Kemp

by Kemp- Passage at Arms (retail) (epub)

She shook her head. ‘I know you. You’re one of Sir Thomas Holland’s men, aren’t you?’

  Kemp recognised her as Maud Lacy. If the Lady Joan trusted her to act as a go-between, perhaps he could do likewise. Perhaps.

  He nodded.

  ‘You have a message for my mistress?’ guessed Maud.

  He nodded again and, after a moment’s hesitation, he reached inside his jerkin and gave her a folded piece of parchment. She hid it in the depths of her cloak, and then leaned forward to give him another peck on the cheek. He pulled back hurriedly, rubbing his cheek. ‘There’s no one watching this time,’ he protested.

  ‘You’re right,’ she agreed, and suddenly seized his head in her hands, pressing her lips against his. He felt her mouth open into his, her tongue flickering between his teeth. He drew back sharply.

  ‘I’ve already got a girl,’ he said, although he knew deep within his heart that was just an excuse.

  She shrugged, smiling and unperturbed, then left the stable without another word.

  He watched her disappear through the back door of the wooden mansion and then turned his attention to the wall above the stable. A light flickered behind a shutter and after a few moments he heard a door open and close, followed by the sound of women’s voices.

  He glanced up and down the alley behind the mansion. It was deserted. He climbed on to a water-barrel, then on to the roof of the stable, crouching just below the window so that he could listen.

  ‘… Give it to me quickly,’ he heard a noblewoman’s voice say, a little impatiently. There was a rustle of parchment. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘My lady?’

  ‘“Pardon, in consideration of his good service in the War of France, to Martin Kemp of the County of Leicester, late villein of Sir John Beaumont, for the murder and rape of Kathryn Seagrave of Mountsorrel, and of any consequent outlawry; on condition that he do not withdraw from the King’s service without licence so long as the King remain on this side of the seas.”’

  In the darkness outside, Kemp grinned.

  ‘Oh, the jackass! He must have given me the wrong parchment.’

  ‘Go after him, Maud. See if you can catch him.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’ The door opened and closed again, and there was the faint noise of footsteps on wooden stairs.

  Kemp knocked softly on the shutters.

  Silence. Then: ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Martin Kemp of the County of Leicester,’ he responded, still grinning. ‘I’ve a message from Sir Thomas.’

  The light inside was snuffed out, and the shutter opened. Kemp found himself face to face with Lady Joan of Kent herself. Close to, she was even more beautiful than she appeared from afar. Kemp caught his breath.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded boldly. She did not appear overconcerned to have a man convicted of murder and rape immediately below her window. ‘I believe this is yours.’ She showed him the copy of his pardon he had given to her chambermaid.

  ‘I didn’t know if she could be trusted, so I gave her that to see if she would take it straight to your husband.’

  Joan smiled. ‘Maud is totally loyal to me.’

  ‘Sir Thomas said I should hand this to no one but yourself, my lady.’ He gave her the letter Holland had asked him to deliver. ‘I… I couldn’t have my pardon back now, could I?’

  She handed him the parchment. ‘Did you really rape and kill that poor girl?’

  ‘Would you believe me if I said I never even heard of her before the trial?’

  But Joan was no longer listening. She had broken the seal on the letter and was studying its contents. She smiled at something Holland had written, and finally folded the letter, opening a casket and placing the letter within before locking it once more. Then she took a purse from the chest at the end of the drawer and held out a shilling. ‘Thank you.’

  Kemp shook his head. ‘That’s not necessary.’

  Before Joan could reply, the door opened behind her and Kemp hurriedly ducked out of sight.

  ‘Joan?’ A man’s voice. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Just enjoying the night air.’

  ‘In the dark?’

  ‘I can see the stars better this way.’

  ‘Come to bed, my love,’ said the man’s voice and Joan pulled the shutters to. Kemp eased himself off the roof of the stable and returned to Holland’s house, feeling sick with empathy on his master’s behalf at the thought of his love sleeping with another man each night.

