Martin stared. It was indeed Beaumont, seated astride his black courser, accompanied by Stamford, chatting amiably to his fellow knights as he rode by. Martin’s first instinct was to avert his gaze before he was seen and recognised, to avoid trouble; but even as he stared, he felt anger well up within him. Here were the two men whom, Martin had no doubt, had conspired to have him executed for a crime that he had not committed. He knew he should have expected to see them at the mustering point, but their sudden appearance had caught him off guard.
As Beaumont listened absently to the light-hearted banter of the other knights, he glanced about at the warlike preparations of the camp with obvious approval. Then his gaze fell on Martin, and their eyes locked. Beaumont reined in his horse in shock and raised one hand, the index finger stretched in Martin’s direction.
‘By God’s passion!’ he roared. ‘What in the name of Christ is that villainous churl doing here, for God’s dignity?’
Everyone in the immediate vicinity stopped what they were doing, their eyes seeking out the object of Beaumont’s wrath. The other knights, who had ridden on a few paces, wheeled their horses and rode back. ‘What troubles you, Sir John?’ asked one, glancing with the others towards Martin.
‘That scum,’ said Beaumont, slowly but clearly, ‘is a murderer and a rapist, whom I personally brought to justice and sentenced to death.’ It was a lie that Beaumont had been working to perpetuate for so long that he had come to believe it himself. ‘It was he who was responsible for the foul murder of Sir John Seagrave’s daughter.’
A shocked silence fell over the scene, not only amongst the knights and squires, but also amongst Martin’s companions. Although many of them were thieves and murderers, the crime of rape – and the rape of a noblewoman at that – was one that appalled even them.
‘I had thought him hanged for his villainy,’ continued Beaumont, evidently struggling to keep a tight rein on his emotions. ‘His continued existence makes a mockery of English justice; nay, it makes a mockery of the honour of the Seagrave family. I ask again, what ill fate allows him to be still with us, and apparently roaming free?’
‘The same thing that brings us all here.’ It was the voice of a nobleman, speaking in calm and measured but nonetheless firm tones. ‘The service of his Majesty the king.’
Beaumont wheeled his horse about to face the newcomer. He was a dismounted knight, dressed in a white tunic and a blue cloak, the long tail of his hood wrapped about his head in a turban-like liripipe. He was in his early thirties, tall and well-built, with dark hair and a stern countenance. His bronzed, saturnine features, though regular, were somewhat angular, his face clean-shaven to reveal a firm, square jaw-line, his mouth set in hard, cruel lines. His right eye was dark, piercing and intense; the left was covered by a patch of white silk.
Beaumont was unimpressed. ‘That churl,’ he continued, still pointing at Martin, ‘is a condemned criminal, tried and found guilty of a capital felony in a court of law. How he came to escape I cannot tell, but I intend to see to it that the sentence passed on him is duly carried out.’
Stamford smiled grimly. ‘Allow me to deal with him, Uncle,’ he said, drawing his broadsword with a well-practised motion.
‘Put up your sword, boy!’ snapped the one-eyed knight. ‘Let no man confound what the king himself has decreed.’
‘The king!’ scoffed Beaumont. ‘What is the life of this miserable villein to his Majesty?’
‘The same as the life of any man bound to do the king military service,’ the knight replied evenly.
‘But this man is a condemned criminal!’ Beaumont protested in outrage.
The knight smiled sardonically. So far he had not spared so much as a glance in Martin’s direction. ‘Which one? The thief? The poacher? The murderer, perhaps? Thieves and murderers they may be, sir, but it’s my experience that thieves and murderers make the best fighting men. What is military service, after all, but pillage and slaughter? Dismiss your quarrel with this churl as unworthy of one of gentle birth such as yourself. He is bound to make amends for his misdeed in the king’s service.’
‘The king’s service?’ spat Beaumont. ‘And what of the honour of the name of Seagrave? I’ll readily cross swords with any man who tries to prevent me from defending that honour.’
The knight’s face grew dark, but he refrained from reaching for the hilt of the massive broadsword that hung in an ivory scabbard from his jewelled belt. ‘Then I must warn you that to do so you will have to cross swords with me, for I’ll put the service of my king before the service of my God, let alone Sir John Seagrave’s damned honour. I advise you to ride on, sir, safe in the knowledge that justice has found its own course.’
‘How dare you address me so impertinently?’ demanded Beaumont. ‘Know you not who I am?’
