The Death of a King

by P. C. Doherty

  I paused, wondering whether to go in, when a hand on my elbow made me turn. She was old and bent. “A penny, sir,” she hissed. “A penny and I’ll tell your fortune.” She pushed her face closer and I pitied the criss-cross lines on her face. Revolted by the smell from her blackened teeth. I dug into my purse and passed her a coin. She took it, her narrow eyes glittering with pleasure. As I turned back to the tavern door, she whispered, “Your future’s behind you, Master.”

  I turned while she scurried back into the darkness. Two muffled figures, cloaked and armed with sword and dagger, stepped from the shadows. They approached slowly at a half-crouch, separating as they drew nearer.

  “What do you want?” I called, biding for time.

  The figures shuffled. “Hand over your sword,” one of them rasped. “Our mistress would like to see you again, Master Clerk.”

  I realized that he meant Isabella and I knew these were her messengers and my executioners. I let my arms drop to my side. Both drew closer. When they were within striking distance, I suddenly brought up my dagger and sent it hurtling into the chest of one, while I backed and parried a blow from the other. The stricken man knelt gurgling as if he was making some obscene prayer and then fell flat on his face. His companion and I circled, looking for an opening. I am an indifferent swordsman but, Deo gratias, so was he, although he still had a dagger which gave him the advantage. We met, clashed, fended and parried until the sweat poured down my body. Then it was over, like many such sword fights, not with a classic stroke, but a silly mistake. My opponent slipped on some dirt, scrabbled to maintain his balance and rolled clean on to his own dagger. He died as quickly as his companion while I leaned against a door to steady myself. I realized that the message had been a trick and cursed Isabella with every filthy epithet I could think of before turning back towards the river.

  The church bells told me it was past compline as I made my way from the dark wharf to my lodgings. I got no further than half-way down Bread Street before I was surrounded by mailed men-at-arms. Some carried flickering torches but their faces were hid behind coifs and basinets. They detached themselves from dark narrow alleys and doorways and stood round me, as I tried to control my fears and adopt some pathetic defensive posture. Then one of them moved out of the shadows. I noticed that he wore the royal arms of England across his tabard and, as he moved into the pool of torchlight, he removed his helmet. I was expecting Sir John Chandos but this individual was a round-faced lad with the bland looks of an intelligent plough-boy. He spoke with a thick Yorkshire burr, introducing himself as Sir Edmund Ward. He showed me a royal writ ordering him to take me (by force if necessary) to join the king in France. Too surprised to argue, I asked if I could gather certain belongings from my lodgings but he merely smiled and shook his head. He snapped his fingers, as a signal to the escort to follow, and led me through an alleyway into the next street where two more men-at-arms stood guarding a line of horses. The clatter and the din of the escort woke up the whole street. Windows were flung open and the citizens thoroughly enjoyed themselves, shouting abuse at the oblivious soldiery. I was unceremoniously pushed on to one of the horses, the guard then mounted and galloped furiously along the narrow cobbled streets, not easing their pace till we were through the city gates. Once we were in the country, on the road south (I guessed) to one of the Cinque Ports, we left the beaten track to camp in a freshly harvested field. No fire was lit, the soldiers drank from waterskins and ate strips of dry cooked meat. They then muffled themselves in their great cloaks and lay down to sleep. Sir Edmund offered me food. I curtly refused though I did drink a pannikin of water and took a thick serge cloak to keep me warm while I slept.

  The sharp stubble and my own anxiety ensured a sleepless night. I lay looking up at the sky, listening to the guards patrolling the horse-lines or the small shrill cries of the night creatures. I realized that my escort were not city bully-boys but professional soldiers, hardened campaigners who offered little hope of escape. I knew we were for France, probably Normandy, where the king was said to be launching a major offensive against the French. But why was I going? To be questioned or to be killed? The possibility that it could be both gave me little comfort. I wondered why the king wanted me so badly. My burglary of the secret seal records could not have been discovered so soon. But Edward, like his “dear mother” might have learnt from some source or other that my search was now pursuing a totally unexpected and very dangerous course. What or who this source was did not concern me; I spent my energies on concentrating on how to avoid the dire consequences of my coming meeting with the king. I did not intend to reveal that you, dear Richard, knew all but I hoped that if I died or disappeared, you would do something to vindicate my name.

