Martin awoke to find himself adrift on a sea of pain. His head throbbed dully, his right cheek felt sore and swollen, his stomach was churning, and the whole of his left side seemed to be aflame with agony. He welcomed the pain: it told him he was still alive.
He came to slowly and reluctantly. He seemed to be lying face-down on a straw-stuffed pallet of some kind. He could hear distant voices, talking in a foreign tongue. The accent was melodic yet the tone was terse, as if the two speakers were arguing about something.
He opened his eyes cautiously. A burning brazier stood in the centre of the room, an iron thrust amongst the glowing coals to heat it. By the brazier’s light he could see the two men who were arguing. One was tall, thin and elderly, with a long white beard that came down to his belt, dressed in a coarse, knee-length woollen tunic and a long cloak; the other was stocky and broad-shouldered, with a shaggy mane of hair, bushy eyebrows, and a luxuriant beard. His torso was naked except for a leather jerkin, exposing a shaggy mat of hair on his chest, and equally hairy, muscular arms. Martin could not recognise the language, but he guessed it must be French. Beyond the two men he could just make out Piers Edritch, sitting hunched in one corner, bound hand and foot and tightly gagged. So, they had both been captured by the French.
Nearer the pallet – less than an arm’s length away – Martin could see his broadsword in its scabbard, propped against the wall. The two foreigners did not seem to be paying any attention to him. He dared not move for fear of attracting their notice, but as far as he could tell the men had neglected to tie him up. He wondered what they were arguing about. It must have been obvious to them that he was only a churl, not worth trying to ransom, so why they had not simply killed him was a mystery. They might yet change their minds on that score, so this was probably the last chance he would get. Slowly, with barely perceptible movements, he began to reach out for his sword.
‘I wouldn’t bother if I were you, boy,’ said a voice close by, speaking with the same sing-song accent that Martin had heard in the alley. He had heard it somewhere else before, too, but he could not place it. He twisted his head around, ignoring the pain that lanced through his neck and up into his skull, and searched for the speaker. He had not previously noticed the fifth man in the room, seated in a chair by the foot of the pallet. He was in his late twenties, short and stocky, with dark brown hair cut in a pudding-basin fringe emerging from beneath a greasy woollen Monmouth cap, and a bushy, drooping moustache. His dark eyes twinkled with amusement in the candle light. ‘We’re all on the same side, or supposed to be,’ he continued. ‘You are English, aren’t you, boy?’
Martin nodded, in spite of the pain. ‘Aye,’ he managed to gasp. Now he was able to make out the green and white livery of the three foreigners, despite the gloom. He breathed a sigh of relief, the tension melting from his body.
The other two men broke off their argument and turned to face him. ‘Oh, so he’s awake, is he?’ said the broadshouldered one. ‘Who’s your master, boy?’ he asked Martin.
‘Sir Thomas Holland.’
The three Welshman exchanged glances. They were obviously familiar with the name.
‘I should be getting back to my platoon,’ added Martin, making as if to rise from the pallet.
The man with the bushy moustache rose to his feet and gently forced Martin back down. ‘You rest easy, boy. You’ve got yourself a nasty wound there. It needs to be cauterised.’
The word meant nothing to Martin. ‘What do you mean?’
The broad-shouldered one chuckled. ‘You’ll find out soon enough.’ He turned to address the elderly man with the long white beard. ‘How’s that cautery iron coming along, Dafydd?’
‘Nearly ready.’
‘Have you got a name, boy?’ asked the man with the moustache.
Martin nodded. ‘It’s Kemp. Martin Kemp.’
‘I’m Ieuan ap Morgan. This here is Madog Fychan, and old greybeard over there is Dafydd ap Trahaiam, our physician.’
‘Why were this fellow and his friends trying to kill you?’ Dafydd demanded sternly, indicating Edritch.
Martin shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘And you expect us to believe that?’ Madog demanded angrily.
‘If you want my opinion, it’s the wrong person we’re questioning,’ said Ieuan, and indicated Edritch. ‘If we want to know what was going through his mind, it’s him we should be asking.’
‘We’ll come to him presently,’ grunted Madog. ‘Is that iron ready yet, Dafydd?’
The physician nodded, wrapping a cloth round the fingers of his right hand and binding it in place with a leather thong. He knotted the thong tightly with his left hand and his teeth. ‘Hold him down.’
Before Martin realised what was happening, Madog was seated on his ankles, pinning his legs to the pallet.
‘You’d best sink your teeth into this,’ said Ieuan, holding a folded leather strap for Martin to bite on. ‘We don’t want you biting your own tongue off, do we?’ He grabbed Martin’s wrists and pinned down his arms. In spite of his wiry frame, Ieuan was deceptively muscular.
‘Tell me, boy, do you know what extreme pain is like?’ Dafydd asked conversationally, drawing the iron from the brazier and inspecting the white-hot tip with a critical eye.
Martin nodded, gripping the leather thong between his teeth.
‘Good,’ said Dafydd. ‘Then this shouldn’t come as too much of a shock to you.’ He applied the white-hot tip of the cautery iron to Martin’s side.
The agony was excruciating. Martin tried to buck on the pallet, but Ieuan and Madog held him down firmly. He could hear the sizzle of burning flesh, and a stench not unlike charred pork filled the room. He squeezed shut his eyes, sobbing through the leather strap on which he had clamped his teeth as if his very life depended on it. The agony was far worse than the pain of the original wound had been. It seemed to last for ever. Just when he thought he must mercifully faint, Dafydd took the glowing blade away. The agony receded, leaving a dull but insistent pain that was mild only by comparison.
Dafydd replaced the iron in the brazier and picked up a candle, bending over Martin’s torso to inspect his handiwork. ‘That seems to have done the trick,’ he remarked, stroking his beard thoughtfully. ‘Fortunately for you, it wasn’t a deep cut. I’ll put an ointment of groundsel beaten with salt-free grease on it – that should take away some of the pain, and help it heal up nicely. You’ll have a nice big scar, of course.’
Madog moved off the pallet, and leuan released Martin’s wrists, clapping him on the other shoulder. ‘Something to talk about on your wedding night, eh, boy?’
