“My lady has proved a most useful agent,” the king went on, “as well as a consummate actress. Now she is to be despatched on another mission.”
“The Duke of Burgundy currently holds Paris. I am in frequent contact with him. You, Page, shall escort my lady to Paris with a message for the duke.”
Henry gave no explanation of why he wished to contact Burgundy, though I could guess. He needed powerful allies if his conquest of France was to succeed, and the military and financial aid of John the Fearless would be invaluable.
Thus far the duke had played a double game. He made public promises to break the siege of Rouen, without ever sending any troops, and secretly indulged in correspondence with the English. The course of the war depended on which side he eventually chose to throw his weight behind.
Henry glanced at Constanza for the first time, and then back at me. “I have never known my lady to ask for help before. She was, however, most insistent in this case. You are to accompany her to Paris.”
Constanza smiled warmly at me. “My bodyguard,” she said, “escort and companion. The roads to the capital are unsafe, thanks to the war, and the forests rife with bandits and partisans.”
“You protected me once, John Page,” she added, “now I ask you to do so again.”
“My lady asks,” Henry said curtly, “I command.”
I had no choice but to accept. Whatever I made of Constanza’s request, a direct order from the King could not be ignored.
Thus I left Rouen one raw, foggy winter’s morning in the company of this enigmatic Castilian noblewoman, who had chosen to give up a life of wealth and comfort to spy for the English.
We rode side by side on the highway that led directly to Paris. For a long time silence reigned between us, broken only by the regular drumming of hoofs on the frosted road. My ribs twinged a little whenever I passed over a bump in the road, but the pain was more bearable than I feared.
My rouncy, Odo, was in good fettle. He had done little save eat, doze and wander about a paddock through the long months of siege, and was glad for the chance to stretch his limbs. Constanza rode a glossy black courser, all sleek sinew and muscle, easily capable of outdistancing most horses if she gave the beast his head.
We met with a troop of hobelars. They were English, in the service of the Earl of Warwick, and happy to let us pass after I explained our purpose. One or two cast lustful looks at Constanza, whose form was not quite hidden under a thick woollen cloak. She rode athwart the saddle, like a man, and wore tight black hose that showed off the graceful slenderness of her legs.
Fortunately the officer had his men well in hand. “Keep your eyes to the front, lads,” he snarled, “or lose them.”
We rode on unmolested, and my mood started to lift. With every mile we left Rouen further behind. If God was kind, I wouldn’t have to return until the city had surrendered. Perhaps not at all.
Not a word passed between myself and Constanza until we skirted the walls of Louviers, a few miles south-east of the suburbs of Rouen. The town was in English hands, and the lions and lilies flew proudly from the gatehouse.
Constanza finally broke the silence. “The road between Rouen and Louviers was safe enough,” she said, “thanks to English patrols. From now on we have to be more cautious.”
Another sixty miles or so lay between us and Paris. Constanza, who knew the route intimately, described the towns we would pass on the way.
“We are in contested territory now. English and French troops fight for possession of the land. We may encounter bands of soldiers from either side, though there are also brigands aplenty, many of them peasants who have lost their homes to the war.”
“We must ride fast, and not spare our horses until Vernon. There is an English garrison there. I know a hostel inside the town where we can stay for the night.”
“A hostel, or a brothel?” I sneered, unable to help myself.
“You are still young, John Page,” she replied stiffly, “and the young are prone to make assumptions. You know little of me, who I am, and what I have done. Do not insult me again.”
We were on a lonely stretch of highway, crowded by deep forest. The trees and undergrowth should have been cut back from the verge, to the length of a bow-shot, but all trace of law and order had fallen away in this part of France.
“I know your true name,” I retorted, “and something of your history. I also know you played the whore in Caen.”
She gave me a pitying look. “You should listen when your King speaks. Henry described me as a consummate actress, and so I am. Yes, for a time I assumed the guise of Catherine, a penniless French prostitute. It was just a mask, nothing more. I entertained no men in my little garret.”
