‘Go ahead, then. I’ve no more use for the foolish bitch. It’s no more than she deserves. I was growing bored with her anyway.’
‘Geoffroi!’ she screamed.
‘He’s bluffing,’ sneered Kemp.
De Chargny was smiling. ‘Am I?’
The hand that held the razor was trembling. The smug whoreson, thought Kemp. He had half a mind to call his bluff and open her throat. He had seen throats slit before, and at this range he knew the jet of blood could strike de Chargny in the face.
‘Please, Martin… whispered Typhaine.
He sighed, and tossed the razor aside, disgusted by his own weakness. Guilbert, who had been edging around the side of the hall, stepped out of the shadows behind Kemp, pulled him away from Typhaine, spun him around and drove a vicious punch into his stomach. Kemp sank to his knees, clutching his midriff in agony.
‘I knew you wouldn’t be able to kill a woman,’ sneered de Chargny. ‘You’re weak, like all your race.’
Kemp glared up at de Chargny, his eyes filled with hatred. ‘Aye, like we were weak at Crécy, you mean?’
De Chargny turned pale. ‘Guilbert! Show him who is weak and who is strong.’
Guilbert grinned. ‘Aye, Sir Geoffroi.’ He seized Kemp by the collar and hoisted him back onto his feet, driving his fist into Kemp’s stomach until Kemp retched with agony. Guilbert threw him to the rush-strewn floor, and was about to kick him in the stomach when de Chargny signalled for him to stop.
De Chargny crouched over him. ‘By the way, Kemp, I have some interesting news for you. Your friend Sigglesthorne made it as far as Calais, where he told the governor all about my plan to seize the town. What the two of you obviously did not realise was that my plan involved the governor’s complicity. He’s refused to grant Sigglesthorne a permit to sail back to England. So all your efforts to foil me have been for nothing.’ De Chargny straightened, and then drove his boot into Kemp’s head. Kemp lay still, his eyes closed. Typhaine screamed. De Chargny glanced at her and then turned to Guilbert. ‘Take him back to the dungeons.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Guilbert threw Kemp over his shoulder like a sack of grain, and carried him out of the hall.
* * *
A little later, de Chargny made his way up to Typhaine’s bedchamber, entering without knocking as was his habit; it was, after all, only her bedchamber because he allowed her to use it. She had thrown herself across the bed and was sobbing into her pillow. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and stroked her hair.
‘There, there, my child. There’s no need to cry. Now sit up and dry your eyes.’ He put an arm around her shoulders. ‘Arnault tells me that you have… certain feelings for this Englishman. Is it true?’
Sniffing, she nodded. ‘I know you say the English are all devils, but Martin is no devil. I think deep down he is kind and gentle, if only he would give himself half a chance.’
‘Do you love him?’ de Chargny asked.
‘Yes, my lord,’ she whispered.
He sighed, and rose to his feet, shaking his head at the folly of youth. Then he swung round and punched her in the face, throwing her back across the bed. ‘Traitorous bitch! Would you see all the work I have done in preparation for the capture of Calais undone?’
He reached across the bed and grabbed a fistful of her hair, dragging her towards him, and slapping her until the rings on his fingers had criss-crossed her face with lines of blood. He thumped her in the stomach, smashed his knee into her face, and threw her against the wall. He went on beating her until he had no more strength to go on. Mercifully, she lost consciousness sometime before he was finished.
* * *
Most of the mariners who found themselves loading barrels on board the Magdalen in Dover harbour on the evening of the Feast of Saint Thomas had never sailed with her master before, although they knew of him by reputation. It was customary for mariners to contract with a shipmaster for each trading venture rather than becoming permanent members of a ship’s crew.
‘The wind’s getting up,’ remarked one. ‘It’s going to be a rough crossing.
‘I don’t know why we have to sail at night anyway,’ grumbled another.
‘Why? Are you scared?’ jibed one of his companions.
‘Aye,’ he snarled. ‘Who but a damned fool wouldn’t be? No one with any sense sails at night, unless he has to. Surely whatever’s in these barrels can wait until the dawn tide?’
‘Depends what’s in the barrels,’ the first one said philosophically. ‘It’s not wine, that’s for sure.’
