‘What should we do?’ Inglewood asked nervously.
‘Martin, go and find Preston,’ Rudcock ordered briskly.
Martin nodded, glancing around in search of the serjeant. Preston was making his way along the lines of pickets and was talking to Oakley, Drayton, Newbolt and Tate on the next dune along. They seemed to be oblivious to the approaching troops. Without another word, Martin slithered down the side of the dune and scrambled up the next to where Preston stood. By the time he got there, Preston was already peering towards the advancing column.
‘It’s all right, lad,’ he told Martin calmly. ‘I’ve seen ’em.’
The French column was more clearly visible from the second dune, marching in close formation along a narrow lane between two hedgerows. Their path would lead them to a point a little to the left of where Martin and Preston stood.
‘Run and find Sir Thomas,’ Preston told Martin, without taking his eyes off the column. ‘Tell him there’s about… three hundred foot-soldiers about half a mile away, approaching from the north-west. Have you got that?’
Martin nodded.
‘Then repeat it back to me.’
‘Three hundred foot-soldiers about half a mile away, approaching from the north-west.’
‘Good lad. Off you go.’
Martin scrambled back down the side of the dune to the beach, pushing through the gathering throng of men, to where Holland sat astride his palfrey, talking to Sir Thomas Norwich, Sir Godefroi d’Harcourt and a young nobleman. D’Harcourt was a tall, lean man in his early thirties, with a bronzed complexion, flaming red hair and bright blue eyes set in an angular face. The young nobleman was in his late teens with long, dark hair, a thin face, dark, narrow eyes and a weak chin covered with a stubbly excuse for a beard. As Holland spoke, his tone seemed to be calm but cold, a sure sign that he was displeased, and the object of his displeasure was the young nobleman, red-faced and not a little frightened by Holland’s anger. Norwich and d’Harcourt watched the confrontation with evident discomfort.
‘Sir Thomas?’ Martin said nervously.
Holland did not seem to hear him, continuing his harangue against the young nobleman.
‘Sir Thomas!’ Martin persisted, a little more boldly.
Both Holland and Norwich, sharing the same Christian name, glanced down at him. ‘What is it, boy?’ Holland demanded irritably.
Martin swallowed hard. ‘Serjeant Preston told me to tell you there’s about three hundred foot-soldiers about half a mile away, approaching from the north-west.’
Holland exchanged glances with Norwich and d’Harcourt.
‘French troops?’ the young nobleman asked, wide-eyed.
‘Hell’s teeth, Montague!’ snapped Holland. ‘My Serjeant would hardly bother to warn me if they were English!’
‘They are French, are they not?’ Norwich asked Martin, in a diplomatic attempt to make Montague’s question seem less naïve.
‘They aren’t ours,’ replied Martin, aware that he did not know for certain that they were French. He suddenly realised that his reply had sounded sarcastic when no sarcasm was intended; but while Norwich scowled, Holland smiled, as if Martin had backed him up in his argument with Montague.
‘Where’s Preston now?’ Holland asked him.
Martin pointed. Holland dug his spurs into his palfrey’s flanks, goading it up the side of the dune, and d’Harcourt, Montague and Norwich followed, Martin sprinting in their wake. The four noblemen reined in their horses on the crest of the dune, and Preston wordlessly pointed out the advancing troops.
‘God’s love!’ exclaimed Montague. ‘They’ve not squandered their time, have they?’
‘What did you expect, my lord?’ Holland responded snidely. Although Montague’s father, the Earl of Salisbury, had been killed in a tournament at Windsor two years earlier, Montague himself was still not old enough to inherit the earldom; nevertheless, he theoretically outranked Holland, a fact Holland clearly resented, and he took no pains to conceal his resentment. ‘Three hours have passed since sun-up, and they most likely saw our lanterns when we anchored in the bay last night.’ Holland turned to d’Harcourt. ‘Do you recognise that banner, Sir Godefroi?’
D’Harcourt nodded slowly. ‘Those are the arms of Robert Bertrand, the Marshal of Normandy.’ He spoke English with a thick Norman accent. ‘He is the warden of these parts. He will remain loyal to Valois, regardless of the odds stacked against him.’
‘Hmm,’ mused Holland, and turned to Preston. ‘What do you make of those troops, Wat?’
‘An ill-assorted lot, Sir Thomas.’
D’Harcourt nodded in agreement. ‘A hastily gathered citizen’s militia, I would say.’
‘Order the heralds to sound the call to arms,’ Holland told Norwich, taking charge of the situation. Norwich nodded, wheeling his horse about and riding back down to the beach.
‘We should get as many men as possible off the beach, and meet them beyond the dunes,’ said Montague, trying to reassert his command of the beachhead.
‘There’s not enough time,’ replied Holland, although he was clearly unconcerned by the threat of approaching enemy troops. ‘At best we could get a couple of companies beyond the dunes to fight a holding action – trying to meet them on equal terms would be a useless waste of men.’ He threw a casual glance back to the beach. There were already several thousand men on shore, and more arriving with every passing moment. He smiled, wondering if Bertrand and his militia had any idea of what they were up against. ‘We should throw up a defensive cordon of archers and men-at-arms here on the beach, and wait for the French to come to us. If they are just a militia, they’ll be ill-disciplined and have little morale – they’ll soon enough think twice when they see how heavily we outnumber them.’
D’Harcourt nodded in agreement. ‘Sir Thomas is right, my lord.’
Montague nodded ruefully. ‘Then let it be so,’ he told Holland and d’Harcourt, still clinging to the theory that as the first to land on the beach, he was still nominally in command of the beachhead until a more senior nobleman arrived on the scene.
