Stamford, Beatrice and the three robbers turned to see Martin Kemp standing at the edge of the clearing, an arrow nocked to the string of his drawn longbow. It was aimed at the leader’s heart.
‘Put down your bow, boy,’ growled the leader of the outlaws. ‘I’ve another six men hidden in the woods, their bows aimed at you.’
Martin shook his head, grinning nervously. ‘That might fool these two gentlefolk, but it won’t fool me.’
The leader scowled. ‘Begone, boy. This is no concern of yours…’
Stamford seized his chance, drawing his broadsword from its scabbard and striking the leader down from behind, before turning on the man with the bow and driving the tip of his sword into his heart. He had never killed before in his life, and he was astonished how easily it came to him, a lifetime of training guiding his instincts.
Still holding on to Beatrice, the third man backed away, the edge of his sword at her throat. ‘Drop the sword, young master!’ he ordered, his face pale, his voice trembling.
‘Unhand her!’ snapped Stamford, refusing to relinquish his sword.
‘Do as I say, or I’ll slit her throat!’
Martin loosed his bow, and the arrow pierced the man’s right shoulder. He dropped the sword with a gasp, releasing Beatrice and staggering back. Stamford moved in for the kill, stabbing the man in the throat with a grunt, while Martin ran into the clearing to catch Beatrice before she fainted. ‘Are you all right, my lady?’ he asked her. She nodded, her face pale and taut.
Stamford finished cleaning the blade of his sword on one of the dead men’s cloaks, and turned to see Beatrice in Martin’s arms. ‘Unhand her, damn you!’
‘It’s all right, Dickon,’ said Beatrice as Martin released her. ‘He was merely supporting me. It was fortunate he came by when he did.’
‘Aye, and fortunate for us that he just happened to have his bow with him when he did so,’ sneered Stamford. ‘Do you always carry your bow with you when you go for a walk in the woods?’ he asked Martin.
Martin grinned insouciantly. ‘Of course. You never know what dangers the woods may hold.’
‘Aye – nor what game they might offer a poacher’s pot. You should know it is against the laws of the forest to carry any arrows but blunt ones. I should tell Sir John…’
‘Enough, Dickon!’ protested Beatrice. ‘No more accusations. You should rather reward this man for saving us. Had he only been carrying blunts, it might have been the worse for us.’
Stamford retrieved his purse from where it lay. He was about to toss a coin at Martin’s feet when the churl stopped him. ‘Keep your money. I wouldn’t have bothered hadn’t her ladyship been in peril.’
Scowling, Stamford turned to where his palfrey cropped the grass at one side of the clearing and took it by the bridle, leading it across to Beatrice and holding it while she climbed into the saddle. But her attention was on Martin. ‘You are the churl my father had flogged for striking Dickon, are you not?’ He nodded. ‘Tell me, do you always come to the rescue of damsels in distress?’ Flushing hotly, Martin tried to shrug nonchalantly. Dressed in her fine robes and with her scrubbed face artfully painted, Beatrice was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and it was awe rather than lust that tied his tongue. ‘When I must, your ladyship,’ he managed to stammer.
‘What is your name?’
‘Kemp, your ladyship. Martin Kemp.’
‘A warrior’s name,’ observed Beatrice, smiling. Saint Martin was the patron of soldiers, and ‘kempe’ was a Middle English word meaning ‘champion’ or ‘soldier’. ‘Martin is an unusual name – how did you come by it?’
‘I was born on the Feast of Saint Martin,’ explained Martin.
‘Perhaps you should be my champion and wear my favour into battle, as did Sir Lancelot when he defended Queen Guinevere’s honour.’
Martin did not know that Beatrice was speaking more to tease Stamford than to praise him. ‘I’d be honoured,’ he managed to stammer.
‘It was I who slew the three outlaws,’ grumbled Stamford.
‘But you could not have done so had it not been for the assistance of my Lancelot here,’ said Beatrice. ‘It seems to me that Master Kemp apes the style of a knight. Was it not the churlish Sir Kay who mocked the unknown Beaumains, little thinking him to be destined to be one of the noblest knights in Christendom?’
‘Beaumains was the son of Sir Lancelot,’ argued Stamford. ‘Kemp is a churl, the son of a churl, and doubtless destined to be the father of countless churlish bastards.’
‘He was the King of Orkney’s son,’ blurted Martin.
Beatrice turned to Martin with renewed interest. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Beaumains. He was really Sir Gareth, the King of Orkney’s son. Master Stamford is thinking of Sir Galahad.’
Beatrice smiled. ‘He is right, Dickon. It seems my churlish champion knows more of the deeds of Arthur’s knights than you do.’ She chucked the palfrey’s reins. ‘Come on, Dickon. Father will be wondering what has happened to us.’ As she rode out of the clearing, she cast one final glance over her shoulder at Martin. ‘Farewell, my Lancelot. Perhaps another day will give you a chance to defend my honour.’
