The French hesitated, their momentum checked by the Red Company’s counter-attack, and the fighting in the shallows turned into a vicious mêlée full of stabbing spears and hissing arrows. Holland’s men came up the middle, slamming into the fray, and then the prince and his household reached shore. Merrivale urged his horse out of the water across a foreshore churned to red mud and carpeted with bodies. Courcy rode across in front of him, yelling and dodging the lance thrust of a French man-at-arms and then slashing at the man’s head. Gráinne jumped down from the back of the horse and ran after him, followed by the gallowglasses. Another Frenchman rode towards Merrivale, lance lowered, but at the last moment he saw the herald’s tabard and checked, pulling up his horse; as he halted, Donnchad ripped him out of the saddle and hurled him to the ground, pulled open the visor of his bascinet and stabbed him. Northampton and Warwick were already in the middle of the fray, swords swinging. The prince rode forward, yelling to his companions to follow him, making for the spot where Mortimer and Gurney were still defending the fallen Despenser.
The French men-at-arms wavered and broke. The survivors fled up the bank with the English racing after them, screaming and shooting. The French foot soldiers, wilting under the showers of arrows, turned and ran too. More companies of English troops surged up out of the river, yelling with exultation and relief. The miracle they had not dared pray for had happened. The Blanchetaque was taken, and the way across the Somme was clear.
* * *
Hugh Despenser was on his feet, his bascinet off and wiping blood from his face. The bascinet was badly dented and there were more dents on his breastplate and arm guards. Mortimer stood beside him, leaning heavily on his sword; Gurney was down on one knee, recovering his breath.
‘Well,’ Mortimer said. ‘At least I didn’t shit myself.’
‘No,’ said Despenser. ‘Not this time.’ He grinned suddenly and slapped Mortimer on his shoulder guard, and after a moment Mortimer smiled back at him.
The Prince of Wales dismounted and walked towards them, pulling up his visor. Despenser and Gurney knelt in front of him, and after a moment Mortimer did the same. The younger knight saw Merrivale watching him and smiled again, both remembering Saint-Vaast. The day will come when I bow the knee to no one, Mortimer had said. But those words had been spoken a lifetime ago.
‘There is no need to kneel, my friends,’ the prince said. ‘Rise, I pray you.’
Startled, the three men rose to their feet. The prince embraced each of them, and Merrivale saw there were tears in the young man’s eyes. ‘This is why I asked you to serve under my command,’ he said. ‘This has been my great hope, right from the beginning: that we could forget the past and fight together, side by side like brothers. I rejoice that this day has come.’
He stepped back a little and held out one hand. ‘Give me your hands,’ he said. They did so, Mortimer’s gauntlet still dripping blood. ‘Swear this to me,’ said the prince. ‘Swear that we will be brothers, and that discord will never come between us. Swear that this bond will last all our lives, and will be sundered only by death.’
‘We swear it,’ the three men said in unison.
‘So do we all,’ said the Earl of Salisbury, and Thomas Holland nodded.
A murmur ran around the watching men. Merrivale turned and met Bartholomew Burghersh’s eyes, and the tutor nodded in silent satisfaction. The boy who had landed at Saint-Vaast had won his spurs.
24
Forêt de Crécy, 24th of August, 1346
Evening
‘The man who told the king about the Blanchetaque,’ said Nicholas Courcy. ‘He was remarkably willing to talk, don’t you think?’
‘Yes,’ the herald said. ‘He had been paid to do so.’
Around them the exhausted army was making camp on the edge of the forest, the last of the battered rearguard slowly straggling in. There had been hard fighting on the south bank; the Bohemian panzerati in particular were vicious opponents, and despite the best efforts of the king and Arundel, a number of baggage wagons had been lost, including most of the remaining food. Fortunately the vanguard had captured stores of bread and peas and salt meat in Noyelles and Le Crotoy. Both these small towns were now burning fiercely in the distance.
‘Who paid him?’ demanded Gráinne.
Tiphaine stirred. Her tunic was in rags, her hose worn through at the knees. ‘The conspirators,’ she said. ‘It was another trap.’
