Holland sighed. His brother meant well, but he could be infuriatingly foolish at times. ‘Permit me to guess, sire. The count has been seen beyond the seas, bearing arms?’
‘Aye. As you are probably aware, your brother recently crossed the seas to Calais. He took the count with him, where he has been seen armed and at large. The count is an honourable man, and I do not believe it his intention to flee back to his own territory with his ransom unpaid. However, in allowing this to come about, your brother has failed to comply with my explicit commands, and I cannot allow such a transgression to go unpunished in some way. He must be brought to the bar of the King’s Bench to give an account of himself. I trust you understand this?’
‘I seek no special favours for Sir Otho because he is my brother, sire. He must learn to accept responsibility for his actions.’
‘On the other hand, I do not wish publicly to embarrass Sir Otho by sending the Marshal to arrest him. I’m sure he would be most grateful if you could call on him and suggest that he presents himself to the Chancellor to answer for his negligence, in which case I shall see to it he is treated with fitting leniency.’
It was the Eve of Saint Thomas the Apostle, the twentieth of December. Holland quickly calculated that he could leave for Calais and bring his brother and the count back in time for Christmas. ‘I shall set out on the morrow,’ he promised.
‘There is no urgency. It would please me if you could spend Christmas with us here at Havering. You can set out for Calais after the festivities.’
‘Your Majesty is too kind,’ said Holland. ‘However, I had hoped to spend Yuletide at Upholland with my eldest brother… we must bury our mother…’
The king shook his head firmly. ‘You will spend the Feast of Christmas here at Havering, and leave for Calais in time for the New Year.’ He made it sound like a command.
Holland bowed. ‘As your Majesty desires,’ he agreed, bewildered. He had used up a good deal of the king’s goodwill over his petition against Montague; and while he had got away with it so far, he was well aware that if he wished to get on at court it was time to start toeing the line a little more closely.
He was about to leave when the king called after him. ‘Wait, Sir Thomas. There is more news. Good news this time, I am glad to say, to temper your grief at your mother’s passing.’
‘Sire?’
‘Two days ago I received a messenger from the Bishop of Comacchio.’ The bishop was the Papal Nuncio in England. ‘To be brief, his Holiness Pope Clement has decreed your marriage to my cousin Joan was and still is a valid marital union, and that she is to be restored to you. Your marriage is to be solemnized properly in facie ecclesiae, of course,’ the king added with a smile.
‘Of course, your Majesty,’ gasped Holland.
‘I know I opposed your suit to the Papal Court, and I am always unhappy that a court ruled by a Frenchman should take precedence over my own royal authority; but I could never deny my cousin Joan anything, and you have done me good service, both in the past and, I hope, in the future.’ He crossed to the window and gestured for Holland to join him. In the garden below they could see the ladies of the court listen to a gestour reciting poetry. Joan was amongst them, her face pink from the cold, framed by the furred lining of her hood. ‘Go to her, Sir Thomas. She is yours.’
Grinning, Holland nodded. ‘Aye, sire.’ He almost ran to the door.
The king called out after him again. ‘Sir Thomas! Be sure you look after her, and treat her as one of royal blood should be treated.’
‘That I shall, sire.’
‘And your feud with Montague ends now, do you understand? If I should hear of any further quarrels between you, then you shall both be expelled from the Companionship of Saint George.’
‘I shall seek no further quarrel with my lord of Salisbury, sire; but I cannot guarantee he will not…’
‘Do not concern yourself about Montague, Sir Thomas. I shall speak to him.’
The king chuckled to himself as Holland left the room. He then turned to the window and watched Holland go into the garden and run to Joan. He picked her up and whirled her around. The other ladies of the court giggled, but Holland and Joan were oblivious to everything but each other.
‘Your Majesty?’
The king turned. An immensely fat priest stood in the doorway. The skin was so taut across his fleshy face it was impossible to guess his age, although his tonsured hair remained untouched by grey. His dark brown eyes were myopically watery. ‘Ah, Canon Reynard. Come in.’