To his own astonishment, Martin found himself hoping it were true.
‘Wade tells me you and Master Dickon had an adventure today,’ said Beatrice’s maid Edith as she brushed her mistress’s hair that evening. Edith was in her early thirties, a handsome, full-bodied woman with strawberry-blonde hair and bright green eyes. She had been Beatrice’s nursemaid when she was born, and had remained in Beaumont’s service as his daughter’s maid after she had grown up, becoming the young woman’s only confidante.
Beatrice nodded. ‘We were set upon by three outlaws. I dread to think what might have happened had not Martin chanced upon the scene.’
‘Martin?’
Beatrice nodded again. ‘Martin Kemp. You remember – the churl that father had flogged for striking Dickon last September. He’s really quite gentle.’
‘I did not think that you were on first-name terms with anyone from the village,’ Edith remarked with amusement, and Beatrice flushed. ‘What about Dickon? Was he not there to defend your honour?’
‘He did his best,’ admitted Beatrice.
‘Master Wade tells me that he slew all three outlaws.’
‘He could not have done so had not Kemp intervened,’ said Beatrice, taking care to use Martin’s surname this time.
‘You sound quite taken with him.’
Beatrice smiled. ‘He is certainly fair of face.’
Edith wrinkled her nose in an expression of distaste. ‘Fie on you, for speaking so of a churl! They all stink of dung!’
Beatrice pouted. ‘I think he would look quite presentable, if he were given a bath and some clean clothes.’
‘You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Now, young Dickon, on the other hand…’
Beatrice frowned. ‘He’s sweet enough…’
‘He’s better-looking than any churl. Has he proposed to you yet?’
‘Not yet. He says he wants to win his spurs first, so he may be worthy of me.’
‘And why should he not?’
‘Should I love him any better, knowing he has fought well in France?’
‘You should be more proud of him, knowing that he has proved his courage in battle.’
‘And if I did not love him at all?’
‘That is not important. You will marry whoever your father chooses.’
‘I shall marry who I please!’ Beatrice protested indignantly.
Edith shook her head. ‘Your father has been patient with you, but you cannot rely on his tolerance for ever. If you do not accept Dickon, he may well choose another man for you, one who is older and uglier.’
Beatrice grimaced at the prospect. ‘We’ll see.’
The following Monday was the first Monday after the sixth of January, called Plough Monday because it was the day on which tillage was traditionally resumed. Even though it meant a return to labour, it was a cause for rejoicing. The fact that the soil was no longer too frozen to be tilled signified that the worst cruelties of winter were behind them, and the approach of spring could not be far away.
Michael and Martin joined their fellow villagers working in the west field, which had lain fallow during the previous year to allow the soil to regain its fertility. Three days a week they were all compelled to do boon-work on Sir John Beaumont’s demesne. Every seventh day they would rest from their labours to attend mass at the church, afterwards sharpening their arrows on the church walls before strolling across to the village green for archery practice. Today the same as tomorrow and for ever.
Martin noticed one change, however. Now the curate would end his services by preaching a sermon against the French. He would speak of how King Edward was the rightful king of France, and how the French usurper, Philip of Valois, was rejecting all attempts at reconciliation and inciting the Scots to fight the English in direct contravention of the Truce of Malestroit.
Martin could recall hearing of French attacks on Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight when he was a young boy; distant, exotic places he only ever dreamed of visiting, but still part of the Kingdom of England for all that. The County of Leicester had never been in danger from either the French or the Scots as far as he was aware, but the French had nevertheless been the bogeymen of his childhood with which his mother had tried to threaten him when he was unruly. ‘If you don’t go to bed this instant, the French will come and get you!’ she had often warned him. He had always pictured the French as demons with horns, tails, and cloven hooves for feet. ‘I’m not afraid of the French!’ he had finally begun to protest when he had grown a little older. ‘I’ll fight them with my sword and my bow, just like Uncle Simkin used to fight the Scots!’ And he had brandished his wooden sword, and the toy bow with which he shot squirrels and birds, while his mother threw up her hands in despair and his father chuckled approvingly…
Martin suddenly jerked out of his reverie, and realised that once again he had almost nodded off during the curate’s sermon. The curate was reiterating that the French held the English in contempt and were determined to subjugate them. He said that the French intended to invade Kent that year, and that once the whole of England had fallen to them, they would stamp out the English language and force everyone to speak French. The French needed to be taught a lesson. Not for the first time, Martin found himself envying the men who had gone with Henry of Derby to fight the French in Gascony.
