The Immortal Knight Chronicles Box Set 2

by Dan Davis

  “Then go to Calais! Find Clermont in the negotiations, charge in amongst the diplomats and cardinals and cut off his head. If you wanted to do it and cared nought for the consequences, none could stop you.”

  I looked away into the fire and Thomas scoffed.

  “Precisely, sir,” he said. “You are not so far gone as all that. You are a knight still in your heart and would not carry out such an act and call it victory.”

  I laughed, without humour. “Which is it, Thomas? You criticise me from both ends. Do I love pillage too much to be a knight or am I too virtuous to achieve victory? Make up your mind, sir.”

  “It is you that must make up your mind, sir. Will you have victory through honour? Or victory no matter the cost?” He bowed his head. “I will, of course, do as you command.”

  He left me alone to ponder it. Once, when I was a boy, I wanted only to be a knight. And then I wanted to fulfil the chivalric virtues through my actions. But over time, perhaps even before I had ever met Thomas, I had forgotten how to be courteous. I had grown arrogant and vain. And even then, I had not gone far enough to achieve the victories that I could have had if I had thrown off virtue entirely.

  Virtue was all very well but perhaps it was more than I could afford when what I needed above all was victory.

  King Edward had wanted victory and so he had thrown off knightly ideals on the battlefield. Using masses of archers instead of knights had led him to victory over the virtuous, chivalrous French.

  Priskos my grandfather had conquered lands in ancient times before there were such notions as chivalry and Christian decency. He said that William would achieve greatness because he had thrown off the shackles of those very things.

  Thomas was a knight from the days when it had still meant something. And so was I but I was also more than Thomas could ever be. I had the blood of heroes and conquerors in my veins. The blood of monsters and tyrants. Kings who had known victories that lived in legend.

  “I will have victory, then,” I said, speaking to the fire.

  ***

  Four years, we burned those lands. Four, long, bloody years. We killed hundreds of men sent against us and still Jean de Clermont never came to deal with us directly. He was always with King John in Paris, or so we thought.

  My men were a concern. They enjoyed the blood drinking and the slaughter of the men who tried to stop us, whether they were levies or mounted professionals. Rob and Walt managed to keep them in check but I fretted at times about what I had unleashed. Oft times in the night I would consider getting up and slaughtering them all rather than have them go on.

  But I did not.

  I needed them.

  And I could not see much difference between them and me. If anything, I was worse because I had made them, I led them and I knew that it was not the honourable path in a way that they, as ignorant commoners, could not comprehend.

  We wrought so much death and chaos that even the English in Gascony sent word that we were to be stopped. It was an order from Prince Edward himself, ruling over the many lords and factions of Gascony like he was already a king. There would be no safe haven in the south for us and I doubted whether I would have any lands in Suffolk to return to, if I ever succeeded in my quest.

  By itself, it was not so much of a loss. But it meant that I would certainly never marry dear Cecilia, or any other lovely English woman for that matter. Not for a long time. I avoided seeking word of her but I got messages from Stephen and Eva every now and then, many months out of date but always Eva mentioned pointedly that Cecilia remained unmarried. I felt sorry for her. It happened with some women, who were more useful as a potential wife than an actual one and so were dangled until they grew too old and joined a convent.

  It was such a terrible waste. Still, knowing as I did the lustful wantonness of the woman I expected she was enjoying the delights of the bedchamber while she yet could.

  In 1355, we became trapped in the vast marshland in northern Poitou by a massive group of knights and spearmen. We had been surrounded and expertly pushed back into the boggy landscape close to the coast.

  Jean de Clermont had not come himself but he had finally sent someone close to him named Rudolph de Rohan, a powerful lord who commanded de Clermont’s troops and ruled over vast lands for his master the Marshal of France.

  After so many years of practice, my men were as good as any could be at setting and springing ambushes. Those that had not the discipline for such work had long since been killed due to their own folly and so all that remained under me were cunning, strong-willed fellows. Despite being so heavily outnumbered, we remained confident that we would prevail. Indeed, we delighted at causing the enemy companies to dance to our tune.

  The marshland was deceptive to men who had no direct experience of its fickle ways. There were dead men and dead horses down in the shallow waters, and hundreds of sheep and cows, too. Green grass would stretch for hundreds of yards in all directions but there might be just a single track through it capable of carrying a man and his mount.

  We drew them in deeper and deeper until we ambushed our hunter Rudolph de Rohan. Two score of them charged my exposed archers only to ride headfirst into a sucking bog. As they abandoned their horses and struggled away on foot, our arrows killed them all.

  Another dozen followed us into the darkness of a wood at sundown where my men charged their flank and speared them to death. When their friends came to retrieve the bodies, we killed them, too. From these men we took the best horses, the best weapons and armour, and we were soon the most well-equipped bandits in Christendom.

  Rohan’s men grew so dispirited that many began deserting their lord. Along with the casualties we inflicted, he had just forty-five soldiers when we finally surrounded and trapped his company.

  Sheets of rain fell and soaked us thoroughly, washing the blood into the rivers and bog all around.

