Five months earlier Kemp had been part of the Earl of Warwick’s force that had tried to take Saint-Omer, and he had seen how a similar manoeuvre routed the English. He could see how the same success might be repeated now. ‘Wheel right!’ he snapped. The fear was gone now. There was no time to think of death, humiliation or failure.
‘What?’ Jarrom demanded incredulously.
‘You heard me! Wheel right, damn you!’
There was enough urgency in Kemp’s voice to ensure that he was obeyed, and the platoon turned to face the men-at-arms to their left, just as de Ribeaumont and his men-at-arms bore down on them. The English men-at-arms struggled to face the enemy, but they had no room to turn their spears in the close-packed crush. Men died screaming with lances thrust through their bodies, or disappeared beneath the hooves of horses to be trampled into the ground.
‘Nock! Mark! Aim high!’ Kemp did not want any of the men under his command shooting the men-at-arms on their own side.
The first of the French mounted men-at-arms were bursting through the English ranks, their lances levelled now at the archers.
‘To hell with this!’ screamed Jarrom, throwing down his bow and turning to flee. Two of his friends followed his lead.
‘Stand fast!’ ordered Kemp. ‘Loose!’
Fifteen arrows flew forwards with unerring accuracy, but they were pitifully few. The French horsemen came on. They were too close for another volley.
‘Side-arms!’ Kemp drew his massive broadsword and raised it above his head. As a horseman tried to run him through with his lance, he swung the sword in a great circle, first slicing off the tip of the lance, knocking it aside, then burying his blade in the horse’s skull. The beast went down, spattering Kemp with blood and brains. As the rider sprawled at Kemp’s feet, the archer reversed his grip on the hilt of his sword and rammed the point straight down, plunging it cleanly through the horseman’s chain-mail habergeon and into his chest. The rider coughed blood, and died.
Kemp tugged his sword free with a grunt, gazing about in search of his next victim. Horsemen were thundering past, paying little heed to him or any of the others, riding them down only when they got in the way. There was no point in Kemp giving orders: there was no one to give orders to. His first command, such as it had been, was part of a rout. He felt sick with failure and humiliation. He knew he could be a good soldier, given half a chance, but here he was being given no chance at all! The Flemish ranks had broken and were fleeing, the English lines similarly beginning to waver. Warwick’s trumpeter sounded the retreat.
Holland was crossing swords with a French horseman. ‘Fall back!’ he shouted, even as he managed to thrust his blade under his opponent’s guard and into his stomach.
A mounted man-at-arms headed straight for Ivo Attercross, one of Kemp’s companions. The archer threw down his longbow and turned to flee, but the man-at-arms soon rode him down, spitting him on the tip of his lance. Attercross screamed horribly as the lance-tip emerged from his chest.
Kemp had to duck to avoid a sword stroke aimed at his head by a passing rider. Then he waited until there was a gap in the surge of warhorses and made a dash for it, sprinting after the others. He heard hoofbeats, and turned in time to see a French man-at-arms bearing down on him, swinging a battleaxe. Kemp flung up his arms instinctively, freezing in momentary panic, and then an arrow whistled over his head and embedded itself in the man-at-arm’s shoulder. The stroke went wide, and the wounded man almost fell out of his saddle. Kemp reached up and pulled his opponent to the ground with a crash, stamping on his neck to finish him off, while at the same time boosting himself up into his saddle.
From the vantage point of the warhorse, he glanced about, taking stock of the situation. There was Brewster, coolly unstringing his bow and replacing it in its bag to carry it across his back, apparently heedless of the French men-at-arms who were advancing everywhere. Kemp did not doubt it had been Brewster who shot the arrow which saved him; the innkeeper’s son had saved his life so many times now he had lost count, but Brewster never acknowledged the fact, expecting nothing in return.
