The prince stared, glassy-eyed. His tutor, Bartholomew Burghersh, stepped forward. ‘What are you saying, Sir Hugh?’ he asked sharply. ‘Are you accusing someone?’
‘Yes!’ Despenser spun around, pointing at Roger Mortimer. ‘I am accusing you, you treacherous bastard! My father, my grandfather, my great-grandfather have all been butchered by Mortimers! Are you trying to add a fourth generation to the tally?’
Mortimer had gone pale in the firelight. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Despenser. I can’t shoot. I don’t even own a bow.’
‘No, but your friends do. Gurney! You have a longbow, don’t you? I’ve seen you at the butts with your men, shooting like some damned peasant.’ Despenser threw the arrow down at Gurney’s feet. ‘Is that yours?’
‘No,’ said Gurney, and his voice was cold. ‘Be very careful what you say, Sir Hugh.’
‘Or what? Or I too will end up with a poker up my arse? Or with an arrow in my back, like Bray?’
‘Sir Roger is right. You are ridiculous,’ Gurney said. ‘Bray was my kinsman and I would never have harmed him. Seek your enemies elsewhere, Sir Hugh. You have plenty to choose from, after all.’
‘Enough,’ said Merrivale.
Silence fell. The herald walked forward until he stood between Gurney and Despenser, his ornate tabard glittering in the firelight. ‘Must we repeat that dismal scene at Valognes, when you embarrassed your lord the prince and humiliated yourselves?’
No one answered. ‘Sir Hugh, if you have evidence that either Sir Roger or Sir Matthew was behind an attempt to assassinate you, then lay it before his lordship the constable, whose duty it is to oversee discipline. Have you such evidence?’
Despenser said nothing.
‘Then I think you should all retire and get some sleep,’ Merrivale said. ‘At dawn we advance on Caen.’
Burghersh cleared his throat. ‘You heard what the herald said, gentlemen.’
Despenser spun on his heel and walked away. Swaying a little, the prince returned to the pavilion. The others dispersed, talking in low voices. Merrivale waited until they had gone, and turned to Burghersh.
‘I know what you are thinking,’ the prince’s tutor said before Merrivale could speak. ‘Why do I let them get out of hand? Why don’t I exercise more control over the prince?’
‘I have a feeling you are going to tell me.’
‘The king’s orders. This campaign will turn his son from a boy into a man, he says. But the prince has to be given his head and allowed to make his own decisions.’
‘Including bringing those who are mortal enemies into his household and expecting them to work together in amity?’
Burghersh nodded. ‘He must make his own mistakes, and learn from them. In his Grace’s words, “let the boy win his spurs”.’
‘A harsh approach to fatherhood,’ Merrivale observed.
‘But not necessarily the wrong one. The king is wiser than he sometimes appears. And he has been a better father to his son than his own father ever was to him.’
‘Of that there can be little doubt,’ the herald agreed. ‘Good night, Sir Bartholomew.’
* * *
Just as the fires began to die down, a night wind came, fanning them back into life once more. Merrivale found Gurney standing outside his tent staring into a night ripped apart by flames. ‘What do you see?’ the herald asked quietly.
‘The pits of hell.’
That might be a metaphor, Merrivale thought, or it might not. ‘May I ask you a couple of questions, Sir Matthew?’
‘If you wish.’
‘You said Bray was your kinsman. How were you related?’
‘We were cousins,’ Gurney said. ‘His mother was my aunt.’
‘Your family are from Somerset?’
‘Yes. My father held the manor of Gurney Slade, not far from Wells.’
‘Slade,’ the herald said. He paused for a moment, thinking. ‘An archer named Jack Slade deserted at Pont-Hébert.’
‘Yes, I know him. His father was the miller in Gurney Slade. I tried to recruit him for my retinue, but he went to Edward de Tracey instead. Tracey has deeper pockets than me, and offered a larger bounty.’
‘You sought him out deliberately. Was he a good man?’
‘Yes, I thought so. Careful, reliable, and a good shot, too. I was very surprised to hear he had deserted.’