Martin barely managed to spit out the leather strap. The ordeal had left him too drained to talk.
‘You’re lucky it was us that rescued you,’ added Ieuan. ‘Dafydd’s a real master at this kind of thing.’
‘So I should be,’ retorted Dafydd. ‘I’ve been healing wounds like that one ever since I was at Cambuskenneth – long before any of you lot were born.’ He produced a mortar and pestle and began to grind up a mixture of mustard seeds and herbs, occasionally adding oils and ointments to the mixture.
‘Now, let’s find out what all this was about, shall we?’ suggested Madog, bending over Edritch and seizing him by the throat. He lifted him easily with one brawny arm and placed him in a chair, before ripping the gag off roughly. Edritch was evidently terrified, his eyes bulging from his head. ‘Now then, why don’t you start by telling us who you are?’
‘Piers Edritch. I’m in the same platoon as Kemp.’
‘Why were you trying to kill him?’
‘I weren’t trying to kill him!’ bleated Edritch.
‘Ballocks!’ scoffed Madog. ‘We saw you with our own eyes.’ He wrapped a cloth around his hand and grasped the handle of the iron being heated in the brazier. ‘The truth now, before I start giving you the same treatment Dafydd just gave your companion. We’ll see how much you like it, eh, boy?’
Ashen-faced, Edritch broke out in a sweat. ‘You wouldn’t dare! I’m one of Sir Thomas Holland’s men. If he found out…’
‘If he found out, I’m sure he’d be just as interested as we are to know why his men are trying to kill one another,’ said Madog. ‘But he’s not going to find out. In Gwent we like to sort out our own problems, without recourse to your English lords and your English justice. We dispense our own.’
‘Look, boy, you’re a dead man already,’ Ieuan told Edritch mildly. ‘How much you suffer before you die is entirely up to you.’
A spasm shook Edritch’s body, and he vomited into his own lap. Dafydd grimaced with distaste, while Madog patiently waited for the spasms to die down before drawing the iron’s glowing tip from the brazier.
‘What about the screams?’ asked Dafydd.
Madog laughed. ‘The English have been murdering the townsfolk since dusk. Who can tell an English scream from a French one?’ He held the tip of the iron an inch from Edritch’s nose. ‘The truth now, boy.’
‘In God’s name! Please! I beg you! Don’t kill me!’ wailed Edritch. ‘For the love of Jesus! I’ll tell you everything, I swear!’
‘Why were you trying to kill him?’ demanded Madog.
‘We were to be paid fifty shillings each to do it.’
‘Fifty shillings!’ Madog exclaimed incredulously.
‘Someone with a fat purse must hate you a lot, boy,’ Ieuan remarked to Martin.
‘Who was going to pay you?’ Dafydd asked Edritch.
‘I don’t know.’
Madog flicked the iron against Edritch’s cheek. The red-hot metal was in contact with his skin for only a moment, but it was long enough for the flesh to blister and burst. Edritch screamed in agony. Martin felt sick, but only because he knew his own skin must have done likewise when Dafydd had cauterised his wound.
‘Who was going to pay you?’ repeated Dafydd.
Edritch was sobbing with pain. ‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled, his cracked voice muffled by the awful wound on his cheek. ‘I swear it, by the soul of my dead father!’
‘Oh aye?’ said Ieuan. ‘And which one of the thousands you doubtless have to choose from would that be?’
‘You must have some idea who was going to pay you,’ persisted Dafydd.
Edritch shook his head. ‘It were Will who came up with the job. He arranged it all.’
‘Who’s Will?’ demanded Ieuan.
‘He means Will Caynard,’ Martin managed to gasp. ‘One of the other three men who attacked me.’
‘And does he have a hundred and fifty shillings to spare?’ Ieuan asked him.
Martin shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ he croaked. It was a princely sum, as much as a ploughman could hope to earn in eleven years.
‘There was a squire,’ sobbed Edritch. ‘I don’t know his name…’
‘His master’s arms?’ demanded Dafydd.
‘A red dragon with two legs on a white background.’ With tears streaming down his blistered face, Edritch nodded in Martin’s direction. ‘He knows who it is.’
Dafydd turned to Martin, his eyebrows arched questioningly.
Martin managed a faint nod. It was beginning to make some kind of sense at last.
‘What about the others who helped you?’ demanded Madog, returning the iron to the brazier. ‘What were their names?’
‘Bartholomew Lefthand and Gilbert Murray.’
‘I know them,’ said Martin. ‘I recognised them when they attacked me. They’re in my platoon.’
Madog nodded in satisfaction, and turned away, casually reaching for the haft of a great battleaxe that was propped against the wall nearby. He swung back suddenly, almost casually lopping Edritch’s head clean off his shoulders. Blood fountained briefly from his truncated neck. His head rolled into a corner, a look of terror and defeat frozen on its features. Martin buried his face in the pallet. He had not liked Edritch, but even under the circumstances he was not convinced that he had deserved to be so callously murdered, defenceless and bound hand and foot.
Ieuan put a hand on Martin’s shoulder. ‘It had to be done, boy,’ he said grimly. ‘If we’d let him live, he would have had no choice but to try to kill you again – not just for the money, but to stop you from talking.’
‘But… surely we should’ve taken him to the king’s marshals… ?’ protested Martin.
‘Then it would’ve been your word against theirs as to who started the quarrel,’ said Dafydd. ‘And even if the marshals had believed your word above the four of them, they would have just stretched Edritch’s neck for him. Believe me, Madog’s way is quicker.’ The way Dafydd used the present tense suggested to Martin that he was not ruling out Madog’s way for future use. Martin shuddered, the sight of Piers’ head flying across the room imprinted on his memory.
‘You know this squire he spoke of?’ asked Madog, as Dafydd began to daub his poultice on Martin’s wound. It looked and smelled repulsive, but felt cool and soothing.
Martin nodded. ‘I think so. The arms that Edritch described are the arms of Sir John Beaumont – my master from England. He has a squire named Richard Stamford who believes… that he has cause to hate me.’
