‘Fierville! How does she know about him?’
‘Doubtless the English told her, your Majesty, which is clear proof of her guilt. I ask that she be placed on trial as a spy.’
Alençon raised his eyebrows. ‘There is no need. Have you forgotten? Since her escape from Carentan, she is attainted. She can be executed without trial.’
‘Then shall we carry out the sentence?’
‘Not yet. We’re too busy dealing with the English, and I want to be there when she dies. The king will wish to be there as well. Take her to La Roche-Guyon, and see she is held securely. And make certain there is plenty of firewood in store at the castle. We shall need it.’
Tiphaine raised her head then, staring up at Alençon in horror. ‘Yes,’ the count said, and he smiled. ‘You know the penalty for treason, demoiselle. For a man, it is drawing and quartering. For a woman, it is burning alive.’
18
Gaillon, 9th of August, 1346
Afternoon
‘Christ!’ said Sir Thomas Holland through clenched teeth. ‘Pull it out!’
The one-eyed knight lay sprawled on the grass, a black crossbow bolt protruding from his shoulder, punched deep through armour and doublet and embedded in the flesh beneath.
‘I can’t, sir,’ said his esquire. ‘It is wedged in too tightly.’
‘Take off his armour,’ the herald instructed. ‘The spaulder and the rerebrace both. Quickly now, lad. Cut the straps if you must. The longer that bolt is embedded in the flesh, the more likely it is the wound will become contaminated.’
Pale, his hands already stained with blood, the esquire obeyed, casting aside the shoulder and arm guards and taking a fresh grip on the bolt. Holland gasped and slammed his fist on the ground with pain, but this time the bolt gave up its grip and pulled free. Blood flowed, ruby red in the sunlight. ‘Staunch the wound,’ the herald instructed. ‘Then wash it out with a mixture of vinegar and clean water. It will be painful, but it will keep the infection at bay.’
The esquire looked helpless. ‘Where do I find vinegar, sir?’
Merrivale looked around. A column of wagons was passing down the road towards Vernon, followed by a herd of cattle chivvied along by a girl with a stick. ‘That is the royal kitchen,’ he said. ‘Find Master Clerebaud, the sauce-maker. He will give you vinegar.’
The esquire scrambled onto his horse and rode away after the wagons. Merrivale studied the flow of blood from the wounded shoulder and watched it began to slow. ‘Shouldn’t you put a compress on that?’ Holland asked.
‘Later, after the wound has been washed. Rest easy, Sir Thomas.’
The stink of burning filled their nostrils, just as it had done for weeks. Behind the English army lay a trail of ruins twenty miles wide, hamlets and farms, rich towns and monasteries, all reduced to rubble and glowing embers. Close at hand the town and castle of Gaillon were burning fiercely while the English archers and Welsh spearmen hunted the last French defenders to annihilation among the ruins. But they had held up the vanguard for several hours and Thomas Holland was only one of many casualties. Up ahead, more smoke rose as the king’s division, bypassing the fighting at Gaillon, began smashing its way through the suburbs of Vernon, hoping to break through to the bridge.
As the English army had moved east, the French had left Rouen and tracked them along the north bank, ready to throw them back should they manage to gain a foothold across the river. Any hope of aid from Jeanne of Navarre had been dashed too. As the herald knew, message after message had been sent to Évreux. No reply had come.
Holland stirred a little, and when he spoke, his voice was slurred with pain. ‘Did I hear you send my esquire to ask the king’s sauce-maker for vinegar?’
‘Yes.’
A note of humour etched its way through the pain. ‘Better hope he doesn’t put wolf’s-bane in it. Are you any closer to finding out who did that? Or do you believe this story that Despenser put it there himself to get even with Mortimer?’
Merrivale wondered how widely this tale was circulating in the army, and whether Despenser had heard it yet. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I do not believe it. As a matter of interest, Sir Thomas, why did you recommend that I be put in charge of this inquisition?’
‘You won’t believe it, but if there is an assassin among us, I think you are the best person to track him down. I know from experience how goddamned tenacious you are. And I also know you are honest.’
