by C. B. Hanley
He half-rose from his position, but Nigel, who was next to him, pulled him down again. ‘I wouldn’t get in the way of the sailors if I were you.’
Edwin looked about him and noted that all the fighting troops were packed in specific spaces – away from what he supposed were the important ropes and workings of the ship – but that the sailors themselves were swarming all over the place.
‘Are we going to sail now?’
Nigel shook his head. ‘Don’t think so. They’re just …’ he floundered, presumably having as little sea-going knowledge as Edwin himself. ‘Just getting things ready. I heard someone say we’ll be off on the tide just before dawn.’
‘What’s a tide?’
Nigel gave him an incredulous look. ‘A tide. You know, when the water pulls either into shore or away from it?’
‘Really? But how?’
‘How can you not know what a tide is?’
‘Oh, leave him be, Nigel. He’s not stupid, he’s just never seen the sea before.’ This was John, who then started digging in a bag for his rations. ‘Eat up, both of you. Line your belly now – you probably won’t want it in the morning just before we fight.’
The reminder of why they were actually there formed a stone in Edwin’s insides once more, and he stared unenthusiastically at his bread. He’d need his strength, though, wouldn’t he, so he’d better force it down.
As he ate he saw Sir Hugh and Sir Roger come up on deck, the latter now disarmed and dry. They moved to a position near the ship’s mast to join several other knights. Edwin was impatient to hear their views on the accident, but there was no way he could get across to them – the press of men formed a physical barrier and the circle of knights a social one. He would just have to work it out on his own and hope that they all lived long enough tomorrow for it to be resolved.
More movement from the sailors distracted him, and he nudged John. ‘What are those?’
John surveyed the clay pots and canvas bags being carried with extreme and exaggerated care. ‘No idea. Something important, though, I reckon.’ One of the sailors laid down his burden near them and then paused as he straightened, so John took the opportunity to hail him and ask.
‘Lime,’ came the short answer.
John whistled. ‘Nasty.’
‘Lime? You mean, like they use in building?’ Edwin was confused.
‘Yes, though you can use it in fighting as well. Comes as a powder, horrible stuff that burns on your skin and in your eyes if you get on the wrong side of it. Let’s hope we’ve got all of it and the Frenchies none, eh?’
The sailor was about to head off again but he paused. ‘Oh, it’s you.’ It was Stephen, the man Edwin had met that morning. ‘I owe you thanks for all that help earlier – we wouldn’t have done it half so fast if you hadn’t come back.’ He looked around, perhaps expecting to be reprimanded for slacking, but when he wasn’t, he leaned comfortably on the rail.
He nodded at the lime. ‘The most important thing is, make sure you’ve got the wind behind you.’
It didn’t take long for Edwin to work that one out. ‘Of course.’
‘It’s light, like dust, so it gets everywhere, right inside armour. And like John here says, you especially don’t want it in your face. If you throw it wrong it’ll come back at you.’
A shout from the other side of the deck recalled his attention and he nodded to them both. ‘Remember.’ He picked his way back through the crowd.
With even more to worry about, Edwin settled himself down as best he could on the deck. Darkness fell, the only light coming from the lantern burning at the top of each ship’s mast, a long line of glimmers spread along the wharf. Edwin had been concerned that he might suffer from sickness, as several men had warned him about the movement of the ship on the water, but actually he found the rocking quite soothing, at least here in the port. Maybe it would be different out on the sea, but he didn’t want to think about that just now.
As men around him slept, he forced himself to go back over the details of every event of the last few days, checking it off against his recall of who had arrived with the host and when. The earl’s own household and others from Conisbrough had been there all the way, obviously. As had Sir Roger – not that he could possibly have anything to do with it – who had been there the night of the fire to help him. They had picked up other retainers such as Sir Hugh on the way. Now, Sir Hugh had arrived after the fire but before the poisoning and everything else. The Earl of Arundel even later than that, so surely he could be counted out as well, unless he had managed to infiltrate someone into the host before he arrived himself, in order to allay suspicion. And the same went for those whom they had only joined at the main encampment: the regent, John Marshal and the others.
Arundel. Consider Arundel. But he was a close ally of the lord earl – his sister had once been the earl’s wife and he had even now given his son over to his care. Why would he want the earl dead? Would he gain anything?
Unless there was something going on that Edwin was completely unaware of, and unless Arundel had laid extremely specific plans, Edwin couldn’t see that that particular thread was going to lead anywhere. So he went back to the man who had loomed large in his thoughts all along: the Earl of Salisbury.
The fire had started on the night Salisbury arrived, and all the other incidents had followed in short order. He was another ally of the earl – supposedly – but they were two of the only close male relatives of the young king and could thus perhaps be considered rivals for power. But was that enough to suspect Salisbury of repeated attempts at murder? And if so, how had he managed it? A peer of the realm did not steal about the camp putting poison into cooking pots, and nor did he tamper with a ship’s gangplank. But he had many servants, of course. Servants and squires.
