Holland hesitated. ‘Would you care to help yourself?’ he suggested at last.
‘I’d be delighted to,’ said Sigglesthorne, crossing to the table and filling a goblet. He took a deep draught of the red Gascon wine, licking his lips in satisfaction. ‘Mmm! Magnificent. Your taste in wine is to be commended, Sir Thomas.’
‘I did not invite you to Calais to discuss wine, Master Sigglesthorne,’ Holland pointed out in irritation.
‘Indeed not, Sir Thomas,’ acknowledged Sigglesthorne.
‘I should like you to tell me your especial qualifications for handling this case.’
‘Indeed. It is quite right you should, Sir Thomas. Erm… would you mind if we sat?’ Sigglesthorne gestured to the benches on either side of the table.
Holland made a gesture signifying assent and they sat down facing one another across the table.
‘To start with, my qualifications. I am a bachelor of canon law, and I have served before the King’s Bench for more years than I care to recall. Furthermore, I acted as the king’s envoy to the Pope nearly four years ago and I spent a good deal of time representing a number of clients in litigation before the Papal Court last summer.’
‘The Papal Court?’ echoed Holland.
Sigglesthorne nodded. ‘From what I understand of your case – and you’ll have to forgive me if I’m labouring under any misapprehensions on that score – it will best be served if we take it directly to the Papal Court in Avignon. But first, it will be best if you tell me in your own words your side of the case.’
Holland shrugged. ‘I met Lady Joan in the autumn of the thirteenth year of the king’s reign, and we were married the following spring…’
‘A clandestine marriage, without the publication of the banns and the blessing of a priest?’ asked Sigglesthorne.
Holland nodded. ‘But I thought a marriage contract between man and woman was valid in the eyes of the Church, to the exclusion of subsequent marriages?’
Sigglesthorne nodded. ‘Provided there were no impediments such as consanguinity, conpaternity or previous espousals. I take it your union had no such impediments?’
‘None.’
‘The validity of marriages not made in facie ecclesiae – that is, without the publication of banns and the blessing of a priest – is somewhat of a grey area in law,’ explained Sigglesthorne. ‘In fact, it very much depends on what kind of law one chooses to consult, which is why I recommend that we petition the Papal Court. The Church distinguishes between espousals per verba de praesenti – by words of the present tense – and per verba de futuro – in effect, a betrothal, in which a couple express their intention to become man and wife at a later date. Now, according to canon law, a de futuro espousal is automatically transformed into an espousal de praesenti if the de futuro contract is followed by carnal intercourse prior to the public solemnisation of the marriage. I… ah… am I to take it that your marriage to the Lady Joan comes into the latter category?’
Holland shook his head. ‘Our marriage was per verba pre… prea… in words of the present tense.’
‘Then I do not see that we are likely to face any major impediments to the satisfactory resolution of this case, if we petition the Papal Court. Now, pray continue your tale.’
‘After my marriage to the Lady Joan, I was called upon to go to Flanders in the service of his Majesty, after which I went on to crusade against the heathens in Lithuania,’ said Holland.
‘Splendid!’ said Sigglesthorne. ‘We can use that in our petition. His Holiness is a keen supporter of crusading. I am sure he would look favourably on any man who had proved his devotion to the Christian faith in such a manner. Pray continue.’
‘By the time I returned, I found that his Majesty, as the guardian of the Lady Joan, had given her in marriage to Sir William Montague.’
Sigglesthorne nodded. Holland’s account fitted in with what he himself had heard. ‘That is the other reason for petitioning the Papal Court, of course. I’m certain I have no need to tell you there is no love lost between his Holiness Pope Clement and his Majesty King Edward on account of his Holiness’s background as a notary at the French court. If the petition were to be presented before an English court, the court would be more likely to give a verdict favouring the marriage blessed by the king. His Majesty might even put pressure on the court to ensure the marriage backed by him was recognised as the legal one. His Holiness, on the other hand, is unlikely to be – how can I put? – hampered by qualms about giving a verdict contrary to his Majesty’s wishes.’
