Despite the pestilence, which had already ravaged Avignon, the streets remained crowded, for the city’s population was constantly fluctuating. Pilgrims came from all over Christendom to receive the Papal blessing, petitioners and their attorneys came to plead at the Curial courts, penitents visited the city’s numerous shrines, ambassadors from many princes and many lands came to do homage to the pontiff, Papal legates departed on or returned from missions with their great retinues, and clergymen came to consult the cardinals of the Sacred College.
The dung-filled streets were crowded with the same hawkers, pedlars and hucksters that had become so familiar to Kemp in London, but here there was so much more: fountains and statues; broad boulevards and terraces lined with vistas of mulberry trees; spacious squares where markets traded all manner of goods; noblemen and cardinals riding through the streets with clothes, jewellery and retinues so splendid it was impossible to tell the latter from the former. And there were whores everywhere, their dress so shameless they were instantly recognisable, plying their trade on street corners or leaning from the windows of stewhouses in their low-cut gowns, displaying their wares, calling out to plump, elderly cardinals who waved and called back unashamedly. Kemp saw all of this and he understood why his king had so little time for Christ’s vicar on earth. Avignon had become the new Babylon, a city of whores and priests where there seemed little to choose between the two.
Sigglesthorne, Vise and Kemp did not lodge at any of the city’s countless inns and taverns, but at a large house in the wealthier quarter, the home of an Italian nobleman called Count Niccolino del Fiesco, a hanger-on at the Papal Court. The count had been recommended to Holland by a canon of the King’s Chamber, and it was at his house Sigglesthorne and Vise had stayed on their previous visits to the city. They had found a warm welcome there, for del Fiesco kept an open house, and was always glad to hear the latest news and gossip. He threw lavish balls on more nights than not, balls which were the toast of Avignon; the pontiff himself had been a guest under del Fiesco’s roof on more than one occasion.
The three men stood under the impressive portico and Sigglesthorne pulled a handle that rang a bell deep within the house. Presently the door was opened by the count’s major-domo who ushered them into a marble-floored entrance hall while a stable-boy appeared to take care of their horses.
The house was like nothing Kemp had ever seen, with its exquisite architecture, marble floors and pillars and airy, high-ceilinged rooms. It put to shame any of the dark and dingy castles which King Edward inhabited; but somehow Kemp could not imagine his king amidst such finery, built to impress rather than protect. King Edward was a fighting man who revelled in hardship and Kemp knew just from the look of this house that whatever sort of man the count was, he was not a fighting man. The floors of the house were scattered with rose petals, and the air was scented with the sickly-sweet odour of burning incense to keep out the stench of the gutters outside and the poisonous air by which the pestilence was spread.
The count himself soon appeared to greet them, a handsome man with black, well-oiled hair, a neat, pointed beard, and dark eyes that twinkled with mischief. Something about him reminded Kemp of Jack Curtis. He was exquisitely dressed in sequined hose of orange and blue, and a tight-fitting doublet of green velvet decorated with gold brocade. His head was bare, and he carried a slender-bladed dagger in a matching sheath encrusted with jewels and gold filigree that looked as if it had been designed as an ornament rather than a weapon.
He clasped the serjeant-at-law by the hand. ‘Master Sigglesthorne! How splendid to see you! It will be good to have an epicure with your appreciation for the finer things in life under my humble roof once more.’ His English was perfect, if a little accented. ‘And Master Vise back again! You are most welcome, sir, most welcome. And who is this?’
‘Signor Conte Niccolino del Fiesco, may I present Master Martin Kemp of Knighton? Kemp is an archer in Sir Thomas Holland’s retinue. He’s been appointed to act as our bodyguard.’
The count smiled. ‘A bodyguard? Has the legal business really become so dangerous since last you were here?’
‘Well may you jest,’ Sigglesthorne responded with a grimace. ‘On our way back last time, while staying at an inn in Calais, we were set upon by a couple of assassins hired by the Countess of Kent.’
‘Countess Margaret? Surely not!’
