Every Noble Knight

by Maggie Bennett

  ‘With all these people milling around in the dark, Madame, it would be an honour if you will allow me to accompany you and your daughter,’ he said with a bow.

  The lady hesitated. ‘A neighbour and her husband said they would see us home, sire,’ she said, looking round uncertainly at the unfamiliar faces. Suddenly a man lurched against her heavily, and Wulfstan put out an arm to steady her. She held on to him, and Dorine held her other arm.

  ‘Our neighbours don’t seem to be anywhere around, Mother,’ said the girl. ‘Pray, let us accept Monsieur Wynstede’s offer.’

  So Madame agreed, hanging on to them both in the seething midnight crowd, Dorine on her left side, Wulfstan on her right. He would rather have walked between them, but Madame, grateful as she was, clearly wanted to keep him apart from Dorine who was able to flash him a grateful smile before lowering her eyes modestly. When they left the cobbled stones of the main street, they made better progress amid the thinning crowds.

  ‘This is most kind of you, sire,’ murmured the lady, and Dorine gave a shy, almost inaudible assent.

  ‘It is my pleasure to protect you, Madame,’ he answered truthfully, for he was enjoying every minute of his self-imposed task; the air was cold and sharp with frost, and the night sky glittered with stars. All too soon, it seemed, they reached Madame’s door, and she withdrew her arm from his to take a key from a pocket she wore under her cloak, and insert it into the lock.

  She pushed the door open, and looked up at Wulfstan who quickly withdrew his eyes from Dorine.

  ‘I believe that the Blessed Virgin must have sent you to us, sire,’ she said. ‘And you’ll be wanting to go back to your friends now.’

  ‘Thank you, Madame, but after receiving the blessed Sacrament, I think I would rather be . . . er . . . quiet, and go to bed – to pray,’ he added hastily. ‘So I wish you goodnight, Madame – and Mademoiselle.’

  ‘As you wish, sire.’ The front door opened straight into the room where the patrons were served; it was pitch dark, but Madame quickly slipped through to the kitchen and lit a candle from the glowing embers of the fire beside the bake-oven.

  ‘Here is a light for you, sire – but first can I offer you some refreshment and a hot drink after your kindness?’

  How could he refuse? He saw Dorine’s pretty little face light up, and followed them through to the kitchen where Dorine lit two more candles, and invited him to sit on a bench before a well-scrubbed table. Madame instructed her to heat blackcurrant cordial in a pan over the fire, while she cut slices from a cottage loaf, and spread them with drippings of fat and meat juices from the tray below the roasting-spit. They then sat down on either side of him, and he was conscious of Dorine’s narrow hips against his thigh.

  ‘You are welcome at our table, Monsieur Wynstede,’ the lady said simply as they ate and drank the plain, sustaining fare. Wulfstan gave himself up to enjoying this unexpected interlude between the eve and the day of the Feast. Memories of la Gouvernante inevitably came back to him, but he had been a callow greenhorn then; now he had become a soldier, an officer in Prince Edward’s army, a trustworthy man on whom a helpless widow could rely. He glowed with satisfaction, and returned Dorine’s happy smile.

  Prince Edward’s hasty retreat to Bordeaux after a less than glorious chevauchée had left his army disheartened and hardly in festive mood. They were therefore happily surprised and pleased at his convivial celebrations of the Feast which went on for ten days, into the new year of 1356. There were entertainments of different kinds, archery contests with prizes, hawking and hunting the boar on frosty mornings, and feasting at the banquets every night, where wine flowed freely. Some young men complained among themselves that the lack of a Princess of Wales meant that there was a dearth of ladies-in-waiting and their maidservants, but they found that their Prince had made provision for this lack. For officers of his inner circle there was a discreetly separate building where they could visit carefully chosen young women who had arrived apparently from nowhere with a black-clad Madame who watched over them with a maternal, all-seeing eye, allowing no debauchery or excesses.

  ‘Have you been over to the house of beauty yet, Sir Galahad?’ joked Jean-Pierre, but Wulfstan had no desire for a stranger’s bought kisses; he preferred to visit his billet at the house of Madame Merlette, taking sweetmeats and such dainties as he could stealthily remove from the laden table at the palace, to present to Madame and her daughter. In return a blushing Dorine had let him kiss her in the wintry herb-garden at the back of the house, and he needed no sweeter reward. It had happened quite suddenly at twilight, without any contrivance on his part, though he later wondered if she had been lingering at the back door, hoping for him to encounter her there. When he saw her, he had impulsively taken hold of her hand.