  Though they fought to free themselves, we killed his men and made him watch while we drank the blood from his loyal captains and followers.

  Lord de Rohan fought like the devil but we brought him down last of all and my men held him and revelled in his anguish. The lord was angry and he almost wept in despair as he witnessed us murdering and drinking his best men. He knew that his campaign against us had led to total and complete failure.

  “So it is true,” Rohan cried, disgusted and furious. “You are monsters. You are evil.”

  “Yes,” I said. “And we mean to have your master, Clermont. You will lead us to him.”

  Rohan regained his composure. “No, no.”

  “I do not wish to kill him, Rohan,” I said. “Merely to ask him questions about the black knight.”

  He blinked. “Who?”

  I smiled and held my arms out. “You know who. The knight who wears black and bears a black banner. Your master Clermont has met with him, so I am told. I would so dearly love to meet him, also.”

  Rohan looked between me and Thomas and the others. “You are friends of the black knight?”

  I was confused. “If he were my friend, I would know where he is.”

  Rohan frowned, looking around before staring at the ground at my feet. “I know of the black knight. He is evil. Like you. He drinks the blood of men. Like you.”

  “What did you say?”

  Rohan took a deep breath before answering. “The black knight. He drinks the blood of his enemies. But you know that, do you not? You are all the same. All of you? Even you, sir?”

  He had not seen me drink blood but I ignored his probing question.

  “You know of him. So what is his name?” I said.

  Rohan shook his head. “No one knows.”

  “De Clermont knows.”

  Rohan shrugged as best he could with my men holding him. “Perhaps. He is in Paris.”

  “Why is he in Paris?” I said. “Is he helping King John to assemble the army of France?”

  Rohan hesitated and I knew it was true. “You will never reach him.”

 
; “I will kill the black banner knight and all of his men, no matter how far they are from me today, nor how well protected.”

  Rohan laughed bitterly but I did not understand why until later.

  “Have you seen the black knight with your own eyes?” I asked.

  “From afar.”

  I looked at Thomas. “Why is it always from afar?”

  “He was meeting with the Dauphin.” Rohan sneered. “I was not allowed near, of course.”

  Thomas and I exchange a puzzled look. “He was meeting with the prince? When was this? What year did you see him? Do you mean the new King John of France?”

  He shook his head. “The prince who is the son of John. The young Charles, the Dauphin of Viennois, who will be John’s successor.”

  “But he is just a boy.”

  “He is seventeen or eighteen years old,” Rohan said. “And already a bright man. That is, so they say.”

  “I hear,” Thomas said, “that the boy prince is a weakling. Pale, sickly, and strangely proportioned.”

  De Rohan paused but then nodded. “He is that, also.”

  “Who is the black knight, Rohan?” I asked. “What is his name?”

  “I swear on all that is holy, I know not.”

  I stared at Rohan, unsure whether to torture him or not.

  “We should let him go,” Thomas said. “It would be the chivalrous thing to do.”

  “What is that to me?” I replied. “I think I shall cut him to pieces and scatter him in the bogs.”

  “Please,” Rohan said. “Please, no. I have great wealth. Ransom me and you will be rich. All of you will be made rich, if you ransom me.”

  “We do not need your money,” I said and saw how many of my men shot me hostile looks. “But I shall let you go. Find your master Clermont in Paris and tell him that I am coming for him. Tell him that nothing will stop me.”

  He scoffed but said that he would relay my message.

  “And Rohan?” I said before we sent him off. “If I ever see you again, I shall kill you.”

  He laughed as he rode away.

  We broke out of our encirclement and headed east for a time to get away from the mass of men sent to catch us. But we ran into more troops, and more. It seemed as though all of France was up in arms.

  “Something significant is happening,” I said to my men. “Something we have not seen for years. It is true. It can no longer be denied. France is going to war.”

  “Where?” Hugh asked. “Calais again?

  “They are gathering south of Paris. Garrisons are being strengthened in the south and west. There can be only one place. They mean to invade Gascony and to drive out the English once and for all.”

  “What do we do?” Thomas asked. “If Clermont and the black banner knight are with King John and with the Dauphin, they will be surrounded by an army. How do we get through that?”

  “I must get myself captured by the English,” I said. “Immediately.”

  20. The Prince’s Campaign

  In early December 1355 the Prince of Wales called the leaders of his army to the fortress of la Reole overlooking the Garonne. It was Englishmen almost to a man but a handful of the best of the Gascons were also invited. Men who had fought with us for years and had neglected their own lands and lives to fight almost constantly for English interests. Proper soldiers, like the Captal de Buch, Auger de Montaut the Lord of Mussidan and Elie de Pommiers.

  Although, most of the other Gascons were tucked up nice and warm in their homes and cuddled up to their wives or a soft servant girl, the bastards.

  It was exceedingly cold when I walked up to the gates of the town of la Reole in my best clothes and spoke to the sergeants on the gate.

  “My name is Richard of Hawkedon and the Prince has ordered me captured. And that is well because I would very much like to speak with him about an important matter.” They gaped at me, their faces pale and lips blue from the cold. “It is a matter of considerable urgency, my good fellows.”

