deal of his life in superstitious terror because of this.

      Anyway, he decided, perhaps he was being unduly pessimistic. Richard might have matured. Or being king might suddenly mature him, as it were, overnight. Yes, that was quite likely, John decided. Probably when Richard was anointed with the holy Chrism at his coronation, he would acquire a special grace from God, one that would cancel out both his frivolity and his inconvenient sexual proclivities. After all, that was what it was for, wasn’t it? Of course, it couldn’t be expected to do much for poor Richard in the way of brains, but there were plenty of competent people about to advise him. Really as long as he could stand on his hind legs, be polite to the papal nuncio and get sons, the rest could be safely left to the bureaucracy the old King had put in place. John started to feel more cheerful. The first thing he would do when he landed, he decided, was endow a few Masses, just to sort of help the Chrism along, as it were.

      ***

      The room was silent, with that terrible silence only heard in a crowded room, the occasional furtive shuffling or muffled cough underscoring the deep basic melody of forty-something people breathing as quietly as they were able. The young king stood unmoving before the bier, the regular shimmering of light from his satin tunic betraying the too-rapid heartbeat. The handsome face was closed, revealing nothing of the man within. He did not bow his head, or salute the corpse of his dead father, or appear to pray. He simply stood and looked, his brilliant eyes slightly narrowed. He stood for perhaps the space of a Paternoster.

      Somebody dropped a rosary. The small, indecent clatter and muffled exclamation echoed through the chamber like rolls of thunder. Richard stirred and shifted uneasily. Abruptly, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.

      ***

      In the passage he encountered his younger brother, the namby-pamby one that spent all his time mooning over books. He was looking worried, as usual.

      Hello, John.

      Richard. Um, is he…. John indicated the chamber Richard had just left with an uncertain gesture.

      Yes, he’s really dead. So we can get Mumsie out of nick.

      John, who had meant to enquire of the body’s whereabouts, was nonplussed. It didn’t seem to be the way to speak of one’s (recently) dead father; on the other hand Richard, although yet uncrowned, was now king, and it might be unseemly to reproach him for his callousness. John often worried about things like this, whereas Richard never worried about anything. It was one of the many differences between them, like being good at jousting, or being king and not being king, John thought sadly as he wandered into the room, absently failing to notice the bishop. Richard always seemed to be the one to succeed brilliantly, even if he couldn’t read any more Latin than John had been able to do at ten. He sighed, and raised his eyes to regard his dead father, who had been one of the few people who, John felt, had really cared about him, John, as opposed to John the unruly boy, or John the prince, etc. Sometimes he wondered if he might have been quite invisible if he hadn’t been the king’s son. But at other times he wondered if he were invisible anyway. John sighed and hauled out his rosary. Would one decade be enough, he wondered? Was it even the Right Thing? Better not think about that, he warned himself as panic threatened. "Ave Maria, gratia plena…."

      Wooooo Wooooo WOOOOOH!

      John jumped about three feet in the air, as indeed did most of the other people in the room, the clerical members of the company landing with considerable swirling of robes and clattering of beads.

      MMMMMMNNHH! Oh, wooooo wooooo!

      John looked frantically about for the source of the dreadful sound, groping haphazardly on the wrong side of his belt for his sword hilt. Following the glazed stares of the company, he homed in on Pansy, grovelling at his feet, nose pointed to the ceiling, sobbing as if she were heartbroken.

      OWWWW! WOOOOO WOOOO WOOOOOOO!

      John waited for the floor to open up and swallow him. The floor failed to oblige. He looked at Pansy. Were those tears? God’s Throat, what was the matter with the creature?

      Be quiet, Pansy, he said, hopefully. Pansy mopped and mowed at him, and went on screeching and moaning. He bent down and awkwardly patted the creature’s (was it a hound? John still wasn’t sure) head. Pansy immediately rolled onto her back and waved all four (six? eight?) of her legs wildly about, looking at him upside down, which made him feel seasick.

      Pansy, stop it. Get up. Get up, I say. Bad dog!

      OWWWWWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

      John glanced helplessly about the room, hoping for inspiration. The many spectators had stopped looking alarmed, and were variously sniggering, tittering and sneering. As usual, John thought, here he was in an utterly impossible situation which was Somebody Else’s Fault. He had, as usual, Failed to Measure Up. Reflexively, he glanced at his dead father. Well, there would be no more criticism from that quarter, anyway, he thought, faintly shocked at himself.

      Get up at once, Pansy. At once! Now!

