Medieval: The Baron's War (1215-1217 CE)

When his eyes shot open, Baron Robert felt a massive weight pressed against his chest. Slowly, air was being pushed from his mouth as he tried to understand where he was. All he could see was a small sliver of light in a great darkness. He rushed toward it in a great panic, feeling the weight grow as it pushed harder into his ribs. His legs were completely locked in place. Robert looked to see what held him there, but only saw more darkness. A few vague shadows were there, but nothing he had time to inspect further. Enough fire had flowed through his blood that a great roar and heave pushed through the darkness to the hot summer air.

He held his head out and took a deep breath, smelling nothing but putrid death. He let his eyes be burned by the hot sun overhead. Once done, he looked around, about to inspect what he had crawled out of, but instead, his eyes were immediately drawn to the bright yellow and blue tunics of two French footmen. Robert shot his eyes over to a glimmer and lying in the thick green grass was a longsword. He pulled himself out of whatever had caged him and crawled for the sword. His hand quickly grasped the handle. He stood and turned to face the two footmen, who were only ten feet from him. The one to Robert’s right had closed the gap and thrust his blade at the baron. He was quick to swat it away from him, leaving the two French soldiers uneasy. Robert watched as their eyes grew wide, waiting for him to strike, but both of the men’s eyes suddenly looked just over Robert’s head. After that, two sets of arms grabbed Robert from behind. One chainmail covered hand swatted the sword from his right hand before the baron was spun around.

Before him stood a massive horse with an equally intimidating rider. The rider wore another yellow and blue tunic, this one in a stripped pattern. Robert knew it belonged to the House of Burgundy, and considering the rider was being flanked by three cavalrymen on either side, he suspected it was the head of the house himself, Duke Odo III. His right hand had his rosary wrapped around it tight, almost cutting into his skin. A short brown beard connected to the mane of brown hair flowing just above the man’s shoulders. The slight crook in his nose gave his face an ugliness to it, or that was Robert’s own disdain for the French, he wasn’t sure.

Duke Odo’s brown eyes gave Robert a quick up and down before the man asked, “You are Baron Robert, yes?” with a thick French accent.

“Aye.” Robert replied as he planned an escape in his mind.

“Le libérer.” Robert didn’t know what words were said, but they got the two soldiers to release him, so he quite enjoyed them. “Bold to attack on a Sunday, no? I suppose the outcome wasn’t too surprising for you.”

Robert gathered his breath before he replied, “No, Your Grace, I did not attack you on a Sunday. I simply followed orders on a Sunday. Ones that came from the tongue of a fool.” Such a sentence put a massive smile on Duke Odo’s face.

“Ah, you are not Baron Robert, you are Baron Robert Fitzwalter, Thorn of King John.” Robert grinned.

“Is that what they call me?” Odo shook his head.

“No, it is what I call you.” A silence remained over the field, one that let the summer wind howl around them. Eventually, the Duke spoke again, “You would fetch me a good sum of gold, Baron Robert. That’s been made certain from the last time I saw.”

Robert squinted and replied, “And yet, here I stand,” while the sun continued to pour its heat over him. Odo nodded as he looked over the battlefield.

“I was also told that any trouble I can make for King John would be peace for His Majesty King Phillip. I wonder how much trouble you will make for your king if I let go.” Robert laughed.

“Much trouble, I assure you, Your Grace.”

Duke Odo remained stoic as he replied, “But yet here you stand. For a man with such harsh words towards his king, your feet stand wherever he wants them. We found you at Normandy, and now I find you here.” Robert didn’t want to answer that without knowing one other crucial piece of information.

“Where is the Earl of Salisbury?” Duke Odo raised one of his eyebrows.

“Being poked and prodded in a cage by celebrating drunks. Or perhaps in a tent with His Majesty, I am not sure, depends on the King’s mood and if the Earl controlled his tongue.” Robert nodded.

“I did not come here for King John. I came for William. I wished to speak with him in private on a matter.” Duke Odo grinned.

“And what was that matter?”

“I wanted to gain his support in overthrowing John.”

“And what was his response?” Robert nodded and looked at the battlefield, trying to brace himself for any embarrassment.

“Once we win the war is when we could discuss.”

“Ha,” the Duke replied, “Seems Christ laughed at that plan.”

“Doesn’t He laugh at them all?”

The Duke quickly countered, “Only the Devil’s.” Robert felt himself entering a trap he could not escape from, so he just left it and remained silent. “I assume this war will rally more support to your cause.”

“Aye, Your Grace.” Duke Odo nodded and again scanned the battlefield. Robert took the silence as an opportunity to see what he had crawled out of. He took a silent gasp when he saw a pile of Frankish bodies piled three feet high. The smell had made sense to him. He did not think he had lost such control of his humors, but someone must have gotten a good blow in on the baron if he had been thrown in there. Robert had to look away and so he turned his gaze back to the Duke. Odo was clearly still thinking. Or the man was basking in the summer air, one of the two. Robert didn’t really blame him. Being that high up on his horse meant Duke Odo was away from the smell of death Robert had crawled out of. And with their not being a single cloud in the sky, Odo could see God’s blue heaven stay over the lush green fields. Robert realized he had begun taking in the scene himself and forgot the danger he stood in. It was clear the Duke was struggling with the decision.