  ‘I have been very happy here in your mother’s house,’ he told her, wondering if he dare raise her little hand to his lips.

  ‘And you have been so kind to us, Monsieur,’ she answered with a shy smile that he found encouraging.

  ‘I shall be very sorry when I have to leave Bordeaux, Dorine.’

  ‘I shall be sorry too, Monsieur,’ she whispered, lowering her eyes. He cautiously drew her towards him, and she hid her face against the woven woollen tunic he wore. He at once pulled his fur-lined cloak around them both, encircling her in its generous folds. She nestled against him, and he felt her slender body trembling within his gentle embrace, half fearful but willing. This was a moment that might never come again.

  ‘Dorine . . .’ He bent over her, willing her to raise her head. ‘Look at me, Dorine.’ As she lifted her face to meet his, his lips brushed the tip of her nose, then found her rosy mouth. Their kiss was the sweetest sensation imaginable, and sent a tremor through his own body like a flash of lightning. He saw himself as an experienced man after la Gouvernante’s lesson in love, but by all the rules of chivalry he was bound to protect this innocent girl from harm. He was about to whisper her name again, when they were suddenly interrupted.

  ‘Dorine! Dorine, where are you?’ her mother called from the kitchen, and she hastily pushed him away from her with a muttered, ‘O, mon Dieu!’ Aloud, she called out, ‘I’m coming, Mother!’ And she was gone, leaving Wulfstan standing uncertainly in the flowerless garden, like a guilty schoolboy caught playing dice in the classroom. Dorine never breathed a word to her mother, but her blushing glances showed him that she too would welcome an opportunity to exchange such another kiss.

  The days of feasting came to an end, and the Prince prepared for another chevauchée, this time calling upon all waverers to declare or renew their allegiance to his father King Edward III, ruler of extensive territories in France. He began by splitting his army into three units, fanning them out over a large radius, to the limit of Gascon jurisdiction to the north, and eastward along the river Garonne.

  ‘We’re to be in the middle section, Wulfstan, under the Prince’s own command,’ said Eric. ‘And if he has to leave us to take charge of the others, we’ll be under Sir John Chandos, a great soldier with years of service to the King. I can’t wait to be up and into the saddle!’

  Suddenly the time had come for Wulfstan to take his leave of Madame Merlette, and he found himself strangely tongue-tied as she thanked him for his consideration and kindness to them, by which she meant his respectful attitude towards a widow and her daughter.

  ‘Will you be coming back to Bordeaux at some future time, Monsieur Wulfstan?’

  ‘I . . . I really don’t know what Prince Edward intends to do next, Madame – but if I do return, I will certainly call upon you – and Mademoiselle,’ he assured her, not allowing himself even to look at Dorine, though he felt her eyes upon him. ‘We are to set out tomorrow on the chevauchée, and I . . . I’m sorry that I must bid you farewell.’

  And so the Prince’s detachment took to the road, and the young soldiers laid wagers about the conduct of this wide-ranging raid, anticipating what the Prince was planning to do. The first town of any size they re
ached was Périgueux, and when they marched into it, the leaders of the townspeople begged the Prince to spare them, but received a stern answer, ‘that the Prince desired to do only that which he had set out to do, which was to discipline and punish all inhabitants of the duchy of Aquitaine who had rebelled against his father.’

  Eric Berowne nodded with grim satisfaction to Wulfstan. ‘You can see that our Prince intends to repeat his exploits of last year, with a great marauding raid into all those territories under English rule, to ensure their loyalty – only this time with better success.’

  The town was not therefore sacked, but the men of the Prince’s army were given permission to help themselves to food and any valuables that took their fancy. Some of the soldiers took this to mean that they could also help themselves to pretty girls and violate their maidenhead, to Wulfstan’s horror. He pictured his pretty Dorine Merlette trying to fight off such an attack, and for her sake he swore that he would never take a woman by force, no matter whether she was a friend or an enemy of England.