‘For ten pounds, he must hate you a great deal,’ Ieuan remarked sardonically. ‘What did you do to earn such a hatred?’
‘He can afford it,’ Martin said dismissively.
‘That’s not what I asked.’
Martin shrugged. ‘It’s a long story.’
Ieuan chuckled. ‘Then save it for a long winter’s evening.’
‘I have to get back to my platoon.’ Martin did not want to be accused of deserting. As he tried to raise himself from the pallet, however, he found himself too weak, and Ieuan had little difficulty in gently forcing him back down.
‘You’re not going anywhere,’ the Welshman told him firmly. ‘What you need now is rest, boy.’
Martin slept feverishly that night. He dreamed that he was back on the road to Quettehou, only this time he watched from a distance as the mounted knight charged at Edritch, who stood stock-still as if frozen in time. The knight bore the arms of Sir John Beaumont, but when he took off his helmet once again it was Beatrice’s face that was revealed. Laughing, she swung at Edritch’s neck with the broadsword that Warwick had given to Martin. Edritch’s head was lopped from his shoulders, and rolled down the road until it came to rest at Martin’s feet. He glanced down at the disembodied head, but instead of seeing Edritch’s face he saw his own, laughing up at him.
He woke with a scream. He was still lying on the pallet in the room where the Welshman had tortured and killed Edritch in the hellish glow of the brazier, but now, with the coming of dawn, sunlight streamed through the cracks in the shutters on the windows. He sat upright for a moment, gasping for breath.
The door opened, and Ieuan entered. ‘What was that?’
‘I… I must have had a nightmare,’ admitted Martin, feeling foolish.
Ieuan smiled, and began to remove the shutters so that sunlight and fresh air flooded into the room. ‘You don’t surprise me. You were tossing and turning feverishly all night. We didn’t think you’d make it at one point, but you look well enough this morning, considering all you’ve been through. You stay there,’ he added, heading back towards the door. ‘I’ll get you something to eat. You lost a fair amount of blood last night. You need to build your strength up.’ He left the room, and Martin heard his feet descending a creaking flight of wooden steps. Martin swung his legs off the mattress and sat on the edge of the pallet. Even that much movement left him feeling completely drained. There was a dull throbbing in his head, and the wound in his side still smarted painfully.
There was no sign of Edritch’s body or the brazier, nothing to remind him of the nightmarish events of the previous night. He wondered if they too had been nightmares. He glanced out of the window, across the rooftops of the town they had entered after Bertrand’s men had abandoned it. The sky was blue, the sun already over the horizon. Martin knew that Preston and the others must be wondering where he had got to.
There were more footsteps on the stairs, lighter this time, and Dafydd entered the room. ‘I don’t remember saying you could sit up,’ he told Martin sternly.
‘I don’t remember you saying I couldn’t,’ Martin grunted irritably.
Dafydd chuckled, and held the back of one hand to Martin’s forehead. ‘The fever’s gone, anyway,’ he said, sitting down on the pallet beside Martin so that he could unbind the dressing he had wrapped around his torso. ‘Let’s see how that wound of yours is.’
The wound had neither burst again nor gone septic. Dafydd applied some more of his poultice and put on a fresh dressing.
‘Will I be able to move about?’ asked Martin.
Dafydd pursed his lips. ‘You need time to rest and recuperate, to give this wound a chance to heal properly. In the normal run of things I’d insist that you spent at least another week in this bed.’
‘To Hell with that,’ said Martin, to Dafydd’s amusement. ‘This isn’t the normal run of things.’
‘Most of the army’s already moved on, and our company is moving out today,’ admitted Dafydd. ‘While I’m not happy about letting you set out on the march, it has to be healthier for you than leaving you here to the tender mercies of the townsfolk. Those few of them who weren’t slain in last night’s excesses, that is.’
‘Do you know if my company – Sir Thomas Holland’s – is still in the town?’
Dafydd shook his head. ‘Madog’s gone to see if he can find someone from your company to let them know you haven’t deserted.’
‘Will he tell them how I were wounded?’
Dafydd chuckled again. ‘Ieuan thought it might be best if we made out you were ambushed by a couple of Frenchmen. Your Master Caynard and his friends won’t be inclined to contradict you, and Ieuan thought you might like a chance to take care of them personally.’
Martin nodded dubiously. ‘Surely you can’t approve?’ he asked tentatively.
Dafydd regarded him in incomprehension. ‘Why not?’
‘Doesn’t the Bible say “Thou shalt not kill”?’
‘That doesn’t stop the Bishop of Durham. What’s good enough for his grace is good enough for me. Are you trying to tell me you’ve never killed before?’
Martin hung his head. ‘Twice,’ he whispered. ‘But they were both Frenchmen,’ he added hurriedly. ‘It was my duty to my king…’
‘If you can kill a Frenchman, you can kill an Englishman,’ Dafydd said with another chuckle. ‘The Bible also teaches us “An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.” Because if you don’t kill them, then believe me, boy, they’ll kill you now. Maybe you’d best stop worrying about your duty to your king and start worrying about your duty to yourself.’
Martin still did not understand, but before he could ask Dafydd to explain further, Ieuan returned with a bowl of broth. ‘Get this inside you, boy. Soup just like my old mother used to make. It should help you get your strength back.’
Dafydd finished tying the dressing. ‘There. Put a fresh dressing on each day, and make sure you keep the wound clean.’
Martin tried Ieuan’s broth. It tasted foul, but he felt it would be churlish to say so, considering all that Ieuan and his friends had done to help him. Besides which he was ravenous, and foul or not he devoured it hungrily.
‘He’s got a healthy appetite on him this morning,’ Dafydd remarked to Ieuan. ‘That’s always a good sign. Here,’ he added to Martin, reaching inside a pouch at his belt and pulling out what appeared to be a small twig. ‘Chew on this for a while,’ he recommended.
Martin eyed the twig dubiously. ‘What is it?’
‘Liquorice root.’
‘Will it help to heal my wound?’
‘No,’ admitted Dafydd. ‘But it tastes nice, and it’ll keep your breath fresh.’
