Martin threw himself flat, below the reach of the arcing tip of the horseman’s broadsword. The horse reared up, instinctively avoiding stepping on the prone youth, its rider cursing foully. The horseman backed away, giving Martin a chance to scramble to where his sword had fallen. As he snatched it up and rose to his feet, a man-at-arms threatened to ride him down, but the first horseman shouted something in French that made him back away.
The horseman charged. It all happened too quickly for Martin to have time to think, to be afraid. The horseman swung his broadsword at Martin’s neck as he rode past, but Martin ducked beneath the stroke, jabbing the point of his sword at the horseman’s hip. The horseman was wearing armour, and the thrust glanced harmlessly off his chain-mail hauberk. He swiftly wheeled his mount, riding at Martin yet again, aiming a down-stroke at him. Martin raised his sword to parry the blow. The impact was terrific, agonisingly jarring Martin’s arm. It shattered the cheap and light-weight blade of his sword so it broke off near the hilt. Martin could feel the wind of the broadsword as it passed within an inch of his head. He staggered back, his bowels turning to water as the horseman pressed home his attack.
‘When in doubt, aim for the horse.’ Preston’s words came unbidden to Martin’s mind. He stabbed desperately at the horseman’s mount, the ragged end of the broken sword gouging a bloody wound in the horse’s neck. The horse reared up, and Martin stumbled out of the way of its flailing hooves, tripping over and sprawling on his back. At the same time, the horseman lost his balance, sliding from the saddle and falling to the stony ground with a crash. Unencumbered by armour, Martin was the first to pick himself up. Seeing the youth approach, the horseman reached for his fallen sword. His gauntleted hand closed around the hilt. Martin brought his foot down heavily on the horseman’s wrist and had the satisfaction of feeling the bone snap. He drew his rondel and dropped on to the man’s chest, pinning him to the ground.
‘Yield!’ Martin held the tip of his rondel poised above the man’s face.
‘Yield to a churl?’ The man spoke thickly accented English, his voice sour with contempt. ‘I would rather die!’
‘Then die!’ Martin plunged the rondel’s blade down through the jelly of the man’s eye and into his brain. Blood fountained briefly, but the man was dead almost instantaneously.
Gasping for breath like a drowning man, Martin glanced up to see the remaining Frenchmen falter at the sight of their lord lying dead, slain by a peasant’s hand. They had been disheartened by the refusal of the two English noblemen to yield without a fight; the death of their master was the final straw. It had been their lord’s idea to try to capture the English noblemen, anyway. Almost as one, they broke off their attack and wheeled their horses about, riding back towards the cover of the trees.
‘Shall we pursue them, my lord?’ asked one of the noblemen, a young squire, elated by their victory.
The other shook his head. ‘They are not worth the effort. The only prize here lies yonder, and our young friend seems to have claimed that.’ He rode his horse over to where Martin still straddled the dead knight’s body. ‘What is your name, boy?’
Martin rose hurriedly to his feet, recognising the Earl of Warwick. ‘Martin Kemp, my lord.’
Warwick frowned. ‘I know you, do I not?’
‘Aye, my lord. You saved me from the gallows at Leicester the month before last.’
‘It seems you have returned the favour, then.’
Another troop of horsemen rode up, this time from the direction of the port. Martin gripped his rondel tightly, but Warwick and the squire remained relaxed, wiping the blades of their broadswords clean before returning them to their scabbards.
‘My lord!’ exclaimed the leader of the newcomers, a knight of about fifty wearing a red jupon emblazoned with three black stars on a yellow chevron. Martin recognised him as Sir Reginald Cobham, another knight in Warwick’s retinue. ‘Are you hurt in any way?’
‘Not at all, Sir Reginald.’ Warwick was dismissive, speaking with good humour. He gestured to his squire. ‘Young Alan and I have merely been exercising ourselves with these French dogs, that is all.’ The corpses that littered the road told their own tale.
No longer the subject of Warwick’s attention, Martin wiped the blade of his rondel clean on the dead knight’s jupon and slipped it back into its sheath. He gazed despondently at the broken pieces of his short sword, wondering what Preston would say. He picked them up and slotted them into his scabbard. He did not know if a blacksmith could repair the sword, but at least he could prove he had not simply lost it. Then he turned to the cob which stood, quite unharmed, calmly cropping the grass at the side of the road as if nothing had happened. Martin took the bridle, and was about to remount when Warwick’s stern tones arrested him.
‘Kemp!’
Martin started guiltily, and turned back.
‘Are you not forgetting something?’
At a loss, wondering what he had done wrong, Martin flushed with confusion. ‘My lord?’
Warwick indicated the broadsword that lay in the dead knight’s grasp. ‘The sword. You’ve earned it, by right of conquest.’ A hint of a smile flickered at the corners of the earl’s mouth.
