Then they were passing the Church of Notre Dame.
Kemp dismounted from his horse and crouched down to examine his rouncy’s fetlocks. The serjeant was on to him in a moment, riding around to where he stood.
‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ he hissed.
‘My horse is lame, serjeant.’
‘There’s no time for that now!’ snapped the serjeant, pointing to where the rest of the column was riding on down the street towards the castle. ‘We’re almost there.’
Kemp shook his head. ‘This is as far as you go,’ he said, and thrust the point of his foreshortened lance into the serjeant’s throat. The serjeant gurgled, coughed blood, and then half-fell out of his saddle. His horse whinnied in fright.
De Renty glanced over his shoulder at the sound and saw the dead serjeant with the lance still stuck in his throat and Kemp running towards the door of the church. ‘What the devil in hell…?’
‘Kemp!’ exclaimed Guilbert. He could not see Kemp’s face at that distance, but some sixth sense told him it was none other.
‘What?’ De Renty looked baffled.
‘Ride on to take the castle, Sir Oudard,’ said Guilbert. ‘I’ll deal with him.’ He wheeled his horse and began to ride back down the column.
Kemp reached the door of the church and opened it. Inside, he paused only momentarily, trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness within. Only the faintest starlight filtered through the stained glass windows, but Kemp knew his way around the inside of a church sufficiently well to hurry down the aisle of the nave. He dodged around the altar until he came to the door leading to the bell-tower. It was locked.
‘God damn it!’ Kemp threw himself against the sturdy oak door. It held fast, but there was enough give in it to instil him with hope.
‘Kemp!’ Guilbert’s voice echoed around the interior of the church. Kemp froze, his hand creeping to the hilt of his sword. He heard footsteps as Guilbert strode down the aisle. Kemp tip-toed across to stand behind one of the pillars and eased his sword out of its scabbard.
Guilbert had stopped moving now. He too was keeping quiet to listen for some sound that would give Kemp away. Kemp saw moonlight glisten on the blade of a sword and held his breath, fearful it might betray him.
The squire was moving again now, walking towards the pillar where Kemp was hiding, keeping his footfalls soft. As he passed the pillar, Kemp suddenly swung his sword at him.
But Guilbert was ready for the blow, his own sword raised to parry it. He grinned in the darkness as the two of them backed away from one another. ‘Let’s see how well you fight without your bow, Englishman!’ He charged forward, swinging his sword at Kemp’s head.
* * *
As de Renty approached the postern gate of the castle with his men, the drawbridge was lowered slowly, its chains rattling and clanking noisily in the silent town until the wooden beams touched the far side of the moat with a dull boom. The portcullis was already raised. De Renty gazed into the courtyard beyond with narrowed, suspicious eyes. Then de Pavia appeared at the other end of the drawbridge with his young son, beckoning them forward. De Renty signalled the advance once more, and the knights and men-at-arms rode into the courtyard, where they dismounted.
‘My son as hostage, as was agreed,’ said de Pavia. Despite the chill air of the winter’s night, sweat was pouring off him.
De Renty gave orders to his men. ‘You two: take the boy. Serjeant: take six men and seize the gatehouse. The rest of you come with me.’ He pulled the bulging saddle-bags from his horse and slung them over his shoulder, following de Pavia into the keep of the castle. The place seemed deserted, the torches guttering in their wall-brackets only adding to the silent and empty atmosphere. ‘Search the castle,’ he ordered his men, when they reached the great hall. The serjeants split their men into search parties and began to check every room.
‘Here are the keys to the castle and the town,’ said de Pavia, handing over the same bunch of keys that Jean de Vienne had given to Sir Walter Mauny over two years earlier. ‘Where is Sir Geoffroi?’
‘He’s not far away,’ de Renty replied gruffly. ‘He’ll be here shortly.’ He took the saddle-bags from his shoulder and handed them to de Pavia. They were heavier than de Pavia had expected, and his arm sagged under the weight. ‘Ten thousand écus d’or, as agreed,’ said de Renty. ‘You’ll get the other ten thousand when the town is securely in our hands.’
‘Will you follow me to the great tower so that you may become master of the castle at once?’