Holland smiled at Montague’s discomfiture, and wheeled his courser about, signalling for Preston to jog alongside him as he rode back to the beach where the rest of his company had rallied around his banner. ‘Since your men were the first to espy the enemy, would they like the opportunity to draw first blood, Wat?’
‘I’d consider it a great honour, Sir Thomas,’ replied Preston.
‘Are your men up to it, do you think? At least half of them are raw recruits, are they not?’
Preston grimaced. ‘There’s a first time for everyone, sir. At least now, when we have such a weight of numbers on our side, there is no risk of their losing us the battle.’
The heralds were sounding the call to arms, and Preston’s men fell back from the dunes, rallying around Holland’s banner. Holland and d’Harcourt directed the marshals to draw a line in the sand, and three companies were formed up along it, facing in the direction from which the French would approach. Archers were alternated with dismounted men-at-arms who stood with their spears ready to hold off the attack.
‘They are brave men, for so few to attack so many,’ Villiers observed to his master. ‘I see little honour for us in this battle.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Holland. ‘But what would you have us do? Yield to them? If they wish to die, it is only right that we should afford them the opportunity to do so with honour,’ he added sardonically.
D’Harcourt studied the scene with the practised eye of an experienced tactician. Holland had drawn up the battle line with the clear intention of relying on numerical superiority and better discipline, with minimal regard for the terrain. These were probably the same tactics d’Harcourt himself would have used if he had been in command, but they were not without their disadvantages. ‘We shall not see the enemy until they emerge from the dunes,’ he remarked dubiously to Holland.
Villiers nodded in agreement. ‘We need a look-out,’ he said, and turned to Holland. ‘With your permission, Sir Thomas?’
Holland hesitated momentarily, and then gave a curt nod.
Villiers slid out of his saddle. ‘I shall signal thus, when they are halfway through the dunes,’ he told Norwich, with a downward slice of his open hand. Norwich nodded, and Villiers ran out in front of the battle-line, crossing the beach and scrambling up the nearest dune. He crawled on his belly as he drew near to the crest, so that he would not be seen by the enemy. Lying flat, he peered over the top of a clump of grasses, watching the approaching troops.
Holland’s company stood at the right of the line of troops, furthest from the dunes and closest to where the waves lapped against the shore. Preston’s men strung their bows and took some arrows from their belts, planting them upright in the sand at their feet, heads-down, the way Preston had taught them, the quicker to nock a fresh arrow after each shot. Holland’s mounted archers had dismounted, leaving their hackney cobs tethered to stakes that they had driven deep into the sand. Behind them, more men-at-arms and hobelars were being drawn up as reserves, but most of the men on the beach were left to continue unloading the ships. Many of them paused in their work to watch the impending battle with the bored indifference of spectators at a fairground sideshow; most of them had seen it all before, but it was more interesting than hefting barrels and sacks.
‘Wait for my order,’ Preston told his men coolly, as if this were just another drill. Martin knew that the odds were very much on the side of the English, but he nevertheless felt a cold tightness gripping his innards, and his mouth was dry. At the same time, he suddenly felt unaccountably hot, despite the cool breeze that blew in from the sea. He was standing in the front rank; if any of the English were to die that day, he was likely to be one of the first. He had awaited this moment for so long, and now that it was almost upon him he was not sure that he was ready for it.
‘I don’t think I can do it, serjeant,’ Inglewood moaned tremulously.
‘You can do it, Inglewood,’ growled Preston. ‘You did it at Portsmouth enough times.’
‘I mean, I don’t think I can actually kill a man. Isn’t it written in the Bible that it’s a sin to kill?’
‘Nails and blood, Inglewood, but you’ve picked a fine time to air such theological concerns!’ expostulated Preston, and some of the veterans around them laughed. ‘These are Frenchmen – you’ll kill them, or they’ll kill you. I suggest you stop being so selfish and take their souls into consideration – you wouldn’t want your death on their conscience, would you?’
Villiers scrambled a short way back down the dune, signalling frantically to Norwich, who raised a baton in his right arm.
‘Ready!’ ordered Preston. ‘And remember, I’ll thrash seven shades of shit out of any man who shoots before I give the word!’
Martin plucked another arrow from his leather retainer and nocked it to his bow. Perkin’s protests had set him thinking, making him feel uneasy. Until this moment, he had never really considered the full implications of killing a fellow man, French or otherwise. His concerns were more instinctive than theological. What right had he to deprive another man of his life?
An armoured knight on horseback suddenly rode out from between the dunes, carrying a long lance upright. The foot-soldiers charged out behind him, roaring furiously when they caught sight of the enemy, the foreign invaders who had landed in their territory. The sound sent a chill down Martin’s spine, and he felt a droplet of cold sweat trickle down from his temple.
‘Wait for it!’ growled Preston.
The charging men were an ill-assorted bunch, lightly armoured, some of them wielding swords or spears, but most of them armed with farming implements such as sickles, scythes and flails. They charged in a closely bunched mass, forced together by their passage through the dunes.
The knight had covered nearly half the distance between the dunes and the middle of the English front rank, his men charging close behind, still more of them continuing to emerge from the dunes. Three hundred? It seemed more like three thousand to Martin. His qualms about killing vanished like a field of corn before the onslaught of a gale.
The knight couched his lance, resting it in a specially made indentation in his shield.
Martin braced himself, pushing out the bowstave. He tried to will Preston to give the order to shoot.
The knight seemed almost upon them, the point of his lance reaching forward to spit its first victim. Martin took careful aim at the knight’s head.
Norwich brought the baton down sharply.
‘Loose!’ barked Preston.
Martin loosed his first shot. He tried to follow its progress, but it was lost in the volley of arrows that flew over the sand towards the charging men. An arrow that might have been Martin’s glanced harmlessly off the knight’s helmet. Several more arrows struck the knight’s horse. The beast stumbled, pitching its rider on to the sand. Other arrows claimed the charging foot-soldiers, bringing down their front rank as if they were stalks of wheat mown down with a scythe, but there were more men behind.
