by Alys Clare
It was difficult to judge the mood among the people, for so well had he and Geoffroi planned their route so far that they hadn’t encountered many. What is everyone else doing? Josse wondered. Does Prince Louis still hold London? Have more rebel barons gone to join him, or has his failure to push on and gain some significant victories persuaded men that they’re better off with the King?
That, he reflected with a smile, was the less welcome side of having encountered few other travellers: they’d met nobody from whom to acquire news.
Now he and the others were deep in the peaceful Essex countryside, some eight or ten miles away from the area’s southern coast. Geoffroi had scouted ahead and found a ramshackle barn on the edge of an overgrown field. He’d chased out quite a lot of rats, scooped out a shallow pit and made a fire, and now, with the horses untacked and hobbled outside, already fed and watered, he was setting out food for their supper.
‘Where did you find this lad, Josse?’ Yves asked, leaning back comfortably by the fire, propped against his saddle and watching his nephew work.
‘Oh, he just blew in one fine day,’ Josse replied nonchalantly. ‘Not bad, is he? I reckon I might keep him around.’
Geoffroi stirred his savoury stew, smiling. He didn’t bother to comment.
When they had eaten, and Geoffroi had washed and packed away his pots and cooking implements, they wound themselves in their blankets and prepared for sleep. Josse felt a nudge in his ribs and, looking to his left, saw Yves’s hand emerging from his bedroll. It held a small silver flask. He jiggled it, obviously inviting Josse to take it. ‘Calvados,’ he whispered. ‘It’ll help you sleep.’
Josse grasped it, and took a mouthful. Delicious. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered back.
Sleep, he thought, settling down. It was late, he was tired, and he knew he should rest and restore some of his strength for the next day.
But it wasn’t easy, when he really had no idea what the next day was going to bring.
At the Sanctuary, Meggie woke in the morning to find her patient a little feverish. She examined her, and found no obvious cause. There was no overlooked flesh wound that was beginning to suppurate, no symptoms of any disease that might be developing.
‘It may be the after-effect of the blow to her head,’ she said quietly to Helewise, who crouched beside her. ‘I’ll prepare a febrifuge, and we should bathe her forehead with cold water. Oh, and keep her warm.’
She picked up one of the larger wooden bowls and went outside to the stream, bending down to wash her hands and face and then fill her bowl. The water was so cold that the actions made her hands ache. She had always suspected that the little stream was spring-fed, from a source somewhere nearby, for its water was always sparkling fresh and extremely cold. It was likely, she thought, that it still bore the effects of its long sojourn deep within the earth.
Someone called her name, and she came back to herself.
‘Good morning, Faruq,’ she said. ‘Did you—’
He nodded a cursory response to her greeting, then, interrupting, said, ‘How soon can you be ready to leave?’
‘Leave?’
‘Yes!’ He looked surprised that she was protesting.
‘Where are we going?’
He turned away, and she had the impression he was controlling his irritation. ‘We have to go to the Queen,’ he said tightly. ‘You told me you knew where she’d be.’
Meggie tried to collect her thoughts. ‘Yes, indeed I did, but it was only because your mother had set off to find her, and we had to go after her!’ She realized that she hadn’t even thought about what might or might not happen next.
He seemed to understand. ‘I am sorry,’ he said quickly. ‘I thought you would – I mean, we still have to carry out our mission. We must warn her. My mother and I—’
‘Your mother will stay exactly where she is.’ It was Meggie’s turn to interrupt. ‘Her arm is grossly swollen and she should keep it immobile, for the next few days at least. Riding would be agony, as well as perilous, as she would only have the use of one hand. Besides, this morning she is feverish.’ Silently she cursed; she’d been going to break the worrying news to him more gently. ‘Only a little,’ she reassured him, ‘and I know how to help her.’