The knight stared coolly up at Beaumont. ‘Your coat of arms is as unfamiliar to me as, it would appear, mine own is to you. It seems I must perform my own introduction. I am Sir Thomas Holland of Broughton, Knight Banneret, son of Sir Robert, Lord Holland of Upholland. In the absence of my liege lord, Henry of Derby, I have been commissioned by my lord of Warwick to lead these troops to Portsmouth and beyond. I believe,’ he added dryly, ‘that the letter you received from his Majesty’s Chancery requesting you to present yourself at this mustering point may have made mention of me?’
Abashed, Beaumont bowed stiffly in his saddle. ‘My apologies, Sir Thomas.’ He made a helpless gesture, while the other knights smirked and sniggered at his discomfiture. ‘I did not realise…’
‘Evidently not.’ Holland’s tone was full of icy menace. ‘And you are, sir…?’
‘Sir John Beaumont, Lord of Stone Gate Manor.’ He gestured towards Stamford, who was hurriedly slipping his sword back into his scabbard. ‘And this is my squire, Richard Stamford.’
‘Indeed.’ This time it was Holland who was singularly unimpressed. ‘I suggest you heed well my counsel, Sir John, and ride on. And remember that whatever crimes may lurk in these men’s pasts, they are the king’s men now, and any man who seeks to harm them seeks to harm his Majesty’s cause in France.’
Beaumont glared at Holland with a hatred almost equal to that which he reserved for Martin, but he and Stamford had no choice other than to ride on. The other knights had already contrived to distance themselves from Beaumont and his squire, riding away separately.
Martin felt sick to the stomach as he watched Beaumont and Stamford depart. He was unable to delight in their humiliation at Sir Thomas’s hands. Somehow he had felt that this second chance, the offer of a pardon, would mark a complete break with a past of subjugation to Beaumont and his kin, a chance to start life anew. Now he realised that he would never escape his past, that he would always be branded a criminal; and with that realisation came the suspicion that Beaumont and his family would always dog his steps, a perpetual reminder of his humble status.
Brother Ambrose had watched the encounter from the entrance to Holland’s tent. Now he stepped forward to address his master in low tones. ‘I fear you may have antagonised him, Sir Thomas.’
Holland regarded his clerk with one eyebrow cocked. ‘What of it?’
‘If I may speak freely…?’
The tiniest hint of amusement flickered on Holland’s stern countenance. ‘You usually do, Brother Ambrose.’
‘You humiliated him, if you’ll pardon me for saying so. He’ll not forget it.’
Holland made a dismissive gesture. ‘He humiliated himself. For a man of gentle birth to harbour such feelings of hatred against a lowly churl… it’s beyond all belief!’ He shook his head sadly.
‘But if you look at it from his point of view, as the injured party…’ persisted the friar.
‘A matter for the law to decide, and the law has made its decision.’ Holland said firmly. Once he had made up his mind, it was rarely changed. ‘I’ll not tolerate the behaviour of any man who seeks to put his own interests before those of the king. Hang every condemned man in the king’s service and you’ll decimate our ranks!’
Holland took his leave of the friar, heading off in the direction of the earl’s tent. In truth, Brother Ambrose had been pleased with the outcome of Holland’s confrontation with Beaumont, if not its handling. Unlike Holland, Brother Ambrose had paid some attention to the object of Beaumont’s wrath. He considered himself an excellent judge of character, and when Martin had professed his innocence the night before, the friar had been inclined to believe him. But innocent or not, Martin had been condemned by a court of law, and the young villein could consider himself lucky that he had been given this opportunity to gain a pardon. Perhaps it was the will of God. Besides which, Brother Ambrose, like Holland, was a loyal servant of the king, and agreed that his Majesty was entitled to every man he could get to serve him in France.
That night, as dusk fell over the common, Martin and his companions settled down to sleep on the ground around the camp fire once more. Martin was just beginning to drift off when he became aware of Hodge conversing in low tones with Piers Edritch, a young man who had been assigned to Preston’s platoon earlier that day. Edritch was only a few months older than Martin, an aggressive young man with close-cropped hair, a pug nose and small, close-set eyes. Realising that he was the subject of their conversation, Martin pretended to be fast asleep, straining to catch their words.
‘You heard what that knight said,’ Edritch was saying. ‘Rape! I’m damned if I’m going to fight alongside any man who has to take a woman by force – that’s the lowest of the low, that is.’
‘Worse than murder, Piers?’ asked Rudcock.
