The King of England wished to hold the love of the Flemings because they had come to his side . . . and they could prove to be of very great value . . .
Chronicles of Jean Froissart
‘Christ on a three-legged donkey. The saints must have mixed you fuckers up with six mouth-breathers worth saving.’
The Earl of Northampton was in a good mood. He clapped his gloveless hands and warmed them on the Dogs’ rekindled fire. The drizzle that had been falling all morning formed small droplets on the fur-trimmed shoulders of his cloak. Loveday had intended to seek him out, but the impatient earl had found him first.
‘God saw fit to save us for another day, my lord,’ said Loveday. The back of his throat tasted of fire-smoke. He coughed and brought up ashy phlegm.
‘Aye, well, the kingdom of heaven is full of fucking mysteries.’ Northampton glanced at his bodyguards, Sir Denis of Moreton-on-the-Weald and Sir Adrian, a lean, intense figure with dark skin and greying short-cropped hair. The two knights hung back, affecting not to listen to their lord. ‘Isn’t that what the Bible tells us, boys?’
‘Said like a preacher, my lord,’ replied Sir Denis.
Northampton grunted, something less than a laugh. He regarded the Dogs and narrowed his eyes. ‘There used to be more of you.’
Loveday nodded solemnly. It was not only Pismire and Father whom they had lost. They had begun the campaign with a pair of Welsh archers in their crew – brothers called Darys and Lyntyn. But they had abandoned the Dogs many weeks ago, stolen several fine horses from a pair of cardinals and disappeared into the French countryside. He coughed as he addressed Northampton. ‘Aye, sir. If you recall—’
‘FitzTalbot, I don’t recall the last time I shat indoors. But I’m not fucking blind. I can see you’re down on men. Did you lose them in the battle or before?’
‘Before, my lord.’
‘Right.’ The earl scratched his chin, the thick bristles recently clipped. He noticed Romford, just awaking on the ground, and prodded the lad with the toe of his leather boot. ‘Get up, son.’
Romford scrambled to his feet, blinking in confusion. He skittered out of the earl’s range and stood beside the other Dogs, drawing his ragged blanket around his shoulders to keep off the drizzling rain. Loveday winced. The lad had been babbling all night in his sleep. Some queer language of his dreams.
Northampton let him be. ‘You take any prisoners in the battle?’
Loveday looked blankly at him. ‘No, my lord. We . . . ’
‘You wouldn’t be here if you had, right? You’d be off selling them to the fucking ransom boys.’ The earl paused and considered matters. ‘Well, we need to fix you up with another crew,’ he said after a few moments. ‘You’re no good as six.’
Loveday felt his stomach tighten. ‘Another crew? My lord, we thought we were going home—’
‘Home?’ The earl barked a laugh. ‘Yes, that would be nice, wouldn’t it, FitzTalbot? I’d like to go home. Kiss my wife, fuck my girlfriend. But in case you hadn’t noticed, we just won the most famous victory over the French since the high sultan of the camel-drivers pulled Saint Louis’ breeches down and sent him scuttling back to his mother with dysentery and pubic lice.’
Loveday had only the dimmest idea what the earl was referring to. But the earl did not notice or care. He ran his thumbs along his thick grey eyebrows to press rainwater from them, and flicked it behind him. ‘The good tidings, if you care to hear them, are that we’re heading to the coast. That’s almost home, I suppose. I gather we’ll be close enough to England that when the wind is right you can hear the nightwatchman at Dover Castle beating his pintle.
‘And if we get really lucky, we’ll get some fucking fresh supplies. So you’ll have something other than this muck to eat and drink.’ The earl kicked over one of the Dogs’ wooden bowls containing the remnants of the previous night’s meal. Nothing came out. The slop stuck to the sides.
‘But unless you’re missing your feet or carrying your guts around in a leather satchel, the king is courteously demanding that you stick around.
‘He wants to finish what we’ve begun. Which means taking a properly fortified port along the coast and turning it into a little bit of England. So there’s work to do.’ The earl put his hands on his hips. ‘Any questions?’
‘Why?’ said Millstone.
Northampton frowned. ‘Why what?’
Millstone’s expression did not change. ‘We’ve won. Why are we now doing this?’
‘Why? You want the real answer? Because my lord the king is holed up in a manor house about half a day’s ride from here with a lot of bankers and merchants in his ear. They like the idea of having a secure English port on this side of the Channel. And frankly he’s in no position to argue with them. We’re up to our tits in debt to virtually every fucker who lends money between here and Tartary.’
‘Where’s Tartary?’ asked Scotsman.
‘It’s where tarts come from,’ snapped Northampton. ‘Any more questions?’
The Dogs said nothing.