  Of course, I failed to reach a conclusion either that night or the following two days as we continued our rapid progress to the coast. I also realized that my professional escort made escape impossible. We travelled by day and camped in the open at night. Sir Edmund always ensured that I was well guarded. We rode clear of villages and inns, only stopping to buy provisions, fill the waterskins or forage for provender for the horses. Neither Sir Edmund nor his retinue spoke to me except on the second day after we left London. He curtly announced that we were going to Dover. The same evening we arrived outside that bustling port and encamped in the castle yard while Sir Edmund went into town to secure passage to France. Within hours he was back and announced that a cog, bound for Harfleur with provisions, could take us. Cursing and muttering, the escort remounted and we made our way down, along dark cobbled streets to the smelly quayside. Sir Edmund decided to return the horses to the castle, but we were ordered to take all our equipment and saddles which were heaped along with us into waiting boats and precariously rowed out to a fat squat cog, The Saint Mary. It was an evil-smelling barque already lying dangerously low in the water, and I prayed for a safe passage as I huddled in its fetid little hold.

  For once, my prayers were answered. The cog sailed on the next morning tide and the next day, late in the afternoon, we reached Harfleur. The port was now a vast munitions camp, filled with fat-bellied merchantmen from London to the Hanseatic ports on the Baltic. Sir Edmund arranged our landing and used a royal warrant to secure remounts, provisions and some vinegar-tasting wine from one of the royal purveyors stationed in the town. The place seethed like a dung-heap in summer. Troops struggled to find commanders and billets, carts jammed the narrow streets and horsemen slashed at each other as they fought to get by. Sir Edmund kept us all together and used his warrant like a wand to get through the melee. Once through the town, we entered the countryside heading southwest, so I was informed, to Valonges and Cotentin. Sir Edmund now became more relaxed and informed me that we were following the king’s route across Normandy as he marched north to link up with a Flemish army against Philip VI of France.

  The weather was warm. The sun was usually hidden by a haze but we felt its heat and made constant stops for water. At first, the flat dreary countryside showed little effect of Edward’s march but, as we crossed the River Vire at St Lo, the war began to show itself. Burnt fields surrounded scorched deserted hamlets, farmsteads and manor houses. Cattle and other livestock lay butchered in streams and ditches. Their black swelling bodies feeding large fat buzzing flies or, having burst, fouled the water and filled the air with such a stench that we held cloths soaked in wine across our mouths and nostrils. The horses became nervous when we caught glimpses of large bands of roving peasants who would scatter at our approach, but then dog our heels in the hope of rich pickings or bloody revenge.

  At Fontenay, Sir Edmund decided on a show of force. Two men-at-arms were left to guard me while the rest swung around and began to advance at a slow trot in a wide arc across the fields we had just passed. It was just like flushing conies from the hay. Ragged peasants jumped out of ditches or from behind hedges and made pathetic attempts to escape, only to be ruthlessly cut down by the mounted men. However, Sir Edmund refused to let the escort proceed too f
ar and when they reached the summit of a slight ridge, I saw him turn his horse and lead the troop back on to the track where he had left us. Sir Edmund announced that they had killed a good baker’s dozen. The soldiers were more at ease and began to chatter and talk amongst themselves. As we approached Caen, the chatter died as we saw long columns of black smoke rising from behind the ruined town walls. We passed through where the town gates once stood only to see row upon row of charred houses, their timbers still red-hot with burning ash. We proceeded cautiously up the main street. Our horses picked their way delicately and snorted angrily at the fiery sparks blown into the air by a light evening breeze. The town square presented even worse horrors. The stone church had been badly mauled and looted but the cobbled fair-ground was strewn with dead of every age and sex. A baby lay against a horse-trough, its little skull smashed to pulp, whilst nearby its mother lay open-eyed with thick red gashes across both neck and stomach. Tradesmen lay sprawled in grotesque poses, clubs and staves still clenched in their dead hands. Those who had been stupid enough to surrender swung from improvised scaffolds, their heads twisted and lolling to one side.