Martin picked up the weapon uncertainly. It was wrought from one piece of finely tempered steel, the hilt twined with a leather thong, with a wheel-shaped pommel and a curved crossguard drooping towards the blade. The blade itself was almost three feet long, three inches across at the hilt and tapering to a finely honed point. It was not a gilt-handled, jewel-encrusted sword for ceremonial occasions; it was a sword for killing people. It was considerably heavier than his short sword had been, but it was well-balanced and felt comfortable in his hand.
‘And the scabbard too,’ added Warwick.
The wooden scabbard was covered in pattern-stamped black leather bound with brass. Like the sword it had been crafted to contain, it was workmanlike rather than showy, but of good quality nonetheless.
‘A fine weapon for an archer to carry,’ Warwick continued, as Martin buckled the sword-belt around his hips, so that the broadsword hung at his left side. ‘But wield it as nobly as you have fought this day, and you’ll not disgrace it.’
‘Th… thank you, my lord.’ Overwhelmed with gratitude, Martin bowed away.
Two more horsemen rode up from the rear of the column, Holland on his palfrey and Brother Ambrose on his pony. ‘I hope this boy hasn’t been giving you any trouble, my lord?’ Holland asked Warwick with a smile.
The earl shook his head. ‘To the contrary, I’m much obliged to the lad.’
‘Did you find us some lodgings?’ asked Holland, as Martin scrambled back into the cob’s saddle.
‘Aye, Sir Thomas.’
‘Then lead the way, young man,’ said the earl.
As they rode across the fields to the manor house, the earl explained to Holland and Cobham how Martin had come to his rescue, admitting that while Martin’s help had been minimal, it had swung the balance in his favour.
‘You have had a busy day, haven’t you?’ Holland remarked to Martin, when the earl had concluded his account. ‘On your first day in France, you are one of the first to sight the enemy, and one of the first to engage them,’ recounted Holland. ‘Not content with that, you are bold enough to offer your coverchief to his Majesty, and then ride to the rescue of my lord of Warwick, slaying a French knight into the bargain.’ He smiled. ‘Tell me, Kemp, have you any more adventures planned before nightfall?’
Martin knew when he was being teased, even when it was by a knight as stern and gruff as Sir Thomas Holland. He managed a smile, although he still felt shaken from his encounter with the French knight. ‘Not that I know of, sir.’
When they reached the manor house, Holland noted with satisfaction that someone had thought to post two men – Piers Edritch and Ned Skeffington – on sentry duty. Holland suspected that had been Preston’s idea rather than Villiers’. The squire was courageous enough, and both a skilled horseman and swordsman; but he would never be a great warlord without the practical, hard-headed campaigning experience that Holland had learned from Preston.
They rode into the courtyard, where Preston and the rest of his men hurriedly rose to their feet. The riders dismounted, the noblemen leading their horses into the stable while the mounted archers and men-at-arms tethered their steeds to whatever makeshift tethering posts they could find in the courtyard. Martin rejoined his platoon.
‘New sword, Kemp?’ asked Preston. It was impossible not to notice the huge broadsword that hung at Martin’s hip.
‘My lord of Warwick gave it to me,’ said Martin. ‘I mean to say, I won it in battle.’
Preston raised his eyebrows sceptically. ‘Well, which was it? Did the earl give it to you, or did you win it in battle? Both explanations seem highly unlikely to me.’
‘Both, serjeant. I won it in battle, and the earl told me to keep it.’
‘That’s a noblemen’s sword, Kemp. Are you trying to tell me you killed a French noblemen on your first day in France?’
‘I were lucky,’ admitted Martin. ‘And I took your advice, serjeant,’ he added. ‘You know – about aiming for the horse, and stabbing at the eyes?’
‘Don’t try and butter me up, Kemp. It won’t work.’
‘I weren’t trying to…’
‘And don’t interrupt me when I’m talking to you; I haven’t finished yet. I suppose you can confirm all this?’
Martin nodded eagerly. ‘You can ask Sir Thomas if you like.’
‘I may just do that.’
‘My own sword got broken,’ said Martin, showing Preston the truncated hilt. ‘Will I have to pay for a new one?’
Preston stared at Martin in wry disbelief. He could not work out whether Martin was dishonest and very clever indeed, or honest and extremely dim-witted. ‘Not if what you’ve told me is true, lad,’ he decided at last. ‘And it had better be, because I’ll check, and if I find out you’ve been lying to me, I’ll…’
Martin never found out what Preston would do to him if he had been lying, because at that moment Villiers emerged from the house and approached the serjeant. ‘Sir Thomas wants you in the hall,’ said the squire. ‘He says to bring Caynard and Kemp.’
Preston glanced speculatively at Caynard. ‘Well, I know what Lancelot’s been up to,’ he said. ‘He’s been thieving swords. What have you been up to this time, Caynard?’
