Chapter 42, The Grey Mare Inn, Colchester, Essex, 7th September 961 AD
A worser den of villainy you are not like to see
‘See that the horses are properly caparisoned my boy,’ the old man grunted as he pulled a dirty, dusty shawl about himself and started for the entrance of the bustling, bawdy place locals around these parts affectionately dubbed ‘The Old Nag’.
‘Have a care master,’ the lad, still beardless and carrying awkwardly his boyish frame, said carefully, ‘I like it not when you travel without your bodyguard.’
The other turned and laughed, though not unkindly and stated baldly, ‘come lad I have seen more than sixty summers and have been at this job in the service of not one but two of this realm’s rulers – methinks I know yet how to protect myself…’
The boy turned away, worry still writ large upon his pretty face, ‘nevertheless my lord. You have not even your broadsword…’ The last said as a rebuke.
Exasperated now Arncytel of East Anglia snapped, ‘a broadsword the likes of mine denotes a man of high nobility, Harold. Which do you think draws the more attention? An old stooped and dusty greybeard or some glittering lord?’
Harold nodded in defeat-it was ever thus when he locked horns with his elder, a man who had become both teacher and father to his orphan self when one of the Duke’s agents had discovered him abandoned on one of the Spymaster’s celebrated and infamous information trawls. The child had now become a young man and though he referred to his guardian as ‘master’ in truth he was just as much father to the boy as he was to the Duke’s thirty-one-year-old son, Eadwine.
The Duke smiled once more and cast over his shoulder ‘you worry too much boy – it will be the death of you I am sure…’
Inside the brightly lit and very warm public house was all manner of humanity; merchants on their travels to and from London and Lambeth, farmers from the surrounding lands of Essex, journeymen priests and monks and travellers.
Where am I to find my quarry in this den of iniquity the old duke thought as he made his way to the rear of the place and soon espied an empty berth. Putting on his finest old cripple act he found a path opening up before him and those that did not make way soon found a prod from his walking stick. At last, at the table he sat down heavily and kept watch for Harold, waving his stick in the air to attract the boy’s attention when he arrived finally, looking harassed.
‘Why we always need to meet in bawdy houses and taverns is quite beyond me master,’ he grumbled eliciting a jab from Arncytel.
‘Quit your bellyaching lad, by the rood! We have been instructed to meet one of our agents here so here we are. That is all there is to it now less complaining – I find myself passing thirsty and in need of sustenance. Go to, boy! Fetch forth some provisioning.’
The duke flicked a silver piece towards Harold who was contemplating fighting his way across the tavern to the nearest wench or to the bar, whichever was closest.
‘And you can lose the long face my boy else my next lesson in the courtly goings on of the realm will perforce be delayed…indefinitely.’
That had the desired effect, setting Harold off with disgruntlement replaced by determination, for he could not get enough of Arncytel’s tales - had lapped up eagerly the tale of the taming of the vixen of the north, Æthelræda of Northumbria. Harold knew that there were many more like this and it was his avowed intent to serve the whispering Duke if he could and then his son after for he showed nearly as much aptitude for the ways of the shadow as his celebrated father.
Arncytel did not have to wait long as Harold returned, buxom serving woman in his train. She leant over their table, her ample breasts thrust almost into the boy’s wondering face as she solicitously asked what repast they might wish to avail themselves of.
‘I will have the stew girl,’ Arncytel stated, his voice taking on the hue of those who lived hereabouts – this mimicry was an art that Harold never ceased to marvel at.
‘Aye sir and what will the boy have?’ She asked leaning over him, ‘mayhap some milk of my human kindness with his afters?’
Harold, as was the way with those not quite old enough to have enjoyed the delights of the fairer sex, reddened.
‘The boy will have the same as me wench-now be on your way’ the Duke growled with just enough of a hint of threat in his voice to cool her interest in his handsome young charge.
‘Alright alright greybeard! ‘Was only askin. Well if the youngster changes his mind…it’s on the ‘ouse!’ And off she flounced.
It was a short while before Harold realised that the duke was laughing heartily at his discomfort. Arncytel eventually clapped the lad on the back and said, ‘come, ask away lad – I am here to school you, after all. I figure we still have some time before our contact makes themselves known…’
‘How do you know this sir?’ The boy asked, jumping as the serving lady reappeared and clapped two large flagons of ale in front of them.
Arncytel stroked his long grey whiskers before taking a large pull on his drink. ‘See yon shadows without boy – their length. I reckon we are not far from sunset. No agent of mine worth their salt would be abroad before the night hours. No, we have time yet.’
Impressed, but serious, Harold asked ‘why are we here my lord?’
The duke, for his part, put finger to lip and whispered, ‘less of that honorific in here my lad – let’s stay with “master” shall we?’
‘Forgive me master’ the boy, abashed, lost himself, for a moment, in his own drink.
The wench was back-this time with two great trenchers of stale bread, into which she ladled, from a great pan, large measures of steaming stew. It certainly smelled delicious. Thrusting her breasts once more in Harold’s direction she intoned lasciviously; ‘remember the afters’ before once more hastening off.
‘We are here my lad because the grandly named Grand Mayor around these parts bears some watching.’
Do your stuff my lord...do your stuff 
‘Mean you Ælfstan of Deira sir?’
‘The very same young Harold’ the duke cackled spooning some hot stew into eager mouth, ‘it seems that he is not content running his Republic but leads yet more factions plotting against the king – not one but two at last count.’