‘You shut your face!’ snapped Edritch. ‘The man I slew deserved to die.’
‘So you appointed yoursen judge, jury and executioner, I suppose?’
‘Sometimes a man must take the law into his own hands. You can’t always rely on the courts for justice.’
‘Aye and like,’ agreed Rudcock. ‘And it were the same courts that found Martin guilty of murder and rape.’
‘And you reckon he might be innocent, I suppose?’
‘He doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who’d take advantage of a woman, that’s all.’
They lapsed into a hostile silence, and after a few minutes Martin was fast asleep. His dreams, however, were by no means sweet.
Martin could hear the droning monotone of the priest’s voice reading the last rites, and he wondered who was dying. He tried to look around, but whichever way he turned darkness surrounded him, enfolding him. He tried to reach out with his hands to feel where he was, but they were held fast behind his back. He tried to move his legs, but they were secured with irons. He felt confusion and panic well up inside him.
Then the ground beneath his feet seemed to lurch sickeningly and fall away. He felt himself spinning in the air, the rope biting into his neck, cutting into his windpipe. Choking, he struggled madly, trying to kick his legs. The rope tightened, and a new, blacker darkness began to descend over him. He tried to scream, but no sound would come out.
He awoke with a start, bathed in a cold sweat. It was a chill night, the black sky above him studded with stars. The camp fire flickered nearby, casting eerie shadows over the huddled shapes of the men who slept around it. He could hear the others snoring, and the grizzled Daw Oakley muttering something about pastry in his sleep. Throughout the camp, other fires flickered in the darkness. A torch was burning outside Sir Thomas Holland’s tent, and in its light he could see Villiers conversing in low tones with Brother Ambrose.
Martin did not want to go straight back to sleep. The nightmare had been too vivid for him to want to risk dreaming it again. It was strange, but now that the threat of being hanged was past, the thought of what might have happened scared him more than it had done when it seemed inevitable, cruelly tying his innards into knots so that he felt weak and nauseous. Perhaps in some way he had never faced up to the fact that he might truly be executed for a crime he had not committed.
Feeling cold, he pushed himself to his feet, stepping carefully over the sleeping bodies of his companions to get nearer to the fire. Villiers bade Father Ambrose good night, and slipped inside Holland’s tent. Brother Ambrose walked across to join Martin by the fire, warming his hands over it.
‘Why abroad so late, my son?’ murmured the friar. ‘Is sleep elusive this night?’
Martin nodded. ‘I was just thinking how lucky I am to be alive.’
Brother Ambrose nodded. ‘Life is precious, is it not?’ he said, smiling. ‘Often we do not realise that fact until it is too late. Enjoy it while you can, that would be my counsel to a man of your age.’
Martin grimaced. ‘Most folk of my class don’t get the chance to enjoy life, whether or not they realise how precious it is,’ he pointed out.
‘Aye, true enough. But we must all be thankful for what little we have.’
‘Aye, I reckon so.’ Martin hesitated before plunging into a new topic of conversation. The friar seemed like a kindly man, but Martin did not know how far he could trust him. ‘I were wondering about my family, like… they probably think I’m dead by now.’
‘I dare say word will get back to your village that you’ve gone to serve in the king’s army overseas. If the good Lord smiles on you, you could be returning to your village a hero in twelve months’ time.’
‘I suppose so. It’s just that… I’d feel a lot happier if I could see them before I go.’
Brother Ambrose smiled. ‘Are you certain you would not prefer to redeem yourself first?’
‘I’ve not done owt wrong to redeem,’ Martin insisted stoically. ‘I were wrongly condemned.’
The friar shrugged. ‘Man was born to suffer as the sparks fly upwards.’
‘I were wondering how long it’ll be before we set out for France?’ Martin continued obliquely.
Brother Ambrose chuckled. ‘We have to get to Portsmouth first.’
‘Portsmouth?’
‘That’s where we’ll be sailing from for France.’
‘How long till we leave for Portsmouth, then?’
‘A few days yet. The muster rolls are still some way from being completed.’
Martin decided to take the plunge. ‘Only, I were thinking, I could return to Knighton – that’s my village – and be back here in a few hours… it’s not that far…’
‘Do not even think of it,’ the friar told him harshly. ‘You know what the penalty is for desertion. Because that’s what they’ll assume you’ve done if you’re found missing, even if only for a few hours.’
