The ships guarding the port of Calais captured about twenty-five [English supply] ships . . .
Chronicle and Annals of Gilles li Muisit
‘Fuck off, cripple.’
The tavern on the edge of the village was loud and rough. The green thatch of the roof was slimy with damp. Wood smoke and dirty laughter drifted from deep within, through window shutters hanging loose on their hinges. There was music, too. The sharp whine of a shawm. Voices singing out of tune and time. Some fool sea dog piping up a shanty.
A crooked sign suspended on chains above the door creaked in the stiff sea breeze and advertised the tavern’s name.
Le Pot d’Étain.
The Tin Jar.
It was just as the Captain remembered it.
But he did not recognise the sailors who sat around the table outside the tumbledown building, and who had watched him hobble along the sand track that led to its door.
The Captain eyed them cautiously. He stopped before he reached them, and leaned on his stick. It was a relief to stand still. He had slept that night beneath a hedgerow, waking damp and cold with thorns in his skin and spiders in his boots.
Since watching the battle at Crécy, he had been walking for many days.
He had taken a long route, keeping well away from the English army as it moved through the countryside. Detours had added many miles to his journey. His belly gnawed. The wooden cup of his false leg had chafed the skin on his stump raw. Its leather straps bruised and pinched his hips.
The ravaged skin of his face, half-eaten by the plague he had caught from his bellyful of river water, burned even more than usual.
He nodded his head in greeting and spoke French, trying to match their dialect. ‘God bless you, brothers,’ he said. ‘I’ve come here for a drink. A meal if there is one. Nothing more.’
The smallest of the sailors leered at him, a cruel smile playing at the corners of his mouth. ‘No drinks for cripples.’
‘A meal, then. I’ve been walking all morning. I have a few coins. I’ll pay.’
‘No meals for cripples.’
The Captain nodded slowly. ‘Then all I’ll trouble you for is a seat by the fire inside, to rest before I travel on.’
The small sailor rose from the creaking bench. He took a couple of paces towards the Captain and blinked wet, red-flecked eyes as he spoke. ‘There’s nothing here for cripples. We don’t want no bad luck. Turn around and limp away, or by St Andrew’s bloody fishhooks, you’ll be hurt even worse than you are already.’
The Captain shifted his weight and leaned again on his stick. ‘I’m not sure about that,’ he said. ‘Where is your master?’
‘Not sure? Fucking hear this, boys!’ The small man sneered at the Captain. ‘We have no master.’
‘I think you have.’
‘You deaf as well as lame and ugly? We have no master,’ said the mean-faced sailor again, and he took a few more paces towards the Captain, coming close enough that the Captain could smell mackerel and strong drink on his breath. ‘Now fuck off before I—’
Before he could finish his sentence, the Captain put all his weight into his left foot, raised his stick, threw it up, caught it by its base, and whipped it through the air. He hit the sailor with the stick’s heavy, curved handle.
The connection was perfect. The stick was stout, its shaft cut from seasoned blackthorn. The Captain had chosen it carefully. He had commissioned it from the finest craftsman in Paris. The same man who had made his leg.
The same man who had sawn his old leg off.
At the top of the stick, a handle was carved from a separate piece of wood, spliced expertly into the shaft. This handle was smoothed and fitted comfortably to his right armpit. It was half as heavy as the shaft, so that when the Captain swung it, the stick cut through the air with the balance and weight of a knight’s mace.
The handle hit the small sailor’s left temple. The sailor gasped as though he had been plunged into icy water. Then he went down, silent and hard. The Captain knew he had judged the swing well. He had felt the skull crack. It was not enough to kill the man, but he would have a headache every day for the rest of his life.
The sailor’s friends stood up from the table. They seemed uncertain what to do next.
The Captain flicked his stick up, caught it, and rested on it once again. He inspected his work. The sailor lay face down on the damp, gritty sand of the path, his legs twitching. He was slowly pissing himself.
‘A drink. A meal. A seat by the fire,’ said the Captain. ‘Would you deny a poor cripple that?’