The herald smiled a little. ‘Thank you for the compliments.’
‘Take them. They’re the last you’re likely to get from me… God, my arm feels like it’s on fire.’
‘Perhaps a little light conversation would distract you.’
‘Oh? What subject did you have in mind?’
‘The twenty-first of September 1327,’ the herald said.
‘Oh Christ, not that again. You really are like a dog with a bone, aren’t you?’
‘Three men rode to Berkeley Castle, carrying Mortimer’s orders to kill the king. One was your father. The second was John of Hainault, Lord of Beaumont and the enforcer of Mortimer’s will. Who was the third?’
‘I don’t know. I wasn’t there.’
‘Of course. How well did your father know John of Hainault?’
Holland considered the matter for a moment. ‘Fairly well, I suppose. It was Hainault who interceded to get his lands restored. Not that it did much good. Six months later, he was dead.’
‘Who else was close to Hainault? Who did he consort with?’
‘At the time of the old king’s death? I don’t know. Later, after Mortimer was gone, he helped a number of men to be reconciled with the king. Lord Rowton was one of them.’
Merrivale stared at him. ‘Eustace Rowton?’
‘No, his father. Gerard Rowton had been one of Mortimer’s supporters after he returned, although I believe they quarrelled not long before Mortimer’s fall from grace. Holland grimaced. ‘Jesus, this hurts. Where is my damned esquire?’
‘He is coming,’ Merrivale said.
The esquire pulled his horse to a halt and jumped down holding a flask and a pannier. Merrivale took them from him, poured vinegar from the flask into the pannier and added water from a waterskin, then gently drizzled the liquid across the wound. Holland stiffened, biting his lip in agony. ‘Now dry the wound and bind it closely,’ Merrivale said to the esquire. ‘Change the dressing regularly, and if you smell putrefaction in the wound, repeat the treatment with vinegar and water.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The esquire began drying the wound with a square of linen.
‘How are your men faring?’ Merrivale asked Holland. ‘They must be missing their vintenar.’
‘We all miss him. Bate was a good soldier. We would have taken Gaillon quicker if he had been there.’
‘And the others? Are they still selling their plunder to Nicodemus?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Holland. ‘And what is more’ he added, with the insouciance of a man with eighty thousand florins in the bank, ‘I no longer care.’
Vernon, 9th of August, 1346
Evening
Blackened with smoke, the walls of Vernon stood intact, French banners waving from their towers. Beyond the walls, the bridge could be seen, lined with houses and watermills, stretching away to the north bank. And up on the escarpment overlooking the far end of the bridge, the French royal army waited, rank upon rank of mounted men-at-arms in bright surcoats and glittering armour, thousands of white-coated Genoese crossbowmen all looking across the river and watching; powerful, ominous, waiting.
Overhead, the clouds drifted, thunder rumbling distant in the heavy air. Clouds of flies buzzed around, feasting on sweat and blood.
At the water’s edge, the grange of the abbey of La Croix was a sheet of flame. Fire was beginning to take hold in the cloister too, roof tiles cracking and sliding to the ground. ‘We won’t be crossing at Vernon,’ said Sir Edward de Tracey, his face and hands black with smoke. ‘We set fire to every building in the faubo
urgs, right up to the walls, in hopes of tempting them out to fight, but they won’t budge.’
‘And even if they did, it would not matter,’ said Hugh Despenser, wiping blood from his face. ‘We would still have to fight our way through the town and across the bridge, with no room to deploy our own archers and those goddamned Genoese sweeping the span with crossbows. It is hopeless.’
‘It is worse than hopeless,’ said John Grey, his voice cold with anger. ‘It is folly. We failed at Rouen, we failed at Elbeuf, we failed at Pont de l’Arche, and now we have failed at Vernon. There are three more bridges, gentlemen. Then what?’
No one had an answer. Grey departed to join his company, and Despenser followed him. The two red-capped archers remained behind, lurking watchfully in the middle distance.
‘May I have a moment, Sir Edward?’ Merrivale asked.
Tracey turned to face him, eyes wary. They had not spoken since their meeting outside Lisieux a week ago. ‘What is it? Which of my archers do you want to question me about now?’