The English archers were shooting as fast as they could now. Martin plucked an arrow from the sand at his feet. He fumbled the shot in his panic, the shaft harmlessly burying itself in the sand. He cursed the trembling fingers that had suddenly decided to betray him at this critical moment.
The impetus of the French attack had been shattered by the volleys of arrows, but still the men behind pressed on, stumbling over the bodies of their dead and wounded comrades. Now they were almost upon the English front rank.
‘Draw your swords!’ ordered Preston, his short sword scraping from its scabbard. Martin, caught in the act of nocking a third arrow to his bow, dithered momentarily before dropping both bow and arrow and reaching for his sword. The English men-at-arms dropped their spears and stepped forward, drawing their swords. The clash of steel against steel rang out, and war-cries turned into screams of agony.
A Frenchman brandishing a sickle was almost upon Martin, his face contorted as he roared with aggression. Martin’s fingers, damp with sweat, scrabbled uselessly at the hilt of his sword. Then the Frenchman was upon him. Martin raised his arms to defend himself, desperately clawing at the man’s right wrist. The man’s body slammed into him, bowling him over and driving the breath from his lungs. Martin sprawled on his back in the sand, the Frenchman astride him, forcing the point of his sickle-blade down towards Martin’s eye, putting his whole weight on top of it. Martin braced his arms, grunting with the effort of holding the blade at bay. His whole attention was transfixed by the sharp point that trembled inches from his face, straining to pierce the soft jelly of his eye.
The physical effort of keeping that point away combined with the paralysing terror that froze his bowels threatened to overcome Martin. The Frenchman was too strong for him, he had gained the advantage, Martin was going to die. Part of his mind asked him why he sought to prolong the terror and the agony. Why not accept the inevitable and relax, and allow the Frenchman to finish it? Then it would all be over, he would be free from this hellish nightmare, he could rest. But another part of his mind, deeper, stronger, said no. No French whoreson was going to kill him now. He was not going to give up. He refused to let himself be killed.
The Frenchman punched Martin in the ribs with his free hand, catching him off guard. Martin’s arms buckled, and the sickle-blade came down. Martin jerked his head aside and felt a cold flame sear his cheek. The pain broke through the terror to release him from his overwhelming sense of panic.
The sickle-blade plunged into the sand beside Martin’s head. The Frenchman’s callused hand gripped the sickle’s handle less than an inch from Martin’s face. Martin sank his teeth into the heel of the man’s thumb, biting through to the bone. The man roared in pain, but refused to relinquish his grip on the sickle. Martin brought his knee up sharply between the man’s thighs with all his might, the full strength of his rage and defiance behind the blow. The man screamed in agony. Martin pushed him off. He was winning now, a calmness settling over his mind in the midst of his fury like the eye of a storm. He rolled on top of the Frenchman, his fingers effortlessly finding the hilt of his rondel. He plucked it from its sheath and plunged its blade into the man’s stomach, burying it up to the hilt. The man jerked spasmodically, puking blood. Martin tugged the blade clear and then brought it down again, and again, and again. He did not stop when the man fell still, but went on repeatedly plunging the blade into the man’s stomach until his abdomen was a mass of bloody stab wounds.
‘I think he’s dead, Kemp,’ remarked Preston.
Martin did not hear him, stabbing again and again at his victim’s body in a frenzy of blood-lust. Preston had to seize him by the shoulder and pull him clear.
‘It’s over, lad. We’ve won.’
Martin looked up as if in a daze. The French were falling back into the dunes, their attack completely broken. They were fleeing for their lives, a troop of English mounted knights galloping after them. Martin saw Beaumont ride down one of the laggards, spitting him on the point of his lance. The man screamed briefly. Beaumont threw back his head and laughed. It was the first time Martin had ever seen him happy.
Stamford was also there, whirling his broadsword above his head as he rode after the fleeing Frenchmen. Like Beaumont, he was not wearing mail: there had not been time for the English knights and men-at-arms to don their armour. As he overtook one man, he leaned down from the saddle to slash at his back. The man stumbled and fell, his back bloody, but Stamford’s rouncy was charging forward, so he could not tell if the man was dead. The squire’s eyes lit upon another man. This time he aimed a back-handed slash at the man’s face as he rode past, just the way Beaumont had taught him, and was rewarded with the sight of a piece of the man’s head being sliced off. Born a nobleman, for as long as he could remember he had been trained to fight, to kill. Now that moment had come, and it felt like fulfilment. The excitement of the moment gave him a thrill that was almost sexual. He giggled nervously. He could not believe how easy it was! His eyes fell on another man, and he spurred his horse after him. It was just like stag hunting, only easier! Stags were faster, nimbler than these pathetic Frenchmen!
As he aimed a blow at the third man, his prey dodged out of the way at the last moment, and Stamford’s sword clove through nothing but air. Stamford cursed, and wheeled his horse about after his quarry, determined not to let him get away. The man plunged through a hedgerow. Stamford gripped his reins tightly in his left hand, his rouncy easily clearing the top of the hedge. As the horse’s hooves thundered down on the opposite side, two more French peasants who had been hiding behindhedge rose up. Stamford suddenly realised that in his determination to catch up with his quarry, he had allowed himself to become separated from the other English horsemen. Panic welled up within him as he tasted fear for the first time.