Holland frowned. He might win his case at the Papal Court, but in so doing there was a grave danger he might earn the king’s displeasure, a risk not to be taken lightly. Did he love Joan enough to take that risk? To jeopardise his whole career?
He silently cursed himself for even having to think about it. ‘Very well.’
‘I take it you can produce witnesses to your marriage?’ asked Sigglesthorne.
‘To the marriage? Aye. As to the… consummation…’
‘If, as you say, the marriage was made per verba de praesenti, that should not be necessary,’ Sigglesthorne said hurriedly. ‘Now we must consider the arguments likely to be put forward by Montague and his family… by the way, where do the Lady Joan and her family stand on this matter?’
‘Her Ladyship will back me up,’ Holland averred. ‘Her father is dead, but her mother…’
‘The Lady Margaret, Dowager Countess of Kent?’
‘The same.’
‘Dreadful woman,’ sniffed Sigglesthorne. ‘I presume she supports the Montague marriage?’
‘Aye.’
‘Hm – that could make things awkward. Since canon law is clearly on our side as far as the facts of the case are concerned, Montague’s attorneys are most likely to call the reliability of your witnesses into question. I take it they are gentlemen of good character?’
‘Naturally.’
‘You must forgive me for asking such a question, but if any problems are likely to come up it is best I am prepared for them.’
‘You are willing to take on the case?’
‘If you are willing to pay for my services, yes. I am afraid my learning and rhetoric do not come cheaply.’
‘So I had gathered,’ Holland said dryly.
‘Very well, then. Our first step will be for the two of us to travel to Avignon so you may present your petition to the Curia…’
* * *
‘I’d like to say how much I’m going to miss this place after we’ve left,’ said Conyers, gazing around at the marshes about Calais and the smoking ruins of Villeneuve, put to the torch a few days after the fall of Calais. ‘But that would be lying,’ he added. Like most of his companions, he had suffered several bouts of dysentery during their sojourn in the marshes, and they would all be glad to escape the unhealthy atmosphere of that place.
Preston’s men were standing on the deck of a cog tied up alongside the quay in Calais harbour, waiting for the tide to turn so they could sail back to England. It was thirteen months since they landed in France, far longer than any of them had anticipated the campaign would last. Yet now they were only days from returning to their homes, they felt only gladness that it was over, rather than resentment at having been kept overseas for so long. Those who worked on the land – the majority of them – had missed the previous harvest, but they might yet be home in time for the next one.
Holland rode up on his blue-roan palfrey, followed by Preston on a bay rouncy. The two of them reined in on the quayside and dismounted, Holland handing his bridle to Preston before striding up the gangplank on to the deck of the cog. ‘Kemp!’
Kemp took his leave of his friends, unconsciously adjusting his kit as he crossed the deck to where Holland stood at the top of the gangplank. ‘Sir Thomas?’
‘I have not yet had a chance to thank you for your assistance the other night.’
Kemp was embarrassed. ‘You saved my life at Blanchetaque last year, sir. I was just returning the
favour. There, er… there aren’t likely to be any…’ he struggled to recall the word he wanted, ‘… repercussions, are there?’
Holland smiled. ‘For you? No. Speaking of Blanchetaque, Kemp, I recall striking a bargain with you that day.’ He handed Kemp a parchment envelope sealed with wax. ‘There is a wealthy vintner who lives in the Vintry Ward of London. Give him this letter.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Kemp hesitated, staring at what to him was a meaningless jumble of letters.
‘It is a letter of recommendation,’ explained Holland. ‘Recommending you. The vintner is a wealthy man who I understand desires to hire a bodyguard. The letter explains that you would be ideal for the job, but you only want to take up the position for a year and a day, so you can qualify for freeman status. I am certain he will understand, and be sympathetic to your situation.’
‘I… I don’t know how to thank you, sir…’
‘Once you are a freeman, you will be able to come to work for me at my manor at Broughton in the County of Buckingham. See that you do so. I should be back from Avignon by then, although with these legal wrangles one can never be certain.’
‘You’re not sailing back to England with us, then, sir?’