Squires and pages could go anywhere; it was accepted that they were continually being sent on errands, so nobody would be surprised to see them. With the possible exception of Martin, who stood out due to his unusual height, they tended to fade into the background. Could any or all of Salisbury’s servants be involved?
What was most frustrating about all this was that he hadn’t seen most of the incidents with his own eyes. All he could do was to put together information from what others had said, but that was not nearly as useful, for people always thought they were telling the truth when in fact their recollection was coloured by their own feelings: they told the truth, but only the truth as they saw it.
He shifted on the deck; the wooden boards were less comfortable than the ground he’d been sleeping on recently, and he suspected he’d be as stiff as one of them in the morning. He rolled over on to his back and looked at the sky, unimaginably far above him. God was up there somewhere, looking down on the deeds of men – did He know or care what Edwin was thinking about?
Edwin paused in his thinking in case divine inspiration was going to strike, but it didn’t. Instead he set himself to list and compartmentalise in his mind everything he knew about each incident, trying to cross-reference it with what he knew about people’s whereabouts.
He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he must have done at some point because Nigel was shaking him awake. He sat up, stretched and then winced as he cricked his neck. It was still dark, but there was a very faint pre-dawn glimmer in the sky, and all around him men were stirring, shaking their own stiff necks, and moving to relieve themselves over the side of the ship.
‘Is it time?’
‘It is. The tide’s turned and we’re about to sail.’
Any remaining sleepiness dispersed on the fresh breeze. Edwin watched the sailors untying and coiling ropes, heard them calling to each other, and felt the surge as their ship moved away from the dock. It was soon out of the shelter of the port, and Edwin turned to face the wide grey expanse of the open sea.
The camp was too quiet. Peter awoke and was at first confused at the canvas above him; this wasn’t Sir Roger’s tent. Then he heard the snoring and recalled that he was in the s
tores tent with Alf and Dickon; Alf had insisted he come with them so he wouldn’t be alone. As if he could possibly be frightened in a place that was as near to home as anywhere he’d ever been.
When his barely remembered parents, his little sister and his baby brother had all died within a year of each other he’d been properly alone, sleeping wherever he could find shelter and stealing or begging for food. A few people had been kind to him – Edwin was all right and his mother was a nice lady – so he didn’t starve, but he’d been isolated, forlorn, until the blessed day Sir Roger had come for him. Peter considered that his life had really begun on that day in the stable; he’d been born again. Now he was warm, he was fed, and his life had a purpose. He slept on a pallet near Sir Roger at home and on the road, always at hand to make sure his master had everything he needed, and in return he was well treated. More than that: he was trusted, he was respected. And even with Sir Roger gone, the tent still smelled of him, still contained his things, and Peter would have been quite happy in there guarding it all. But of course, Alf didn’t know any of this, and Peter didn’t have the words to explain it all properly. So he kept his mouth shut and did as he was bid.
The others were still asleep. Alf took off his wooden leg at night, and there it was in the corner; Peter was careful not to touch it, in case it brought bad luck. He couldn’t imagine going through life with only one leg, and the thought made him shudder. And wouldn’t it hurt terribly when …? But anyway. He gave it a wide berth as he crept out of the tent without waking either of the others.
The camp was strange and quiet as he walked through it; there were a few men around, grooms and servants and so on, but none of the knights or the fighting men who had filled it and given it such life. The ground was dusty under his bare feet after being trampled so much in the last few days. He owned a pair of boots these days, thanks to Sir Roger, but he was used to going without and he hadn’t thought to put them on as he left the tent.
He reached the edge of the camp, bare earth making way for cool, dewy grass, and stood on the rise overlooking Sandwich. The sun wasn’t up properly yet, but he could see the town well enough, and the smoke from cook fires smudging the sky. And beyond was the water. His eyes prickled as he saw the ships making their silent way out to sea; it was so unfair that he’d been left here while the others all went! He could fight as well as anyone, he was sure. And who was going to watch his master’s back while he wasn’t there?
He stood unmoving as dawn broke and the ships became smaller and smaller, eventually disappearing from his sight.
Martin had been awake since before dawn. There had been no alarms in the night, and he had safely roused his lord, found him something to eat and then armed him. The earl had gone up on to the deck to speak with his knights, telling Martin to follow once he was armed himself. Adam had helped him into his mail and now he stood, shrugging his shoulders, shaking his arms and bouncing on his feet, making sure that everything was in the right place and all the ties were fastened correctly.
Adam himself had only a gambeson, no mail, and he was under strict instructions to stay back from the main fight, guarding a spare sword and shield for the lord earl in case he needed them. He looked pale under his bruises, but Martin was pleased to see the set line of his mouth. He wouldn’t fail in a crisis. And even wearing his padding he was still quite obviously a boy, so he shouldn’t be targeted by any enemy with honour. There was no place of absolute safety here, but Adam should be as well protected as he could be.
No such courtesy would be extended to Martin, of course: squire or no, he was armed and ready to fight, and once his helm was in place men would be able to judge him only by his size, not his age. He would be a target, and to be honest he felt he would welcome that. If he really started fighting, it would give him no chance to worry about the knot in his stomach.