‘It was,’ the herald agreed. ‘And planned with care. They drove us deliberately towards the ford, paid that man to tell us where it was and lied about the number of men guarding it so we would be encouraged to make the attempt. Their intention was to bottle us up in the river until the tide turned and the water rose and drowned us all.’
He remembered the prince’s words. ‘Like rats in a sack,’ he said.
‘Just so,’ said Courcy. ‘Only they didn’t reckon with Hugh Despenser and his men, or the Red Company, our latter-day Myrmidons. Come to that, neither did I.’
‘We are not out of danger,’ Merrivale said. ‘As John Sully said, the time will come when we can run no longer.’
Courcy nodded. ‘Warwick told me that the king is determined to fight. Northampton has gone out to look for a battlefield where we can meet the French. I have been ordered to make the cannon ready.’
Tiphaine shivered. ‘I saw their army at Rouen. It is more powerful than you can imagine.’
The four of them, Merrivale, Tiphaine, Courcy and Gráinne, were seated on wooden benches outside the herald’s tent, smoke drifting around them in the falling dusk. As part of the Prince of Wales’s household, the herald’s baggage had not been abandoned at Airaines, and Mauro had somehow managed to get the cart across the Blanchetaque before the Bohemians closed in. He and Warin stood behind the herald; Matt and Pip leaned on their bows a few yards away, chewing on rinds of bacon.
‘Tell us about this conspiracy,’ Courcy said.
‘It has two parts,’ Merrivale said. ‘The first is the destruction of the English army and the death of the king and the Prince of Wales. Then I imagine the conspirators would attempt to gain control of Queen Philippa and the next heir to the throne, Prince Lionel. He is only eight years old, so they might push the queen aside and attempt to rule as regents.’
‘The queen would not give up without a fight,’ said Courcy. ‘Which could mean another civil war. What is the second part?’
Merrivale told him about the plot to overthrow Philip of France. ‘I am not desperately interested in what happens to him, but I prefer not to see England torn apart. I remember the violence of the 1320s all too well. I have no desire to see those days return.’
‘What do you have in mind?’ Courcy asked.
‘The conspirators have asked me to join them,’ Merrivale said.
The silence that followed lasted for quite some time. ‘And how did you respond?’ Tiphaine asked.
‘I asked to meet some of their leaders, and they agreed. The meeting is in Abbeville, tomorrow night.’
Gráinne snorted. ‘This is a trap.’
‘Not necessarily. I know some of these men.’
Courcy raised his eyebrows. ‘How?’
‘When the war began, I was sent to Savoy to support our envoy there, Brother Geoffrey of Maldon. Both England and France were trying to woo Savoy to their side, but the French had the upper hand. They had enlisted the help of Cardinal Aubert and also of Jean de Nanteuil, the Grand Prior of the Knights of Saint John, two of the most powerful men in Europe. Count Aymon was promised a kingdom. With support from France and the Knights, Savoy would annex all of its neighbours, Geneva, Dauphiné, Montferrat, Provence, Monaco, even Genoa, and form them into a single state under Aymon’s rule.’
‘Wait a moment. Wasn’t he the fellow known as Aymon the Peaceful? He doesn’t sound like a builder of empires.’
Merrivale nodded. ‘Aymon was not particularly enthusiastic about the idea, but his chief councillor, Louis of Vaud, was very much in favou
r. But then we discovered Aubert’s real aim. Once this new kingdom had been created, France would depose Aymon and take control, annexing Savoy directly to the French crown. Just like Normandy.’
‘And what did you and Brother Geoffrey do?’
‘We made a counter-move. We persuaded Aymon that he could remain independent by joining forces with Genoa and the other states, forming a confederation of allies rather like the Swiss cantons. We then bought the loyalty of the other states, including Genoa and Monaco. Our master stroke, or so we thought, was to recruit the Count of Rožmberk, Jean of Bohemia’s chamberlain. Bohemia was trying to establish its own empire in Italy at the time, and would have made a useful friend. With all the other pieces in place, we then bribed Cardinal Aubert and the Grand Prior to abandon their own plot and walk away. But the one man we could not corrupt was Louis of Vaud.’
‘An honest man,’ said Courcy. ‘How rare and refreshing.’