“Save one,” I reminded her.
Another awkward silence fell. Constanza toyed with her bridle, and ran her fingers through the courser’s mane.
“Come,” she said, turning away, “it’s another twenty miles to Vernon.”
We had ridden another mile or so when the turrets of a castle rose over the trees ahead.
“That is the keep of Gaillon,” she cried above the pounding of her courser’s hoofs, “where the Archbishop of Rouen has his residence. The town is still in French hands. We should give it a wide berth. I know a side-road.”
She rode on a few more yards, and then a dreadful shriek erupted from the trees. Her horse threw back his head and neighed in fright, even as dark shapes leaped out of the forest.
My rouncy, a more even-tempered beast than her courser, was not so easily alarmed. I clapped in my spurs and urged him into a flat gallop.
There was no time to be frightened. Maybe thirty seconds passed between our talk and the flight of the arrow that pierced Odo’s belly.
He screamed and jerked sharply to the right. The reins tore from my hands. A gout of hot blood hit me in the face. A violent shudder ran through the animal’s body as another arrow slammed into his neck.
Blinded, I wiped away the gore with one hand and clawed at my sword with the other. Dirty hands seized my bridle.
I lashed wildly at the first man I saw, a grim-faced brute in a leather jerkin. He ducked, and my blade skimmed over his head.
“Saint Denis!” the cry echoed through the woods, “Saint Denis et le Dauphin!”
Constanza’s courser leaped clear of the brigands that surrounded it, howling and trying to drag her down. She was a superb rider, and avoided the arrows and javelins that rained about her. Then she was gone, vanished around a bend in the road.
I was engulfed. Steel fingers ripped at my sword and tore me from the saddle. Odo’s terrified screams were cut short by a knife.
I struggled and cursed in vain as they held me down on the road. A host of snarling, bearded faces glared down at me, and the tip of a sawn-off lance was pressed against my throat.
The wail of a trumpet echoed through the forest. My captors retreated, save for the man with the lance, and gave me a clear view of the knightly figure that clanked out of the trees.
Unlike the others, who wore little armour, he was clad in full plate. I noted patches of rust on the steel, and his soiled jupon showed a black crow against a blue field. He was burly, of medium height, lost somewhere in middle age. His face was clean-shaven, battered by life and war, and there were grey strands in his tight cap of reddish curls.
He barked a command at the ruffian with the lance, who bowed and withdrew. I gingerly rubbed my throat, where the sharp steel had almost punctured the skin.
“I am Sir Roland de Rougemont,” said the newcomer in soft-spoken English with a lilting accent, “state your name and degree.”
I had to lie, or at least exaggerate my status. If Sir Roland thought I was a rich nobleman, he might keep me alive for ransom. Otherwise I was worthless to him, and might end up as food for worms.
“Sir John Page,” I replied, “Baron of Kingshook.”
Sir Roland looked down at me for a moment. “I suspected you were English,” he said, “who was tha
t virago who rode with you?”
“My wife,” I lied, “we were on our way to Vernon, where she has family.”
The feeble lie made him grimace. “Ah, monsieur,” he replied, shaking his head in disappointment, “a knight and his lady, travelling on these roads in time of war, with no retinue to guard them? I cannot believe it.”
“I think you are a spy, mon ami. Please, do not insult us both with clumsy protests and denials.”
I kept my tongue behind my teeth. For all his soft-spoken ways, this Sir Roland was clearly a hard man: his followers, as villainous a pack of cut-throats as ever I saw, cringed in his presence.
“Tell me, Sir John,” he said, “do you know the romances of King Arthur?”
I blinked. It was hardly the first question I expected. “Ah...yes, of course. Very well.”
“Bon. Then you will know the tale of Sir Carados and Sir Turquine?”
Still baffled, I replied that I did, and his ravaged features split into a wide grin.
“Excellent. Then you will be pleased to meet my lord, Sir Turquine.”
19.
