Nicholas gave him another five gold coins, almost emptying his brother’s purse; he only held back a couple of coins to cover the expenses he would incur if he was to feed his brother for the next few days. He certainly had no intention of allowing Martin to stay any longer than was absolutely necessary.
The surgeon bowed away, and then turned and descended the narrow wooden staircase that led up to Nicholas’s garret.
Nicholas returned inside the cramped room. Kemp was sitting up in the large bed which Nicholas had had to share with two roommates until the pestilence carried them off; God’s punishment for their sinfulness, Nicholas had no doubt. A tiny dormer window of translucent waxed parchment let in more cold than light, and there was no fire in the grate. A single table was piled with books.
It was an awkward moment. Neither of them knew what to say; they had detested one another as children, and they had hardly parted on the best of terms. Kemp had been in gaol, awaiting execution for a rape and murder of which he was innocent, and Nicholas had refused to listen to his protestations, sneering that his brother was at last receiving his just deserts.
‘You heard about mother?’ Nicholas asked at last.
Kemp nodded. ‘And Simkin, Thomas Croft and the others. I visited the village last autumn.’
‘And where were you at the time?’ snorted Nicholas. ‘You become a soldier, and yet the one time you could have turned your evil ways to good use, you are not there. Instead you chose to spend a year in London to escape your villeinage.’
‘Hold your God-damned tongue!’ snarled Kemp. ‘Don’t you think I haven’t thought of that? Don’t you think I haven’t lain awake at nights tortured by such thoughts? Even if I had been there, do you think things would have been any different? I’d’ve just been killed along with Croft and the others.’
Nicholas scowled. ‘Perhaps it would have been no more than you deserved.’
‘I never even knew of that lady I was supposed to have raped and murdered, Nicholay.’
‘Perhaps not,’ allowed Nicholas. ‘But how many wicked deeds did you perform for the King of England during the war? And look at you now.’ He gestured at Kemp’s bandaged thigh. ‘How came you to this pass?’
Kemp rubbed his temples wearily. ‘I’m working for Sir Thomas Holland now. I was sent to act as a bodyguard for a serjeant-at-law who was travelling to the Papal Court at Avignon …’
‘You’ve been to the Papal Court?’ asked Nicholas. To him, Avignon remained the seat of Christianity, a holy place of holy men, the well-spring of the Church which he loved; the closest thing to heaven on earth. That his impious brother should have been privileged enough to visit the city filled him with jealousy and resentment.
Kemp nodded. ‘On our way back we were attacked by a French knight called Sir Geoffroi de Chargny. He’s plotting to take Calais back for France. We have to warn the king…’
Nicholas frowned. ‘King Philip?’
Kemp stared at his brother in astonishment. ‘King Edward!’
‘What for? Calais is a French town. Let the French have it.’
‘But when the war breaks out afresh, we’ll need Calais as a bridgehead from which to strike at Paris…’
Nicholas shook his head. ‘Martin, can’t you see King Edward’s war is wrong? He has no claim on the throne of France. The French succession is governed by Salic Law – it cannot pass through a female line.’
‘No loyal Englishman would say such things, Nicholay,’ growled Kemp. ‘Certainly no brother of mine would say such things.’
‘And how do you think I feel, that my brother has become a man of war, plying the trade of violence? There is supposed to be a truce between our kings, and yet here you are with a crossbow wound in your leg, making war on some French nobleman…’
‘If anyone’s making war, it’s de Chargny,’ protested Kemp. ‘And what do you mean, “our” kings? Valois is no king of mine.’
Nicholas sighed. ‘I can see we are never going to agree on this matter, so there is little point to our argument. Have you eaten recently?’
‘Not since yesterday morn.’
‘I had best get us some food.’
Kemp reached for the purse at his belt. ‘You’d better let me…’ he began, and then saw it sagging emptily in Nicholas’s hand. Blushing, Nicholas stumbled out of the room.