Finally, though, the man’s hand stopped running through his rosary and Duke Odo said, “Apportez-moi ce cheval.” Robert watched as the Duke’s hand pointed over to a field on the baron’s left. When Robert followed the finger, he saw a chestnut horse standing by itself, saddled, and with no armor. One of Odo’s cavalrymen galloped out to it and brought it back over to the Duke’s hand. “This horse should get you to Damme either late tonight or early tomorrow. Christ be with you, Baron Fitzwalter.” And with that, Robert watched as the Duke trotted past him with the rest of his men, leaving the baron alone with the horse. Once Robert stretched himself, he quickly mounted the horse and sent it on a gallop north towards the port city of Damme.

Robert arrived at noon of the next day, so he did not push his horse too far. Once he arrived in the city, he sold the creature to some peasant whose breath made him flee the city at double the pace. With that, Robert commissioned a vessel to take him back to London. From there, he rode to Hertford Castle, not before seeing Baynard’s though, or at least what remained. As he rode past the castle’s site, he saw many peasants, under guard of a nobleman, taking away the few stones that remained of the castle. To see such pettiness from another man had Robert send the horse into a full gallop out of the city. Within the day, Robert saw a familiar sight.

Hertford Castle, compared to Baynard’s, was a humble structure. A small set of ramparts, a gate, and a few loyal guards. Robert was quick off his horse so he could enter the castle and see the beautiful face of Gunnora. She had a simple beauty to her. A round face with brown eyes and a pair of pale pink lips that smiled when they saw Robert. He smiled to himself, before kissing those lips that carried a saltiness from tears.

“Thank Christ, you’re alive! Praise the Lord! I feared the worst when defeat had reached home.” Robert was too eager to appreciate his wife’s worry.

“Already? That was fast.” Gunnora, used to the baron’s ambition, nodded, and wiped the tears from her face.

“Yes,” she replied, “The Swine arrived weeks before anything about William’s defeat came.”

“WHAT!” Robert yelled. He immediately held his hand up and calmed his wife. “Forgive me, that wasn’t-” Gunnora again, just nodded and held Robert for the moment. It was clear the man had been forgiven, but that stifled little anger in Robert. If the King had already been in England for weeks, the dog ran the moment he saw Prince Phillip’s armies. Victory in Bouvines would have meant nothing. Robert gently pushed his wife to look into her eyes again, so he could say, “I must speak with the bishop. Where is our son? He must accompany me.”

Gunnora pointed towards the closed set of doors on her left and replied, “In the courtyard, sparring.” Robert gave Gunnora another quick peck on the cheek before he went through the doors. The baron stepped into the hot sunlight again. A few clouds were rolling across the blue sky as his son was sitting on a bench, sharpening his sword. Robert's smile couldn’t keep to its corner when he saw the boy.

In reality, that boy was a man, sixteen years old carrying a broad set of shoulders and a face that still shocked Robert at how much it reminded him of his own father. A long, almost unmanaged, set of chestnut curls framed the boy’s square face. Some fat had grown over the boy’s strength, showing the boy had been well fed during some stout activities. Robert knew the boy’s humors would’ve fallen out of balance if he hadn’t done something to distract himself while his father was away. The baron still didn’t like that. Gunnora must’ve been alone the entire time. Robert brushed that aside for the moment.

He instead shouted, “Son!” The young man looked up and showed the one piece of his mother. It was that sharp triangle of a nose, not the almost bent one of Robert’s line. The man quickly stood up and opened his arms for an embrace.

“Father,” he said, “You’ve brought me much peace.” Robert felt the boy’s grip clutch him for a moment.

The baron lightly patted his son on the back and said, “Glad to have brought it. Now come, let me look at you.” Robert stepped back and saw that there was a sustainable amount of muscle on the man. “Let me guess,” he said, “Boars?” His son grinned.

“Good guess. An obscenely large pack of the beasts started trampling crops. Me and a few of your peers took the opportunity.” Unlike Gunnora, Robert’s son, named Robert after his father, only knew the baron’s pace.

“And how are they?” Already, the boy knew what the question really meant.

“Enraged,” his son replied, “The war’s already declared a loss. Many suspect The Swine will have taxmen riding through the countryside within the next six months. Many of them seem to owe him debts.”

Robert nodded at the news, then after some silence he asked, “Will you join me tomorrow morning for London?”