‘I want to ask about your late father,’ Merrivale said.
‘My father? He was a callous, murdering old bastard who would have cut your throat for the price of a firkin of ale. I tried to have as little to do with him as possible.’
‘He was attainted for a time, was he not? When did he receive his pardon?’
‘I think it was 1332,’ Tracey said reluctantly. ‘The king needed his money, of course, to pay for the Scottish wars. I saw him seldom after that, until the day his horse threw him and he broke his neck. I like to think the beast did it on purpose.’
‘When was that?’
‘1339, the feast day of Saint Hilarius. Apt, I have always thought.’
‘How did he procure his pardon?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘What about your brother? Might he know?’
Tracey shook his head. ‘Gilbert loved our father even less than I did, if such a thing is possible. He was already settled in London by the time the old man went down to hell.’
The roof of the cloister caved in, flames rushing up from the wreckage and sparks dancing in the air. ‘Are you certain there is nothing more you can tell me?’ Merrivale persisted.
‘Mary, Mother of God!’ Tracey exploded. He pointed to the burning abbey. ‘Here we are, death and destruction all around us, the army fighting for its life, and all you can think about is things that happened twenty years ago.’
‘Yes,’ said the herald quietly. ‘We are fighting for our lives. And yet you and Nicodemus still trade in plundered goods, and you’re making more than just a few hundred pounds. I have some idea of how wide your trading network is, and I reckon you have both made a fortune. Or should I say another one, as well as the land you own? Do you need the money so badly, Sir Edward?’
‘Rents from land don’t pay for a man’s upkeep, herald. You of all people should remember that. I have investments in commercial ventures from one end of England to the other, iron mines in the Weald, sea coal in Yorkshire, salt from Nantwich. This is just another venture. Now kindly leave me alone.’
Longueville, 9th of August, 1346
Night
In just a few days, the mood of the army had changed. The attack on Caen and the plundering of the city had sent spirits soaring; the march east to Rouen had been triumphant, confident of victory. But now, everyone in the army knew the obstacle that faced them. They stood along the riverbank, archers and men-at-arms, grooms and farriers, Welsh spearmen and Irish gallowglasses, looking at the watchfires of the French army camped on the heights. The fires, hazy in the smoky air, extended to the horizon in both directions. ‘Blessed Jesus,’ an archer whispered, ‘there’s thousands of them. Tens of thousands.’
‘Támid marbh,’ said Donnchad, and he spat on the ground and turned away.
Lightning flickered on the southern horizon, and thunder boomed again just as the herald reached the king’s pavilion. ‘If you want an audience, I should wait,’ Michael Northburgh said as he entered. ‘He’s angry as a bear. Rowton and the Bishop of Durham went in to see him just now, urging a retreat to Caen. He tore them both to shreds.’ The secretary gestured towards the inner chamber. ‘They’re still in there, trying to calm him down.’
A few raindrops pattered on the canvas overhead. ‘It was actually you I came to see, Michael. Sir John Tracey of Dunkeswell was killed while out riding in January 1339. Do you happen to recall the details of his inquisition post mortem? I know the records are back in London at the Tower, but I hoped that fine memory of yours might recall their contents.’
Northburgh frowned. ‘I remember his death, of course. A controversial man, to say the least. He was killed while riding, you say?’
‘Yes. I wondered if there were any further details.’
The secretary shook his head. ‘I really don’t remember, I fear. But Sir John Sully was escheator for the county of Devon that year. Try him.’
‘I had forgotten that. Thank you, Michael, I shall seek him out.’ The door of the inner chamber opened and Lord Rowton strode out, still in full armour, his face red with anger. Behind him the king and the bishop could be heard, still arguing. ‘My lord,’ Merrivale said quickly. ‘Might I have a word in private?’
For a moment he thought Rowton was going to ignore him, but his lordship motioned with his hand. ‘Come with me,’ he said curtly.
Outside, they walked away until they were out of earshot of the guards. The army’s campfires flickered around them, a tiny cluster compared to the endless blaze of lights along the north shore. Rowton stopped and took a deep breath. ‘What is it?’