He was also a terrible shot, Tracey had said. For a moment, the herald wondered if they were talking about the same person. ‘Have you seen him since?’
Gurney gave him a hard stare. ‘Of course not. If I had, I would have arrested him and handed him over to the constable.’
‘Of course,’ Merrivale said. ‘Was there any bad blood between you and Bray? Any ill feeling?’
‘You mean beyond the normal revulsion most people feel for the son of a regicide? No, none. In fact, Bray was more polite to me than most.’ Gurney’s eyes met the herald’s. ‘I did not kill him, and I did not shoot at Despenser. And I don’t believe Roger Mortimer had anything to do with it either.’
Someone is stirring the pot, Courcy had said this morning. He was right, and it wasn’t just the archers; someone was setting the knights against each other, provoking quarrels, casting suspicions; and more than that. Someone had tried to drown Mortimer on the causeway at Saint-Côme-du-Mont; now, someone had narrowly missed shooting Despenser.
The Despensers and the Mortimers had been at feud for eighty years. Who had suggested to the prince that he bring them together under his command, along with other equally divisive figures like Holland, Gurney and Salisbury? Surely the prince would never have thought of this himself; but who had put the idea into his head?
‘No,’ Merrivale said. ‘I do not believe it either. Good night, Sir Matthew.’
* * *
Outside the door of his tent he paused, suddenly tense. Something had moved in the night, a rustle right on the edge of hearing. He stood silent, straining his ears and listening, but no sound came.
For the second time that night, an archer cloaked in shadow raised his bow and lined it up on the back of his target. Silently he drew an arrow from his quiver and nocked it, drawing back the bowstring until the nock and flights were resting just in front of his ear.
In the split second before he released, someone grabbed the herald’s arm and pulled him hard to the ground. The arrow whirred over his head and punched through the canvas wall of the tent. ‘Stay down, señor!’ Mauro hissed, and rolled over with his knife in his hand, holding it by the blade ready to throw as he searched for the hidden archer.
‘There he is,’ a voice said. ‘In the shadows. Take him.’
‘A pox on it, he’s seen us. He’s running.’
‘After him, then.’ Two men raced past, longbows in hand, running hard in pursuit of a third man fleeing through the firelight and shadows. The herald sat up and watched them for a moment, and then slammed his hand on the ground in anger. ‘Damn the man,’ he said quietly. ‘Why can’t he mind his own business?’
The light was poor, but he had no difficulty in recognising the two archers from the Red Company, Matt and Pip.
Saint-Germain-d’Ectot, 24th of July, 1346
Night
‘Splendid,’ said the man from the north. ‘The knights are quarrelling among themselves. This is going very well, my friend.’
‘I still don’t see how it profits us,’ said the man from the West Country.
‘Isn’t it obvious? The more they fight each other, the less will and energy they will have for fighting the French. And their mood will spread to their retinues and supporters. Soon the army will begin to fall apart.’
‘If you say so, but it’s taking too damned long. I wish that scheme at Carentan had worked. If the king was dead, all this would be over and we could move on with the rest of the plan.’
‘Well it didn’t work, and neither did the attempt at Quettehou. Never mind. Be patient, my friend. We have plenty more schemes in hand. We can afford to fail, many times,
because we only need to succeed once.’
‘Very well. What next?’
‘The king still cherishes hopes of starting a Norman revolt, and he has learned about the Count of Eu and the Queen of Navarre and what they are plotting. Geoffrey of Maldon and Merrivale are going to Caen to persuade Eu to surrender the city and join the English cause.’
‘Then we must stop them. There will be a Norman revolt, yes, but guided by us, not the king. We have already poured enough money into supporting Eu and the queen, and buying their loyalty. If the king steps in and takes over now, all our effort will be wasted.’
‘Never fear. Eu has personally assured me of his loyalty. And Brother Geoffrey and Merrivale’s mission will fail. They will be executed as soon as they reach Caen.’
‘Good. That damned herald is starting to annoy me.’
