HERETIC.
by Bernard Cornwell.
PROLOGUE.
Calais, 1347.
The road came from the southern hills and crossed the marshes by the sea. It was a bad road. A summer"s persistent rain had left it a strip of glutinous mud that baked hard when the sun came out, but it was the only road that led from the heights of Sangatte to the harbours of Calais and Gravelines. At Nifulay, a hamlet of no distinction whatever, it crossed the River Ham on a stone bridge. The Ham was scarcely worth the t.i.tle of river. It was a slow stream that oozed through fever-ridden marshlands until it vanished among the coastal mudflats. It was so short that a man could wade from its source to the sea in little more than an hour, and it was so shallow that a man could cross it at low tide without getting his waist wet. It drained the swamps where reeds grew thick and herons hunted frogs among the marsh gra.s.s, and it was fed by a maze of smaller streams where the villagers from Nifulay and Hammes and Guimes set their wicker eel traps.
Nifulay and its stone bridge might have expected to slumber through history, except that the town of Calais lay just two miles to the north and, in the summer of 1347, an army of thirty thousand Englishmen was laying siege to the port and their encampment lay thick between the town"s formidable walls and the marshes. The road which came from the heights and crossed the Ham at Nifulay was the only route a French relief force might use and in the height of the summer, when the inhabitants of Calais were close to starvation, Philip of Valois, King of France, brought his army to Sangatte.
Twenty thousand Frenchmen lined the heights, their banners thick in the wind blowing from the sea. The oriflamme was there, the sacred war pennant of France. It was a long flag with three pointed tails, a blood-red ripple of precious silk, and if the flag looked bright that was because it was new. The old oriflamme was in England, a trophy taken on the wide green hill between Wadicourt and Crecy the previous summer. But the new flag was as sacred as the old, and about it flew the standards of France"s great lords: the banners of Bourbon, of Montmorency and of the Count of Armagnac. Lesser flags were visible among the n.o.ble standards, but all proclaimed that the greatest warriors of Philip"s kingdom were come to give battle to the English. Yet between them and the enemy were the River Ham and the bridge at Nifulay that was defended by a stone tower around which the English had dug trenches. These they had filled with archers and men at-arms. Beyond that force was the river, then the marshes, and on the higher ground close to Calais"s high wall and its double moat was a makeshift town of houses and tents where the English army lived. And such an army as had never been seen in France. The besiegers" encampment was bigger than Calais itself. As far as the eye could see were streets lined with canvas, with timber houses, with paddocks for horses, and between them were men at-arms and archers. The oriflamme might as well have stayed unfurled.
We can take the tower, sire." Sir Geoffrey de Charny, as hard a soldier as any in Philip"s army, gestured down the hill to where the English garrison of Nifulay was isolated on the French side of the river.
To what end?" Philip asked. He was a weak man, hesitant in battle, but his question was pertinent. If the tower did fall and the bridge of Nifulay was thus delivered into his hands, what would it serve? The bridge merely led to an even greater English army, which was already arraying itself on the firm ground at the edge of its encampment.
The citizens of Calais, starved and despairing, had seen the French banners on the southern crest and they had responded by hanging their own flags from their ramparts. They displayed images of the Virgin, pictures of Saint Denis of France and, high on the citadel, the blue and yellow royal standard to tell Philip that his subjects still lived, still fought. Yet the brave display could not hide that they had been besieged for eleven months. They needed help. Take the tower, sire/ Sir Geoffrey urged, and then attack across the bridge! Good Christ, if the G.o.dd.a.m.ns see us win one victory they might lose heart!" A growl of agreement came from the a.s.sembled lords. The King was less optimistic. It was true that Calais"s garrison still held out, and that the English had hardly damaged its walls, let alone found a way to cross the twin moats, but nor had the French been able to carry any supplies to the beleaguered town. The people there did not need encouragement, they needed food. A puff of smoke showed beyond the encampment and a few heart beats later the sound of a cannon rolled across the marshes. The missile must have struck the wall, but Philip was too far away to see its effect.
A victory here will encourage the garrison," the Lord of Montmorency urged, and put despair in the English hearts." But why should the English lose heart if the tower of Nifulay fell? Philip thought it would merely fill them with a resolve to defend the road on the far side of the bridge, but he also under stood that he could not keep his rough hounds leashed when a hated enemy was in sight and so he gave his permission. Take the tower/ he instructed, and G.o.d give you victory." The King stayed where he was as the lords gathered men and armed themselves. The wind from the sea brought the smell of salt, but also a scent of decay which probably came from rotting weed on the long tidal flats. It made Philip melancholy. His new astrologer had refused to attend the King for weeks, pleading that he had a fever, but Philip had learned that the man was in fine health, which meant that he must have seen some great disaster in the stars and simply feared to tell the King. Gulls cried beneath the clouds. Far out to sea a grubby sail bellied towards England, while another ship was anchoring off the English-held beaches and ferrying men ash.o.r.e in small boats to swell the enemy ranks. Philip looked back to the road and saw a group of around forty or fifty English knights riding towards the bridge. He made the sign of the cross, praying that the knights would be trapped by his attack. He hated the English. Hated them.