‘Good. So here’s what I want from you. While the army marches to the port in question, I need to soften up a few places that might serve as boltholes for our enemies. I want you lot to help me and a few other friends do what needs to be done. If you serve me well, I’ll cover the forty days’ pay you’re already owed for coming over here, and a little extra, which I know you need because I can see for myself that you’ve ended up with nothing to show for the last six weeks but boils on your arses.
‘How does that sound?’ He paused. ‘Actually, don’t tell me. Just say “thank you, Lord Northampton”.’
‘My lord,’ Loveday began. ‘I wonder . . . ’
Northampton grimaced. ‘Holy Christ, FitzTalbot, am I giving you orders in fucking Turkish? Should I send for the king’s jester and have him stick a sackbut up his arse and fart it out in song? I said: “just say ‘thank you, Lord Northampton’ ”.’
‘Thank you, Lord Northampton,’ said Loveday.
Northampton looked around the rest of the Dogs. ‘Thank you, Lord Northampton,’ chorused Tebbe, Thorp and Romford. The earl locked eyes with Scotsman, challenging him. ‘Aye, fucking right,’ muttered the Scot.
Northampton didn’t look at Millstone.
‘Grand,’ he exclaimed. ‘March with the rest of the army to our next stop. It’s a place called Wissant. We’ll kick out anyone who’s stupid enough to have stayed there, rest up a few days, burn it down, then ride out to start the party. If you can find another crew to join with, do it. If not, I’ll find one for you.’ He winked. ‘I do recall you liking East Anglians.’
Loveday shuddered.
‘And one more thing.’ Northampton motioned to his knights. From somewhere about his person Sir Adrian produced a wineskin and threw it to Scotsman, who pulled out the stopper with his teeth and drank until his eyes watered.
‘We’re alive. We’re winning. Don’t look so fucking serious.’*
They reached Wissant around mid-afternoon on Saturday. They marched at an easy pace. It took three days to cover a distance that earlier in the campaign the army might have crossed in less than two. But the lords leading the men recognised they were all hungry and weary, and did not push them. They seemed unconcerned about the prospect of ambush. Loveday heard it said many times that the French king had disbanded what remained of his army in shock and retreated to Paris, where he wandered around deserted cathedrals, railing against traitors, tearing his clothes and beard and mourning his dead. English outriders went around setting fire to undefended villages and the suburbs of the few towns with gates and walls. They met no resistance.
‘Fucking French. Soft fuckers don’t deserve their own country,’ growled the Scot more than once. But beneath his gruff jokes, the big man was lost. Loveday knew he missed Pismire. The two of them had always been able to while away long marches by bickering. Now Scotsman traded barbs with himself.
Wissant was a city of moderate size, spread out from a harbour in which stood an ancient and half-ruined lighthouse built from brown brick, grey stone and powdery mortar. Seabirds circled its top, perching in their dozens on the iron basin where the signal-fire was lit, screaming and swooping, and plastering the ground with their sloppy, purple-flecked shit. The gulls and a few listless whores were the only inhabitants of the city who had remained to greet the English. The king, his earls and bannerets, and the countless officials of his travelling court took over the tall merchants’ houses in the quarter nearest the harbour: timber-framed buildings that soared three storeys high, many of them lit by glazed windows. The Dogs camped in the suburbs, in an abandoned baker’s premises with two large rooms, fixed shutters on the windows and a stone oven in the yard at the back.
Once they had unloaded their meagre possessions and weapons inside the building and lit a fire in the oven to dry their damp blankets and clothes, Scotsman called the men together.
Loveday was all too happy to let the big man take the lead. He also knew what the Scot would be thinking.
‘There were ships in the harbour,’ Scotsman said, flexing his huge hands so that his knuckles popped and the rings on his fingers clinked. He pulled one off. It flashed darkly. A sapphire set in gold seemed to glow with a light of its own.
‘Let’s see if we can’t trade this in for a proper drink.’
For the first time in many weeks, the army was in carnival mood. Most of the ships at the docks were Flemish-owned, their long, curved hulls emblazoned with names in the northern tongue. Millstone knew his letters and read the names. Santalbrecht and Chrodogang. Margharite and Tatterschallcastell. Several had been on wine-trading runs, Loveday guessed to the French south, and their enterprising sailors had sprung open the great wooden wine casks and run timber gangplanks from the dockside to the ships’ decks. They filled jugs and wineskins and bantered with the thirsty soldiers who swarmed aboard. A few liveried royal men-at-arms idled dockside, watching for trouble. Others, off duty, joined the revelry.
Scotsman, flanked by Tebbe and Thorp, led the Dogs towards a vessel of dark painted oak.
Millstone read the name. ‘Homobonus. This one do us?’ he asked.