Martin shook his head, chuckling, and washed his hands and face in a basin of cold water Dafydd had placed by his pallet. Ieuan searched through the chests and wardrobes in the house until he found a white linen chemise, holding it up for Martin to see. ‘I’m afraid your own tunic is beyond repair, but this looks to be about your size.’
‘Thank you.’
Ieuan helped him to pull the chemise over his head, and he finished dressing. He was buckling on his sword-belt when Madog returned. ‘Holland’s company has already moved on,’ he announced. ‘But the king has sent word for the army to gather at a place called Torigny, a few miles from here. We should catch up with the rest of the vanguard there.’
‘Do you feel well enough to walk?’ Ieuan asked Martin.
Martin pushed himself to his feet. He felt a little dizzy for a moment, but the feeling soon passed. He nodded. ‘Aye.’
‘Good lad.’
The Welshmen gathered up their equipment and left the house with Martin, joining the rest of their band outside the east gate of the town. There were about two hundred of them in all, foot-archers under the command of Sir Gruffydd ap Llywelyn. Martin was introduced to all of them, or so it seemed to him. Few of them spoke English as well as Ieuan, Dafydd or Madog, but they welcomed him into their ranks amicably enough.
Martin noticed once again that many of the Welshmen wore only one shoe, and asked Ieuan why this was so.
‘So’s we can get a better grip on the ground when we’re fighting,’ Ieuan explained with a grin. ‘We Welsh like to stay in tune with nature, not like you English, who prefer to cut yourselves off from it.’
As they set out marching to Torigny, Dafydd rode amongst them on a small white palfrey, playing soft and subtle harmonies on a small harp while the others sang along. In spite of looking like the wildest and most villainous bunch of brigands Martin had ever encountered – and since he had been recruited into the army, he had encountered many – they sang beautifully. They all started on the same note, and then each seemed to break away into different modes and modulations, each one complementing the whole in perfect harmony. As the song drew to a close, they all returned to the same note on which they had started out, to round off the melody. It was so beautiful that even Martin – who had little appreciation for the finer things in life – was entranced, and he quite forgot about the pain of his wound.
‘You can count yourself lucky to have heard the finest singers in all the world, English,’ Madog told Martin. ‘It’s the bardic tradition, see? It never dies.’
One of the others said something in Welsh, and the men around him nodded in agreement. ‘They say it’s your turn to give us a tune,’ explained Ieuan, grinning.
Martin shook his head, blushing. ‘I can’t sing.’
‘Of course not,’ said Madog. ‘You’re English. But since’ve just entertained you, it’s only fair that you repay the debt in kind.’
Martin grimaced; it was clear that he was not going to get out of this one. ‘Very well. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ And having said that, he launched into the only song he could think of, a half-understood old song called ‘The Knight Stained from Battle’:
Who is he, this lordling, that cometh from the fight?
With blood-red clothing arrayed to cause fright
Yet apparelled so finely, so seemly a sight
So fearless of tread, so peerless a knight.
‘It is I, it is I, who speaks naught but right
A champion to heal all mankind in fight.’
Why, then, is thy raiment all stained crimson with blood
As men from the wine-press with the grapes they have trod?
I have trampled the wine-press all on my own
And for all of mankind I did stand alone.
I have trampled the people in anger and wrath
And my cloak is besmirched with their bloody froth
And it is to their great shame they have fouled its cloth.
The day of vengeance liveth in my thought;
The season of reck’ning I forget not.
I looked all about for some helping hand;
Help was there none though I searched all my band.
Mine own strength it was that this cure wrought,
Mine own doughtiness help to me brought.
I have trampled the folk in wrath and ire,
And cast them down into their shameful mire.’
The Welshmen laughed and cheered. ‘You’re right, English,’ Madog chuckled. ‘You can’t sing to save your life.’
‘From the Book of Isaiah, unless I’m much mistaken, though it seems to me you must have left out a couple of lines,’ Dafydd observed with amusement.
At that moment, an English herald galloped up from behind them until he was riding level with Llywelyn at the head of the band. ‘New orders, Sir Gruffydd,’ he panted. ‘All troops are to make for Cormolain.’
‘Cormolain, is it?’ Llywelyn bellowed good-humouredly. ‘And where the Devil is Cormolain?’
‘From here?’ The herald removed his cap to scratch his head while he glanced about to get his bearings. ‘About four miles yonder,’ he said, pointing to the north-east. ‘The army is to regroup. Word is that Valois has gathered a fresh army and is marching to meet us.’
A murmur of excitement rippled through the Welsh band, but the herald had already taken his leave of Llywelyn and spurred his horse on, galloping on towards Torigny to pass the word on to the other units of the vanguard that had gone ahead. Llywelyn turned his horse about and led his men off the track, across the fields towards Cormolain.
‘Did you hear that?’ asked Madog, his eyes shining with the promise of battle. ‘The French are coming to give us a warm welcome at last.’
‘Aye,’ said Ieuan, rather more sceptically. ‘How many times have I heard that one before?’
‘I have to rejoin my company!’ Martin said desperately. ‘If there’s to be a battle…’
‘You can fight with us,’ offered Madog. ‘That way you’ll get to see some real archers in action.’
‘I shouldn’t go worrying if I were you,’ Ieuan assured Martin. ‘We’re all in the prince’s battalion. If the order’s gone out for the army to regroup in Cormolain, then I expect that applies equally to Sir Thomas Holland’s company. You’ll be reunited with your countrymen soon enough.’
Llywelyn’s band reached Cormolain around mid-afternoon, where they found the nucleus of the vanguard setting up camp just outside the village. Martin recognised the banners of the Prince of Wales and the Earl of Warwick, and knew that Holland could not be far away. He took his leave of Ieuan, Dafydd and Madog.
‘I expect we’ll see each other soon enough,’ remarked Ieuan. ‘We are marching in the same battalion, after all. Why don’t you bring some of your English friends to meet us?’
‘Aye,’ said Madog. ‘Like this Will Caynard and his friends.’ Grinning, he drew his finger across his throat in a highly expressive gesture.
Martin shook his head with a wan smile. ‘That’s summat I’ll have to deal with in my own way.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Ieuan. ‘But remember what I told you last night: it’s you or them.’