The Duke of Bourbon had delegated the organization of the a.s.sault to Sir Geoffrey de Charny and Edouard de Beaujeu, and that was good. The King trusted both men to be sensible. He did not doubt they could carry the tower, though he still did not know what good it would do; but he supposed it was better than letting his wilder n.o.blemen carry their lances in a wild charge across the bridge to utter defeat in the marshlands. He knew they would love nothing better than to make such an attack. They thought war was a game and every defeat only made them more eager to play. Fools, he thought, and he made the sign of the cross again, wondering what dire prophecy the astrologer was hiding from him. What we need, he thought, is a miracle. Some great sign from G.o.d. Then he twitched in alarm because a nakerer had just beaten his great kettledrum. A trumpet sounded.
The music did not presage the advance. Rather the musicians were warming their instruments, ready for the attack. Edouard de Beaujeu was on the right, where he had a.s.sembled over a thousand crossbowmen and as many men-at-arms, and he plainly intended to a.s.sault the English from one flank while Sir Geoffrey de Charny and at least five hundred men-at-arms charged straight down the hill at the English entrenchments. Sir Geoffrey was striding along the line shouting at the knights and men-at-arms to dismount. They did so reluctantly. They believed that the essence of war was the cavalry charge, but Sir Geoffrey knew that horses were no use against a stone tower protected by entrenchments and so he was insisting they fought on foot. Shields and swords," he told them, no lances! On foot! On foot!" Sir Geoffrey had learned the hard way that horses were pitiably vulnerable to English arrows, while men on foot could advance at the crouch behind stout shields. Some of the higher-born men were refusing to dismount, but he ignored them. Even more French men-at arms were hurrying to join the charge.
The small band of English knights had crossed the bridge now and looked as if they intended to ride straight up the road to challenge the whole French battle line, but instead they checked their horses and gazed up at the horde on the ridge. The King, watching them, saw that they were led by a great lord. He could tell that by the size of the man"s banner, while at least a dozen of the other knights carried the square flags of bannerets on their lances. A rich group, he thought, worth a small fortune in ransoms. He hoped they would ride to the tower and so trap themselves. The Duke of Bourbon trotted his horse back to Philip. The Duke was in plate armour that had been scoured with sand, vinegar and wire until it shone white. His helmet, still hanging from his saddle"s pommel, was crested with feathers dyed blue. He had refused to dismount from his destrier, which had a steel chanfron to protect its face and a trapper of gleaming mail to shield its body from the English archers who were no doubt stringing their bows in the entrenchments. The oriflamme, sire," the Duke said. It was supposed to be a request, but somehow sounded like an order. The oriflamme?" The King pretended not to understand. May I have the honour, sire, of carrying it to battle?" The King sighed. You outnumber the enemy ten to one," he said, you hardly need the oriflamme. Let it stay here. The enemy will have seen it." And the enemy would know what the unfurled oriflamme meant. It instructed the French to take no prisoners, to kill everyone, though doubtless any wealthy English knight would still be captured rather than killed, for a corpse yielded no ransom. Still, the unfurled triple-tongued flag should put terror into English hearts. It will remain here/ the King insisted.
The Duke began to protest, but just then a trumpet sounded and the crossbowmen started down the hill. They were in green and red tunics with the grail badge of Genoa on their left arms, and each was accompanied by a foot soldier holding a pavise, a huge shield that would protect the crossbowman while he reloaded his clumsy weapon. A half-mile away, beside the river, Englishmen were running from the tower to the earth entrenchments that had been dug so many months before that they were now thickly covered with gra.s.s and weeds. You will miss your battle," the King said to the Duke who, forgetting the scarlet banner, wheeled his great armoured warhorse towards Sir Geoffrey"s men.
Montjoie Saint Denis!" The Duke shouted France"s war cry and the nakerers thumped their big drums and a dozen trumpeters blared their challenge at the sky. There were clicks as helmet visors were lowered. The crossbowmen were already at the foot of the slope, spreading right to envelop the English flank. Then the first arrows flew: English arrows, white-feathered, fluttering across the green land, and the King, leaning forward in his saddle, saw that there were too few archers on the enemy side. Usually, whenever the d.a.m.ned English gave battle, their archers outnumbered their knights and men-at-arms by at least three to one, but the outpost of Nifulay seemed mostly to be garrisoned by men-at-arms. G.o.d speed you!" the King called to his soldiers. He was suddenly enthused because he could scent victory.
The trumpets sounded again and now the grey metallic tide of men-at-arms swept down the slope. They roared their war cry and the sound was rivalled by the drummers who were hammering their taut goatskins and the trumpeters who were playing as if they could defeat the English with sound alone. G.o.d and Saint Denis!" the King shouted.
The crossbow quarrels were flying now. Each short iron bolt was fitted with leather vanes and they made a hiss as they streaked towards the earthworks. Hundreds of bolts flew, then the Genoese stepped behind the huge shields to work the ratchets that bent back their steel-reinforced bows. Some English arrows thumped into the pavises, but then the archers turned towards Sir Geoffrey"s attack. They put bodkin-headed arrows on their strings, arrows that were tipped with three or four inches of narrow-shafted steel that could pierce mail as if it were linen. They drew and shot, drew and shot, and the arrows thumped into shields and the French closed ranks. One man was pierced in the thigh and stumbled and the men-at-arms flowed around him and closed up again.
An English archer, standing to loose his bow, was. .h.i.t in the shoulder by a crossbow bolt and his arrow flew crazily into the air.