Like Kemp, Brewster managed to pull a man-at-arms from his saddle, finishing him off with a blow from his maul which punctured the man’s bascinet, before climbing astride the horse himself. He galloped off after the rest of the retreating force, and Kemp was about to follow him when he saw a page carrying Holland’s banner run through by a lone French knight, who had broken from his own ranks to win the banner.
Kemp hauled on the courser’s reins. It occurred to him that if he could get his hands on that banner he might yet rally Holland’s company. As the Frenchman tried to ride back towards his own ranks, Kemp chased after him, drawing his sword once more. He swung his blade, aiming at the man’s neck, but he was unused to fighting on horseback, and struck the knight across the back, failing to pierce his chain-mail. The knight reeled from the force of the blow, and tried to wheel his horse to face his assailant, reaching for his sword. Kemp struck again, this time piercing the knight’s chain-mail sleeve and cutting down to the bone. The knight screamed, and the blue and white striped lance to which Holland’s banner was tied went down, landing point-first in the earth, where it quivered.
The knight was too busy clutching his wounded arm to present any threat. Kemp sheathed his sword and wheeled his mount again, snatching the lance from the ground as he rode past and twisting his wrist badly in the process. Clutching the banner-bedecked lance awkwardly to his chest, he began to ride after the retreating English column. The French were rallying, regrouping, preparing for a rout.
Kemp galloped through the fields alongside the road, clinging for dear life to the reins as the courser leapt over the hedges. He passed most of the fleeing column, which was bogged down in the narrow, muddy lane, and did not stop until he saw one of the wagons of the baggage train abandoned by the side of the road. There he reined in, planting the lance in the ground so that the mud-stained banner hung limply in the still air. Then he jumped down from his horse, tethering it to the wagon, and began to pull away the horse-hair canvas that protected the wagon’s cargo from the elements.
Recognising their master’s banner, Brewster and Inglewood reined in to find Kemp opening one of the wicker baskets stacked in the wagon. ‘What are you doing?’ Inglewood asked curiously.
‘Making a stand,’ said Kemp. ‘The French haven’t finished for today. If we keep running, the French will just ride us down and wipe us out.’
‘He’s right,’ admitted Brewster.
‘Then don’t just stand there – help me with these baskets,’ snapped Kemp.
They opened a few more of the arrow-packed baskets, hurriedly thrusting the arrows beneath their belts. As they were doing so, other members of the platoon reached them. Jarrom and his two friends simply rode past, but Conyers, Oakley, Tate, and four more reined in to lend a hand. Conyers had tied a rag around his head to staunch the flow of blood from his wound. Just ten of them, thought Kemp – was this really all that was left of the forty men who had sailed from Portsmouth all those months ago?
Holland rode past with two platoons of archers and a troop of men-at-arms he had taken under his command. Seeing a ready supply of arrows, he decided that he too would make his stand here, and took charge of the situation. ‘Clear the road! Push that damned plunder wagon into the ditch there – gold’s no use to you in the grave!’
Enough space was cleared to form a line across the road, forcing the last of the retreating English to squeeze past in the ditch. Behind them came the French, formed up into close order once more, thundering down the road towards them.
Inglewood and Tate hurriedly passed out fresh sheaves of arrows from the wagon.
‘Ready!’ Kemp found himself shouting, as he nocked an arrow to his bow. ‘Stand fast, lads… mark… loose!’
Closely bunched in the middle of the lane, the charging French found that the volley of arrows wrought havoc amongst their ranks, as the bodies of men and horses piled
up in the road preventing those behind from getting through.
Kemp nocked another arrow and took aim. ‘Loose!’
More death, and yet more, turning the narrow lane into a killing ground, and the French advance became an even more confused mess than the English retreat. Finally realising they could not break through, a French trumpeter blew the retreat, and they withdrew beyond bowshot to regroup. The English archers and men-at-arms used the lull in the fighting as an opportunity to mount up, galloping back down the lane after the rest of the earl’s column.