Caynard scowled, and followed Villiers, Preston and Martin into the manor house. It was the largest private building Martin had ever entered. Relatively humble though it was, Martin was awed by its grandiosity. He was about to follow Preston through the door into the hall when Will seized him by the arm and pulled him back so that he could precede Martin, apparently for no reason other than sheer spite. Martin was unimpressed by such pettiness, and did not rise to the provocation.
The walls of the hall were hung with intricately woven tapestries depicting different scenes from the Song of Roland, while three stags’ heads were mounted on the far wall. A large fire was blazing in the hearth at the centre of the room, the flickering flames adding to the illumination provided by the sickly sunlight that filtered through the high, narrow windows. Holland was standing by the fire, lost in contemplation as he gazed into the flames. He glanced up as the four men entered the room. ‘Fetch the steward, would you, Adam?’ he asked his squire, and as Villiers nodded and disappeared back through the door, Holland turned to the serjeant. ‘We’re going to question him,’ he explained.
Preston nodded in full understanding. ‘Aye, Sir Thomas.’ He turned to Martin and Will. ‘You two stand here, on either side of the door. Make sure he doesn’t try to make a run for it.’
Caynard grinned. He had been through this before. ‘You want me to toy with my dagger, serjeant?’
Preston nodded. ‘That might help.’
Villiers entered, chattering amiably with the steward, who was clearly having a hard time keeping up with the squire’s Anglo-Norman. The steward looked disconsolate at the occupation of his master’s home, but by no means unduly concerned. Then he saw Holland and Preston waiting for him, their faces grim. A trace of fear entered his eyes. He tried to back out of the hall, but Caynard moved to block the exit. ‘Oh no you don’t, monsewer.’
The steward whimpered softly.
Holland gestured to a wooden stool he had positioned in the middle of the floor, facing the roaring fire. He addressed the steward in French, his tone mild and unthreatening. He had spent enough time in France to have a better idea than his squire of how French was spoken by the natives.
The steward walked forward slowly, the trepidation evident on his face, and sat down on the stool. Holland had carefully positioned it close enough to the fire to ensure that the steward broke out in a sweat the moment he sat down. Holland stood in front of him and a little to the right, just inside the glow of light cast across the floor by the fire, while Preston had positioned himself behind the stool, out of the steward’s line of vision. Caynard took his dagger from its sheath and began to pare his grubby fingernails with it.
Villiers said something in soothing tones to the steward. The Frenchman nodded, but if Villiers had sought to reassure him, then the expression on the steward’s face made it clear that he had failed.
Holland asked the steward a question in French. He spoke in mild tones, quite unlike his characteristic gruff and sardonic mode of expression. The steward replied briefly, thrusting out his lower lip and shrugging, lowering his head as much as he raised his shoulders. Holland made a dismissive gesture, and tried another question. It elicited the same response as before. Preston took a step forward and raised a hand as if to strike the Frenchman, but Holland signalled for him to stop.
‘Hold, Wat. I have a better idea.’ He glanced across to Martin – or, more specifically, to the broadsword that now hung at Martin’s hip – with a speculative expression. ‘Come here, Kemp.’
Martin crossed the room to stand before Holland, who gestured at the seated Frenchman.
‘Show him your new sword.’
Martin was completely bewildered by all this, but he saw no reason not to comply. He drew the broadsword from its scabbard and held it out for the steward to see. The Frenchman’s eyes widened as if in recognition.
Holland permitted himself the faintest of smiles. ‘Tell him how you came by that sword, Kemp.’
Martin guessed that a succinct reply was called for. ‘I killed the knight who bore it.’
The steward flinched as if Martin had struck him, and Preston chuckled. ‘It seems our friend here understands some English after all.’
‘You understand, do you not?’ Holland asked the steward. ‘The Seigneur de Quettehou lies slain, his men dispersed in the woods. They won’t be returning here tonight or any other night, so you’d best reconcile yourself to the fact that we’re here to stay. Now I’ll ask you again: what forces does Valois have garrisoned in the Cotentin Peninsula?’
The steward seemed to crumple. ‘The marshal was in the process of levying troops for a militia…’ His accent was thick, but nonetheless intelligible.
‘The marshal,’ echoed Holland. ‘You mean Robert Bertrand?’
The steward nodded.
‘How many men?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted the steward. ‘There was to be an inspection of the men at Saint-Vaast-la-Hougue this day. The arrival of your fleet prevented it,’ he added bitterly.
Which explains why the French were able to attack us on the beach so soon after we’d landed, thought Holland. ‘What about professional troops?’ he asked the steward.
‘There were some Italian mercenaries…’
‘Genoese crossbowmen?’
The steward nodded.
‘Where are they now?’
‘They deserted three days ago,’ spat the steward, angry at the recollection. ‘I don’t know where they went.’
‘Any other forces?’
‘Not that I know of.’
Holland nodded, satisfied that the steward had spoken the truth. ‘Very well, you may go.’
The steward rose to his feet and bowed low, the relief evident on his face.
