The Half-Hanged Man

by David Pilling

  Besides the recovery of my banner, it gave me some satisfaction to know that I had routed my enemy so easily, and to distribute his abandoned gear among my troops.

  “Where did they flee?” I demanded, gripping the little Mayor’s flabby chins in my hand and baring my incisors at him. He moaned and pissed himself in fear.

  “West, dread lord! Maybe to beg sanctuary with King Charles. More than that, I do not know.”

  I cursed. Charles of Navarre’s palace at Olite lay just a few miles to the west, as did Falces Castle, where he had murdered Seguin de Badefol. Would he agree to shelter the Wolf? He might, if the bribe was sufficient.

  “To hell with caution,” I snarled, signalling my knights to cease their flogging. The Mayor’s craven whimpers and pleas for mercy were scraping on my nerves. “I will have the Wolf’s pelt, no matter where he hides.”

  A kind of madness had overtaken me. I was prepared to attack Charles of Navarre himself, and burn the roof over his head, all so I could have my much-delayed revenge. The consequences of such folly might have been fatal, but it didn’t come to that. A troop of Navarrois soldiers met us on the road to Olite under a banner of truce, and informed me that Page had been refused entry to the palace.

  “King Charles knew of your movements, and has no interest in starting another war,” their captain said, glancing nervously at the long line of knights and men-at-arms at my back. Our horses were blown from the furious ride, our banners fluttering limply in the chill winter breeze. Many of my men were drooping in the saddle, for I allowed them no rest.

  “What then?” I asked, almost on the verge of panic. “Where did he go? Damn Charles, he is supposed to be my ally! Why didn’t he send his garrison out to attack Page as he withdrew?”

  “Attack who, Captain-General?” the captain replied, spreading his hands, “the Company of Wolves is no more. After they were refused entry, they marched a mile beyond the palace walls, and halted while their leader conferred with his captains. Shortly after that the entire Company, knights, squires, men-at-arms and all, broke up and dispersed. They rode away in all directions.”

  He smirked at my amazement. “I saw their leader riding north-west with a black-haired woman at his side and a few followers. They may be heading for Pamplona, or the mountains, or to Hell. Who knows?”

  The Wolf and the Raven had escaped me again. Every time I tried to scoop them up, they slipped through my fingers like water.

  At least, however, I had broken their power. For the time being.

  5.

  Pedro the Cruel fled Castile and went to Portugal, where he was given a freezing welcome by his uncle, King Peter. From there he slunk off to Galicia, where his last miserably vindictive act before quitting Spain was to arrange the murder of the Archbishop and Dean of Santiago, who had openly supported his half-brother’s invasion of Castile. Hated, defeated and bereft of allies, he then made his way to the English court at Bordeaux in Aquitaine, where he prostrated himself at the feet of Edward, the Prince of Wales, and humbly invoked his old alliance with England to regain his throne.

  If I was Prince Edward, I would have pissed on the alliance and thrown the grovelling supplicant from a balcony, as Pedro once did to a Castilian knight who defied him. But the prince, for all his genius as a soldier, was a man of little discernment, and allowed himself to be moved to pity by the fugitive monarch’s ragged, desperate appearance, and tempted by his extravagant promises.

  “Help me to win back my throne, sire, and I will confer on you the Lordship of Biscay,” hissed this royal viper, oozing false sincerity like warm venom, “and shower your followers with honours and riches.”

  Whether the prince was indeed swayed by Pedro’s offers, or merely anxious to shake the dust from his military reputation (he had not led an army in the field since the Poitiers campaign, ten years previously), I cannot be certain. But swayed he was. Within weeks of Pedro’s arrival at Bordeaux the war-drums were beating again. In the autumn of 1366 a swarm of writs and commissions of array were dispatched from Bordeaux, summoning Englishmen to service from all over Christendom, including my old chief, Sir John Chandos, and your patron and the prince’s brother, the Duke of Lancaster.

  And myself. As you know, I was not popular with His Majesty of England, the prince’s father, having several times ignored his direct orders and waged war against his express command. I was still in favour for my years of service in the English cause in Brittany, but my credit was rapidly draining away. I had no wish to be declared a traitor and barred from ever returning home.