‘Belay that grumbling!’ snapped the ship’s constable, who was overseeing the loading of the cargo. ‘You’re all being paid well enough for this voyage, aren’t you?’
The master, wearing a dark grey cloak and an outlandish broad-brimmed hat of brown felt at a rakish angle, emerged from his cabin to discuss the worsening weather with the constable.
‘What sort of a man is the master, anyway?’ one of the mariners asked his companions in a low whisper.
‘Jack Curtis?’ The first mariner, a grizzled ancient who had sailed with Curtis several times before, paused to scratch his head. ‘He’s all right, on the whole. He’s a bit mysterious at times, like, but he’s all right.’
‘How do you mean, mysterious?’
‘Keeps himself to himself. Always brooding. And he’s always making unscheduled landings at foreign ports and stuff like that. Never a word of explanation. But he looks after his crewmen, you can be sure of that.’
A number of horsemen appeared on the quayside, the sound of their hooves alerting Curtis to their arrival. He took his leave of the constable, clapping him briefly on the upper arm and shouting a few instructions over his shoulder to him as he made his way up the gangplank to greet the newcomers.
The horsemen dismounted. Sir Walter Mauny had ridden at their head, accompanied by three other knights, including the Earl of Warwick’s brother, Sir John Beauchamp, and a dozen retainers. With them were two tall men, dressed in the brown habits of Austin friars, their faces hidden by deep cowls muffled against the chill December breezes that gusted up the Channel.
Curtis bowed to Mauny, who smiled. ‘Permission to come aboard, Master Curtis?’
‘Permission granted, Sir Walter.’
‘What’s the weather looking like?’
Curtis glanced out beyond the harbour mouth where white-capped waves showed in the moonlight. ‘Choppy, and it’ll get worse before it gets better.’
‘You think it dangerous? Perhaps we should tarry until tomorrow night?’
Curtis shrugged. ‘The sea is always dangerous. Tomorrow night it could be even worse. I’m prepared to risk it if you are.’
Mauny nodded. ‘You must allow me to consult my fellow passengers.’ He handed his horse’s bridle to Curtis, and then approached the two men dressed as friars, conversing with them in low tones. Watching, Curtis frowned. A man of Mauny’s status did not have to consult a couple of friars before making a decision such as this; but Mauny was a gentle knight in every sense, and it would be in character for him to take the safety of a couple of holy men into consideration. On the other hand, there was something odd about those two: they did not carry themselves like friars at all, but had the proud, erect bearing of noblemen.
Presently Mauny returned. ‘We cannot tarry any longer. We must take the risk and sail tonight.’
Curtis shrugged. ‘As you will, sir.’ Turning back to the ship, he ordered some of the more competent mariners to lead the men’s horses down the specially widened gangplank and into the stalls that had been built on deck. Mauny followed them down with the men-at-arms and the two friars. As the first of them passed Curtis at the top of the gangplank, the shipmaster could not resist peeking into the depths of his cowl.
Despite his relative youth, Curtis had lived an adventurous life, and was not easily surprised. But his jaw dropped when he saw the man’s face.
Seeing that Curtis had recognised him, the man smiled, raised a finger to his lip
s, and winked, before climbing down the gangplank followed by the friar. Curtis stared after them in astonishment, then shook his head. He had been paid handsomely to make this voyage without asking any questions, and that was exactly what he would do. Smiling as he remarked that the two friars were probably unused to the hardships of a rough sea crossing, he offered them the use of his cabin; he would be engaged on deck throughout the night crossing anyway. The two cowled figures thanked him, raising their hands in benediction.
‘Pax vobiscum,’ they said.
‘Et cum spirito tuo,’ replied Curtis. He opened the door for them with an elaborate bow, and they disappeared into the quarter deck below the aft castle.
Curtis turned to the constable. ‘Is all the cargo on board?’
‘Aye, Jack.’
‘Very well, then. Prepare to cast off.’
Presently the Magdalen sailed out of the harbour mouth with the wind on the starboard tack, crossing the Strait of Dover towards Calais.