But the panic was soon replaced by the rage of desperation. One of the peasants tried to thrust a spear at him. Stamford brought his sword down, slicing through the spear’s wooden haft, before urging his horse through a half-turn the better to aim a stroke at the spearman’s head. The blade of his broadsword bit deep into the man’s skull. Stamford tugged the blade free. Another of the peasants was trying to seize the rouncy’s reins. The horse reared up, striking at the peasant with its hooves. Stamford lost his balance and fell from the saddle, rolling on the grass. The peasant was staggering back, his forehead stove in by the rouncy’s hooves. Another ran at Stamford, whirling a flail above his head. Stamford remembered the sword he still gripped in his hand, and swung it at the man’s midriff. The blade bit deep into his side, cutting into the spine, where it was wedged so deeply that he was unable to withdraw it. He felt hands grab him from behind, pinioning his arms. Another peasant appeared, a short sword in his hand drawn back to be thrust into the squire’s stomach. Stamford lashed out with one leg, his booted foot catching the man with the short sword in the crotch so that he doubled up with a scream of agony. Then Stamford was able to get one arm free, and he smashed his elbow into his captor’s ribs, breaking free. He whirled around, snatching his dagger from the jewelled sheath at his belt, and driving the blade deep into the man’s chest. The man went down, coughing blood. Stamford turned to where his sword was still embedded in the dead man’s torso. He placed one foot on the corpse’s chest, and managed to pull his sword free with a grunt.
The man with the short sword had recovered sufficiently to come at Stamford again. The squire parried the thrust easily, before swinging his broadsword at the man’s neck. The blade sliced cleanly through flesh, bone and sinew.
Stamford looked around. Suddenly, there were no more Frenchmen left to kill. He wiped the blades of his sword and dagger clean on the tunic of a dead peasant and returned them to their sheaths before vaulting nimbly back into the saddle of his horse. He wheeled the animal about, his eyes searching eagerly for fresh victims, but there were none. He suddenly realised that he had killed at least six men. He turned his blood-speckled face to the sky and let out a whoop of sheer exhilaration, before spurring his horse back in the direction of the beach. Let Beatrice try to mock his vow to win glory in the fields of France now!
Back on the beach, it was clear that the fight had been a total rout. The bodies of dozens of Frenchmen littered the sand. Miraculously, not one Englishman had been killed. Inglewood was kneeling in the sand, his shoulders heaving as he gasped great gulps of air into his lungs. A broad, damp patch streaked one of his leggings where he had wet himself, but the bloody sword that lay by his side proved that he had not been found wanting in the moment of truth. Piers Edritch was dancing a jig, waving his bloodied sword above his head and whooping with joy. Tate was crouched on all fours in the sand, dry-retching, while Bart Lefthand was slicing off one of his victim’s ears as a souvenir. Brewster was wiping blood from the blade of his short sword with a calm professionalism that belied his years, absent-mindedly chewing the same piece of reed that had been in his mouth before the skirmish. Martin suddenly realised that his own cheeks were wet with tears.
‘Are we soldiers now?’ asked Conyers, once again imitating Tate’s naïvely eager tones. Some of the other raw recruits laughed hysterically in a massive release of tension.
Martin felt completely drained, both physically and emotionally. He stared numbly at the rondel in his blood-drenched hands, and then at the corpse of the Frenchman he had killed. He had half-expected the bogeyman of his childhood to have horns, a forked tail, and cloven goat’s hooves for feet; but this was just a man, a man not unlike himself, except that the Frenchman was dead while Martin lived. He wondered what manner of man he had been before he had been called upon to die defending his native soil at such short notice. A peasant farmer like himself, no doubt, by the look of him. Martin wondered if the Frenchman had a woman like Beatrice waiting for him somewhere. A wife, maybe, perhaps even children. Well, that was their tough luck, he told himself, hardening his heart. This was one Frenchman who would not be returning home.
‘Martin? Are you all right?’ asked Rudcock.
Martin looked up sharply. ‘Hmm?’
‘I said, are you all right?’
Martin wiped blood from his cheek with the back of his sleeve. ‘I’m fine,’ he said, and meant it.
Villiers swaggered back from the dunes, wiping the bloodied blade of his broadsword on a rag. He was his usual, grinning self. ‘Did you see, Sir Thomas?’ he asked Holland. ‘I slew three of the scum, falling upon them as they sought to flee through the dunes.’
‘Aye, and near got yourself killed, you damned young fool!’ replied Holland, scowling. He gestured at the corpses strewn across the beach. ‘Where is their honour now? They’ve earned their glory, but at what price? The only glory in war is won by the victors, the men who live to bask in it.’
Villiers’ face fell as the truth of Holland’s cynical words struck home. He suddenly felt strangely ashamed.
‘All right, lads, just because you can fight off a peasant rabble you outnumber fifty to one, don’t let it go to your heads,’ Preston told his men. ‘This is no time to start resting on your laurels; this is just the beginning. Retrieve as many arrows as you can and form up around the banner.’
Martin replenished the contents of his leather retainer and washed his hands and face in the surf. The salt water stung the scratch on his cheek, but he had received worse wounds playing with wooden swords as a child. He rinsed the blood off his rondel and wiped it on the hem of his tunic before returning it to its sheath.
By the time the platoon was gathered around Holland’s banner, the troop of knights was riding back on to the beach, the knights’ lances blooded and their faces aglow with victory. The Earl of Warwick rode up, the sopping hem of his cloak and the wet sand clinging to his boots attesting to the fact that he had only just led his horse ashore. He exchanged a few words with Holland, Norwich and Montague before ordering several troops of hobelars and mounted archers to be dispatched to search the countryside for further units of French soldiers. While more troops continued to come ashore, Holland’s serjeants formed his company into marching order, and they headed north along the beach with the company under Montague’s command.
There was a moderate-sized port about a mile to the north of the beach, a town slightly smaller than Portsmouth. Martin gazed about at the buildings, taking in his first look at a French settlement. It looked little different from any of the handful of English towns he had seen. Doubtless the written signs over some of the shop fronts were in French rather than English, but that made little difference to Martin, who could not read in any language. The sight of a well-kept church surprised him: he had not expected men repeatedly described as devils to attend God’s services. Like the French countryside, it all seemed so disappointingly ordinary.