Montjoie Saint Denis!" The men-at-arms bellowed their challenge as the charge reached the flat ground at the foot of the slope. The arrows hammered into shields with sickening force, but the French held their tight formation, shield overlapping shield, and the cross bowmen edged closer to aim at the English archers who were forced to stand high in their trenches to loose their weapons. A bolt went clean through an iron sallet to pierce an English skull. The man toppled sideways, blood spilling down his face. A volley of arrows whipped from the tower"s top and the answering crossbow bolts rattled on the stones as the English men-at-arms, seeing that their arrows had not checked the enemy, stood with unsheathed swords to meet the charge.
Saint George!" they shouted, then the French attackers were at the first entrenchment and stabbing down at the English beneath them. Some Frenchmen found narrow causeways piercing the trench and they streamed through to attack the defenders from the rear. Archers in the two rearmost trenches had easy targets, but so did the Genoese crossbowmen who stepped from behind their pavises to rain iron on the enemy. Some of the English, sensing the slaughter to come, were leaving their entrenchments to run towards the Ham. Edward de Beaujeu, leading the cross bowmen, saw the fugitives and shouted at the Genoese to drop their crossbows and join the attack. They drew swords or axes and swarmed at the enemy. Kill!" Edward de Beaujeu shouted. He was mounted on a destrier and, his sword drawn, he spurred the big stallion forward. Kill!"
The Englishmen in the forward trench were doomed. They struggled to protect themselves from the ma.s.s of French men-at-arms, but the swords, axes and spears slashed down. Some men tried to yield, but the oriflamme was flying and that meant no prisoners so the French swamped the slick mud at the trench"s bottom with English blood. The defenders from the rearward trenches were all running now, but the handful of French hors.e.m.e.n, those too proud to fight on foot, spurred across the narrow causeways, shoved through their own men-at-arms and screamed the war cry as they drove their big horses into the fugitives beside the river. Stallions wheeled as swords chopped. An archer lost his head beside the river that turned sudden red. A man-at-arms screamed as he was trampled by a destrier, then stabbed with a lance. An English knight held his hands in the air, offering a gauntlet as a token of surrender, and he was ridden down from behind, his spine pierced with a sword, then another horseman cut an axe into his face. Kill them!" the Duke of Bourbon shouted, his sword wet, kill them all!" He saw a group of archers escaping towards the bridge and shouted at his followers, With me! With me! Montjoie Saint Denisl"
The archers, nearly thirty of them, had fled towards the bridge, but when they reached the straggle of reed-thatched houses beside the river they heard the hoofbeats and turned in alarm. For a heartbeat it seemed they would panic again, but one man checked them. Shoot the horses, boys," he said, and the bowmen hauled on their cords, loosed, and the white-fledged arrows slammed into the destriers. The Duke of Bourbon"s stallion staggered sideways as two arrows drove through its mail and leather armour, then it fell as another two horses went down, hooves flailing. The other riders instinctively turned away, looking for easier pickings. The Duke"s squire yielded his own horse to his master, then died as a second English volley hissed from the village. The Duke, rather than waste time trying to mount his squire"s horse, lumbered away in his precious plate armour, which had protected him from the arrows. Ahead of him, around the base of Nifulay"s tower, the survivors from the English trenches had formed a shield wall that was now surrounded by vengeful Frenchmen. No prisoners!" a French knight shouted, no prisoners!" The Duke called for his men to help him into the saddle.
Two of the Duke"s men-at-arms dismounted to help their master onto the new horse, and just then they heard the thunder of hooves. They turned to see a group of English knights charging from the village. Sweet Jesus!" The Duke was half in, half out of the saddle, his sword scabbarded, and he began to fall backwards as the men helping him drew their own swords. Where the h.e.l.l had these English come from? Then his other men-at-arms, desperate to protect their lord, slammed down their visors and turned to meet the challenge. The Duke, sprawling on the turf, heard the clash of armoured hors.e.m.e.n.
The English were the group of men the French King had seen. They had paused in the village to watch the slaughter in the entrenchments and had been about to ride back across the bridge when the Duke of Bourbon"s men had come close. Too close: a challenge that could not be ignored. So the English lord led his household knights in a charge that tore into the Duke of Bourbon"s men. The Frenchmen had not been ready for the attack, and the English came in proper array, knee to knee, and the long ash lances, carried upright as they charged, suddenly dropped to the killing position and tore through mail and leather. The English leader was wearing a blue surcoat slashed with a diagonal white band on which three red stars were blazoned. Yellow lions occupied the blue field that turned suddenly black with enemy blood as he rammed his sword up into the unprotected armpit of a French man-at-arms. The man shook with pain, tried to backswing his sword, but then another Englishman hammered a mace into his visor that crumpled under the blow and sprang blood from a dozen rents. A hamstrung horse screamed and toppled. Stay close!" the Englishman in the gaudy surcoat was shouting at his men. Stay close!" His horse reared up and flailed its hooves at an unhorsed Frenchman. That man went down, helmet and skull crushed by a horseshoe, and then the rider saw the Duke standing helpless beside a horse; he recognized the value of the man"s shining plate armour and so spurred at him. The Duke fended the sword blow with his shield, swung his own blade that jarred on the enemy"s leg armour and suddenly the horseman was gone.