* * *
De Chargny awoke full of excitement on the morning of New Year’s Eve. He forced himself to be calm, attending mass in the castle’s chapel with Geoffroi le fitz, de Ribeaumont, and Sir Robert de Fiennes. Afterwards, the four of them had breakfast in the great hall. They were almost finished by the time de Renty entered, bowing low.
‘What news from Calais, Sir Oudard?’ demanded de Chargny.
De Renty was smiling. ‘My spies tell me that there have been no attempts to reinforce the garrison. It seems the English remain quite oblivious to our intentions.’
‘And de Pavia?’
De Renty pursed his lips. ‘He’s scared.’
De Chargny nodded. ‘Scared of me, and rightly so. He’ll play his part.’ He turned to de Ribeaumont. ‘Order the men to cut their lances down to five feet. Any fighting that takes place will be in the streets of Calais itself, where fourteen-foot lances are apt to be unwieldy. Then have them form up into a column on the road to Calais.’
De Ribeaumont bowed, and left the hall. The knights loaded their armour on to packhorses for the journey to Calais. It would be a hard day’s ride. They would halt a few miles from the town so the men could eat and don their armour before the attack. De Chargny ordered Guilbert to go to the stables and saddle the horses and Geoffroi le fitz left the castle with de Renty, while de Chargny turned to Arnault. ‘You’re in charge here while I’m gone. I’ve taken all the guards; we’re going to need every man we can get to be certain of success. As soon as I’ve left you’re to raise the drawbridge and lower it to none but me or King Philip himself. Oh, and I’ve locked Typhaine in the guest bedchamber.’
Grinning, Arnault nodded. ‘Yes, Sir Geoffroi. God be with you, sir, and good luck.’
‘Thank you, Arnualt. If God is willing, tomorrow night we shall dine in the great hall of Calais castle with Sir Amerigo de Pavia.’ Buttoning his cloak at his right shoulder, he headed for the door, then paused on the threshold before turning back. ‘You have the keys of the castle?’
Arnault patted the large bunch of keys that hung from his belt. ‘Aye, my lord.’
De Chargny looked thoughtful. ‘Good. Kill Typhaine.’
‘My lord?’
‘You heard me, man. She is no longer to be trusted. Make it as slow and as painful as you like.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Arnault looked as though he could hardly believe his ears.
‘And dispose of Kemp while you’re at it,’ de Chargny added, as an afterthought. ‘Nothing fancy – he’s too dangerous to take chances with. No trying to prove yourself the better man. A crossbow bolt through the grille in his cell door should suffice.’
Chapter Fifteen
Arnault watched as de Chargny made his way down into the courtyard where Guilbert awaited him, holding the bridle of de Chargny’s massive black courser. The knight swung himself up into the saddle and took the foreshortened lance Guilbert handed up to him. Then Guilbert climbed into the saddle of his own rouncy, and the two of them rode out into the streets of Saint-Omer on their way to join Geoffroi le fitz, de Ribeaumont and de Renty at the head of the column slowly forming up on the road to Calais.
Arnault descended to the gatehouse and operated the mechanism to raise the drawbridge. Returning to the keep, he found de Chargny’s steward clearing up the debris of breakfast in the great hall. ‘Sir Geoffroi’s left me in charge,’ said Arnault, revelling in his new-found power.
The steward nodded. ‘Yes, he told me.’
‘Good. Go to the gatehouse and keep watch.’
Arnault watched from the entrance of the keep until the steward had entered the gatehouse. Then he locked the heavy oak door and ran up the spiral staircase to the upper level, taking the steps three at a time. He let himself into the guest bedchamber.
Typhaine was lying in bed, her eyes red-rimmed from crying, her face covered in scratches and ugly blue-black bruises. A pity she wasn’t looking her best, thought Arnault, but he would not let that spoil his fun. The sight of her dishevelled state inflamed his lust at once.
She sat up as he closed the door behind him. ‘How dare you come in here! Get out!’
He grinned. ‘Didn’t Sir Geoffroi tell you? You’re not the queen of the castle any more.’ Pulling up the hem of his tunic, he unfastened his breech-cloth as he approached the bed.
She shrank away from him. ‘Stay away from me!’ she warned.