‘What about this squire who wants you dead so badly?’ asked Dafydd, dismounting from his palfrey. ‘Even if you succeed in killing Caynard and his friends, this Richard Stamford may just hire other men to kill you.’
Martin shrugged. He had spent the past two hours considering the situation. He had thought about Stamford’s vendetta, Caynard’s callous greed and murderous brutality, and the lack of justice in a world where a man could be condemned for a crime he had not committed. It seemed to him that there were two kinds of people in the world, the victors and the victims. He was determined to stop being a victim, and start dishing out some justice of his own. ‘If I can kill Will Caynard, I can do the same for Richard Stamford,’ he said simply.
Ieuan chuckled. ‘That’s the spirit. You’ll be all right, boy. But make sure that Stamford’s death looks like an accident. No one’s going to pay much mind if men like Caynard are killed, but if a young nobleman like Stamford dies in suspicious circumstances, there’ll be questions asked.’
Martin nodded.
‘Better still, make it look like French handiwork. No point in bringing more trouble on yourself than you’ve already got. No one will question his death if he’s found with a Genoese crossbow bolt in his back.’
‘Genoese?’
‘The French employ Genoese mercenaries as archers,’ explained Ieuan. ‘Can you use a crossbow?’
Martin shook his head.
‘Then learn. If you find a crossbow, bring it to me and I’ll teach you. It’s a lousy weapon compared to an honest length of yew, but it has its uses – as your present circumstances demonstrate,’ he added.
‘You sound as if you’ve had some experience at this kind of thing,’ Martin said drily.
Ieuan flashed his teeth in a savage grin. ‘Ask no questions, hear no lies, boy.’
‘I don’t know how to thank you all for all you’ve done,’ Martin told the three of them awkwardly.
Ieuan shrugged, embarrassed. ‘Perhaps one day you’ll have a chance to return the favour; but if you don’t, don’t go out of your way to find one. God be with you, Martin Kemp.’
Martin took his leave of the Welshmen and made his way into the village, where he found Villiers and Brother Ambrose erecting Holland’s banner in front of one of the larger houses. ‘Hullo, young Kemp,’ the friar greeted him cheerfully. ‘Where’ve you been? We thought perhaps you’d been killed.’
‘Or that you had deserted,’ Villiers added with a grin.
‘I were wounded, but some Welsh archers treated my wound and brought me here.’ Martin avoided telling a lie to the friar and the squire, hoping that they would naturally assume he had been wounded by the French. He had decided that the closer he stuck to the truth, the more likely he was to be believed; at least he had the wound to corroborate most of his story, and his battered face spoke for itself.
‘Well, you’re here now,’ said Brother Ambrose. ‘And of your own free will, it seems, rather than dragged back by the marshals. That proves you weren’t trying to desert.’
‘Here ahead of the rest of your company,’ added Villiers. ‘We’d almost reached Torigny when word came that his Majesty had changed his mind, and that we were to head here. Sir Thomas sent the two of us ahead to find some lodgings.’ He gestured to the house.
‘What about the rest of the army?’ asked Martin. The tents erected outside the village had seemed pitifully few to him.
Villiers grimaced. ‘It’s all over the place. The main body was at a place called Sept-Vents, the last I heard. If the French attack us now, they’ll be able to wipe us all out piecemeal.’
‘Is it true, then? That Valois has gathered a fresh army, and is marching to do battle with us?’
‘That’s what they’re saying,’ said Villiers.
‘Here come Sir Thomas and Norwich now,’ observed Brother Ambrose. ‘Perhaps they have some news.’
Villiers and Martin turned to see Holland and Norwich riding up the street at the head of the company, arguing. ‘Rumours!’ spat Holland. ‘Has anyone seen this French army for themselves? No! It’s always a friend of a friend, a serjeant-at-arms in some mythical troop of hobelars who interrogated a Norman peasant whose great-aunt in Caen spoke to a Parisian man-at-arms who was told by a lady-in-waiting to Valois’ chambermaid that Valois was talking of going to Saint-Denys to fetch the Oriflamme! I’ll wait until I’ve seen this army for myself before I don my armour.’ Holland dismounted, handing his bridle to Villiers.
Brother Ambrose indicated Martin. ‘The prodigal son has returned, Sir Thomas.’
Holland cast the briefest of glances in Martin’s direction.
‘So I see. You’d best get back to your platoon, boy.’
Martin nodded, and made his way back to where Preston stood with his men.
‘Where the devil have you been?’ Preston demanded angrily. ‘Nails and blood! You can count yourself lucky you weren’t hanged as a deserter.’
‘I were ambushed,’ explained Martin, once again avoiding a direct lie. ‘I were wounded in the side, but some Welshmen took care of me.’
‘Oh aye? Did you check your purse after?’ Preston asked cynically.
Martin instinctively put a hand to the purse that hung from his belt. It still bulged with coins. He instantly felt guilty for having thought that Ieuan and his friends might do such a thing.
‘I hope you killed the whoresons that attacked you,’ grunted Preston.
Martin hesitated before replying. ‘One of them lies dead,’ he said carefully. ‘But the other three escaped when the Welshmen came to my aid,’ he added, glancing across to where Caynard stood. Caynard avoided meeting his gaze, and Martin suddenly had the satisfaction of realising that Caynard and his friends had had no sleep that night following their botched attempt to kill him. He was determined that they should never sleep easy again. ‘But if I ever catch up with them again…’ He let the threat hang in the air.
‘I see,’ Preston remarked dubiously. He was more inclined to believe that Lancelot Kemp had tried to stop some English troops from maltreating the townsfolk, and had received a savage beating for his pains, but he was prepared to let it pass. Whatever Martin had been up to, his bruised face indicated that he might have learned his lesson. ‘In future, make sure you don’t get separated from your mates,’ he said gruffly. ‘There’s safety in numbers, and you can’t trust these Norman dogs. By the way, you haven’t seen Piers Edritch since yesterday, have you? It seems he’s disappeared as well.’
Martin shook his head. ‘Not since yesterday,’ he said truthfully.
