‘How dare these people defy us?’ demanded Philippa of Hainault, queen of England. Her face was flushed with anger. ‘First they insult me by refusing my men entrance to the city, now they tell me I am not allowed to see the Count of Flanders. Not allowed! Who do these merchants think they are, telling me what I can and cannot do? By God, I’m minded to teach them a lesson!’
‘That would be inadvisable, your Grace,’ said Simon Merrivale. He stood before the queen, his herald’s tabard brilliant yellow embroidered with three snarling red leopards. ‘We need the support of the Flemish cities, and they know it. We shall have to bargain with them.’
‘Bargain!’ snapped the queen. Her hand tugged at the sleeve of her red velvet robe. ‘Are you suggesting I play huckster with weavers and dyers? Blood of God, do these merchants not realise their position? With a stroke of a pen, we could cut off their trade and bankrupt their cities. That would wipe the smiles off their faces,’ she added.
Standing beside Merrivale, Brother Geoffrey of Maldon cleared his throat. He was a lean, weather-beaten man in the black robes of an Augustinian canon. ‘The herald is right, your Grace. The Flemings may be hucksters, but they have twenty thousand men at their backs, and they also control our supply lines. We need their ports to supply our army at Calais.’
Someone knocked at the door of the parlour. ‘Tell them to go away,’ the queen snapped. ‘Bedingfield, see to it.’
Her lady-in-waiting, Alice Bedingfield, opened the door and spoke briefly to someone outside. ‘The musicians are ready, your Grace,’ she said, closing the door again. ‘Our hosts are waiting for us.’
‘They can wait a little longer.’ The queen stared at Merrivale and Brother Geoffrey. ‘Very well. What do you advise?’
‘Patience, your Grace,’ said Brother Geoffrey. ‘I believe that when they refused your escort entrance to the city, they were actually thinking of your safety. Nothing is more likely to inflame the mob than the sight of foreign troops in the streets, even allied ones.’
Earlier today there had been a stand-off when the boats carrying the royal party arrived at the city gates. Her Grace and her attendants were of course welcome, said the captain of the watch, but her bodyguard was not. No foreigner was allowed to bear arms within the city walls. Eventually a compromise was reached; a dozen men could enter, two men-at-arms, six serjeants and four archers. The rest were forced to remain outside the walls, where they were presumably getting drenched in the pouring rain. It was a prudent measure, Merrivale thought, given the febrile atmosphere in the city, but one could see why the queen was offended.
‘We can understand their position on the marriage too,’ he said. ‘They have fought hard to throw off the French yoke. In their eyes, they would be exchanging French tyranny for rule by England.’
‘Body of Christ,’ said the queen in exasperation. ‘Who said anything about ruling them? All we are proposing is a marriage between the Count of Flanders and our own daughter. It will end the civil war in Flanders, guarantee an English alliance and allow the cities to prosper. We have neither the will nor the means to rule Flanders. Don’t these jokels realise that?’
‘They are suspicious, your Grace. We need to offer some guarantees that will protect their independence. And, as Brother Geoffrey said, we need to be patient. These things take time.’
‘Do not lecture me on diplomacy, Merrivale. I was negotiating alliances and betrothals when you were still riding as a King’s Messenger.’
‘… Yes, your Grace.’
‘And don’t be so damned impertinent. I heard you sigh just now.’
‘Yes, your Grace.’
The queen calmed a little. She looked into a silver mirror on the wall and adjusted the gold cap on her head. Her jewelled rings flashed rainbow fire in the lamplight. ‘You gentlemen seem to think you know everything,’ she said. ‘Very well. You shall undertake the negotiations. Persuade the burgemeester to allow me to see the Count of Flanders, and consent to his marriage with my daughter. Make it so.’
Both men bowed. ‘We will do our best, your Grace,’ said Brother Geoffrey. ‘If I may venture to say so, it would be discourteous to keep our hosts waiting much longer.’
It was the queen’s turn to sigh. ‘Yes, I suppose we must listen to these wretched musicians,’ she said. ‘Do you have a pin, Bedingfield? Good. Stab me if I start to fall asleep.’
