‘What does it mean?’ asked Tate, pushing back his arming cap to claw at his scalp.
Preston was grinning delightedly. ‘It means, lads, that we’ll be going home soon.’
* * *
While Valois’ army was gathering at Hesdin, Valois himself was called north to Saint-Omer on urgent business. He took only one knight and three squires with him. The town lay thirty miles north of Hesdin, and they reached it easily in a day’s ride. The sun was setting by the time they reached the walls of their destination. Guards were posted at the gates, the town lying less than two dozen miles from the English encampment at Calais, but they recognised Valois at once and admitted him and his party. They were challenged again at the gate of the castle which dominated Saint-Omer, and by the time the drawbridge had been lowered and the portcullises raised, Don Carlos de la Cerda awaited them in the courtyard.
Although a Castilian, de la Cerda was a close friend of Valois’ eldest son, the Duke of Normandy, and a brother-in-law of Charles of Blois, the Valois-backed claimant to the independent Duchy of Brittany. Despite his youth, de la Cerda had already begun to make a name for himself as a warlord and he had been placed in command of the Flemish Marches in the absence of the governor of Saint-Omer, Sir Geoffroi de Chargny. Nor had de la Cerda disgraced himself, defending the town against attacks from Flemish and English troops alike. He greeted Valois and his companions warmly.
‘De Renty is still here?’ asked Valois.
De la Cerda nodded. ‘In the dungeons, your Majesty. I thought that a man such as he…’
Valois nodded approvingly. The bastard son of a nobleman, Sir Oudard de Renty had been banished from France for raping a noblewoman. He had promptly travelled to the court of King Edward and fought for the English against his own countrymen. Since then, he had returned to France, seeking a reconciliation with Valois. De la Cerda had been so astonished by de Renty’s audacity that he refrained from having the renegade hanged, drawn and quartered there and then. Instead he held him prisoner until de Renty had had a chance to explain himself to Valois in person, for he would explain his motives to no other.
‘Would you like him brought up to the great hall?’ asked de la Cerda.
‘Not yet,’ said Valois, rubbing the scar on his cheek he had received from an English arrow in the thick of the fighting at Crécy. ‘He has waited this long. Let him stew in his own juice a little longer. First we must refresh ourselves after our journey.’
The guests were shown to their chambers by the castle’s steward so that they could change out of their riding clothes and wash their hands and faces before supper. The food was the best the castle could offer, and Valois enjoyed himself, tasting a little of every one of the myriad delicacies without gorging himself. It was good to be able to take his mind off the troubles of the realm for a short while.
But he could not turn his back on affairs of state for too long. At last, when the pages were clearing away the empty dishes and trenchers, he turned to de la Cerda. ‘Let us have de Renty brought up to account for himself. I confess a curiosity to know how he will try to talk his way out of treason.’
De la Cerda turned to one of the pages who was replenishing the goblets from a flagon. ‘Have Arnault bring de Renty up from the dungeons.’
Sir Oudard de Renty was an impossibly handsome young man, with a lean-jawed face bronzed from a lifetime spent out in the open, either hunting or campaigning. Normally clean-shaven, his jaw now sported several weeks’ growth of beard from his incarceration, and his fine clothes were tattered and grimy. But his smile was as wide as ever as he bowed before his king.
‘You must forgive my appearance, your Majesty, but I fear this gentleman denied me the chance to make myself presentable before I was brought before you.’
‘Well, Sir Oudard?’ Valois demanded. ‘You insisted on speaking to me, and Don Carlos here was kind enough to grant you a few more weeks of life to give you the opportunity to do so. What do you have to say for youself, before I have you hanged, drawn and quartered for treason? Do you deny that I was justified in banishing you from my realm for an abominable crime?’
‘Indeed, no, sire.’
‘Or that you then at once swore fealty to King Edward, and took up arms against me and my people?’
De Renty gestured helplessly. ‘So it might appear, to those who did not know me well enough to know I could never bear ill will to my one true kind.’