‘All right,’ said Preston. ‘Get back with your companions.’ He jerked a thumb towards the platoon behind him, and then turned to address them all. ‘Make camp, lads – we’ll be spending the night here.’
The rest of the vanguard reached Cormolain by nightfall. Martin slept little that night, keeping an eye on Caynard, Lefthand and Murray, and one hand on the hilt of his rondel. Occasionally he would catch one of them sneaking a furtive glance in his direction, but none of them tried anything, perhaps thinking that there were too many witnesses around. He realised with a cold certainty that Dafydd had been right: he would never be able to sleep soundly while one of them still lived; and by not reporting their actions to Preston, he had committed himself to dealing with them personally.
He got his first chance much sooner than he expected. The following morning they ate breakfast before dawn, after which Martin changed the dressing on his wound in accordance with the instructions that Dafydd had given him.
‘By the Cross that Saint Helen found!’ exclaimed Rudcock, seeing the cauterised wound. ‘When you said as how you’d been wounded, I didn’t think…’
‘It looks worse than it is,’ Martin cut in curtly.
‘Doesn’t it hurt?’ asked Tate.
‘Like the Devil,’ admitted Martin.
‘You should show that to Preston,’ said Rudcock. ‘If he saw how serious it is, I’m certain he’d be able to arrange for you to ride with the baggage train for a few days…’
‘I’m fine,’ insisted Martin. Wounded or not, if there was going to be a battle, he did not want to be left twiddling his thumbs in the rearguard.
After the morning inspection, they started to ransack the village for plunder. Martin was wandering down an alleyway when he glimpsed Lefthand and Murray walking down the street up ahead. He immediately realised that he had been careless enough to become separated from his friends again. But Lefthand and Murray had not seen him, their minds occupied with the task of finding what meagre booty the village could provide. Perhaps here was his chance to even the score. He watched them enter a small wooden house with a thatched roof, closing the door behind them. Martin glanced up and down the street to see if anyone else was in the vicinity. There was no sign of Caynard. The only people in sight were some men-at-arms setting alight some houses a short distance away. That gave him an idea. He hurried down the street to beg a burning brand from one of the men-at-arms. As he made his way back, he noticed a pitchfork thrust into the midden by the door of the house that Lefthand and Murray had entered, and used it to prop the door shut.
He sprinted around the back of the house to make sure there was no other exit, and then hesitated. Killing men in battle was one thing, but murdering them in cold blood… ? Just because these men had tried to kill him, did that give him the right to exact retribution? But no one had ever given any thought to his rights. He had none, he was a villein. He could expect no justice in this world. He began to ask himself what Sir Lancelot would have done in this situation, and then caught himself. He was not Sir Lancelot, he was Martin Kemp. No one would ever treat him with chivalry, and in return he was not expected to show chivalry to anyone else. If it was justice he wanted, he would have to forge it himself.
He tossed the flaming brand on to the thatched roof and stepped back.
The flames spread across the dry straw with a rapidity that astounded him, crackling noisily. Lefthand and Murray must have realised what was happening, for he heard their shouts of alarm and their heavy, hurried footfalls on the wooden steps within. He saw the latch on the door rattle, and then the whole door shuddered as one of them threw his weight against it. But the door was sturdy, and wedged firmly shut.
Martin suddenly realised that he had made a careless mistake: they could easily open one of the shuttered windows and climb out. But the two men were panicking, concentrating their efforts on a door they would never open. By the time they thought of looking for the windows, dark grey smoke was oozing out from behind the shutters. Martin could hear them choking as the acrid smoke clawed at their lungs. Now they would be blinded, their eyes stinging, unable to find a window. He could hear them blundering about helplessly inside, disorientated by the smoke. A pity Caynard had not been with them, thought Martin; but at least he had evened the odds in his favour.
The whole building was ablaze now. Martin could hear the screams of the two men as they were roasted alive. He watched as part of the roof collapsed with a roar, sending up a shower of sparks, and then the screams were suddenly silenced.
Martin’s lips curled upwards in a grim smile of satisfaction.
The vanguard reached the village of Cheux the next day, while the main body of the army, marching east on a parallel course, reached the Cistercian priory at Fontenay-le-Pesnel, less than ten miles from Caen.
The disappearance of Lefthand and Murray had been noticed as soon as Preston’s men had gathered to leave Cormolain the previous evening. Piers Edritch had been the first man lost by Holland’s company since they landed in France, but the serjeant had let it pass. When two more men went missing from Preston’s platoon, the other serjeants in the company began to snigger that old Wat was losing his touch when it came to keeping a tight rein on his men. Irritated by their sniggers, Preston had ordered a thorough search of the village. Lefthand’s and Murray’s charred corpses had been found in the ruins of one of the burnt houses, the pitchfork propping shut what was left of the door bearing mute testimony to the fact that their deaths had not been accidental. Naturally everyone assumed the murderers to have been French men-at-arms lying in wait, or perhaps even the villagers themselves. By way of retribution, the whole village was burnt to the ground, along with the crops in the surrounding fields. Martin’s conscience was not troubled in the least; by now he had learned that such wanton destruction would have occurred regardless of whether or not the locals had done anything to warrant it. Indeed, he had found his conscience surprisingly untroubled by any aspect of the incident. He no longer gave a damn about anything, and it was as if a great burden had been lifted from his shoulders.
Only one man guessed that it might not have been the French who had been responsible for the deaths of Lefthand and Murray. It seemed too much of a coincidence to Caynard that of the four men who had attacked Martin, he was now the only survivor. He could hardly believe that the same callow peasant youth who insisted on wearing a girl’s muffler and had been so reluctant to claim his share of the booty at Barfleur could also be responsible for the coldblooded murder of his friends. But he had noticed that a change had come over Martin in the past three days. Perhaps it was only his perception of the man, coloured by the knowledge that if he did not kill Martin, Martin would kill him; but looking at him he no longer saw a precocious lad skilled with a bow, inexperienced in war, his head filled with misplaced ideals of chivalry. Now he saw a young man both willing and able to kill, ready to murder in cold blood if need be. Perhaps what Edritch had once told him about Martin having raped a woman was true after all.