Vise nodded. ‘I fear it’s true. One of them admitted as much, albeit under a certain amount of duress.’
‘I fear grave news precedes you, my friends. Or, since it seems that this great lady wishes you dead, perhaps it is good news to you. Her ladyship is dead.’
Sigglesthorne arched an eyebrow. ‘Dead? I had thought her relatively young.’
‘It was an accident, they say,’ explained the count. ‘She was killed in a fall of some kind.’
Vise crossed himself. ‘I pray that God may have mercy on her soul,’ he said.
‘So it seems you have brought along this bodyguard needlessly,’ the count continued with a smile.
‘We did not know the countess was dead, my lord,’ Kemp responded truculently. ‘Perhaps there are yet assassins out there who are as ignorant of the death of their employer as we were.’
‘By God, you are right!’ acknowledged the count. ‘And there was I thinking this man was employed purely for the breadth of his shoulders. But come, supper is almost served, and the three of you do not look as if you have eaten for a week.’
The fare on board the barge from Lyons had been lean, but not enough to justify the count’s observation; Sigglesthorne would not have looked as if he had not eaten for a week had he fasted for seven years.
Despite the grandeur of the surroundings – a grandeur that only made Kemp feel ill at ease – there was no suggestion he should eat with the servants. He dined with the others in the atrium. Del Fiesco liked to dine in the fashion of the ancient Romans, reclining on a couch beside a fountain in a courtyard, with music played by his Provencal troubadour, who sang a ballad of love and war while strumming a gittern. Kemp did not feel comfortable trying to eat in a reclining position, so he insisted on sitting on the edge of his couch with his platter balanced awkwardly on his knees.
The food was both richer and more delicate than Kemp was used to, the spices designed to complement the flavour rather than to hide any rottenness as had been the case in the Chaucer household. Here they were waited on hand and foot by silent servants: a new experience for Kemp, along with the tiny roasted songbirds with almond-milk sauce that formed the first course. They ate with their fingers, washing their hands with ewers of water and drying them on fine linen cloths handed to them by pages between each course. The portions were tiny, but Kemp soon lost count of the number of courses, and each brought with it such a variety of dishes that he was just getting into his stride when he was astonished and embarrassed to find that he had eaten his fill. There were Lombard slices made from pounded pork, eggs, raisins, currants and minced dates, flavoured with rich spices and coloured with saffron; and a ‘pomme d’orange’: spiced pork liver garnished with parsley, basted with egg-yolk and dyed with indigo. These were followed by roasted duck, pheasant, boar, venison and a tasty meat which Kemp found delicious until he was foolish enough to ask the count what it was, and found out it was hedgehog.
Kemp’s contribution to the conversation over supper was minimal. Sigglesthorne listened attentively to the latest gossip of the Papal Court, in case there were any new developments at Avignon which would require alterations to his summing up of Holland’s case at the final meeting of the tribunal; but little had changed in the court since his last visit to the city. The Pope himself still resided out of the city, in his mansion at Valence, to avoid the pestilence, and none of the more eminent cardinals seemed keen to replace him, following the pontiffs example by living as far from the common folk as possible. In return, however, Sigglesthorne felt obliged to relate the latest scandals from the English court, the depth of his knowledge and the e
nthusiasm in his telling betraying his genuine interest in such gossip.
They drank heavily and, even though the wine was watered down, Kemp found himself swaying as he made his way to bed. The large house chanced to be relatively empty, so for the first time in his life Kemp found he had not only a bed to himself – a great four-poster with silken sheets and an embroidered coverlet, such as he had only seen in houses he had pillaged – but even a whole room. He was too tired to appreciate this luxury, however, and he sprawled across the bed fully clothed to fall asleep the moment his head hit the feathered bolster.
* * *
‘Supposing Calais were to be seized by a coup de main?’ de Chargny asked Cardinal Ravaillac. ‘How would his Holiness react?’
The cardinal raised an eyebrow. ‘Just how hypothetical is this question, Sir Geoffroi?’
