The wind picked up halfway across the short crossing from France to the Kent coast, and the horizon of grey-white cliffs and cloud-speckled blue sky rose and fell at speed. Simon Merrivale stood firmly on the deck of the roundship Grace-Dieu, braced against the buffeting of the lively waves. The warm rays of a late summer sun shone on the little flotilla of ships ferrying a number of Englishmen, and at least one Frenchwoman, along with their horses and baggage back to England.
The travellers were a somewhat mixed group. Some had been sent by King Edward III to take home the news of the great victory at the battle of Crécy a week earlier; others had sought permission from their king to return and look after urgent personal or estate business. Merrivale, perhaps uniquely, had been sent on a secret and sensitive mission for the king. He was not, at least in name, one of the king’s own servants; his official master was Edward, Prince of Wales. But, as Merrivale had observed several times in the past few months, when a king called, a prince’s servants still jumped to serve.
If he was honest, Merrivale thought, it suited him very well to be away from the prince’s entourage for a while. The prince and his friends were very full of the spirit of victory. A young man who had begun the summer uncertain and awkward with the reins of power had been transformed into a battle-hardened commander, who felt invincible and was flexing his muscles.
As the prince’s herald, Merrivale was one member of the household who found this tedious. The regular drinking and gaming that accompanied most evenings had little appeal for a man half a generation older than most of the prince’s court. So when King Edward requested his presence, Merrivale had greeted the invitation with some enthusiasm, albeit tempered by the knowledge that the king usually had more than one scheme in mind at any one time.
‘Come in, Merrivale,’ the king had said. They were in the royal pavilion in the middle of the camp on high ground overlooking the town of Wissant, which the army had reached earlier in the day while making its leisurely way north from Crécy.
The king gestured towards a bench. Normally one stood in the royal presence. Mmm, thought Merrivale, if he wants me sitting down, I really do need to watch out.
Edward III was, like his son, still flush from his recent victory. His short coat speckled with fleurs-de-lys sparkled in the sunlight coming through the walls of the tent, and his manner was even more confident than usual.
‘So, Merrivale. Do we think Edward de Tracey’s death means an end to the plotting against us?’
Merrivale had given this question a great deal of thought in the days following the battle. ‘Honestly, sire, I do not. Even though many of those on the French side perished, I cannot feel comfortable that all the tendrils of this plot are cut off. It had supporters in several parts of Europe, and some of the plotters will be keen to continue. They have a plan that they hope will bring them power and riches. Despite what happened at Crécy, they are unlikely to forego it.’
‘I agree,’ said the king. ‘Therefore, I am sending you back to England to track down any more of these tendrils, as you call them.’
‘What about my duties with the prince, sire? Is he aware that you require my services?’
‘Yes, yes, of course. My son can do without his herald for the moment, and I have need of your knowledge and skills. It is highly likely that Tracey had co-conspirators at home, working against us. We need to hunt them down and we need to do it promptly, before the attacks from the north begin.’
‘Attacks?’ Merrivale asked.
‘The Scots will launch against us soon, we can be certain of that. It is part of their pact with the Valois adversary, to raid from the north while most of our men are in France. I need you to go to London and meet with the queen and council, describe the plot as you have uncovered it and work with them to rid England of this cancer. We have enough enemies outside the country, we don’t need them inside as well.’ The king took a sip of wine from a cup standing at his elbow. ‘Where do you intend to start once you land in England?’
Nothing like making up plans on the spur of the moment, Merrivale thought. ‘I would start with de Tracey’s family, sire, especially with his brother Sir Gilbert, the banker. His position would provide ample opportunity for fomenting plots and he has the funds to support them. Of course, he might be completely innocent, but even so he may know something that will be useful.’
The king nodded. He knew Gilbert de Tracey well; the banker was one of the most prominent men of commerce in London, a merchant of the Staple and a force to be reckoned with. The king himself had borrowed money from Tracey on a number of occasions. ‘Agreed, that is a good beginning,’ he said. ‘My formal messengers to London are preparing to leave, but I would like you also to carry some special letters to the queen on this affair. As you well know, you may depend on her wise counsel in all matters. She has already seen your reports on the summer’s events. You shall have special passes as usual to speed your journey, and the Grace-Dieu is in port at Wissant, ready to take you across to England.’
‘Yes, sire. There is one small matter, however. If I am to return to England I am reluctant to leave the Demoiselle de Tesson here without my protection. She has been under my care since Carentan, and has no family here to support her. I want to take her with me to England for her own safety.’
‘Under your care?’ The king looked amused. ‘Well, if the lady is agreeable, by all means take her with you. Although from what I hear of the lady, it is likely to be her decision and not yours.’
‘Indeed, sire,’ Merrivale said patiently. ‘I think she will be willing to leave with me. One of the conspirators, the Seigneur de Brus, appears to have survived the battle. Brus hates her and has threatened her life on several occasions. I don’t think much persuasion will be needed.’
The king waved a hand. ‘Then tell the demoiselle to go with you. An army is no place for women.’