He did not even glimpse Beatrice again for the next few months, although it was not for want of trying. In his few moments of daylit spare time, he found himself loitering as close to the lane leading to the manor house as he dared without being too obvious. He continued to see her in his dreams, though; dreams in which he won a knighthood for courage on the field of battle, and thus made himself eligible for her hand. He was well aware that such things were extremely rare, but they did happen: it was only seven years since the famous John Chandos, born a commoner, had been knighted for valour while campaigning in France. Chandos had been a freeman rather than a villein, but the jump from villein to freeman was not impossible, either. If one such step could be made, why not both? He knew, deep within his heart, that if any man were capable of such a feat it was himself. But in the meantime there was work to be done, fields to be ploughed and sown, and during that time he became even more taciturn than usual.
The months passed slowly, even by rural standards. Easter came and went. The villagers continued the work of ploughing and sowing in the fields. Then came May Day, signifying the beginning of summer. It was the one day of the year when Beaumont’s villeins automatically had his permission to leave the manor, so that they could attend the festivities at Leicester town. May Day fell on a Monday that year, so they were all given a day off from their labours.
The sun was shining in a bright blue sky, promising a long, hot summer. The villagers hitched up the communal cart, decorated with May boughs and flowers, to the team of oxen, and walked alongside it, laughing and joking as they made their way north along the Welford road to the town, the men carrying bows and arrows. May Day was a day of competitions, in which men sought to prove their skill or stamina in various contests of athletics and other sporting events. There was running, jumping, bowling, shot-putting and quoits, but the most popular contest was always archery. Much to his own surprise, Martin had been one of the runners-up in last year’s competition. Now that he knew he had the first prize within his grasp, he had been practising hard all year.
Leicester was a large, walled town on the east bank of the River Soar. The houses there were larger than anything Knighton had to offer, and many of them were made of stone. Their doors had been decorated with May wreaths of oak and hawthorn, while a tall maypole had been erected on the common to the east of the town, just outside the walls, where children performed the traditional May Day dances. A troupe of mummers had set up a stage before an enthusiastic crowd, while stalls provided a variety of entertainments, from fortune-telling to puppet shows. There were games of skill and games of chance, minstrels who played love songs on psalteries, rebecs, lutes, dulcimers and pipes, and gestours who recited epic poetry, such as the ‘Song of Roland’ or – more popular with the commoners – the various ballads of Earl Ranulf of Chester and Robin Hood. There were jugglers who skilfully tossed burning brands back and forth, and tumblers who formed human pyramids and catapulted one another from see-saws. The tumblers were extremely popular, as some of them were women, and their art required that they wear skimpy costumes for agility, or so they claimed.
This was Martin’s favourite day of the year. Any rest from the eternal labour of the land was welcome, but May Day was one of the few times when his own world was extended beyond the narrow confines of Knighton and the surrounding fields. In the small village, where everyone seemed to know everyone else’s business, Martin felt as if he was permanently under scrutiny. At least here, in the crowds of the town, he could escape all that and lose himself in the comforting anonymity of the multitude.
The villagers of Knighton strolled amongst the stalls and tents in a loose gaggle, taking in all the sights, sounds and smells of the festival. Alison Forester – a young woman from the village who had in vain been trying to gain Martin’s attention for the past few months – pointed to where a row of archery butts had been set up against the east wall of the town. ‘Look, Martin! That’s where they’re having the archery contest. Aren’t you going to have a go?’
Martin waved her to silence; his attention had been attracted by a gestour who was telling a small but growing audience of peasants and townsfolk the latest news of Henry of Derby’s campaign in Gascony. Apparently a place called Aiguillon, held by Lord Ralph Stafford and Sir Hugh Menil – a Leicester knight – was being besieged by a French army commanded by Philip of Valois’ eldest son, Duke John of Normandy. Gascony, Aiguillon, Normandy – exotic-sounding, far-off places where a courageous man could win honours and riches on the field of battle. Martin found himself wishing that he could be at the siege, if only to prove himself as worthy as any so-called nobleman.
The gestour turned his attention to other matters of less interest to Martin, who turned back to Alison. ‘I’m sorry, lass. What were you trying to tell me?’
‘The archery contest,’ she reiterated, pointing. ‘You are going to take part, aren’t you?’
He grinned, showing her the longbow he had brought with him all the way from Knighton in its woollen bow-bag. ‘I didn’t bring this as a walking stick.’
‘Go on, Martin,’ Sewell urged him. ‘We need a Knighton lad to show them how it’s done.’
Accompanied by the other villagers, Martin grinned wryly and shuffled up to the short queue of men waiting to prove their skill with the bow. While he was waiting, he strapped his leather bracer to his left wrist and slipped the bow-bag off his elmwood bowstave. It was almost six feet in length, as tall as he was. He took out his hemp bowstring, tying one end to the lower horn of the bow and wedging it against the inside of his foot, bending the stave so he could loop the other end of the string over the upper horn. He plucked it experimentally to check the tension.