Another Englishman had pulled his leader"s horse away. A ma.s.s of French hors.e.m.e.n was coming down the hill. The King had sent them in hope of capturing the English lord and his men, and still more Frenchmen, unable to join the attack on the tower because too many of their fellows were a.s.sembling to help kill the garrison"s remnant, were now charging the bridge. Back!" the English leader called, but the village street and the narrow bridge were blocked by fugitives and threatened by Frenchmen. He could cut his way through, but that would mean killing his own archers and losing some of his knights in the chaotic panic, so instead he looked across the road and saw a path running beside the river. It might lead to the beach, he thought, and there, perhaps, he could turn and ride east to rejoin the English lines.
The English knights slashed their spurs back. The path was narrow, only two hors.e.m.e.n could ride abreast; on one side was the River Ham and on the other a stretch of boggy swamp, but the path itself was firm and the English rode it until they reached a stretch of higher ground where they could a.s.semble. But they could not escape. The small piece of higher ground was almost an island, reachable only by the path and surrounded by a mora.s.s of reeds and mud. They were trapped.
A hundred French hors.e.m.e.n were ready to follow along the path, but the English had dismounted and made a shield wall, and the thought of hacking their way through that steel barrier persuaded the French to turn back to the tower where the enemy was more vulnerable. Archers were still shooting from its ramparts, but the Genoese crossbowmen were replying, and now the French slammed into the English men-at-arms drawn up at the tower"s foot.
The French attacked on foot. The ground was slippery because of the summer"s rain and the mailed feet churned it to mud as the leading men-at-arms bellowed their war cry and threw them selves onto the outnumbered English. Those English had locked their shields and they thrust them forward to meet the charge. There was a clash of steel on wood, a scream as a blade slid under a shield"s edge and found flesh. The men in the second English rank, the rear rank, flailed with maces and swords over their comrades" heads. Saint George!" a shout went up, Saint George!" and the men-at-arms heaved forward to throw the dead and dying off their shields. Kill the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!"
Kill them!" Sir Geoffrey de Charny yelled in return and the French came back, stumbling in their mail and plate across the wounded and dead, and this time the English shields were not touching rim to rim and the French found gaps. Swords crashed onto plate armour, thrust through mail, beat in helmets. A few last defenders were trying to escape across the river, but the Genoese crossbowmen pursued them and it was a simple matter to hold an armoured man down in the water until he drowned, then pillage his body. A few English fugitives stumbled away on the farther bank, going to where an English battle line of archers and men-at-arms was forming to repel any attack across the Ham.
Back at the tower a Frenchman with a battle-axe swung repeat edly at an Englishman, cracking open the espalier that protected his right shoulder, slashing through the mail beneath, beating the man down to a crouch, and still the blows came until the axe had laid open the enemy"s chest and there was a splay of white ribs among the mangled flesh and torn armour. Blood and mud made a paste underfoot. For every Englishman there were three enemies, and the tower door had been left unlocked to give the men outside a place where they could retreat, but instead it was the French who forced their way inside. The last defenders outside the tower were cut down and killed, while inside the attackers began fighting up the stairs.
The steps turned to the right as they climbed. That meant the defenders could use their right arms without much enc.u.mbrance while the attackers were forever baulked by the big central pillar of the stairs, but a French knight with a short spear made the first rush and he disembowelled an Englishman with the blade before another defender killed him with a sword thrust over the dying man"s head. Visors were up here, for it was dark in the tower, and a man could not see with his eyes half covered with steel. And so the English stabbed at French eyes. Men-at-arms pulled the dead off the steps, leaving a trail of guts behind, and then two more men charged up, slipping on offal. They parried English blows, thrust their swords up into groins, and still more Frenchmen pushed into the tower. A terrible scream filled the stairwell, then another bloodied body was hauled down and out of the way: another three steps were clear and the French shoved on up again. Montjoie Saint Denis!"
An Englishman with a blacksmith"s hammer came down the steps and he beat at French helmets, killing one man by crushing his skull and driving the others back until a knight had the wit to seize a crossbow and sidle up the stairs until he had a clear view. The bolt went through the Englishman"s mouth to lift off the back of his skull and the French rushed again, screaming hate and victory, trampling the dying man under their gore-spattered feet and carrying their swords up to the very top of the tower. There a dozen men tried to shove them back down the steps, but still more French were thrusting upwards. They forced the leading attackers onto the swords of the defenders and the next men clambered over the dying and the dead to rout the last of the garrison. All the men were hacked down. One archer lived long enough to have his fingers chopped off, then his eyes prised out, and he was still screaming as he was thrown off the tower onto the waiting swords below.
The French cheered. The tower was a charnel house, but the banner of France would fly from its ramparts. The entrenchments had become graves for the English. Victorious men began to strip the clothes from the dead to search for coins, when a trumpet called. There were still some Englishmen on the French side of the river. There were hors.e.m.e.n trapped on a patch of firmer ground. So the killing was not done.
