‘Sire!’ Hainault shouted. ‘You must withdraw! Now!’
Transfixed by pain, the king said nothing. Hainault seized his bridle and turned his horse, yelling at the rest of the men to follow. The arrows pursued them for a moment longer, and then faltered. In near silence they rode back towards Marchemont.
‘Damn you, Hainault,’ the king said finally, his voice hoarse with pain. ‘This is all your fault.’
‘Yes,’ Hainault said. ‘I think it probably is.’
* * *
The sun had set and twilight was drifting in when the Bohemians arrived at Crécy. ‘I smell blood,’ said the blind king. ‘Tell me what you see, Rožmberk.’
‘It is over,’ Rožmberk said. ‘How, I do not know, but we are defeated. The French army has been wrecked. I can see no sign of King Philippe.’
‘And our plan? Wrecked too, I imagine. Edward wins the victory. He is unassailable now. And our friends have lost.’
‘I fear so,’ said Rožmberk. ‘France will have to rally behind its king if it is to survive. Civil war now would be equivalent to handing the country over to the English.’
‘And so it ends,’ Jean of Bohemia said. ‘All my life, I dreamed of empire. Twice before I have been thwarted. This time, I thought it was within my grasp.’ He shook his head, staring towards the enemy with unseeing eyes. ‘It was the last gamble,’ he said. ‘And now, it is time.’
Two of his knights looped their reins through the king’s, so that his horse should not stray. Slowly, for the rain-wet ground had been churned to mud and the bodies in places were piled high as breastworks, the Bohemians rode up the hill. In the final few minutes of his life, Rožmberk wondered what had gone wrong. Nanteuil and Hainault were inclined to blame Tracey, but that was wrong; Tracey was only the money man. It was the other Englishman, the arrogant bastard who treated them all, even Alençon, as if they were pieces on a gaming table; he was the one who had overreached himself, and it was his blunders that had sent them to their deaths.
In the falling shadows they heard the twang of hundreds of bowstrings and saw the flashes of light as the cannon fired, and then the steel rain began, arrows sweeping through the Bohemian ranks and scything men and horses down. King Jean and the men who guided him went down at once, horses and men all riddled with arrows. Rožmberk saw them fall, just before two arrows hit him in the neck. He tugged at them, seeing his hands covered in blood, feeling his strength draining away, and then the world went dark.
The Bohemian attack failed in blood and wreckage, and its survivors retreated into the gathering shadows. Night fell on Crécy-en-Ponthieu.
27
Crécy-en-Ponthieu, 26th of August, 1346
Night
As darkness fell, the English army lit torches and set them around the perimeter of their position, in part in case the French should mount a night attack, but mostly, Merrivale thought, to ward off the ghosts of the thousands who lay dead on the slopes below. He found Tiphaine near the windmill, staring into the darkness with enormous eyes. ‘You are unhurt,’ she said. ‘Thank God.’
‘Give thanks instead to Thomas Holland,’ the herald said. ‘You are shivering.’
‘I watched him die. Rollond. He went down, and the others rode over him.’
The herald watched her for a moment. ‘Are you sorry?’
‘No. The world is better without him.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘But all the same, it was hard to watch a lover die.’
Someone came out of the shadows, the big spearman from the Red Company, the one called Jacques. ‘Sir Herald? We apprehended a man just now, a Franciscan friar. He says he has a message for you.’
Raimon Vidal was waiting by the wagon train, guarded by two more spearmen from the Red Company. ‘Simon, my friend! I am glad to see you alive.’
‘And you also,’ said Merrivale.
‘Ah, I was nowhere near the battlefield. Cardinal Aubert believes that men of God should also be men of peace and stay as far from the fighting as possible. Do you wish to know where Sir Edward de Tracey is?’
Merrivale paused. ‘Where?’
‘He has taken refuge with the Knights of Saint John, and has joined their order. He is with them now, at their camp near Saint-Riquier, between here and Abbeville.’
‘Should I believe this?’