‘But don’t go far,’ put in Preston, gesturing with his rondel. ‘I’ve got my eye on you.’
Ashen-faced, the steward nodded again, and scurried out of the room.
Holland dismissed Preston, Martin and Caynard, before making his way to Warwick’s quarters to brief the earl on what he had learned.
The cellars of the manor house proved to be well-stocked with food, and the men of Holland’s company dined heartily that night. As darkness fell, Preston organised a rota for sentry duty, and those men who were not on the first watch bedded down in the courtyard for the night.
At first, Martin slept soundly. He dreamed of Beatrice, and in his dream she was able to marry him because he had won great glory and been knighted by the king for valour. At some point during the small hours of the morning his dreams turned to nightmares when his conscience caught up with him. He dreamed not of the skirmish on the beach, but of the mêlée on the road from Saint-Vaast-la-Hougue. The mounted knight was trying to ride him down again, hacking at him with that great broadsword. Then his assailant removed his helm, and it was not a knight at all, but Beatrice, and she laughed at him as she lifted the sword to deliver the death-stroke. He stood there, staring up at her in disbelief, unable to move as the blade came arcing down towards his head…
He awoke with a start, and found himself staring into the dying embers of the fire that had been lit in the courtyard. He sat upright with a gasp, shaken by the vivid dream. The others still slumbered, some of them moaning fitfully in their sleep. The sky overhead was a dark and dingy blue, but beyond the walls of the courtyard to the east the undersides of the clouds were illuminated in a brilliant orange gash. Sunrise, Martin told himself, and pushed himself to his feet. It would be reveille soon; there seemed little point in trying to get back to sleep. He picked his way between his sleeping companions to the gateway, where Brewster and Robin Wighton were on sentry duty. Preston stood with them, leaning with both hands on his cudgel. None of them saw Martin arrive. They were too busy gazing across the countryside to where the sunrise set the horizon ablaze, as if the town of Saint-Vaast-la-Hougue were being consumed by a huge conflagration.
It was then that Martin realised that sunrise was still the best part of an hour away. He stared at the blaze in horrified fascination. Only the very rich could afford houses made entirely of stone; for the poor, like Martin, fire was the ultimate nightmare, destroying homes and crops alike, ruining livelihoods.
‘What is it?’ he asked, unable to grasp the significance of the huge blaze.
‘That?’ Preston shrugged. ‘That’s Saint-Vaast-la-Hougue going up in smoke,’ he said absently. ‘Beautiful sight, isn’t it?’
Martin still did not understand. ‘Is it a French attack?’
‘The French?’ Preston stared at him in bewilderment. ‘Why should they burn one of their own towns? No, it’s more likely to be some of our own lads, getting a bit careless accidentally on purpose. Such things happen,’ he added, with a chuckle. ‘That’s why we’re here. Someone’s got to show these French whoresons who their rightful king is.’
‘By burning their homes?’ Martin could not keep the disgust out of his voice.
‘Aye, if needs be.’ Preston was unperturbed by Martin’s angry tone. He was used to having the occasional idealist like Kemp under his command; he consoled himself with the knowledge that the harsh realities of war would cure the lad soon enough. ‘Peasants work for their lords in return for protection,’ he explained patiently. ‘If we show them that their lords are incapable of protecting them, they’ll switch their allegiance soon enough.’
‘To the king whose army burnt their homes?’
Preston shrugged. ‘Who else can they turn to? We’re demonstrating the power of our king, his ability to ravage the towns and countryside of France with impunity. The folks hereabouts may not like it, but there’s little they can do about it. They have to think about the future.’
Martin tried to see it from the peasants’ point of view, but it still made no sense. The County of Leicester had not known the scourge of war in his lifetime, or even in his father’s, and he had never seen Beaumont as his protector; perhaps that was one of the reasons why he resented Beaumont’s lordship so much. He wondered how he would feel if it was the other way around, with Valois claiming the throne of England and his armies ravaging the English countryside. He might be tempted to applaud them if they slew Beaumont and Stamford, but not if they burnt the village of Knighton.
Sir Thomas Norwich rode up to the manor house shortly after dawn with orders from the king for Warwick and his retinue to prepare for a march. They did not have far to go. Following the burning of Saint-Vaast-la-Hougue, the king had decided to move his headquarters three and a half miles inland, to an inn in the town of Morselines, and Warwick was requested to join him there.
The king’s army was spreading throughout the Cotentin Peninsula. Escorted by troops of hobelars and mounted archers, the wagons of the king’s victuallers ranged far and wide in search of forage to supplement the supplies the army had brought with it. Much of the local populace had fled in the face of the invasion, so that the English seemed to outnumber the French resident in the area. The roads were crammed with English troops, marching in companies like Holland’s men or working in smaller groups, searching for booty and burning villages and crops. The French knights and men-at-arms of the region had withdrawn behind the walls of their castles and fortified towns, while the peasantry who remained, abandoned by their lords and masters, had no choice but to accept the depredations of the English.
