Kemp

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

  De Chargny leaned across the table to seize the goblet, lifting it to his own lips and drinking deeply before handing it back. Relieved, de Pavia drank.

  The Lombard had come at de Chargny’s invitation. A sealed letter bearing only de Pavia’s name had mysteriously appeared in his chamber one morning. The letter had mentioned money, implying a substantial amount without saying how it might be earned; but de Pavia’s avarice had been sufficiently piqued. Now he waited for de Chargny to speak, but the French knight did not seem to be in any hurry.

  ‘You sent for me, Sir Geoffroi?’ he asked at last, allowing the slightest hint of annoyance to enter his tone. ‘My servants think I lie abed in my chamber at Calais castle. If I am not back by dawn, there will be questions asked.’

  De Chargny shrugged. ‘They will think you spent the night in a stewhouse. I gather it would not be the first time.’

  ‘How did you… how dare you!’ spluttered de Pavia.

  ‘That is unimportant. What is important is what lies in yonder coffer.’ De Chargny gestured to an iron-bound coffer standing on the next table.

  De Pavia rose and crossed to the coffer. The clasp was unfastened. The Lombard put his hands on the lid to lift it and then hesitated, wondering what it contained. A poisonous snake? A severed head? With a man like de Chargny, it was impossible to guess. He threw open the lid and stepped back, just in case whatever lay within tried to jump out at him.

  Thousands of golden coins glinted in the pale light of the single candle.

  ‘Twenty thousand écus d’or,’ de Chargny hissed persuasively. ‘And they’re all yours. At least, they will be soon enough. All I ask is one thing in return.’

  De Pavia faced him with an expression of suspicion. ‘Do not ask me to betray my king, de Chargny. That is the one thing I will not do for any amount of money.’

  ‘I would think little of you if I thought you would,’ de Chargny replied. ‘But you were born a Lombard. Surely you cannot count King Edward your liege lord?’

  ‘I have served him… taken his salt…’

  ‘And I have served the Dauphin of Vienne, but I do not count him my lord. I was born in France, and my only loyalty is to Valois and his line.’

  ‘You are known for your great knowledge of all that is chivalrous,’ admitted de Pavia. ‘You would not ask any man to do anything that contravened the code by which we live as brothers in knighthood.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then tell me what it is you want.’

  ‘Calais,’ de Chargny said simply.

  De Pavia turned pale.

  ‘It is a small matter, in terms of the great scheme of things,’ de Chargny continued blandly. ‘Compared to the vast area of Gascony, for example, what import can a small town like Calais have?’

  ‘If the king learned I had betrayed the town he spent eleven months besieging…’

  ‘With twenty thousand écus d’or in your coffers, would you really care what the king thought?’

  De Pavia’s brow glistened with beads of sweat. ‘It’s not what he thinks, it’s how he would repay me…’

  ‘You could return to your native Lombardy, far beyond King Edward’s reach.’

  ‘I could…’ admitted de Pavia.

  ‘Twenty thousand écus, Sir Amerigo. All yours. And no one need ever know. Why did you think I asked you to come here alone?’

  ‘You could guarantee me immunity?’

  ‘From everything but the pestilence.’

  De Pavia’s eyes flickered between de Chargny’s smiling face and the open coffer. Finally he reached for the gold, but Guilbert slammed the lid down before his hand came close. ‘The gold becomes yours, Sir Amerigo, on the day Calais becomes mine,’ said de Chargny.

  ‘And which day is that?’

  ‘New Year’s Day. I will bring men to regarrison the town and castle about two hours after midnight. All I ask is that there is no guard to stop us from entering that night, and no gate or door remains locked to bar our way. Sir Oudard will meet you at the postern gate of the castle with ten thousand écus. You will admit him and his men, and hand over a hostage – your son, I think – as surety. By dawn, when both town and castle are in my hands, you will have the remaining ten thousand, your son will be returned unharmed together with a letter of safe conduct to Lombardy.’ He leaned forward suddenly and blew out the candle, plunging the room back into darkness.

  ‘Supposing something goes wrong?’