  When the summons reached me in Toledo, where I was embroiled in a lawsuit against Du Guesclin for monies owed me from the Castilian campaign (he had bilked me of much of my share of the plunder, the little toad), I had little choice but to obey. Treachery, you might say, but I was no longer in Enrique’s service, and I was an Englishman before ever I was a mercenary.

  What of the Wolf and the Raven? Since dispersing their soldiers at Olite they had vanished. Their movements at this time are a mystery. My servants failed to trace any sign of them anywhere on the Iberian continent, so I reluctantly concluded that the wretches must have fled abroad.

  Charles of Navarre, with his usual faithlessness, opened negotiations with both sides, and attended a great conference held at Bayonne to discuss a new war against Castile. I took the opportunity of Charles’ absence from his kingdom to ride north at the head of my Company and storm the towns of Miranda de Argo and Puenta della Rayna, just inside Navarrois territory.

  You may wonder at my daring to attack Navarre. In truth, I had lost all my fear of Charles, who was a mere crawling traitor and self-server, and I wasn’t likely to accept any more of his dinner invitations. I looked to use the coming invasion as an opportunity to further enrich myself. My seizure of the Navarrois towns sent out a message that there was a new power in Spain, and warned King Charles that he was powerless to defend his territory against English aggression.

  Charles remonstrated furiously with the Prince of Wales, who put him off with mocking replies and continued to gather troops and stores at Bordeaux, delaying his invasion until all was ready and his pregnant wife had been delivered of her child. The royal whelp was spat out on the Feast of the Epiphany, 1367. Once his father had given thanks to God for foisting another Angevin on the world, the English host, over twenty thousand strong, set out from Bordeaux.

  They advanced to Dax in Gascony, where the prince was joined by Chandos and the Duke of Lancaster at the head of more troops, and from hence to Peyre Hourarde, where Charles of Navarre was waiting to meet them. Mindful of my presence in the south of his kingdom, he folded like a cheap cloak to all their demands, and agreed to let the English march through Navarre without hindrance.

  Having received word that the vanguard of the Prince’s host had moved south of Gascony and entered the Pyrenees, I moved north to meet them. Thus, on a fine winter’s day in February, with the cold wind snapping and tearing at my banner, I shaded my eyes and glimpsed the banners of Lancaster, Warwick and the Marshals of Aquitaine advancing through the mountainous passes of Navarre.

  The English host camped in the valley of Pamplona, under the shadows of the snow-capped mountains. A herald summoned me to attend the prince in his pavilion, where Lancaster, Chandos and Don Pedro were also present.

  That was an unforgettable conference, and I can see their faces still when I gaze into the fire – Prince Edward, fleshy and empurpled, his youthful athleticism gradually sinking into stout middle age; John of Gaunt, his lean and foxy-faced brother, wearing his most fastidious expression, as though he had smelled something nasty (probably me); Chandos, as misleadingly foppish as ever, sitting cross-legged and idly picking out some mournful Spanish air on his lute as the bitter February winds whipped through the tent; Pedro, still a handsome man, but his soft fair hair was starting to recede, and his boyish face marked by lines of debauchery and privation. The ugliness of his soul was becoming apparent in his features, and I preferred not
to look at him.

  “Your Company will be placed in the van,” the prince said in a tone that brooked no dissent, glaring at me, “along with the contingents under the command of Chandos. Overall command of the van lies with my brother. You will both take your orders from him. Understand? Good.”

  Edward of Woodstock had adopted a snarling, impatient manner of speech, snapping off the ends of words, and he had no time for the opinions of his subordinates. I was surprised and dismayed by the change in him. The courteous young paladin I had known a decade previously had become an angry drunk, though his military instincts were as sharp as ever.

  “We will push south,” the prince went on, tapping the map on the table, “and look for a crossing over the Ebro. Once over the river into Castile, you, John,” – he pointed at his brother – “will seize the town of Navarette. Our scouts report that Castilian forces are massing to the south of there.”