* * *
Kemp listened to his brother’s feet clumping down the wooden staircase, and then laid his head back on the pillow with a sigh, closing his eyes. He had had no sleep the previous night, and was half-fainting from loss of blood by the time he reached Paris at dawn. He had entered the city from the south, which chanced to place him in the University quarter. There he had found a bookseller setting up his stall on the Grande Rue Saint-Jacques, and asked for directions to the Sorbonne College.
Even as sleep began to creep over him, he was planning his next move. Sigglesthorne was probably riding towards Calais already but, with de Chargny searching for him, there was no guarantee that he would be able to warn the English in time. Kemp still felt it was his duty to do everything in his power to warn the king. He had overheard the surgeon telling Nicholas he was not to be allowed out of bed for a few days; well, he would see about that.
How long he slept he did not know but he was awoken before he was ready when the door suddenly crashed open. He opened his eyes and watched groggily as two men squeezed into the room. Men-at-arms, their swords drawn. Kemp reached for his own sword, propped up beside the bed, but one of the men-at-arms kicked it beyond his reach while the other levelled the point of his blade at Kemp’s throat.
‘Don’t move, Englishman, or you’ll die where you lie!’
A pale-faced Nicholas entered the room next, and Kemp stared at him. ‘Nicholay? What’s going on?’
‘I’m sorry, Martin, but I had to do it.’ Nicholas stepped aside to allow the next man to enter.
Sir Geoffroi de Chargny ducked his head as he crossed over the threshold, followed by Guilbert. There was a faint smile of triumph on de Chargny’s face.
Kemp stared first at his foe and then at Nicholas. Suddenly it all became clear. He had been betrayed by his own brother.
‘You lousy God-damned treacherous bastard!’ he shouted, launching himself from the bed, his hands reaching for Nicholas’s throat. Guilbert interposed himself, lifting his knee into Kemp’s stomach and bringing a fist down against the back of his head. Kemp’s left shoulder hit the floor, his feet still entangled in the bedclothes, and a spasm of pain shot from the wound in his thigh as his leg twisted against the edge of the bed. He saw Guilbert’s foot swinging towards his head, bright lights flashed inside his skull, and he was engulfed by thick darkness.
Chapter Fourteen
Typhaine was drawing water from the well in the courtyard of the castle at Saint-Omer when she heard a cry from the other side of the castle walls and hoofbeats echoing against the beams of the lowered drawbridge. She glanced up in time to see the twin portcullises being raised and watched de Chargny ride through with Guilbert and Arnault. The last of the three pulled a fourth horse behind him with something slung across its back. The men reined in in the middle of the courtyard and dismounted, Guilbert leading his own horse and his master’s across to the stables.
Typhaine realised with a shock that the object slung across the back of the fourth horse was a man. She ran over to examine him. ‘Sir Geoffroi! Is he dead?’
‘Get away from there!’ snapped Arnault, seeing her raise Kemp’s head.
‘Arnault!’ De Chargny strode to where the man-at-arms stood, and slapped him back-handed. ‘You will not address Typhaine in such a rude manner.’
Flushing, Arnault raised a hand to his stinging cheek. ‘Aye, my lord,’ he said, turning away so the knight would not see his scowl.
Everyone in the castle knew Typhaine had become de Chargny’s mistress – her new accommodation in a garret in the keep was tacit acknowledgement of the fact – and, while no one would have dared to admit the f
act in the knight’s presence, there was nonetheless a feeling she should be treated as the lady of the castle. Most accepted it, but a few, like Arnault, knowing of her humble origins, resented her peculiar status.
When he was in residence at the castle, de Chargny visited Typhaine with mechanical regularity, once a week. If she did not gain pleasure from it, nor did she suffer physical pain; but each time he was as indifferent to her as he had been the first time. She knew he did not see her as a person, but as an object – he lavished more affection on his hawks – and for that reason she had begun to dread his visits, knowing they would leave her feeling diminished and worthless.
De Chargny crossed to where Typhaine stood, trying to revive Kemp with cold water. ‘Come away from him,’ he said. ‘He is dangerous.’