‘You will have to tell that other woman, then, for you won’t be here,’ he said firmly. She shot him an angry look, for she didn’t like being told what to do. Realizing his error, he said, ‘Meggie, I apologize, and it is not for me to give you orders. But please! I cannot tell you how vital this is, but, believe me, we must go!’
Meggie was torn by indecision. Already uneasy because her beloved father had ridden off into uncertainty and in all likelihood danger, she had thought to pass the days – weeks? – of his absence by working as hard as she could with the nuns of the Hawkenlye infirmary or, as it had transpired, looking after Hadil here at the Sanctuary and assisting Helewise in her many daily tasks.
Both options, she admitted to herself, were designed to take her mind off worrying about Josse.
Might not a ride far off westwards with this exotic, desperate stranger and his mysterious mission achieve the same end? And he was certainly desperate; any idiot could have seen that. What was this danger to the Queen? Meggie guessed it must be something to do with the invading French prince and the rebel barons. Perhaps there was some plot to abduct Queen Isabella and use her to force the King’s hand.
If that were true, though, how had Faruq and his mother come to know about it? And how was it, moreover, that it had been left up to them to warn the Queen or, more probably, warn the captain of whatever bodyguard King John had detailed to keep her safe?
It all seemed very unlikely.
Faruq was watching her, his face impassive but his blue-green eyes intent.
And, to her vague surprise, Meggie heard herself say, ‘Very well, then. Go and prepare our horses, fill the water bottles and sort out your kit. I’ll talk to Helewise about your mother’s care and pack up some food.’
Before they finally left the forest, Meggie left Faruq holding the horses and hurried off down the narrow path to her hut. She’d told him she needed to fetch some personal things, which was perfectly true. She kept a change of under-linen and a thick travelling cloak in the hut, so fortunately she’d avoided having to go to the cottage by the forge. She didn’t really think Jehan would be there, but she was relieved not to take even the small chance of encountering him.
She didn’t know what she would have said to him, and that made her heart hurt.
The other reason for calling in at the hut was to fetch something she kept hidden there. She already had the Eye of Jerusalem, safely tucked away inside her gown. Now, it was a gift from someone else she loved that she wished to collect.
It was a sword, given to her by Jehan. He’d made it in his original forge back in the Breton forest. It was quite small; only a little longer than a man’s hunting knife. The blade was slim, and it had a very slight curve. The hilt was bound in purple leather, of a very fine quality, and the colour had been chosen to complement a subtle sheen of violet in the dull, grey steel of the blade.
It was a killing weapon – she kept it viciously sharp – but, nevertheless, beautiful.
Jehan had told her as he presented it to her that all fine swords should have a name. Because he was a Breton, and because of where her sword had been created, she had called it Limestra. It was the Breton word for ‘purple’.
She slid it back in the scabbard and, raising her gown, fastened the scabbard’s belt around her waist. Once she’d let the folds of her skirt fall again, the sword was invisible.
She secured the hut’s door and hurried back to Faruq.
SIX
Some forty miles to the north-west, Jehan’s secret journey continued.
Jehan was increasingly worried at the thought that this was going to be a very different exercise from the last time he’d set out after the man who had murdered Arthur of Brittany. Then, he’d been one of a band of
young men – boys, some of them – who’d had little or no military experience, were poorly armed, undisciplined and without any very definite plan; the only things they’d had in abundance were courage and the blind fervour of a just cause.
Now, he had the unsettling feeling that he had joined up with a band who were all a great deal more professional than he was, which, he admitted to himself, wouldn’t be difficult, since his experience of fighting was so limited as to be almost non-existent. Under the leadership of Yann Duguesclin, it was an army of solemn and determined men who knew exactly what they were doing; who followed orders instantly and without question; who, in short, very often made him feel like a silly and incompetent boy.