  The men looked at each other. “You what, sir?”

  “I am the captain of the White Dagger Company. You may have heard of us?”

  They held me in a small, cold room in the fortress of la Reole for three days without contact with any of my men or servants. Although I was fed and given wine, they did not provide me with a servant of any sort and it was quite clear that I was being treated as a prisoner, whatever my legal status might have been. Not that anyone would have cared to consider the law as far as I was concerned. In Gascony, the Prince of Wales’ will was all the law any man would know.

  I was brought into his presence eventually and they did me the courtesy of removing my chains and allowing me to wash. Still, my best tunic was filthy and threadbare and I am sure I looked quite the ruffian to the Prince when he looked up at me from the table at the top of the hall.

  Their recent meal had been cleared away, though the smell of it yet filled the air and the tablecloth remained in place while the wine still flowed freely.

  At the Prince’s side were the Earls of Salisbury, Oxford and my own lord Robert Ufford the Earl of Suffolk, all scowling and casting disapproving looks. The Gascon lord Jean de Grailly, known as the Captal de Buch, stood with the other prominent Gascons still loyal to the English. Sir John Chandos stood to one side trying to keep the smile off his face.

  With horror, I saw that Sir Humphrey Ingham, my dear Cecilia’s brother was also in attendance. His glare radiated something between disgust and rage.

  I smiled at him before turning back to the Prince.

  “Your Grace,” I said brightly as I was acknowledged, “my lords! What a pleasure it is to see you all here and all so hale and hearty at that. It has been far too long since I have seen you all.”

  A couple of them shook their heads while others turned to the Prince.

  He scratched at his cheek while he regarded me. The young Edward truly did look well and I was pleased to see how he had continued to grow into a well-made man with all the stature and presence of any of his illustrious ancestors. If anything, he was taller even than his father. It was not hard to see the Lionheart in him, and of course he was every inch the Longshanks.

  “What am I going to do with you, Richard?” he asked, sighing.

  And, I noted, he was every bit as arrogant and condescending as those very same forefathers.

  “Do with me, Your Grace?” I asked, pretending to be as innocent and guileless as a newborn lamb. “Why, I would expect that you might use me and my men in your imminent attacks into Languedoc.”

  They began to splutter in outrage until the Prince waved them into silence.

  “What makes you think I mean to move now?” he asked, speaking mildly.

  Because I have been doing this since before your great-grandfather was squeezed from the royal nethers, boy. I thought the words but did not speak them, though the temptation was great.

  “Forgive me, Your Grace. I have been everywhere in France over the last few years and I have heard and seen a great deal. For instance, I have heard how the leading men of France are urging King John to strike back at their enemies in Normandy and Picardy and also down here in Gascony. It is no secret that the nobles feel dishonoured that the French Crown has been pushed back on all fronts and the lords wanted their king to throw back King Edward from Picardy and also smash you here in Gascony. And although King John continues to hesitate to commit himself, they insist that he take decisive action. As we speak, they are now raising an enormous sum through taxes which they will use to raise the King’s army.”

  “What does all that have to with anything?” Salisbury asked, scowling.

  A handsome man with a big nose, he was just a year or two older than the Prince but through his military competence had risen to become one of the most trusted English commanders. I had fought with his father, the old earl, when this Salisbury was just a boy but the man before me was one of the new generation that was far from impressed by my earlier exploits. I had stood near to t
he King as he knighted the eighteen-year-old Salisbury along with the Prince and a few others after we landed in France before Crecy. But I was swiftly realising that meant nothing to the new men.

  “It is in the air, sir,” I replied.

  Their faces turned to a sea of frowns.

  “What in God’s name are you blathering about?” Sir Humphrey Ingham spluttered.

  I lifted my arms. “War, my lord.” I looked at each of them in turn. “I can smell it. I can taste it. It is all around us. It fills the air from Paris to the Périgord and every man, woman and child there knows that the war proper will be rising up just as soon as the French can muster their huge numbers of men from all the regions of the country. Even now, they are coming in, mounted and on foot. In dozens and hundreds.” I smiled at them. “And of course, here you all are, my lords. The finest fighting men in all England, all gathered here in this one place. Why? Are you here to celebrate Christmas together?”

  I got a few smiles from that but the Prince fixed me with a dark look.

  “Richard, speak plainly, will you.” My lord the Earl of Suffolk spoke up. “Are the French prepared to defend an assault from Gascony?”

  “No, my lord,” I said. “They are preparing to invade Gascony.”

  “Nonsense,” Salisbury said, turning to the Prince. “We would have heard about this.”

  “My men have taken many messengers in the last few weeks, most heading south from Paris, and we questioned them quite vigorously. The French know, sirs, that Lancaster has summoned men to muster at Southampton after winter, with horse and equipment, ready to attack Brittany in the spring, as soon as the weather turns. They know also, that a second fleet is intending to sail from Plymouth to here, bringing supplies and more men to reinforce you.”

  “Good God,” Suffolk said, raising his voice above the growing muttering. “Their agents have improved.”

  “If it is true,” Ingham growled.