  “My understanding is that they outnumber us two to one,” drawled Lancaster, “we would be well advised to proceed with caution.”

  Edward snorted, and Pedro looked at the Duke with pure disgust. “Rabble,” said Pedro, dismissing his half-brother’s entire host, “Enrique may have scraped together some forty thousand men, but two-thirds of those will be peasant levies. Fodder for your English arrows, my lords.”

  “They are your subjects, Majesty,” Chandos gently reminded him, “it scarce becomes you to glory in the slaughter of your people.”

  Chandos clearly had no liking for Pedro, which was understandable. The Englishman was the soul of chivalry, while Pedro the Cruel thoroughly deserved his title. He bared his teeth at Chandos like a dog, and clenched his fists.

  “My people are traitors!” he screamed, “treacherous, faithless vermin, who did nothing to defend their true-born King when his realm was snatched away from him. They must be whipped into line, Sir John, whipped and beaten and cowed, until they learn the value of obedience and loyalty.”

  “Lower your voice, in God’s name,” growled the prince, but Pedro was not done.

  “When the battle is over,” he hissed, “I want all the prisoners handed over to me. I am their King, and I have the right to execute justice on them.”

  “Impossible,” said Edward, “this campaign is already threatening to bankrupt me. You may do as you like with the commoners, but the Castilian nobility must be spared. Their ransoms will go some way to clearing my debts.”

  They wrangled in this vein for some time. Edward and Lancaster insisted on their money, Pedro insisted on his bloody revenge, and Chandos gloomily shook his head and picked out doleful melodies.

  It boded ill that our commanders were at such cross-purposes. To this day I still don’t fully understand why the prince took up cudgels on behalf of Pedro. The two men clearly despised each other, and the fearful cost of the war saddled Edward with crippling debts. My confidence was already dented by the news that King Enrique had recalled Du Guesclin from France. The Frenchman had brought a large contingent of troops with him, experienced and professional men-at-arms, to stiffen the spine of the Castilian host.

  “My lords,” I ventured when there was a lull in their quarrel, “are we quite certain that the Castilians mean to fight? I often heard Enrique speak with admiration of English arms, and how he would never dare to take the field against us. Perhaps he is merely making a show of force.”

  Lancaster looked at me pityingly. “Hark to the sage counsel of our Gideon,” he sneered, turning to the prince, “brother, why not show Sir Hugh the letter we received from Enrique?”

  Edward beckoned to his secretary, a prim, nervous little man who was doing his best to hide in the corner, and snatched a square of white parchment out of his hands. “Here,” he snapped, thrusting the letter at me.

  I took it and read:

  “To the high, puissant, and honourable lord, the prince of Wales and of Aquitaine.

  “My lord, — We have been informed, that you have with an army passed the mountains, and have entered into treaties and alliances with our enemy, to make war upon and to harass us: all this has caused in us much astonishment: for we have not done anything, nor ever had the smallest hostile intentions against you, that should justify your advancing hitherward with a large army, to deprive us of the small inheritance which it has pleased God to give us. But as you are the most powerful and most fortunate prince of the age, we flatter ourselves and hope that you glorify yourself in it. Since we have received certain intelligence that you seek us in order to offer us battle, if you will have the goodness to inform us by what road your intentions are to enter Castille, we will advance to meet you, in order to guard and defend our realm.”

  “That’s clear enough, then,” I said, handing the letter back to the prince’s cringing secretary, “Enrique has accepted our challenge, and is prepared to stand and fight for his small inheritance, as he calls it.”

  “And die,” said Pedro, with undisguised relish. Prince Edward exchanged worried glances with his brother. The winds of winter howled outside, forming a dreary accompaniment to Chandos’s lute.

  The Duke gave me command of a picked body of men, with orders to cross the Ebro, seize the bridgehead at Navarette, and lay waste to the country thereabouts. My command was shared with Sir William Felton, a brave but somewhat brainless knight whose one thought was to put his head down and charge the enemy at all times. Nervous of Felton’s presence, we left the army with one hundred and sixty lances and three hundred archers and headed south.