The canon joined him by the window. ‘Well, sire?’
‘He seems pleased enough. As well he might be.’
The canon gestured dismissively. ‘He will go to Calais?’
‘Sir Thomas is loyal.’
‘Good,’ said the canon. ‘For we shall need every good man we can get.’
The king shook his head, chuckling at his chief spy-master’s words. ‘You worry too much, priest.’
‘One of us needs to,’ the canon replied sombrely.
* * *
Two servants brought a large wooden tub into the bedchamber where Kemp was imprisoned as he finished his breakfast one morning. They were followed by Typhaine and a scowling Arnault.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Kemp.
Typhaine smiled. ‘You stink, and your clothes are filthy,’ she explained. ‘You need to bathe.’
Kemp stared at the tub in horror. ‘Bathe?’
She nodded. ‘If you want me to keep bringing you breakfast, you will.’
It was the eve of Christmas, two weeks since Typhaine had first had Kemp moved to the bedchamber, and there was still no sign of de Chargny’s return. Despite the pampered lifestyle she was able to enjoy since becoming de Chargny’s mistress, Typhaine found she had time on her hands. Unable to read, she found de Chargny’s surprisingly large library of little use; she could do some embroidery, but that was not enough to occupy her. Kemp’s arrival at the castle had been a Godsend, a new diversion, for he was someone she could talk to and thus help while away the hours and days. Though he was not the most communicative person in the world, her persistent questioning had eventually paid off, and she began to draw more detailed answers from him.
She found everything he had to tell her fascinating. Although she was a little disappointed to find that England was not so very different from France, it pleased her to learn that it was not the country of barbarians de Chargny made it out to be. Only when she asked him about the war would he clam up, and she recognised that some experience in his past had wounded him deeply, something he chose not to relive. She was curious what the incident might have been; in a way, it made him even more interesting to her. In time, she told herself, he would bring himself to confide in her.
In return she told him about her own background: the village in Brittany where she had grown up, how she had fallen in love with Pierre when he stumbled into her village after the battle of Morlaix, badly wounded; and how in time he had married her, and brought her back to Saint-Omer. The only thing she did not tell him was how Pierre’s serjeant had tricked her into adultery. Why she kept this to herself she did not know, for when she spoke to Kemp she felt as if she could tell him anything. He listened to her attentively, without making fun of her opinions. No one had treated her with that much respect since Pierre had died. It occurred to her that he only feigned interest to win her confidence, or perhaps to seduce her; but would being seduced by him be such a bad thing, she wondered?
For his part, Kemp did not discourage her attentions as long as they seemed platonic. Although his experiences as a soldier had taught him how to cope with long periods of inactivity, he still longed for his freedom. He occupied his time planning his escape. He asked her questions in return: questions about France, about de Chargny, about herself, about Saint-Omer, about the countryside between Saint-Omer and Calais, about the striking force de Chargny was assembling in the town. She knew next to nothing of de Chargny’s plans, but what little she did k
now was enough for Kemp to deduce that the attack on Calais could not be many days away, and the striking force de Chargny was assembling was certainly large enough to carry out its task with ease, unless Calais were reinforced. He knew Sigglesthorne had had plenty of time to get back to England and warn the king, but had he succeeded? Kemp wanted to escape, to make sure the warning got through in case Sigglesthorne had failed. So he bided his time, building up his strength, practising his French with Typhaine, perfecting his escape plans and rehearsing them in his mind.
‘Can I trust you?’ asked Typhaine, as the two servants returned to the room to pour buckets of steaming water into the tub.
Kemp regarded her uncertainly. ‘Trust me?’
She nodded. ‘Not to try to escape. Will you give me your word of honour?’
He grimaced wryly. ‘I am a churl; I have no honour.’
‘I think you do,’ she replied. ‘Will you promise me?’
He hesitated. He had Typhaine to thank for the fact the past two weeks had been spent in relative comfort, and he had had a hearty diet to help him regain his strength. But if he did not try to escape now, would another opportunity arise?
‘I promise.’