There was something not quite right about the town, though, and it took him several seconds to realise what it was. ‘Where are all the people?’ he asked. The place seemed completely deserted. It was unnatural, unnerving. He had always associated towns with bustling crowds. He half expected the townsfolk to be waiting for them in ambush somewhere, and found himself nervously eyeing windows, doors and side streets.
‘They probably fled the moment they saw our fleet out in the bay,’ sneered Preston. ‘Can you blame them? I’ll wager the mightiest army in England’s history was the last thing they expected to find on their doorstep when they awoke this morning.’
They made a cursory search of the streets, alleyways, and some of the larger buildings, but all they found were a few women, children and old men. D’Harcourt questioned a few of them, but it was obvious that most of the townsfolk had indeed fled. Martin had heard how badly the French treated non-combatants when raiding foreign territory, and guessed that they must have assumed they could expect no better treatment in return.
The two companies assembled on the waterfront, and Norwich signalled to the three English ships anchored in the middle of the harbour. Many more of the fleet’s vessels rode at anchor beyond the harbour mouth.
Villiers rode his horse at a walk down to where Preston stood with his men. ‘My lord of Warwick would like you and your men to form the guard of honour, Wat.’
‘This wet-nosed rabble?’ Preston scowled at his men. ‘Just because they happened to be present when a handful of French peasants decided to commit suicide on our sword-points?’
Villiers smiled. ‘Your men were the first to sight the enemy and engage them,’ he pointed out.
‘They just happened to be at the right place at the right time,’ sneered Preston. ‘A blind simpleton could have smelt that rabble approaching long before any of my lads chanced to spot them. However, far be it from me to deny the wishes of his lordship the earl,’ he added, with an extravagant sigh.
Preston’s men trooped on to the stone pier, preceded by Warwick, Montague, Holland and Norwich. The four noblemen dismounted. As the Philip of Dartmouth glided in alongside the pier, Preston had his men line up opposite. ‘Come on, you worthless scum, at least try and look like God-damned soldiers,’ he groaned.
Four mariners jumped down from the ship on to the pier and made the mooring ropes fast to the iron rings set into the stonework. The gangplank was lowered, and a man in his early thirties began to descend. He was a tall and well-made man, dressed in a jupon embroidered with three golden lions on a crimson background quartered with a pattern of fleurs-de-lys on an azure field, over which he wore a scarlet mantle trimmed with ermine. His shoulder-length hair was golden-brown, and he wore a short, neatly trimmed, slightly pointed beard, his cheeks shaven. His eyes were a piercing blue, set in a handsome face made up of regular and even features. It was a face that was proud without being haughty, with sternness written in the firm jaw-line, eyes that sparkled with intelligence, and lips that would be equally swift to curse or smile. He seemed to dominate the whole cavalcade by the very power of his presence, and it was obvious even to the watching archers that this could be none other than their king. They cheered, and he accepted their cheers with a smile and a gracious wave. The noblemen on the pier went down on one knee, as did Preston, signalling for his men to do likewise.
Striding regally down the gangplank, his Majesty tripped over as he stepped on to the pier and landed flat on his face. Martin could not be sure, but he thought he heard the king swear under his breath.
There was a stunned, horrified silence. After a few heartbeats that seemed to stretch out like aeons, the king placed his palms flat against the stones and began to lever himself upright. The movement stung Warwick and Montague into action, the two noblemen hurriedly stepping forward and helping the king to his feet.
‘Is your Majesty all right?’ Montague asked solicitously.
‘I’m fine,’ the king snapped irritably. ‘Unhand me, you idiots. Contrary to appearances, I am perfectly capable of standing on my own two feet unsupported; let me assure you that I am not in the habit of tripping over twice in one day.’ He spoke with difficulty, clasping one hand to his nostrils in an attempt to stanch the flow of blood that gushed on to his white chemise.
Warwick smiled, pleased to see that the king was quite himself, but the expression on Montague’s face remained one of acute concern. He gestured helplessly. ‘An ill omen, sire. Please, I beg you – land not this day, but return on board your ship. Start out afresh on the morrow, and we shall all pray that the lord God may smile more kindly on this venture then.’
‘Spend another day cooped up on that Goddamned…’ spluttered the king, and then broke off, smiling. ‘An ill omen?’ He laughed heartily. ‘No, by my faith! To me it is a good omen – it proves that this land is longing to embrace me!’
The other nobles present laughed with relief. The king glanced at his bloody hand. The flow of blood from his nostrils had not abated. ‘For God’s sweet love! Will no one give me a rag with which to stifle this gore?’
The nobles were at a loss; except, that is, for Holland, who snapped his fingers at Martin.
‘S… Sir Thomas?’ whispered Martin, bewildered.
‘Your coverchief, boy!’ hissed the knight.
Realisation dawned. Martin stepped forward, struggling to unwind the coverchief from about his neck and bowing clumsily before presenting it to his Majesty. He felt awkward and uncomfortable at suddenly finding himself the focus of such high-ranking attention. A young nobleman the same age as Martin was coming down the gangplank, and he stared penetratingly at the young archer. He bore an uncanny resemblance to the king, and Martin realised that this must be the king’s eldest son, Edward of Woodstock, Prince of Wales, Duke of Cornwall and Earl of Chester.
The coverchief was grimy from constant wear, and now it was spotted with a dead Frenchman’s blood. Martin felt ashamed to present such a dirty piece of cloth to the king. His Majesty took the coverchief from him, regarding it dubiously before turning his gaze on Martin, who quailed before him. ‘Much obliged to you, boy,’ he said rather gruffly, folding the coverchief into a wad which he pressed to his nose. Then he turned back to the ship. ‘Well? Don’t just stand there, you God-damned idle lay-abouts! Bring my horses!’