The house of Gillis van Coudebrouc, burgemeester of Bruges, faced onto the canal known as the Groenerei. It was one of the richest houses Merrivale had seen, and his experience included the palazzos of Italy and Moorish alcázars in Spain. The great hall had a floor of black and white tiles polished to mirror smoothness, and gilded roofbeams that glowed in the light of candles and lamps. Every square inch of wall had been painted with pastoral scenes or geometric designs in dazzling reds and blues and yellows. A panel at one end of the room showed a scene purporting to be from the city’s early history, a hunting party driving off a marauding white bear.
More than a hundred richly dressed people were crammed into the hall; guild representatives and their wives, envoys from the cities of Ghent and Ypres which, along with Bruges, made up the League of Three. Earlier they had dined lavishly. The queen had sat at the high table and listened while polite, smiling representatives of the League told her that under no circumstances would they consent to a marriage between her daughter and the Count of Flanders; nor would they allow her access to the count, a prisoner in their hands since his father was killed at Crécy.
Now the boards had been cleared and people wandered around the hall with goblets of wine in their hands, stretching their legs and chatting. They bowed when the queen swept back into the room, followed by her ladies, the herald, Brother Geoffrey and Paon de Roet, the captain of her pared-down bodyguard. Coudebrouc, their host, smiled his most emollient smile. He knew perfectly well that the queen was angry, and why. ‘Does your Grace wish to be seated?’
Her Grace did. A gilded chair was brought, with a purple cushion to support the royal back. ‘The musicians who will play tonight are among the best in Flanders,’ said the burgemeester. ‘And if I may be so bold, your Grace, that means they are among the best in Christendom.’
‘I have no doubt of it, meneer,’ the queen said smoothly. ‘The minstrel school of Bruges is famous even in England. I look forward to a splendid entertainment.’
She took her seat, smoothing her skirts. Roet and her ladies stood behind her; the rest of her guards were outside the hall. Merrivale glanced at Bedingfield, who held up a small jewelled pin and winked at him. The three musicians entered, bowing and introducing themselves to the company; Garnier the singer, Tomaset who played the viol and Marcelis who alternated between psaltery and lute. They struck up a tune, a rondeau that Merrivale recognised at once.
Whiter than the lily, more red than vermilion,
Resplendent as a ruby from the Orient,
Nothing touches your unparalleled beauty.
Whiter than the lily, more red than vermilion,
The delight of my waking heart,
My desire is to serve you loyally
Whiter than the lily, more red than vermilion,
Resplendent as a ruby from the Orient.
A young woman in a green gown with shoulder-length red hair stood to one side of the hall, talking to a white-bearded man robed in rich black and leaning on an ebony stick. Quietly, Merrivale made his way through the crowd towards them. ‘Sir herald,’ the young woman said brightly. ‘May I present Heer Oppicius Adornes, master of the bankers’ guild of Bruges? Meneer, this is Simon Merrivale, herald in her Grace’s household.’
The old man looked at Merrivale’s tabard. His white eyebrows bristled a little. ‘Welcome to Bruges, sir herald. Is this your first time in the city?’
‘I have been here before,’ said Merrivale. ‘Though not as a herald.’
‘But still in royal service, I assume.’
‘Yes. Of a sort.’
Adornes nodded. ‘I hope your stay in Bruges is a pleasant one. Now, if you will forgive me, I must pay my respects to her Grace.’
The old man turned and hobbled away. Others bowed respectfully as he passed. Merrivale looked at the young woman. ‘He is willing to talk,’ she said. ‘Privately, at his house. The utmost discretion is necessary, he said. I have the name and location of the house, but you probably know it already.’
‘As it happens, I don’t.’
Tiphaine de Tesson looked up at him and smiled. ‘You see? I can be useful after all.’
‘I never doubted it.’
‘Oh, yes, you did. You still think I need protecting.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Merrivale. ‘After Scotland, I think the rest of the world needs protecting from you.’
Harder than diamonds
Harder than adamant
Is the hardness you show to me.
Lady, why have you no mercy for your lover
Whom you kill for desiring your love?
‘Do I kill you for desiring my love?’ asked Tiphaine, her voice full of irony.
‘Not so far,’ said Merrivale, scanning the crowded room.
