Snarling with frustration, Baudet threw down the two halves of his garrotte and drew a sword from the scabbard at his hip. Before Kemp was able even to straighten, Baudet had moved out of the first stall and trapped Kemp in the second with his horse and drew back his sword to thrust it into the archer’s stomach. Kemp reached up, unhooked his heavy saddle from where it hung from an overhead beam and hurled it at Baudet’s head. As Baudet stumbled under the weight of the blow, Kemp vaulted over the partition into the next stall and reached for the burning brand. But his assailant recovered swiftly and dodged around the end of the partition, lunging at Kemp with the sword and forcing him back into the corner of the stall, leaving the brand in its bracket.
A shovel for mucking out was propped against the rear wall of the next stall. Kemp reached over the partition and grabbed it. Baudet lunged at him again. Kemp twisted away, as the edge of the sword sliced through the fabric of his sleeve, drawing blood. He swung the shovel like a battleaxe, bringing it down on his attacker’s head with all his might. The shovel’s iron-edged rim smashed into Baudet’s skull, spattering Kemp with gore.
Kemp slumped down beside the man’s body. ‘It seems the war’s not over after all,’ he muttered, gingerly rubbing his Adam’s apple where the garrotte had chafed his flesh. Bewildered as to who the dead man was and why he should have tried to murder him, Kemp glanced at the corpse once more. Crimson and white: the livery of Sir Geoffroi de Chargny.
Ignoring the sting of the cut on his upper left arm, Kemp rose to his feet and hurried out of the stables. He was about to round the corner of the inn when he spotted another man in de Chargny’s livery waiting in front, keeping watch over a number of horses tied to the fence. Kemp drew back, then peered more cautiously around the corner.
The man continued to gaze up and down the road leading past the inn. There were ten horses, which made the current odds nine to one by Kemp’s reckoning. He withdrew his head and made his way back to the stables, where he saddled both his own horse and Sigglesthorne’s, led them out of the stable and fastened their bridles to a wooden tethering rail immediately outside. Next he thrust his arrows under his belt and took his longbow from its bag, tying on the bowstring.
The man was still on guard in front of the inn. Kemp nocked an arrow to his bow and took aim, letting fly. At that range it was an easy shot, even in the poor light, and the shaft took the man cleanly in the throat. He dropped without a sound. Murmuring soothingly to the horses, Kemp dragged the corpse out of sight, around the side of the inn. Then, crouching before one of the ground-floor windows at the front, he peered through the gap at the bottom of the shutters.
The room was illuminated by the fire that roared in the hearth and by a number of rush candles. De Chargny sat on a bench beside a table, his back to the wall, his long legs stretched in front of him, ankles crossed where they rested on a footstool. Sigglesthorne stood facing him in the centre of the room, his hands tied behind his back, flanked by two men-at-arms. Guilbert and two more men-at-arms also sat nearby, their swords drawn casually.
‘… told you, I was going to Avignon to plead at the Curial court on behalf of a client,’ Sigglesthorne was saying irritably, although it was clear he understood the danger he was in from the paleness of his usually sanguine hue.
‘So you keep saying.’ De Chargny’s tone was dismissive. ‘But how do I know you are not lying?’
Before Sigglesthorne could respond, another man-at-arms came running down the stairs, holding aloft an envelope. ‘Sir Geoffroi! I found this in one of the saddlebags upstairs.’ Crossing the room, he handed it to de Chargny.
The knight turned the envelope over in his hands. ‘No name on the front; no impression on the seal on the back,’ he observed, breaking open the seal.
‘That’s private correspondence!’ Sigglesthorne protested, but the knight ignored him as he unfolded the letter and read through it.
Finally de Chargny folded it once more and looked up at Sigglesthorne. ‘It seems that someone has betrayed me,’ he observed, rising to his feet. ‘Well, no matter.’ He crossed to the hearth, and tossed the letter into the flames. ‘No addressee and no signatory,’ he mused. ‘Someone was very careful. Who gave you that letter, Master Sigglesthorne, and how did they learn of my plot to recapture Calais?’
Sigglesthorne creased his brow. ‘What plot to recapture Calais?’