Martin bowed again, as clumsily as the first time, but the king no longer paid him any heed. He stepped back into line, glad of the opportunity to sink back into the obscurity of the ranks. He suddenly felt naked without his coverchief. He wondered if he would ever see it again, and consoled himself with the thought that at least he had lost it for a noble purpose. He smiled inwardly, thinking that if Beatrice asked him how he had come to lose it, she would never believe what he told her.
The rest of the king’s nobles had disembarked from their various ships within the hour, and they made their way with his Majesty to a tall dune just outside the town, overlooking the north end of the beach, where the king knighted his son, along with Montague, Sir Thomas’s younger brother Otho, who was serving in another company, and several other young noblemen. The supply ships were sailing into the harbour now, beginning the mammoth task of unloading all the arms, armour, equipment and victuals, a task that would take the best part of a week.
Large bodies of troops were beginning to move off the beach and into the surrounding countryside. Preston and his men rested at the foot of a dune, watching from a distance as the king performed the dubbing ritual. Once knighted, the Prince of Wales began to dub some of his own retainers.
‘How come that lot get to bask in all the glory when we were the ones who did all the fighting?’ grumbled Newbolt. ‘Most of them weren’t even there.’
‘I’m sure his Majesty will give you a knighthood too, if you ask him nicely,’ Preston sneered sarcastically. ‘How can he refuse, after that outstanding display of swordsmanship you gave us down on the beach?’ Newbolt had dropped his sword at a critical moment, and would have been killed had not Caynard stepped in to help him.
‘At least ways I didn’t piss myself, not like some others I could mention not a thousand leagues from here,’ said Newbolt, glaring at Inglewood, who flushed hotly.
‘I see that coverchief of yours finally came into its own, then,’ Rudcock remarked to Martin, who grinned inanely.
‘Aye,’ agreed Conyers. ‘The laugh’ll be on him if he catches a fever now, and it kills him.’
‘I’m starving,’ Newbolt announced to no one in particular.
‘We’re all hungry,’ Gilbert Murray snapped pettishly. ‘Why don’t you shut your face?’
‘Actually, for once I’m inclined to agree with Newbolt,’ admitted Preston, licking his lips. ‘I’m quite hungry myself. Rudcock, take Conyers, Lancelot and Perkin Pisspants here into town and see what you can forage.’
‘Aye, serjeant,’ Rudcock said eagerly, as he and Conyers picked themselves up and led the way into town.
Martin and Inglewood followed rather more reluctantly.
‘So what happened?’ Inglewood asked Conyers.
‘What?’
‘In the story,’ said Inglewood. ‘The one about the reeve and the franklin’s daughter.’
‘Let’s try this ’un,’ suggested Rudcock, indicating a large, two-storey house at the edge of the town.
‘Where did I get up to?’ asked Conyers.
‘The franklin’s daughter was telling the reeve about the other bull, the one that wasn’t a pedigree,’ said Inglewood.
Rudcock tried the latch on the front door. It opened to his touch.
‘Should we be doing this?’ Inglewood asked nervously.
Rudcock shrugged. ‘There’s no one here to stop us,’ he said, leading the way inside.
‘Do you want to hear this story, or not?’ demanded Conyers.
‘I’m listening,’ Inglewood protested petulantly.
‘We’ll probably find the larder at the back,’ said Rudcock.
‘Lead the way,’ Martin told him.
‘Right, so the little girls says: “If you want summat cheaper, we’ve got another bull, only it’s not a pedigree”,’ continued Conyers, following Rudcock and Martin through the gloomy front room. ‘So the reeve says: “I’m not interested in any bulls, little girl. I want to see your father. Your brother Jankin has dishonoured my daughter…”’
‘Big house,’ observed Martin.
‘Big enough,’ Rudcock agreed absently, trying a door at the other end of the room. It opened into a flagstone-floored kitchen. ‘Here we are. What did I tell you?’
‘So the little girl says: “In that case you’ll have to talk to my father,”’ Conyers chuckled. ‘“I don’t know what he charges for our Jankin.”’
Rudcock found the larder and peered inside. ‘The promised land,’ he observed with satisfaction.
‘And?’ said Inglewood.
‘And what?’ asked Conyers.
‘What happened next?’
‘Nowt happened next. That’s it. That’s the story.’
Rudcock took a side of bacon down from a butcher’s hook and handed it to Martin, before reaching for a couple of plucked capons. ‘John, see if you can find a blanket or summat we can carry this lot in.’
‘I don’t get it,’ said Inglewood.
‘The little girl thinks… her brother Jankin…’ Conyers threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘You get it, don’t you, Lancelot?’
‘Aye and like,’ replied Martin, clutching the cheeses that Rudcock piled in his arms.
‘You didn’t laugh,’ Inglewood said accusingly.
‘It weren’t very funny,’ Martin said reasonably, carrying the cheeses across to the wooden kitchen table and pilling them up next to the capons and the side of bacon.
Conyers took the stopper from a small wooden cask and sniffed the contents. ‘Ah-ha!’ he said reverently. ‘Liquid gold.’
‘What is it?’ Suddenly Rudcock and Martin were crowding round him.
‘Calvados.’ Conyers hefted the cask in his arms and managed to tip some of it down his throat.
‘Hey!’ protested Rudcock. ‘Leave summat for the rest of us.’
‘Are you sure we should be helping ourselves to all this?’ asked Inglewood.
‘If the owners wanted it, they shouldn’t have left it here,’ Rudcock pointed out evenly. ‘They knew we were coming.’
‘That’s why they left,’ chuckled Conyers.