In turn, Martin caught Caynard giving him a glance that told him he had guessed the truth of the matter, and had the satisfaction of knowing that in future it would be Caynard who would spend sleepless nights with his fingers curled around the haft of his dagger.
Norwich rode into Cheux shortly after dawn the following day, and found Warwick breakfasting in one of the town’s inns with Sir Reginald Cobham, Holland and Villiers. ‘What news?’ Warwick asked him, after the briefest exchange of pleasantries.
‘Last night his Majesty sent a messenger to the burghers of Caen, with letters calling upon them to surrender with the honours of war,’ explained Norwich. The honours of war meant that the persons and property of the people of Caen would not be harmed – theoretically, at least. ‘The messenger should have returned hours ago, yet still there is no sign of him.’
‘Any news of Valois’ army?’ asked Holland.
‘Scouting parties have been sent out, but those that have returned report there is no sign of it. However, reliable reports indicate that the Constable and Chamberlain of France are in Caen with a sizeable body of men-at-arms and Genoese crossbowmen. His Majesty sends his compliments, and suggests that the army regroups on the road to Caen two miles south-east of here.’
‘He intends that we should attack Caen?’ asked Cobham.
‘Aye, Sir Reginald,’ said Norwich.
Warwick nodded thoughtfully. ‘We may have by-passed Bayeux, but we cannot afford to leave a city as large as Caen still in hostile hands to the rear.
‘On the other hand, his Majesty is reluctant to allow the campaign to become bogged down in a prolonged siege that might give Valois more time to raise an army, in the north of this realm,’ said Norwich. ‘Either we take Caen by storm, or not at all.’
Warwick nodded in agreement. ‘Return his Majesty my compliments, and assure him I will see him at the appointed place.’
Preston’s men were ordered to strike camp and before long they were marching south-east to where the army was forming up on the road to Caen. When the advance scouts reported that they were drawing near to the city, Warwick had the vanguard spread out on either side of the road, each company marching across the fields in its own column so that they would approach the city on a broad front from several directions, to make their numbers seem greater. ‘His Majesty wishes to avoid a siege,’ Warwick explained to Holland. ‘If the citizens can be scared into submission, we may yet win the day without bloodshed.’
Riding at the head of his company, Holland reined in his steed on the crest of a ridge towards mid-morning. He paused momentarily to gaze into the middle distance.
‘Caen,’ breathed Villiers, riding up beside him.
Holland nodded, and signalled the column forward once more, spurring his horse into a trot. As they surmounted the crest of the ridge, Martin and his companions saw their target laid out in the vale before them.
The second largest city in Normandy after Rouen, Caen was far bigger than any other town Martin had seen before. It stood at the confluence of two rivers, where the Odon ran into the Orne, dividing the city into two distinct halves. To the north-west was the old town, dominated by a strong castle that stood on a slight eminence to the north and was joined to the town walls. Where the castle’s curtain wall jutted out from the town wall, it was surrounded by a broad moat. In stark contrast to the fortress, the ancient stone walls of the old town were poorly maintained, although it was obvious that for the past few days the citizens had been strengthening the defences to the north and west with trenches and palisades. To the south, the old town was protected by a branch of the Odon, separating it from the new town which lay to the south-east. The new town was a rich and prosperous suburb, containing the largest and grandest houses in the city. It had no wall, for it stood on an island, surrounded on three sides by the two arms of the Odon, and on the fourth by the Ome. A bridge across the Odon connected the old town to the new, while a third bridge spanned the Ome to the south.
Led by the Prince of Wales and the earls of Warwick and Northampton, the vanguard marched around the north side of the old town, giving the forbidding castle a wide berth: the fortress was clearly well-manned. A walled convent stood nearly four hundred yards to the east of the city; finding it deserted, the prince’s troops quickly occupied it. Look-outs were posted in the convent’s bell-tower to watch any activity in the city. While Holland and Cobham met with the prince and the two earls inside the convent, his men rested in the shadow of its walls.
‘What happens, now?’ asked Tate.
‘Now we wait,’ Preston told his men. ‘You might like to use your time to check your tackle,’ he added. ‘I don’t want you trying to storm the walls only to find you’ve left your swords at Cheux.’
Martin inspected his bowstring and counted his arrows, but he knew he was only going through the motions, trying to keep his mind from dwelling on the forthcoming battle. He repolished the blade of his broadsword for the sake of having something to do, watching as the main body of the army marched into sight in three columns, forming up into battle array facing the north and west walls.
A field kitchen was brought up to the convent and began to serve out food. The army had already marched over ten miles that morning, and many of the men were hungry. Martin was not one of them. There was a tightness in his chest and his stomach felt knotted with excitement. Even though the sun surmounted the convent wall at noon to beat directly down upon him, he still felt cold and numb.
He glanced to the south. Beyond the rooftops of the new town, he could see dozens of Caen’s citizens streaming across the bridge over the Ome, scattering into the countryside beyond.
Preston had seen them, too. ‘There go the wise ones,’ he remarked cynically.
‘And here wait the fools,’ muttered Newbolt. If Preston heard him this time, he gave no indication of it. Newbolt’s words were only symptomatic of the tension that lay heavy over the whole company, like a shroud of apprehension.
‘Are we soldiers yet?’ asked Conyers, in a conscious effort to relieve some of the tension. By now those words had become something between a running in-joke and a platoon motto. This time they solicited only the weakest laughter.
Villiers emerged from the convent on his rouncy, and Preston hailed him. ‘Any news?’
‘The look-outs report that the people of the old town seem to be withdrawing across the bridges into the Île Saint-Jean,’ replied Villiers, spurring his horse towards the king’s banner, which could be seen above the main body of the army.
Martin sighed, and slotted his gleaming sword back into its scabbard. He guessed that the Île Saint-Jean must be the name for the new town. He had a feeling that either the French would withdraw from the city, or the king would postpone the attack. Either way, he was reminded of the events of four days previously, when they had failed to get to grips with Bertrand’s men. He was plagued by the same feeling of disappointment after all the fear and tension of waiting.