‘After that, Eu will hold the castle at Caen, which is impregnable. He has four thousand men, he says, and the storerooms are full; he can withstand a siege indefinitely. King Edward will suffer a humiliating defeat and be forced to withdraw.’
‘Giving us a chance to lay another snare for him,’ said the West Country man.
‘Exactly. And then, my friend, our time will come.’
Saint-Germain-d’Ectot, 25th of July 1346
Morning
‘Where are you going?’ Tiphaine asked.
‘Caen,’ Merrivale said. He pulled his embroidered tabard over his head and shook out the folds. ‘King’s orders.’
Northburgh’s letter was on the table beside him. Crumbs of red wax from the broken seal lay dark on the wood, like little drops of blood in the dawn light.
She watched him steadily. ‘You are walking into a trap.’
‘I know. I have done this before. If you need help, seek out Sir John Sully.’
Tiphaine continued to watch him. ‘Are you not afraid?’
He considered the matter for a moment. ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘Not yet. But I am sure there will be plenty of time for that later.’
* * *
Outside the Prince of Wales’s pavilion, a lone figure stood waiting for him. ‘Stay a moment, herald,’ the prince said. ‘I wish to speak with you.’
Merrivale reined in, bowing from the saddle. ‘How may I serve you, Highness?’
‘Lord Rowton told me about your mission to Caen. It is dangerous, is it not?’
‘Do not fear, Highness.’ Merrivale touched his tabard. ‘As your father said, I am protected by my station. The French are honourable men. They will do no violence against a herald.’
‘All the same, I wish my father would send someone else. Why can’t Clarenceux go instead of you?’
‘Andrew Clarenceux is a fine man, Highness, and a master of all things to do with armorial bearings and coats. But I have experience and skills he does not possess.’
‘But what if you don’t come back? Herald, I depend on you.’
‘You have many fine servants, Highness.’
‘But they cannot do what you do. I watched you last night, bringing my knights to heel, and… I envied you. I wish I could do that.’
‘You will learn in time, Highness.’
‘Will I? I know they think I am still a child. I know what they say about me behind my back. I took them into my service, even knighted some of them. I let them win my money at hazard. What else must I do to win their respect? I look at my father, and how easy he makes it look, how he barely has to lift a finger to command the loyalty of men like Warwick and Northampton and Rowton. What must I do to do that?’
‘Be yourself, Highness,’ Merrivale said. ‘Do not put on a pretence for them, and do not try to be your father. Be your own man, and in time they will respect your fine qualities and look up to you. It will come.’
‘I hope you are right.’ The prince raised his hand. ‘God go with you,’ he said. ‘Return safely.’ Then he turned abruptly and walked away.
* * *
Geoffrey of Maldon waited for him at the edge of camp, his angular frame wrapped in a long black cassock. Behind them, the vanguard was forming up. The village of Saint-Germain had been saved from burning last night because some of the men were sheltering there, but now it too was on fire, smoke boiling up to join the dark skeins already staining the sky. The sunrise glowed livid orange.
Brother Geoffrey raised a hand in greeting as the herald rode up. ‘Well, old friend? Shall we stick our heads in the lion’s mouth once more?’
Despite the plain cassock, Brother Geoffrey was much more than just a canon and a priest. Over the past decade, he had visited half the courts of Europe, acting as ambassador, building coalitions of support for King Edward, paying out pensions and bribes and gathering information. Merrivale had been the hard-riding king’s messenger who supported him, carrying coded letters to and from the offices of state in London.
‘You make it sound like it might be the last time,’ the herald said.
Brother Geoffrey laughed. ‘Every time might be the last time.’ He picked up the reins of his horse, nudging it with the heels of his sandalled feet. ‘Very well. Let us go.’
Caen, 25th of July, 1346
Midday
Behind them, towers of smoke climbed hundreds of feet into the sky. Ahead lay the walls of Caen, church spires rising behind them. The massive bulk of the castle brooded against the skyline. To its left stood the great abbey church of Saint-Étienne, the burial place of William the Conqueror, surrounded by cloisters, outbuildings and a cluster of houses. Further east, beyond the castle, they could see another big abbey on a low hill; La Trinité, the Abbaye aux Dames, resting place of the Conqueror’s wife Queen Matilda. The place Tiphaine had once called home, and to which she refused to return.