  He thought of Lady Beatrice waiting for him back in the County of Leicester, and wondered if she had found another man in his absence; was he fooling himself by thinking that such a fine lady would really wait for a churl such as himself? But the thought of her was sometimes the only thing that kept him going through the horrors of war and he could not afford even to think that her love for him might be false. She loved him: had she not proved it by giving him her coverchief to wear into battle as a token of her favour, just as Queen Guinevere had given Sir Lancelot hers? He had worn that coverchief around his neck as a muffler ever since the day he left home, taking it off only to launder it with more care than he lavished on any of his own clothes. On one memorable occasion he had even been called upon to lend it to his king. Toying with the coverchief now, he remembered that day in Caen when he had sullied his love for Beatrice. He wondered if he could ever face her again with such a sin weighing on his conscience.

  Entering Holland’s house, he saw a light shining below the withdrawing room door, and knocked.

  ‘Enter.’

  Holland was sitting at the table where Kemp had left him, staring at the chess set. Kemp hesitated uncertainly on the threshold. ‘I delivered the letter, sir.’

  ‘Any problems?’

  ‘None worth mentioning.’

  ‘Well done. And… thank you.’

  ‘It’s an honour to be of service, sir.’ Kemp was about to turn away, but Holland gestured for him to sit in the chair opposite. ‘Come in, Kemp. Close the door behind you. Do you play chess?’

  Kemp scratched his head. ‘I’ve played chequers.’

  Holland smiled. ‘Chess is a little more complex.’ He started to rearrange the pieces. ‘Every piece has its allotted place on the board to start with, just as every man has his station in life: the king, the vizier, the knight…’

  ‘Vizier, sir?’

  ‘King’s counsellor. Like the chancellor. Or rather, like Henry of Derby. The chess set is a battlefield, and the object is to capture your opponent’s king…’

  Holland explained the rudiments of the game to Kemp, and then they played a couple of short-lived games. Short-lived, because as Kemp observed to Holland, chess was obviously a game where beginner’s luck was not a factor.

  ‘A man must make his own luck in life, Kemp.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I still don’t understand how a peasant can…’

  ‘Pawn, Kemp. In chess it’s called a pawn.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I still don’t see how a pawn can suddenly become a… like Henry of Derby.’

  ‘A vizier?’ Holland smiled. ‘Even a pawn can go a long way in life.’

  ‘I hope so, sir.’

  Holland chuckled, and then his face grew dark as his mind turned to other matters. ‘Was she well?’

  ‘She seemed well enough, sir.’ He did not think it would be diplomatic to mention the circumstances of his departure from Joan’s window.

  Holland nodded thoughtfully, then yawned. ‘Thank you, Kemp. I think we’d best get some sleep. Valois’ army is expected to arrive any day now.’

  Kemp rose with a grimace. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but Valois’ army has been expected to arrive any day now for two months.’

  Holland chuckled. ‘Aye, well. Tomorrow, perhaps.’

  Ten days later, the Oriflamme – the sacred banner of Saint Denys, patron saint of France, carried only when the King of France was present to indicate that no quarter was to be given – was seen raised on the Heights of Sangatte, five miles to the west of Calais and V
illeneuve. Finally, after a siege lasting nearly eleven months, Valois and his army had arrived to relieve Calais.

  Chapter Four

  The look-out tower guarding the road to the bridge at Nieullay was attacked by over a thousand men almost at once. The assault was undisciplined and the two platoons of archers guarding the tower held their ground bravely. But they were soon overwhelmed by the sheer weight of numbers and slain to a man.

  The rest of Valois’ army did not make the same mistake it had made at Crécy and rush immediately into battle. Instead it pitched its tents and made camp on the Heights of Sangatte while Valois himself sent forward two of his marshals, the Lords of Beaujeu and Saint-Venant, to scout along the English lines. When they reported back, he was less than overjoyed by the news. From the Heights of Sangatte, there were only two possible approaches to the English positions: along the beach, where the River Hem spread out to form a shallow ford as it trickled over the sand, or across the bridge at Nieullay. As soon as news of Valois’ approach had reached the English camp, the king had brought in all the ships in his fleet bearing siege engines close to the shore to cover the beach and prevent the French from advancing across the sand, reinforcing them with several companies of archers. The bridge at Nieullay, meanwhile, was still heavily guarded by the Earl of Derby’s troops.