It hadn’t been so apparent to begin with, when with the seven others he had ridden north from the Great Forest and crossed the Medway valley. He had expected they would join similar small bands and head for London; in fact, he was quite sure someone had told him so. Perhaps it had been Joséph, the man he knew from when they’d all come over to England for the original mission. Whoever it was, it appeared now that it had been deliberate misinformation; he wondered if they’d kept the truth from him because they didn’t yet trust him. It would be typical, if so. Because they hadn’t done that at all. Instead, they had veered westwards when still some ten or fifteen miles south of the capital, and ridden along the ancient, dry tracks on the top of the North Downs, still keeping to out-of-the-way paths and making simple camp under the sky each night. Then one morning they hadn’t set out as usual but stayed where they were. Watchmen had been set. An air of expectancy had grown; men whispered behind their hands, stopping abruptly when the leader’s eye fell on them. And, a day and a half later, Jehan understood what they’d been waiting for: another band joined them, and together they set off northwards. The pattern repeated itself as stealthily they worked their way north-east, repeatedly meeting up with other groups, the army growing larger until currently – and it seemed that this was the full sum of the Breton rebels – it numbered some sixty or seventy men. Now – by Jehan’s reckoning, putting together the few bits of information he’d managed to glean from hurried, muttered remarks – they were somewhere to the north-west of London, and had turned north-east.
And it was still Yann Duguesclin who led them.
If Jehan had thought they were tightly disciplined before, it was as nothing compared to how Duguesclin ruled his men. Previously, soft-voiced conversations as they rode along, or anything other than strictly necessary remarks in camp at night, had been met with a scowl, a hissed ‘Shut your mouth!’ and occasionally a cuff round the back of the head. Now, such offences – together with a great many more – had a fixed punishment. Depending on what you did, you could expect to pay a penalty ranging in severity from a fine or the cutting of your ration to a flogging.
Not that there were many transgressors. Virtually to a man, Jehan’s fellow soldiers were as dedicated as their leader and, their hearts and minds firmly focused on one end, they obeyed without demur or even resentment.
Sometimes Jehan had to work hard to convince himself he was doing the right thing.
He had to fight his own nature quite a lot of the time. In his own mind he was a man of standing. A blacksmith was a valued member of his community, and Jehan was used to being treated with consideration; with respect, even. Now, when almost every man who rode with him was far more experienced than him and, he was sure, had a far better idea of where they were going and what they’d do when they got there, he felt like a boy whose condescending elders deliberately kept the truth from him for his own good. Despite his best efforts, it nagged and picked at him.
In camp one night, his resentment finally got the better of him. One of the hard-faced, silent men who habitually rode close to Yann Duguesclin had set off on a brief sortie to spy out the land ahead and, on his return, had gone into a huddle with Yann and some of the older men. Jehan had gone to see what they were muttering about, and one of the senior men had scowled at him. ‘Unless you know how to shoe a horse, fuck off and get back to your duties!’ he hissed.
Jehan stood his ground. ‘I do,’ he said.
The man spun round again. ‘You still here?’ He fixed cold, angry eyes on Jehan. ‘What did I just say?’
‘I heard you.’ Jehan knew the danger but he couldn’t stop himself. ‘I’m offering to help, you—’ He clamped his jaws tight on the word that had almost escaped. ‘I’m offering to help you,’ he said. ‘I’m a blacksmith.’
Such were the expectations, in that rebel army of fierce, fanatical professionals dedicated to their cause, that he only narrowly escaped punishment for not having told them sooner.
Josse, Yves and Geoffroi were making steady progress through the southern half of East Anglia. Josse, delighting in the company of his brother and his son, was enjoying himself so much that on occasion he forgot what they were doing there. One evening, as they settled into camp in a pine forest, the ground cushioned by a thousand years of fallen pine needles and promising a comfortable night, Geoffroi interrupted Josse and Yves’s laughter and provided an unwelcome reminder.