Holland’s company encamped just outside Morselines. Norwich and Holland returned from a meeting with the king and his closest advisers at the inn where his Majesty was lodged around mid-afternoon. Holland had his serjeants form up their platoons so that Norwich could address them with an edict that the king had decided to issue to his troops.
‘We know not who was responsible for putting the port of Saint-Vaast-la-Hougue to the torch; nor do we desire to know.’ Norwich sat astride his palfrey as he addressed the men. He did not shout; his voice was strong enough to carry to the four-score men who were gathered before him. ‘However, his Majesty has decreed that henceforth, out of compassion for his French subjects, no town or manor house is to be burnt, no church or holy place is to be put to the sack, nor are any old men, women or children to be threatened, harmed or molested, on pain of life and limb. Furthermore, any man catching anyone in the act of these or any other criminal deeds and bringing them to the attention of his Majesty’s marshals, will receive a reward of forty shillings. By order of his Royal Majesty King Edward Plantagenet the Third after the Conquest, at Morselines, on the Feast of Saint Mildred, Thursday the thirteenth day of July in the twentieth year of his reign.’
Recalling his earlier conversation with Preston, Martin felt vindicated by the proclamation, and was pleased that his king remained true to the tenets of chivalry. Some of the veterans were stunned with disbelief, however, grumbling loudly as they were dismissed by the serjeants. Caynard, Lefthand and Murray approached Preston later that afternoon.
‘It don’t make any sense, serjeant,’ protested Caynard. ‘I’ve been fighting the king’s wars for upwards of half a dozen years now, and this is the first time I’ve ever heard of owt like this.’
‘What sort of campaign is this going to be, if we aren’t allowed to demonstrate our power to the French?’ agreed Murray. ‘I wouldn’t’ve volunteered if I’d known it were going to be like this.’
‘Next they’ll be telling us we aren’t supposed to hurt any of the French at all,’ grumbled Lefthand.
‘That’s as maybe,’ said Preston. ‘But let me remind you all that you enlisted to serve the king, and if he chooses to issue such an edict, then by God’s bones you’ll obey it, or you’ll answer to me!’
Caynard and his friends left Preston truculently, clearly unsatisfied with his response but knowing better than to defy him openly. Nevertheless, Preston could understand their bewilderment, and that evening he broached the subject with Holland while the two of them were alone in Holland’s tent.
‘Begging your pardon, Sir Thomas, but some of the lads aren’t happy with his Majesty’s latest proclamation.’
Holland was staring at a chess puzzle he had laid out on the chess set he had brought with him. ‘What of it?’ he asked coldly, without looking up from the board.
‘It’s just that… well, I’ve got a certain amount of sympathy with them on this matter. It’s like telling them the opposite of what they expected to hear. They’re all confused, and to tell the truth so am I.’
Holland picked up a pawn and toyed with it for a moment. ‘Are you questioning his Majesty’s edict?’
‘Nay, sir!’ Preston said hurriedly. ‘It’s just that… I think we’d all be a lot happier if we could see some point in marching through Valois’ lands without doing any damage.’
Holland replaced the pawn with a sigh. He had anticipated the men’s confusion, and had already broached the subject with Warwick before the edict had been read to them. Now he gave Preston more or less the same reply that he had received from Warwick.
‘As you well know, Wat, his Majesty hopes to win his rightful place on the throne of France. To do so he needs the acceptance of the French people. He needs to be seen not only as a powerful warlord but also as a just and kindly ruler.’ He paused, choosing his next words with care. ‘I think he recognises the difficulty in expecting veterans more used to burning and pillaging suddenly to change their ways. What is important is that henceforth any such behaviour by the men in his service is seen to be condemned rather than condoned. Do you follow me?’ Preston nodded.
‘As regards the next few weeks, I think we can rely on the men to behave as troops on campaign are expected to behave,’ continued Holland. ‘Can his Majesty be held accountable if, somewhere between the ravages of his men and the curbs of his marshals, a certain number of transgressions of the king’s edict go unpunished?’
‘Aye, sir.’ Preston understood now. The men were to behave as they had done on previous campaigns – burning, raping and pillaging – while the serjeants must be ready to turn a blind eye, so long as the damage done were not so wanton, and the culprits so obvious, that the king’s marshals could not ignore them.
Preston was bowing out of the tent when Holland called out to him.
‘Wat?’
‘Aye, Sir Thomas?’
‘I think you may find it useful to acquaint some of your men – at your own discretion – with the Eleventh Commandment.’
Preston creased his brow. ‘The Eleventh Commandment, sir?’
Holland nodded. ‘“Thou shalt not get caught.”’
Grinning, Preston nodded, and ducked out of the tent.
Early the following morning Norwich rode out to where Holland’s men had pitched camp. Holland greeted Norwich outside his tent. ‘Orders?’