Valois frowned. ‘You speak in riddles. Did you not lead the Flemings in an attack on this very town less than three months ago?’
De Renty smiled broadly. ‘And did not that attack fail, when the Flemings came here a week too early, when they were supposed to attack in conjunction with the English under the command of the Earl of Warwick, who attacked a week later?’
Valois nodded; he had been wondering why the joint attack had been so badly concerted.
‘And did not the young Count of Flanders escape to your court while I was there, away from the Flemish noblemen and burghers who so foolishly support King Edward and his cause?’ continued de Renty. ‘Do you really think so callow a youth could have achieved so daring an escape without the guiding hand of one so much more experienced in such matters than he?’
Valois rubbed his temples with his knuckles. He had always judged men by their actions, unable to comprehend that there might be deeper motives behind the more obvious ones.
De Renty could see Valois was reluctant to believe his explanation. ‘You have only to ask Sir Geoffroi,’ he persisted. ‘He knows me well. If he were here, he would tell you…’
‘Tell us what?’ The knight who had accompanied Valois to Saint-Omer came down the steps from the minstrels’ gallery where he had been sitting concealed in the shadows, listening to all that was said. Until that moment he had worn a cloak with a deep cowl to keep his face hidden, but now he threw back the cowl to reveal de Chargny’s aquiline features.
Recognising him, de Renty stumbled over his words. A shiver of nervousness seemed to slice through his nonchalance, but only for a moment. ‘Tell you that I am no lover of King Edward, but am, have been, and always will be a loyal servant of my true king,’ he continued smoothly. ‘You know me well, Sir Geoffroi; will you not vouch for my good faith?’
‘Aye, I know you well,’ hissed de Chargny. ‘I know you for a rogue and a varlet.’ Walking across to where de Renty stood, he embraced him. ‘But I also know you for the loyal vassal of King Philip that you claim to be.’
The relief on de Renty’s face was evident as de Chargny turned to Valois. ‘You may trust Sir Oudard, sire, if only because you may rely on the fact he is too cunning to trust his fortunes to a cause so hopeless as King Edward’s.’
Valois smiled. If de Chargny believed de Renty, then he could not doubt the renegade’s loyalty.
‘Does it please your Majesty to accept me back into your grace and favour?’ asked de Renty, the easy smile back on his face.
Valois glanced at de Chargny, who nodded discreetly. ‘Aye,’ said Valois. ‘And right glad we are to have a knight of your courage in our ranks once more…’
There was a knock on the door. ‘See who that is,’ de Chargny told Arnault, irritated by the interruption. The man-at-arms nodded, and hurried to answer. A stilted silence fell over in the great hall while Arnault slipped outside and talked with whoever had knocked. Presently he returned holding a letter and de Chargny crossed to speak with him. After a brief exchange he took the letter from Arnault and turned to Valois.
‘Your pardon, sire, but this has arrived for you. The messenger says it comes from the English.’
Valois took the parchment from him, looking at it curiously. It was warped and crinkled, as if it had been soaked in brine. ‘King Edward’s seal,’ he observed, glancing at the back before breaking the seal open.
‘Perhaps he wishes to discuss terms,’ suggested de Renty.
Valois read the letter and his face grew crimson with anger. It was from de Vienne, the same letter tha
t Kemp and his companions had found in the sand. King Edward had forwarded it, resealing it with his own seal to mock Valois and let him know what desperate straits the garrison of Calais was in. Valois crumpled the letter in his fist and tossed it on to the rush-strewn floor. ‘We return to Hesdin in the morning,’ he said curtly, sweeping out of the room and heading back upstairs.
* * *
‘I understand your captive, the Count of Eu, is still a prisoner in the Tower of London,’ remarked King Edward, pouring Sir Thomas Holland a goblet of Gascon wine.
Holland nodded. He had captured Raoul de Brienne, Count of Eu and Constable of France, at Caen nearly a year ago. ‘Aye, your Majesty. The ransom I have demanded is not inconsiderable. It will take his family time to raise that much money.’