      ***

      The room was warm. Light from the fire gleamed off the silver goblets and Richard’s silver satin tunic, which John thought was vulgar in its ostentation. Having all those sapphires sewn around the edges was going just a bit too far, he thought severely. His own clothes were a restrained dark green, trimmed with vair.

      Richard was rabbiting on about his pet subject: mounting yet another crusade to recover the Holy Land. What a fool he was, John thought. As if there were not enough to do at home. Pansy, lying on his feet, sighed heavily in agreement. In the end, John had had to drag her out of the chamber by her front feet, while she lay on her back and sorrowed. She was too heavy to lift. As soon as she was out of sight of her audience, she had leapt up, apparently completely restored, and started dancing wildly about him, snapping her teeth together and leaping into the air.

      John stared into the fire, allowing Richard’s strident, rather high-pitched voice to wash harmlessly over him, and allowed his mind to wander. What a waste of time these crusades are really, he thought. If I were king, I’d do something a bit more practical. Schools, now that would be a good work. Why shouldn’t everybody be able to read, after all? There’s nothing in the peasant mind to make it impossible, he reasoned. The few who make it into a monastery seem to manage alright.

      Now, how would I do it? If there were a small school in each village, the young boys could attend for, say, two hours each morning. That wouldn’t really take much away from their duties, would it? The village priest could teach them; he already has his living so it wouldn’t cost anything. They’d need slates and things. Their fathers might not like it. We could issue a royal edict commanding everybody to send their sons between certain ages.

      Oh, yes, Richard, he heard himself say. I’d love to hear it.

      Curse it, what had he agreed to? That was the worst of politeness, you were always doing something you didn’t want to do, or going to some appalling place, or listening politely to something you’d just as soon have known nothing about. Oh, Richard was tuning up a lute. He must have written another one of his damned awful songs. Curse that damned minstrel he drags around everywhere, John thought bitterly, telling him he’s got a gift. Someone ought to by our lady tell him the truth, that his singing sounds like cats in a sack.

      Well, it was a pretty tune, anyway. Probably Blondin had done the hard bits, John thought, pasting an appropriate smile on his face and returning to his thoughts.

      CHAPTER THREE

      Houndes ben hardy for oon hounde dare wel kepe his maisters hous and his beest and also he wil kepe al his maistres goodes, and rathere he wil be dede than eny thing be lost in his kepyng.

      Edward, Second Duke of York: The Master of Game

      The awful burden of other people’s love, while crushing in its daily manifestations, may yet be profoundly missed when it is withdrawn. In the days after his return, John dazed around the castle gardens, hardly aware of the passage of time. It was not, so much, that he missed his father’s actual presence, which he had seldom experienced for more than a few days at a time, but rather the constant flow of internalised mental admonitions, mostly in fact garnered from a boyhood in a Cistercian abbey, but unconsciously attributed to Henry, who had been the only really colourful figure in the boy’s solitary youth. Manhood had found John already as set in his mental ways as a man of forty, but he had not yet matured enough to remain unaffected by the immediacy of surrounding events. Moodily he paced the battlements and the gardens, shadowed by a morose Pansy, his mind largely blank.

      Richard had remained in France and did not seem to be in any particular hurry to leave, despite the unique opportunity for dressing up afforded by his prospective coronation. Probably he was getting more new clothes made in Paris, John thought morosely, throwing away the twenty-third draft of his letter to the Pope. To his most Gracious Holiness, it had said (in Latin). He was attempting to request a dispensation for marrying his cousin Isabel, but somehow as soon as he put pen to parchment it all went wrong.

      He sighed and pulled a fresh sheet of parchment from the pile. It had to be done. Of all the possible brides presented to him, Isabel was the only one he had really liked. There was a quietness about her, a softness; in her company he had felt, for once, adequate. John, Prince of England, to his Most Gracious Holiness, the Servant of the Servants of God…. A clatter of hooves in the courtyard distracted him and he crossed to the window, first carefully replacing his pen in the inkwell.

      It was difficult to see right down into the courtyard from this window, John realised, straining out as far as he could. The other side of the courtyard was in full sun, but the riders had drawn over to the east corner, which at this hour of the day was in deep shadow. He boosted himself up onto the narrow ledge and craned further out, balancing precariously on his stomach. Behind him, Pansy crossed to the table and began to lap delicately from the inkwell.

      ***

      In the courtyard below, a small crisis was happening. Foreshortened, the players were difficult to identify. John struggled to focus as they

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