‘Where are the arrows coming from?’
‘Up ahead somewhere,’ replied another voice. ‘No more than thirty yards.’
‘How many of them are there?’ asked the first voice, bringing a smile to Kemp’s lips.
‘It’s only Kemp, you fool,’ de Chargny called. ‘He’s trying to keep us pinned down here, while Sigglesthorne gets away.’
Kemp had to fight the urge to call out that he was succeeding; he could not afford to give them any clues as to where he was hidden.
‘He isn’t shooting at the sound of our voices,’ called de Chargny. ‘He must be running out of arrows. Gerard! Come here.’
There was a rustle in the undergrowth, and a few fronds of bracken shivered. Kemp toyed with the idea of shooting into them, but with so few arrows left he could not risk using any unless he was sure of a kill. He could hear the muted sound of whispering from about thirty yards in front of him.
‘Kemp!’ De Chargny’s voice again, trying to draw him into revealing his location by responding. ‘I know you can hear me, Kemp!’
Kemp said nothing, his eyes constantly scanning the darkness for any hint of movement.
‘How long are you planning to keep us pinned down here, Kemp?’ persisted de Chargny.
As long as it takes, you God-damned whoreson, Kemp thought to himself.
‘We’ll get you sooner or later, Kemp. There are four of us, and only one of you. How many arrows have you got left? You must have used at least four back at the inn. How many did you have to start with? A dozen?’ De Chargny paused, listening to the silence of the woods. ‘We’ve got crossbows, Kemp, and no shortage of bolts. Who do you think is going to win?’ He paused again. ‘It doesn’t have to end with you dying, you know. You can surrender now with honour. You’ve given Master Sigglesthorne the headstart he needs. He’s probably in Paris by now. There’s no need for us all to spend the rest of the night here, no need for you to die. Throw your weapons into the road and show yourself. I promise you I’ll spare your life on my word of honour as a man of gentle birth.’
Kiss the devil’s arse, thought Kemp.
‘What is it you want, Kemp? Gold? I can give you gold. Glory, perhaps? There’s no glory to be won here. Do you really think that if you sacrifice your life here tonight any one will learn of it back in England? Is it really worth it? To die here, alone? Do you think your masters care whether or not you die? Of course not. They’re using you, Kemp. To them you’re just a means to an end…’
Kemp heard a twig snap a few feet to his right, and whirled around. Gerard stood there, loaded crossbow in hand. He had been advancing stealthily through the undergrowth, while Kemp had been distracted by de Chargny’s sibilant tones. As Kemp turned, Gerard spotted the movement and brought up his crossbow, loosing too soon. Kemp heard the distinct click and twang of the crossbow’s mechanism and, in almost the same instant, felt pain explode in his left thigh. Then the whole world was spinning, the ground rising up to meet him.
Gerard dropped his crossbow and drew a dagger from his belt. ‘I’ve got him!’
Falling on his back on a mossy bank, Kemp realised he still had his longbow in his left hand and an arrow nocked to the string. He pushed the bowstave towards Gerard and let fly. He could not draw properly while sprawled on his back but at such short range it was impossible to miss. The Frenchman gasped as the arrow entered his stomach and the dagger in his hand slipped out of numb fingers. Staring at the feathered shaft protruding from his stomach, he sank to his knees. Reaching out towards Kemp with a hand twisted into a claw, he fell forward onto his face, driving the arrowhead right through him so that it emerged from his back.
Silence fell over the forest.
‘Gerard?’ de Chargny called uncertainly.
Kemp wriggled over to the nearest tree and sat with his back to it while he examined the stunted shaft stuck in his own thigh. He explored the wound tentatively with his fingers and immediately regretted it, sinking his teeth deep into his own hand to stop himself from crying out with pain. The head of the bolt was barbed: if he tried to pull it out, half of the flesh and sinew in his thigh would come with it.
‘Kemp? Are you still there?’
Kemp glanced towards the road. Even from where he sat he could see the four horses clearly. A plan began to form in his mind.
‘Are you wounded, Kemp? I heard Gerard say he’d got you; and Gerard rarely makes mistakes.’