‘Besides, half of this lot will probably go rotten before the owners get back,’ continued Rudcock. ‘We’re doing them a favour, if you think about it. Would you want to come back to a home that stank of rotting meat?’
‘Shh!’ Martin hissed suddenly. The others froze instinctively.
‘What is it?’ whispered Rudcock.
‘There’s someone upstairs. I can hear them moving about.’
The four of them remained motionless for a few heartbeats, listening to the silence. If there was anyone upstairs, they were keeping very quiet about it. Conyers relaxed visibly, and was about to say something disparaging about Martin’s ears when a floorboard directly overhead creaked ponderously.
They exchanged worried glances. Stealing food from an abandoned house was fair game, but stealing it from a house still in occupation was another matter entirely. Rudcock raised a finger to his lips and slowly eased his short sword out of its scabbard, motioning for the others to follow him. Martin, Conyers and Inglewood likewise drew their swords as they followed Rudcock back into the the front room and up the wooden stairs that creaked alarmingly under their weight.
There were three doors at the top of the stairs, but only one of them could lead to a room above the kitchen. Rudcock turned to Inglewood, and indicated the other two doors. ‘Watch our backs,’ he whispered.
White-faced, Inglewood nodded, gripping his sword tightly.
Rudcock tip-toed across to the first door and laid his left hand on the latch, glancing over his shoulder to make sure that Conyers and Martin were ready. Martin felt that he was as ready as he would ever be; but it was Conyers who nodded, his features uncharacteristically taut. Rudcock threw the door open, jumping aside in case there were a couple of archers waiting on the other side with arrows nocked to their bows.
There were a couple of archers waiting on the other side, arrows nocked against taut bowstrings, but they did not shoot. They were dressed in tunics and coarse woollen cloaks, their faces clean-shaven and their dark hair cut in pudding-bowl fringes. Rudcock froze, his arms spread in what he hoped was an unaggressive stance.
‘Who are you?’ he asked, after a couple of moments that seemed to last for ever.
‘We might well be asking you the same question,’ replied one of the archers. He spoke English, but with a strange, rather sing-song accent that sounded alien to Martin’s ears.
Rudcock noticed that both the archers wore only one shoe each, and relaxed. He had already recognised the accent. ‘Archers,’ he told them, lowering his sword. ‘Sir Thomas Holland’s company. You’re Welsh, right?’
The two archers nodded, lowering their bows and tucking their arrows back under their belts. ‘You want to be careful who you go creeping up on, boys. You might have got yourselves killed.’
‘So might you,’ countered Rudcock. It was sheer bravado: it did not fool Martin, who doubted that it fooled the Welshmen, either. ‘What are you doing here?’ he continued.
One of the Welshmen glanced down guiltily at the open jewel casket that lay on the bed between them. The scene told its own tale. ‘Looking for Frenchmen,’ he said.
‘You won’t find any in there,’ said Martin, indicating the jewel casket with the point of his sword.
‘Get back to your unit,’ ordered Rudcock, with more conviction than he felt.
The Welshmen hesitated, but the long knives they wore tucked into the back of their belts would be no match for the four short swords the Englishmen held. Scowling, they shouldered their way brusquely past Rudcock and Martin, and clumped down the stairs. Conyers watched them until they had passed out of the front door.
‘Have they gone?’ asked Rudcock, sheathing his sword.
‘Aye,’ reported Conyers.
‘Thieving Welsh whoresons.’ Rudcock stepped into the bedroom and tipped the contents of the casket out on to the bed. The contents consisted mostly of cheap trinkets – low-grade metals and poor craftsmanship – but still worth more than a peasant could hope to earn in a year. Rudcock started to pick out items more or less at random, looping a medallion around his neck before tossing a bracelet to Martin.
‘What am I supposed to do with this?’ demanded Martin.
Rudcock shrugged. ‘Keep it. Sell it. Give it to your lass,’ he suggested irritably. ‘I don’t know.’
Inglewood clutched instinctively at the brooch that Rudcock threw him. ‘But this is stealing!’
‘Spoils of war,’ Rudcock told him. ‘If the owners wanted to keep it, they shouldn’t have left it behind. Same as with the food.’
‘But the serjeant didn’t tell us we could take all this stuff!’
‘Aye and like,’ agreed Conyers. ‘On the other hand, he’d reckon we were crazy if he found out we’d left it behind. Besides, if we don’t take it, others will come along and help themselves.’
Rudcock finished dividing up the booty, and tugged the coverlet from the bed. ‘Come on. We’ve wasted enough time as it is.’
They went back downstairs, where he wrapped up the food in the coverlet, carrying it slung over one shoulder, and they returned to where the others waited. Rudcock lowered the coverlet to the ground and opened it up to reveal the bounties within.
‘You took your time, didn’t you?’ grumbled Preston.
‘Are you joking?’ retorted Conyers, and indicated the two plucked capons. ‘Those were running around someone’s back yard when we found them.’
Some of the others had already got a fire going, and they roasted the meat over it. Presently, Sir Thomas Holland returned with Villiers and Brother Ambrose.
‘Something smells good, Wat,’ said Holland.
‘Me and the lads got a little peckish, Sir Thomas,’ explained Preston, breaking off a leg of capon and passing it up to Holland. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Not in the least.’ Holland bit into the meat, tearing off the roasted flesh with his teeth. ‘Good,’ he said, talking around his mouthful of food. ‘Very good.’ He turned to his squire. ‘My lord of Warwick wants us to seek out some suitable lodgings for the next few days. I want you to take Preston and his men and seek out some likely manor house. There should be a small village about two miles in that direction,’ he added, gesturing with the remains of the leg of capon. ‘See what you can find. I have to speak further with his Majesty and my lord of Warwick, but when they no longer require me I’ll round up the rest of the company and come and join you. Send back one of the men to guide us. Where’s Kemp?’