The reply came from a thickset man who had watched everything from the door of the tavern. Even as a silhouette in the gloom, the Captain knew who it was. The man wore his shoulder-length greasy black hair tied in a knot at the back of his head. His sun-wrecked face was crossed by scars. He carried a curved knife with a jewelled handle in his belt. A beautiful piece, prised from the dead hand of a Saracen many years ago, kept sharp enough to slice falling silk.
The pirate Jean Marant stepped outside the doorway of the tavern and grinned at the Captain. His gold-studded teeth caught the thin light of the overcast morning. ‘Beating up my men, Captain? That’s a way to announce yourself.’
The Captain looked long and hard at Marant. ‘They told me they didn’t know you. So I didn’t think they were your men.’
‘New recruits,’ said the pirate. ‘Still breaking them in.’ He motioned his men to sit once more. Marant looked the Captain up and down. Then he stepped forward and embraced him hard, pulled back and kissed him on the forehead. ‘I heard you were dead, but I didn’t believe it.’
‘When I heard I was alive, I felt the same way,’ said the Captain. He steadied himself after Marant’s forceful hug.
Marant nodded. ‘Your face looks worse than mine. But here it is. And just in time. You heard your countrymen are moving on Calais?’ He jabbed a thumb towards the coast.
‘The English? I’ve been tracking them all the way.’
Marant spat. ‘We cleared out our last safe house there a week ago. First Guernsey and now this. Your King Edward seems unusually ill-disposed towards the noble profession of piracy. He’s fucking things up for us.’
The Captain shrugged. He held Marant’s gaze. ‘Or maybe not.’
A grin spread across the pirate’s face. ‘God bless you,’ he said. ‘Always walking towards trouble.’ He glanced at the Captain’s stick and stump and held up his hands. ‘No offence meant.’
‘I hear worse.’
‘I can imagine. Want to tell me why you’re here?’
‘There’s a supply convoy coming to restock the English army. I assume you know that. I assume you’re planning to rob it. I want to help. Then I want to make you a proposal.’
Jean Marant broke into a laugh. ‘A proposal? Of what sort?’
The Captain shook his head. The sailors at the table were listening to every word he said. ‘Not now.’
‘Aye. Well, come inside and get yourself fed and warm and you can tell me later.’ He turned and beckoned the Captain to follow him into the smoky tavern. ‘God’s flesh, it’s been a few years. You’re lucky I was here. The men won’t usually let a cripple cross the threshold. They consider it unlucky. Did Dogwater here mention that?’
The Captain laughed as he walked around the motionless body of the small sailor. ‘Dogwater said something about it.
‘But I think I’ve changed his mind.’
An hour later, once the Captain had eaten and dried his damp clothes by the fire, he and Marant set out for the shore, where a few lopsided houses cut through by a single track of sandy mud were what passed for a village. Marant sent his men – a band that had swelled to several dozen – on ahead, so he could follow at the Captain’s pace. Slow. The Captain noticed that Marant seemed unbothered by the time. Now and then he glanced at the sun’s position, watching it slowly lower towards the horizon behind the blanket drizzling of cloud above them. ‘Not quite yet,’ he murmured to himself, over and over. ‘Not quite yet.’
And when they arrived at the beach – a thin sliver of pebble and sand, bordered by sharp rocks at either end to form a cove – the Captain saw that he was right. There was not a single vessel to be seen in the water that stretched out for miles ahead of them.
‘I heard the convoy was coming in at high tide,’ he said.
Marant shook his head dismissively. He picked up a piece of cuttlefish that lay on the sand by his boot. ‘You never were a sailor. Tide won’t come into it. They’ll try to break through at sunset, with the light low behind them. Blind the defenders.’ He flung the cuttle back into the sea.
At one end of the cove, his men were dragging their boats down the sands, towards the breaking surf. Marant watched them work with a critical eye.