He made one tonight, thought Kemp, crawling over to where Gerard had dropped his crossbow, dragging his left leg behind him. He picked up the crossbow and then moved over to Gerard’s body to search for his quiver. After pulling out a fistful of bolts, he hauled himself back to the tree.
During the siege of Calais, Kemp had had plenty of opportunities to examine crossbows taken from Genoese captives and he was familiar with their mechanisms. He fixed the spanning-hook to his belt and placed his right foot in the stirrup, pushing the crossbow away from him so the string was drawn back until it caught on the ratchet of the loosing mechanism. Placing one of the bolts in the groove, he then carefully put the crossbow to one side, ready to use.
Next he picked up his bow and his two remaining arrows, and rose unsteadily to his feet, using the bole of the tree to support. He could barely put any weight on his left leg, which would not make shooting his longbow any easier, but he had to try. He nocked an arrow, took aim and let fly. The arrow sped home, plunging deep into the chest of one of the horses. It gave a ghastly, eldritch scream before falling. Kemp took a second arrow and shot another horse, fatally wounding it.
‘What’s he doing?’ asked one of the others; either Guilbert or Arnault, by a process of elimination.
‘Shooting the horses,’ said de Chargny. ‘He doesn’t want us to ride back for reinforcements.’
De Chargny was always so self-assured that it was a great relief to hear him misguess; to know that even he could make mistakes. Kemp pulled his bow-bag over his longbow and slung it across his back. Then he lowered himself to the ground, picked up the crossbow, and pushed himself back to his feet, fighting the pain of his wound every inch of the way. His leg was sticky with blood.
Only two horses stood in the lane now, Guilbert’s rouncy and de Chargny’s palfrey. Kemp aimed the crossbow at the rouncy and pulled the trigger. The rouncy seemed to stagger, retreat, and then keeled over as if drunk with a startled neigh.
Kemp had left de Chargny’s horse not because it was the finest beast there, and probably the fastest, but because it stood cropping the grass at the edge of the road only a few yards from where he leant against the tree. A couple of yards that might as well have been a couple of miles, considering the state Kemp’s leg was in. He took a deep breath, and propelled himself towards the horse.
It was the longest five yards Kemp ever had to cover in his entire life. Half-limping, half-hopping, he staggered out of the undergrowth and seized the palfrey’s bridle, moving around the side of it so its body was between him and where he guessed de Chargny, Guilbert and Arnault were hidden. With one hand on the pommel of the saddle to steady himself, he raised his right leg and thrust at the stirrup. His left leg almost gave way underneath him, and in his panic his right foot missed the stirrup. He saw Guilbert and Arnault emerge from the undergrowth about twenty-five yards down the road.
At last Kemp managed to get his foot into the stirrup. Arnault was holding a loaded crossbow, aiming at him. Guilbert had drawn his sword and was charging forwards. He swung his left leg over the horse’s rump, ignoring the excruciating pain. The movement was so agonising he felt himself swaying in the saddle, and struggled to maintain his slender grasp on consciousness.
Arnault loosed. Kemp felt the wind as the bolt whistled past his head, only inches away. He reached down and grabbed his left ankle with his hand, guiding it into the stirrup. Arnault was struggling to reload the crossbow. Guilbert was only ten yards away now. De Chargny emerged from the trees, shouting something incomprehensible.
With a final effo
rt, Kemp dug in his heels, gripping the reins tightly. The horse reared, threatening to throw him from the saddle, but Kemp was not ready to relinquish something he had gained with such difficulty. Guilbert drew level, swinging his arm back to slash with his sword at Kemp. Then the horse bounded forward, breaking at once into a gallop. Guilbert’s stroke went wide and he almost over-balanced. Arnault finally succeeded in loading another bolt in his crossbow but Kemp was already more than fifty yards away and the shot came nowhere near him. Both horse and rider disappeared northwards, fading into the darkness, leaving only the sound of hoofbeats in their wake.
Arnault threw down his crossbow, swearing. Guilbert rammed his sword back into its scabbard with a grunt of frustration.
