The king . . . announced that at All Saints he would hold a great, open court in the Queen’s honour . . .
True Chronicles of Jean le Bel
The king’s hall stood only a few hundred paces away from the Wolvenhuis. But it was as if it belonged to some other world. The long building, its walls made from huge thick timbers driven into the driest part of the marsh and its roof thickly thatched, was by some distance the largest building in Villeneuve.
When Loveday and Scotsman arrived there at sundown, ushered past the sentries on the outer fence by a brusque and irritable Sir Hugh Hastings, the hall blazed with torchlight and the room was already crammed with hundreds of people. They stood around chattering excitedly in small groups on a wooden floor strewn with rushes and dried herbs, which gave off a delicious fragrance as they were crushed underfoot. The Scot’s nose twitched. ‘That’s bay and rosemary,’ he said, shaking his head in astonishment. ‘On the fucking floor!’ Loveday had never smelled anything like it. Nor, though, had he ever been among a crowd such as was assembled before the large wooden dais at the end of the fragrant, flickering hall.
It seemed to Loveday that the hall contained every knight and man-at-arms in the English army. There were hundreds upon hundreds of them, and more came cramming into the room with every passing moment, picking their way around the edges before trying to squeeze into the throng as they spotted faces they knew. A few, Loveday recognised: the one-eyed knight Thomas Holand and the prince’s steward, Sir John Chandos; a fat young herald employed by the Earl of Warwick, and Warwick himself, joking and laughing among a group including the Earl of Northampton. There were also several knights whose names he did not know, but who had become regular visitors to the Wolvenhuis. Yet most of the crowd was unknown to Loveday – and many of them seemed entirely new to the camp. Perhaps to any war camp.
There were not only fighting men, but also preening clerics trussed in fine long gowns stitched with gold thread. Pompous merchants in expensive clothes that would be ruined within a week on the salty, muddy Calais marsh. There was also a large number of ladies: the married and widowed wearing veils or elaborate hats; the younger maidens with their long hair arranged in rolls and plaits that seemed to float at the sides of their heads.
The women’s presence charged the air in the room. It certainly animated the Scot. He and Loveday were standing in the back corner of the hall, attempting to draw as little attention as they could to themselves. Loveday knew they looked poor and smelled awful, despite both having bathed in the yard behind the brothel, using the girls’ wash buckets. He expected that at any moment a man-at-arms would march them out.
Scotsman, however, seemed unbothered. When a servant walked past carrying a tray of elegant wine mugs, stamped with King Edward’s symbols of leopards and fleurs-de-lis, he shot out two hairy hands and grabbed a pair. He passed one to Loveday. ‘Whatever it is that bald cunt wants to prove to us by dragging us here, so be it,’ he said. ‘But let’s enjoy ourselves while we’re at it.’ He nudged Loveday and pointed through the crowd to a young woman about fifteen years old, as tall as many of the men in the room, high cheekboned, with rosy cheeks, full lips and blonde hair so shiny with grooming that it seemed to glow like cloth of gold. ‘Christ have mercy, we don’t see the likes of her in the fucking whorehouse,’ he breathed.
‘No,’ whispered Loveday. ‘That we don’t.’ But before he could say more, a trumpet blasted from beyond a curtain at the back of the dais. A herald cried for silence. A bevy of priests crossed themselves. And the whole room fell to their knees, as on to the wooden platform walked King Edward, his son the prince, and between them, Queen Philippa.
She was captivating. Not beautiful, Loveday thought, as he stole glances at her from beneath his brows while he kneeled with the crowd in the royal hall. She had a face somehow both long and round, with chubby cheeks and a chin that jutted out, a small roll of flesh hanging behind it. The flush in her face suggested she had recently borne a child, and perhaps was with child again. Her eyes were black, her eyebrows were thick and dark like a man’s and her mouth was pinched, with a top lip far bigger than the lower. She wore her hair in great packages tied up in expensive fabric around her ears, secured with jewelled pins and gold. Her red dress and golden cloak did not cling to her, as did those of the maidens Scotsman was drooling over. Yet Loveday found her fascinating. In his years with the king’s army – and especially the weeks they had been in France – Loveday had developed an instinctive mistrust of wealthy and noble men. But as he looked at Queen Philippa, he told himself that she was different to all the men of her world. Someone who had brought calm and cleanliness and goodness into this awful place.
A hush had fallen over the room. King Edward filled it. His voice, though soft, was clear, and he projected it so that it rang over the whole hall. He commanded the audience to rise. Then he and the queen sat on high-backed thrones beside one another. The prince stood on his father’s right. He tried to look interested. Loveday could see he was bored.
‘My very beloved wife and queen,’ Edward said. He smiled at her, and she back at him. For a moment, they seemed lost in one another’s eyes.
The prince stifled a yawn.
‘My queen,’ said Edward, addressing the court once more, ‘has something to tell you all.’