‘Maybe if I had permission, like?’ Martin persisted desperately. He was terrified that Beatrice, thinking him to be a rapist, would not wait for him to return from France. ‘Could you not have a word with Sir Thomas?’
‘I should dismiss such hopes if I were you. Sir Thomas is hardly a sentimentalist,’ Brother Ambrose remarked dryly. ‘Now you’d best get some sleep. And forget about trying to slip away when you think no one is looking; that path leads only to the end of a rope.’
Three days later was the Eve of Saint Justin, the last day of May. It was also the final day of the muster. After the general inspection of troops that was to be held at noon, they would set off marching for Portsmouth. Preston sent Martin and Brewster to the well near the town common to fetch water so that they could boil some mutton for breakfast. It was nice to be able to get away from the hurly-burly of the camp into the relative quiet of the town, if only for a few moments. Martin was winching the bucket of water to the surface when he heard someone call out his name, and he turned in time to see Beatrice running towards him. His heart leapt, and then she was in his arms, kissing him. Brewster had to jump forward and catch the handle of the winch before the bucket was allowed to drop down again, rolling his eyes in mock despair.
She broke off the embrace, aware that Brewster was watching them with an amused smile, and suddenly felt embarrassed. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’ she asked breathlessly.
Martin glanced uncertainly at Brewster, who grinned. ‘Oh, go on!’ he said, emptying the water into the pail they had brought. ‘I’ll cover for you.’
Grinning, Martin thanked him, and led Beatrice behind one of the inns in the town. ‘Is your father around?’ he asked her.
She shook her head. ‘He’s sleeping in a tent with Dickon on the common,’ she observed with a smile, but then she bit her lip. ‘He told me that you were dead – hanged for rape and murder. Is… is it true?’
He smiled. ‘That I’m dead?’
She punched him playfully. ‘No, silly! What Father said, about you having raped and murdered Sir John Seagrave’s daughter.’
‘Of course it isn’t true.’
She hugged him again. ‘I knew it must be a mistake, that you could never do anything like that.’
‘It was no mistake,’ growled Martin. ‘Your father deliberately arranged it, to stop us from seeing one another.’
She bridled. ‘Martin! How dare you suggest such a thing! I know my father disapproves of my talking to you, but to suggest that he would deliberately have you put to death…’
To his dismay, Martin could see at once that he would not be able to convince her of the truth of the matter, and decided until he could come up with some proof the topic was one that was best avoided. ‘What are you here, anyway?’ he asked her, to change the subject.
‘I’ve come to see Dickon and my father off. But what about you?’ She took in his new clothes and arms. ‘You’re not…?’
He nodded. ‘It’s the only way I can get a pardon, even though I didn’t do it. I have to serve the king overseas for a year.’ Her face fell. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘So, you’re going to die after all,’ she said sadly.
He grimaced. ‘I don’t intend to let any God-damned French whoreson kill me…’
‘Martin!’ she exclaimed, shocked.
‘What?’
‘You never used to take the Lord’s name in vain like that.’
He blushed. ‘I’m sorry. It’s living with all these soldiers; they’re an ungodly lot.’ He smiled. ‘Cheer up, my duck. I’ll be back in a year’s time, laden down with booty and glory. Why, I might even be given a knighthood for valour, and then… well, who knows?’ He looked at her expectantly, but her expression was sceptical. ‘Why not?’ he demanded defensively. ‘It happened to Sir John Chandos.’
‘You believe yourself as good a man as Chandos?’
‘Better,’ Martin asserted proudly. ‘You wait and see. I’ll be back in a year’s time, as noble a man as your father, and just as rich. No, richer! I’ll catch some French nobleman, and hold him to ransom! They won’t be able to refuse me a knighthood then!’
‘And I’ll thatch Groby Pool with pancakes!’ she replied, smiling. ‘How are you? Are they treating you well?’
He nodded. ‘Aye and like. For the first time in my life, I can finish a meal without feeling hungry at the end of it. They’re fattening me up for the kill, I reckon.’
‘Please, Martin, don’t speak of such things! Not even in jest!’ She hung her head.
‘I’m sorry.’ He raised his hand – unsure of himself at first, fearful that she might recoil from his touch – to gently caress her cheek. When she did not protest, he touched her under the chin and raised her head so that she looked into his eyes. ‘I’ll be back, my duck. I promise you.’
