Amerigo de Pavia turned from the window in his chamber which overlooked the harbour of Calais to face Sigglesthorne. The Lombard was sweating profusely despite the cold December air. ‘I believe you, Master Sigglesthorne. But I must know more. How did you come by this information?’
Sigglesthorne shook his head. ‘I promised not to say. The men concerned are loyal agents of King Edward. I cannot compromise them by revealing their names.’
De Pavia smiled. ‘You can tell me. I too am a loyal servant of his Majesty.’
Sigglesthorne opened his mouth and then shut it again. ‘Who they are does not matter. I did not even see the contents of the letter for myself, but it does not matter; I have had confirmation from the lips of de Chargny himself.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He took me prisoner at an inn a few miles to the south of Paris. When his men searched my saddlebags and found the letter, de Chargny asked me what I knew of his plan to recapture Calais. Up until that moment I had not even known there was a plan.’
‘You do not have details of the plan? A date? A time? A method of attack?’
‘Is it not enough we know such a plan exists? You can reinforce the garrison here and send out scouts to monitor changes in troop concentrations and spies to keep a close eye on de Chargny’s activities.’
De Pavia shook his head. ‘Sir Geoffroi is a knight who is well-respected on both sides of the Channel for his sense of honour and chivalry. I confess I find it hard to believe he would stoop to such underhand tactics as stealth and truce-breaking…’
‘And torture,’ put in Sigglesthorne, whose ribs were still bruised from his subjection to the torture of peine forte et dure. ‘The damned rogue tortured me!’
‘Are you sure it truly was Sir Geoffroi de Chargny and not some impostor?’
The Lombard’s performance was so convincing Sigglesthorne began to question the sense of his own words. He only had Kemp’s word for it that the knight was de Chargny. He shook his head. There was a plan to recapture Calais, and de Chargny was behind it; no other explanation made any sense. ‘It was de Chargny,’ he insisted.
‘Fighting men often make plans like this,’ de Pavia said dismissively. ‘They dream of winning some great victory that will win the war for their liege, and thereby gain great honour. This talk of recapturing Calais is typical of such dreams. They never amount to anything. I’m certain it was nothing more than just talk.’
‘So you’re not going to do anything?’
‘Naturally I shall request more reinforcements from England at the earliest opportunity,’ said de Pavia. ‘And of course I shall send out scouts to monitor the movements of French troops in the Pas-de-Calais. But purely as a precaution, you understand. I’m quite sure all this talk of retaking Calais is nothing more than that: just talk. I’m most grateful to you for coming to me with this intelligence; I’m certain you thought you were doing your king a great service. But believe me, these things are taken care of by men who know what they’re doing. And please: don’t go around Calais telling people that the French are going to attack the town. We are trying to repopulate Calais with English citizens, and a story such as yours might scare people away. We need a civilian population to support the garrison, otherwise the town might fall to the French without the need for any plot.’
Sigglesthorne nodded. ‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘Of course I am, Master Sigglesthorne. You’ll see. And even if de Chargny does decide to attack in force, he’ll find the garrison is already a good deal stronger than it seems. In fact, it would amuse me to see him try such an assault.’ He walked Sigglesthorne to the door of the chamber.
‘I’m reassured to hear that,’ said Sigglesthorne.
‘My pleasure, Master Sigglesthorne. That is what I am here for: to defend Calais against the French. If you have any such concerns in the future, I don’t want you to have any hesitation in bringing them to my attention.’ De Pavia opened the door, and ordered the man-at-arms on guard outside to escort Sigglesthorne out of the castle.
As their footsteps echoed down the spiral staircase, de Pavia closed the door behind them, and wiped sweat from his brow with his sleeve. How the devil had that damned serjeant-at-law found out about de Chargny’s plan? De Pavia considered returning to England and telling the king of de Chargny’s plot himself; but if he betrayed de Chargny, he had no doubt that the French knight’s revenge would be swift and terrible. What should he do? Perhaps he should travel to Saint-Omer to consult de Chargny: he would know what to do.
