The valiant queen [Philippa] longed to see her lord the king, and she prepared ships and boats and put to sea despite the grave risk of being captured . . . and reached the army outside Calais . . .
True Chronicles of Jean le Bel
Romford was sighting the cannon at Calais’ walls one freezing morning before All Saints’ Day when a magnificent fleet of ships appeared in the choppy waters to the north. They were just tiny spots of colour at first, glinting as they disappeared and reappeared from the cloud that hung over the horizon. But as the moments passed, the spots gained shapes, and even in the pale light of the low, feeble sun, they gained brightness and intensity. Romford stopped his firing to watch them come.
In truth, Romford was glad to have a reason to pause his work. He still found the cannon fascinating. But since the prince had attacked him in the Wolvenhuis, he had not enjoyed operating it so much. He had not enjoyed anything. It was not just the violence he had suffered, the shame he felt and the confusion at how the prince could have treated him so cruelly, when he knew who he was. Romford also now woke most days with a fierce, crushing pain in his head, as though his brain were a woodsman’s wedge forced into the split trunk of a felled tree. Sometimes the pressing and the hurt would ease as his waking hours went by, but when it was cold – and it was now bitterly cold most days – the pain would linger, making him sick and dizzy from matins until vespers. There were moments when his sight blurred or doubled, and his aim, though still good, was no longer quite as true as it had been. The violent clamour of the gunfire, which had always made his ears ring, now also made him wince, as it shook his poor head until he felt as though something sharp was bouncing around the inside of his skull.
Romford had not seen Louis again since that awful night. He had heard it said that the boy had been sent back to the cities of Flanders to await his marriage to King Edward’s daughter. He had seen nothing of Jacky or the prince either. They had not revisited the brothel or the sablon. Meanwhile, in the Wolvenhuis itself, Romford noticed he was never on his own.
The brothel was busy every day now, and almost every cell was occupied. Hircent ruled the girls tyrannically and forced them to work almost all their waking hours. There was little peace, no privacy and no quiet. Yet this was not the only reason Romford was never alone. Without saying as much, the five older Dogs had organised a watch over him. He was never without one of them and he was not sure how he liked this. He was surprised and moved to see how much they cared for his life, in a way that no one had ever done before them. Yet at the same time it felt as though a rift had opened between them and him. He was different to them. Because of it. Because of him. He was not sure he was even one of them any more.
Despite these misgivings, when he spotted the ships on the horizon he called to Tebbe and Thorp from where they stood with the other bowmen. As soon as they heard his voice, the two men hurried to his side.
‘What is it?’ Thorp looked concerned. He seemed relieved when Romford told him.
The three of them stood and watched as the fleet crept closer towards the sands half a mile along the coast from Calais, where smaller supply ships from England usually anchored to unload their wares under guard. This was not an uncommon sight: despite the roughness of the winter seas, vessels still came and went almost daily from the beaches near the camp. Yet as these bright, fat cogs with their square sails of gold, blue and red came nearer, rolling and lurching on the foam-flecked waves, Tebbe began shaking his head. ‘Too big to come ashore here,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Romford.
‘I’m no sailor, lad,’ said Tebbe, ‘and you’re not either. But if they try and bring those ships too close, sure as shit is shit-coloured, they’ll strike a sandbank and get stuck. And in this weather they’ll go over. Which means . . . ’
Thorp finished his sentence for him. ‘ . . . there’ll be another feast for the pirates. Everything robbed and everyone who can’t swim killed.’
As if to prove Thorp’s point, a couple of smaller vessels appeared from further along the shore, staying well out of range of arrow shot from the cogs and their escort ships. ‘There you go,’ said Tebbe. ‘Fucking pirates, always sniffing for their supper.’ Romford felt alarmed at the mention of pirates. But he continued to watch the sea with them. So did a gathering crowd of others. Before long, the bombardment of Calais’ walls had stopped almost entirely and archers and gunners were speculating about who and what the ships were bringing.
The matter was settled when Sir John Chandos and a half-dozen men-at-arms rushed up to the sablon, pushing archers out of their way and snapping angrily at anyone who did not move aside fast enough.
They watched with the rest of the men as the small pirate boats circled and feinted around the bright-sailed fleet. From the decks and masts of the cogs, volleys of arrows and crossbow bolts started to fly. Romford’s ears were buzzing from his work, as usual, but he thought he heard Chandos say more than once to the men-at-arms: ‘Which one is Her Grace on?’
Tebbe and Thorp looked at each other, then Tebbe said: ‘It’s the fucking queen.’
Romford could see that he was right – he could now make out golden flags stitched with some sort of fierce beasts flying from each of the largest ships. He felt a lump in his throat, and for reasons he did not understand he wanted to cry.
The feeling stayed with him, even when the crowd watched the large ships changing course. ‘Heading up the coast to Flanders,’ said Thorp. ‘They’ll put in at a friendly port up there and travel down here by the supply road. I’d say we’ll see her arrive tomorrow.’
‘If,’ said Tebbe. ‘God knows why a fine lady like that would want to come and freeze her tits off in this dump.’ He wrapped his wiry arms around himself and shivered. ‘Cold again today, and it’s going to get worse from now until Lent unless Christ sends a miracle or the stubborn bastards in that city decide to give up. Queen or no queen, we’ve got a shit time ahead of us.