She looked at him questioningly. He nodded. ‘God’s mercy, my love. It is your story to recount.’
The room went silent. Scotsman kicked Loveday on the ankle and looked at him questioningly. Loveday had no idea what to expect. He stared at the dazzling woman on the dais and waited for her to speak.
Philippa gazed serenely around the assembled group. She took a breath. Then she began to speak in light and rapid French.
‘Mon peuple bien-aimé, cela m’apporte le plus grand bonheur de m’asseoir ici avec vous . . . ’
Scotsman kneed Loveday in the thigh. ‘What the fuck?’ he growled.
‘ . . . les forces obscures se dressent contre nous . . . ’
Loveday cursed under his breath. In camp, almost everyone spoke English, since this was the language the knightly classes and archers shared. French, however, clearly remained the language of court and courtiers.
‘Loveday,’ hissed the Scot. ‘What’s she saying?’
Loveday shook his head.
. . . mais notre Dieu et sauveur est avec nous, et tout autour de nous, et son amour s’étend à notre cause au-dessus de toutes les autres . . .
‘Something about God,’ he whispered. ‘Er . . . us above other people . . . ? I think?’
‘God,’ muttered the Scot. ‘Always fucking God.’
Soon, Loveday lost any sense of what the queen was saying and he had to rely on picking out odd words and watching the reactions of the other guests, as well as the king and prince on the dais.
Yet even doing this, he understood that the queen was relaying something they all considered to be of enormous consequence.
As her story went on, murmurs, shocked gasps and little cries of astonishment began to go around the room. A few girls swooned, glancing slyly as they did so to be sure their friends saw them perform. At one point, the Earl of Warwick clambered on to the side of the dais and bade the crowd be quiet with his hands. The king nodded at him in thanks, and the queen continued.
Then, as excitement gathered once more, she stopped, and smiled deliberately to each corner of the hall. She had slowed her tale to a crawl, teasing the audience. Making them hungry.
‘ . . . et donc Davide, le roi des Écossais . . . ’
‘She’s saying something about King David,’ whispered Loveday to Scotsman.
‘The one in the Bible? Lad that fought the giant?’
‘No, by Christ,’ Loveday hissed. ‘The ruler of your lot.’
‘You fucking what? Wee Davie the Bruce?’ Scotsman reddened and stuck his chest out. ‘What about him?’
‘Keep your voice down.’
The queen paused once more. ‘le roi des Écossais est dans la tour de Londres – notre prisonnier!’
‘Loveday, tell me what the fuck she’s saying.’
Loveday’s mouth fell open. ‘Scotsman, I—’
He understood. But he couldn’t get the words out.
The servant with the wine cups passed by. He caught the Scot’s accent. He noted his puce face. He jeered. ‘Best place for you lot, banged up in the Tower.’
Bystanders were hugging each other and cheering, delirious. A line of courtiers eager to fawn over the queen had already formed. Loveday saw Sir Hugh Hastings far towards the back of it.
Scotsman grabbed the servant by his tunic. He lifted him off his feet. Fabric tore. The servant dropped his tray. He went pale and babbled. The big man grabbed one of his hands and squeezed, crushing his fingers.
‘Tell me in words I fucking understand what’s going on or you’ll never hold your pintle to piss again.’
The servant dripped sweat and kept babbling. ‘I didn’t mean – I didn’t—’
Loveday urged the man to do as he was told.
‘King David,’ squeaked the servant. ‘He’s been captured. The queen. There was a battle . . . somewhere she called Neville’s Cross . . . he’s a prisoner in London. They say his ransom will—’
Scotsman released his hand and dropped the man. He landed on his own tray. Shards of broken cup lodged in his shoulder blades. He howled again and leapt up, writhing and staggering as he tried to pull them loose from his back.
Guests were starting to stare. Loveday’s guts snarled.
He recalled someone once telling him that violence in the king’s hall was treason and they’d chop off your hands for it. He decided this was not the time to find out if it were true.
‘Fuck, Scotsman, we need to go,’ he said.
But the big man was no longer beside him.
His huge dark frame was already outside the hall, heading out into the night.
‘Scotsman!’ Loveday yelled. And he ran out after him.
Loveday caught the Scot up in the market square. He grabbed his arm and managed to spin the big man around. His heart was hammering and his breath fogged in the night air as he panted from running. Moonlight hung in the steam.
‘Scotsman . . . ’
‘Aye,’ said the Scot, ‘that’s right. I fucking am.’
‘Come on. We’ve been at war with them for years.’
‘Who’s we? I fucking haven’t. Where did you and I first cross paths?’