Walking down the road to join them, de Chargny glanced towards Gerard’s body, which lay partly hidden amongst the bracken, and to Guy’s corpse sprawled along with the four dead or dying horses. The three of them would have to walk back to the inn, where they had left the rest of the horses.
‘It seems I severely underestimated that young man,’ de Chargny observed. It was not a mistake he intended to make again.
* * *
‘Master Kemp, perhaps you can enlighten us as to whether or not Aquinas’s error in failing to recognise the inherent contradictions between reason and revelation are reflected in his commentary on Peter Lombard’s Book of Sentences, with particular reference to Abelard’s Sic et Non and his question “Is faith based upon reason”?’
Glancing up from his lectern at the front of a cold lecture hall illuminated by only two candles, Jean de Savoisy, Doctor of Sacred Theology, smiled at his most promising pupil, a young graduate of Oxford University whose scholarship had so impressed a wealthy local clergyman that he had been granted a bursary to help him overcome the fact that he was too poor to pay for his own further education.
Nicholas Kemp rose from his stool, ignoring whispers of ‘lecturer’s lap-dog’ and ‘English pig’ from his classmates, and began to answer the question in a voice which, though high and reedy, had all the confidence of erudite scholarship behind it. He was precocious even by the standards of his own classmates, begging, borrowing and occasionally even stealing books from his tutors and lecturers to feed his voracious appetite for learning.
Dark-haired like his elder brother Michael, Nicholas shared his younger brother’s height but lacked his breadth of shoulder. His face was pale from too much time spent in libraries or in his own chamber, reading. As a child he had never enjoyed fresh air, and any attempts to introduce him to it usually resulted in him catching a cold.
Nicholas had been the runt of the brood. His parents had always been surprised that, unlike his two sisters, he had survived his first year of life. It had always been obvious he would never make a good farmer: he was too much of a weakling and too much of a dreamer. An over-protective mother – still crushed by the death of her second daughter – had persuaded his father to let him go to the local almonry school. Nicholas might be a poor prospect as a farmer, but at least if he gained an education he might be able to supplement the family’s meagre income by going into some lettered profession.
At the end of the seminar the students filed out of the hall, paying the lecturer for the education they had received that day. Only Nicholas did not have to pay, because his fees were covered by his bursary. To his fellow students it seemed as if he was receiving his education for free. He often pointed out to them that, if they did not spend so much of their money on wine and women, paying for education would be less of a drain on their finances. But they laughed in his face and replied that it was education that was interfering with their debauchery and not vice versa.
Nicholas lingered until all the others had left the hall before he approached de Savoisy and handed him a parcel wrapped in muslin. ‘Thank you for today’s lesson, Doctor de Savoisy,’ he said with a bow.
De Savoisy unwrapped the parcel and found it contained a plucked capon. ‘Why, that’s very generous of you, Nicholas. Are you certain you can afford such a splendid gift?’
Nicholas nodded. His bursary included a board and lodging allowance that would have fed a hearty eater, and Nicholas was a long way from being that. This enabled him to save up enough money to purchase gifts for his tutors and, occasionally, theological text books. ‘Did you read my essay “In praise of the flagellants”?’
De Savoisy’s face grew dark. ‘I burned it,’ he told Nicholas. ‘For your own good. And you will be wise never to mention it again, nor to repeat the opinions expressed within it.’
Nicholas was hurt. ‘But why? What was wrong with it?’ He had thought it his best piece of work so far, well-thought-out and drawing on a wealth of scriptural authority.
‘There was nothing wrong with it,’ admitted de Savoisy, as the two of them left the lecture hall and began to cross the courtyard. ‘Except that it contradicted the University’s call for the suppression of those masters of error. Did you not know that Pope Clement himself has now come out and condemned the flagellants for their heresy?’
‘I had heard there were criticisms of the sect, Doctor, but I thought…’
‘Sometimes it it best to keep one’s thoughts to oneself. It was a good essay, Nicholas, and well-argued, I’ll grant you that; but the flagellants have been condemned as subversive to the authority of the Church. Even King Philip himself has now forbidden public flagellation on pain of death. If the views you expressed in your essay were to become public knowledge, it would mean an end to your hopes of a career in the Church; perhaps even a trial on charges of heresy.’ Nicholas blanched. ‘I suggest you learn to keep abreast of current theological opinion as well as those ancient texts you so frequently bury your nose in.’
