Chapter 24: Baron Moray

Bartholomew, Baron of Moray in England, had reached the age of fifty—a truly advanced age in that era. Originally a common wool merchant, he owned vast pastures near Nottingham. Though his wealth was substantial, he lacked a noble title in a society dominated by the aristocracy. Nevertheless, he harbored a burning ambition: to elevate his family into the ranks of the nobility and secure a legacy of honor for generations to come.

King Edward III of England, desperate for massive funding to wage war against Scotland and France, was in dire need of capital. Bartholomew sensed that his opportunity had arrived. He spent lavishly to bribe the Bishop of Nottingham, and through the Bishop's introduction, he secured an audience with Edward III. Within the royal palace, he bowed respectfully, his gaze firm: "Your Majesty, wool is the 'treasure and sovereign commodity of English soil,' the most precious wealth of our kingdom. If you impose heavy taxes within the realm, you could extract a fortune from the wool trade to satisfy the costs of your wars."

"If Your Majesty grants me the monopoly on wool exports, I am confident that I can organize the wealthy merchants of England to purchase, export, and sell the wool on your behalf. I have calculated that in Nottingham alone, I could secure an annual income of 70,000 pounds for you."

Occupied entirely by thoughts of war and the throne, Edward III had originally shown little interest in wool. However, upon hearing the figure of 70,000 pounds, he became intrigued and asked, "What is it that you want?"

Bartholomew replied without hesitation, "I desire to become a nobleman with a hereditary title, and I wish to serve you and your descendants for the rest of my life, my King."

After Bartholomew generously provided 100,000 pounds to Edward III, the King finally granted him the title of Lord. However, the title was for him alone, for one generation only. Determined to make his family true nobility, Bartholomew resolutely threw himself into Edward's war efforts. In the brutal conflict, he lost three sons, but Edward III eventually remembered his extraordinary contributions and elevated him to the rank of Baron. With high aspirations and a desire to be part of the higher nobility, Bartholomew chose the earldom of Moray in Scotland as his family name, thus becoming the Baron of Moray. His only surviving son, Richard, was also honored to be knighted by Edward III himself.

Bartholomew dreamed with joy that his son Richard would one day bring great prestige to the House of Moray and carry on the family’s glory. Time returns to Tournai. Baron Moray wanted his son to earn more military merit to secure a better title in the future, so he arranged for him to carry out a grain transport mission that seemed safe yet rewarding. However, ten days ago, his son did not return as expected. He only received a single horse, with a letter tucked into the saddle addressed to the Baron.

With a trembling heart, the Baron opened the letter, which read: "Father, I have been captured by the French army. They have not yet harmed me, but they demand a ransom of 300 pounds. We shall exchange in the northern suburbs of Courtrai at dusk three days from now."

Baron Moray recognized Richard’s handwriting at once. To him—a former merchant, a current favorite of the King, and a proud Baron of the realm—his only son was priceless; 300 pounds was trivial, even 3,000 would have been no obstacle. Below the message was a scrawled, barely legible line: "I am the Great Heinrich of Brabant. I have dealt with the French army! Your Richard and this letter are in my hands. I hear you are a royal favorite; 300 pounds is too little. Come to the agreed time and place, but bring 1,000 pounds. And stay honest—do not bring an army!"

Panic-stricken, the Baron rushed to find the Duke of Brabant, who was among the allied forces. The Duke was an in-law of Edward and a powerful lord in the Low Countries; among the current coalition, his military strength was second only to the King of England. The Baron hurried to the Duke's tent, too flustered to wipe the sweat from his brow, and explained his predicament. The Duke frowned, replying with a blank expression, "What Great Heinrich? I know of no such person; perhaps it is some band of brigands. Baron Moray, have you come to ask me to send troops to assist you?"

Though the Baron had his doubts, he dared not press the powerful Duke further. Since the Duke claimed ignorance, he had no choice but to proceed alone. As a newly minted noble from a merchant background, the Baron possessed no army of his own. In desperation, he spent a fortune to borrow troops from other nobles. After much effort, he gathered a force of a thousand men and lay in wait in the northern suburbs of Courtrai.

It was a gloomy day, with thick clouds filling the sky, as if portending an ominous event. Baron Moray hid in the shadows, his expression tense, eyes fixed on the meeting spot as he prayed for everything to go smoothly. Yet, from dusk until the following dawn, no one appeared. Filled with disappointment, the Baron returned to camp, consumed by pain and helplessness.

No sooner had he returned than another horse awaited him before his tent. The letter on its back read: "You pathetic Moray, you dared to set an ambush for me! Great Heinrich is very angry! The ransom has risen to 2,000 pounds! Meet me ten leagues west of Hainaut at midnight, three days from now!"

Accompanying the letter was a blackened left hand. Seeing it, the Baron turned deathly pale, his body trembling; he recognized it as Richard's hand.

"How did he know I was planning an ambush?"

The Baron’s heart was filled with confusion and fury. He couldn't help but wonder: was the Duke of Brabant playing with him? Or had the nobles from whom he borrowed troops leaked the news? Hainaut was far away in the Holy Roman Empire; even with a fast horse, it would take three days to reach. Yet, he could not afford to dwell on it and scrambled to borrow more soldiers from other nobles. He rushed about, pleading earnestly and promising vast sums of money, finally gathering 2,000 cavalrymen.

Three days later, the night in Hainaut was exceptionally quiet, save for the occasional sound of wind and horse hooves. Baron Moray arrived at the meeting spot early with his cavalry, eyes scanning the surroundings in tension. Every rustle of the wind made his heart leap to his throat. However, as the seconds ticked by, even after midnight had passed, there was nothing to be found.