  I had seen enough. I leaned over my horse’s neck and vomited like a drunk, then I closed my eyes until the troops were across the square and back into the winding streets. The troops, mainly hardened professionals from the northern march, remained impassive but Sir Edmund, white-faced and tight-lipped, ordered us not to stop for anything till we had left the town and re-entered the countryside. Here we began to meet roughly built hospitals for the English wounded. The latter informed us that the king was marching for the river Somme with the English fleet sailing along the Normandy coast. The English were sacking every port and hamlet on their route. The wounded also informed us that Caen had been sacked because it had refused to surrender. Sir Edmund nodded wisely, but I wondered if the little baby beside the horse-trough had understood the rules and uses of war. I said as much to Sir Edmund but all I received were dark looks and an order to dismount and help with making camp.

  A week after we had landed at Harfleur we reached Poissy and turned due north, still following Edward’s march to the Somme. Although I had served in a few minor campaigns a decade earlier, the carnage I witnessed on our ride through Normandy sickened me, men, women and children swinging from trees, grim monuments to Edward III’s claim to the throne of France. After a while I stopped looking and hung on grimly to my tired hack. My arse and thighs ached with saddle-sores, while my tired brain seemed capable of nothing more than concentrating on the road in front of me, too tired to think of the impending interview with the King. On 20 August, we reached Oisement and the rearguard of Edward’s army, long dusty columns of pikemen and archers with mounted men-at-arms guarding the flanks. One of these informed our group that Philip VI with a massive French army was preparing to block the English march north. At first, Philip had tried to stop Edward from crossing the Somme but Edward had seized and held the ford at Blanchetaque and was deploying his troops on a hill outside the village of Crécy. We pressed on and, as we approached Blanchet-aque, we realized that the struggle for control of the ford had been a fierce one. The dead lay in heaps on either side of the river and corpses, half-submerged, still bobbed and floated among the reeds. The crossing was heavily guarded by archers and pikemen wearing the bear and ragged staff of the Earl of Warwick. They told us that they were acting as a corridor to the main English army and urged us to hurry as roving bands of Hainaulters, Philip VI’s allies, were still trying to capture the ford and cut off any English stragglers.

  On the evening of 24 August, we entered the main English camp. We satisfied the commander of the picket line and passed on through lines of foot-soldiers to where the royal pavilions stood. Sir Edmund dismissed the escort and, after a hurried conversation with a royal sergeant-at-arms, escorted me into what I knew to be the royal tent. Flickering cressets revealed a group of nobles dressed in half-armour sitting round a trestle table littered with plates, goblets and pieces of parchment. They were engaged in furious debate and totally ignored our entrance. I stood there trying to calm my mounting panic by looking at the half-open trunks and caskets, which lay scattered around the tent. Eventually the curtain separating the sleeping quarters from the rest of the tent was pulled aside and the king entered. He was accompanied by Sir John Chandos and a hawk-faced, cold-eyed young man, the eldest son of Edward III’s brood, the Prince of Wales. They too were dressed in half-armour and I realized the whole camp must be on a war footing, expecting the French to attack at any moment. The king studied me for a moment before turning to his nobles.

  “My lords,” he announced, “my scouts have repeated that the French have left Abbeville and mean to bring us to battle.” He silenced the rising clamour with a gesture. “We are in a strong position,” he continued. “You have your orders—I beg you to retire and inform your marshals.” The nobles rose, bowed to the king and trooped out of the tent led by the king’s principal commanders, the Earls of Warwick, Oxford and Northampton. I recognized these by the devices emblazoned across their breastplates. At a sign from the king, Sir Edmund also left with a brief nod towards me and a look which almost mounted to pity. I stood there, too exhausted to speculate on the future.

  The king, Chandos and the prince seated themselves on overturned trunks. Chandos and the prince conferred quietly with one another while Edward smiled coldly at me.

  “Well, Master Clerk,” he rasped, “your report.”

  I cleared my throat and gave a conventional account of my work so far, omitting any reference to my correspondence with Tweng, my work at Gloucester and, of course, my burglary of the secret seal records. The king heard me out, looked at me quizzically and then shouted, “Guard!”

  I really did begin to tremble, wondering if a full confession or a plea for mercy would help. The tent flap was opened but the king simply informed the guard to summon the prince’s tutor, Sir William Harcourt. The latter must have been waiting outside, as he had pushed his bulk into the tent before I had time to compose either a question or a plea. He was a balding, bland-faced, stout man, but his reputation as a strategist and warrior belied his grossness. He made an ideal tutor and bodyguard for the prince.