“You know I will,” his son said, almost puffing his chest out as he did. That put a good joy in Robert’s heart. He let that burn brighter as he went back inside and had supper with them. Robert was quick to make Gunnora laugh, as her laugh quickly spread to her son. To hear such a thing was a hymn for the baron. More and more discussions, some wine, then all was done for the night or so Robert thought. Gunnora appeared to have another idea that Robert had no protest to. Being with her again filled more of Robert’s heart with joy. Her body, her love, her blushed cheeks. It was as refreshing as a mountain’s spring. Such moments always brought another side to them, though. More treasure, more cherished moments that could not be lost. Too many times, John tried to take everything from everyone. Robert wished he could keep King John a personal enemy, but that would be too foolish a thing. Baron Fitzwalter suspected he had the largest number of grievances against the Swine though.

That he was not wrong. Normandy was something the Baron could have forgiven, but the man tried to defile his great Matilda, his eldest. If he was honest, the Baron would acknowledge that he wasn’t sure how true that was anymore. She had hinted at something that Robert could never gather a true sense of. Had his rage already been there and imagined something not there? Matilda had already seemed to have moved passed it, since the Baron’s intervention made it nothing. Instead, she fell in love with a somewhat handsome mayor a few counties away.

“Praise the Lord,” he thought, but as he laid in his bed, Robert realized everything had become about all of his family. Matilda already had three grandbabies for him. Robert Junior would soon be married with babes of his own. If John had already taken Baynard and destroyed it, he would have no hesitation in taking Dunmow or Hertford. Anywhere that carried Robert’s name would burn.

That thought put Robert and his son on horses the very next morning. They rode hard for London and quickly found themselves inside the towering cathedral that overlooked the city. It was empty, but still Robert followed Christ. His fingers quickly found the Holy Water for his cross, then he quickly kneeled before he stood to look for the bishop. The man was nowhere to be seen. A sudden, “Shush,” grabbed Robert’s attention. His son was pointing at the confession booth. Robert listened and heard a massive snore. He lifted his eyebrow and then walked across the echoing stone to the wood cabinet. He opened the door on his left side and found the bishop sleeping with his mouth wide open, still releasing a ghastly sound. Robert was quick to put his hand out and gently poke the bishop on his shoulder. The man quickly shot his eyes open.

“What? Who… Ah Robert, and younger Robert. I was meaning to find you. I just sat in here to rest my eyes a moment.” Robert kept his ridiculous grin concealed as he examined Archbishop Stephen Langton. He was still completely dressed in the regalia, fitting his position. He had a small face, but it was still strong, something achieved mostly by his large nose. Its bridge was connected in a straight line directly to his eyebrows, forming a strong “T” that quickly framed his face. Green eyes along with greying brown hair kept him looking normal, but Robert wouldn’t be shocked if the addition of his strong chin made him a distraction for some congregants. Of course, no one could be found attractive when drool draped across their cheek.

“Quite the sit, I’d say.”

“Haha,” the bishop replied dryly, “Witty like a fox. And as…” the bishop suddenly looked around and saw he was still in a cathedral, “If we weren’t here, I’d compare you to another animal.” He then stepped out of the cabinet and straightened his back. “No, the Church’s palace, I was told, was ‘under inspection’ for the archbishop.”

“You are the archbishop.” Robert knew where things were heading and was already stifling his anger.

“They acted as if I wasn’t. I suspect they were told I wasn’t. Christ, help them.” Robert knew well what was unfolding. John had been in England for many weeks. The baron’s peers must have already started speaking of deposing the Swine.

“Can’t say I’m surprised.” The bishop sighed as he felt a pain leave his back.

“Neither can I, I’m afraid.” A silence lingered in the cathedral for a time, until finally, the bishop said, “The rest of the barons, I believe, have finally caught up with you. And Praise Christ they did.” Robert felt a chill of relief run down his back.

“Praise Christ. I prayed I had not turned myself possessed. For a time, it seemed everything was just mad thoughts.” The bishop raised an eyebrow at Robert.

“Eustace didn’t support you?” Robert quickly found himself relieved again. Nothing had gone mad; nothing was a falsehood. The baron had everything in order.

“He did, you’re right.” There was another silence, except this time Robert would break it with a heavy question. “Do we still have His Holiness’ approval?” Bishop Langton remained still for a moment.

“His… indifference. He made sure it was noted that he hadn’t officially withdrawn the blanket absolution of you and your barons. You wouldn’t have support, but you wouldn’t have resistance either.” Robert nodded at the bishop’s words, but he needed more.

“And Wales?”

The bishop was quick to say, “He’s reached a dead end. Such a conflict would give him a wide road for his own quarrels.” Robert nodded again, a smile growing over his face. “I must say, I don’t know of His Majesty Phillip,” Stephen added.

Robert looked at the bishop with his bright smile and said to him, “The Lord’s providence placed my soul in his hands… and yet here I stand.” The bishop’s face remained serious as he looked over at Robert’s son.

He turned back and said, “Such a conflict could be more than the standard bloodshed.”

Robert only shrugged as he replied, “What choice do we have?” The bishop’s face grew a massive dread over it. He prayed he would be told of another choice, but none came. Instead, he only heard Robert ask him, “How soon can you have the other barons at St. Edmunds?”

The bishop replied, “November, before the winter.”

“Then that’s it, Your Grace. By November, we’ll have war… Christ protect us.”