‘No? I saw Bedingfield wink at you.’
‘It was a private joke.’
‘Or perhaps a joke about privates? Don’t scowl at me. I am no longer in a convent, I am allowed to be vulgar.’
‘What do convents have to do with it? Many of the filthy stories I know were told to me by nuns. Have you noticed anything about the music? The repertory is interesting, don’t you think?’
‘No. After the convent, I spent two years in prison, remember. I saw only one minstrel during that time, and he was executed the next morning.’
‘Every song they have sung so far is by the same composer. Guillaume de Machaut, the Frenchman.’
‘Ah!’ She paused, thinking. ‘Someone has instructed the musicians. On the surface, they sing paeans to the beauty and power of the queen, but the music is French. The message is, the Flemings can abandon the object of their desire and go back to their French allegiance, if they choose.’
‘So, treat us with courtesy and respect, or face the consequences,’ Merrivale said. ‘Do not kill us for desiring your love. The lute player is very good, isn’t he? I feel I have heard him before.’
Marcelis sat on a low stool, head bent over the lute, hair falling forward over his face. Then he raised his head a little, and Tiphaine stiffened. ‘Newcastle,’ she said quietly.
‘What?’
‘Don’t look at him, don’t let him know he has been spotted. It is the man who played at Blyth’s house. Remember?’
Merrivale let out his breath. ‘I should have spotted him sooner.’
A few weeks earlier they had sat in the house of William Blyth, merchant and banker of Newcastle-upon-Tyne, and listened to a Flemish lutenist. Now Blyth was in hiding with charges of high treason hanging over his head. ‘What is he doing here?’ Tiphaine asked.
‘Playing for hire, perhaps. Musicians are mercenaries, they go wherever someone will pay them.’
‘Do you really believe that? We think Blyth escaped to Flanders. The queen is here, and so is Blyth’s musician. I don’t like the coincidence, Simon.’
‘Neither do I,’ Merrivale said. ‘Wait here.’
Coudebrouc was standing beside the queen, still smiling as he watched the musicians. The negotiations during dinner might have been uncomfortable, but the entertainment was superb. Even her Grace appeared pleased.
He turned his head as Merrivale approached. ‘A word, if you please, meneer,’ the herald murmured.
The burgemeester frowned but he led the way into the parlour. Merrivale caught the eye of Paon de Roet and motioned with his head, and the captain followed them. ‘What is it?’ asked Coudebrouc, closing the door.
‘In England, I received word of a plot to assassinate King Edward,’ the herald said. ‘But the king is in the midst of his army, and well-guarded. I think it entirely possible that the plot is instead against the queen, and that the enemy is planning to attack this house, tonight.’
He watched the burgemeester turn pale. ‘How do you know this?’
‘I do not know, not for certain. But we will take no chances with her Grace’s safety.’ He did not mention Marcelis; it was highly likely that Coudebrouc had hired the musicians, or a member of his household had. Anyone could be involved, including Coudebrouc himself.
‘The house is well guarded,’ said the burgemeester. ‘The queen will be safe here.’
‘She will not. You have only a handful of badly armed men, and your own servants. The enemy will have laid his plans carefully, and know exactly where and when to strike at her Grace. We are taking her away, now.’
‘Of course.’ Coudebrouc had begun to sweat. ‘I will give orders to ready the boats.’
He raised his head. In the hall the music had ended abruptly. Voices murmured, some surprised, some outraged. ‘That’s it,’ the herald said. ‘They’re coming. Sir Paon, alert your men and get the queen ready to move. Now.’
The musicians had halted their performance without warning and run from the painted hall. The guests stood staring in astonishment; no one could ever remember such a thing happening before. Not only was it discourteous to the queen and burgemeester, but they had not even waited to receive their pay. Everyone watched Roet bend and whisper in the queen’s ear. She nodded and departed without a backward glance, followed by her surprised attendants. A whisper of alarm ran around the hall. Merrivale saw Adornes, standing at the foot of the hall and leaning on his stick.
The rest of the escort waited in the courtyard where flambeaux hissed and spluttered in the rain. ‘Shall we get her Grace to the boats?’ Roet asked.