Sir Roland gave no further explanation, and had his ruffians host me aboard a spare horse. I wasn’t allowed to ride upright, but slung over the saddle like a pile of laundry, my wrists and ankles bound tight enough to stop the flow of blood.
In case I insisted on light conversation, they also stuffed a gag into my mouth. It was a foul rag, and judging from the stench and taste had been used to rub down the horse. I retched, which made them howl with laughter.
When my guts had eased a little, I tried to stay calm and count heads. The brigands were were all on foot, save for Sir Roland, who rode at the head of the little procession on a dappled white destrier. There was twelve of them, including their captain, and we followed a well-beaten track through the forest, wide enough in places for two abreast.
I noticed that none of the footmen wore Sir Roland’s livery, or any badge at all. This Sir Turquine, whatever his real name, made a strange lord.
Many years had passed since I was first digested the legends and romances of King Arthur, in the nursery at Kingshook. Every Christian boy of gentle birth is force-fed them from early childhood. They are supposed to act as his first grounding in chivalry, before the real business of learning the knightly arts begins.
Arthur was the shining example of kingship, while the tragic love of Sir Lancelot and Queen Guinevere warned against the dangers of courtly love, and how even the greatest knight could be brought down by a woman. The treacherous Sir Mordred, meanwhile, was the greatest villain who ever breathed, and the evil mirror-image of Sir Galahad. In my long experience, there are far more Mordreds than Galahads in this world, and always will be.
I ransacked my memory to recall the tale of Sir Turquine and Sir Carados. These two were lesser characters, brothers and robber-knights from Wales who stood for everything the Round Table was against: they looted, pillaged and murdered at will, ravished maidens, slaughtered peasants, and generally behaved like fiends in human shape.
In the tale they acted as foils for Lancelot to test his mettle against. First he slew Carados in single combat, and later chanced to encounter Turquine. The two fought for hours, so well-matched that neither could gain the advantage, until both were exhausted and the grass was speckled with their blood.
At last Turquine called a halt and raised his visor to speak. “Thou art the greatest knight I have ever crossed swords with,” he said, “I hold in the dismallest dungeon of my castle five score and eight knights, all of the Round Table, whom I have bested in fair fight and taken as prisoners. Tell my thy name, and I swear on my troth as a knight to release them all.”
“Except,” he added with a fierce glare, “you be one man, Sir Lancelot of the Lake. He slew my brother Carados. I have vowed to slay him in revenge, or join Carados in death.”
“I am that man,” Lancelot answered. So the fight continued, with even greater heat than before, until Lancelot finally got the better of Turquine and cut off his head.
My thoughts dwelled on Turquine’s hapless prisoners. After he defeated them in combat, he was in the habit of carrying them back to his castle, stripping them naked and throwing them into his deepest, darkest dungeon. Once or twice a day, depending on his mood, he liked to have the prisoners brought forth into the light, so he could beat them with thorns until their backs ran with blood.
My bowels were dissolving in terror by the time we arrived within sight of a drum tower, peering over the leafless trees. It was painted dark red, and a black pennon fluttered from the battlements. On the pennon I made out the image of a salmon worked in silver thread. The salmon’s scales glistened like water by moonlight as the wind rippled the silk.
Sir Roland twisted in the saddle to address me. “Behold your new home, Sir John,” he said, “the Chateau Rougemont-sur-Seine, seat of my cousin, the Baron de Rougemont. The local people have another name for it. La Tour Sombre.”
La Tour Sombre, or The Dark Tower. I could believe it was well-named, and almost fouled myself at the thought of the evil that awaited me inside those red walls.
The path through the woods opened onto a vast clearing. In the middle the ground rose to a small mound, some fifteen feet high.
My new home, as Sir Roland called it, crested the mound. It was more a fortified manor house than a castle, with a single tall tower surrounded by a roughly circular curtain wall. The tiled roof and double chimneys of a hall rose above the battlements.
The clearing was eerily silent as our party made its way to the gate. There was a deep ditch at the foot of the wall, filled with sharp stakes. A sentry on the tower had spotted our approach, and shouted for the drawbridge to be lowered.