De Renty nodded and turned to the two men holding de Pavia’s son. ‘Follow me. Bring the boy.’
* * *
Guilbert was as good with a sword as he was with his fists, and his immense strength steadily drove Kemp back down the side aisle with a succession of powerful blows that Kemp was hard-pressed to ward off with his own blade. The clash of steel against steel rang out in the darkness of the church, each stroke accompanied by a blood-thirsty roar from the French squire. Kemp retreated before this onslaught, too busy defending himself to strike any blows in return. Then he tripped, and landed sprawling on his back. Guilbert whirled his sword above his head. Kemp rolled out of the way a split second before Guilbert’s blade struck sparks from the flagstones where he had lain.
Kemp rose on one knee, raising his sword to parry another stroke from the squire. The blow was so powerful that it jarred his arm badly, knocking his sword from his grip. He tried to snatch it from the floor, but Guilbert put his foot on the blade, pinning it to the ground. Grinning in triumph, he swung at Kemp’s head once more. Kemp threw himself backwards, landing against the side of a pew. He vaulted over the backrest to stand on the seat. Guilbert raised his sword again. Kemp tried to dodge aside, lost his footing, and fell into the space between two pews as the squire’s sword came arcing down. The blade bit deep into the back rest of the pew. Guilbert tried to tug it free, but it was caught fast. Kemp was back on his feet in an instant, diving over the pew, his hands reaching for Guilbert’s throat. Guilbert went over backwards and Kemp was on top of him at once. The two of them grappled on the floor. Guilbert rolled on top, pinning Kemp to the flagstones, repeatedly driving his fist into his opponent’s stomach.
Kemp lashed out with a fist. He caught Guilbert on the side of the jaw and snapped his head around. With a roar of fury, Guilbert seized him by the throat and began to beat his head against the floor. Kemp brought his hands up between Guilbert’s arms. He clasped them behind the squire’s neck, at the same time lifting his knee into Guilbert’s crotch. Guilbert howled in agony and rolled away, clutching at himself.
Kemp picked himself up and ran towards where his sword had fallen. Guilbert was back on his feet in an instant, running after him. He caught Kemp from behind, driving him past the sword and slamming his body against a wall. With one hand on Kemp’s neck, he drove the other into his kidneys. Gasping in agony, Kemp twisted free. He pulled his dagger from his belt and thrust it at the squire’s eyes. Guilbert was fast, though, and caught him by the wrist, knocking the dagger out of his grip to clatter on the floor somewhere in the darkness.
Guilbert punched him in the stomach. As Kemp doubled up, the squire lifted his knee into his face. He sank to his knees, barely conscious. Guilbert bent over, picking him up by the harness of his habergeon, and slammed him back against the pillar. Kemp gasped as the back of his head cracked against the masonry. In some way, the pain seemed to revive him. He seized the collar of Guilbert’s tunic and pulled him forward, at the same time butting him on the bridge of his nose with his forehead.
Guilbert staggered back, shaking his head muzzily. Blood streamed from his nostrils. It was the first time Kemp had seen the squire’s blood and the fact it could be spilled proved he was not as invincible as he seemed. Kemp dodged around the dazed squire, running for his sword once more. Seeing his intention, Guilbert forced himself to recover, and he seized Kemp by the back of his collar and his belt as he ran past. Giving a mighty roar of effo
rt, he lifted him clear above his head. Kemp struggled helplessly while Guilbert turned, staggering under the weight of his burden, and then hurled him with all his might into the midst of the pews.
Kemp felt pain explode in every part of his body as wood splintered and smashed beneath him. He could feel a darkness even blacker than the gloom of the church descending over him.
Guilbert picked up Kemp’s sword and began to make his way to where the archer lay amongst the wrecked pews. Kemp had to force himself to keep his weakening grip on consciousness. He tried to get up, but one of the pews had fallen across his left ankle, trapping him. Then Guilbert was standing over him, panting heavily, the sword in his hands.
Kemp grabbed blindly for the first object that came to hand, one of the planks that was part of the smashed pew. He struggled to pull it free, but the break was not clean and it refused to come away in his hand.