It was mid-July, three weeks since the king had forwarded de Vienne’s letter to Valois. Still there was no sign of Valois’ army. The king had summoned Holland to his mansion in Villeneuve and now the two of them spoke in one of the king’s private chambers. The quarrel they had had before Holland returned to England was forgotten; the king was swift to anger, but his rages were like summer storms, soon blowing themselves out by their very fierceness.
‘How much do you expect to raise in ransom from him?’ the king asked.
‘Perhaps as much as fifty thousand florins, sire.’ Holland tried to appear nonchalant. To him – indeed, to most men – it was a princely sum, and he wondered if he would be asking too much.
The king laughed. ‘A paltry fifty thousand for the Constable of France? Your demands are modest, Sir Thomas.’
‘In my observation, sire, it is not so much a question of what a prisoner is worth as what his family is prepared to pay for him.’ Holland smiled wanly. ‘To be blunt, sire, I need the money.’
‘I’ll give you eighty thousand florins for him.’
Holland was stunned. There was nothing unusual in a liege-lord buying a noble prisoner from one of his vassals; in an age where even pardons for sin could be had at a price, everything was negotiable. But eighty thousand florins? Holland was not avaricious but, on the other hand, he was not stupid enough to turn down such an offer.
‘I’ll have to pay it in instalments,’ admitted the king. ‘Say, a thousand pounds of gold at Michaelmas, and another thousand next Easter. The rest I’ll be able to pay out of the wool subsidies over the next two years in regular instalments at Michaelmas and Easter.’
Holland frowned. ‘You really think the count will be able to pay back that much, sire?’
The king smiled slyly. ‘Not in money, perhaps. But he is lord of the castle of Guines, which defends the approaches to Calais. When the town falls – and it will fall, in that I am determined – that castle will be the key to the Pale of Calais. Worth far more to me than its value in gold.’
Holland nodded, understanding. He bowed low. ‘Very well, sire. I accept.’
As he made his way downstairs, he almost bumped into the queen and Countess Margaret. He bowed low to the queen and, in the same movement, ignored the countess. The queen returned his bow with a curtsey but the countess stared at him, her emerald eyes brimming with malevolence. A lesser man might have quailed under such an imperious glare but Holland was feeling buoyed up by the king’s promise of such a generous amount. Chuckling softly to himself, he left the mansion and walked back to his house.
His good mood did not last, however, when he saw the chess problem he had laid out on the table in the main room. He much preferred to play with other people, enjoying the contest between two minds. The chess pieces looked forlorn, reminding him how lonely he was. In the few short weeks he spent with Joan before he went to Flanders they had often played chess. She was a good player and he had enjoyed the way they had been able to play in silence without the need for conversation. He wondered if she ever played chess with Montague; the thought made him almost as jealous as the thought of Montague making love to her.
Holland sat down at the table and opened his writing case. He dipped a quill in the ink-horn and launched into a lengthy letter in his crabbed and awkward handwriting. He was halfway through before he realised he would not be able to deliver it. He could send a go-between, of course, but who? He thought about his chaplain, Brother Ambrose, but the friar had a tendency to naïvety that made him unsuitable for the commission which Holland had in mind. Preston? The serjeant could be depended upon in military matters, but an errand requiring such discretion? He needed someone who could be relied upon to keep his mouth shut, even at the risk of openly defying a nobleman or woman if necessary. Holland smiled: the perfect candidate for the task, a young man who had already proven his discretion, sprang to mind. He rose to his feet and climbed the narrow staircase to the top floor, knocking on the door.
‘Come in?’
Brother Ambrose was stretched on his pallet, reading the same book he had been reading on the voyage from England. They said that monks shaved their heads to make it easier for God to see their thoughts. Holland often wondered if Ambrose genuinely believed that a full head of hair made it more difficult for the Almighty to read a man’s mind.
‘What are you reading?’ Holland asked him curiously.
‘A tract on chivalry, Sir Thomas.’