Nicholas hung his head. ‘I have been foolish, Doctor. Please forgive me for my error.’
De Savoisy smiled. ‘Not foolish. Rather let us say you were – careless. Now, we’ll say no more about it. You’ve a promising career ahead of you, unless I’m very much mistaken. One day you may even become an abbot, provided you can find some noble sponsor.’
‘But how can I do that? I am but a pauper of humble origins, from a country where the Papacy is held in contempt and ridicule.’
‘God will provide a way, so long as your faith in Him is strong. Remember: greater men than you were born in humbler circumstances,’ he added. ‘As for your native land; well, no one can help where they are born. I think people will learn to judge you by where you decide your allegiances lie, rather than the accident of your birth, if you understand me.’
They took their leave of one another, and Nicholas was heading in the direction of his garret when the college gatekeeper approached, calling his name. ‘Master Kemp! There’s someone to see you.’
‘Someone to see me?’ Nicholas replied in bewilderment. In the sixteen months he had lived in Paris, no one had ever come to see him. He knew no one in the city apart from his tutors and his fellow students. ‘Who is it?’
‘A young man, sir. An Englishman, I think. He seemed to be ill.’
‘The pestilence?’
The gatekeeper shook his head. ‘I do not think so.’
‘His name?’
‘He would not say.’
Nicholas followed the gatekeeper back to the college entrance, overlooking the Rue Saint Victor in the University quarter on the south bank of the Seine. The man who waited for him was leaning against one of the pillars that supported the gates as if he were too weak to support himself. He was tall, dressed in a black cloak, the cowl raised against the chill November air.
‘That’s him, Master Kemp.’
The man turned and glanced up at the mention of the name. Nicholas did not immediately recognise the pale and haggard face that stared at him out of the cowl; it had been three and a half years since he last saw it, and those years had not been kind. ‘You wish to see me?’ he asked coldly.
The face bared its teeth at him in a savage grin. ‘Hullo, Nicholay,’ said his younger brother, and then he colla
psed as his left leg gave way beneath him once more.
* * *
‘I’ve removed the bolt, applied some sang d’amour and bound it up with fresh bandages,’ said the surgeon, as he left Nicholas’s garret. ‘He should be all right.’
‘What’s sang d’amour?’ asked Nicholas.
‘The blood of a maiden of twenty taken at the full moon in Virgo, mixed with myrrh, aloes, dragon’s blood and powder of alkanet, boiled up with olive oil,’ the surgeon explained, adding with a leer: ‘I had to use red powder as a substitute for maiden’s blood, of course, maidens of twenty being rather hard to come by these days.’
Nicholas wrinkled his nose in distaste at the jest. ‘Will he be able to walk again?’
‘Oh, yes. The bolt went through the fleshy part of his thigh, and should heal nicely, so long as it is rested.’ The surgeon peered at where someone had daubed the words ‘Cochon Anglais’ on Nicholas’s door, and frowned. ‘Don’t let him out of bed for a few days, and tell him to take it easy for a couple of weeks. There’s always a risk the wound may go bad, in which case you should call me immediately and I’ll come round and bleed him. But don’t worry. Your friend is strong: he’ll survive.’
Nicholas grimaced. ‘The last time I saw him he was in a cell waiting to be hanged; the last thing I heard, he was dead of the pestilence. Surviving seems to be something of a talent of his.’
The surgeon nodded absently. Mention of the pestilence always embarrassed him, for he knew no cure for it. ‘That’ll be fifteen moutons, please.’
Nicholas had already taken the precaution of looking after his brother’s purse while the surgeon examined his leg, and now he took fifteen gold coins from it. ‘You, ah… you will be discreet about this, won’t you?’ he asked, wondering how long he could keep a man in his chamber with a crossbow wound a secret.
‘Discretion is the byword of my profession, Master Kemp. Physicians and surgeons are like the three wise monkeys; hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil. Of course, it couldn’t do you any harm to make sure of my silence…’
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