  Several of the younger blades in Valois’ army rode down to the English lines and issued challenges to their English counterparts, many of which were taken up, enabling French and English foot-soldiers alike to watch as the knights engaged in single combat, tilting at one another across the sand. This diverting sport was cut short when heralds from both sides ordered the young knights to withdraw behind the lines. Both kings wanted every knight available fit to fight when battle was finally joined.

  The beleaguered garrison of Calais could see the banners of Valois’ army beyond the English lines, and that night they displayed the same banners on the highest tower of Calais castle, illuminating them with a great fire, to the noise of cheers and trumpets.

  Like most of the men in the English army, Kemp was not frightened by the proximity of Valois’ troops. At the battle of Crécy he had seen a far larger French Force routed by an army far smaller than the one in which he was currently serving. Then the English had had only the advantage of terrain over the enemy, but they had made it tell. Here at Calais, in addition to an army as large as, if not slightly larger than, the one fielded by the French, they had also had months in which to prepare a defensive position in anticipation of this confrontation, and they had used that time wisely. After sneering at the display atop the walls of Calais castle, he went to bed and slept as soundly as ever.

  The following morning, the sound of reveille roused the camp at dawn. Trumpets could likewise be heard from the direction of the French camp, but as yet there was no indication they intended to attack. Holland’s men formed up in platoons to be drilled by their serjeants, as they did every morning before breakfast. The only difference was that this morning, one of the king’s heralds rode by to summon Holland to the king’s presence.

  When Holland returned from the palace he found that his men had finished their breakfast and were checking their equipment. ‘Where’s Kemp?’ he demanded brusquely.

  Preston pointed silently to where the young archer was lovingly honing the edge of the blade of his great broadsword to a razor’s sharpness with a whetstone. Kemp glanced up and, realising he was wanted, pushed himself to his feet. He strode briskly towards Holland, knowing that while some knights liked their men to do everything at the double, Holland preferred a quality of calm, unhurried purposefulness; something which Kemp possessed in abundance.

  Holland was holding a long, black garment folded over one arm, and he thrust it at Kemp. ‘Put this on.’

  Kemp glanced at the garment: a woollen travelling cloak, with long sleeves and a loose cowl, it was a simple, unostentatious piece of clothing which he had often seen Holland wearing on the march. Not being one to question orders, Kemp shrugged himself into it. It fitted well, Kemp and Holland having similar builds despite the fact the knight had a score of years on the youthful archer.

  ‘I need a squire,’ Holland explained. ‘You don’t exactly look the part, even dressed in that, but I need someone to tend the horses, and you can do that well enough.’

  ‘Aye, Sir Thomas.’

  ‘Well, go and fetch them, then,’ snapped Holland. ‘Bring me Ferraunt and fetch the piebald rouncy for yourself.’ Ferraunt was Holland’s name for his palfrey, as unimaginative an appellation for a blue-roan horse as Snowball for a white cat. To Holland, names for horses were merely labels, a convenient way of distinguishing one from another; he had lost too many in battle to allow himself to become attached to them. The piebald rouncy had belonged to the squire who died at Crécy.

  Holland and Kemp rode through Villeneuve to the western gate, where they met Derby himself, along with the Earl of Northampton, Lord Burghersh, Sir Reginald Cobham, and Sir Walter Mauny, who had reluctantly been freed by the French and allowed to join the English before Calais. Mauny was a Hainault knight who had arrived in England in the queen’s retinue and become a naturalised Englishman and a loyal servant of King Edward. The Margrave of Juliers, who had recently arrived with reinforcements from Flanders, was also there.