  The river Ebro, where it flows through Logroño, is treacherously deep and fast-flowing, and we had some difficulty in crossing. Once beyond it, we advanced rapidly to the walled village of Navarette, an abandoned shell with its gates hanging open. There we took up quarters and sent out riders to look for the enemy while we waited for the rest of our army to come up.

  Felton was anxious to be off, spearing Castilians on the plain. Our scouts returned that evening with news that Enrique’s host was camped just three miles to the south.

  “The fox is run to earth!” cried Felton, snapping his visor shut, and led his half of our company out of the town at the gallop. I led mine out at a more cautious pace, and halted in a valley near Ariñez, about a league from Navarette. Felton was somewhere to the south, playing tag with Castilian skirmishers, but I intended to camp for the night and reconnoiter the enemy position the following morning. To my eternal shame, for I was far too old a soldier to make such a blunder, I arrogantly neglected to post any men on watch.

  I don’t often dream, but that night I dreamed of a wolf-pack stalking me through the pine trees of a mist-shrouded forest, lean grey shapes that flickered in and out of sight as I blundered through the damp, clinging undergrowth. The howls of the wolves filled my ears, echoed by my labored breathing and the frantic rattling of my heart.

  The mist and the pine trees gradually faded, but the howling remained. The dreadful noise grew louder and closer, until the wolves were all around me, their dark, stinking shapes closing in, teeth and claws scrabbling for my throat.

  I woke, gasping for air and slick with sweat, to find a powerful hand shaking me by the neck. I fought desperately, grasping the shadowy intruder’s wrist and reaching for the dirk under my pillow. Before I could stab the man he released me and stepped back.

  It was Adam. He had dragged on a hauberk over his night-shirt, and the sword in his hand was wet with blood. His eyes were wild, and he grunted like an over-excited pig as he jabbed his finger at the flap of my tent and desperately tried to utter words. The weird ululating howls were all around us, mingled with the sound of battle – men screaming and shouting, horses whinnying, blades clashing, trumpets and horns blowing wildly.

  I didn’t know it then, but Felton’s company had been caught in the open by six thousand enemy horse led by Don Tello, another of King Enrique’s brothers, and cut all to pieces. After scattering Felton’s men and driving the remainder onto a little hill, part of their contingent rode on and attacked my camp.r />
  They were led by Thomas Page, the Wolf of Burgundy, and his re-formed Company of Wolves. He had emerged from his hiding-place, wherever that was, and offered his sword to King Enrique. The first I knew of any of this was when the howling erupted outside my tent. Page’s men, it seems, were in the habit of impersonating real wolves when they charged.

  I tumbled out of bed, shouting at Adam to fetch my horse, and snatched up my broadsword. There was no time to don my harness, gleaming in its stand in the corner, so I ripped the blade from its sheath and rushed outside with my night-shirt flapping against my calves.

  All was noise and chaos, shadowy figures hacking at each other in the darkness, lit only by a few torches and the dim glow of the sun rising in the east. A man tripped over one of the ropes of my tent and pitched onto his face in front of me, screaming and writhing with a javelin jutting out of his back. The mounted jinete who had thrown the javelin came spurring towards me, reaching for the axe hanging from his saddle-bow. I stood to meet his charge and swung my broadsword into his pony’s neck, half-severing it and showering both of us in hot blood. Pony and rider went down, and Adam leaped on the fallen man’s chest and finished him off with a dagger-thrust.

  I wiped the gore from my eyes and looked around, trying to make some sense of the confusion. My men were being slaughtered, ambushed and ridden down by the Wolves. They galloped at will through our camp, riding over tents and overturning carts and wagons.

  We were outnumbered and surprised and already beaten, unless I chanced upon the Wolf himself and killed him. I stalked through the darkness, shouting Page’s name and daring him to come and face me. Hearing my challenge, two of his men left off plundering a baggage wagon and came at me with swords and daggers. I split one of them from groin to chin, and cut off his companion’s sword arm below the elbow. I gripped the second man by the throat and lifted him high into the air, shaking him like a dog with a rat, until his neck was broken.