A troop of men-at-arms saddled up their rouncies and began to form up into a loose column, their pennants hanging limply in the still air, their armour and harness jingling lackadaisically. Martin watched them with an air of bored curiosity as they trotted away from the convent.
Towards the city.
Martin sat up sharply and rubbed his eyes, as if not believing what he saw. What did they think they were doing? Did they not realise that the old town was still in enemy hands? No, not the old town – had not the squire said that the townsfolk had withdrawn across the bridge into the new town on the Île Saint-Jean? But the Valois banner of a pattern of yellow fleurs-de-lys on a blue background still hung over the castle, which loomed over the eastern gate that the men-at-arms were now approaching.
Then realisation slowly dawned on him: this was it, this was the attack. No trumpet’s blare, no armoured knights charging to the fore with their lances couched. Just threescore men-at-arms riding along a dusty track as calmly as if they were returning from a day’s hunting.
The men stationed in the castle seemed to be taken equally by surprise. Martin could see them moving about on the battlements of the curtain wall, but no one shot at the advancing English troops.
The Earl of Warwick emerged from the convent, followed by Holland and Cobham. All three of them were on foot and in armour. The earl started to march slowly but purposefully after the men-at-arms, his armour clanking noisily. Holland paused only long enough to order his men to follow him, before marching after Warwick.
‘All right, lads, on your feet!’ ordered Preston. He might have been ordering them to rise for an inspection. ‘Let’s go.’
‘Well, it looks like this is it,’ remarked Rudcock, pushing himself upright. Brewster hurriedly followed, tossing down the straw he had been chewing as he rose to his feet. Martin followed. There was no time to form up into an orderly column, the archers marching along behind Warwick, Holland and Cobham in a loose gaggle. Ahead of them, the men-at-arms had dismounted, seizing control of the eastern gate unopposed. The men in the castle had not started shooting at anyone yet, but then Martin reckoned that he and his companions had another hundred yards of open ground to cross before they would be within effective range of bows. Before them loomed the walls of the old town. Clustered in their shadows were the hovels of peasants too poor to be able to afford land within the walls, many of them built actually leaning against the wall.
Martin did not notice that they had come within a bowshot of the castle that loomed to their right until a crossbow bolt plunged into the earth a few yards short of where he marched. After a few moments a couple more bolts sailed over the archers’ heads, but it was hardly a withering hail of missiles.
Now they had entered the suburbs, and were hidden from the castle’s battlements by the tightly packed hovels. The men-at-arms on guard at the gate ahead of them grinned jovially, the gateway itself gaping like a huge maw waiting to devour the advancing men. Martin felt a sudden chill as he followed Preston through the shadows of the gateway. Then they emerged into the sunlight once more, marching along a dusty, deserted street in the old town. Surely this must be a trap of some kind? Martin could see no one waiting in ambush, but had not Preston told him that if anyone had been lying in ambush, he would not see them until it was too late?
They came to a T-junction, still marching at a steady walking pace. The old town was unnaturally quiet. Martin could see the entrance of the castle to their right. By withdrawing into the new town, the defenders of the old town had left the castle’s garrison cut off from the rest of the city’s defenders. Warwick led Holland and his men to the left, away from the castle and towards the Île Saint-Jean.
A church rose up ahead of them. As they passed it, the bridge across the Odon into the new town came into view. A towering stone gateway had been built at the far end of the bridge, just over a hundred yards away. A barricade of furniture and lumber, about the height of a man, had been built across the entrance to the gateway, and behind it Martin could make out the faint sheen of dozens of steel helmets in the shadows below the tower.
Warwick signalled for Holland and his men to halt. At Holland’s direction, Preston formed his men up into two ranks at the north end of the bridge, facing the well-defended tower. ‘All right, lads, let’s give ’em a few volleys of ash.’ Preston’s men took their arrows from their leather retainers. ‘Nock! Mark!’
Martin nocked his arrow to the bowstring, picking his mark – the head of a man he could just make out behind the barricade.
‘Draw!’
Kemp raised the bow, drawing back the arrow until the fletching touched his ear, pushing out the bowstave with his left arm.
‘Loose!’
Nineteen arrows sped through the air towards the men crowded behind the barricade. Martin saw his own target fall back in a welter of blood. It was the first time he had ever shot a man. He was pleased that in spite of the situation he was still calm enough to shoot well.
‘Draw!’
Martin selected another arrow and nocked it, taking careful aim.
‘Loose!’
The platoon let fly. A dozen more men fell dead.
Some crossbowmen stationed on the roof of the tower started to return the archers’ fire, but because of the awkwardness of the angle, none of the Englishmen were killed. The crossbowmen ducked back down behind the parapet to reload.
‘Heads up!’ ordered Preston. ‘Mark! Aim for the embrasures! Draw! Wait for it!’
After an interminably long wait, the crossbowmen bobbed back up over the parapet for their next volley.
‘Loose!’
Five of the crossbowmen fell back from the embrasures with arrows protruding from their faces. A crossbow fell from the parapet and splashed into the water below the bridge.
Within two minutes Preston’s men had used up their arrows. There was still no sign of the men-at-arms that the Earl of Northampton was supposed to be bringing up to reinforce them. More crossbowmen were appearing on the roof of the tower to replace their fallen comrades.
‘We should fall back!’ said Cobham. ‘We’ll be cut to pieces if we stay here.’
‘We’re not staying here,’ Holland told him, drawing his broadsword. ‘My lord?’
Warwick drew his own broadsword, and nodded. ‘Charge!’ he ordered, and began to run across the bridge towards the barricade.
Holland followed suit. ‘Saint George for Edward!’
Preston had his sword in his hands and was lumbering after his master. ‘Come on, lads, up and at ’em!’ he roared.
Running along close behind Preston, Martin drew his own broadsword and waved it experimentally above his head. He felt vaguely foolish. This was ridiculous: he was not supposed to be here; he was a peasant, a mere villein, not a warrior.
Then he heard the sound of crossbow bolts whistling through the air, raining down on the bridge, and he remembered that this was not a game, this was war; which meant that one side would win, the other side would lose, and those on the losing side would die.