He laughed. ‘Or you’ll tell Sir Geoffroi? Sir Geoffroi doesn’t care about you any more, bitch. He says I’m to kill you; and I’m to take my time about it. And I will, believe you me. But first I’m going to have some fun with you.’
She jumped out of the other side of the bed, but he ducked around the chest at the foot of the bed and grabbed her around the neck, throwing her across the mattress. She screamed.
He laughed again. ‘Scream all you want. There’s no one to hear you except me, and I like it. I want you to scream. I want to hear you beg for mercy, you jumped-up whore.’ Climbing astride her, he ripped open the front of her nightdress. She tried to strike him, but he seized her by the wrists, pinning them to the bed, then dipped his head to lick her breasts with a coarse tongue. She felt sick with revulsion.
He squirmed back off the bed, releasing her wrists to grab her calves, forcing her legs apart as he leaned over her, poised to force himself into her. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this for a long, long time.’
‘Not as much as I have,’ she spat in reply. He started to frown, but she had already grabbed the heavy candlestick from the chest by the bed and smashed it against the side of his skull. The sheer force of the blow knocked him off her. She raised the candlestick above her head and brought it down with all her might, again and again, until there was nothing left of his head but a bloody, pulpy mess.
Then she crawled off the bed and was sick in a corner of the room.
She sat hunched on the floor for a moment, looking at anything but Arnault’s corpse. Now what?
Only one course of action was left open to her. She took a gown and a mantle from the chest at the end of the bed, dressed, and then helped herself to the keys from Arnault’s belt, before making her way down to the dungeons.
Kemp was sitting in the far corner of his cell. He glanced up as she opened the door, and stared at her in the dim torchlight. ‘Hell’s teeth! What happened to your face?’
‘De Chargny.’
He looked grim. ‘He’s got a lot to answer for.’
‘He’s left for Calais. Nearly all his retainers have gone with him. They won’t be back for a few days. We can be long gone by then.’
He pushed himself to his feet. ‘My sword?’
‘De Chargny’s chamber.’
‘Lead the way.’
Kemp found his sword-belt with his scabbarded broadsword and his dagger in its sheath still attached in the room. ‘You said de Chargny writes about chivalry?’ he asked as he buckled the belt around his waist. Typhaine nodded. ‘Where are his books?’
She pointed to a parchment
manuscript on the desk. ‘That’s what he’s working on at the moment.’
Kemp snatched the manuscript off the desk and was about to throw it on the embers that still smouldered in the hearth when a thought occurred to him. There would be no point in burning the manuscript. Kemp wanted de Chargny to know what had happened to it, to know it had been deliberately and maliciously destroyed. The pressure on his bladder gave him a better idea. ‘What are you doing?’ Typhaine asked him in astonishment.
He grinned, shaking off the drips. ‘Exactly what I intend to do to de Chargny himself before the day is out.’
‘I told you: he’s left for Calais.’
Kemp fastened his breech-cloth once more. ‘I know. I’m going after him.’
She stared at him in astonishment. ‘You… you’re mad! He has over three thousand men with him. Are you going to take them all on single-handed?’
‘If needs be, aye. A force that large moves slowly. If I can find a good horse I can be in Calais ahead of him.’
‘Minutes rather than hours ahead of him. What good can that do?’
‘Time enough to alert the garrison, and make sure the gates of the town are closed. I spent the best part of a year sitting in the swamps around Calais when we besieged it. I’m not going to let de Chargny win it back in a single night.’
‘You’re mad,’ she repeated. ‘You wooden-headed dozy-beard! You’ll be killed.’
He shook his head. ‘I died a long time ago.’
The two of them made their way down to the courtyard. ‘You fetch some horses from the stables,’ ordered Kemp. ‘I’ll open the gate.’
He slipped into the gatehouse and studied the mechanism for lowering the drawbridge. It worked on exactly the same principles as the one he had operated at Chateau Gaillon, when Holland’s company took part in the assault on the castle during the march to Crécy. He released the ratchet and the drawbridge swung down, the counterweights slowing its descent so it did not break when it touched the ground at the other side of the moat. Kemp was about to leave the gatehouse when the steward, who had been on guard on the battlements above, came down the stairs. Recognising the former prisoner, he pulled his dagger from his belt and lunged.
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