Guilbert reversed his grip on the sword and raised it above his head, aiming for Kemp’s heart.
With a sob of desperation, Kemp wrenched at the plank. Suddenly it came free. He thrust the broken, jagged edge up at Guilbert, the splintered end catching him in the throat. Even as the squire’s blood gouted onto Kemp, he brought the sword down. Kemp saw the glint of steel as it descended and twisted aside. Then the sword fell from Guilbert’s lifeless grip on to the flagstones as the huge squire toppled forward.
Kemp blacked out.
How long he was unconscious for he did not know, but it was still dark and silent in the church when he came to. He had a feeling that he had not been out for more than a moment or two.
There was something he had to do. Something important. Then he remembered de Chargny’s plot. He had to alert the garrison. It might be too late already, but he had to try.
Ignoring his exhaustion, ignoring the pain of his bruises, cuts and grazes, he summoned all the energy he could muster and lifted the pew from his ankle with a grunt of effort, freeing his foot. The ankle felt a little twisted, but it was not sprained or broken.
He was wasting time, worrying about himself when the whole of Calais was at stake. He pushed himself to his feet and staggered across to the door leading to the bell-tower. It was still locked, but Kemp had not survived his fight with Guilbert only to be defeated by a mere piece of wood. Summoning up reserves of strength he had not known he possessed, he threw himself against it until his shoulder was numb, so many times he lost count. Suddenly the door burst open and he staggered into the tower.
The bell ropes hung down in the centre of the room, disappearing into the pitch-black darkness above. When all the bells of a church pealed back in England, that was the signal that the French were invading. Nearly all of the new citizens of Calais were from England. Kemp could only pray they would understand. The noise should at least rouse them from their beds.
He seized one of the ropes and twisted it around both hands, preparing to pull on it with the whole weight of his body. He would set the church bells tolling so loudly they would rouse the dead from their graves.
‘Pull that rope and you’re a dead man!’ a voice from behind warned him in French, and he felt the hard point of a sword press against the neck of his coif.
Chapter Sixteen
De Renty and De Pavia ascended a spiral stairway, followed by the two men who held de Pavia’s son. They passed several groups of French men-at-arms, going from room to room as they searched the castle but otherwise the place seemed deserted. De Pavia opened a door on the top floor and flung the saddle-bags full of gold into the room beyond.
De Renty looked amused. ‘Aren’t you going to count them?’ he asked.
De Pavia shook his head. He was sweating more profusely than ever. ‘I’ll take your word for it as a man of gentle birth they are all there,’ he said, locking the door to the room with his spare set of keys. ‘I haven’t time to count them now. It will be daylight in a few hours.’
A serjeant with half a dozen men arrived. ‘Have you searched everywhere?’ demanded de Renty.
‘Just about, sir. We were just going to check through yonder door.’
‘What’s through there?’ de Renty asked de Pavia.
‘The great tower,’ the Lombard told him, unlocking the door with his set of keys and pushing back the bolt. ‘Won’t you go in?’ he asked, and flung open the door.
It was as if he had opened the gates of a dam to let out the flood waters. Suddenly dozens of armed men were pouring through. De Renty and his men did not even have time to draw their swords. Sir Walter Mauny stepped forward, and pulled de Pavia’s son away from the two men who held him hostage. They were too astonished to resist.
‘Sound the tocsin!’ ordered Mauny.
The rest of de Renty’s men were reassembling in the courtyard when the tocsin rang out. At the same moment, a false wall that had been built there collapsed, revealing another hundred knights and men-at-arms who charged forward with swords and battleaxes. Panicking, de Renty’s men turned and ran back towards the postern gate, but at that moment a large stone dropped from the battlements smashed through the drawbridge, which had been partly sawn-through in preparation. The portcullis crashed down, cutting off their escape.
More men were emerging from the entrance of the keep now, led by Mauny shouting his battle-cry: ‘Mauny! Mauny to the rescue!’
‘What!’ exclaimed another Englishman, a tall figure dressed in ‘all-white’ armour, unemblazoned with any coat of arms. ‘Do these Frenchmen think to conquer Calais with such a handful of men?’