  “Sir William,” the king barked affectionately, “may I present Edmund Beche, a deserter. In the coming battle, you and my son are to lead the vanguard. I want this coward put in the forefront of that vanguard. Do you understand? Then take him away.”

  Before I could protest, Sir William’s iron grasp shoved me out of the tent. I turned to explain but Sir William’s look of contempt killed any hope of being understood. He led me back through the lines up to the top of the ridge where companies of archers were lounging around camp-fires, eating, praying or joking, according to their whim. Sir William told them to watch me and stamped away. After a while, he returned with a conical helmet, a quiver of arrows, a long yew bow and a jacket of boiled leather, together with a belt and a sharp stabbing sword.

  “Master Coward,” he said, “wear these. If the French attack tomorrow, you will be one of the first to see them. If you die, good riddance, but if you live, then one of these master bowmen has orders to kill you.” He began to walk away but then turned back. “Oh, Master Coward,” he added, “the same bowman has archers to watch you with orders to kill you if you try to desert again. Even if you do, the French are all over the place and they’re taking no prisoners.” He looked at me, shrugged philosophically and waddled back down the ridge towards the main camp.

  My arrival had caused little stir among the archers; dressed in dusty travelling clothes, I looked little different from them. Once I had fitted on both jacket and belt and gathered up the rest of my armour, I virtually became one of them. I felt too sick to join any group and slumped wearily to the ground, not caring to search out my would-be assassin. He could have been any one of the countless archers surrounding me. I huddled in my cloak, tired and angry at being so cleverly tricked by the king. If Edward had executed me or had m
e secretly murdered, questions might have been asked, but now my death could be easily explained. To my friends (even to you, Richard), I would appear a brave man who had been caught up with the king at Crécy, volunteered to fight in the front line where, unfortunately, I was killed. On the other hand, to men like Harcourt, I was just another coward going to meet his just reward. I realized that there was little hope for me. I had served in campaigns before and, like all Londoners, I had obeyed the statute which laid down that every able man was to practise regularly with the bow. Nevertheless, if the great French army decided to spare me, then the unknown master bowman would carry out his orders. How I escaped my expected death is a miracle and the reason for this detailed letter.

  At dawn, the camp was roused. I got up, refreshed after a few hours sleep, collected my weapons and ambled towards one of the communal cooking-pots for a lump of black bread, a bowl of messy oatmeal and a cup of watered ale. A slight mist hung over the dew-wet grass and we had to breakfast under cloudly skies. The common opinion was that it would rain and the French would hardly attack. The marshals ignored such prophecies and began to order us into lines, so we moved over the ridge and half-way down the hill. A period of utter chaos reigned and after a great deal of shuffling backwards and forwards I realized that the archers had been formed into a series of hollow edges of arrow-head formations across the muddy hillside. It was a sound tactic. It presented as small a front as possible to the enemy, who would break on the point of the wedge, only to leave his flanks exposed to a hail of arrows, as he was driven on to the lines of the waiting men-at-arms.

  As the morning progressed, Edward’s tactics became more evident. We were divided into three divisions or battles. The right (in which I was standing) was the farthest down the slope under the Prince of Wales, and had its flank protected by a river and the village of Crécy. The division on the left under the banner of the Earl of Northampton was further up the slope, its flank being protected only by a small hamlet called Wadicourt. The centre division was mainly made up of lines of men-at-arms, who stood on terraces or cultivated strips, which would impede any cavalry which survived both the steep ride up the hill as well as the steady hail of arrows from the archers on each flank. Behind the centre at the top of the hill stood the reserve under the king himself. Banners were displayed, flapped brilliantly, and then furled again because of the light drizzle. Trumpets blared and shrilled at each other, stirring the large war-horses and exciting the men. Throughout the morning, the royal broad blue and gold banner flapped near a small windmill which was Edward’s central command point. This piece of information was given to me by the archer standing alongside me, a small wiry man with close-cropped hair and a skin burnt brown by the sun. In a thick northern burr, he introduced himself as John Hemple from Pontefract. As I was “green in matters of war” (so he put it), Hemple showed me how to dig a hole in the ground for my arrows and gave a never-ending commentary of the king’s strategy. He pointed out that the most interesting feature was that the knights would be fighting on foot, as they had before at Dupplin Moor against the Scots, as well as at the recent battle of Morlaix.