Martin pushed himself to his feet. ‘Here, Sir Thomas.’
‘You can handle horses. Can you ride them?’
‘After a fashion, sir.’
Holland chuckled. ‘Good. There’s your man then, Adam.’
Brother Ambrose remained with Holland, while Villiers led Preston and his men inland, marching down a narrow, dusty lane with tangled thicket hedges growing on either side. They passed across a meadow between two areas of woodland, finally spotting a small manor house not unlike Beaumont’s house at Stone Gate.
The master of the house was gone, but the menial staff remained, wisely making no attempt to prevent the entry of Preston’s men into the courtyard.
Villiers questioned the steward in Anglo-Norman as he selected quarters for Warwick and the other knights in his retinue. Who was the lord of the manor? The Seigneur de Quettehou. Where was he? Out. When would he be back? The steward did not know. What about the rest of the seigneur’s family? The seigneur only had one younger brother, fighting the English in Gascony. Villiers asked politely if there would be any problems if the Earl of Warwick and his retinue were to spend the next few nights at the manor house. The steward despondently asked if there was any alternative. Villiers smiled: the two of them understood one another well enough.
‘He’s a shifty-looking whoreson,’ observed Daw Oakley, as the steward emerged from the house with Villiers. ‘Can’t say as how I like the looks of him.’
‘He’s a Frenchman,’ said Freeman. ‘What do you expect?’
‘Can we trust him?’ asked Inglewood. ‘Supposing he tries to… you know, kill us… during the night?’
‘If he does try anything, we’ll slit his gizzard for him,’ said Preston, and grinned. ‘And he knows it. If he’s a good little boy, maybe we’ll leave this place without razing his master’s house to the ground.’
Villiers approached. ‘Kemp?’
Martin stepped forward. ‘Master Adam?’
‘This place will do for a few nights,’ Villiers told him. ‘Take a horse from the stables and ride back to Saint-Vaast-la-Hougue, where we left Sir Thomas. Give him my compliments, and when his business with his Majesty is complete, lead him back here. Think you can manage that?’
‘Aye, Master Adam.’
Martin found a fleabitten grey cob in the stables and saddled it before leading it out into the courtyard, swinging himself up into the saddle.
‘Well, axe my arse!’ sneered Caynard. ‘Looks like Lancelot’s finally found himself a destrier. Where’s your lance, Lancelot?’
Martin ignored him, digging his heels into the horse’s flanks. ‘Come on, gee-up!’ But the animal refused to budge.
It was Rudcock who realised what was wrong. ‘It’s a French horse,’ he explained to Martin. ‘It doesn’t understand English commands.’
‘Great,’ Martin said wryly. ‘What’s the French for “gee- up”?’
‘Try “allez”’ suggested Rudcock.
‘Allez!’commanded Martin, and immediately the horse set off at a trot. Guiding it with his knees, Martin rode out through the gateway.
Conyers watched him depart, before turning to Rudcock. ‘Very impressive,’ he said. ‘But don’t you think you should have taught him the French for “whoa!” while you were about it?’
Rudcock grinned. ‘He’s a bright lad – let him work it out for himself.’
Martin left the manor house behind him and rode across the open country towards the road leading back to the harbour. It was a sunny day, and he was able to relax and enjoy the ride. It was a long time since he had sat astride a horse, but it soon came back to him. He rode at a Canterbury-trot, the swift but comfortable pace at which pilgrims on their way to the shrine there liked to ride. He thought about the fight on the beach and his encounter with the king, and wondered which had been the most frightening.
The road came into sight. He could see two men riding along it, their brightly coloured robes and fine horses marking them out as noblemen. If Martin continued on his present course – and he had no intention of doing otherwise – he would meet them where he rejoined the road. Holding the cob’s reins in his left hand, he reached instinctively for the hilt of his sword, but as he drew nearer he recognised the banner that one of them carried as that of the Earl of Warwick, the man who had saved him from the gallows in Leicester. He relaxed, and it was at that moment that a dozen riders burst out of the woods on the far side of the road. They galloped towards the two noblemen, brandishing their weapons, their warlike cries carried to Martin on the wind.
Intent on the two English noblemen they now surrounded, the twelve riders had not seen Martin, and his first instinct was to wheel his horse about and ride for safety. But he had not come to France just to flee at the sight of the enemy. After only a moment’s hesitation he dug his heels into the cob’s flanks, urging it forward at a gallop. The cob leapt the hedge at the side of the road with ease, Martin gripping on to the reins for dear life. As the horse came down on the dusty track, he drew his short sword, goading the cob into the fight.
The scene was a confused mêlée of clashing swords, men shouting, and horses rearing wildly. The two Englishmen were putting up a spirited defence, giving a good account of themselves as they hacked at the Frenchmen who surrounded them. The Frenchmen were more timid, seeking to capture rather than kill this richly dressed English nobleman and his squire, and it counted against them: the Englishmen were not taking prisoners.
No one noticed Martin until he had attacked the French from behind, breaking the loose circle of horsemen as he rode through their ranks, slashing clumsily and ineffectually at one man-at-arms with his sword as he rode past. Another man-at-arms closed with him. Martin struggled to defend himself, barely managing to parry the forceful blows of his opponent. He tried to recall all that Preston had taught him about swordplay, but that had been as a foot-soldier. He had not been trained to fight on horseback, and his attention was fully occupied with trying to stay in the saddle without getting his head cut off.
The cob had not been trained for war, and it reared up on its hind legs, throwing Martin to the ground. He landed painfully on the stony track, his sword flying from his hand. Before he could move, another horseman tried to ride him down, wielding his broadsword above his head to bring it cleaving down against Martin’s skull.