Norwich nodded, dismounting. ‘My lord of Warwick requests that you and your men accompany him on a reconnaissance to the north today, to a port called Barfleur.’
‘I know of it,’ said Holland.
Norwich started to rummage around in one of his saddle bags. ‘By the way, before I forget,’ he said, producing Martin’s coverchief, neatly folded. ‘His
Majesty asked me to see to it that this was returned to its rightful owner, with his gratitude,’
Holland chuckled, and waved Preston across. ‘Return this to Kemp, would you?’
‘Aye, sir.’ Preston took the coverchief across to where his men were breakfasting. Martin had already finished eating, and was polishing his broadsword with all the pride of new ownership. Preston tossed him the cover-chief. ‘With his Majesty’s compliments.’
Martin dropped the rag he had been using to polish his sword and caught the coverchief one-handed before he had a chance to recognise it. He had not expected to see it again, and was astonished that the king had remembered to arrange its return. He held it delicately, as if it might dissolve in the morning breeze. The coverchief that had stanched the king’s blood – his coverchief.
‘Now there’s a souvenir for you,’ remarked Rudcock, as Preston stalked away.
Martin slowly unfolded the coverchief. It had even been laundered and pressed, and smelled strongly of lavender.
‘The blood’s been washed off it!’ Conyers exclaimed in disbelief. ‘What kind of a souvenir is that?’
Martin grimaced. ‘I don’t want my coverchief stiff with blood!’
‘Ah, but it weren’t any old blood,’ Conyers pointed out. ‘That were the king’s blood, that were! You could’ve kept it for ever, to show to your grandchildren.’
‘I haven’t got any grandchildren,’ said Martin, winding the coverchief about his neck once more. ‘I haven’t even got any children. Not yet, at least ways.’
‘Well then,’ said Conyers, with a leer. ‘You’d best not waste any time when you get back to that girl of yours.’
Rudcock grinned. ‘What’s the point, since he’s not got owt to show them anyway?’
Sitting down to join them, Newbolt caught the tail-end of the conversation. ‘What’s the point in our being here at all, that’s what I’d like to know,’ he grumbled. ‘No towns or manor houses to be burnt, no churches or holy places to be sacked, no old men, women or children to be threatened, harmed or molested? The king don’t want archers, he wants a bunch of God-damned friars!’
Conyers laughed. ‘I wouldn’t trust a friar to leave the women alone.’
‘Jankin’s right, though,’ said Lefthand. ‘What’s the point in us being here, if not to pillage and burn French territory?’
‘To fight the French, perhaps?’ Martin suggested sardonically.
Lefthand scowled. ‘Don’t talk daft. If we come up against Valois’ army, we might as well dig our own graves. We’ll be outnumbered a hundred to one. Isn’t that right, Daw?’
Oakley scratched his grizzled jaw. ‘Maybe. Maybe not. The odds were against us when we faced the French at Morlaix, but we still beat them.’
‘They won’t make the same mistakes again, you mark my words,’ asserted Lefthand.
Before Oakley could reply, Holland emerged from his tent and gave his serjeants the command to form their men up into marching order. They were soon joined by Warwick, riding with Cobham and his company. The two companies formed a single column, with Warwick riding at its head. They headed north, the foot-soldiers struggling to keep up as they marched in the dusty wake of the mounted troops. Jankin complained about the dust kicked up by the horses’ hooves getting in his eyes and throat; Martin simply pulled up his coverchief so that it covered his nose and mouth, his eyes smiling smugly at Newbolt, and the others who had mocked him for wearing it.
The column reached Barfleur without incident. The town was another port, slightly larger than Saint-Vaast-la-Hougue had been. The streets were deserted, and the English troops entered without opposition. Some of the ships from the English fleet had already entered the harbour, and when the troops signalled that the town was in English hands they tied up at the stone piers, while other ships waited beyond the harbour entrance. It had taken weeks to load the fleet at Portsmouth, and to save time they would start unloading some of the supplies at this second port.
Cobham’s men were detailed to help unload the ships, while Holland ordered his men to set fire to nine French warships they found tied up in the harbour, along with a couple of fishing boats for good measure, to make way for the English transport ships. Despite his natural horror of fire, it gave Martin a strange thrill to touch a blazing torch to a ship’s rigging until it was burning nicely, the flaming ropes tracing out a fiery web. He stood back to watch as the furled sails caught fire, pieces of burning canvas floating in the breeze over the water, and then the flames were fiercely devouring the boat’s timbers, sending great billows of smoke up into the air, until finally the hull had burnt down to the water-line and the boat sank below the waves with a loud, prolonged hiss. It had taken men weeks, if not months, to build these ships, and Martin and his companions had destroyed them in less than an hour. He was horrified, not only at what he had done, but at the guilty pleasure he had taken in the spectacle. Fire was something he feared, but it was also something that could be used as a weapon. It gave Martin a sense of power, but at the same time left him feeling cold and empty inside. There was no fun in doing something that, in the normal run of things, would be considered wicked, if it was sanctioned – nay, ordered – by his betters. As a villein he had been bound by the commands of his lord and master, Sir John Beaumont. Simkin had always told him that he could find freedom as a soldier. But this was no kind of freedom at all: he was still bound by the commands of a master; the fact that he had a new master in Sir Thomas Holland did not alter the underlying reality of his servitude.