‘Please do not insult my intelligence, Master Sigglesthorne. Do you really expect me to believe you carried that letter for someone without knowing aught of its contents?’
Sigglesthorne sighed. ‘What you choose to believe is really no concern of mine.’
De Chargny moved closer to the serjeant-at-arms, holding his nose less than an inch from Sigglesthorne’s. ‘Oh, but it is, Master Sigglesthorne,’ he hissed. ‘Believe me, it is.’ He turned to one of his men. ‘Arnault! You know what to do.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Arnault crossed to the front door and opened it. Kemp froze but Arnault did not emerge. Instead he began sawing at the leather hinges. ‘Hold him down.’
Two of the men-at-arms kicked aside tables and stools, making a space in the middle of the rush-strewn floor. Then they grabbed Sigglesthorne and pinned him there on his back, his arms twisted beneath him.
‘See if you can find a cauldron, Gerard,’ ordered Arnault, and another man-at-arms stood up and disappeared into the kitchen. Arnault finished removing the door from its hinges and laid it on top of Sigglesthorne’s body, so that only his head showed at one end. There was terror in the serjeant-at-law’s eyes as he realised what they intended.
Gerard returned from the kitchen carrying a large cast-iron cauldron, and at Arnault’s direction he placed it on the door. Sigglesthorne gasped at its weight.
De Chargny looked down at the serjeant-at-law. ‘Uncomfortable, isn’t it?’ he remarked. ‘Please believe me, it will get a great deal more uncomfortable before Arnault has finished. He is something of an artist when it comes to inflicting pain. I advise you to save yourself from a great deal of discomfort by giving me some satisfactory answers to my questions.’
Sweat had broken out on Sigglesthorne’s brow. ‘I wouldn’t want to deprive Arnault of his pleasure,’ he managed to gasp.
De Chargny shrugged. ‘Continue,’ he told Arnault.
‘I saw a well at the back earlier,’ Arnault told Gerard, who nodded and disappeared through the back door, returning presently with a pail of water. He handed it to Arnault, who grinned as he slowly poured the water into the cauldron, which Gerard and the other man-at-arms held steady. When the pail was empty, Arnault went out to refill it.
‘Arnault will continue to pour water into the cauldron until your ribcage is crushed under the weight,’ explained de Chargny. ‘I’ve seen it happen, and I promise you it is not a sight to be relished. Who gave you the letter, Master Sigglesthorne?’ he continued, as Arnault returned. ‘To whom were you supposed to deliver it? King Edward himself, perhaps?’
‘Go… to… hell!’
De Chargny nodded to Arnault who began slowly to empty the pail into the cauldron once more. He turned to Guilbert. ‘What’s keeping Baudet?’
‘Louis, go and fetch Baudet,’ ordered the squire.
Another man-at-arms headed for the front doorway. Kemp pressed himself flat against the side of the inn. Louis emerged from the now doorless entrance and glanced across to the horses, frowning. ‘What the devil in hell?’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Where’s Renaud got to now?’
He began to walk towards the far corner of the inn. Kemp pulled another arrow from his belt, nocking it to his bow and taking careful aim, all in one smooth movement. The shaft struck Louis midway between the shoulder-blades, and he fell with little more than a grunt.
Kemp looped his bow over his head and shoulders and crossed to where Louis lay, dragging his corpse out of sight to lie by Renaud’s. Three down, seven to go, he told himself, but the odds were still stacked against him, and he had to act fast, before Sigglesthorne was crushed to
death.
A scream came from inside the inn as the weight of water in the cauldron became unbearable.
Kemp fetched his own horse and Sigglesthorne’s from behind the inn, tying their halters to the fence and untying the halters of the French soldiers’ mounts. They were too well trained to run away, but he slapped them on the flanks, hissing at them as loudly as he dared and chasing them a hundred yards or so down the road.
He climbed up on to the roof of the stables, overlooked by a window at the back of the inn on the upper floor. The window was shuttered, but the flickering light of a burning brand trickled out through the cracks. Bracing his feet on the sloping roof of the stables, Kemp peered through the crack.