Glancing up, he saw Alison watching nearby with his mother and brother, and Sewell. She waved at him enthusiastically, and he waved back rather more shyly. He turned his attention to the men who were already shooting at the butts. Their skill was fair, but Martin knew he could do better, and that knowledge gave him confidence.
‘Next!’ called one of the marshals. The next man up was a tall, lean individual with lank, dark hair and a long, equine face. He obviously had not heard the marshal, for he continued his conversation with the slatternly dressed wench who stood beside him.
‘Come on, we haven’t got all day!’ the marshal called irritably. When the horse-faced man still did not show any sign of having heard, the marshal signalled for Martin to step up to the mark. Martin had taken two steps forward when a hand landed on his shoulder and jerked him roughly back, catching him off-balance.
‘Oi! Where in Christ’s name d’you reckon you’re going?’ The horse-faced man pulled him roughly aside, winking at the wench, who giggled. ‘I’m next.’
‘Then why don’t you get on with it?’ demanded Martin, offended by the man’s blasphemy and angry at being handled so roughly.
The man waved a dirty finger in front of Martin’s nose. ‘Watch it, boy, if you don’t want me to break your skull for you.’
Martin was about to do a little skull-breaking of his own, but Simkin restrained him. ‘Easy now, lad,’ he murmured into Martin’s ear. ‘You know you can flatten him, and we know you can flatten him; he’s the only one with owt to prove, and he’s only trying to show off in front of the wench. Don’t give him the satisfaction. There’s better ways of proving yoursen the better man.’
‘Either one of you will do,’ the marshal called dryly to Martin and the horse-faced man. ‘You’ll all get a turn soon enough.’
The horse-faced man sneered at Martin, and stepped up to the mark.
‘Name?’ asked the marshal, dipping a quill into an ink-horn.
‘Will Caynard of Humberstone,’ said the man.
The targets were set two hundred and fifty yards from the marks. Each competitor was allowed a ‘sighter’ – a warm-up shot – after which he had to place three shots in the yellow circle at the centre of the target to qualify for the next round. Caynard passed through, and Martin stepped up to the mark.
‘What’s your name, lad, and whereabouts are you from?’ the marshal asked him.
‘Martin… Martin Kemp. Of Knighton.’
The marshal made a note of his name and address. ‘You can have a “sighter” first.’
Martin shook his head. ‘I won’t need it,’ he told the marshal absently.
A group of local lads gasped mockingly. ‘Looks like we got oursens a young Robin Hood here,’ sneered Caynard.
Martin cast an eye over the watching crowd. In addition to the townsfolk there were a few nobles watching on horseback at the rear of the crowd, including Beaumont, Stamford and Beatrice. Martin felt a sudden pang at the sight of her, but pushed it to the back of his mind.
He had never shot in front of such a large crowd before, but he simply turned his back on it, blotting the spectators from both sight and mind. He took three target arrows from his belt. They were three feet in length, with grey goose-feather fletchings and ash shafts. Their steel tips had been designed to prevent deep penetration, so they could easily be pulled from the boss without damaging the shaft or the fletchings. Putting three arrows in the centre of the target was easy enough: he had practised archery for as long as he could remember; it was all second nature to him.
The next round was the same again, only this time without the ‘sighter’, and the distance was extended to two hundred and sixty yards. Consistency was as important as accuracy in this competition; one slip, and a competitor was out of the running. Sudden death, they called it.
By the end of the sixth round, the distance had been increased to three hundred yards, winnowing out all but six of the competitors, including Martin and Caynard. For the seventh and final round, a slender wooden wand was placed upright in the ground a foot in front of the butts; whoever placed his arrow closest to the wand was the winner. This time they used simple steel-tipped arrows that would not knock the wand aside if they brushed past it. The six archers drew lots to decide the order in which they would shoot. Caynard was second, and Martin fifth.
The first man to shoot barely hit the target, and knew at once he would not win, cursing his own over-confidence for betraying him when he had come so close to victory. Caynard stepped up to the mark, exuding self-confidence. After he had placed his arrow in the target, one of the marshals ran up to examine its placing.
‘It’s touching the wand!’ he announced. The crowd cheered uproariously, the wench clapping her hands with delight. Caynard’s friends hoisted him on to their shoulders and carried him through the cheering crowd.
‘They’re a bit premature in their celebrations, I reckon,’ sniffed Sewell, although few people seemed to agree. The next two archers confirmed the general opinion, shooting well but not well enough to beat Caynard’s shot.
‘Go on, Martin!’ shouted Sewell. ‘Show them that trick I taught you.’