‘Those of us who are staying, anyhow.’ He glanced knowingly at Thorp, who seemed to flash back a sharp look of admonition. Romford caught what passed between them. But he had no idea what it meant.
He was also still feeling the strange sadness that had gripped him at the thought of the queen. He did not know what had caused it, but he knew that a single phrase was echoing around his mind and sending stabs down to his heart. Stabs like envy.
The prince has a mother, the voice was saying.
The prince has a mother.
Talk for the rest of the afternoon among the archers and gunners on the sablon was about the queen. It continued when Romford, Tebbe and Thorp returned to the Wolvenhuis at sundown and found Hastings there, sprawling on a pile of stained and poorly embroidered cushions Hircent had bought from a Flemish hawker. The knight had his arm draped around Margie’s shoulder. Romford could see straight away that the girl looked uncomfortable. He felt Tebbe stir with anger.
Hircent was in one of the cells. Another new girl had arrived. Hircent was speaking angrily to her. Romford heard the birch swish and strike the straw bed-sack. The girl whimpered. Loveday and Millstone looked vexed. There was an uncomfortable air in the room.
‘You told us we would have fifty when Her Grace arrived,’ Millstone was saying.
‘That’s still what I’m telling you. She’s arrived, praise Jesus. And you’ll have it. Just not all at once.’
Scotsman snorted. ‘You seem to have Sir fucking Arnoul all at fucking once.’
‘And you seem to have a tongue on you that I should have pulled out with pincers in the market square,’ said Hastings. ‘Have you ever seen a man have his tongue pulled out? They never get the whole thing, and it tends to rip rather than come out neatly. That’s when the knife goes in. More often than not, they drown in their own blood.’
Margie cringed. Hastings tightened his grip on her, so that he had her almost in a headlock. Millstone put a hand on Scotsman’s arm to quiet him. The new girl in the cell was sobbing softly.
‘My point, which I suggest you accept,’ Hastings continued, ‘is that my lady the Queen is an astute businesswoman and a truly liberal-handed patron, whose generosity is well known and therefore much in demand. I tell you this at first hand, since I spent a very put-upon year earlier in this war serving as her steward. I guarantee you that the moment she appears in this camp, everyone from the earls to the peasants who dig the shitting-trenches each day will be around her with their eyelashes fluttering and their hands out. Naturally, her payment for the custody of Sir Arnoul will be one of the items I request from Her Grace. But I’m telling you: she will take some time to pay me, and I will therefore take some time to pay you.’
‘Then get us started from the profits of this place.’ Millstone spoke quietly, but firmly.
Hircent was back in the room, swishing her birch. She made a peculiar sound, somewhere between a laugh and a screech.
‘You really don’t understand anything, do you?’ said Hastings. He sighed. ‘I and some of my less chivalrous but very wealthy acquaintances put up the money to get this place running. You peasants and that monster in the corner—’ He hooked a thumb at Hircent, who had eased back into her chair and swapped the birch for Heartbreaker. ‘—keep it going and help us to pay off the debt . . . ’
Hastings tailed off, as if sensing his words were quite wasted on the Dogs. His manner eased somewhat. ‘Listen. I take your point. Why you want the money so urgently when you’re already living a life of ease and debauchery here defeats me. But as the king likes to say, it is as it is. Trade here is good. We’re recruiting new girls on the roads each day. Some of them will be good workers when they’re broken in. Meanwhile, I hear dear old Maggie is performing heroics.’
‘Margie,’ said Tebbe. ‘Her name is Margie.’
‘Of course,’ said Hastings. ‘My wife’s name too.’ He suddenly looked repelled by Margie and released her from his arm. ‘Go on, fuck off.’ Margie stood up angrily and stormed away to her cell, pulling her shirt up to cover her breasts. Hastings ignored her.
‘Like I said, trade is fine and it will remain good if you leave it to those of us who understand it. But since you seem to think I am deceiving you, let me suggest this. The queen will arrive tomorrow. She will make her formal entry to the camp and there will be a good deal of loyal cheering, followed by a reception in the king’s hall. Two of you may attend, as my guests, and you will see exactly what I mean about this woman’s generosity.’
He stood up from the cushion pile, stretching and rubbing his shoulders in discomfort. ‘Christ’s spleen,’ he said, rolling his neck and making the bones crunch. ‘Don’t get old.’ He repositioned his wig, then squinted at Loveday. ‘Well, for some of you it’s too late for that.’
When he was gone, Romford scuttled away to the loft room at the top of the brothel to hide from Hircent, as he always now did. Moments later, Millstone clambered quietly up the ladder behind him. Plainly, it was his turn to keep watch. The stonemason said little, and although Romford felt reassured by his presence, he could not shake from his mind the feeling that something was wrong. That there was something the Dogs knew that he did not.
He lay and drifted in his thoughts, trying to understand what it was they were holding back from him. But his brain hurt and his ears rang and the answers would not come. He eventually fell asleep to the sound of Millstone idly drumming his fingers on the shaft of his heavy war hammer, which the stonemason had used to protect Romford in the past, and which he now always made sure to keep by his side when he turned in for bed.