‘My dear friend, I have absolutely no reason to lie. You have won. The conspiracy is smashed. Alençon is dead, Rožmberk is dead, Doria is gravely wounded, Grimaldi and Louis of Vaud have withdrawn and Tracey has been exposed and forced to flee. Hainault must abandon his plan, or at least postpone it. The day is yours.’
‘But why betray Tracey to me?’
‘So that you will owe me a favour. I may wish to call it in one day. And also, my master will appreciate the service you are about to do for him.’
Merrivale raised his eyebrows. ‘Service?’
‘Think about it,’ said Vidal.
Merrivale thought. ‘One game has ended, another begins. Cardinal Aubert wishes to attack the Knights.’
Vidal smiled. ‘The destruction of their sister order, the Knights Templar, was a great success. The confiscated lands of the Templars added greatly to the wealth of the papacy, and of many kingdoms including France. Seizing the lands of the Knights of Saint John in France would add greatly to his Eminence’s power, and he would be one step closer to the throne of Saint Peter.’
‘There is little loyalty amongst your confederates,’ Merrivale said.
‘None whatever. If you expose the Grand Prior of France for accepting a convicted traitor into his ranks, you will be assisting Cardinal Aubert’s cause. He will thank you for it.’
‘I am sure he will,’ Merrivale said. ‘Tracey was not the only Englishman involved in the conspiracy. Who was the other?’
‘Cardinal Aubert prefers I do not tell you. He might have need of this man in future.’
‘And if I discover who it is anyway?’
Vidal shrugged. ‘Then it is in God’s hands.’
Merrivale bowed his head. ‘So it is. Thank you, Raimon. Journey safely.’
‘You too, my friend.’
* * *
‘We faced less than a quarter of the French army today,’ Northampton said. ‘There are thirty thousand men at least still in the field. We must assume that in the morning they will resume their attack.’
Skeins of mist swirled around the ridge, hiding the corpses from view. ‘But they have been decapitated,’ Warwick said. ‘The adversary left the field wounded. Alençon and Bohemia are dead, and so are Blois and Lorraine and most of the others who could have taken command. Their army is leaderless now.’
‘What do you have in mind?’ asked the king.
‘A counter-attack,’ said Lord Rowton. ‘At dawn tomorrow, before they have time to muster. The scouts tell us they are spread out, camped all across the country between here and Abbeville. We can exploit this before they have a chance to re-form. Sire, we destroyed part of the French army today. Tomorrow we can complete the work.’
‘I won’t risk the whole force,’ the king said. ‘Take five hundred men-at-arms and two thousand archers, and do as much damage as you can.’ He looked at Northampton. ‘William, you are in command. Thomas, Eustace, go with him.’ The three men nodded.
The king turned to the herald, waiting to one side. ‘You wish to speak with me?’
‘I know where Edmund de Tracey is, sire. He is with the enemy at Saint-Riquier.’
‘Is he, by God?’ The king turned to Rowton, then paused and looked instead at Warwick. ‘Order the Red Company to go to Saint-Riquier tomorrow morning. Herald, you’ll go with them. Bring back Tracey, or bring back his head. I don’t care which.’
Saint-Riquier, 27th of August, 1346
Morning
The mist had risen in the night and turned into a cold, clinging fog that draped like a blanket over the fields and forests. Drops of water hung from the leaves and branches of the trees, and dew glittered on the grass. Visibili
ty in the dawn light was not much more than a quarter of a mile.
The Red Company had stuffed wadding around the bridles and bits of their horses to reduce the noise, and they moved almost soundlessly through the fog. ‘It’s an old Border trick,’ Sir John Grey said. ‘Both sides do this when they are out stealing cattle.’
‘An interesting example to follow,’ the herald said drily.
‘We learn where we can. Who knows? We may need to take up cattle-stealing ourselves one day.’
Shapes in the fog ahead, the pavilions and tents of a French encampment; they had already passed two of these. Northampton and Warwick, following behind, would deal with them. Grey raised a finger for silence and then motioned left, and the column slipped away through the fog.