  The progress of the advance into France on three fronts proved to be much slower than at first expected, and men began to sicken through cold, and to grumble at the lack of information. After a freezing winter of inaction, the army’s supplies had run low, and the Prince had to wait some time for supplies and reinforcements to be sent out from England before he could continue to move forward. With the welcome advent of spring, the relief forces at last arrived: several hundred archers and horses to carry them, longbows, bowstrings and arrows. Among the new faces were a father and son very familiar to Wulfstan, and he rushed to welcome them with unconcealed joy.

  ‘Count de Lusignan, how glad the Prince will be! And my brother-in-law, we shall be soldiers together!’

  The Count and his son Charles were equally delighted, though Wulfstan learned that they had at first decided not to join the Prince’s army, Charles having lost his elder brother at Crécy and not wanting to be involved with more warfare and killing, especially now that he was married to Wulfstan’s sister Ethelreda, and father of a growing family. The Count had also listened to his wife’s pleas and decided against more military service; but the urgent message from the Prince for more men had overcome their reluctance, and so here they were. They had been personally welcomed and thanked by the Prince himself, for they brought the news that the Prince’s cousin Henry, Duke of Lancaster, had landed in Normandy with an army to carry out a similar disciplinary raid there, and which, it was hoped, would link up with the Prince’s in due course. It became known that the Prince had sent a message to the Bishop of Hereford to hold daily Masses for the soldiers under his command, and to ask both clergy and laity to go twice a week in procession through Hereford town, praying for divine aid.

  With renewed heart the Prince drew his forces together, to head for the heart of France. This brought Jean-Pierre Fourrier and Robert Poulter to reunite with Wulfstan, Eric, and newcomer Charles, following the Prince and Sir John Chandos at the head of some six or seven thousand men, foot soldiers, bowmen and mounted men-at-arms, advancing at about ten miles per day. They passed through a series of towns – Brantome, Rochechourat and Châteauroux – and it was the Prince’s policy to halt at any well-provisioned town and rest there for a few days to refresh themselves, then to proceed, taking their plunder with them, piled high in their carts and horse-drawn wagons full of booty, taking the same course of action at the next town. Wulfstan could hardly question the rightness of his Prince’s policy, but his conscience troubled him more with each township they entered.

  ‘God’s bones, I hope there’ll be some willing women at the next town,’ said Robert, grinning. ‘Otherwise I’ll have to make do with a couple of unwilling ones.’

  ‘You don’t mean you’d take a Frenchwoman against her will, surely?’ Wulfstan asked, his tone both disbelieving and disapproving.

  ‘Why not? They’re our enemies, aren’t they? Oh, come off your high horse, Sir Galahad, just because your blood runs thin! There are red-blooded men who need to satisfy their appetites before going into battle, the better to conquer!’

  Wulfstan had no answer to this, having heard from others around him that a man was allowed, and indeed encouraged to ease his natural lusts when away from home in all-male company. For his part, he took refuge in remembering the sweet sensation of Dorine’s shy response to his kiss, and to know that she thought of him in her prayers. To force a stranger to supply his carnal needs was utterly alien to him, but he did not care to argue with Robert, or to mention Dorine’s name; after all, it was Robert who had first appraised her and been ousted by himself in her affections. Dear, sweet little Dorine! It was the thought of her, the memory of that moment of closeness that gave him strength to follow his Prince to a glorious victory – though it might cost him his life. Such thoughts he was unable to share with Robert or Jean-Pierre, or indeed with any of the other young officers serving under their Prince.

  Except perhaps for Charles de Lusignan, whose thoughts were with his wife Ethelreda and young Piers, Norval and little Sofia, soon to be joined by another.

  Five

  1356

  The weeks dragged by, turning into months, and Wulfstan was not the only officer of the Prince’s men to grow impatient with the conduct of the war, which seemed only concerned with safeguarding the English king’s territories in France. Contradictory rumours abounded, one being that the French king, John II, was marching south with a large army to join up with his troops stationed at Chartres. There seemed to be some confusion as to how Prince Edward intended to proceed.

  ‘You surely don’t expect the Prince to publish his plans to all and sundry,’ said Fourrier, who had heard from Sir John Chandos, the Prince’s second-in-command, that King John’s so-called army was mostly made up of mercenaries who would fight on the side of whoever paid them the most, and would desert in their droves if faced with the prospect of defeat.