  ‘If anything goes wrong then it will mean you have betrayed me.’ De Chargny’s voice hissed eerily. ‘And if you betray me, then no matter what happens, I will hunt you down and, when I find you, I will have you cut into very small pieces, starting from the toes up. Do I make myself plain?’

  ‘Yes, Sir Geoffroi!’ de Pavia stammered. ‘But what if…’

  A cold wind blew through the room, and de Pavia sensed that he was alone once more. He groped his way over to where the coffer of gold had stood but that too was gone. Shivering with fear, he moved slowly towards the door. He pawed at the latch, lifted it and stumbled outside. There was no sign of de Chargny, de Renty, or any of the others; just the two palfreys, and his squire, leaning against the wall by the door.

  De Pavia put a hand on the squire’s shoulder. ‘Come on, boy, let’s leave this place swiftly.’

  The squire fell away from him, toppling over to land on his side at the foot of the wall. De Pavia crouched over him and found a gash in the boy’s throat like a second mouth, grinning up at him in the darkness, the slick blood black in the moonlight. De Pavia vomited uncontrollably. When he had finally recovered, he swung himself into the saddle of his palfrey and dug his spurs into the horse’s flanks, galloping north-west, back along the road to Calais.

  De Chargny and de Renty watched de Pavia leave from an upper-storey window of the inn. De Renty smiled at the Lombard’s evident discomfiture. ‘A weak man,’ he said, and frowned. ‘You think we can rely on him?’

  De Chargny nodded. ‘I like weak men. They are easy to control. Controlling a man like de Pavia is like guiding an ass: one uses a carrot and a stick. The carrot is gold, the stick is fear. Tonight we gave him a taste of both.’

  De Renty looked thoughtful. ‘You will ride back to Saint-Omer with me?’

  De Chargny shook his head. ‘I head south. I hope to be in Avignon by the end of the month. I shall return to Saint-Omer in time for the Feast of the Conception.’

  De Renty did not know what business de Chargny might have in Avignon but knew better than to ask. ‘And then?’

  De Chargny permitted himself a smile. ‘And then we shall drive the English back into the sea.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Returning to his castle at Mold, William Montague, Earl of Salisbury, found his mother-in-law at her usual place, embroidering by the hearth. ‘Your damned assassins failed. Now everyone believes me guilty of ordering the deaths of Master Sigglesthorne and Master Vise!’ he declared angrily.

  ‘Be calm, William, I pray you,’ she replied, without even looking up at him. ‘They can prove nothing.’

  ‘They don’t have to prove anything. Their wagging tongues are enough to flay my reputation from my back. Why, only last week his Majesty himself snubbed me in public.’

  ‘The humiliation will pass,’ the countess assured him. ‘Better that, than the humiliation of losing your bride to Holland.’

  ‘I think not,’ Montague said heavily.

  At last the countess looked up at him. ‘What mean you?’ she whispered.

  ‘Holland can have your bitch of a daughter. She’s brought me enough misery already.’ He turned his back on her and headed for the door. ‘I’ve washed my hands of her.’

  ‘The devil you have!’ she snapped, rising. ‘After all I’ve done, to win the king’s consent for the marriage, to block Holland’s attempts… listen to me when I speak to you!’

  He paused, then turned back to face her. ‘No, you listen to me, you evil old bitch. His Majesty entrusted me with his cousin, believi
ng that I would protect her with all my honour. Well, you’ve robbed me of my honour by pouring poison in my ear and turning me into an accomplice to attempted murder. No more, damn you!’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I’ve already done it. I’ve instructed Master Bugwell to contest the case no longer. He left for Avignon six days ago, so there’s naught you can do to prevent it. Now I want you out of my castle before the week is out.’ Without another word, he stormed upstairs.

  The countess hurried up the spiral staircase after him, catching up with him in the gallery. ‘You can’t do this to me,’ she protested, seizing him by the arm. ‘I am the Countess of Kent.’

  ‘You are the Dowager Countess of Kent and a murderous old bitch.’ He broke free of her grip. ‘Unhand me! Even your touch defiles.’

  ‘You’re just as guilty as I,’ she hissed. ‘I told you I was going to send men to kill the two attorneys, yet you did not attempt to warn anyone. Throw me out, and I’ll tell everyone! They all know how much you hate Holland. Do you really think they’ll believe it was I who ordered the attorneys’ deaths?’