Less than a mile further on, the earl had finally halted the flight, imposing a semblance of order on his men with little more at his disposal than sheer will-power. Now the men formed another defensive position across the path. They parted to allow the men under Holland’s command to pass through, and then quickly closed ranks, ready to meet the next French attack.
Leap-frogging in this manner, the earl’s column retreated to within ten miles of Calais, harassed every step of the way by de Chargny and de Renty as they fought their rearguard action. It was a miracle of belated discipline that the Flemish and English lost less than two hundred men in total.
* * *
Dusk was falling by the time the battered column limped back into the safety of Calais’ walls. After a quiet, dispirited supper, Kemp walked the short distance to Holland’s house, and the two of them played chess in the withdrawing room as usual, sharing a flagon or two of wine. Practice had made Kemp a competent player, although he had yet to beat Holland. They played in silence, as was their custom. Both were taciturn by temperament, and they had little to say to one another. Kemp felt guilty that he had let Holland down in the withdrawal from Saint-Omer, but was not sure how to apologise.
Only fourteen men were left in the platoon now, including Preston, who was expected to recover from his wound; and Jarrom and his two friends, Simon Elliott and Baldwin Gower: the three cowards, as Kemp thought of them. He had not reported their cowardice to Holland who, in his current mood, would almost certainly have them hanged for it. Instead he made sure that everyone else in the platoon knew of it, so that the three were snubbed and shunned at every opportunity by men who had been their closest friends only a few hours earlier. They had broken the first rule of soldiering, that of sticking by their companions, and now no one would care to rely on them, or to serve in the same unit.
With his mind not on the game, the standard of Kemp’s play was poorer than usual but Holland too seemed preoccupied. Kemp noticed he was drinking more heavily than normal. He wondered if Holland also felt as if he had somehow failed in the skirmish.
The silence of the room where the two men stared at the pieces on the chessboard was matched by the silence of the streets of Calais, a silence broken only by the melodic sound of a minstrel singing a ballad, while plucking the hopeful tune on a gittern.
Lady, from whom all my joy comes,
I can’t love or cherish you to excess,
Nor praise you enough as becomes,
Nor serve, honour nor obey you no less;
For the gracious expectancy,
Sweet love, I have of seeing thee,
Gives me a hundred times more happiness and cheer
Than I could deserve in a hundred thousand years.
This sweet hope, with loving desire,
Which nourishes me and keepeth me whole,
Gives me ev’rything I require
To hearten, comfort and gladden my soul;
Nor does it depart, morn or eve,
But gently maketh me receive
Even more of the sweet pleasures that Love rears
Than I could deserve in a hundred thousand years.
And when Hope, which stays in my heart,
My lady, bears such happiness to me
When we two are so far apart
If I, as I wish, could see your beauty,
My joy, as I truly believe,
Could not be thought of or conceived
By anyone, for I would have more of it, dear,
Than I could deserve in a hundred thousand years.
Kemp was so busy trying to decide what his next move should be that he paid little attention to the words of the song, and he was caught off-guard by Holland’s question in the silence that followed.
‘Have you ever been in love, Kemp?’
The young archer looked up sharply. ‘N… no, sir,’ he stammered. ‘At least, not that I’m aware of. I mean, I thought I was in love, once, but looking back, I don’t think I was, if you see what I mean.’ Realising that he was gabbling, he fell silent.
Holland chuckled. ‘Is there a difference between being in love and believing yourself to be in love?’
Kemp shrugged. ‘I couldn’t really say, sir. I’m not really sure what love means any more.’
‘What about that girl of yours in Leicester County? The noblewoman who gave you that coverchief you hold so precious. Don’t you love her?’
‘Lady Beatrice?’ Kemp hung his head. He did love her but was ashamed to admit it: ashamed of himself. ‘She’s too good for the likes of me.’
‘By birth, you mean? Perhaps.’
‘By everything,’ Kemp said miserably, thinking of the woman he had raped in Caen.
‘I see. And what about Maud Lacy?’
Blushing, Kemp shook his head.