Holland arched his eyebrows. He had never guessed that the friar had any interest in such matters. ‘By whom?’
‘A French knight. Sir Geoffroi de Chargny. Would you like to see?’ He held the book out to his master.
Holland shook his head. ‘Perhaps another time. I need you to fetch Kemp for me.’
Brother Ambrose closed the book around a leather bookmark and rose to his feet. ‘Of course, Sir Thomas.’ The two of them made their way downstairs, Holland entering the withdrawing room while Brother Ambrose left the house and hurried to the barrack house next door. Holland was concluding the letter when he heard a knock on the door.
‘Enter.’
The door opened, and Kemp stood there, looking slightly worried, evidently wondering what Holland could want with him so late at night.
‘Come in, Kemp. Close the door behind you.’
Kemp complied, and stood before Holland uncertainly while the knight wrote the last words of the final sentence. He did not sign his name. He did not speak immediately, drying the ink with sand while he chose his next words with care.
‘I need… a favour.’
Kemp creased his brow. ‘Sir?’
‘I want… I would like you to deliver a letter for me.’
‘Of course, Sir Thomas,’ Kemp responded unhesitatingly.
‘It isn’t that simple,’ Holland cautioned him. ‘You know Lady Joan of Kent?’
‘Sir William Montague’s wife?’ asked Kemp, and immediately regretted his description of her when Holland scowled.
‘Aye,’ he said tightly. ‘I want you to deliver it into her hands, and her hands alone. Do you understand me?’
Kemp kept his expression neutral, although he was thinking of what Brewster had told him of the disputed marriage. ‘Aye, sir.’
‘Sir William is not to know of it. Nor is the countess, her mother. Better that the letter should be destroyed than it should fall into anyone’s hands but Lady Joan’s.’
‘I understand, sir,’ Kemp responded stoutly.
Holland sealed the letter with wax – Kemp noticed that he did not use his signet ring as a seal. The knight put no address on the front. After hesitating with uncharacteristic indecision, as if he had just decided the sending of this letter was a foolish project that was better abandoned, he handed the parchment to Kemp, fearful that he might change his mind again. Kemp tucked the letter inside his jerkin and left the room without another word. Experience had taught him that when Holland gave an order, it was to be carried out instantly and without question. He had almost reached the front door when the withdrawing room door opened behind him, and Holland thrust his head out.
‘Remember, Kemp. Not a word of this to anyone.’
Kemp nodded, and ducked out into the stre
et.
* * *
Villeneuve-la-Hardie never really slept. Even at night, guards were constantly going on or coming off watch, and with so many men moving around there was little point in trying to impose any kind of curfew. This made the town even busier at night, for those soldiers who were not on duty were able to spend the hours of darkness crawling from tavern to brothel and back again. As a consequence, Kemp was able to make his way through the streets without having to worry about attracting undue attention.
Montague’s modest mansion was considerably larger than the house Holland occupied. Kemp paused in front of it to drink from a wooden horse-trough that stood nearby while he considered his next move. There were no guards on duty at the entrance – with the mansion located close to the heart of the great English camp, there was no need – but Kemp could hardly march boldly through the front door. Light showed behind one of the shuttered windows on the ground floor, but Kemp could not peer through the cracks in the shutter without risking being noticed.
He wandered around to the back of the house and slipped into the dark stables. The horse in the first stall whinnied at the entrance of a stranger but Kemp stroked its nose to reassure it, listening carefully to make sure the whinny had not alerted the household. He could hear voices from the house; the loud and jovial tones of men who had had a little too much to drink.
The door opened behind him and he whirled around, reaching for the hilt of his broadsword. A petite, cloaked figure drew back with a woman’s gasp. He froze in panic, but she did not cry out. ‘Who are you?’ she whispered. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Sir John Chandos asked me to fetch his horse,’ Kemp lied.
‘There is no horse of Sir John’s stabled here.’
‘Isn’t this Sir Reginald Cobham’s stable?’
Kemp Page 7