‘It was unexpected, yes, and it was the rock on which we foundered. When Vaud refused our offer, Aubert and Jean de Nanteuil reneged on the deal and turned the Bohemians against us. The entire scheme fell apart, and Geoffrey and I were very lucky to escape with our lives.’
‘And now, you will be betrayed again,’ Tiphaine said. She rose to her feet. ‘The entire French army is camped around Abbeville. Lady Gráinne is right. This is a trap.’
‘I must take that chance,’ the herald said. ‘I know I can talk to Louis of Vaud, and to Doria and Grimaldi. They can tell me what I need to know.’
‘Which is?’
‘The names of the Englishmen who are part of the conspiracy. The men who worked with John of Hainault twenty years ago to use Mortimer and Isabella to bring down the crown of England. They came within a hair’s breadth of destroying the country then. I believe they are about to try again.’
Courcy wrinkled his brow. ‘Where does Hainault fit into all this?’
‘Back in the ’20s, he and his friends controlled Mortimer, not the other way around. When the king launched his coup and arrested and executed Mortimer, that knocked the bottom out of Hainault’s plan. He tried to curry favour with the king, with some success, but his Grace already had his own friends, Salisbury, Northampton, Rowton and the others. The king liked Hainault and admired him, but the young men always had more influence. Hainault couldn’t break into that circle.’
‘Didn’t Hainault go back home and try to dispossess his brother?’
‘He did, but that also failed. Now he is in France, where he is influential, but once again he has risen as far as he can. My guess is that the coup they are now planning is aimed at giving him power in both England and France, far beyond what he already has.’
‘So you are going to meet these men in Abbeville tomorrow night,’ Gráinne said.
‘I am.’
‘Well, you’re not going alone,’ said Courcy. He glanced at Gráinne. ‘We’re coming with you.’
‘So am I,’ said Tiphaine.
‘You know what will happen if the French capture you again.’
She shivered. ‘I know. But I am coming all the same.’
Pip flicked the last of the bacon rind over her shoulder. ‘Our orders are to go wherever you go, sir,’ she said.
‘And you cannot expect Warin and me to remain behind, señor,’ said Mauro.
Merrivale sighed. ‘I am quite capable of going to Abbeville on my own,’ he said. ‘I am going openly, as a herald and ambassador. I will be perfectly safe.’
Courcy nodded. ‘As I said once before, I’m sure you can get there quite easily. But you might need a little help getting back again.’
Forêt de Crécy, 24th of August, 1346
Night
It was late when the herald returned from the prince’s table. Tiphaine was waiting for him in the tent. ‘Where are the servants?’ he asked.
‘I told them to sleep outside. The night is warm, and they will not be uncomfortable.’
‘Why did you do that?’
‘Can you not guess?’
They looked at each other in the shadows. Merrivale tried to read her face. ‘Tiphaine,’ he said. ‘It has been a very long time.’
‘You are not the only one. I have been in prison for two years, remember.’ She paused for a moment, ‘You wear that tabard like a suit of armour, but I know that underneath it you have a soul. I was hoping there might be a place for me within it.’
She stepped towards him, and before he could move, took his hand in hers. ‘I am not Iseult,’ she said. ‘I am not Morgana or Blanchefleur, and I am not the lady you lost.’
‘No,’ Merrivale said gently. ‘Be yourself, Tiphaine, as you have always done. That is more than enough.’
Forêt de Crécy, 25th of August, 1346
Afternoon
‘There’ll be a fight tomorrow,’ said an archer, sitting on the ground and carefully tying thread around the fletching of an arrow.
Clouds had rolled in from the west overnight, trapping heat and humidity under the canopy of the trees. The entire army was camped inside the forest now, protected from the prying eyes of enemy scouts. Mauro looked at the archer. His russet tunic was stained and faded, and his boots had worn thin. ‘You think so?’ the manservant asked.
‘Old Northampton’s found a field he likes. Crest of a hill just the other side of the forest. We’ll make a stand there and wait for the French to come to us.’
The archer held up the arrow, squinting along the line of the cock feather and checking the fixing of the broad barbed head. Satisfied, he laid it aside and reached for another arrow, this one with a long needle-like point.