Loveday remembered it vividly. The bracing wind that whipped their faces as they fought in the bloody combat on the beach at Kinghorn, in King Edward’s first years. They had been on opposing sides, but had not known it until they met, years afterwards. ‘I recall it well. But that’s—’
‘What? In the past? Fuck it all, Loveday, I fought for the real Bruce when I was a young man. Old Rabbie. Believed in the cunt, too. The old guys used to tell me stories about Bannockburn. I was at Dupplin Moor. I was—’
‘Aye, and now you’re a Dog. And have been how long? In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re with the English army.’
‘Fuck that. God’s bollocks, Loveday. I’m with you and the men. But that’s where it ends. As far as I know, we’ve been fighting the French. Fuck ’em. I don’t give two fucks on a Friday about the French. But I don’t care about your King Edward either, or his cunt of a son, or his weird-looking queen with her chubby cheeks and that stupid lip on her, like a fucking beak.’
Despite himself, Loveday felt a twinge of defensiveness about the queen. The Scot’s argument infuriated him. Yet deep down he could understand it.
‘Loveday.’ Scotsman’s voice softened. ‘If there’s one thing we’ve learned since we’ve been in this shitehole of a country, it’s that no one leading this army cares about us. They use us for what they want. They promise us things they don’t have or won’t give up. They lie to us. They screw us, or they let us be screwed. We owe them fuck all.’
‘So all lords are the same? If that’s the case, then why do you care . . . ’
‘Because even though all that shite is true, sometimes it’s different,’ said the Scot. ‘You think that queen is really going to give us fifty pounds for some prisoner that sly cunt Hastings is holding? You think that for one moment? Deep down? Really?’
Loveday swallowed hard. ‘Aye. No. I don’t know. I don’t know anything any more.’
‘I’ll go with no. And I’m right. But I still saw the way you looked at her in that hall. She meant something to you. She did something to you. It was like being in love. Wasn’t it? Be honest, by Christ.’
‘Aye.’
‘Exactly. Aye. And it’s a fucking curse. It doesn’t matter how much they hurt you. You know you’re still going to love them.’
Loveday nodded. He was suddenly very cold.
Scotsman sighed. ‘That little bastard Davie Bruce is king of my fucking countrymen. I know he’s a useless cunt. I knew the stupid fucker was bound to get himself captured one day. And I know if he’s let out, he’ll do something even stupider.
‘But he’s still my fucking king. Or the king of my people. If there’s a difference. And Christ will come back to Earth wearing a pretty fucking dress and driving a haycart before I sit around celebrating him being in the Tower of fucking London.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean I’m fucking going.’
‘Where?’
‘Home.’
Loveday laughed, despite the cold and the desperation of the evening. His laugh formed a white cloud and floated away. ‘Home? Where even is home?’
‘Not fucking here, that’s where. I don’t know. Where we were before. London. Essex. Portsmouth. Fucking Scotland, if I must.’
‘You’re drunk.’
‘You’re wrong. For once. Or, I mean, you’re wrong a lot of the time, but I’m not drunk now. I’m going. And I’ll tell you how. I’m taking that pirate his fifty pounds and he’s taking me somewhere. Anywhere. Any of you cunts want to join me, you’ll be very welcome. I’ll take the lad, of course. Not that he’ll improve my chances of staying alive. But I’m telling you, Loveday. This is it.’
Loveday shook his head, confused. ‘Scotsman, we don’t have fifty pounds. We don’t have anything. That’s the whole point. We’ve been waiting for the queen.’
‘Haven’t got fifty pounds my bollocks. I’ve been thinking about this ever since we were in that piss-poor excuse for a tavern with the pirate. Marant is a businessman, isn’t he?’
Loveday shrugged. ‘Pirate, businessman. Aye. There’s not much between the two.’
‘Well then. The cunt should be happy to take payment in kind.’
‘Payment in what?’
‘Payment in fucking kind, Loveday. Look around you. Who do you see?’
Loveday looked. The square was deserted. The streets were empty. All the noise in Villeneuve was coming from the king’s hall.
‘See?’ said Scotsman. ‘Fucking nobody. And I’ll bet there’s no prick worth talking of guarding our fifty-pound fucking hero. I’m going to break him out and take him to Marant. And you can help me, Loveday, or you can go to hell, and I’ll meet you there shortly.’
He turned on his heel and strode off towards the prisoners’ pen.
Loveday scrambled to keep up.
There was a single guard on the door to the compound. A spotty-faced squire little more than Romford’s age. Shivering at his post.
Scotsman let him choose between a broken neck and his keys. He slapped him senseless as a thank-you.
They found Sir Arnoul d’Audrehem’s cage. The knight was at his prayers by candlelight. His leg seemed better. His hand had almost healed. He looked well fed and strong.
Sir Arnoul stood up in alarm when the two Dogs burst in. He crossed himself and backed into the cell’s furthest corner. He kept whispering his prayers.
‘Come with us, you daft cunt,’ said Scotsman. ‘And you can stop praying, too.
‘It looks like God’s been listening.’