Yves had been recalling how, when he and Josse had been boys, they had constructed what they’d grandly called a cart, although it had been little more than a piece of wood with wheels fixed to it. They’d had the bright idea of Josse towing Yves on it, and Josse had mounted his pony and kicked him to a brisk trot. They had misunderstood the nature of ropes and of towing; as the rope suddenly snapped taut, the platform gave an almighty lurch and Yves, clutching the handle they’d fixed for him to cling on to, was hurled forward and fell flat on his face. Josse, horrified at the blood pouring from his little brother’s nose, had hurriedly taken him home where one of the older grooms – a kindly man with sons of his own – had mopped him up. On being told how the mishap had occurred, he told them, once he’d finished laughing, that they should have paid out the rope first and, with it stretched between them, Josse ought to have steadily increased his speed with Yves accelerating at the same rate behind him.
‘And then, d’you remember, Josse, he …’ Yves paused to wipe his eyes.
It was then that Geoffroi took his opportunity. He said quietly, ‘Father, how do we know where to go?’
Josse, still chuckling, turned to him. ‘Hm? What’s that, son?’
‘How do we know where to go?’ Geoffroi repeated.
Josse stared at him. He glanced at Yves. ‘Don’t look at me,’ his brother muttered, trying to hide a grin.
‘Ah,’ Josse said. ‘Er …’ He stopped to think. Then he went on, ‘The King was heading for Lincoln when he wrote to me.’
‘Yes, but that was some time ago,’ Geoffroi pointed out. ‘Is he still there now?’
‘I don’t know!’ Josse exclaimed, chuckling. Then – for he realized he was being no help at all and that his son was really worried – he thought some more and said calmly, ‘We need to find others loyal to the King, for, now we are that much closer to what must be his position, his movements will be known.’
‘How do we tell King’s men from rebels?’ Geoffroi asked.
Yves met Josse’s eye. His expression said all too plainly, How are you going to answer that, then?
‘I shall set out in the morning and make contact with troops loyal to the King,’ he said.
‘But how—’ Geoffroi began.
Josse silenced him with a look. ‘Give me a little credit for many years’ experience, son,’ he said gently.
Later, as they settled down to sleep in the silent pine forest, warm under blankets and cloaks, he wondered just how much use that experience was going to be.
In the morning, before doubt and a certain lack of confidence could undermine his resolve, Josse left his brother and his son packing away all signs of their simple camp and set out to find the answers they required. Their overnight camp had been isolated, and he rode for some two or three miles with few signs of human habitation. He skirted a patch of ancient woodland, which reminded him of the fore
st surrounding his home, and spotted in the distance a solitary man taking a stout old sow towards the trees, presumably to forage on the rich diet of acorns. Josse called out a greeting, and the man stopped. ‘Where’s the nearest village?’ Josse called out.
The man waved a hand down the track and then, before Josse could ask anything else, turned and hurried away, prodding his pig’s stout backside with his stick to make her run.
Josse nudged Alfred with his heels and rode on.
Presently the fringes of the little settlement came into view. A row of single-storey houses, small and simple but apparently in good repair; a bigger house, and a tavern beside a pond; a forge, busy even at this early hour. There was a noise in the still air … Josse paused, trying to decide what it was. A sort of humming, and the occasional clash of metal on metal; was it connected with the work of the smithy?
He rode on around a bend and suddenly he understood. Before him, stretched right across a large field whose hedgerows had been severely damaged and whose grass was in places churned into muddy tracks, was a small army. Tents had been erected, camp fires still burned, and a smell of cooking hung like an almost tangible cloud. Approaching cautiously, Josse revised his first astonished and alarmed impression: the men numbered perhaps only forty or fifty. Not an army, then, but a smallish detachment.
Best of all, for Josse’s purpose, the standard flying over the largest tent was that of a lord loyal to King John. Or at any rate, Josse thought with a wry smile, he had been the last time Josse had heard tell.
He dismounted and, leading Alfred, approached the young man standing beside the huge gap ripped in the undergrowth that was presumably the entrance to the camp.