Loveday looked it over. Barnacles and weed clung to the long, wet timbers of its hull. Flags bearing bright golden, winged horses flew from its stern. And the decks heaved with drinkers, most clustered around a tavern-style bar set up on the raised aft-castle. The crowd was mostly footsoldiers and archers, some English and others Flemish. Amid the throng, lusty voices were singing a song Loveday recognised from his youth.
I am the wolf
Without a pack
Banished long ago
‘Aye,’ he said, ‘this’ll do well.’
The Scot bounded up the plank-bridge, the wood bouncing under his weight. Tebbe and Thorp were close on his heels.
‘Who’s Homobonus?’ asked Romford, as he put a foot gingerly on the gangway.
‘An old merchant, lad,’ came a voice from behind them. Loveday swivelled and found Sir Denis smiling down at him. ‘Famous for his generosity.’
Seeing the burly knight, Loveday hesitated, wondering if the Dogs ought to have reported for duty with Northampton instead of stepping out in search of wine. Sir Denis sensed his awkwardness and laughed. He wound his long hair into a knot at the back of his head, stuck a thin stick through it to keep the knot in place, then clapped Loveday on the shoulder. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘Enjoy yourselves. You’ve a few days before we head out. Be sure to save one of them to sleep it all off.’ Then the big knight sauntered away towards the next ship.
Millstone and Romford went up the plank to join the other Dogs. Loveday, slower and less nimble, followed them, feeling his belly wobble as he jumped down on to the ship’s lower deck, then holding it in as he squeezed his way up to the aft. The Dogs had made themselves a space in the corner, where the bar butted up against the deck’s wooden rail. The air around them smelled of salt and sweat. They all wore wide grins.
Scotsman had evidently made a deal. He waggled his fingers. ‘Nineteen left now,’ he said. ‘But it’s fucking worth it.’ Tebbe handed Loveday a beaker of wine. It was dark and glossy, the colour of oxblood, and it looked as good as anything Loveday had drunk in his life. ‘Best stuff in France,’ Tebbe said. He raised his mug and knocked it against Tebbe’s. He thought of toasting to Pismire and Father. But he decided not to dampen the mood.
‘Like angels dancing on your tongue,’ said Scotsman, draining his mug in one draught. He belched enormously and wiped the back of his mouth with his hand. ‘Thorp, get the next jug.’
As he spoke, the ship rocked gently on the water, and the Scot stepped backwards to steady himself. In doing so, he backed into a drinker from the group pressed next to the Dogs. A burly, square-jawed figure, with a chest as broad as the Scot’s, turned around in annoyance.
‘Sorry, pal,’ the Scot muttered.
As the drinker turned, Loveday saw to his surprise that it was a woman – a huge woman, with a deep voice and wisps of wiry black hair curling here and there from her jawline. She glared at the Scot but did not answer him. Instead, she turned back to her three friends, saying something in Flemish. The group sniggered.
Loveday let it go. Somewhere on the boat the old song was still being sung. He hummed along quietly.
All I’ve learned is poison stings
No one remembers martyrs and kings
Within the hour, the Dogs were all very drunk.
The second time Scotsman bumped into the thickset woman behind him, she let it pass. But the third time, when he swung an arm around, acting out some escapade from long ago in the Dogs’ history, he caught her elbow and sent her wine mug clattering to the floor.
As long as Loveday had known the Scot, he had always been a lively drinker. Drink seldom made him seek out trouble. If anything, it curbed his normal wrath. Yet when he was excited, he was prone to let his giant limbs flail and windmill.
The woman stood a head shorter than the Scot – only a little taller than Loveday and Millstone. But she was as burly as a fairground wrestler. And as she whipped round once more and took a great handful of the Scot’s grease- and sweat-stained shirt, Loveday saw she had not a scrap of fear in her. She tugged the surprised Scotsman’s shirt so hard that his face came down to hers. She pressed her nose hard against his.
‘You can’t keep control of your fucking arm, I’ll cut it off,’ she growled. Her deep voice, harsh Flemish accent and the flash of her grey eyes gave the words great menace.
As startled as he was drink-addled, Scotsman put his hands up, wide and apologetic. ‘Christ, pal,’ he slurred, ‘I didn’t fucking mean it.’
‘Didn’t mean it three times? If you can’t handle your wine, stick to fucking ale,’ she said. ‘And I’m not your fucking pal.’
Loveday instinctively balled his fists. Millstone, standing beside him, placed a firm hand on his wrist.
The Scot was trying to calm the situation. But the wine was tying his tongue in knots. ‘Listen, mate, I’m fucking, I didn’t . . . I’m just with my fucking pals, mate.’