Martin nodded, and stepped up to the mark. He licked his index finger and held it up to check the wind’s strength and direction. Then he took an arrow from the marshal and nocked it to his bowstring, taking careful aim. Keeping his mind clear and relaxed, he took in a deep breath, and let fly on the exhale. Once he had sent the arrow speeding towards its target he closed his eyes, feeling the bowstring thrumming against the bracer on his left wrist. The great gasp that arose from the crowd, and the cheer from the other Knighton villagers, were enough to confirm that he had succeeded in his aim: he had split the wand.
‘You’ve done this before, haven’t you?’ the marshal remarked dryly.
Martin grinned self-consciously, and was suddenly swept off his feet as the villagers of Knighton hoisted him on to their shoulders, carrying him past the scowling Caynard. He was eventually deposited with his family and friends, and received an embarrassingly breath-snatching hug from Alison.
‘Did we win?’ Martin gasped over her shoulder at Michael, who nodded.
‘A shilling!’ It was the equivalent of a month’s wages. ‘It’s a pity they don’t hold archery contests more often: with your skill with a bow, we could quit farming and live off the profits of your archery.’
‘Now there’s an idea,’ said Martin, and turned to where a fairground barker was promising a ram and a ring to any man who could put Goliath on his back. ‘Goliath’ was a muscular young man in his late twenties. Six foot five, he towered over any man Martin had ever seen, with a shaven head and a face ferocious enough to ensure that he had few takers. Martin watched until one peasant lad decided to chance his arm – and all his other limbs, for that matter – paying the barker a penny before entering the ring with Goliath. The peasant was a big lad, even bigger than Martin, but he was no match for Goliath. They wrestled for a few moments, but sure enough it was the peasant lad who found himself flat on his back in the mud.
‘What do you think?’ Sewell asked Martin, as the two of them eyed Goliath speculatively. ‘The trick is to go in swift, like; get him down before he knows what’s hit him.’
Martin nodded. He had done enough wrestling with the other lads in the village to know what he was doing. ‘The trouble is, it looks as though Master Goliath knows that, too,’ he remarked wryly. ‘Do we really need a ram?’ he asked Michael, who was examining the beast in question.
Michael rose to his feet, satisfied that the ram was in good health. ‘We can always sell it.’
Martin nodded, and paid the barker his penny. He removed his clogs and stripped to the waist, entering the ring dressed only in his breech-cloth and woollen leggings.
He started by trying to circle his opponent, but it was obvious that Goliath was growing bored with the day’s succession of victories, and now wanted only to win this latest match as quickly as possible. He dashed forward, seeking to clasp Martin around the waist as a preliminary to turning him upside down and dropping him on his head, but Martin dodged out of his reach, and hooked an arm across his back. The two of them grappled for a few moments, churning the mud beneath their feet as they circled as one within the ring. Goliath tried to hook an ankle behind Martin’s legs, but Martin was wise to that trick, keeping his feet out of Goliath’s reach. They pushed against one another, and then Martin suddenly retreated. He broke free, and twisted Goliath’s arm. The giant overbalanced, falling on his back. Martin promptly dropped on his neck, pinning him down for the count of five. Then the two of them rose, clasping hands to show that there were no hard feelings. The barker – who was Goliath’s manager – handed the gold ring and the ram’s lead to Michael rather more grudgingly, scowling at Goliath.
Martin was about to climb out of the ring when a man stepped up to the ropes. ‘I’d like a go at that, if you don’t mind.’ His accent – the broad tones and short vowel-sounds of a man from the North Country – sounded strange to Martin.
‘All right,’ panted Goliath. ‘But let me catch my breath.’
The man shook his head. ‘Not wi’ you. Wi’ the new champion.’ He indicated Martin with a nod.
Goliath turned to his barker, who shrugged truculently. ‘You’ll have to ask him about that,’ he said, indicating Martin.
‘What d’you say, lad?’ the newcomer asked Martin.
‘Will you give us a chance to take the ram and the ring from you?’
‘What if I win?’
‘Then I’ll give you the equivalent in cash.’
Martin looked the man up and down. He was in his late forties, of no more than average height, a stocky man with close-cropped hair and a seamed face. ‘Aye and like,’ Martin agreed carelessly.
Goliath climbed out of the ring and the man climbed in. He and Martin circled each other warily, and then Martin charged forward, hoping to catch his opponent by surprise. The man dropped to one knee at the last moment. As the two of them collided, the man caught Martin in the stomach with his shoulder. He pushed himself sharply to his feet, allowing Martin’s own momentum to carry him over his shoulder. Martin landed on his back in the mud, and the man placed a booted foot on his chest for the count of five.
Martin felt angry and humiliated at having been caught out so easily. ‘Best out of three?’ he suggested hopefully.
‘Of course,’ the man replied, grinning, as he helped Martin to his feet. The man’s insouciance only infuriated Martin all the more.