He stood in the middle of his chamber for several moments, gnawing indecisively on the knuckle of an index finger. Finally he made up his mind. He opened the door and shouted for a servant.
‘Pack my bags,’ he ordered. ‘I’m going away for a day or two on important business.’
* * *
When Kemp regained consciousness he found himself lying in a huge four-poster bed with velvet drapes and silken sheets. It was such a contrast to the nightmarish horrors of the dungeon that for a moment his new surroundings seemed unreal.
He tried to sit up, and pain shot through his hips and shoulders. Ignoring it, he tossed aside the sheets and swung his legs out of the bed. The rattle of iron links should have warned him, but the chain attached to the collar around his neck brought him up painfully short before he understood its significance. He retched as the collar cut into his windpipe, and fell back across the bed.
‘God damn it!’ Sitting on the edge of the bed, he tugged at the chain. The other end was firmly bolted to the stone wall behind the head of the bed. He tried tugging it, but his sore and aching shoulders were not up to the task of pulling the bracket from the masonry. He glanced around the room. It was large, with tapestries hanging from the walls, glass windows, and rugs on the floor; the bedchamber of a nobleman.
He needed to relieve himself, and was about to do so over the rugs by the bed when a thought occurred to him. Peering under the bed, he found a pottery chamber-pot, and used that instead. He chuckled: here he was, a prisoner in France, and he was living in finer style than he had ever known in England.
The door opened and a young woman entered, her black hair hanging down across her forehead in two loose swathes from a centre parting and fastened at the back in a roll. Her long gown was of costly velvet with a gold lamé girdle and her fingers were adorned with jewelled rings. Her complexion, however, was the nut-brown of a peasant rather than the pale fairness of a noblewoman. Kemp hurriedly pushed the full chamber-pot back under the bed with his foot and sat down on the edge of the bed. He watched as she bent down to pick up a salver she had left outside the door, and carried it into the room.
‘Good day,’ she said, in French.
‘Where am I?’ he demanded. When she turned her brown eyes on him and shrugged helplessly, he realised he had spoken in English. He repeated his question in French.
‘My lord’s castle at Saint-Omer.’ She displayed no fear as she approached the bed, putting the salver down beside him. It held a wooden bowl full of some kind of pottage, some fresh bread, a spoon, and a cup of watered-down wine.
As she was about to move away, he seized her wrist. ‘Who is your lord?’ he demanded.
‘Sir Geoffroi de Chargny, the Sieur de Pierre-Perthuis, Montfort, Savoisy and Licey.’ A trace of fear flickered in her eyes, and Kemp could feel a tremor in her arm, but her voice was bold enough. ‘Please, let me go.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I do not know. He has gone to raise more troops.’
Troops to take part in the attack on Calais, Kemp had no doubt. ‘More troops?’ he asked. ‘How many are here already?’
‘I don’t know. Many. Very many. More than were garrisoned here during the war.’ She tugged her wrist free of his grip, jerking his arm at the shoulder and making him wince with pain. ‘Oh! I am sorry! Your poor arm!’ She bent over him, her breasts clearly outlined through the fabric of her gown. He pushed her away.
‘Why aren’t
you afraid of me?’ he demanded.
‘Why should I be?’ she retorted.
He rattled the chain attached to his collar. ‘This must tell you I am not a welcome or willing guest of your lord.’
‘You must forgive Sir Geoffroi. He sometimes seems to forget the war is over.’
Kemp shook his head. ‘The war isn’t over. It’s just a truce.’
She shrugged. ‘Eat your breakfast. The physician says you need to build your strength up.’
He stared at her in astonishment. ‘Physician?’
‘I had a physician called in when I had you brought out of the dungeons. They are not fit for human habitation. I know you English have little love for the French, but do not judge us all by men like Sir Geoffroi.’
‘Won’t he be angry when he finds me quartered up here?’
She shrugged again. ‘Perhaps. But Sir Geoffroi is never angry with me for long.’ She headed for the door.
‘Wait! Who are you?’
She smiled broadly, the corners of her eyes crinkling prettily. ‘I am called Typhaine.’