‘Philippe has galleys coming up from Dieppe. Genoese. Under one of the Grimaldi boys, if you remember those swarthy, stuck-up bastards. Last job before they fuck off for the winter. They’ll do the intercepting. We just have to be ready to take the plunder.’ He scanned the sea. ‘And you can wager we won’t be alone. You know how pirates are. Like sharks. Come sundown, every other salty bastard from here to Portugal will have smelled blood in the water, and they’ll all be here, sniffing around the carcass.’
As Marant spoke, the Captain remembered names and faces. ‘Who’s still working?’
Marant squinted. ‘Who was around when you were running your crew? Jean Balaart? The younger Jean, I mean. High-Tide Johnny? The Pach brothers – they had that fine ship, the Sturgeon. Any of those mean anything?’
‘Aye.’ The Captain pictured them. Thieves and throat-slitters all. ‘It could be a busy evening.’
‘It will be,’ said Marant. He shouted to one of his men. ‘Gombert, get a fucking move on!’ Then he turned back to the Captain. ‘Don’t worry. When they get here, we’ll be ready.’
The Captain had known Jean Marant for nearly as long as he could remember. They had always been in similar lines of work, although in different realms. They broke bones and stole things. Sometimes it was in the name of kings. At other times, it was in defiance of their laws. When he was a young man in the last days of the murdered king, the Captain had built his crew – the Essex Dogs, men called them – in London and the lawless port towns of England’s south coast. At the same time, Marant had been building his crew in the ports on the opposite side of the sea. They had a vicious reputation. For taking no captives. For slitting throats and throwing men into the sea.
But they had never crossed the Dogs.
And now, after life had pulled them apart for a time, he and Marant found themselves back together. The Captain sat on the sand beside the lank-haired pirate and watched his gang ready a fleet of boats to rob a royal supply convoy. He felt a sense of peace.
‘So,’ said Marant, without looking directly at him. ‘Are you going to tell me why you’ve come here? Where your leg went? Who swapped your handsome face for a gargoyle’s? Or just what you want?’
The Captain shrugged. ‘I’ll tell you whatever you like, Jean. But as you know, I prefer to use a few words rather than too many.’
He paused. ‘I left my crew.’
Marant laughed. ‘I can see that.’
‘They were good men. At least, some of them were. But they were content to do the work they always had done. Robbing, fighting. Risking their lives for pennies-a-day contracts. I thought there was something more. I went to work for myself. This war . . . ’
‘War is war,’ said Marant.
The Captain shrugged. ‘I thought this one would be different. I still do.’
‘Last I heard, you were in Ghent.’
‘I was.’
‘Working for the London merchant. The one who ran the government that year. What was his name?’
‘John Pulteney. Yes. And for others too. Some I knew. Some I didn’t.’
‘You were there when the Brewer of Ghent was killed? Van Artevelde?’
‘I didn’t kill him.’
‘Who said you did? You just happened to be there when he died.’
‘So did many others. Van Artevelde had the best protection of any lord I’ve ever known. A private army. The White Hoods.’
‘If it were me, I’d have joined them and betrayed him from the inside.’
The Captain nodded. ‘That would have been a good way to do it.’
‘And if I had been the one paying someone to do that, I would have killed him straight away afterwards. Or tried to. Probably when I paid him.’
The Captain nodded. He saw the blackness of the night above the Pont au Change in Paris. The stars and the single lantern twisting as he plunged towards the river. ‘That’s about right, too.’
‘Who did it?’
‘Them. You know how it is. Who is in charge of anything, Jean? Pulteney’s man was one of them. But he was working for someone else that night. A woman. I don’t know who. It doesn’t matter any more.’
‘You didn’t see them coming for you.’
‘I was too impressed with my own work. I thought the hard part was done. Pride, Jean. It’s a sin.’
‘Don’t you want revenge?’
‘What does that even mean?’ said the Captain. ‘This isn’t a fable. Some tale of heroes and dragons. It’s God’s world. The one you and I know—’
Marant broke off briefly, stood up and shouted more commands at his men as they rigged the boats on the sand. On the biggest, the men were fitting a sharp ram to the prow. He sat back down. ‘Where did you hear about the convoy?’