A man was searching the room, his back to the window. Kemp unlooped his bow and took another arrow from his belt before breaking open the shutters. The noise alerted the man and he turned as Kemp was nocking the arrow. He opened his mouth to cry out in alarm but Kemp put an arrow in it, killing him instantly. Then he clambered through the window and recovered his sword belt, buckling it around his waist. After draping his saddlebags around his neck, he crept down the stairs, nocking another arrow to his bow. He could hear de Chargny’s voice, asking Sigglesthorne another question.
‘Anyone who moves is a dead man!’
Everyone turned in surprise to see Kemp standing there, his bow drawn ready to shoot.
‘Let him up,’ ordered Kemp, nodding to where Sigglesthorne lay.
‘I thought you said no one was to move,’ said one of the Frenchmen, grinning. Kemp shot him in the eye. The others stared at the man as he seemed to hang there, his head transfixed by the arrow, before toppling to the ground. Then they reached for their swords but Kemp had already taken a fresh arrow from his belt and nocked it with astounding swiftness.
‘Does anyone else want to play the jackass?’ he demanded.
‘Put down your weapon, Master Kemp,’ de Chargny said evenly. ‘You’ll never get away with this.’
‘Like I didn’t get away with it at Saint-Omer, you mean?’ asked Kemp. ‘Hold your tongue, de Chargny, else my next shaft has your name carved on it. Let him up and free his hands,’ he added to Arnault. ‘Now! Otherwise your master dies where he stands.’
Arnault glanced towards de Chargny, who gave a barely perceptible nod. Arnault, Gerard and the other two men-at-arms manhandled the cauldron to one side. Then they pulled the door off Sigglesthorne, helped him to his feet, and began to untie his hands.
Kemp suddenly turned his bow on Guilbert. ‘Try it, you whoreson!’ he snapped. ‘Just God-damned try it, I beg you!’ Much to his disappointment, Guilbert stopped reaching for the iron poker propped up beside the hearth.
Freed, Sigglesthorne rubbed chafed wrists, wincing at the pain in his arms where they had been twisted under his body. ‘Can you ride?’ asked Kemp. The serjeant-at-law nodded. ‘Our horses are tied up outside. Don’t wait for me.’ As Sigglesthorne hurried to the doorway, Kemp nodded towards the far corner of the room. ‘I want the rest of you to clasp your hands behind your heads and move into that corner. Bunch up nice and tight now, there’s plenty of room for all of you.’
Kemp circled around them towards the doorway, not turning his back on any of them for an instant or even relaxing his draw on his bow. He backed out of the doorway, shot one of the men – it was quicker than removing the arrow from the string – and ran across to where Sigglesthorne was mounting his palfrey, looping his bow across his shoulders. Unfastening his hackney’s halter, he swung himself into the saddle, and the two of them dug their heels into their horses’ flanks, galloping off up the road just as de Chargny and his men emerged from the inn.
Arnault, Gerard and the remaining man-at-arms were armed with crossbows, but it took them several seconds to span, cock and load their weapons, by which time Sigglesthorne and Kemp were already approaching the edge of the clearing. The three crossbowmen loosed bolts after them. Sigglesthorne’s palfrey stumbled, pitching the seijeant-at-law on to the road. The horse rolled over, and did not get up again, moaning eerily as it thrashed its legs in the air. Dazed, Sigglesthorne staggered to his feet while the three crossbowmen hurried to reload their weapons.
Conscious that Sigglesthorne was no longer alongside him, Kemp reined in his hackney and wheeled it, riding back to where the serjeant-at-law was stumbling down the road after him. He helped Sigglesthorne climb up behind him on the hackney, and they rode into the shadow of the trees.
‘What in hell was all that about?’ Kemp shouted over his shoulder.
‘De Chargny seemed to think we were following him, spying on his movements,’ replied Sigglesthorne, his arms wrapped about Kemp’s midriff as he hung on for dear life. ‘Then one of his men found a letter which the Count del Fiesco gave to me to give to some canon at Westminster. Something about de Chargny plotting to recapture Calais?’
There was no time for disbelief. ‘Someone has to warn the king,’ Kemp decided. ‘And with de Chargny and his men close behind us, neither of us is going to make it if we share a horse.’
‘It can’t be more than ten miles to Paris,’ said Sigglesthorne. ‘We can soon lose him in the streets of the city.’