De Chargny smiled thinly. ‘Let’s keep this hypothetical for now, and see what fate has in store for the town.’
The cardinal shrugged. ‘It would depend who seized it. King Philip agreed to a truce which stated that both sides would retain any land they had won. If he were behind such a coup de main, he would be greatly criticised for failing to honour his word.’
De Chargny nodded. ‘And if King Philip were unaware such a move were planned until after it had happened? If the plan were laid and carried out by certain of his courtiers acting on their own initiative?’
‘And how close to King Philip would these courtiers be, Sir Geoffroi? As close as you, perhaps?’
‘Perhaps.’
The cardinal considered de Chargny’s question for several moments. ‘Despite his elevation to the See of Rome, his Holiness has not forgotten in which court it was he first cut his teeth in the world of diplomacy, as well you know,’ he said at last. ‘Naturally he could not condone such a move. Whoever carried it out would have to be publicly condemned, forced to carry out some kind of penance on pain of excommunication.’
‘What sort of a penance?’ de Chargny asked sharply.
The cardinal smiled. ‘Oh, he would have to say a few Ave Marias at the very least.’ He tilted back his head to kiss the bare breasts of the young woman who stood over him, soaping his naked body with practised hands as he sat in a tub of warm, perfumed water in a stewhouse in the more respectable quarter of Avignon.
Sitting in the other tub, de Chargny realised he had lost the cardinal’s attention, so he grabbed the other naked wench and pulled her in with him. She turned to face him so that her thighs straddled his hips, but he pushed her around, the soapy water slopping from the tub as he entered her from behind. His moment of release came quickly and silently and the girl squealed with unconvincing delight. De Chargny ignored her; none of it had had anything to do with her, as far as he was concerned.
‘Of course, it is not how his Holiness would react that should concern you,’ the cardinal continued when the two of them were sated, the exhausted whores lying sprawled against them. ‘Regardless of whoever was behind such a move, King Philip would be expected to return Calais to English control or else be in direct contravention of the truce. In that event, King Edward would be fully within his rights in declaring the truce null and void.’
‘The truce cannot last either way,’ de Chargny responded. ‘At least this way the English would be deprived of their toe-hold in the Pas-de-Calais.’ He rose to his feet and reached for a towel, drying himself vigorously.
The cardinal stared at him in open admiration. ‘Are you really planning such a move?’
De Chargny glared at him. ‘You grow indiscreet in your old age, your eminence. Know you not the old proverb which says: “Ask questions of none, and you shall be told no lies”?’
‘But how can such a thing succeed? The English will have the town of Calais well-defended…’
‘Even the strongest defences have their weak spots. It is simply a matter of finding one.’
‘And you have found the weak spot in Calais’ defences?’
De Chargny could not resist a smile. ‘The acting governor. He is a Lombard and, like all of his race, his love of gold is great.’
‘You have the governor of Calais in your purse?’ The cardinal was impressed.
‘The governor now; Calais itself before the coming year has seen its first dawn.’
‘But is France ready for a renewal of the war?’ the cardinal wondered out loud. ‘The pestilence has left her woefully depopulated…’
‘Aye,’ admitted de Chargny. ‘I had planned such a move earlier, but the pestilence deprived me of many of my best troops. But now England is stricken with the pestilence and she has fared just as badly as France, if not worse. Perhaps the English may no longer have the stomach for a continuation of the war.’
The cardinal shook his head with a wry grimace. ‘That would be too much to hope for.’
* * *
Kemp accompanied the two attorneys to the Papal palace the following morning, crossing the Place du Palais and approaching the Porte des Champeaux, the main entrance beneath two towering pinnacles. The two guards on duty admitted Sigglesthorne and Vise but, when Kemp tried to follow them, they blocked his way with their halberds. He had left his longbow behind at del Fiesco’s mansion, but one look at him was enough to convince the guards that they should check beneath his cloak where, to their complete lack of surprise, they found his broadsword and dagger hanging from his belt.