She smiled wanly. ‘I’ll miss you.’ Then a thought occurred to her. ‘At least take this,’ she said, and unwrapped the white silk coverchief she wore, tying it about his neck with a tearful smile. ‘Your lady’s favour, as befits my champion,’ she explained. ‘Wear it into battle, as Sir Lancelot wore Guinevere’s favour. Perhaps it will bring you luck.’
‘I’ll always wear it, to remind me of you,’ he promised, and they kissed. Her fingers clawed at his hood, pulling it back so that she could run her fingers through his crisp hair. Then she broke off the embrace and stood staring up at him, their eyes locked, hers solemn, his pleading, and she nodded, taking him by the hand and leading him into the inn’s stables. She found a pitchfork and propped it against the door, wedging it shut from the inside, while he found an empty stall and piled up some clean hay to make a bed. When he turned, she was standing right behind him. He kissed her again, and began to fumble with the laces of her bodice. When her breasts were exposed, he dropped to his knees and began to nuzzle her. She moaned softly, clutching his head to her chest. Then, when he lifted his head to gaze up at her, she suddenly pushed him back so that he sprawled in the hay. He stared up at her in bewilderment, frightened that this might yet be a joke of which he was the butt, but she smiled tenderly, standing astride him and lifting her skirts. Feeling as taut as a drawn bow, Martin hastily pushed down his breech-cloth. She threw back her head and gasped with delight as she lowered herself slowly on top of him. Then, as she began to move against him, he reached up and caressed her breasts.
Their lovemaking was more tender this time, as if they both knew they might never see one another again and were trying to draw it out, to make it last for ever. This time when the throes of ecstasy finally caught up with Beatrice the spasms were even more uncontrolled, and Martin cried out as his own body responded, until she subsided on top of him with a final shudder, sobbing against his chest.
They lay there in silence, for how long Martin neither knew nor cared. Finally he gently lifted her off him, as easily as if she were no more than a rag doll, and straightened his clothes. The silence between them felt uncomfortable, thick with forboding. ‘Will you wait for me?’ he asked hesitantly.
She paused before responding. ‘I’ll wait.’
The ambiguity was not wasted on Martin. ‘For me? Or for Stamford?’ he asked bitterly.
‘I could never marry a commoner, Martin,’ she pleaded. ‘You must see that.’
‘And if I won a knighthood?’
She smiled sadly. ‘If you were a knight, Martin, I’d marry you today, and the Devil take my father.’
Martin was grinning by the time he rejoined his newfound companions-in-arms on the common. ‘You took your time, didn’t you?’ Brewster observed sardonically.
Martin blushed. ‘We had much to discuss.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Brewster, grinning archly, and Martin scowled. ‘Looks like you’ve got a rival in the womanising stakes,’ Brewster added to Conyers, who grinned good-naturedly.
‘What’s she like then, this lass of his?’ asked the Yorkshireman.
‘She’s a noblewoman,’ said Rudcock. ‘Isn’t that so, Martin?’ Martin declined to reply, and then Rudcock noticed the coverchief he now wore about his neck.
‘What’s the muffler for? Frightened of catching cold?’
Martin blushed again. ‘A parting gift.’
‘I see. Going to wear it into battle, like, are you? Your lady’s favour?’
Martin grinned shyly. ‘Summat o’ that. How about you, Hodge? Have you got a girl?’
‘Aye and like. I’m married, me. Three times, and all.’
‘Three times!’ exclaimed Inglewood, shocked.
Rudcock nodded. ‘I’ve got one wife in Blaby, one in Sandwich, and another in Ghent.’
‘But that’s polygamy!’ protested Inglewood, who had been to school.
‘Polygamy?’ echoed Rudcock. ‘What’s that when it’s at home?’
‘Having more than one wife.’
Rudcock rubbed his jaw while the implications of Inglewood’s definition sank in. ‘I reckon you’re right. If that’s polygamy, then I’m a polygamer,’ he admitted vaguely.
Before Inglewood could explain that the word Hodge was looking for was ‘polygamist’, and that polygamy was contrary to the law of God, a voice that Martin found familiar cut in.
‘Well, well, well! If it isn’t young Robin Hood!’
Martin looked up, and recognised the horse-faced man from the archery contest in Leicester less than a month ago; though it seemed more like a lifetime ago. The horse-faced man was accompanied by two of his friends, each of them carrying a longbow in a woollen bow-bag.
Rudcock recognised the horse-faced man, too. ‘Will Caynard,’ he observed, his tone making it clear that he was less than overjoyed to see him.