  The whole party – fourteen in total – rode away from Villeneuve towards Nieullay, where two large pavilions were being erected at the edge of the marsh and only just inside the English lines. There they were greeted by Cardinal Ravaillac, one of the cardinals attempting to negotiate a peace between the rival claimants for the French throne. The English had not trusted the cardinals twelve months ago and they did not intend to trust them now. They were emissaries of Pope Clement, a Frenchman whose residence at Avignon would have forced him to defer to Valois had not the two of them already been implicit allies against the English.

  The English noblemen dismounted, handing the bridles of their horses to their squires or – in Holland’s case – acting squire. Then each in turn went down on one knee before Ravaillac, kissing his signet ring.

  ‘Greetings, my son,’ the cardinal said, as Derby kissed his ring. ‘I crave your forgiveness for the delay. The delegates from King Philip of Fra…’

  ‘Philip of Valois,’ Derby corrected with a growl. It seemed the cardinal had to be reminded of one of the root causes of the war: the legality of Valois’ claim on the French throne.

  Ravaillac smiled thinly. It was obvious that Derby was the leader of the English delegation to these peace talks, and equally obvious that he was determined to be quite intractable. During the English delegates’ earlier meeting with the king, when he had appointed them as his emissaries, he had made it clear that they were to remember at all times they were negotiating from a position of strength.

  They did not have to wait long before Valois’ emissaries arrived. Led by the Duke of Bourbon, they included the titular Duke of Athens – Gautier de Brienne, the son-in-law of Holland’s prisoner the Count of Eu – the Lord of Beaujeu, Guillaume Flote and Sir Eustache de Ribeaumont. The sixth was a hawk-faced man with russet hair, dressed in fine robes of red and white. Northampton nudged Derby and nodded surreptitiously at the last.

  ‘Sir Geoffroi de Chargny,’ he murmured out of the corner of his mouth as the French delegates dismounted and handed their bridles to their squires. ‘If you recall, I once had the honour of taking him prisoner.’

  ‘The Sir Geoffroi de Chargny who is so wise in the laws of chivalry?’ Derby murmured back.

  Northampton nodded while he and his companions smiled welcomingly at their opposite numbers. ‘The same. Let not that aspect of him fool you. He’s as subtle as a fox and as ruthless as a serpent.’

  Formal introductions were performed with the usual gallantry, on this occasion largely forced, and the delegates of the opposing sides followed Cardinal Ravaillac into one of the pavilions. The squires waited outside, talking amongst themselves. Both sets of squires spoke French
and were happy to talk to the other side, the clever ones pumping their counterparts for information.

  In the months he had been stationed at Villeneuve, Kemp had dealt with the locals on a day-to-day basis and had picked up a smattering of heavily accented French; enough to get his meaning across and to understand what others were saying. But on this occasion he was ignored, his peasant status obvious to all. He sneered to see the arrogant young English squires talking with Frenchmen in preference to a churl, but did not let their snub bother him. He might have high ambitions but he had no illusions about his origins, and did not care for those members of the aristocracy who could not treat the lower orders with at least some modicum of respect.

  The conference was a long one. Occasionally Kemp heard voices raised in heated argument and strained to hear the words, but they were too indistinct for him to understand. Despite their conversation, the squires became bored with the wait long before Kemp, who had learned to keep his own company during countless nights of sentry duty. From where he stood, he could see just about the entire landscape between the opposing armies and he whiled away the time by imagining what tactics Valois might use to try to relieve the siege and how the English might counter the French. Whichever way he looked at it, the English defences seemed impregnable. The fact the French had chosen to negotiate rather than attack seemed to indicate they thought so too… or were they merely biding time until more reinforcements could be brought up to swell the ranks of their army?

  He was broken from his reverie by the sudden realisation that one of the French squires was talking about him. Something about ‘… a hackney harnessed for the joust’, clearly a jest about his ignoble origins.

  Kemp grinned. ‘Or a wolf in sheep’s clothing,’ he responded in his halting French.

  The French squire crossed to where Kemp stood, regarding him with an expression of disdain. The squire was in his early thirties, the oldest one there, of a type instantly recognisable even to Kemp: the younger son of a knight, too impoverished to maintain the duties of a knight himself. He was a huge man: Kemp was tall and well-built, but this man towered over him.