‘No weapons in the palace,’ growled one of the guards. ‘This is a house of God.’
Kemp was tempted to take issue with that fact: the rule against weapons clearly did not encompass the guards, and this particular house of God had been constructed with battlements and walls twelve feet thick. He unbuckled his sword belt and handed it over reluctantly. ‘I want those back when I leave,’ he growled.
Making his way down a short tunnel, he emerged into a great courtyard where Sigglesthorne and Vise were waiting for him. ‘What kept you?’ asked Sigglesthorne.
‘They would not let me in with my sword and dagger,’ Kemp explained.
Sigglesthorne looked amused. ‘Of course not. Will you be able to protect us, Master Kemp?’
‘I still have my fists,’ he replied. He took his duties rather more seriously than Sigglesthorne appeared to.
Vise glanced around at the courtyard. ‘I’m certain you won’t need them in here.’
Kemp was not so sure. All his life he had grown up with stories about how corrupt the Papacy had become since it had been forced out of Rome to settle in Avignon. From the day he landed in Normandy with the rest of King Edward’s army to the day he sailed from Calais back to England, Kemp had seen Pope Clement’s legates claiming time after time to be trying to negotiate truces, when in reality they were doing everything in their power to delay the march of the English army. Even as he stood in the great courtyard of the Papal palace he saw a cardinal descending a flight of stone steps, unrecognisable as such in his worldly clothes and priceless jewellery were it not for his red, broad-brimmed cardinal’s hat. He glanced at Kemp and frowned at the sight of a commoner muddying the palace courtyard with his dirty boots. Kemp scowled back at him, and the cardinal’s fat face blanched as he hurried away.
Presently they were summoned by an usher to a small audience chamber. A new attorney was now representing Montague. He introduced himself as Reginald Bugwell, a canon of Exeter and an expert in canon and civil law. He explained that he had been appointed to represent the earl following the death of Joan’s mother, the Dowager Countess of Kent.
‘Master Vise and I shall be formally requesting the tribunal to pronounce sentence,’ Sigglesthorne told him. ‘I trust you have no objections?’
Bugwell shook his head. ‘I shall not oppose any such request. His lordship the Earl of Salisbury has decided that this case has dragged on far too long, and is as keen as the rest of us to see it concluded.’
The court rose to its feet as the presiding cardinal swept in, resplendent in crimson robes. Everyone remained standing until he had seated himself
. He leaned forward to exchange a few words with the notary sitting just below and in front of him, and then declared the court in session.
Kemp had been admitted to the chamber and was allowed to sit on one of the benches immediately behind Sigglesthorne. The serjeant-at-law had given him strict instructions that as an observer he was to say nothing and hold his peace throughout the proceedings; but since the tribunal was conducted in Latin, Kemp soon lost interest. He pulled up his cowl and bowed his head as if lost in thought, but his snores soon betrayed him. At a command from the presiding cardinal, the usher tapped him on the shoulder and requested him to leave. Quite unabashed, Kemp walked out of the chamber, and sat down on a stone bench in the courtyard outside. Presently he was fast asleep once more.
* * *
Count Niccolino del Fiesco had not joined Kemp and the two attorneys for breakfast and was still asleep when his major-domo knocked on the door of his bedchamber at noon. ‘Come in.’
The major-domo entered the room and crossed to the bed, holding out a sealed envelope. ‘Forgive me for disturbing you, Signor il Conte, but a messenger just called at the servant’s entrance and asked that this be delivered to you. I thought it unusual enough to bring it to your attention without delay.’
‘You did right, Benedetto.’ The count took the envelope and turned it over in his hands. The wax seal was plain, and the envelope bore no address. He shrugged, and broke open the seal, peering blearily at the brief note scrawled within.
‘Shall I open the shutters, Signor?’
The count nodded, and immediately regretted it. He considered himself a hearty drinker, but even he had to acknowledge that he had been outclassed by Kemp and Sigglesthorne. He winced as the major-domo threw back the shutters, allowing harsh sunlight to invade his skull.
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