  ‘They will when they learn she also killed Sir Hugh, my lord,’ said Maud Lacy, emerging from the shadows.

  The countess turned pale. ‘Sir Hugh died of the pestilence. Everyone knows that.’

  Maud shook her head. ‘I saw you. I watched from the gallery, as you struck him with the poker.’

  Montague stared at her in disbelief. ‘If this is so, why did you not speak out before?’

  ‘Who would believe the word of a common chambermaid over that of the Dowager Countess of Kent?’

  Montague turned to the countess. ‘Is this true?’

  ‘Of course not! The spiteful little bitch is making this up. You know how much she hates me.’

  ‘I know how much you have abused her, making her life a misery,’ said Montague, nodding thoughtfully to himself. ‘Aye, I believe it. There’s murder in your blood and blood on your hands.’ He turned to Maud. ‘Fetch my cloak, girl.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ demanded the countess.

  ‘To the county sheriff. It’s time justice was done.’

  ‘Stay where you are, girl!’ snapped the countess, and rounded on Montague. ‘You’d see me hanged for murder?’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Montague. ‘It’s no more than you deserve…’

  She lunged at him, her fingers reaching out to claw at his face. He managed to grab her wrists and the two of them grappled at the top of the spiral staircase. The countess struggled like an enraged cat, snarling and spitting. Montague was terrified, reluctant to hurt her, yet fearful she might scratch out his eyes. She raked her fingernails across his cheek, scoring four lines of blood, and he lost his temper, slapping her back-handed. Staggering back, she tripped over the top step and lost her balance.

  Everything seemed to slow down. Realising what he had done, Montague tried to catch her before she fell, but it was like trying to move through water. All was silent as she toppled backwards, eyes and mouth wide in shock, her arms flailing wildly. Then the back of her head struck one of the stone steps, snapping her chin down against her chest.

  Maud screamed.

  Skirts and hair flying, the countess tumbled down the steps, bouncing off the masonry until she disappeared from sight.

  For a few moments Montague stood frozen, staring after her. Then he rushed down the steps, almost losing his footing in his panic, closely followed by Maud. They found the countess lying at the bottom, in the great hall. There was little point in searching for a pulse. Her neck was twisted at an impossible angle.

  ‘It was an accident!’ stammered Montague. ‘You saw, didn’t you? I never meant for… sweet Jesu preserve me, it was an accident!’

  Maud nodded. ‘Aye,’ she agreed softly. ‘It was an accident.’

  * * *

  From his vantage point seated on a stool by the upper-storey window, Kemp could see the barges sailing down the Rhone. Many of them tied up at the quayside of Lyon, and he watched porters loading the vessels with barrels of wine, or unloading large terracotta jars of spices brought from the East via the Mediterranean. Rain fell heavily, but in spite of this there was considerable activity on the riverside; one thing that Kemp had learned while working for Chaucer was that trade, like war, was rarely stopped by inclement weather. Passengers, too, thronged on the quayside: messengers on their way to the Burgundian court, clergymen going to the Papal Court at Avignon, pilgrims heading for Rome.

  It was over two weeks since they had left Broughton. From London they had followed the pilgrim trail to Canterbury, and from there on to Sandwich, taking passage on a ship across the Channel to Calais. It had seemed strange to Kemp to be back in France now that the war was over, although one would not have guessed it from the attitude of the local people they encountered. But the sullen hostility of the French only served to remind him that he was on what effectively remained enemy territory, and that he must be on his best behaviour if he was to avoid trouble.

  From Calais they travelled south, through a country depopulated by the ravages of the pestilence, by-passing Paris, whose crowded streets had been hit particularly badly. But on the whole it seemed in France as if the worst of the sickness were past. It filled Kemp with a sense of hope to think the deadly plague that had entered the world might in time pass on, leaving at least a few survivors behind.

  South of Paris, in country as yet untouched by the ravages of the war between Plantagenet and Valois, the attitude of the local people had changed, becoming perceptibly more polite towards the English travellers. From the Île de France, they headed south-east through the Côte d’Or, down a route already familiar to Sigglesthorne and Vise. They lodged in the guest houses of priories whenever the opportunity presented itself, or in inns when it did not.