She looked first at de Chargny, and then back at Kemp, studying his dirty and unshaven features, pale beneath the grime. He reminded her of one of a troop of English men-at-arms who had occupied her village in Brittany when she was twelve, in the early months of the Breton Civil War. The English soldier had terrified her at first, but then he won her over by carving her a doll out of chunks of wood, cunningly interlocking the pieces so the limbs were articulated. Since she left Brittany with her husband she had heard people talk of the English as if they were devils, with cloven hooves for feet, and tails, but she knew they were ordinary humans.
She tried not to smile. ‘Dangerous?’
He nodded. ‘He is an English spy.’
‘I thought the war was over.’
‘Until it starts again. In the meantime, King Edward’s spies would dearly love to learn our secrets.’ He turned to Guilbert, who was emerging from the stables, and indicated Kemp. ‘Put him in the dungeon.’
Typhaine watched as Guilbert and Arnault hauled the Englishman off the horse’s back, each taking an arm and dragging him across to the keep. He was starting to revive now and was trying to support himself, although from the way he hobbled it was clear he was hurt.
‘He’s wounded!’
‘Save your pity,’ de Chargny told her coldly. ‘He killed seven of my men.’
* * *
Ten days later de Chargny and Sir Oudard de Renty stepped out on to the battlements of the castle and gazed over the rooftops of Saint-Omer to the market place, where Sir Eustache de Ribeaumont was marshalling the troops they were assembling for the attack on Calais. ‘How many?’ asked de Chargny.
‘Eighty knights, five hundred men-at-arms and twenty-three hundred foot-soldiers,’ replied de Renty. ‘Sir Robert de Fiennes should be here before the week is out with another twenty knights, one hundred men-at-arms and seven hundred foot-soldiers.’ He gave de Chargny a sidelong glance. ‘Do you think it will be enough?’
‘Against the garrison of Calais?’ De Chargny’s face twisted into a sneer of contempt. ‘We have enough men to take the town by storm, let alone by stealth with de Pavia to open the gates for us.’
‘Supposing the English reinforce the garrison between now and New Year’s Eve?’
‘Why should they? The truce has been extended until well into next year. They are not expecting any trouble.’
‘Supposing Sigglesthorne tells them of our plans?’
‘Sigglesthorne knows nothing,’ asserted de Chargny.
‘We do not know that for certain.’
De Chargny shrugged. ‘Then we shall find out.’
The two men made their way into the great hall of the castle, where de Chargny ordered a page to pour them both a goblet of wine. ‘Tell Arnault to prepare the prisoner for questioning,’ he added. The page nodded, and bowed out of the hall.
A few minutes later de Chargny and de Renty, attended by Guilbert, walked down to the dungeons in the cellars of the keep. The dungeons were illuminated by burning brands set in wall brackets which gave off a noxious smoke. Arnault was already waiting for them and gestured to where Kemp stood with his hands bound behind his back. He was ragged and filthy from his incarceration, with two weeks’ growth of beard on his chin. Despite the odds, the wound in his thigh had almost healed, leaving only an ugly scar.
‘Master Kemp is a good deal stronger than Sigglesthorne,’ de Chargny observed. ‘But I doubt we will be interrupted here, as we were at the inn.’ He crossed the room to face Kemp. ‘I want you to tell me everything you know of our plans.’
‘I know naught of your plans,’ said Kemp.
‘Then why risk your life to ensure that Sigglesthorne got away?’ demanded de Chargny. ‘You must have felt that he had enough information to make it imperative that he get back to England. Exactly what did the two of you know?’
‘Nothing,’ insisted Kemp. ‘We were going to the Papal Court to plead there. We knew naught of any plans of yours.’
‘I find that hard to believe. You forget that I have already seen you acting as a spy for the English. Then an incriminating letter was found in Master Sigglesthorne’s saddlebags. Tell me, Kemp: who gave him that letter?’
‘I don’t know,’ Kemp said wearily.
De Chargny turned to Arnault. ‘Put him on the chevalet.’
The word meant nothing to Kemp. Arnault dragged him across to a stout wooden framework with a roller at either end. He untied Kemp’s wrists, and at once Kemp tried to hit him. But Arnault was expecting the attempt and dodged it easily, driving a fist into Kemp’s kidneys. Kemp sank to his knees with a gasp, and Arnault hauled him up by the hair, throwing him down across the framework. Two cords were attached to each roller, and Arnault tied the ends of these to Kemp’s wrists and ankles.