Caynard ignored Rudcock. ‘Come to be a soldier, then, boy?’ he asked Martin.
‘Aye,’ said Martin, without looking up from the sword-blade he was polishing.
‘“Aye”?’ Caynard echoed mockingly. ‘“Aye”? Is that all you got to say for yoursen?’
Martin decided it would be best to stick to Simkin’s advice, and ignore him.
‘Hey! I’m talking to you, boy!’
‘I noticed,’ muttered Martin. ‘I wish you’d give it a rest.’
‘What were that?’ Caynard demanded incredulously.
‘Leave him alone, Will,’ suggested Brewster, stretched out on his back on the greensward, hands clasped behind his head as he squinted up at the sun, a piece of straw jutting from the corner of his mouth. ‘Can’t you see he’s new to all this?’
‘I weren’t talking to you, Brewster,’ snapped Caynard, and turned back to Martin, grabbing a fistful of his coverchief. ‘What’s this then?’ he jeered. ‘A muffler? What are you, a gelding? Got to wear a girl’s muffler to keep the cold off your chest, have you?’
‘It’s a gift from a friend,’ muttered Martin, dropping the sword he had been polishing and trying to brush Caynard’s hand away.
‘Are you sure it’s not a present from your mam?’ scoffed Caynard. ‘Who in the name of Christ do you think you are? Sir Lancelot, wearing your lady’s favour? I’ll bet she’s a God-damned whore, your “friend”!’ He suddenly pulled the coverchief upwards, jerking Martin to his feet.
Whether it was anger or instinct that made Martin lash out he could never afterwards be sure, but the blow he landed on Caynard’s jaw took Will completely by surprise, knocking him on to his backside. John Conyers and some of the other veterans laughed. Enraged, Caynard jumped up and took a swing at Martin, hitting him on the cheek. Even as Martin went down he lashed out with one foot, catching Caynard under the kneecap. Caynard followed him to the ground with a scream of pain.
Suddenly Martin felt himself seized by the arms by Caynard’s two friends. They hauled him to his feet and held him there so that Caynard could pummel him in the stomach.
Rudcock leapt to his feet. ‘Hey, that’s enough,’ he protested, trying to pull Caynard away.
Caynard punched him on the jaw, sending him sprawling in the mud. ‘Keep out of it, Rudcock,’ he snarled, kicking him sharply in the ribs. Rudcock doubled up in agony, and Caynard turned back to where his friends held a dazed and winded Martin between them. Will spat on his knuckles, and punched Martin on the nose. Martin could taste the blood on his lips as it coursed from his nostrils.
‘He said: “That’s enough”,’ said a deeper voice, and Caynard felt a heavy hand on his shoulder spin him around, before a massive fist smashed into his face. Drayton then turned and punched one of the men holding Martin. With one arm free, Martin was able to punch his remaining captor repeatedly in the stomach.
The brawl was about to turn into a free-for-all when Preston steamed up like an enraged bull and started to pull them apart, using his cudgel to get the attention of those too intent on their own private battles to notice that there was a new knight in the lists. He pulled Drayton off one of Caynard’s friends. ‘Nails and blood! What the Devil in Hell do you think you’re doing?’ the serjeant demanded furiously.
‘They were beating him up,’ Drayton explained ponderously, indicating Martin.
‘I didn’t ask what they were doing, I asked what you were doing,’ snarled Preston.
Caynard was helped to his feet by his two friends. Preston turned on them. ‘Will Caynard, Gilbert Murray and Bartholomew Lefthand,’ he observed grimly. ‘I might have known you three would be involved in it somewhere. You should have been here yesterday.’
‘We got held up,’ Bart Lefthand said insouciantly.
‘Hold your tongue, damn your nose! Who struck the first blow?’ the serjeant demanded of the platoon in general.
No one spoke.
‘Very well, then. Five lashes for each of you, and don’t think I don’t mean it. I’ve flayed the hides off an entire company in my time…’
‘It were me,’ said Martin, wiping his bloody nose with his sleeve. ‘I struck the first blow.’
‘How very noble of you,’ sneered Preston. He stepped up to Martin and drove the end of his cudgel into his stomach. It was an expert blow, driving all the wind from Martin’s body so that he doubled up in agony, retching.
‘That isn’t fair!’ protested Drayton, and indicated Caynard. ‘He started it.’