  In the room behind Kemp, Sigglesthorne lay snoozing on his back on the bed, while Vise sat with his nose buried in his psalter. It was barely past noon. The barge on which they had arranged passage to Avignon would not be sailing until the following morning, and in the meantime there was nothing for them to do but while away the time in idleness.

  It was then that Kemp saw the banner carried by a page at the end of a lance. He recognised it, and felt a shiver pass through his spine. Three white shields on a crimson background: the arms of Sir Geoffroi de Chargny.

  Kemp stared at it in disbelief. De Chargny was the governor of Saint-Omer; what was he doing so far south? Even in the midst of the truce, the thought of de Chargny’s proximity made him feel uneasy.

  Ten men emerged from one of the other inns overlooking the riverside and Kemp recognised de Chargny amongst them, flanked by the ever-present Guilbert. After a split second’s indecision he jumped to his feet, knocking over the stool on which he had been sitting.

  Vise stared at him in astonishment. ‘Master Kemp?’

  But Kemp had already left the room. He ran down the stairs, vaulting over the bannister at the bottom, and hurried to the stables at the back of the inn. There he found his longbow and arrows hanging up with his horse’s saddle and harness. Taking them down, he sprinted back up to the upstairs room, crossing to the window.

  ‘Kemp? What are you doing?’ asked Vise.

  Kemp looked out. De Chargny and Guilbert were still standing on the wharf less than a hundred yards away, watching as the men-at-arms in de Chargny’s retinue led their horses down the gangplank on to a sail-barge which already flew de Chargny’s banner from the masthead.

  Kemp began to remove his bow from its cover. ‘It’s Sir Geoffroi de Chargny,’ he explained. ‘The governor of Saint-Omer. He was one of the French knights at the negotiations at the siege of Calais.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I’m going to kill him.’

  Vise leapt to his feet and even Sigglesthorne, who had only been dozing, sat up on the bed.

  Kemp nocked an arrow to his bow and began to take careful aim. It was an easy shot, even at that angle, which was why he wanted to take ex
tra care to ensure he did not miss with the first shot through over-confidence. De Chargny’s men would get him afterwards – there were too many for him to be able to kill them all – but it would be worth it to rid the world of a man who was such a great enemy of King Edward.

  ‘Kemp!’ snapped Sigglesthorne.

  Kemp lowered his aim fractionally. ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘Forgive me for saying so, but Sir Thomas ordered you to see that we get to Avignon and back safely. I fail to see how you can achieve that if you’re languishing in a cell awaiting execution for murder.’

  Vise placed a hand on Kemp’s left arm. ‘The war is over, Master Kemp,’ he said softly.

  Slowly Kemp let in his draw on the bow and took the arrow from the string. What had he been doing? Had he been out of his mind? He laughed nervously, and looked down at his hands. They were trembling. He realised he was fighting for breath.

  De Chargny and Guilbert had followed the men-at-arms and horses on to the barge, and now the bargemen cast off, guiding the vessel into mid-stream and heading south with the current.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Vise asked him.

  Kemp nodded. He felt very weak. ‘I… I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I must have been thinking that…’

  Sigglesthorne stared penetratingly into his eyes. ‘You still have nightmares about the war, don’t you?’

  ‘Aye,’ Kemp admitted. He jerked his head through the window to where the sail-barge was disappearing down the river. ‘And he’s in them.’

  Sigglesthorne put an arm around his shoulder. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘A flagon or two of claret should restore your humour.’ Failing to kill de Chargy there and then was a decision Kemp would come to regret.

  * * *

  Avignon was the greatest city Kemp had ever seen. It frowned over the Rhone Valley, the close-packed huddle of houses of stone and wood dominated by the pinnacles and crenellated battlements of the vast Papal palace, built of pale grey stone on a great spur of rock overlooking the river. Disembarking from the barge in the shadow of the great Saint-Benezet bridge, Sigglesthorne, Vise and Kemp did not make directly for the palace, however, heading instead for their lodgings.