The Saint James anch.o.r.ed off the beach south of Calais and ferried its pa.s.sengers ash.o.r.e in rowboats. Three of the pa.s.sengers, all in mail, had so much baggage that they paid two of the Saint James"s crew to carry it into the streets of the English encampment where they sought the Earl of Northampton. Some of the houses had two storeys, and cobblers, armourers, smiths, fruiterers, bakers and butchers had all hung signs from their upper floors. There were wh.o.r.ehouses and churches, fortune-tellers" booths and taverns built between the tents and houses. Children played in the streets. Some had small bows and shot blunt arrows at irritated dogs. The n.o.bles" quarters had their banners displayed outside and mail-clad guards standing at their doors. A cemetery spread into the marshes, its damp graves filled with men, women and children who had succ.u.mbed to the fever that haunted the Calais swamps. The three men found the Earl"s quarters, which was a large wooden dwelling close to the pavilion that flew the royal flag, and there two of them, the youngest and the oldest, stayed with the baggage while the third man, the tallest, walked towards Nifulay. He had been told that the Earl had led some hors.e.m.e.n on a foray towards the French army. Thousands of the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," the Earl"s steward had reported, picking their noses up on the ridge, so his lordship wants to challenge some of them. Getting bored, he is." He looked at the big wooden chest that the two men were guarding. So what"s in that?"
Nose pickings/ the tall man had said, then he shouldered a long black bowstave, picked up an arrow bag and left. His name was Thomas. Sometimes Thomas of Hookton. Other times he was Thomas the b.a.s.t.a.r.d and, if he wanted to be very formal, he could call himself Thomas Vexille, though he rarely did. The Vexilles were a n.o.ble Gascon family and Thomas of Hookton was an illegitimate son of a fugitive Vexille, which had left him neither n.o.ble nor Vexille. And certainly not Gascon. He was an English archer. Thomas attracted glances as he walked through the camp. He was tall. Black hair showed beneath the edge of his iron helmet. He was young, but his face had been hardened by war. He had hollow cheeks, dark watchful eyes and a long nose that had been broken in a fight and set crooked. His mail was dulled by travel and beneath it he wore a leather jerkin, black breeches and long black riding boots without spurs. A sword scabbarded in black leather hung at his left side, a haversack at his back and a white arrow bag at his right hip. He limped very slightly, suggesting he must have been wounded in battle, though in truth the injury had been done by a churchman in the name of G.o.d. The scars of that torture were hidden now, except for the damage to his hands, which had been left crooked and lumpy, but he could still draw a bow. He was twenty-three years old and a killer.
He pa.s.sed the archers" camps. Most were hung with trophies. He saw a French breastplate of solid steel that had been pierced by an arrow hung high to boast what archers did to knights. Another group of tents had a score of horsetails hanging from a pole. A rusty, torn coat of mail had been stuffed with straw, hung from a sapling and pierced by arrows. Beyond the tents was marsh land that stank of sewage. Thomas walked on, watching the French array on the southern heights. There were enough of them, he thought, far more than had turned up to be slaughtered between Wadicourt and Crecy. Kill one Frenchman, he thought, and two more appear. He could see the bridge ahead of him now and the small hamlet beyond, and behind him men were coming from the encampment to make a battle line to defend the bridge because the French were attacking the small English outpost on the farther bank. He could see them flooding down the slope, and he could also see a small group of hors.e.m.e.n who he a.s.sumed were the Earl and his men. Behind him, its sound dulled by distance, an English cannon launched a stone missile at Calais"s battered walls. The noise rumbled over the marshes and faded, to be replaced by the clash of weapons from the English entrenchments.
Thomas did not hurry. It was not his fight. He did, however, take the bow from his back and string it and he noted how easy that had become. The bow was old; it was getting tired. The black yew stave, which had once been straight, was now slightly curved. It had followed the string, as archers said, and he knew it was time to make a new weapon. Yet he reckoned the old bow, which he had coloured black and onto which he had fixed a silver plate showing a strange beast holding a cup, still had a few Frenchmen"s souls in it.
He did not see the English hors.e.m.e.n charge the flank of the French attack because the hovels of Nifulay hid the brief fight. He did see the bridge fill with fugitives who got in each other"s way in their haste to escape the French fury, and above their heads he saw the hors.e.m.e.n ride towards the sea on the river"s far bank. He followed them on the English side of the river, leaving the embanked road to jump from tussock to tussock, sometimes splashing through puddles or wading through mud that tried to steal his boots. Then he was by the river and he saw the mud coloured tide swirling its way inland as the sea rose. The wind smelt of salt and decay.
He saw the Earl then. The Earl of Northampton was Thomas"s lord, the man he served, though the Earl"s rein was loose and his purse generous. The Earl was watching the victorious French, knowing that they would come to attack him, and one of his men at-arms had dismounted and was trying to find a path firm enough for the armoured horses to reach the river. A dozen more of his men-at-arms were kneeling or standing across the French approach path, ready to meet a charge with shield and sword. And back at the hamlet, where the slaughter of the English garrison was finished, the French were turning wolfishly towards the trapped men.