She turned to Arnault. ‘Remove his collar.’
‘I must advise you against this, my lady.’ He spat the words ‘my lady’.
‘You heard him promise not to try to escape.’
‘An Englishman’s promise isn’t worth a fig.’
‘I think it is. I command you to remove the collar.’
‘I can’t be responsible for your safety if he is allowed to roam free,’ he said, producing a large bunch of keys from his belt.
‘I shall take full responsibility,’ she assured him.
‘I only hope you don’t have cause to regret it.’ Arnault glanced out of the narrow lancet window to make sure there was no escape that way – it was a forty-foot drop to the cobbled courtyard below – before using one of the smaller keys to release the padlock holding Kemp’s collar in place. He backed away, his drawn sword levelled at a sneering Kemp. ‘He’s dangerous, I warn you.’
She smiled. ‘Not to me. You may all leave now,’ she added, addressing not only Arnault but also the two servants, who had finished filling the tub.
‘I’ll be right outside,’ Arnault told her. ‘If he tries anything, just yell; he’ll be dead before either of you knows I’ve entered the room.’
Typhaine waited for Arnault to leave, then closed the door and slipped the bolt.
Kemp rubbed his neck where the iron collar had chafed it. ‘Are you sure that’s wise?’
‘I think so.’
‘Arnault’s right. I am dangerous. To you as much as anyone. Perhaps even more so.’
She shook her head. ‘Base-born you may be, but I think you have as much honour as de Chargny. More, perhaps. I do not think you would harm a woman.’ Her tone implied that de Chargny would.
‘You’re wrong,’ he told her darkly.
‘That’s a chance I am prepared to take,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you going to take your clothes off?’
He blushed. ‘My lady?’
‘You cannot bathe fully-dressed, and I have brought some clean clothes for you to wear when you have finished,’ she explained, gesturing to where a change of clothing was neatly folded on the chest at the end of the bed. ‘They belong to Geoffroi le fitz; you have the same build.’
He felt a sudden pang of jealousy. ‘Geoffroi le fitz?’
‘Sir Geoffroi’s son.’
‘Won’t he mind?’
She grinned impishly. ‘Little Geoffroi would do anything for me; he has said so enough times.’
He found her sense of mischief appealing, and returned her grin. It was the first time she had seen him smile, and in that moment she decided that he was handsome, no doubt about it.
Kemp toyed with the idea of asking her to turn away, but dismissed it as childish. He stripped off his clothes.
Six pale weals across his back spoke for themselves, a memento of a flogging, but Typhaine’s curiosity was aroused by an old wound in his left side. ‘How did you get that scar?’ she asked, pointing to it.
‘Someone once stabbed me there. I had it cauterised.’
She lowered her eyes.
‘And that one I got when one of your master’s henchmen shot me with a crossbow,’ he added.
She smiled. ‘I wasn’t looking at that.’
Blushing, Kemp lowered himself into the tub. Producing a razor, she sat down on a milking stool which she placed beside the tub. ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded nervously.
‘Now who’s scared? Don’t worry, I’m only going to shave you. You can’t think that beard suits you. Tilt your head back.’ She hacked away at his beard with a pair of scissors, and when she had got the worst of it off she covered his chin in soap and began to scrape away with the razor. ‘Hold still.’
Kemp’s heart beat faster as she scraped at the underside of his jaw, but it was not so much the proximity of the razor to his throat as her closeness to him. Then she moved behind him, standing over him while she shaved his upper lip. He felt her soft breasts touch the top of his head, and it was too much for him. As she took the razor away to clean it in the water, he seized her by the wrist.
‘I can do it,’ he told her. Something in his tone startled her, and for the first time she felt fear in his presence. She allowed him to take the razor from her hand. As he finished shaving, she moved across to the window and stared out through the grey glass.
‘Is there another?’
‘Another what?’ he asked, carefully scraping his cheek close to his left ear.
‘Another woman in your life.’
He nicked himself, the razor coming away with a single drop of blood amongst the white lather of the soap. ‘Hell’s teeth!’ he hissed. ‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘Then why do you spurn me? Do you find me less attractive than your English women?’