‘Are you sure you don’t want that lace on your coif a bit tighter? You don’t want it slipping down over your eyes once you’ve got your helm on.’
Adam was fussing around him, but Martin guessed it was his way of dealing with his own nervousness, so he let him get on with it.
Once everything had been double- and triple-checked, there was no excuse for staying in the cabin any longer. Martin took a deep breath. ‘Bring my lord’s spares, then, and let’s get going.’
Adam started to move and then paused. ‘Before we go, I just wanted to say …’ He tailed off as they looked at each other in silence.
Martin nodded. ‘I know. Me too.’
He could feel the sweat starting to pool under his arms and run down his back. The cabin was too small. He had to get out, into the air. ‘Come on then.’ He checked the buckle on his sword-belt for the fourth time, picked up his helm and made his awkward way up the ladder, trying to convince himself that his feeling of nausea was due to the movement of the ship.
The fresh, salt air hit him in the face as he emerged into the light of day, and he recovered himself a little. You’re going to be a knight, and this is what knights do. He glanced around him; Sir Hugh was here so Edwin must be on board somewhere, but Martin couldn’t see him in the press of men. He sent up a brief prayer that Edwin would survive the day – he wasn’t exactly a fighter, after all – and then moved to take up a position behind his lord.
They all stood to hear a brief blessing from the one priest aboard – the bishops all having remained on land with the regent – and a plea to St Bartholomew, whose feast day it was, to watch over them. Then he administered a general shriving, forgiving them their sins in case they should die today. Martin wasn’t really taking it all in, but he mumbled ‘Amen’ at the end and then turned his attention to more practical matters.
The group of knights were discussing tactics, but there didn’t seem much to it: archers as soon as the enemy came in range, then waiting until the ships came close enough to each other to board for hand-to-hand fighting. There was no terrain to consider, no possibility of an additional force appearing from behind a hill or out of a forest.
Martin steadied himself as the ship rode up and down in the waves. How close would they get before they attempted to cross from one ship to another? How would it be done? Would he have to jump? Fighting was one thing, but the thought of falling into the bottomless depths of the sea was another. No dock nearby, no solid ground a few feet down, nobody to pull him to shore. To fall in the water out here would be certain death.
Think of something else, damn you! The talk had now turned to the possibility of taking prisoners for ransom. Sir Hugh turned from the general conversation to address Martin. ‘If my lord captures anyone and passes him over to you, make sure he’s disarmed and then secure. And if you fight directly, remember: the richer his armour and surcoat look, the harder to try to capture him rather than kill him.’
Martin nodded. A tiny thought uncurled itself in the corner of his mind. Prisoners meant ransom; a higher-ranking prisoner meant more money; more money meant that he could put it away against, say, the purchase of a horse of his own … the forthcoming battle suddenly seemed a little more like an opportunity than something to be afraid of. They had thirty-six ships packed with armed men – surely no boats carrying troops from France could stand against them? He stood a little straighter and loosened his sword in its scabbard.
The noise on the ship had abated. Everywhere, men were looking out over the sea, straining their eyes for the first sight of the enemy, who should surely be close by now. The captain of this ship had explained to the lord earl last night about what time they would have left French shores in order to make best use of the tides. They would sail across the Channel to a point further south than here, but all were agreed that they would not attempt a landing there, as the mighty fortress of Dover defended the coast. Instead they would come up the coast and round the Isle of Thanet, aiming to sail right up the Thames to where Louis himself waited in London. And if they reached London and were able to join forces –
‘There!’
Martin jumped
and looked about him in confusion before realising that the cry had come from above him. Heavy in his mail coif, he managed to lean his head far enough back to see one of the sailors perched up towards the top of the mast, pointing. He followed the direction of the outstretched arm and waited a few agonising moments as the sea remained empty. Then a roar went up as those on deck spotted the first ship.
He felt himself joining in, cheering until his voice was hoarse at the thought of the fight, at the relief that at least the waiting would soon be over.
The first ship was followed by another. And another.
And then another.
And then more.
The shouting on deck subsided and then died down completely as the scale of the enemy fleet became apparent. For, heading up parallel to the coast, so close together that the water between them could hardly be seen and their sails made one solid mass, were at least eighty ships.
Chapter Eleven
Edwin watched as more and more ships appeared. There were mutterings all around him, but Nigel spoke up. ‘Lots of them, yes, but look properly: most of them are tiny. Won’t that make a difference?’
It was true: when Edwin forced himself to examine the oncoming fleet more calmly, he could see that no more than ten of the ships were of a comparable size to their own, and none of those was as large as the great ship with the castles. The rest were much smaller vessels. He was muttering a prayer of thanks when he noticed something else.
‘We’re going to miss them.’
‘What?’ John and Nigel were both next to him now.
‘Well, look.’ Edwin pointed southwards, which was to his right. ‘We’re coming out from the shore, and they’re running along it sideways, but they’re going so fast that they’ll have gone past us before we get there. We’ll end up going behind them.’