Ah, thought Merrivale, thinking of the two young archers who had been his guards during the summer, if only you knew how many women your army is harbouring… The king stood up, signifying the meeting was over. ‘Concentrate on ferreting out the remaining plotters,’ he said. ‘The queen and council will provide you with whatever information they have. Report to them regularly, as you did to me. That’s all.’
The cliffs of the English coast were drawing closer now. Merrivale shook himself from his reverie and went back to the stern of the ship to find Tiphaine. He had been right; she had not needed much persuading to come with him. The knowledge that Brus was still alive provided a strong compulsion to put the width of the Channel between herself and the vengeful Norman baron.
He found her leaning on the rail, gazing at the thin line of coast to the south where the cliffs fell away. ‘Have you been out of France before?’ he asked gently.
‘No. I was sent to the nuns while very young, and lived with them for most of the time until my capture and imprisonment. This is also my first time on a boat.’ She smiled a little. ‘It is a day of many firsts. When shall we reach Hargate?’
‘Lord Grey’s castle is only a short ride from Dover, five or six miles.’
She smiled wryly. ‘Ah, then I have not long until I meet my fate.’
Ever since he had first found Tiphaine on the streets of burning Carentan, filthy from her long imprisonment and in imminent danger of being raped by English soldiers, Merrivale had been obsessed with finding her a place of safety. It was Sir John Grey, one of the talented young captains in the English army, who had suggested she go to Hargate, his family home. His sister, Lady Mary, was married to his fellow captain Sir Richard Percy, son of the powerful Northumberland baron Lord Percy, and was about the same age as Tiphaine; she would, Grey said, make a suitable companion.
‘I trust that Lady Mary will not fall into the category of “your fate”,’ Merrivale said. ‘According to her brother, she is a very intelligent and friendly young woman.’
‘I am certain she is. But how will she like having an unknown Norman woman thrust upon her? And what will the rest of her family think?’
Merrivale smiled. ‘If Lady Mary is anything like her brother John, she will begin by submitting you to a rigorous examination of your reading habits with a view to gauging the gaps in your knowledge. Being convent educated, I am sure you will pass with honours.’
She looked at him. ‘I am certain she will also be kind and welcoming,’ Merrivale said.
‘Mmm,’ said Tiphaine. ‘Well, time will tell.’
Time, in this case, was about three hours. Letters from Sir John Grey ensured that Merrivale, Tiphaine and their three servants were made welcome. Lord Grey, an amiable, square-built man of about fifty, and his gentle, sweet-natured wife enveloped the travellers with kindness. The daughter of the house, Lady Mary Percy, was small, humorous and sharp-witted. She eyed Tiphaine’s red hair, hanging rough-cut to the shoulders of the ragged boy’s tunic she had worn for most of the last six weeks. ‘Is that the newest fashion in Normandy?’
‘I had to cut my hair off when I came out of prison,’ Tiphaine said. ‘Things had begun to build nests in it.’
‘Prison? What did you do? Wear red shoes to church? Teach a pig to become a lawyer?’
A small spark began to glow in Tiphaine’s eyes. ‘Something like that,’ she said.
‘Come and tell me all about it. And for heaven’s sake let’s find you some decent clothes. Did you see my husband before you left France? Was he well?’
She bustled Tiphaine away. Another servant took Merrivale to his lodgings, a small room above the hall, and he sat down on the edge of the bed for a moment, feeling weary. Unlike the rest of the army, he had not celebrated much in the aftermath of Crécy. Too many things were still worrying him, too many cares resting on his shoulders.
Crécy had opened poorly healed wounds. Old adversaries, men he had not met or even thought of in years, had reappeared. Some were dead now; King Jean of Bohemia, who had once ardently desired Merrivale’s own death, had fallen on the battlefield. But many others had escaped, and now they were gathering in the shadows once more. He could feel their presence, invisible, ominous.
Yolande would be in mourning now, he thought. She had always looked well in white…
A servant interrupted his reverie, calling him for supper. Rising, he went out and found Tiphaine on the stairs. He blinked; he was unused to seeing her in skirts. He held out his arm as they reached the hall and said, ‘Come, my lady, supper awaits us.’ She performed an ironic curtsey and swept with him into the hall where a table was set for dining.
As well as the family, Lord and Lady Grey and Lady Mary, there were two other diners, a grave man in a grey Franciscan habit and another in a coat of expensive Cambrai cloth lined with silk and trimmed with vair, with several rings on his fingers. Merrivale thought he looked familiar. ‘Here are our guests just arrived from France,’ Lord Grey said cheerfully, introducing Merrivale and Tiphaine. ‘They bring good news, which you will be delighted to hear. Sir Herald, demoiselle, may I present our chaplain, Brother Reynard? And this is Sir Gilbert de Tracey from London.’
Merrivale stopped abruptly. ‘Sir Gilbert de Tracey, the banker?’
‘The very same,’ said the other man, smiling. ‘The Grey family and the Percys are among my clients. I have called to transact some business with Lord Grey and also Lady Mary on behalf of her husband. I am glad to meet you, Sir Herald.’
Merrivale bowed. How glad will Tracey be, he thought, to hear that the last I saw of his brother, he was stretched dead across the back of a horse with an arrow sticking out of his back?