And then he thought of the fishermen who had depended on those boats for their livelihood, and he felt even more guilty than he had after killing the foot-soldier on the beach or the knight on the road. Those men had taken up arms against his king, in defence of the usurper Valois. What crime had the fishermen committed? He had come to France in the hope of winning glory on the battlefield. But there was no glory here. Had not the king himself ordered that no wrong should be done to the people of Normandy? And now he had been commanded to destroy the livelihoods of some of those people. Aye, and he had obeyed unquestioningly, too. Once again he had to harden his heart: the fishermen could build new boats. They could count themselves lucky they still had their lives, assuming they had not been amongst the levies killed on the beach. This was war, he told himself, and in war people got hurt. Had not the French themselves – the people of Normandy, no less – ravaged Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight a few years ago?
As Preston and his men watched the last of the charred hulks slip below the waves, Holland rode up and ordered them to undertake a house-to-house search of the town. Martin assumed he meant that they should look for people – French troops in hiding – but once the search got underway it soon became apparent that he was alone in this assumption. Most of the others seemed to think that they were looking for plunder, Preston not excepted. In one house the serjeant found a large, iron-bound oak chest. He smashed the clasp with the heavy pommel of his broadsword and prised open the lid to reveal the contents, gold and silver coins neatly stacked on one side, jewellery piled on the other.
‘Well, look what we got here!’ he exclaimed in delight, wide-eyed in wonderment. ‘We’re rich men, lads!’ He started to divide the coins among them equally. The others in the room paused in the act of going through the fine clothing they found to gather up their shares, but one pile remained on the bed. ‘Did I miscount?’ asked Preston. ‘Who hasn’t taken his share?’
The others looked at one another with suspicion. Rudcock noticed that Martin stood back with his arms folded, an expression of distaste on his face. ‘Lancelot?’
‘This is wrong,’ said Martin.
‘What?’ Preston stared at him incredulously.
‘This is wrong,’ repeated Martin. ‘The king ordered that we do no wrong to the people of France. This is stealing.’
‘It’s only stealing if you get caught,’ said Preston. ‘Now I’m sure none of these lads are going to tell, and I know I’m not going to tell.’ He made a dismissive gesture. ‘Besides, the king’s edict was for the benefit of the French, not for us. His Majesty wants them to think he’s kind, noble and chivalrous – which he is, of course. That’s why he’s leaving the sack and pillage to us. Come on, Lancelot, this is war. No one expects us to wipe our God-damned feet each time we enter a God-damned house!’
‘It’s wrong,' Martin repeated stubbornly.
‘You didn’t say owt when I gave you that bracelet the day before yesterday,’ Rudcock pointed out.
‘That were before the king issued his edict. I wish I hadn’t taken it, now.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Martin!’ Rudcock exclaimed impatiently. ‘If you don’t take that lot, someone else will, so don’t think you’re doing the rightful owners any favours.’
‘The Devil take him,’ spat Edritch. ‘If he don’t want it, the rest of us can divide up his share. All the more for us, aye?’
‘Oh aye?’ sneered Caynard. ‘And how do we know Lancelot here won’t go running to the king’s marshals to claim his forty shillings, eh? Or should that be thirty pieces of silver?’
‘Shut your face, Caynard,’ snapped Preston. ‘Kemp won’t say owt to the marshals, because it’s only his word against ours, and he knows what I’ll do to him if he tries it. Besides, he’ll be as guilty as the rest of us, because he’s going to take that share. Aren’t you, Kemp?’
Martin unfolded his arms, but did not move from where he stood.
‘Kemp?’ persisted Preston.
‘Think of your family,’ urged Rudcock, gesturing at the small pile of coins and jewellery. ‘With what’s there, you can buy yoursen a small tavern somewheres and earn a decent living, instead of spending the rest of your life slaving in the fields for someone else’s benefit.’
Martin bit his lip. Rudcock’s tack had touched a nerve, and he was sorely tempted. ‘I can’t. If our mam thought we were living off…’
‘So don’t tell her,’ Conyers suggested simply.
Martin shook his head. ‘I can’t leave my lord’s manor…’
Preston put an arm around Martin’s shoulders. ‘Listen, lad. With that much money you can do what the hell you like. Or do you want to be a lowly villein all your life?’
Martin hesitated momentarily, and then snatched up the coins, red-faced, pouring them into his purse until it bulged. Some of the others cheered, and began to drift out of the room in search of other booty: fine clothes, food, wine. Finally Martin and Rudcock were left alone in the room. Martin sat on the edge of the bed, staring despondently at the floor.