‘Did I ask you?’ growled Preston, turning on Drayton. He had a way of looking at the men under his command as if they were something he might scrape off the sole of his boot. He looked the gigantic Drayton up and down contemptuously. ‘I suppose you think you’re pretty tough, eh? Since you’re so worried about what’s fair and what ain’t, maybe you’d like to take a poke at me, eh?’
‘But they started it!’ protested Drayton.
‘And I finished it. So what are you going to do about it, Samson? You want to take a poke at me now, eh? Come on, Drayton, you big, lumbering ox! No comebacks, just you and me.’ Preston tossed his cudgel aside. ‘Now’s your chance. I’m unarmed. Why don’t you try it? Surely a big, strong lad like yourself ain’t afraid of a little fellow like me?’ As he spoke, Preston punctuated his words by shoving Drayton in the chest, until the big youth lost his temper and took a swing at the serjeant’s head. Preston ducked beneath the blow and drove his gauntleted fist into Drayton’s stomach with an impressive economy of movement. As Drayton bent double, Preston clasped his hands together and brought them down on the back of Drayton’s neck, knocking him to the ground.
Unsmiling, Preston turned to face the others. ‘Anyone else feel like fighting?’ he demanded angrily. Apparently, no one did. ‘In future, save your strength for the French. The inspection takes place in less than an hour; you’re supposed to look like you’re ready to go into battle, not as if you’ve just come out of one!’ He snatched up his cudgel. ‘God-damned rabble!’
As Preston stalked away, Rudcock crouched by Martin, who was trying to staunch the flow of blood from his nostrils. ‘Are you all right, lad?’
Martin nodded. ‘Bastard,’ he muttered thickly, indicating Preston’s receding back.
‘He gets paid to be a bastard,’ Rudcock pointed out evenly. ‘What did you expect him to do? Reward you for your honesty?’
‘What were he trying to prove?’ demanded Martin, gazing across to where Drayton crouched in the mud on all fours, shaking his head muzzily.
‘That no matter how tough we may reckon we are, he’s tougher.’ Hodge glanced across to where Caynard, Lefthand and Murray were sulking, nursing their own bruises. ‘Don’t feel too bad about it, mind. You and Hal gave a pretty good account of yourselves.’ He grinned. ‘I reckon you can safely say you’ve won your spurs as far as defending your lady’s honour is concerned, Sir Lancelot. I don’t expect Will Caynard and his mates will try picking on you again for a while. But if you’ve any sense you’ll take my advice and try to make up with Will. I know he’s not the nicest bloke to have around, but if the two of you are going to be serving together in this platoon, you’re going to have to learn to get on with each other. We’ve got enemies enough awaiting us on the other side of the sea, without making enemies in our own ranks. We’ve got to stick together.’
Martin nodded, but as he glanced across to where Caynard sat, and their eyes locked, Caynard glared at him malevolently.
‘How serious is it?’ asked Rudcock.
‘It’s just a nosebleed.’
‘No, I mean this thing between you and this noblewoman.’
Martin scowled. ‘I don’t reckon it’s any of your business.’
Rudcock shrugged. ‘It’s just it seems strange to me, a fine lady like her paying attention to a churl like yourself. No disrespect, Martin, but I’d be just as suspicious if such a woman paid any attention to me.’
‘I’m just as good a man as any nobleman,’ asserted Martin. ‘Better than some.’
‘Aye and like,’ acknowledged Rudcock. ‘But you try telling a noblewoman that.’
‘Beatrice loves me.’
‘As long as you’re sure. I wouldn’t like to think you’d got your heart set on her, only to find that she was leading you on just to tease you.’
‘Beatrice isn’t like that,’ insisted Martin.
Rudcock shrugged again.
Martin took his hand away from his nostrils. ‘How is it?’
‘It’s stopped bleeding,’ Rudcock assured him.
‘Is it broken?’
Rudcock grinned. ‘You mean, are you as handsome as me yet? You should be so lucky!’
Martin tried to cuff him playfully across the back of the head, but Rudcock scrambled out of his reach, laughing. Martin picked himself up and crossed to where Drayton sat, clutching at his midriff with one hand while rubbing the back of his neck with the other. ‘Are you all right?’
Drayton nodded, and immediately regretted it, wincing as fresh shoots of pain lanced through his neck and into his skull. ‘I made a muck-up of things, didn’t I?’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I always seem to get things wrong.’
‘Sorry!’ Martin exclaimed incredulously. ‘If you hadn’t joined in, God alone knows what sort of state Will and his mates would have left me in by the time Preston came along. It should be me who’s apologising. If I hadn’t lost my temper in the first place, Preston would never have hit you like that.’