Thomas waded into the river. He held his bow high, for a wet string would not draw, and he waded through the tide"s tug. The water came to his waist, then he was pushing out onto the muddy bank and he ran to where the men-at-arms waited to receive the first French attackers. Thomas knelt just beside them, out in the marsh; he splayed his arrows on the mud, then plucked one. A score of Frenchmen were coming. A dozen were mounted and those hors.e.m.e.n kept to the path, but on their flanks dismounted men-at-arms splashed through the swamps and Thomas forgot them, they would take time to reach the firm ground, so instead he began shooting at the mounted knights. He shot without thinking. Without aiming. This was his life, his skill and his pride. Take one bow, taller than a man, made from yew, and use it to send arrows of ash, tipped with goose feathers and armed with a bodkin point. Because the great bow was drawn to the ear it was no use trying to aim with the eye. It was years of practice that let a man know where his arrows would go and Thomas was shooting them at a frantic pace, one arrow every three or four heartbeats, and the white feathers slashed across the marsh and the long steel tips drove through mail and leather into French bellies, chests and thighs. They struck with the sound of a meat-axe falling on flesh and they stopped the hors.e.m.e.n dead. The leading two were dying, a third had an arrow in his upper thigh, and the men behind could not pa.s.s the wounded men in front because the path was too narrow and so Thomas began shooting at the dismounted men-at-arms. The force of an arrow"s strike was enough to throw a man backwards. If a Frenchman lifted a shield to protect his upper body Thomas put an arrow into his legs, and if his bow was old, then it was still vicious. He had been at sea for more than a week and he could feel the ache in his back muscles as he hauled the string back. Even pulling the weakened bow was the equivalent of lifting a grown man bodily, and all that muscle was poured into the arrow. A horseman tried to splash through the mud but his heavy destrier floundered in the soggy ground; Thomas selected a flesh arrow, one with a broad, tanged head that would rip through a horse"s guts and blood vessels and he loosed it low, saw the horse shudder, picked a bodkin from the ground and let it fly at a man-at-arms who had his visor up. Thomas, did not look to see if any of the arrows were on target, he shot and picked another missile, then shot again, and the bowstring whipped along the horn bracer that he wore on his left wrist. He had never bothered to protect his wrist before, revelling in the burn left by the string, but the Dominican had tortured his left forearm and left it ridged with scar so now the horn sheath guarded the flesh.
The Dominican was dead.
Six arrows left. The French were retreating, but they were not beaten. They were shouting for crossbowmen and for more men at-arms and Thomas, responding, put his two string fingers in his mouth and let loose a piercing whistle. Two notes, high and low, repeated three times, then a pause and he blew the double notes again and he saw archers running towards the river. Some were the men who had retreated from Nifulay and others came from the battle line because they recognized the signal that a fellow archer needed help.
Thomas picked up his six arrows and turned to see that the first of the Earl"s hors.e.m.e.n had found a pa.s.sage to the river and were leading their heavily armoured horses across the swirling tide. It would be minutes before they were all across, but archers were splashing towards the farther bank now and those closest to Nifulay were already shooting at a group of crossbowmen being hurried towards the unfinished fight. More hors.e.m.e.n were coming down from the heights of Sangatte, enraged that the trapped English knights were escaping. Two galloped into the marsh where their horses began to panic in the treacherous ground. Thomas laid one of his last arrows on the string, then decided the marsh was defeating the two men and an arrow would be superfluous. A voice came from just behind him. Thomas, isn"t it?" Sire." Thomas s.n.a.t.c.hed off his helmet and turned, still on his knees.
You"re good with that bow, aren"t you?" The Earl spoke ironically. Practice, sire."
A nasty mind helps/ the Earl said, motioning Thomas to stand. The Earl was a short man, barrel-chested, with a weatherbeaten face that his archers liked to say looked like the backside of a bull, but they also reckoned he was a fighter, a good man and as hard as any of his men. He was a friend of the King"s, but also a friend of any who wore his badge. He was not a man to send others into battle unless he led them, and he had dismounted and removed his helmet so that his rearguard would recognize him and know that he shared their danger. I thought you were in England," he said to Thomas.
I was," Thomas said, speaking now in French for he knew the Earl was more comfortable in that language, then I was in Brittany."
Now you"re rescuing me." The Earl grinned, revealing the gaps where he had lost his teeth. I suppose you"ll want a pot of ale for this?"
As much as that, my lord?"
The Earl laughed. We rather made fools of ourselves, didn"t we?" He was watching the French who, now that a hundred or more English archers lined the riverbank, were thinking twice before launching another attack. We thought we might tempt forty of their men to a battle of honour by the village, then half their b.l.o.o.d.y army comes down the hill. Do you bring me news of Will Skeat?"
Dead, my lord. Died in the fight at La Roche-Derrien." The Earl flinched, then made the sign of the cross. Poor Will. G.o.d knows I loved him. No better soldier ever breathed." He looked at Thomas. And the other thing. Do you bring me that?" He meant the Grail. I bring you gold, my lord/ Thomas said, but not that."
The Earl patted Thomas"s arm. We shall talk, but not here." He looked at his men and raised his voice. Back now! Back!" His dismounted rear guard, their horses already led to safety through the rising tide, now hurried to the river and crossed. Thomas followed and the Earl, his sword drawn, was the last man to wade the deepening water. The French, denied their valuable quarry, jeered at his retreat.
And that day"s fighting was done.
The French army did not stay. They had killed the Nifulay garrison, but even the most hot-blooded among them knew they could do no more. The English were too many. Thousands of archers were just praying for the French to cross the river and offer battle, so instead Philip"s men marched away, leaving the trenches of Nifulay filled with the dead and the windswept ridge of Sangatte empty, and next day the town of Calais surrendered. King Edward"s first instinct was to slaughter every inhabitant, to line them beside the moat and cut the heads from their emaciated bodies, but his great lords protested that the French would then do the same to any English-held town they captured in Gascony or Flanders and so the King reluctantly reduced his demand to just six lives.