Holland shook his head. ‘I have certain matters in Avignon that must be taken care of.’
He turned away without another word, and was halfway down the gangplank before a thought occurred to Kemp. ‘Sir Thomas! Begging your pardon, Sir Thomas, but how am I to find this vintner?’ he asked, indicating the address on the envelope which he could not read.
‘He lives in a fine house on Thames Street in London,’ Holland called back. ‘Ask for him by name. Most people in the Vintry Ward will have heard of Master John Chaucer.’
‘John Chaucer,’ Kemp muttered to himself, to impress the name in his memory. ‘Aye, sir!’ he called after Holland, who reclaimed his bridle from Preston and swung himself up into the saddle.
Preston was climbing into the saddle of his rouncy when Conyers shouted down to him. ‘Hey, Preston, you old whoreson!’ He unfastened his breech-cloth and bared his buttocks over the ship’s bulwark at the serjeant. ‘Kiss my arse!’
Preston grinned, and raised two fingers. ‘I may not be your serjeant any more, lad, but I’ve still got fingers enough to plant an arrow between your scabby cheeks!’ Digging his heels into his rouncy’s flanks, he rode off after Holland.
Kemp rejoined his companions. ‘What was all that about?’ asked Brewster, idly chewing the ever-present piece of marsh-reed.
‘I’m not going back to my lord’s manor when I get back to England,’ Kemp said with determination. ‘Sir Thomas has arranged for me to work as a bodyguard to some rich vintner in London for a year and a day, so I can become a freeman.’ He turned to Conyers. ‘What are you going to do when we get back to England, John?’
‘When I get back to England,’ mused Conyers, ‘I’m going to take all the gold I won in booty, and open a brothel in Doncaster. The finest brothel in the town, with the most beautiful women that can be bought in England. And I’m going to fuck every one of them every night while I’m still young enough to enjoy it.’ He turned to Inglewood. ‘What about you, Pisspants? What are you going to do? Return to your father’s farm?’
Inglewood shook his head. ‘That old whoreson can go to the devil!’ he sneered. Of all the men who had joined Preston’s platoon, few had been more affected by their experiences than the once-sensitive franklin’s son. ‘I’m going to enter holy orders, and my father’s farm can go to wrack and ruin for all I care.’
Conyers chuckled, and turned to Brewster. ‘What about you, David?’
Brewster took the marsh-reed from his mouth and stared at it thoughtfully. ‘I’m not going back.’
‘Not going back!’ exclaimed Inglewood. ‘Why not?’
‘Sir Thomas has asked me to keep his inn here in Calais,’ explained Brewster. Like the houses of many rich men, the one granted to Holland had an inn attached, and it already bore his coat of arms. Brewster’s parents owned an inn in Leicestershire so it was only natural Holland should turn to him to run the White Lion inn in Calais. For Brewster, who had always longed for an inn of his own, it was an opportunity he could not afford to miss. He turned to Tate. ‘How about you, Limkin?’
Tate shrugged. ‘I don’t really know,’ he admitted.
Conyers threw up his hands in despair. ‘I don’t know! Haven’t you got any imagination? When I get back, I’m not going to do anything until I’ve found out where Wat Preston lives. And while I’m looking, I’m going to hire the biggest cart I can find and pile it high with manure, so that when I’ve found his house I can fill it from floor to eaves. I reckon I’ve taken so much shit from that God-damned old whoreson it’s only fair I repay him in kind…’ He broke off, suddenly realising he was no longer the focus of everyone’s attention. Seeing they were all staring past his left shoulder, he twisted to see Serjeant Preston standing there, smiling evilly. Conyers blanched. ‘You can’t do owt to me now. My term of service is over,’ he protested.
Preston’s grin did not flicker for an instant. ‘If I might remind you – all of you – that you’re to serve the king for as long as he remains overseas…’
‘But he’s sailing back to England today!’ protested Conyers. ‘I heard Sir Thomas say so.’