Brother Geoffrey shaded his eyes with his hand. ‘The district next to the castle is the old town, the Bourg-le-Roi. To the south is the Saint-Jean quarter. That, we are told, is the richest district of the city. As you can see, it is surrounded by water, and there are marshes further south. A strong position, would you say?’
Merrivale studied the defences. ‘I am not sure. Bourg-le-Roi is walled, but apart from the water, Saint-Jean is protected only by a wooden palisade. That will keep wild beasts out, but not our army.’
‘What about the castle?’
‘That is another matter.’ The castle stood on rising ground at the northern edge of the Bourg-le-Roi. The stone walls were high and looked thick, sprouting towers and turrets and bartizans. The big gatehouse probably had at least two portcullises, with murder holes to deal with any attacker who managed to get through them. It too was surrounded by a wet moat. No, taking the castle would not be easy.
Brother Geoffrey pointed. ‘We have been spotted.’
A column of men-at-arms rode out of the gates of the Bourg-le-Roi. Their leader bore an unusual device, a white mastiff on a field of red. Twenty more men rode behind him, all heavily armed and armoured.
The man with the mastiff device made a circular motion with his hand. At once the men-at-arms fanned out, sweeping around to encircle the two Englishmen and then closing in, lowering their lances as they did so. Brother Geoffrey and Merrivale halted their horses and dropped their reins, raising their hands to show they were unarmed. ‘We come in peace,’ the canon said. ‘We are emissaries from King Edward, with a message for your commanders.’
The leader inclined his head. ‘Very well. Come with us.’
The Englishmen picked up their reins once more and, still surrounded by the men-at-arms, rode forward towards the open gates of the city. Crossbowmen covered them from the ramparts, and more men-at-arms watched them from the shadows behind the gates. The city streets were deserted. The hooves of their horses echoed in an empty silence.
They came to the castle, crossing a drawbridge over a broad moat full of brackish water. More armed men crowded the wall-walk overhead, staring down at them. In the courtyard, they dismounted, and the man with the mastiff device gestured towards a big stone hall. ‘This way,’ he said.
They climbed the wooden stair to the door of the hall, and the leader ushered them inside. They found themselves in a long room with a beamed ceiling, timbers stained with smoke from two centuries of hearth fires. Banners, some old and faded, hung from the walls. A group of men sat around a long oak table, some in clerical black, one wearing a bishop’s mitre. Some of the others were well dressed; one wore several rings on his fingers, gold set with amethysts and lapis lazuli.
A white-haired man in a surcoat with a green lion rampant on gold, his face scarred and his arm in a dirty sling, sat opposite the bishop. This was Robert Bertrand, the man they had been fighting for the past twelve days. Bertrand gazed at the two Englishmen with eyes that radiated hate. The hairs on Merrivale’s neck rose in sudden alarm. Tiphaine had been right, this was a trap, but it was too late. They were surrounded by armed men. There was nowhere to run.
The bishop rose to his feet. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. ‘State your names and purpose.’
‘We are emissaries from King Edward,’ the canon said. ‘I am Brother Geoffrey of Maldon, canon of the Augustinian order. My companion is Simon Merrivale, herald to the Prince of Wales. We carry a letter from the king, addressed to the commanders of the garrison of Caen.’
He laid the king’s letter on the table. The bishop broke the seal and held it up to the light. His face flushed dull red with anger. ‘It is, as we suspected, a demand for surrender,’ he said. The man with the rings laughed. Bertrand spat with contempt.
‘What answer do you give, my lords?’ Brother Geoffrey asked patiently.
The bishop tore the parchment in half, ripped each piece in half again and threw the fragments on the floor, grinding them under the heel of his boot. ‘That is our answer!’ he snarled. ‘We know who you are, Brother Geoffrey, and why you have really come here. You are spies, both of you, and you will meet a spy’s death. Take them outside and hang them.’
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