Rudcock clasped him by the shoulder. ‘You made the right choice, Martin. Everyone does it. It’s expected, king’s edict or no king’s edict. Why should you miss out?’
Martin nodded, wiping his nose on his sleeve. Then he looked up at Rudcock with a wan smile. ‘I’m not sure I feel safe carrying this much money on me. They say the man who travels with an empty purse sleeps soundest.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Rudcock told him with a grin. ‘Who’s going to risk getting into a fight with you for the contents of your purse when they can walk into any house hereabouts and help theirselves?’
Martin and Rudcock were the last to leave the house. As they emerged on to the street, they immediately had to press themselves flat against the wall as a handful of young squires rode by. ‘Watch out, you God-damned churls!’ shouted one.
Another, recognising Martin, immediately reined in his horse and stared at him. ‘You!’ he exclaimed in disgust.
‘Aye.’ Martin lifted his chin to regard Richard Stamford contemptuously. Rudcock’s words earlier had struck a chord within him: he was sick of bowing and scraping to the likes of Stamford. ‘What of it?’
Stamford noticed the broadsword that hung at Martin’s side. ‘Where did you get that sword?’ he demanded.
‘I won it,’ Martin told him proudly. ‘In battle.’
‘Liar!’ spat Stamford. ‘That is the sword of a noblemen.’
‘More likely the churl stole it,’ said another squire.
‘I didn’t steal it!’ protested Martin. ‘I won it fairly, in battle. I killed the knight who bore it.’
‘Aye, like as not you stabbed him in the back to steal it,’ sneered Stamford, flicking back his head.
‘Know you not there is a penalty for stealing, by the king’s decree?’ said the second squire.
‘Aye,’ said a third. ‘And a reward of forty shillings for any man who brings such a miscreant to the attention of the king’s marshals.’
‘Give me the sword, churl, and we’ll say no more about it,’ suggested Stamford, with a toss of his head. The broadsword was clearly a better weapon than his own ancient and ill-kept blade, and probably worth more than forty shillings.
Martin hesitated. There were five squires, all on horseback, against himself and Rudcock, who was looking extremely nervous. ‘Give him the sword,’ Rudcock hissed. ‘It’s not worth getting killed over.’
‘Your friend speaks wisely,’ said the second squire. ‘Hand it over to Master Richard.’
Martin pulled the sword from his scabbard, holding it with both hands, in a defensive posture. ‘Come and take it.’
The other squires laughed. ‘It seems he wants a fight, Richard,’ said one.
‘A fight?’ Stamford drew his own sword. ‘God’s love, I’ll give him a fight!’ He rode his horse a few steps towards Martin and tried to bring his sword down on Martin’s head. Wielding the broadsword with both hands, Martin managed to parry the blow. Then he reached up with one hand to seize Stamford by the wrist, and with one powerful tug he heaved the squire out of his saddle. Stamford hit the ground painfully, losing his grip on his sword.
Rudcock kept his hand away from the hilt of his own short sword; for the moment, the other squires seemed content to spectate, laughing at Stamford’s discomfiture; if Rudcock interfered, they might feel obliged likewise to lend a hand, tipping the balance against the two archers. Besides which, Martin seemed to be holding his own.
Stamford snatched up his sword and rolled away from Kemp, nimbly rising to his feet. The two of them circled one another, swords poised to strike, while the other squires cheered and shouted encouragement at Stamford. A crowd was beginning to gather, Caynard and his friends watching the scene with amusement.
‘For all loves!’ a voice suddenly boomed. ‘What in the name of God is going on here?’
All eyes turned to the four horsemen who had arrived on the scene unnoticed. The speaker was the Earl of Warwick, his face as black as thunder. With him were Cobham, Holland and Villiers.
‘Put up your swords!’ commanded Warwick. Both Martin and Stamford truculently replaced their swords in their scabbards. ‘Squires fighting churls?’ Warwick continued angrily. ‘By my truth, I have never seen such a thing! What is the cause of this quarrel?’
Stamford pointed to Martin. ‘This churl carries a sword that he has obviously stolen. The man is a criminal, and should be hanged.’
‘I’ll decide who’s to be hanged, if anyone is,’ growled Warwick. ‘I gave him that sword. He earned it.’ He wheeled his horse without another word, and rode on.
Stamford was red-faced with anger and humiliation. Not knowing what to say, he took refuge in silence. This was the third time Kemp had made him look foolish.
‘Next time you level an accusation at one of my men, I suggest you be certain of your facts,’ Holland told Stamford coldly. ‘Now get back on your horse and ride on.’ He wheeled his horse after Warwick, and Cobham and Villiers went with him, the latter grinning with amusement.
‘I’ll see you in Hell for this, Kemp,’ snarled Stamford.
‘Aye and like’ Martin agreed with a savage grin. ‘But you’ll have to wait for me there.’