Leaving the camp behind, they passed over broad open fields. The light grew a little stronger, the fog swirling around them. More silhouettes loomed up, houses this time, and beyond them the tower of an abbey church, dark and indistinct. Grey held up his hand again and the column came to a halt. Richard Percy, who had been scouting ahead, rode back to join them. ‘The Knights are there,’ he said. ‘Some in the houses, some in tents in the meadow beyond. The Grand Prior’s banner flies over the gateway of the abbey.’
‘Then that is where Tracey will be,’ Merrivale said. ‘Nanteuil will keep him close, I think.’
‘The Knights are supposed to be neutral, under the protection of the pope,’ Percy said. ‘Are we certain we want to do this?’
‘The Prior of France is not neutral,’ Merrivale said. ‘Nanteuil has mustered his men and is serving in the adversary’s army. As one makes one’s bed, so one finds it.’
‘The Grand Master will be angry,’ Grey said.
‘The Grand Master is far away on Rhodes, killing dragons,’ Percy pointed out. ‘He has other things on his mind.’
Sudden commotion in the fog, the distant sound of shouting as Northampton and Warwick began to overrun the sleeping camps. ‘Let’s go,’ said Grey. ‘Quickly, before they are alert.’
The Red Company exploded out of the fog, surrounding Saint-Riquier on three sides and riding hard into the town, men jumping down from the saddle and shooting or stabbing the startled knights and their retainers who came running out of the houses. Grey, Percy and their esquires, followed by twenty archers and Merrivale, rode straight to the abbey gates, ignoring the fighting around them. Two of the red-cloaked Knights of Saint John who tried to bar their way were shot down in pools of blood; the rest fled. ‘These fellows really aren’t as tough as I thought they would be,’ Richard Percy said.
‘I agree,’ said Grey. ‘My money is on the dragons.’
Behind them, the brief carnage in the streets was already over, the surviving knights fleeing across the fields into the safety of the fog. More red-capped men ran up to the gatehouse, pushing an empty wagon. ‘Battering ram,’ Grey explained. ‘All right, Jacques, break it open.’
Rammed by the wagon, the abbey gates opened with a splintering crash and the archers raced inside. Two more knights were shot down in the courtyard almost before they could move. Grey, Percy and Merrivale rode through the gates and dismounted. ‘Where is Nanteuil?’ Grey asked.
‘I am here.’
Jean de Nanteuil walked out of the abbey church, his cloak with its white cross swirling around him. He held a loaded crossbow in his hands. ‘In the name of Christ,’ he said sharply. ‘You are committing blasphemy! Those men you killed were crusaders, sworn to the service of God. And you have stained this holy place with their blood.’
‘Where is Edward de Tracey?’ Merrivale asked.
Nanteuil’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you want with him?’
‘To see justice done to a traitor.’
‘Justice done to a traitor,’ Nanteuil repeated slowly. ‘How ironic.’ He raised the crossbow, aiming at Merrivale. Bowstrings twanged in unison, and Nanteuil fell down the steps of the abbey, arrows protruding from his chest and neck. His body twitched once and lay still. Blood pooled on the worn stone, shining in the dim light.
Percy stepped over the body and walked inside the church. He returned a moment later. ‘Tracey is there,’ he said. ‘He is at the altar, claiming sanctuary.’
‘Sanctuary be damned,’ said John Grey. ‘Bring him out. Use whatever force is necessary.’
Two archers dragged Tracey outside. He wore the same red cloak as Nanteuil, over a simple robe, the habit of the Knights; he was neither armed nor armoured. Blood ran down his face from a cut on his forehead. The archers held him upright, arms pinioned behind him, and Merrivale walked slowly forward to face him.
‘So this is how it ends,’ Tracey said.
‘Yes,’ said the herald. ‘But you knew the risks.’
‘I did.’
‘Then there we are.’ Merrivale turned his head. ‘Sir John, Sir Richard, ask your men to fetch a rope, if you please.’