‘No. We’ll use the boats as a deception. Send them out empty to draw the enemy away. We are going through the streets.’
‘We will need lights.’
‘Darkness is our friend,’ Merrivale said curtly. ‘I know the way. So does Brother Geoffrey.’
The narrow streets were indeed very dark, their gutters bubbling with water. ‘I hope you know what you are doing, Merrivale,’ the queen murmured. Her voice was quite calm.
‘You may trust the herald, your Grace,’ Tiphaine said quietly.
A distant sound in the night, a faint rasp of metal, then another; the clash of steel sword blades. The fighting died away as soon as it had started. ‘They are here,’ Merrivale said softly. ‘Stay close together, everyone, and protect her Grace. Geoffrey, I need you with me.’
Bruges was a warren of narrow twisting streets, high walls and gateways, sudden arched bridges over canals, drains and gutters gurgling invisible in the shadows. Lamps outside the larger houses gave them occasional views down the street, but for the most part Merrivale and Brother Geoffrey felt their way in the dark, stopping occasionally to confer in whispers. That earlier clash of arms might have been an attack on the boats; if so, there was no telling how it had ended, or whether the deception had worked.
‘Where do you think they will come?’ Geoffrey murmured. ‘In the streets, or outside the walls?’
‘It could be either.’ There were nineteen in the party; Roet and the escort, the queen and three of her ladies, Tiphaine, Brother Geoffrey and Merrivale. If they could win through to the gates, they would be safe; the rest of the escort would still be waiting outside. But it was a long way to the gates.
They reached the Hoogstraat, a long street running down to a bridge over the Sint-Anna canal. They passed a tavern shuttered against the rain; inside, someone was playing a symphonia, badly. Dogs barked in a nearby courtyard, throwing themselves at the gate as they passed. Merrivale strained his ears, listening for any sound in the shadows that might betray movement, but all he could hear was the falling rain. He murmured in Geoffrey’s ear. ‘How much further to the bridge?’
‘We’ve just passed Meestraat. Up ahead the street turns to the right. The bridge is just beyond that.’
The bridge came into view moments later, a heavy stone span over the dark water. Another long street led away to the north-east, towards the Kruispoort and safety. They started across the bridge. Suddenly, Merrivale became aware of something bumping against the stone pillars of the bridge, and looked down. A long narrow boat drifted on the gentle current, another behind it. The dim reflected lamplight showed him the royal banner draped over the gunwales of the second boat and trailing in the water. It also showed him the bodies of two men lying slumped on the rowing benches.
Brother Geoffrey was beside him. ‘Shot with crossbows,’ he said. ‘I can see the quarrels in the bodies.’
‘Your eyes are better than mine. Where are the rest of the boatmen?’
‘In the canal, probably.’
Merrivale turned. ‘Your Grace, the boats were ambushed. I fear our attackers know we were not on board and are still looking for us. If they come for us, you and your ladies must back against the wall of the nearest house and crouch down. The rest of us will shield you.’
Paon de Roet looked at him. ‘You have no weapon, sir herald, and no armour.’
‘Heralds do not carry weapons,’ Merrivale said. ‘Protect the queen, Sir Paon. Nothing else matters.’
They advanced in a tight body now, the rain soft on their faces. The four archers were out on the flanks with arrows at the nock, the serjeants in a close ring around the queen and her ladies, Roet and the other man-at-arms, Basset, leading the way with Merrivale and Geoffrey behind them. Despite his orders, the three ladies-in-waiting were in front of the queen, shielding her. Bedingfield was her constant companion, Chandos’s brother was in royal service, Monceaux had been wet nurse to one of her sons; they were ready to die for her. Tiphaine moved to join them.
They expected attack; they did not expect it from above. Crossbows clacked from the rooftops, iron quarrels struck sparks off the cobbles. Two of the archers were down before they could raise their bows. The queen’s ladies were already pushing her into the shadows by the nearest wall, the escort following, the remaining archers shooting at shadowy shapes on the rooftops. A body tumbled down over the tiles and fell into the street. More crossbow bolts, and two of the serjeants went down, one shot through the body, the other hit in the leg and struggling to rise again.