‘I’m…’
‘Martin Kemp, yes, I know.’
‘No chambermaid would be able to order me to be moved up here, yet you’re no noblewoman. In what way do you serve Sir Geoffroi?’
She hesitated by the open door and blushed, hanging her head. It was answer enough.
‘Doesn’t Madame de Chargny object?’ Kemp asked bluntly.
‘Madame died many years ago. Sir Geoffroi chooses me to… comfort him.’
‘You love him?’ Kemp found it impossible to imagine anyone loving de Chargny.
‘Love has nothing to do with it,’ she said bleakly, and closed the door behind her.
* * *
Outside, she paused facing the door for a moment. She was risking much by having Kemp put in the guest bedchamber. The other servants had obeyed her, fearing that a word from her in de Chargny’s ear could earn them a flogging. But what would de Chargny say when he returned and found his orders countermanded by a woman who was – at the end of the day – no more than a mere chambermaid? She might be his mistress, yet she had seen no sign of any love in him that might permit him to turn a blind eye to her caprice.
Damn de Chargny, she told herself. He had no love for anyone. Least of all for the poor Englishman whose screams of agony had echoed through the castle. She had always known her master was cold and unemotional; but was he really capable of such bestial cruelty as those screams suggested? The injuries visible on Kemp’s body when the physician examined him had seemed to confirm it.
She shook her head. No one deserved to be punished like that, not even an English spy. She knew that, regardless of whether or not de Chargny would approve, she was doing the Christian thing by trying to speed Kemp’s recovery.
She was making her way down the spiral staircase when Arnault emerged from a recessed doorway and seized her around the waist, pressing his lips against hers. Pushing him away in revulsion, she slapped him hard across the cheek. ‘How dare you? If Sir Geoffroi found out he’d have you flayed alive!’
‘Sir Geoffroi isn’t here, though, is he?’ leered Arnault.
‘No. But he will be back soon enough.’
‘Aye. I wonder how he’ll react when he finds out that you’ve had the Englishman lodged in the guest bedchamber. Why have you done that, I wonder? He is very handsome, isn’t he?’
Typhaine refused to give Arnault the satisfaction of a denial. ‘He’s a man, not a dog to be chained up and forced to live in his own excrement,’ she snorted in disgust.
‘He’s an Englishman. All Englishmen are dogs. You haven’t answered my question, Typhaine. Taken a shine to your pet Englishman, have you?’
‘I’ll justify myself to Sir Geoffroi, not his torturer,’ she snapped, turning away and descending the stairs.
* * *
Kemp was standing in a room that was strangely familiar yet curiously distorted, the posts of the four-poster bed defying all the laws of perspective, as were the walls and the ceiling. His hand gripped a sword, and it felt comfortable.
It was the bedchamber he was occupying at the castle at Saint-Omer.
Two large brown eyes peered at him over the edge of the bed.
‘Come out from behind there,’ he heard a voice order. It was his own. ‘Show yourself.’
She rose trembling to her feet, but it was not the woman of whom he normally dreamed. It was Typhaine. He walked around to the other side of the bed to face her. She shrank away, but he caught her around the waist, pulling her against him. She cried out, but he pressed his lips against hers, forcing his tongue between her clenched teeth.
She tried to push him away, but he grabbed the front of her dress and ripped it open. She gasped in horror and tried to break away, but he grabbed her by the arm and hauled her back, throwing her against the wall. He slapped her backhanded across the face, drawing blood from the corner of her mouth, then tore the rest of her clothes from her body and held her: one hand on her throat, the other fumbling with the hem of his tunic. He pushed his breech-cloth down over his hips, and was about to force himself into her when a voice screamed ‘NO!’
He recognised it as his own.
He was sitting bolt upright in bed, bathed in a cold sweat and gasping for breath. He felt slightly queasy.
The door opened, and Typhaine stood there in a long white nightdress. Her dark hair hung down to her shoulders, lustrous in the yellow glow of the single candle she held aloft. ‘I heard you cry out. Are you all right?’