‘No.’ He put the razor down on the stool and glanced over his shoulder. She still stood with her back to him. Picking up a towel from the floor nearby, he placed it on the stool, on top of the razor. ‘If anything, quite the opposite,’ he admitted grudgingly. He ducked both head and shoulders beneath the water.
‘Then what?’ she asked, when he finally resurfaced and was working up a lather from the soap.
He thought about it. ‘You’re French. You’re the enemy.’ He began to wash his hair.
‘Firstly, I’m not French, I’m Breton. Secondly, that’s nonsense, and you know it to be so. But it has something to do with the war, doesn’t it? Something you won’t tell me?’
‘Yes.’ He finished washing his hair and started to soap down his torso.
‘Why won’t you tell me? I promise I’ll never tell another living soul.’
‘It’s you I don’t want to know.’
‘I’ll understand,’ she pleaded. He felt guilty about some dark deed in his past, that much she had guessed; but she too had a guilty secret, and knew all there was to know about shame. ‘I promise I will.’
Kemp had run out of excuses, so he ducked under the water again to rinse the soap from his body and hair. Then he stepped out of the tub and reached for another towel to dry himself with.
‘The war is over, Martin. It happened a long time ago. But until you accept that fact, you’ll always be at war. With yourself.’
‘Now you’re the one who’s talking nonsense. Anyhow, one day soon the war will start again, and I’ll be ready for it.’
‘Why live for war? Don’t you long for peace?’
He shook his head. ‘Peace is boring,’ he said dismissively.
She gazed at him in horror. ‘You’re right,’ she said bleakly. ‘You are dangerous.’
He began to dress: a white tunic of silk, a linen breech-cloth to which he fastened a pair of hose a dull-orange in colour. Over the tunic he put on a close-fitting cote-hardie of sherry-coloured velvet fastened down the front with large gold buttons.
A pair of soft leather shoes for his feet, and a long cloak with its edges dagged in leaf-shapes completed the outfit. He felt foolish dressed in such finery, but it might help him in an escape attempt if he appeared to strangers as a nobleman. ‘Don’t you think you should unlock the door now?’ he asked, buttoning the cloak at the right shoulder.
She nodded and crossed to the door, sliding the bolt back. He snatched the towel off the stool, seized the razor from underneath and, as Typhaine was opening the door, he grabbed her from behind, holding the razor to her throat. She went very still, and the door continued to swing open to reveal Arnault standing there. Seeing Kemp holding a razor to Typhaine’s throat, he reached for his sword.
‘I wouldn’t, if I were you,’ growled Kemp. ‘I doubt that your master would be pleased to come back and find his mistress’s throat had been slit.’
‘You broke your promise,’ whispered Typhaine.
‘Aye,’ Kemp replied. ‘Now we’re all going to make our way downstairs and out to the stables, where Arnault is going to saddle a horse for me. We’ll follow you, Arnault.’
Swearing under his breath, Arnault led the way down the spiral staircase. Kemp and Typhaine were close behind, Kemp keeping the razor’s edge close to her Adam’s apple. As they emerged into the great hall, de Chargny and his son entered through the main door, accompanied by Guilbert. Kemp’s heart sank.
De Chargny stared at Kemp and Typhaine in astonishment. ‘What in the devil’s name is going on here?’ he demanded.
‘I am just leaving,’ said Kemp. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, but I’m afraid that…’
‘You’re not going anywhere,’ snapped de Chargny. He turned to Arnault. ‘Well?’
‘Typhaine thought it would be a good idea to move Kemp out of his cell and into one of the bedchambers,’ explained Arnault.
‘It seems she is learning just how mistaken she was.’ De Chargny sounded amused. ‘Drop the razor, Kemp. I’ve just come back from a long, hard ride, and I’m too tired for this kind of nonsense.’
‘Stand aside, Sir Geoffroi, or, by the fire that burns, I’ll slit her throat,’ warned Kemp.
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