Tracey stared at him. Blood dripped down onto his cloak, staining the white cross of Saint John. ‘You’re not going to hang me,’ he said.
There was a long silence. ‘No,’ Merrivale said finally. ‘Tempting though it is, I shall instead do something rather worse. I intend to bind you and take you to face the king whom you betrayed.’
Tracey’s hands were tied tightly behind his back. The archers dragged him into the saddle and more ropes secured him to the horse. ‘Take him out,’ Merrivale said.
Around them the Red Company were mounting and riding though the gateway. Out of the gloom came a single arrow, hissing a little in the wind, and Tracey sagged sideways, the feathered shaft protruding from his chest. The herald froze in shock, looking around to see a lone archer throw himself onto the back of a horse and ride hard away. There was just time to see his face before the mist swallowed him.
It was Nicodemus.
28
Valloire, 28th of August, 1346
Midday
Eight miles north of Crécy stood the abbey of Valloire, its gardens bathed in mellow sunlight. Bees buzzed around the last summer flowers, and a heron stood fishing in the pools of the nearby river. The air was tranquil and calm.
Wagons rolled up outside the abbey church and gentle hands lifted the dead men and carried them inside. The commoners, including the Genoese, had already been laid to rest in pits dug at the battlefield. It had taken four hundred men all day to bury them.
‘What will happen to the bodies?’ Tiphaine asked.
‘The remains of the French army are regrouping around Amiens. We have sent messengers with a list of the dead, telling their families to come and collect them if they wish. Those not claimed will be buried here.’
He looked at the young woman. ‘What about Brus? Will his family come for him, do you think?’
‘No. He is not one of the dead.’
‘But you saw him go down.’
‘I did,’ said Tiphaine. Her face was very still. ‘I was certain he had been killed. But I asked Master Northburgh. No knight bearing a red saltire was found on the field.’
‘Then he may have survived,’ Merrivale said. ‘Perhaps his friends discovered him once darkness fell, and carried him away.’ He paused. ‘I am sorry.’
‘For what?’
‘That this might somehow cause you distress.’
‘I am not distressed. Mostly I am angry, because I wanted the bastard dead. But a little piece of me still feels the sentiment. He really was beautiful to look at.’
They watched the wagons roll slowly forward. The heron continued to fish, undisturbed. ‘But that was in the past,’ said Tiphaine. ‘For the first time since I escaped from prison, I am beginning to realise that I am free.’
‘What will you do with your freedom?’ Merrivale asked.
‘I do not know.’ She looked up, the bruise on her face dark in the sunlight, and smiled her sudden smile. ‘But when I decide, I promise I will tell you.’
‘In Saint-Lô you spoke of needing to avenge your father. Have you done so?’
The smile fad
ed. ‘Perhaps. I don’t yet know. I have learned that vengeance does not change the past.’
‘No,’ Merrivale said. ‘It does not.’
‘And you? Have you found justice for Sir Edmund Bray?’
‘Yes.’ Merrivale gazed out over the river. ‘But it has come at a high price.’
Roger Mortimer had been pale but composed when the herald told him what had happened. ‘Edmund did not die in vain,’ Merrivale said. ‘He was the first to expose the traitors. Thanks to him, the plot is ended for the moment.’
‘I suppose that will be some consolation to his family,’ Mortimer had said quietly.
‘What will you do now?’ Tiphaine asked.
‘Continue with my duties,’ the herald said.
‘That is not what I meant. Tracey, the man from the West Country, is dead, but what about the other? The man from the north. Will you try to find him?’
Three men had ridden to Berkeley Castle that dark night in 1327. One was Sir Robert Holland, and he was dead. The second was John of Hainault. The third was the one he must find.
Tiphaine studied him. ‘Why does this matter so much to you? The king, the prince, the knights and archers, the little girl who drives the cows; why do you care what happens to them?’
Merrivale looked at the river again. The heron gazed back at him with round dark eyes. ‘Because if I don’t, I have nothing,’ he said.
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