Kemp shook his head. ‘We’ll never make it,’ he said, reining in the hackney. ‘De Chargny and his men will overtake us before we even get halfway.’ He swung one leg over the horse’s neck, and jumped down to the surface of the road. ‘One will stand a better chance if the other remains here to hold up de Chargny. You’ve a better chance of getting the king’s ear, and a better chance of being believed.’
‘What about you?’ asked Sigglesthorne, climbing forward over the cantle of the saddle and into its seat.
Kemp unlooped his bow. ‘I know what I’m doing. Go on, you’re wasting time!’ He slapped the horse’s rump with the horn of his bow. Sigglesthorne dug in his heels, and set off at a gallop once more.
Kemp hurried into the undergrowth at the roadside. He had not chosen this place to make a stand without thinking. Thick woods crowded on either side. If de Chargny was in pursuit – and Kemp did not doubt that he would be – he would have to come through here. Kemp stood where the bracken reached up to his shoulders, at a point where he could keep a fair stretch of the road covered. Even if de Chargny decided to go around the ambush rather than along the killing ground that Kemp hoped the road would soon become, he would find travelling through the woods at night such heavy going that Sigglesthorne could be sure of reaching the safety of Paris’s mazy streets long before de Chargny could catch him.
Bracing his back against the bole of the tree, he checked his arrows: six left. He planted five in the ground at his feet and nocked the sixth to his bow. By his reckoning there were still four men left with de Chargny, which did not give him much of a margin for error.
He did not have to wait long before he heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats. Peering through the gloom, he strained to catch sight of the horsemen. His eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness and the white patches on their livery showed up quite clearly despite an almost starless night.
They rode at a gallop. Kemp waited until they were a hundred yards away before loosing, aiming at one of the white patches. He did not stop to see if his arrow had found a target, but immediately nocked another. They were still coming on… no, there were only four mounted now. A dark shape lay in the road behind them, and one of the others was wheeling his horse.
‘Guy’s down!’
The other two reined in at a signal from de Chargny, halting less than twenty yards from where Kemp was concealed. Recognising de Chargny’s voice, Kemp took aim. De Chargny was the leader, and Kemp had always been taught to aim for the leader. The knight clapped a hand to his head and slid over sideways, falling from the saddle to land in the road.
‘Sir Geoffroi’s down!’
Kemp loosed again, this time hitting a horse which reared up with a whinny of agony, throwing its rider from the saddle.
‘It’s an ambush!’ De Chargny’s voice
was calm despite the tension and confusion. ‘Make for cover! Get out of sight!’
Those men still on horseback dismounted and ran for the trees on either side of the road, leaving their horses to fend for themselves. Kemp did not loose. He only had three arrows left now and, if de Chargny’s wound were not serious, then he had four men to deal with.
Kemp thought of the king, defending an ornamental bridge in that carefully choreographed passage-at-arms at Windsor Castle over eighteen months ago. This was a real passage-at-arms, one man defending a narrow defile against all comers, except here the losers would not walk away to enjoy a banquet with the victors later. People would talk of the king’s passage-at-arms at Windsor for years to come; but would anyone remember Kemp’s stand after he was dead? A single churl holding a road against five Frenchmen with his peasant’s weapon? There was no honour or glory here, just death waiting in the shadows of the forest. But Kemp had the consolation of knowing that if he could hold de Chargny and his men here long enough, Sigglesthorne might just get back to England in time to warn the king of the plot to take Calais. Was it worth it? He had to die some time and, regardless of whether or not he was ready to give his life for his king, the decision had been made.
All was still and quiet in the lane, apart from the five horses which moved about skittishly, sensing something was wrong. The one which Kemp had wounded lay down to die, its breath snorting raggedly between its lips. The cry of a whippoorwill sounded not far away.
‘Sir Geoffroi?’ The voice came suddenly out of the darkness, startling Kemp. The speaker was no more than twenty yards away. Kemp froze, hardly daring even to breathe. ‘Are you injured?’
‘I’m all right,’ replied de Chargny from further down the road. ‘Just scratched, that’s all.’
Kemp tried to use the sound of their voices to locate them but, like him, they were too well concealed in the undergrowth and shadows.
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