Page 75 of The Earl

Chapter 30

“Those walls have been scaled but once, and never successfully. Perhaps we should . . .”

Noreham stopped. He was looking at something over his shoulder.

Conrad waited for him to continue, their talk of preparations to move on London continuing.

“Conrad, look.” Lance stood next to Noreham. His expression had been grim for most of the morn. But not now. The blacksmith actually smiled.

Turning to the open flap of the tent in which they had gathered, Conrad could not believe what he was seeing. It could not be . . .

They’d given up hope for it.

“’Tis gone.”

The Plantagenet banner, the red and gold that had been taunting them all morn, was, indeed, gone.

He did not hesitate.

“Now,” he shouted. “We ride now!”

His words were met with cheers, but they could not celebrate just yet. There was much that could still go wrong. And yet, it felt like a sign the tide had turned, once again, in their favor.

“The banner is gone,” he said to Guy, almost in wonder.

Guy clapped him on the back. “’Tis good news, my friend.”

They shouted orders to their men, getting them mobilized, and then ran to their mounts. Conrad waited impatiently as his squires fixed his arming cap into place, his helm and gloves the only two items he had to put on as they’d all been suited much earlier that morn.

His men knew their positions.

They had all prepared for this.

Mounted, he waited for the others. Lance, Guy, Terric . . . they would ride alongside him in the lead, as agreed. None hesitated. If they were to take the city unawares during mass, they didn’t have much time.

Charging down the mountain, ahead of all other men, and watching the twin towers of Aldgate loom closer and closer, Conrad said a silent prayer, summoning the strength, if not the impetuousness and temperament, of his father.

Together, they would seize a different path, a different future for England. Conrad would face worse odds for Cait. For Licheford.

With only the slightest of pauses, Conrad rode over the drawbridge and into the city whose gates were, indeed, open and unmanned, side by side with his brothers, who’d formed an order that could have gotten each of them killed for being traitors.

Still could, but it seemed less likely with every passing moment. Not only were the gates unmanned, but it was as if a plague had spread through this section of London. Conrad did not know how their supporters within the city gates had managed it, but they’d not spotted one person yet.

Nay, that was incorrect.

There were two, actually. And he knew one of them, though not the companion, well.

FitzWalter rode toward them.

That he was not armored told Conrad all he needed to know. Yanking off his gloves and helm, he addressed the southern leader of their rebellion as he rode toward them.

“’Tis a relief to see you.”

“Pardon the delay,” FitzWalter shouted back. Shouting was necessary, for the mounted men who entered Aldgate behind them were anything but silent.

Guy laughed beside him, and Conrad could not blame him. They’d almost attacked the greatest city in England because of that “delay.”

“A story for another time,” FitzWalter said. “Do the men know their positions?”

Even as he spoke, the men riding behind them began fanning out in different directions. They all had their part to play, a plan they’d fine-tuned over the last few days. Within minutes, the entirety of London would be occupied. When John’s supporters realized as much, there would be bloodshed that day.

Their work had only begun, but he felt assured of their success.

“They do.” He nodded to the others, only Guy without a helm as was his custom. Without another word, all four departed, Conrad raising a fist in parting to FitzWalter. “You’ve done well,” he shouted, riding past him.

“’Tis your turn,” he heard from behind.

Indeed it was. More than fifty knights followed him, their destination, Westminster. Soon, church bells would ring, the streets would be flooded with people, noble and common, and they would all learn what he and his supporters knew already.

London had been seized by rebels. If the king refused to meet their demands, Louis, the son of King Philip, could sail unopposed up the Thames to the very abbey Conrad sat in front of now. The one that hosted the coronation of England’s kings.

The future of London, of England, was now theirs.