‘There’s been what you might call a slight change of plan,’ Preston, obviously relishing every moment of this situation. He had been sullen for the past few days, haunted by the prospect of peace. ‘It seems that on hearing of the fall of Calais, Valois made exactly the same mistake that you boys have made and assumed the war was over for this year. Seems he’s gone and disbanded his army. Now wouldn’t you say that gives us a perfect opportunity to wreak havoc on the French countryside?’
‘But we’re supposed to be sailing back to England as soon as the tide turns,’ protested Inglewood, still the barrack-room serjeant-at-law at heart.
‘No, you were supposed to be sailing back to England as soon as the tide turns. Like I said, there’s been a change of plan. You’re to disembark with your horses and await further orders.’
They stared at him in disbelief, wondering if this were just some witless practical joke. Most of them reached the same conclusion independently: it could not be, as Preston did not have that much imagination.
‘Well? What are you waiting for, you God-damned miserable bunch of whoresons?’ roared Preston. ‘Shift your idle arses! Not you, Conyers. I want a word with you…’
* * *
‘Merci beaucoup,’ said Conyers, licking his lips as he gazed at the impressive cleavage of the serving wench who placed three cups of wine on the table in front of the tavern. He gave her his most disarming smile, and she smiled back. Kemp felt a twinge of jealousy, and tried to tell himself she probably flirted with all the customers. But he was not convinced; there could be no denying that Conyers had a way with women.
‘Trois sous, s’il vous plaît,’ said the wench, and Conyers gave her four.
‘Gardez la monnaie, mademoiselle.’
‘Merci beaucoup, maître. Vous n’êtes pas d’ici?'
‘Non. Nous sommes Bretons.’
‘Ah! Les Bretons!’ The wench rolled her eyes, and went back inside.
‘What were all that about?’ asked Preston. Although the serjeant had spent more time in France than Kemp and Conyers put together, he had never made any effort to learn the native tongue. ‘Learn French?’ he had exploded one night in an inn in Calais, when his ignorance of the language had first been exposed. ‘What’s the point of fighting the French if I’m going to have to learn their foreign blabbing? Might as well surrender now and be done with it!’
‘She wanted to know where we were from,’ explained Conyers. ‘I told her we were from Brittany.’ There were many men from the independent duchy of Brittany fighting in the ranks of Valois’ forces, although they spoke Breton rather than French. ‘Most Frenchmen can’t tell a Breton accent from an English one. In fact, m
ost Frenchmen I’ve spoken to seem to think that Bretons are a bit peculiar all round.’ He shrugged, leaning sideways against the table, and took a sip of his wine. ‘This is the life, eh? Good weather, good food, good drink, and a pretty girl. What more can a man ask for?’
‘I don’t reckon much to the company,’ muttered Kemp, glancing across to the market square of Saint-Omer where several hundred of the townsfolk were being drilled in spear-fighting.
‘All right, enough chit-chat,’ growled Preston. ‘We’re here to do a job, remember? And keep your voices down. If anyone suspects we’re English…’
The troops were part of a citizens’ militia being formed to defend the town against the Earl of Warwick, who was said to be raiding with a large joint Anglo-Flemish force in the vicinity. None of them suspected that the three soldiers who sat quaffing wine outside the tavern on the opposite side of the square were English mounted archers from that force, masquerading as French men-at-arms in order to assess the strength of the town’s garrison.
When the three of them were ordered to scout the town’s defences, it had been Conyers’ idea to march through the gates and pass themselves off as Frenchmen. Both Preston and Kemp had liked the idea; despite his constant joking, Conyers occasionally managed to surprise everyone by proving himself a brave and cunning soldier who would doubtless make a good serjeant-at-arms one day.
‘How many do you reckon, John?’ asked Preston.
Conyers pursed his lips. ‘No more than four hundred, serjeant.’
‘Plus a garrison of twenty-two hundred makes twenty-six hundred,’ mused Preston.
‘That’s a power of men,’ observed Conyers.
‘It is that, lad,’ acknowledged the serjeant.
‘That’s that, then,’ Kemp said nervously. What had seemed a good idea to him an hour earlier had lost its shine now he found himself in the midst of the enemy. ‘Can we get out of here now?’
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