Drayton shook his head. ‘He’d’ve found some excuse sooner or later. They always do. I reckon it’s because of my size. Folks always reckon they can prove something by hitting me. Sometimes they’re right. I’m not very good at fighting.’
‘I’ve seen worse,’ said Martin, laughing. ‘Much worse.’
They finished polishing their equipment. The whole encampment was in a froth of activity. Heralds ran to and fro, marshalling the troops, while squires struggled to saddle their masters’ horses. The massive coursers pranced friskily and champed at the bit, the scent of war in their nostrils.
As the hour of the inspection drew near, the serjeants-at-arms drew their men up into their units on the open field adjoining the encampment. There were over a hundred men in Holland’s company alone: in addition to Preston’s platoon of twenty foot-archers, there were eight knights bachelor, including Beaumont; fifteen squires, including Richard Stamford and Adam Villiers; twenty mounted archers; and a troop of thirty-five men-at-arms, mounted on rouncies, armed with shields, swords and lances, dressed in chain-mail hauberks and ‘kettle’ helmets.
Holland sat astride his war-horse, a powerfully built dappled-grey courser, and watched dispassionately as his serjeants arrayed his men in their loose formations, each command accompanied by a punch or a kick when it was carried out too slowly for a serjeant’s liking.
The foot-soldiers stood fully armed in their platoons, clutching spears or bows, while the knights sat in full armour astride their coursers, accompanied by their squires on rouncies, holding pennanted lances upright on the felt butts on their saddle bows. The knights’ colourful jupons and brightly burnished plate armour made a proud display that put the foot-soldiers to shame.
The Chief Baron of the Exchequer had come to the inspection to see what kind of men the king would be getting for his money. He rode along with the Earl of Warwick before the assembled formations, exchanging a few words with each of the knights commanding a company. To Martin, the whole process seemed little more than a formality, but the sight of the armed men around him made him proud.
The earl greeted Holland amicably. It was obvious that the two of them were old comrades-in-arms with a great deal of respect for one another. Both the earl and the baron regarded Holland’s men with evident approval, before moving on. After the inspection was completed, the men were ordered to remain in their formations to watch as three captured deserters were hanged from the boughs of a large oak tree that stood at the edge of the field. There was no law against desertion as such, but since the men had waited until they had received their first payment before leaving they were considered guilty of theft.
Martin watched uneasily as the three men died, kicking and struggling, their faces grotesquely distorted as the life was choked out of them. There but for the grace of God go I, he thought to himself; then he corrected himself with a grimace: if God had any grace, he would not have been unjustly accused and condemned.
For Inglewood, the gruesome sight of the hanged men, on top of being made to stand in the blazing sun in full kit for well over an hour, was too much, and he stumbled against the man next to him before collapsing to the ground in a dead faint. Some of the veterans laughed. Preston directed Rudcock to fetch a pail of water from a nearby well and tip it over Inglewood’s head to revive him.
The bodies of the three deserters were left swinging from the bows of the oak tree to feed the carrion crows, and the order was given to strike camp. The tents were dismantled and loaded aboard the carts and wagons of the baggage train along with the pots, pans and cauldrons of the field kitchens. Sheaves of arrows were packed in wicker baskets and loaded on horse-drawn carts, covered over with horse-hair tarpaulins. The knights and men-at-arms removed their hot and heavy armour and equipment and fastened it on to their pack-horses.
The marshals began to form the men up into a column on the road leading south. It was a time-consuming process, taking even longer than it had done to get them into formation for the inspection; for now draught animals had to be harnessed to the carts and wagons, and there were the packhorses to be taken into account. No one seemed to know where they were supposed to be, while the serjeants argued with the marshals, the marshals argued with one another, and the knights squabbled for the place of honour at the head of the column. The horses would not stand still, and neither would some of the men. Tempers quickly frayed in the hot May sunshine.
Nevertheless, through persistence and industry, the marshals managed to hammer some kind of order out of the chaos and confusion. Holland rose above the squabbling of the knights, and as a consequence the earl awarded his company the place of honour at the head of the column; or perhaps Holland had known all along that the earl had reserved the place of honour for him and his men, so he had not needed to get involved in the squabbles in the first place.
The earl gave the signal to move off with his marshal’s baton, the heralds sounded the march on their trumpets, and the column moved hesitantly forward.
Martin Kemp was marching to war.