Once again they circled warily, Martin striving to control his anger. It would only cloud his judgement, and he knew from experience that in wrestling judgement was far more important than strength or weight.
The two of them ran at each other simultaneously. The man caught Martin in a bear hug, squeezing him painfully tight. Martin reached over the man’s shoulder, trying to grab him around the waist from behind. The man tried to get under Martin’s centre of balance and flip him over his shoulder, but Martin kept his feet well back and firmly planted on the ground. Their feet slipped out from beneath them in the churned mud and the two of them landed in a heap, the man chest-down on the ground, Martin on top of him. Martin caught the man in an arm-lock and rolled him over, pinning him down for the count of five.
As the two of them struggled to their feet, the man looked Martin up and down with frank appraisal. ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Not bad at all. This ’un for the ram and the ring, eh?’
Martin suddenly had the feeling he was being tested in some way.
They grappled again, and this time Martin managed to hook a leg behind the man’s ankle, tripping him up. The man rolled on to his back, pulling Martin with him, the soles of his feet against Martin’s stomach. Martin landed heavily on his back in the mud once more, dazed. The man was on top of him immediately. Martin had to exert all his strength to push the man off, rolling on top of him. But again the man used Martin’s own momentum against him, continuing the roll so that he ended up on top once more, this time bracing himself to ensure that he stayed there.
Martin knew when he had been beaten fair and square. ‘That’s a ram and a ring I owe you,’ he told the man ruefully, as the two of them struggled to their feet and clambered out of the ring.
The man shook his head. ‘Nay, lad, you keep them. What would I want with a ram and a ring? Besides, it’s been a fair while since any man put me on me back. You’ve earned it.’
‘We had a contest,’ protested Martin. ‘You won. It wouldn’t be fair…’
‘Listen, lad. I already get paid for fighting, and paid handsomely at that. It’d be a crime to take the prizes from you. When I entered the ring, I didn’t think you stood a chance. I must confess that for a moment there, you had me worried.’
‘Maybe so,’ mused Martin. ‘But then, when I entered the ring with you, I never thought you stood a chance, neither.’
The man chuckled. ‘What’s your name, lad?’
‘Martin Kemp.’
They shook hands, and the man jabbed a callused thumb at his own chest. ‘Wat Preston. I saw you at the butts earlier. That were some rare archery, lad. I’ll wager you’re a mean customer wi’ a quarter-staff, too, eh?’
Martin shrugged. ‘Middling fair.’
Preston laughed again. ‘Wi shoulders like that?’ he asked, punching Martin on one of those self-same shoulders. ‘And modest too, I’ll warrant! You’re an instinctive fighter if ever I saw one, lad. A bit impetuous, maybe, but then who isn’t at your age? You’ve got brains and you use ’em, and that’s a rare enough quality nowadays. You’ve got potential. Have you ever thought of making a living out of soldiering?’
The question caught Martin off guard, but he answered it readily enough. ‘Aye and like. All the time.’
Preston regarded him in wonderment. ‘Well now, I’m glad we had this little chat. Have you ever used a sword?’
This time it was Martin’s turn to laugh. ‘Only a wooden one. When I were a boy,’ he added, by way of explanation. ‘Where would I get the money for a sword?’
‘It could be arranged,’ Preston told him seriously. ‘My master would happily lend you a sword, if you were ready to use it in the service of the king.’
‘I’d like that,’ Martin admitted.
‘Then why not?’ Preston pressed eagerly. ‘My master’s looking for fine young men like yourself to go to fight for the king in France. And what young man of spirit could turn down such an opportunity, eh? There’s glory and booty to be won… why, I’ve seen farmers’ sons no better off than yourself spend a season campaigning in Brittany, and come back laden down with enough spoils to make ’em the envy of the richest merchants in London…’
Martin reluctantly shook his head. ‘I’m a villein, not a freeman. I’d need my lord’s permission to leave the manor…’
‘Who is your lord? I’m sure that if my master were to have a word with him, it could be sorted out easy enough…’
‘Well, well. If it isn’t my Lancelot.’
Recognising the voice, Martin immediately lost interest in what Preston was saying and turned to where Beatrice stood. He blushed, momentarily at a loss for words. ‘Did you see me shoot?’ he stammered.
She nodded, smiling. ‘If you could use a sword as well as you ply that bow of yours, then you would indeed be a fitting champion…’
‘You seem to be losing your touch, Wat,’ observed a voice beside Preston, and he turned to see his master standing there. The two of them watched as Martin and Beatrice strolled a short distance away.
‘I can’t compete with the likes of her,’ replied Preston, aggrieved. ‘Although what a fine lass such as her can see in a villein is beyond me.’