The woman let go of his shirt, but she didn’t turn around. Nor did she back down. She prodded Scotsman in the chest. ‘Touch me again, and you’re dead,’ she said. ‘Got it?’
Hands still up, Scotsman nodded. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Aye. Got it. We’re just having a fucking drink.’
The woman stared at him with her angry grey eyes for a few moments, then turned back to her group, who were no longer whispering or sniggering. The Dogs looked at one another in surprise. Scotsman was flushed. Loveday could tell humiliation and anger were rising in his chest.
His face hardened.
Loveday shook his head. ‘Don’t,’ he said. But he was too slow. Scotsman went back to the woman. He tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Hey, pal,’ he began.
With extraordinary speed, the woman pivoted on the balls of her feet, swung around and punched the Scot in the face.
The Scot staggered backwards. Then he let out a roar and threw himself at the woman, launching himself at her stout midriff, wrapping his arms around her and attempting to drive her to the floor. But the woman was astonishingly strong. She absorbed the force of the Scot’s tackle, crashing backwards and sending nearby drinkers on the boat flying. She started beating Scotsman’s back with her fists, raining down blows on his shoulder blades and ribs.
After several hard punches she managed to land her fist above the Scot’s left kidney and, stung by the pain, he released his arms. The woman slipped from his grasp and the Scot slipped so he was momentarily on all fours on the deck. Revellers hooted. The woman’s companions cheered her on as she drew back her foot and aimed a huge kick at Scotsman’s guts. It landed clean. Scotsman vomited wine on the deck. He lay and gasped for a moment, then staggered to his feet.
Again Loveday moved towards his friend, but once more Millstone held him back. Tebbe, Thorp and Romford stood rooted in confusion. Millstone pointed dockside, where two royal men-at-arms were making their way towards the gangplank. He shook his head. Loveday’s brain was swirling. He dragged Millstone’s hand from his arm and started to push his way through the crowd who had formed in a ring around the fighters.
They were stalking each other, fists up. The Scot had chunks of purple vomit in his beard. He lurched. The woman was grinning, but she was breathing hard, and Loveday could see her smile masked a grimace. His guessed the Scot had bruised or broken one of her ribs.
Laughter and catcalls rang around the deck, and the press of bodies around Scotsman and the woman made it impossible for Loveday to get any closer. He could only watch helplessly as the Scot threw a huge, looping punch towards the woman. She ducked it, slipped to her left and pushed the Scot hard. The heavy swing of his arm, combined with the force of her shove, carried him two paces forward towards the ship’s side. The crowd heaved apart. Scotsman hit the rail at the side of the aft deck. The woman pursued him like a hound sniffing a kill. With all her might, she kicked Scotsman in the arse.
He crashed straight through the rail, the wood bursting under the impact of his huge bulk. For an instant, he tottered. Then he was gone.
A huge splash told Loveday where.
Using every ounce of his strength, Loveday hauled his way through the baying crowd and looked over the broken rail. The packed cog sat low in the water of the harbour. Scotsman had not fallen far.
But there was no sign of him.
‘Shit,’ Loveday said.
The woman had her arms raised above her head and was being slapped on the back by her small gang of friends. She was laughing and coughing, and wincing where they hit her battered ribs.
She lowered her arms and went to peer over the rail. ‘Can he swim?’ she asked.
Loveday was scanning the water, panic creeping up his spine. ‘Not well.’
The Dogs, along with all the other revellers, piled to the edge of the deck and peered down into the harbour, where huge ripples were now disappearing.
Loveday began to strip off his shirt, ready to jump in. He got his arms tangled and tied up in his sleeves.
Before he could free himself, a huge head and shoulders appeared on the water’s surface, and Scotsman appeared. He was beating his hands hard to keep afloat, sending spray all around him. He shook the soaked and jumbled ropes of his hair and spat blood and water in a short arc in front of him. ‘Fucking Christ,’ he was spluttering to no one in particular. ‘Fucking Christ!’
Then, as he looked back up towards the deck where the Dogs and dozens of other drinkers – now including the two royal men-at-arms – looked down, he saw the absurdity of the situation. He threw his head back in the water and howled.
The woman turned to Loveday. ‘See, he can swim,’ she said. ‘A little. What is his name?’
Loveday told her. Then he added: ‘But everyone calls him Scotsman.’
She nodded. ‘He fights pretty good for a man,’ she said. ‘But I could teach him some tricks.’ She clapped Loveday hard on the shoulder. ‘You can call me Fleming if you like,’ she said. Then she pointed to her friends, who were standing with Tebbe and Thorp, all shouting friendly insults down to Scotsman while lowering a rope for him to heave himself back aboard the boat.
‘But these soft-cock fuckers call me Hircent.’