Six men, hollow-cheeked and dressed in the robes of penitents, with hanging nooses draped about their necks, were brought from the town. They were all leading citizens, merchants or knights, men of wealth and standing, the kind of men who had defied Edward of England for eleven months. They carried the keys of the town"s gates on cushions that they laid before the King, then prostrated themselves in front of the wooden platform where the King and Queen of England and the great magnates of their realm were seated. The six men pleaded for their lives, but Edward was angry. They had defied him, and so the executioner was summoned, but again his great lords argued that he invited reprisals, and the Queen herself knelt to her husband and begged that the six men be spared. Edward growled, paused while the six lay motionless beneath the dais, then let them live. Food was taken to the starving citizens, but no other mercy was shown. They were evicted, allowed to take nothing except the clothes they wore and even those were searched to ensure that no coins or jewels were being smuggled past the English lines. An empty town, with houses for eight thousand people, with ware houses and shops and taverns and docks and a citadel and moats, belonged to England. A doorway into France," the Earl of Northampton enthused. He had taken a house that had belonged to one of the six, a man who now wandered Picardy like a beggar with his family. It was a lavish stone house beneath the citadel with a view of the town quay that was now crowded with English ships. We"ll fill the town with good English folk/ the Earl said. You want to live here, Thomas?"
No, sire," Thomas said.
Nor me," the Earl admitted. A pig sty in a swamp, that"s what it is. Still, it"s ours. So what do you want, young Thomas?" It was morning, three days after the town"s surrender, and already the confiscated wealth of Calais was being distributed to the victors. The Earl had found himself even richer than he expected, for the great chest Thomas had brought from Brittany was filled with gold and silver coins captured in Charles of Blois"s camp after the battle outside La Roche-Derrien. One-third of that belonged to Thomas"s lord and the Earl"s men had counted the coins, setting aside a third of the Earl"s share for the King. Thomas had told his story. How, on the Earl"s instructions, he had gone to England to search his dead father"s past for a clue to the Grail. He had found nothing except a book in which his father, a priest, had written about the Grail, but Father Ralph had wits that wandered and dreams that seemed real and Thomas had learned nothing from the writings, which had been taken from him by the Dominican who had tortured him. But the book had been copied before the Dominican took it and now, in the Earl"s new sunlit chamber above the quay, a young English priest tried to make sense of the copy.
What I want," Thomas told the Earl, is to lead archers." G.o.d knows if there"ll be anywhere to lead them," the Earl responded gloomily. Edward talks of attacking Paris, but it won"t happen. There"s going to be a truce, Thomas. We"ll plead eternal friendship, then go home and sharpen our swords." There was the crackle of parchment as the priest took up a new page. Father Ralph had written in Latin, Greek, Hebrew and French, and evidently the priest understood them all. He made an occasional note on a sc.r.a.p of parchment as he read. Barrels of beer were being unloaded on the quay, the rumble of the great tuns sounding like thunder. The flag of England"s King, leopards and fleur de lys, flew from the captured citadel above the French standard, which was hung upside down as a mark of derision. Two men, Thomas"s companions, stood at the edge of the room, waiting for the Earl to include them. G.o.d knows what employment there"ll be for archers," the Earl went on, unless it"s guarding fortress walls. Is that what you want?"
It"s all I"m good for, my lord. Shooting a bow." Thomas spoke in Norman French, the language of England"s aristocracy and the language his father had taught him. And I have money, my lord." He meant that he could now recruit archers, equip them with horses and take them on the Earl"s service, which would cost the Earl nothing, but the Earl could then take one-third of everything they plundered.
That was how Will Skeat, common born, had made his name. The Earl liked such men, profited from them, and he nodded approvingly. But lead them where?" he asked. I hate truces/ The young priest intervened from his table by the window. The King would prefer it if the Grail were found." His name"s John Buckingham/ the Earl said of the priest, and he"s Chamberlain of the Receipt of the Exchequer, which may not sound much to you, young Thomas, but it means he serves the King and he"ll probably be Archbishop of Canterbury before he"s thirty. Hardly, my lord," the priest said.
And of course the King wants the Grail found/ the Earl said, we all want that. I want to see the d.a.m.n thing in Westminster Abbey! I want the King of d.a.m.ned France crawling on his b.l.o.o.d.y knees to say prayers to it. I want pilgrims from all Christendom bringing us their gold. For G.o.d"s sake, Thomas, does the b.l.o.o.d.y thing exist? Did your father have it?"
I don"t know, my lord/ Thomas said.
Much b.l.o.o.d.y use you are/ the Earl grumbled.
John Buckingham looked at his notes. You have a cousin, Guy Vexille?"
Yes/ Thomas said.
And he seeks the Grail?"
By seeking me/ Thomas said. And I don"t know where it is." But he was searching for the Grail before he knew you existed/ the young priest pointed out, which suggests to me that he possesses some knowledge denied to us. I would advise, my Lord, that we seek this Guy Vexille."
We"d be two dogs chasing each other"s tails/ Thomas put in sourly.
The Earl waved Thomas to silence. The priest looked back at his notes. And, opaque though these writings are/ he said disap provingly, there is one thread of light. They seem to confirm that the Grail was at Astarac. That it was hidden there." And taken away again!" Thomas protested.
If you lose something valuable/ Buckingham said patiently, where do you begin your search? At the place where it was last seen. Where is Astarac?"
Gascony/ Thomas said, in the fief of Berat/ Ah!" the Earl said, but then was silent.