‘Merchants. They gossip. I listen. The traders know more about the war than anyone. They knew about the English invasion before anyone. When it happened, I came to see it for myself. I watched the battle. And now I’ve come to see what happens next.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the life of a cripple in Paris was beginning to bore me. And because this is where the money is.’
Marant laughed. One of his men brought over a pair of crossbows. Marant offered one to the Captain. He took the other, cocked it with no bolt loaded, squinted and pulled the trigger. The tough waxed string twanged. Marant lowered it, looking satisfied. ‘Go on.’
The Captain turned his own crossbow over. It was a fine weapon, well maintained. ‘And because this is what the war is really about. Not battles. Not knights and feats of arms. It’s about ports and towns and ships and trade. And money. And merchants.’
‘And pirates?’
‘And pirates.’
‘You haven’t made me your proposal,’ said Marant.
‘I think you need someone in Calais. I think you’ll be willing to share your profit with them.’
Marant flashed him his golden smile. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I do. I would. But I haven’t found anyone who’d want to be inside a siege city when they could be outside one. Have you lost your mind along with your leg?’
The Captain didn’t answer. For a moment they sat in silence, listening to the gulls and watching Marant’s men rig the boats. The thick grey cloud above them had broken up, and the late-afternoon light was sending the long shadows of jagged rocks across the beach.
‘You know,’ said the Captain, but before he could say any more, Marant suddenly stood, grabbed him by the arm and hauled him upright, thrusting him his crossbow and his stick.
‘It’ll have to wait,’ said the pirate. He pointed his dirty finger out to sea. The first ships of the English convoy had appeared on the horizon. Marant led the Captain across the sand and helped him into the largest of the boats. He clambered aboard the same one and took up position at the stern, with one hand on the steerboard, as his men dragged the vessel beyond the breakers then jumped in and began to haul the oars.
Soon they were cruising into open water. As the long stretch of the coastline came into view, the Captain saw that Marant was right – from every cove and inlet, dozens of boats just like theirs were setting out in the direction of the convoy.
Up ahead, a fleet of large English cogs was moving steadily towards Calais. All flew the King of England’s arms: leopards quartered with fleurs-de-lis. Several also bore the symbols of merchants. As the convoy came closer, the Captain saw that it was being pursued by a similar number of sleek, low-riding Italian galleys. The galleys were closing rapidly.
The little boat hit a wave and the Captain bounced in his seat. He gripped the rough plank of the bench he shared with two oarsmen.
When he looked to the stern, he saw Marant was staring intently at him. Keeping one hand on the steerboard, the pirate leaned forward and picked up his crossbow. He pointed it towards the largest of the English cogs and mimed pulling the trigger.
The Captain patted his own crossbow.
Ahead, the Genoese galleys had begun engaging the merchant ships, ramming them at speed and trying to burst holes in their fat, round hulls. From one, the Captain saw a pair of English sailors jump overboard.
Marant gestured to them. He drew a thumb slowly across his neck.
The Captain nodded. Marant took no prisoners.
He slit throats and threw men in the sea.
On the shore, spectators were assembling. A huge crowd. They stood on a rise outside the city and lined the beaches below. Knights and ordinary soldiers helplessly watching the carnage on the water. He assumed King Edward was among them.
Marant raised his fist and howled like a wild animal.
The Captain caught Marant’s eye one last time. He pointed to himself, then to the city itself. Surrounded by an army on its three landward sides. Its harbour sheltered by a sandbank untaken by the English.
He knew Marant understood what he meant.
Take me there. Smuggle me in by moonlight. Let’s make gold while the city slowly starves. Let’s be there to make more gold when it falls.
Marant caught the thought. He shrugged. He tapped his head.
You’re a madman. Just like me.
The Captain knew that he had a deal. He re-gripped the bench as the little boat pitched and swayed on the choppy sea.
He whistled a song he used to know.
I am the wolf . . .
He listened to the pirate howling as the English ships went down.