To my fearful mind the drawbridge was a tongue, and the gateway a maw. The thick iron spikes of the portcullis were teeth. I whimpered with fear at the image of being fed into the maw and crushed up inside the castle’s guts, until there was naught left of me save bones and gristle.
A bell started to toll ominously as I was carried over the drawbridge and into the ward. The interior was a shambles of sagging, lean-to buildings, and everywhere the smell of damp and decay.
I saw a vat of pig’s blood under the thatched roof of the smithy. The blood had congealed, and gave off a stench that threatened to make me sick again.
A group of soldiers, if they could be called that, stood clustered about something inside. I saw a flash of steel, a spurt of red, and one of them tossed something into the vat.
“You, there,” shouted Sir Roland, “leave off your sport, and go and inform the Baron of our return.”
The soldiers turned at the sound of his voice. “At once, milord,” said one of them. He and his fellows bowed and hurried away towards the arched doorway of the hall.
Now they were gone, I was able to see the body that hung upside-down from the beams of the smithy. It was a man, or the remnant of one. His arms dangled limply as he swung gently back and forth from a stout rope tied about his ankles.
Mercifully, he was in shadow, so my eyes were spared the awful things that had been done to him. My imagination filled in the details as blood drip-dripped off his body onto the cobbles below. He occasionally gave a shudder, so he was still alive.
Sir Roland tore the gag from my mouth. “Pleasant, oui?” he hissed, with a nod at the body, “take heed, Sir John. That man was once an English knight like you. He showed a regrettable lack of courtesy to the Braon, and had to be punished for it.”
His yellow teeth bared in a grin. “I should think he regrets his lack of manners now, eh?”
He nodded at two of his men, who lifted me off the saddle, none too gently, and cut my bonds. I gasped in pain as the blood flowed back into my wrists and ankles.
Sir Roland’s grin vanished as footsteps sounded from inside the hall. “My cousin stirs. Tread carefully, Sir John, and mind what you say.”
I had noticed the doorway was unusually tall and wide. The arch was some twelve feet from
the ground, and wide enough for four men to pass through at once.
A monstrous shape appeared in the archway. At first I thought my eyes betrayed me, or else I had run mad.
Six brawny serving men marched out, carrying a stiff-backed wooden chair on their shoulders. The figure seated on the chair was birthed in nightmares.
I beheld a squat, misshapen body, mercifully hidden under a white gown or cassock, its face covered by a white silken mask and a pointed hood.
Little of the body inside was visible, save for a pair of heavily bandaged hands. The fingernails were black, and the flesh of his fingers, what could be seen of them, was reddish and swollen.
The Baron de Rougemont was a leper, obliged to hide his decaying body under white robes. I had seen lepers before in England, wandering in sad little groups through the countryside. They carried bells to warn of their approach, so the healthy might run away in time to avoid infection.
I had always regarded lepers as the most unfortunate of God’s creatures, to be pitied rather than feared. Any sense of pity for the Comte dissolved as eyes full of malice glared at me through holes cut in the silken mask.
“Set me down,” he rasped in French. His servants gratefully laid the chair on the cobbles.
“What’s this, cousin?” demanded the Baron, “another chicken for the pot?”
His words were mangled by hideous noises, gasps and whistles and wheezes. My skin crept as I imagined the corruption under the robes, a man eaten away by disease, rotting like putrid meat left out in the sun.
“Another Englishman,” replied Sir Roland, “he calls himself Sir John Page of...of...”
He snapped his fingers at me. “Kingshook,” I said promptly.
“That’s it,” he went on, “some barbaric Saxon name. We caught him on the road to Vernon. A woman rode with him, but she got away.”
The Baron lifted one bandaged hand to bat away a fly trying to crawl under his mask. “Spies,” he coughed, “filthy spies. And yet this one calls himself a knight. What degraded creatures these English are. Animals.”
The Wolf Cub Page 16