‘Beatrice Beaumont has a reputation as a tease,’ Preston’s master explained dismissively. ‘She’s probably only doing it to tease the lad, and her lover yonder.’ He nodded to where Stamford stood nearby with Beaumont, glowering at the sight of Beatrice talking to the young churl. Beaumont said something to Stamford, who nodded, and walked across to where Beatrice stood.
‘Come away, Beatrice,’ snapped Stamford. ‘People will talk!’
‘Because I spoke to a churl?’ she protested indignantly. ‘I was merely congratulating him on his victory in the archery contest. We should be proud that it was a young man from our manor who proved himself the finest archer in the county.’
‘Skill at archery is nothing to be proud of,’ replied Stamford, glaring at Martin. ‘The bow is a weapon for churls.’ He took her by the arm and all but dragged her away. She shot Martin an apologetic glance over her shoulder. He watched the two of them disappear into the crowd, and was about to turn back to Preston when someone grabbed him roughly by the arm.
‘Stay away from my daughter, Kemp!’ Beaumont snarled in his ear.
Martin shrugged off his grip. ‘Can I help it if she prefers my company to that of your squire, Sir John?’ he replied sardonically.
Beaumont hit him. The blow caught him by surprise, knocking him off his feet. More shaken than hurt, he was about to pick himself up and hurl himself at Beaumont in fury when Sewell suddenly crouched by him, holding him down. ‘Easy, lad,’ he murmured, and it gave Martin enough time to control his anger and realise the foolishness of trying to retaliate.
‘I’ll not warn you again,’ growled Beaumont. ‘If I see you talking to Beatrice once more, your whole family will suffer for it.’ He turned his back on Martin and stalked off. Martin glared after him until he was out of sight, and then turned to where Preston had been standing. But both Preston and his master had disappeared. Disconsolate, Martin hurried off to rejoin the other villagers from Knighton.
Beatrice walked with Stamford and Edith through the crowded streets of the town, pausing to view the gowns on display on trestle tables in front of dressmakers’ shops. Uninterested in such fripperies, Stamford walked ahead, trying to will the two women to hurry up. He allowed his curious eyes to linger too long on a well-dressed young woman with a painted face, and seeing his interest she quickly lifted the hem of her gown high enough to give him a brief glimpse of her crotch.
‘Fancy a go?’ she asked, grinning to reveal green teeth. ‘Only a couple of shillings to a fine young man like yourself. I’d offer it for free, only I’ve a father and three little sisters to look after.’
Pop-eyed with disbelief, Stamford blushed and stammered, ‘Eh? Er… no! No, thank you.’ Crimson-faced, he hurried on, the whore’s cackle of amusement ringing in his ears. Watching from the doorway of a shop, Beatrice and Edith giggled at his discomfiture, allowing him to disappear into the crowd.
‘He looked as if he’d never seen a cunny before!’ whispered Edith.
‘Nor has he, for all I know,’ replied Beatrice, more interested in a particoloured silk kirtle.
Edith regarded her sceptically. ‘You mean, you haven’t taken him in hand yet?’ she asked archly.
‘I would have thought that seducing noblemen was more your level,’ said Beatrice. She was beginning to suspect there was more to Edith’s relationship with her father than that of servant and master, and she could not help resenting the fact that her father loved anyone other than herself. ‘Especially older noblemen,’ she could not resist adding snidely.
Edith coloured. There had been a certain amount of friction between the two for as long as she could remember, as there might be between step-daughter and step-mother; but the confined world of Stone Gate Manor House forced the two of them to make an effort to get along, suppressing their mutual dislike. Edith knew what would happen if Beaumont had to choose between her and the daughter he doted on; but she promised herself she would make Beatrice pay for her last remark.
But there was nothing she could do openly to defy her master’s daughter, so she forced herself to paste a smile on her face and hurriedly changed the subject. ‘Did you see that handsome knight who was watching young Martin Kemp wrestle? The one with only one eye?’
‘Sir Thomas Holland, you mean?’ asked Beatrice, forcing herself to sound indifferent. She had met Holland at the memorial service for the old Earl of Lancaster. She could not forget that day, no matter how hard she tried. She had found herself holding court to all the young squires present, as she invariably did at any event she attended. But such callow youths held little interest for her. She had spent the day trying to get Holland alone, and when she finally succeeded he had spurned her advances, saying it was neither the time nor the place, though even she could see it was just an excuse. She knew he thought himself too good for her, although he was just a member of an obscure family from Lancashire. ‘How unfortunate that a Genoese crossbow bolt at the battle of Sluys should have rendered him so repulsive.’
‘You think so? I thought him rather handsome. The eyepatch lends him an air of mystery.’
‘Aye, for such mystery is not rightly his. All it covers is an ugly socket, I am certain. I would not choose to wake beside that each morn. Anyway, they say he is enamoured of Lady Joan Montague,’ she added dismissively. Lady Joan, often referred to as the Fair Maid of Kent, was said to be the most beautiful woman in all England, and Beatrice found it very tiresome that so many young men who should have been paying court to her were instead more interested in extolling Lady Montague’s virtues.