‘It wasn’t me,’ he protested.
‘You had a nightmare.’
‘Yes,’ he admitted, embarrassed.
‘Of what did you dream?’
He hung his head. ‘The war.’
She nodded. ‘Sir Geoffroi has such dreams. I do not think he is the only one for whom the war is not yet over.’ She stood staring at him for a moment, but he refused to meet her gaze. Then he raised his head suddenly, and she found herself gazing into flint-blue eyes. In the candle-light, as he sat there naked but for the bed-sheets, chained by the neck to the wall, his eyes no longer seemed empty, but vulnerable and full of pain.
‘Perhaps if I fetch you some milk it will help you sleep?’ she suggested.
He grimaced. ‘I’d rather have a quart of ale.’ Only the strongest humming ale, drunk in huge quantities, could dim the memories that haunted his sleep.
She smiled. ‘I’ll fetch you some milk.’ She put down the candlestick on the chest at the foot of the bed and went out.
He sighed, rubbing his clammy forehead wearily. She meant well, he supposed. He turned his attention to the candlestick she had left behind. It was silver-plated, and its broad base would make it a handy weapon. He tried to reach it, to test its weight in his hands, but the chain brought him up a good two feet short.
Waiting for her to return, he studied one of the tapestries on the wall. The tapestries at Broughton Manor displayed the tales of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, which Kemp knew well, but he did not know the stories these tapestries depicted. In the dim glow of the candle he could make out twelve knights surrounded by dozens of black-faced moors in a narrow mountain pass, the knight at the centre of the tableau blowing on a horn as if his life depended on it.
Typhaine returned bearing a flagon and two wooden mazers on a tray, and put it down on the chest. She poured the contents of the flagon into the mazers, handing one to Kemp, keeping the other for herself. He drank the cool goat’s milk, and felt it soothe his stomach. Wiping his lips with his sleeve, he indicated the tapestry. ‘What tale is that? One from the Bible?’
‘Don’t you know the Song of Roland?’
He looked at her questioningly.
So she sat down on the edge of the bed and told him the tale of Roland and the Twelve Peers of Charlemagne, of Oliver and Bishop Turpin, of the sword Durandal and the horn Olivant. She told of how Charlemagne had led a crusade across the Pyrenees and inflicted much slaugh
ter upon the paynim armies of King Marsillus; how Roland, leading the rearguard back across the mountains, was ambushed by the moors; how he and his companions fought valiantly until they were all but overwhelmed, when Roland blew Olivant in desperation to summon Charlemagne to their rescue; how Charlemagne, hearing the horn’s blast, wanted to turn back, but was persuaded by the traitor Ganelon that Roland was merely hunting deer, so that Roland was left to his fate. ‘And that,’ she concluded, ‘is the tale of Roland.’
She turned and saw he was fast asleep, his chest rising and falling steadily. She did not wonder how long she had told the tale in vain, feeling only gladness that he seemed to be at peace, his sleep undisturbed by nightmares. She studied his face in the candle-light. He still looked a little brutish, she thought, but perhaps with a wash and a shave…
She shook her head, blew out the candle and quietly closed the door behind her.
* * *
‘I have grave tidings, Sir Thomas,’ said the king, when Holland had been ushered into his private chamber at the palace of Havering atte Bower shortly before Yuletide. ‘I consider myself a friend of yours, and as such wanted to be the one to break it to you. I have just received word from Upholland…’
‘My mother?’
‘You had already heard?’
Holland shook his head. ‘She has been ill for some time, your Majesty.’
‘God is merciful, Sir Thomas. She died peacefully in her bed.’
Holland nodded, his face impassive, but the king had not finished. ‘There is more. Not so grave, I am glad to say, but nevertheless it requires our joint attention. It concerns your brother, Sir Otho…’
Holland closed his eyes as if in pain. Bad news usually did concern his brother Otho.
‘As you know, when I entrusted the Count of Eu to the custody of Sir Otho, I imposed only two conditions: that the count should not be allowed to bear arms publicly and that he should not be allowed to leave England.’
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