‘Why the different heads?’ Mauro asked.
‘That one’s a broadhead. We use them at long range, to cripple or kill the horses. This here is a bodkin point.’ The archer touched the long needle. ‘That goes through the rings on a mail coat. We use them next, and when the enemy are good and close, we turn to these.’ He held up another arrow, this one with a cylindrical head ending in a sharp point like an awl. ‘At thirty yards, that will punch through armour,’ he said. ‘Nothing’ll stop it.’
‘Can we hold the French?’ Mauro asked.
‘Nah. Forty thousand men coming at us all at once? They’ll wrap around our flanks and roll over us.’ The archer looked down the shaft of the arrow, rotating it in his fingers. ‘Don’t reckon I’ll be seeing Wigan again.’
He looked up at Mauro. ‘I remember you. Spanish fellow, the one that gave us water at Sainte-Mère-Église. Don’t suppose you have a drink now, do you?’
Mauro tossed over the waterskin, and the archer drank deeply. ‘Thanks, mate. Fair parched, I was.’
‘I wasn’t sure you would still be talking to me,’ Mauro said.
‘Why not?’
‘Because I am the herald’s servant.’
‘You mean because of Bate? Don’t worry about that. Batey wasn’t thinking straight, hadn’t been for a long time. That knock on the head he took in Prussia scrambled his wits, I reckon.’
The archer took another long drink, stoppered the waterskin and threw it back to Mauro. ‘Tell your master not to worry,’ he said. ‘We don’t hold a grudge. Nicodemus, now, that’s a different story. If we catch him, we’re going to cut his balls off.’
‘Have you seen him?’ Mauro asked.
‘No, but it’s said he’s still around. I knew he was trouble right from the first day, when we spotted him and Slade waiting by that road.’
A cold finger crawled down Mauro’s spine. ‘Jack Slade, the Somerset man? What road was this?’
‘The road from Quettehou to Valognes, the day we landed. He and Slade were crouched down behind a hedgerow beside the road. They had their backs to us, so they didn’t see us, but we saw them all right.’
‘The other man you mentioned, Macio Chauffin. When did you see him?’
The archer thought. ‘A little later, I guess. A bit further up the road too, towards Valognes.’ He frowned. ‘We thought Nicodemus and Slade were out loo
ting, just like us. Do you suppose they were waiting for Chauffin?’
‘They were waiting for someone,’ Mauro said, ‘but it was not Chauffin. Thank you, señor. You have been most helpful.’
* * *
‘I think Nicodemus and Slade killed Sir Edmund Bray,’ he reported a few minutes later. ‘They were guarding the road, with orders to kill anyone who disturbed Señor Chauffin’s meeting with Señor de Fierville. When Sir Edmund appeared, they followed him and shot him.’
‘Come with me,’ the herald said grimly. ‘I may need a witness.’
They found Edward de Tracey talking with one of his vintenars, the rest of his archers scattered among the trees waxing bowstrings and checking arrows. ‘I need a word with you,’ Merrivale said.
Tracey motioned to the vintenar and the man walked away. He glanced at Mauro and the two archers waiting a few yards away, but the herald shook his head. ‘They stay.’
‘What do you want now?’ Tracey asked, his voice level.
‘When you landed, was Nicodemus with the rest of the company on the beach at Saint-Vaast?’
Tracey thought for a moment. ‘Yes. He went up to Quettehou with the rest of us, after the alarm had sounded.’
The herald shook his head. ‘But that is not true, is it?’
Tracey’s hand rested on the hilt of his sword. ‘Are you challenging my word, herald?’
‘I have witnesses who saw Nicodemus and Jack Slade near the Valognes road at almost exactly the same time as Edmund Bray was killed. Why did you tell me Nicodemus was with your company on the beach?’
‘I thought he was. I didn’t keep an eye on him the whole time, I had other things on my mind, like organising my company and making sure they were armed and ready. Clearly I was mistaken when I spoke earlier. Don’t you ever make mistakes, herald?’
‘Frequently. But Nicodemus was no ordinary retainer, was he? You relied on him, and he had worked for your father, too. He was practically a family retainer. And yet on the day of the landing, you had no notion of where he was?’
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