‘This may seem an odd question to ask at this time and place, my lord. But how well did your late father know John of Hainault?’
Rowton stared at him. ‘You are right. That is a damned odd question. Why do you want to know?’
‘I have a theory that Bray’s death is connected to the events of 1327,’ the herald said.
More lightning flashes, and the air growled with thunder. ‘Then you already know the answer to your question,’ Rowton said.
‘I have heard that Hainault helped reconcile your father and the king after Mortimer’s death.’
‘He did,’ Rowton said. ‘I was already in the king’s household, along with Montacute and Bohun – or Salisbury and Northampton, as they later became – and I asked for clemency for my father. When the king hesitated, I appealed to Hainault. He stepped in and persuaded his Grace.’
‘You supported the king, and your father had supported Mortimer. Was that a source of friction between you?’
‘Yes,’ Rowton said. ‘It was. But my father behaved honourably in the end, and was the king’s loyal servant until his death.’
Sudden and sharp in the distance came the noise of fighting: men shouting, swords clashing on armour. A trumpet called urgently, blowing the alarm. Before Merrivale or Rowton could respond, a crossbow bolt came winging out of the darkness, hitting Rowton’s vambrace and whirring away into the shadows. He shouted with pain, stumbling to his knees and clutching at his arm. Hooded men in dark clothing were swarming up from the river, dim silhouettes against the watchfires, and more shouts and screams broke out. Merrivale turned to call for Matt and Pip, but there was no need; they were already at his shoulders, shooting fast and accurately into the press of men. Three went down, two more clutched at arrows embedded in their bodies. Another crossbow bolt hissed past Merrivale’s ear, and then the dark figures were surging around them.
‘Fág a’ Bealach! Fág a’ Bealach!’ Out of the darkness came the gallowglasses, slamming into the enemy and pushing them back. Merrivale caught a glimpse of Courcy, swinging his sword, and beside him Gráinne raising her blade and driving it through the chest of a crossbowman just as he lifted his weapon to take aim. More men came flooding in; these wore the caps of the Red Company, a solid hedge of spearmen with archers behind. As suddenly as they had come, the enemy melted away, leaving a scattering of bodies on the ground.
<
br /> Merrivale bent over Lord Rowton. ‘My lord. Are you badly hurt?’
Rowton wrenched off his dented vambrace and tried to flex his fingers, grimacing in pain. ‘God, it’s broken, Those bastards broke my fucking arm. Who the hell were they? Where did they come from?’
‘The river,’ said Sir Richard Percy, coming through the press with a bloody sword in his hand. ‘They came across by boat. We spotted them landing just below the camp of the prince’s division, and drove them back into the river. But while we were busy, this lot slipped past us and attacked the king’s camp as well. Thank God you and his lordship spotted them before they could reach his Grace.’
‘They didn’t attack the king’s pavilion,’ Merrivale said. ‘They attacked us. Without your two watchdogs and the arrival of Sir Nicholas and his men, we would be dead.’
The Red Company were dragging the dead men together. Matt and Pip pulled arrows out of the bodies and began carefully cleaning the arrowheads. Merrivale followed them, looking down at the dead men. ‘Who were they?’ he asked.
‘An excellent question,’ said Percy. ‘They’re not French or Genoese, not with those weapons. Those big crossbows look like Flemish arbalests. And those short, broad-bladed swords could be Spanish, but many Spanish blade-makers have settled in Flanders.’
Something glinted in the firelight, a clasp brooch on one of the dead men’s cloaks. Reaching down, Merrivale unfastened it and held it up to the light. Crudely painted on metal was a badge, black chevrons on a yellow field.
‘Flanders?’ he asked. ‘Or Hainault, perhaps?’ He turned to Rowton, who was on his feet again, cradling his broken arm, his face set with pain. ‘My lord, I think you should see this.’
Rowton glanced at the badge. ‘John of Hainault,’ he said slowly.
‘Yes. We appear to have summoned the devil. One moment we are talking about Hainault, and the next his men are coming out of the night to kill us. What might we have done to attract his attention, do you suppose?’
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