Now Kemp knew what they had in store for him. He had heard tales of how the Holy Inquisition extracted confessions of heresy from its victims by the use of devices like this, known in England as ‘the rack’.
Arnault inserted an iron bar in a hole at the end of one of the rollers, and began to pull on it. The two rollers moved together, interconnected by a series of ropes and pulleys, taking up the slack on the ropes binding Kemp. He felt the cords bite into his flesh, and grunted as his shoulders took the strain.
De Chargny looked down at him. ‘Let us take this one step at a time. What were you really doing in Avignon?’
‘I was there to protect Master Sigglesthorne.’
‘From whom?’
‘Brigands.’
‘Where did the letter come from?’
‘I don’t know anything about a letter.’
De Chargny nodded to Arnault, who hauled on the iron lever once more. The ropes cut into Kemp again, and his body was lifted clear of the beams. He cried out in pain, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead.
‘Where did the letter come from?’ repeated de Chargny.
‘I told you, I don’t know anything about any God-damned letter.’
At another nod from de Chargny, Arnault leant on the lever with all his weight. Kemp screamed at the excruciating pain. His arms and legs felt as though they were being torn from their sockets.
‘Where did the letter come from?’
‘Kiss the devil’s arse,’ he gasped.
Arnault pushed again. The agony was such that Kemp found himself sobbing.
‘Where did the letter come from?’ hissed de Chargny, holding his face close to Kemp’s.
Kemp spat in his face. The Frenchman straightened, fastidiously wiping the spittle from his face with a sleeve, and then nodded to Arnault once more. Arnault braced his feet and pulled the lever this time, hanging from it until Kemp’s arms and legs exploded with searing pain that made him scream. Finally the agony became so intense he fainted.
‘Throw a bucket of water over him,’ ordered de Chargny.
Arnault left the dungeon and fetched a pail of ice-cold water from the courtyard well. Returning, he tipped it all into Kemp’s face. Kemp awoke with a spasm, coughing and spluttering. De Chargny crouched over him so that he could murmur in his ear. ‘We’re not in any hurry, Kemp. We can keep this up until your arms are torn from your body, and then we can get to work on your legs. Now, whe
re did the letter come from?’
‘Kiss the devil’s arse, you God-damned whoreson!’
De Chargny backed away, turning to Guilbert. ‘Help him,’ he ordered.
Guilbert stood beside Arnault, and the two of them grasped the lever, hauling on it with all their might. Kemp stared across at the flickering flames of a firebrand that guttered fitfully in a wall-bracket, focusing all his attention on it, anything to block out the intense agony in his limbs. It was indescribable, driving everything else out of his mind, even his own name. Much more of this, and he was sure he would go mad.
‘I do have some idea of what you’re going through,’ said de Chargny, almost sounding sympathetic. ‘Imagine what it will be like, to have no arms?’ He smiled. ‘It might make it difficult for you to fend for yourself. You’ll no longer be able to use a bow or a sword. You’ll no longer be able to do anything except beg. You won’t even be able to feed yourself. Is it really worth it, just to defend the interests of your king?’
Kemp thought of Lowesby, reduced to begging on the streets of London by his crippling injury. ‘I’ve already told you everything I know,’ he sobbed.
Even de Renty was beginning to appear uncomfortable at this spectacle. ‘Perhaps he is telling the truth…’
De Chargny looked at him. ‘I don’t care,’ he said simply, before turning back to Arnault. ‘Continue.’
* * *
‘De Chargny is planning to recapture Calais, I tell you!’ insisted Sigglesthorne. ‘You have to reinforce the garrison, before it is too late!’
‘It took the king eleven months to take this town. What makes you think de Chargny can take it in one day?’
‘I don’t know. But de Chargny seems to think he can, and he’s no dreamer. One brave young man has already sacrificed his life so this intelligence may reach England. How many more will die when his sacrifice proves to have been in vain?’
Kemp Page 33