‘When I was your age,’ said Holland, his words slightly slurred by the wine, ‘I was in love with a very beautiful girl. She was very kind and understanding but she said she did not love me and, that being the case, it could not be true love that I felt for her.' Raising his cup to his lips, he chuckled into it. ‘It was of little comfort to me at the time.’
‘Do you believe it now, sir?’ Kemp asked curiously, moving his vizier.
Holland shook his head. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘Love is like… like a fever. You cannot eat, you cannot sleep, you cannot think of anything but the object of your affections,’ he added. ‘And when you see her in another man’s arms, it is like being kicked in the stomach.’ He picked up a pawn and toyed with it thoughtfully. ‘They say I only love her for her money, Kemp.’
Kemp shook his head. ‘I don’t believe that sir.’
‘Why not?’ asked Holland, putting down the pawn from where he had taken it and picking up a rook.
‘I’ve seen her. She’s very beautiful, if you’ll forgive me for saying so.’
‘I’ll not condemn a man for speaking the truth,’ said Holland smiling. ‘But Maud Lacy is also very beautiful, and yet you say you don’t love her.’
Kemp shrugged awkwardly, and then grinned. ‘She’s not very rich, though.’
Holland chuckled. ‘I don’t believe you have been in love, Kemp.’
‘Aye and like, sir. And from the sound of it, I’m not sure I want to be.’
‘Checkmate,’ said Holland, putting down the rook and reaching for his cup to drain it to the dregs.
Kemp stared at the board for a moment, and then shook his head. He rose to his feet. The end of the game usually signalled time for him to return to the inn next door, but his defeat on the chessboard reminded him of the defeat outside Saint-Omer, and his part in it. He knew he could not put off his apology any longer.
‘Sir Thomas?’
Holland glanced up.
‘I just wanted to apologise,’ explained Kemp.
‘Apologise?’ Holland was bewildered. ‘What for?’
‘For letting you down, sir. Outside Saint-Omer, I mean, when you made me twentieth man…’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Holland exclaimed. ‘We were defeated, aye. It happens sometimes,’ he added, with an ironic smile. ‘Surely you don’t expect me to blame you, simply because I gave you command of a dozen men? If any one man is to blame it should be me. However, I think if we are to blame anyone, it should be de Chargny. The man’s no fool, and bears watching.’
‘Aye, Sir Thomas.’
‘And as for your performance today, know you the difference between a r
etreat and a rout?’
‘No, sir,’ said Kemp. He thought he might understand the difference but did not want to have to try to explain it.
‘Sometimes it’s as little as one man, Kemp. Just one man.’
* * *
There was great excitement in the Sicilian port of Messina when the Genoese fleet entered the harbour. The lateen-rigged galleys were not men-of-war but trading vessels returning from the East, doubtless packed with silks and spices. There were many merchants in the town who would now realise the profit of an investment made several months previously and many women who would buy the luxury goods for their household.
One of the richest of the town’s burghers made his way directly to the harbour as soon as the fleet was sighted, and waited on a stone pier as the lead galley approached the quayside. As it neared the pier, the oarsmen shipped their oars, allowing the galley’s own momentum to carry it in. Genoese mariners jumped down from the galley’s side to tie the mooring ropes to stone bollards and iron rings set in the masonry, helped by dockers waiting on the pier. The gangplank was lowered and the burgher waited at the foot, while the shipmaster appeared above him. The burgher beamed up at him, but the pale-faced shipmaster seemed distracted, descending as if in a daze.
The burgher, who had opened his arms to embrace his friend, now lowered them. ‘Matteo? Are you all right?’
The shipmaster seemed to notice him for the first time. ‘Eh?’ He shook his head. ‘Aye. Aye, I’m fine.’ He wiped sweat from his brow, although the October sun was temperate.
‘You seem distracted. Are you ill?’
‘Ill?’ The shipmaster grimaced. ‘Aye, sick at heart, as any man would be after seeing the things I have seen.’
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