And have you been to Astarac?" Buckingham asked. He might have been young, but he had an authority that came from more than his job with the King"s Exchequer.
No."
Then I suggest you go," the priest said, and see what you can learn. And if you make enough noise in your searching then your cousin may well come looking for you, and you can find him and discover what he knows." He smiled, as if to suggest that he had solved the problem.
There was silence except that one of the Earl"s hunting dogs scratched itself in a corner of the room and on the quays a sailor let loose a stream of profanities that might have brought a blush to the devil"s face. I can"t capture Guy by myself," Thomas protested, and Berat offers no allegiance to our King." Officially," Buckingham said, Berat offers allegiance to the Count of Youlouse, which today means the King of France. The Count of Berat is definitely an enemy."
No truce is signed yet," the Earl offered hesitantly. And won"t be for days, I suspect," Buckingham agreed. The Earl looked at Thomas. And you want archers?" I"d like Will Skeat"s men, sire."
And no doubt they"d serve you," the Earl said, but you can"t lead men-at-arms, Thomas." He meant that Thomas, not n.o.bly born and still young, might have the authority to command archers, but men at-arms, who considered themselves of higher rank, would resent his leadership. Will Skeat, worse born than Thomas, had managed it, but Will had been much older and far more experienced. I can lead men-at-arms," one of the two men by the wall announced.
Thomas introduced the two. The one who had spoken was an older man, scarred, one eye missing, hard as mail. His name was Sir Guillaume d"Evecque, Lord of Evecque, and he had once held a fief in Normandy until his own King turned against him and now he was a landless warrior and Thomas"s friend. The other, younger man was also a friend. He was a Scot, Robbie Douglas, taken prisoner at Durham the year before. Christ"s bones," the Earl said when he knew Robbie"s circ.u.mstances, but you must have raised your ransom by now?"
I raised it, my lord," Robbie admitted, and lost it/ Lost it!"
Robbie stared at the floor, so Thomas explained in one curt word. Dice."
The Earl looked disgusted, then turned again to Sir Guillaume. I have heard of you," he said, and it was a compliment, and know you can lead men-at-arms, but whom do you serve?" No man, my lord/ Then you cannot lead my men-at-arms/ the Earl said pointedly, and waited. Sir Guillaume hesitated. He was a proud man, thirty-five years old, experienced in war, with a reputation that had first been made by fighting against the English. But now he possessed no land, no master, and as such he was little more than a vagabond and so, after a pause, he walked to the Earl and knelt before him and held up his hands as though in prayer. The Earl put his own hands round Sir Guillaume"s. You promise to do me service/ he asked, to be my liege man, to serve no other?"
I do so promise/ Sir Guillaume said earnestly and the Earl raised him and the two men kissed on the lips.
I"m honoured/ the Earl said, thumping Sir Guillaume"s shoulder, then turned to Thomas again. So you can raise a decent force. You"ll need, what? Fifty men? Half archers/ Fifty men in a distant fief?" Thomas said. They won"t last a month, my lord/ But they will/ the Earl said, and explained his previous, surprised reaction to the news that Astarac lay in the county of Berat. Years ago, young Thomas, before you were off your mother"s t.i.t, we owned property in Gascony. We lost it, but we never formally surrendered it, so there are three or four strongholds in Berat over which I have a legitimate claim." John Buckingham, reading Father Ralph"s notes again, raised an eyebrow to suggest that the claim was tenuous at best, but he said nothing. Go and take one of those castles," the Earl said, make raids, make money, and men will join you/ And men will come against us/ Thomas observed quietly. And Guy Vexille will be one/ the Earl said," so that"s your opportunity. Take it, Thomas, and get out of here before the truce is made.
Thomas hesitated for a heartbeat or two. What the Earl suggested sounded close to insanity. He was to take a force into the deep south of French territory, capture a fortress, defend it, hope to capture his cousin, find Astarac, explore it, follow the Grail. Only a fool would accept such a charge, but the alternative was to rot away with every other unemployed archer. I shall do it, my lord," he said.
Good. Be off with you, all of you!" The Earl led Thomas to the door, but once Robbie and Sir Guillaume were on the stairs, he pulled Thomas back for a private word. Don"t take the Scotsman with you," the Earl said.
No, my lord? He"s a friend."
He"s a d.a.m.ned Scot and I don"t trust them. They"re all G.o.dd.a.m.ned thieves and liars. Worse than the b.l.o.o.d.y French. Who holds him prisoner?"
Lord Outhwaite."
And Outhwaite let him travel with you? I"m surprised. Never mind, send your Scottish friend back to Outhwaite and let him moulder away until his family raises the ransom. But I don"t want a b.l.o.o.d.y Scotsman taking the Grail away from England. You under stand?"
Yes, my lord."
Good man," the Earl said and clapped Thomas"s back. Now go and prosper."
Go and die, more like. Go on a fool"s errand, for Thomas did not believe the Grail existed. He wanted it to exist, he wanted to believe his father"s words, but his father had been mad at times and mischievous at others, and Thomas had his own ambition, to be a leader as good as Will Skeat. To be an archer. Yet the fool"s errand gave him a chance to raise men, lead them and follow his dream. So he would pursue the Grail and see what came. He went to the English encampment and beat a drum. Peace was coming, but Thomas of Hookton was raising men and going to war.
PART ONE.
The Devil"s Plaything