  ‘Besides, we know the Prince is waiting for news of his cousin, Duke Henry of Lancaster, to swell the numbers,’ said Poulter, though his friends had learned not to give too much credence to his boastful assertions. He had appropriated several casks of wine from the towns through which they passed, and like the rank and file in times of inaction, was often drunk, giving his friends cause for amusement or irritation.

  ‘He’s bored,’ said Eric with a shrug. ‘He’ll mend his ways when we go into battle.’

  Yes, but what battle, and when? The mutterings got louder as time went on.

  Then came some unexpected action. On an afternoon in early summer Sir John led an exploration to the fair-sized town of Vierzon to assess the situation there and the mood of the people. He chose Robert Poulter and Wulfstan to take charge of a dozen men each, carrying their swords but without armour except for helmets to protect their heads. Nobody knew how the French got wind of this venture, but Chandos’s men suddenly found themselves ambushed by a detachment of French militia, and Wulfstan was faced with a soldier’s choice: to kill or be killed. A sharp skirmish took place, and Wulfstan felt his sword sink into human flesh; he heard his victim’s cry of pain, and at the same time Troilus reared up in terror, nearly unseating his rider. The French took flight, but Chandos ordered his men to pursue them into the citadel of the town and fight to the last man. Wulfstan was feeling sickened and reluctant to give chase, but at that moment, as if by some supernatural intervention, the Prince himself appeared among them, and the very sight of their royal leader in his black armour spurred them on. Under his command they set about capturing the citadel and taking two prisoners of rank. The Prince’s presence alongside his men gave them enormous encouragement, and when he singled out Wulfstan to compliment him on his swordsmanship, the young officer had to bow and looked suitably honoured. This incident, however, brought him to a decision: to exchange the faithful Troilus for a destrier, one of the great warhorses that had carried men into battle for centuries past. What to do with Troilus? There was no way of shipping him back to England, and on th
e advice of Poulter Wulfstan decided to offer the horse as a gift at the next monastery they drew near; the brothers would put him to farming duties and treat him well, but Wulfstan was troubled, feeling that he’d behaved treacherously to a faithful friend of seven years’ service.

  ‘Better that than be shot with a French arrow and lie for hours dying in his own blood,’ said Robert briskly, while most of Wulfstan’s companions thought him too much affected by the loss of a horse unsuitable for warfare.

  Still the Prince waited for news of Lancaster, hoping that he would cross the lower Loire in time for them to form a united front against the French king’s greater numerical advantage.

  ‘Why in God’s name this damnable delay?’ asked Eric impatiently. ‘Our Prince is a match for any French king, no matter what the numbers under his command.’

  Wulfstan nodded, having no answer. He was increasingly disturbed by what seemed to be a confusing cat-and-mouse game, and more weeks passed, until one day a shout went up at the approach of a scout, riding into the camp as fast as his steed could gallop.

  ‘Thank God, an answer from the Duke of Lancaster at last!’ shouted Charles de Lusignan, and the officers crowded round the Prince as he studied the message. He drew in a sharp breath of dismay, for it was not Lancaster, but King John who had crossed the Loire with his army. Wherever there was a bridge they streamed over it to the south bank, ‘like a great hunting pack’, reported the scout. Closer at hand, the French were entering Tours.

  ‘There’s only one way for us to go, my liege,’ Wulfstan heard Count de Lusignan say, ‘and that’s south, and quickly.’ In two days the Prince’s army had covered thirty miles, but by then King John’s men were a bare twenty miles away. The Prince was confronted with a hitherto unconsidered threat, that King John might march his army of thousands into the English-held territory of Aquitaine in a chevauchée that would repay the English and Gascons in their own coin, turning their tactics upon themselves, including the plundering. After a brief consultation with Sir John Chandos, the Prince turned his army round, abandoning their cartloads of booty, to lead his men-at-arms across the Poitiers road, stringing them along the fringe of Saint-Pierre wood; but at that very hour the King was entering the town of Poitiers, and there was a scuffle when the Prince’s vanguard came upon straggling groups of the King’s rearguard. The English killed a few and took prisoners, while the remainder of the French escaped down the road towards Poitiers. The Prince’s men were jubilant.