Between mouthfuls of bread and stew the young man opined that he never understood the concept of these
republics, they were against the natural order of things.
‘Agreed lad and we all did think the Grand Mayors would have enough on their hands amassing coin for the realm-that is after all, their purpose is it not?’
Harold looked thoughtful then offered, ‘and yet Cenfus of Lancaster is a most faithful subject of the crown is he not?’
Arncytel nodded ‘our Chancellor is indeed that my boy-is even now hereabouts.’
‘The Chancellor is here? In Essex?’
‘He is’ the duke said sagely, ‘it seems the king would like to persuade Ælfstan what a benevolent ruler he is…’
Harold pondered this then said carefully ‘I sometimes wonder why the king is so…kind. Those traitors who started the war have had not a title stripped from them. It is passing strange.’
The duke looked away wistfully, for once his attention elsewhere, before bringing himself back with a little start, ‘aye lad – his Small Council oftentimes feels the like. There was no small measure of disquiet at the
mercy shown to the rebels…think it was the reason we turned away his new law to raise more taxes on the burghers.’
Harold suddenly started up in the way that he did when he alighted on a startling piece of insight. ‘You know what I think master?’
Arncytel nodded for him to continue.
‘I think that he is so intent on not being his mother that he swings too far in the other direction – that is what I reckon!’
The old man picked at his teeth for a lump of gristle stuck within and giving up that little battle eyed his charge approvingly. ‘You have the right of it Harold. Mayhap he should be more like his eldest son-now there is a
drythen in the making if ever I did see one.’
Harold took another pull of his drink and immediately regretted it for he was not yet of an age where he could just knock back large quantities of ale without consequence. The warm glow from the alcohol made him bold: ‘I hear that he moved the Countess of Gwynedd to comfortable house arrest and spends most of his days carousing with the Lord Marshal?’
Am I not MERCIFUL?
Ooh I love a good knees up-I'm in!
‘You are a wonder lad! Where do you get these titbits from, I pray you? No do not tell me-I would fain rather not know.’ He once more clapped the boy on the shoulder before adding, ‘yet the Council did persuade him to cast the German rebels and the Duke of Mercia into his worst dungeons. They will not emerge from there alive I can assure you. Not without an almighty struggle in any case…’
Harold was imagining the Countess of Gwynedd in his mind’s eye. She was a rare beauty, if the stories were to be believed. He then changed the subject somewhat, asking: ‘the Great Tourney of 959, master: was the king wroth that the three winners were all creatures of his sworn enemies of Gwynedd and Northumbria?’
I do put on a good show me!
Arncytel chortled softly, ‘wroth? No, the king was most amused my lad. He did provide those paladins with all honours when another might have clapped them too in irons. I do not know – we will, mayhap, yet mould him into the hardened weapon we must needs him be.’
‘Yet the king is not a young man – has seen forty four summers. Mayhap it will be his son brings England glory, for all Hispania is up in flames and there are those German interests…’
A fine figure of a king?
The fall of a dynasty = rich pickings?
‘What are you planning on laddie? To be Chancellor? Away to fetch more drinks with you!’ The duke urged him up and eased himself back into his seat. He was very tired: altogether too much riding and not enough resting for his old bones…
Harold was gone longer than he might have wished, for he had an urgent need to relieve himself and most taverns of this type had no privies to speak of, so he had dashed out into the cooling evening dusk. Creeping around he was about to make his way back within when he heard urgent voices.
‘Bring him forth! I’ haste!’
He pressed himself up against the alley wall, suddenly sober and putting into practice all the duke had taught him. Up ahead in the gathering night he espied several figures dragging a man between them: some banditry. And then with shock he recognised the figure being carried between the assailants: it was none other than his lord, Arncytel.
‘Unhand me ruffians!’ The duke was crying, ‘dare you touch one of the king’s officers?’
‘We do dare, you cunny!’ the big man who seemed to be their leader shouted punching the duke square in the face, ‘our mistress Fflur Ferch Ifor bids you welcome to her demesne!’
Still struggling the duke shouted, ‘you tell me her name-you damn yourself and her spouse for I know that name-the Welsh harlot, daughter by law of your master, the Grand Mayor!’
‘Shut your mouth old man!’ Another blow, the duke struggles were weakening as they continued to drag and pull him away. Harold could stay his hand no longer and ran forward screaming at them to stop. The Duke realising that the boy was also now in mortal danger suddenly bucked against one of his assailants, just long enough to draw his dirk and bury it in the man’s ample gut. As he wrenched it free he shouted urgent hot words to Harold, ‘fly you fool, fly!’
The sudden change in dynamic had the desired effect: it stopped Harold in his tracks and turned him to flee and it also meant the remaining attackers had to deal with the duke, now suddenly armed. They circled warily, pulling their own weapons, cudgels and daggers. Every so often one would feint and try to draw the noble into a lunge. Arncytel was not so naïve though, had, all his life been trained in martial ways. He would sell his blood very dearly indeed and they all did know it.
The sound of galloping hooves told him the boy had got away, at least, he thought, whilst wishing he was twenty years younger; each thrust and feint was wearing him out…and his assailants were patient. He did not even hear, his hearing no longer being keen, the approach of another catspaw behind him such that he was not aware of the knife that plunged into his neck enveloping him in pain, darkness then sweet oblivion…
Ah my poor old Arncytel This son is not half the man his father was <sob>