De Renty’s men put up only the briefest resistance before throwing down their weapons and surrendering.
* * *
‘I’m sorry, I thought you were French…’ began Curtis, and then broke off in astonishment. ‘Good God above! Martin Kemp!’
‘For Christ’s sake, Curtis! I have to sound the alarm! The French are inside the walls!’
‘Yes, I know,’ Curtis replied.
‘We have to do something about it!’
‘Don’t worry, it’s being taken care of.’ Curtis was picking lint off his cloak. ‘The king knows all about it.’
‘What?!’
‘It’s an ambush. That’s why you mustn’t ring the bells. There are over a thousand English troops concealed in and around the castle. I’d say de Renty’s in for a very nasty surprise.’ The sound of the castle’s tocsin clanging sounded faintly a short way off. ‘Sound’s like he’s getting it right now,’ added Curtis.
‘Only a thousand?’ Kemp demanded.
‘Isn’t it enough?’ asked Curtis.
‘De Chargny has over three thousand men waiting outside the town walls.’
‘Indeed?’ Curtis grinned. ‘Perhaps tonight will not be as dull as I’d originally feared. Come on,’ he added, leading the way out of the bell-tower. ‘We don’t want to miss any of the fun.’
As they made their way through the church, Kemp picked up his broadsword and slotted it back into his scabbard, but there was no time to search for his dagger. Exhausted by his fight with Guilbert, he was hard-pressed to keep up with the long-legged Curtis as they marched down the street towards the castle, heading around the moat to the main entrance.
‘You recovered from the pestilence, then?’
Kemp nodded, and then frowned. ‘You do not seem surprised.’
Curtis smiled. ‘I have always found lancing the buboes and applying an ointment of Armenian clay surprisingly efficacious. If only more people would listen to me, instead of condemning it as a paynim pratice…’
Kemp stared at him in astonishment. ‘You cured me …?’
‘Aye. As I failed to cure my wife, because I was absent on a trading venture when I should have been at her side,’ Curtis said bitterly.
Kemp knew exactly how Curtis felt. ‘I heard about Mistress Curtis. I’m sorry.’
It appeared that Curtis did not wish to discuss it. ‘How do you know how many men de Chargny has, anyway?’ he asked, changing the subject.
‘Because I rode here with
them, that’s how!’ said Kemp. ‘I was trying to escape to warn the garrison here, but I was mistaken for a French man-at-arms, and had to keep up the pretence to stay alive. I’ve been trying to get away all day.’
‘Good for you. Fortunately your services weren’t needed. The king already knew of de Chargny’s plan.’
‘Marvellous,’ Kemp muttered. ‘Next time I shan’t bother. I was almost killed just now!’
By the time they reached the main gate, the drawbridge was being lowered, and a number of knights rode out under Mauny’s banner, including Sir John Beauchamp, Holland, and two tall figures in ‘all-white’ armour. The taller of the two unidentified knights seemed to be giving instructions to the rest. Behind them, companies of men-at-arms and mounted archers were forming up into troops.
Holland glanced towards Curtis, and seeing Kemp he performed a double-take. ‘Kemp? How the devil did you get here? Sigglesthorne told me you were dead.’
‘I feel as if I am, sir,’ Kemp admitted ruefully.
‘It seems Master Kemp was not sure whose side he was supposed to be on this day, and came here with the French,’ Curtis explained with a chuckle.
The taller knight in ‘all-white’ glanced up at Curtis’s words, turning the eye-slits of his visored bascinet on Kemp. ‘You came to Calais with de Chargny?’ he demanded.
‘Yes, sir, but I’m no Frenchman. I got caught up with…’
‘Never mind that now. How many men does he have?’
‘Apart from the men who came here with de Renty, sir? About three hundred knights and men-at-arms, and about twenty-seven hundred foot-soldiers. There are also six hundred men-at-arms and crossbowmen at the Nieullay bridge.’
The knight laughed. ‘Is that all?’
‘Wait, sire!’ protested one of the other knights. ‘How do we know if we can trust this man? He may be one of de Chargny’s agents.’
‘I’ll vouch for him,’ said Holland. ‘He’s a trusted member of my retinue…’
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