‘Is she truly as fair as they say?’ Edith could not resist asking. She knew full well that Beatrice did not move in the same circles as Lady Joan, who was cousin to the king and wife to the Earl of Salisbury’s heir.
‘I neither know nor care,’ Beatrice replied coldly, nettled.
They had reached the south-west corner of the town, where Leicester Castle stood on the bank of the River Soar. They passed through the arched gateway into the bailey. The castle was a relatively modest fortification. The mound of earth that had once formed the motte of the old Norman castle still stood, but the wooden keep had long since been allowed to rot away, while no new stone keep had been built in its place. Instead the centrepiece of the castle was its great hall, the administrative centre of the county.
There were stalls and sights to be seen inside the bailey, which was just as crowded as the streets outside. Michael and Martin Kemp were there, watching the Moorish dancers dressed in clogs and dark clothing, holly-wreaths on their heads, dancing in a circle with elaborate foot-patterns as they jingled their bells, flourished their silk scarves and clacked their staves together. The dancers were dark-skinned paynims, brought back to England by Henry of Derby following his visit to Granada on crusade.
The Kemp brothers had been inside the castle only once before, six years earlier, when Derby had held a tournament there to celebrate his daughter’s wedding. Martin had only been about ten years old at the time. The knights in their shining armour, riding on their magnificent destriers, had made a great impression on him.
Seeing Martin and Michael, Beatrice nudged Edith and murmured conspiratorially in her ear. Edith was about to protest when an idea occurred to her. Here was her chance to pay Beatrice back for her earlier barbed remark. She smiled sweetly. ‘As you will, my lady.’
A gypsy woman clutched at Michael’s sleeve. ‘Your fortunes told, if you cross my palm with silver.’ She was approaching middle-age, a plump woman with a swarthy complexion who nonetheless would have appeared quite jolly had it not been for her dark, soulful eyes.
Michael was about to brush her off, but Martin, feeling flush after his victory at the butts, tossed her a penny which she caught deftly in one hand. ‘Go on then, mistress,’ he said with a grin. ‘What does Fate have in store for my brother?’
The woman bit the coin to make sure it was not false, and then studied Michael’s palm. ‘You will die wealthy,’ she pronounced solemnly. ‘Beware a man with a scarred face.’
Michael beamed. ‘You hear that, Martin? I’m going to be rich.’
‘A likely story. She’s just telling you what you want to hear.’
‘Madame Szgany never lies,’ said the woman, and reached for Martin’s hand. Shrugging, he held out his palm. She began to study it, and then reacted as if she had been stung. There was real fear in her eyes, and she made a pass in the air as if warding off an evil spirit.
‘What is it?’ Martin asked in astonishment. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Death walks beside you,’ the woman whispered fearfully.
Michael crossed himself, but Martin laughed. ‘I’ll be glad of his company, so long as he minds where he swings that scythe of his.’
‘Don’t jest of such things, Martin!’ hissed Michael. ‘Come, quickly, to yonder church that you may be shriven of the curse this paynim woman has placed on you!’
Martin grinned. ‘Don’t be daft. It’s all a load of heathen nonsense. You know what Sewell says: a man holds his destiny in his own hands, ’tis true; but it’s a destiny he must fashion for himself, not one that’s writ in every line of his palm.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ Michael allowed dubiously, and then turned as Edith approached him.
‘It’s Michael Kemp, isn’t it? I was so sorry to hear about what happened to your father last autumn. How are you coping now you’re head of the family…?’ She linked her arm through his, and he allowed himself to be led away, flattered by her attention, telling her of the heavy responsibilities he had to bear. There might have been more than ten years’ difference in their ages, but at thirty-two she was still handsome; yet at the same time, she would be lucky to find a husband at such a late age, and not being of noble birth she could do a good deal worse than Michael Kemp.
Even so, there had been something staged about the way she approached Michael, Martin reflected as he turned his attention to the bear-baiting. He understood why a moment later when Beatrice sidled up beside him.
‘I want to see you,’ she said out of the corner of her mouth, without turning her head to meet his gaze.
‘Sir John said I weren’t to see you no more,’ he stammered, confused.
‘You’re not scared of him, are you?’ she taunted.
‘Of course not,’ he asserted, full of youthful bravado.
‘Then meet me in Knighton Woods at noon tomorrow. Where you saved Dickon and me from those robbers.’ Then, to his astonishment, she gave him a peck on the cheek before slipping away through the crowds.
Glancing at this over her shoulder as she pretended to listen to what Michael was saying, Edith permitted herself a smile of triumph. Beatrice had played right into her hands.