The attackers came silently from every side, up the street, over the bridge, jumping down from first-floor windows. They had swords and staffs and they used them with vicious skill. The wounded serjeant dragged himself up to fight and was clubbed down at once. Basset was surrounded by hacking, stabbing men, two more serjeants trying to fight their way through to him. A dark figure came at Merrivale, jumping like a panther, wooden staff swinging towards the herald’s ribs. The heavy tabard absorbed part of the blow and Merrivale seized the staff and ripped it out of the other man’s hands, ramming the butt end into his stomach. The man doubled up and Merrivale hit him hard across the back of the neck, reversed his grip and hit the next man a double-handed blow on the side of the head and sent him reeling away. The rest hesitated, falling back to the far side of the street.
Roet was alongside him, breathing deeply, his sword blade covered in blood. ‘We killed two more of them, but Basset is finished. They’re regrouping.’
‘Yes.’ Merrivale could feel the swelling bruise over his ribs, but nothing seemed to be broken. Brother Geoffrey picked up the knife that Merrivale’s second victim had dropped and stood beside the herald. Basset’s sword was lying on the cobbles; Tiphaine dashed out and seized it, scrambling back as men advanced across the street towards her.
Silence in the street, apart from the rustle of footsteps and soft patter of rain.
They came fast, a dozen or more in a single hard wave. Merrivale hit the first man with his staff, driving him back onto his fellows, who shouldered him out of the way and came on. Brother Geoffrey stabbed someone with his knife, but a clubbing blow to the head sent him sprawling on the cobbles; Roet jumped over his body, lunging with his sword, and another heavy blow from a club hit the blade and broke it, leaving him with a three-inch stump standing out from the guards. Roet hurled the broken weapon into his attacker’s face and drew his dagger. The man, who had a badly scarred cheek, lifted his club again, aiming at Roet’s head. Merrivale hit him a hard, bone-shattering blow on the knee and he screamed and hobbled back, clutching at his leg. More screams behind and he turned to see Bedingfield and Chandos standing in front of the queen, faces full of terror as an attacker raised his sword; and then Tiphaine stabbed the man in the back, twisting her own sword as she drove it in. The man dropped his weapon and collapsed slowly at her feet. She stabbed him again for good measure and turned, raising the dripping weapon.
Over the clatter of metal and hoarse, rasping breath of struggling men came another sound, hard like the rattle of a drum; hoofbeats on cobbles. At once, without any signal or word of command, the attackers fled into the shadows. Down Hoogstraat and over the bridge came a column of mounted men, two of them carrying torches that fluttered and rippled with movement. Falling raindrops glinted like crystals in the sudden flare of light.
The leader reined in, looking at the bodies in the street. ‘What is going on here?’ he demanded sharply. ‘Who are you?’
‘We are the escort of her Grace the queen of England,’ Merrivale said curtly. ‘And who might you be?’
‘The queen! My God!’ The man slid out of the saddle and hurried towards them. ‘I am Jan Metteneye, captain of the night watch. We heard the noise and came to investigate. What is her Grace doing here?’
‘I am attempting to return to my lodgings,’ the queen said, her voice firm. Bedingfield knelt beside her, clinging to her skirts and sobbing with relief; the queen rested a hand on her head, soothing her. ‘I don’t know what sort of watch you set in this city, Captain Metteneye, but five of my men are dead, as are the boatmen who conveyed us into Bruges. I think you have some explaining to do.’
‘My God,’ Metteneye said again, and he knelt on the wet cobbles. ‘I beg your Grace’s humble pardon. I had no idea you were in danger. Why did the burgemeester not send for me? I could have provided you with further escort.’
‘Because there wasn’t time,’ said Tiphaine. Torchlight reflected off the blood on the front of her gown. ‘Her Grace is right. You need to explain why this happened.’
There was a long pause. Torches spluttered in the rain. ‘At the moment, I cannot,’ Metteneye said.
‘Then I suggest you escort us back to our lodgings at Maele without delay,’ the queen said. ‘In the morning, my herald will call on you and the burgemeester and demand a reckoning. That gives you plenty of time to think of an excuse, meneer. I suggest you make it a good one.’