‘Here they come,’ said the king, shading his eyes with his hand. The royal household was up on the heights above Sangatte not far from the ruined windmills, waiting for the embassy from the King of the Romans; Calais and the camp were distant behind them. It was, for once, a bright sunny day, and the wind coming in off the Narrow Sea rippled the standards and banners overhead.
‘A red cross on white, and a red eagle,’ said the king. ‘Do you know the devices, herald?’
‘The banner with the cross belongs to Archbishop Balduin of Trier, sire,’ said Andrew of Clarenceux. ‘The eagle is Boček of Kunštát, Lord of Poděbrady and chamberlain to the King of the Romans.’
Seated on horseback beside his father, the Prince of Wales reverted briefly from being a battle-hardened captain of men to a querulous sixteen-year-old boy. ‘Why is he called the King of the Romans? He’s not Roman at all, he’s German. His subjects are all Germans too.’
‘It is a courtesy, Highness,’ Clarenceux said dutifully. ‘The man chosen by the electors to rule the Holy Roman Empire receives the title King of the Romans. He cannot call himself emperor until he has been formally crowned by the pope.’
‘So he is not really king of anything, is he? And my archers shot him last month. Honestly, I don’t see why we’re bothering with him.’
‘Nevertheless, we will hear what his envoys have to say,’ the king said, a little curtly. The prince subsided into moody silence, probably thinking of the dice and half-finished wine cups he had left behind at the camp. Clarenceux watched the oncoming column of horsemen. ‘There is a herald with them, as well, in Bohemia’s colours,’ he said. He looked across at Merrivale. ‘That will be Zajíc, I think.’
‘Yes.’ Merrivale’s scalp tingled a little. He knew Vilém Zajíc, the former herald of King Jean of Bohemia. Zajíc’s presence with this embassy was not a matter of chance. He had been sent to seek out Merrivale.
Find out what they really want, the king had said. And it was a fair guess that Zajíc’s orders were similar.
The embassy was not a large one; the two envoys and the herald, a dozen secretaries and attendants, an escorting file of twenty men-at-arms in brightly burnished armour and embroidered surcoats. They reined in a hundred paces away and dismounted. The king, the prince and their own attendants stepped down from the saddle and walked forward to meet them. Archbishop Balduin was in his early sixties, a sour-looking man with deep-set eyes and downturned mouth; Poděbrady looked like everyone’s idea of a Bohemian warrior, red-faced with a bristling black beard. The red eagle on his surcoat had garnets for eyes, which were probably supposed to be impressive but instead made the bird look like it was recovering from a drinking binge.
The two parties came together. A trumpet sounded a brief fanfare. The archbishop made a speech: The King of the Romans is grieved at the strife between England and France… he regards both kings as his brothers… he is willing to mediate their quarrel and help them become reconciled… we bring new proposals for a full and lasting peace.
King Edward made a somewhat shorter speech: fraternal greetings to his Grace the king… delighted to hear any new proposals for peace… however, unless these proposals are genuinely new and different to the rubbish we have heard before, this will be a damned short meeting.
A pavilion had been erected overlooking the sea. The king, the prince, the envoys and their secretaries went into the pavilion and sat down, leaving their respective escorts to stare at each other. Two of the younger English men-at-arms began miming the draw and release of a longbow until Merrivale told them to stop. ‘We are the hosts of this meeting. We do not show discourtesy to our guests.’
Muttering, they stopped. Merrivale turned to Zajíc, who wore a tabard with the unusual device of the kingdom of Bohemia, a white lion rampant with two tails on a field of red. ‘Walk with me, Vilém.’
They stood on the heights, looking out over the vivid blue sea and watching sunlight dance on the waves. The cliffs of England were visible on the horizon. ‘Why are we meeting here?’ Zajíc asked. ‘Why not at your camp?’
‘The camp is surrounded by marshland, and the low-lying ground is full of miasma. For the sake of your envoys’ health, we felt it would be better to meet up here, where the air is cleaner.’
Zajíc glanced at him. ‘So, there is sickness in your camp. Your numbers are thinning out. The siege is not going well, and you do not want us to see the condition of your army.’
‘Things aren’t as bad as all that.’ Not yet, at least. ‘Are you with the King of the Romans now?’
The Bohemian herald nodded. He was a humourless, gloomy man. Royal heralds knew each other and often got on well, but Merrivale had never been fond of Zajíc. There were, he acknowledged, personal reasons for this.
‘He offered me a post after his father was killed,’ Zajíc said. ‘Some of the others, too. Machaut is serving as his secretary now.’
‘I heard someone play his music the other day. Give him my regards, when next you see him.’ Merrivale’s relations with Guillaume de Machaut had been even more complex than those with Zajíc. ‘Are you enjoying the new position?’
Zajíc shrugged. ‘It is less interesting. Life was never dull with King Jean.’
‘No,’ Merrivale said dryly. ‘My own encounters with your late master seldom lacked excitement.’
Zajíc watched him. ‘You should not have bedded his daughter. I warned you. So did Vidal.’
Involuntarily, Merrivale’s fists clenched. He forced himself to relax. ‘What terms have the envoys brought?’
‘A truce to last for ten years, and a return to the borders as they existed before the war.’
‘Then this will indeed be a short meeting. We have heard these terms before, and rejected them every time. Your envoys must have known this, so why are you here?’
Zajíc said nothing. Merrivale clicked his tongue. ‘Come along, Vilém. Two months ago Charles was an ally of France, riding into battle against us. Now he is offering to mediate in peace talks; except he offers terms he knows we will not accept. What game is he playing?’
‘King Charles was reluctant to join the conflict,’ Zajíc said finally. ‘King Jean, his father, commanded it. Now that his father is dead, he is free to pursue his own course. His eye is on the bigger prize.’
‘He wants the imperial crown,’ Merrivale said. ‘Only someone is already wearing it. Louis of Bavaria is the crowned emperor, and he has the support of the Free Cities and the Hanseatic League. Your man has the backing of most of the German clergy, and the pope, for what that is worth. But it will take a great deal more to shift Louis off his throne.’
He watched Zajíc’s face. ‘Does Charles still cleave to his father’s alliance with John of Hainault and his friends? Is he counting on them to put him in power?’
There was a long silence. Behind them, banners rippled and snapped in the wind. ‘My king does not know if Hainault can be trusted,’ Zajíc said finally. ‘Or the others, Guy of Béthune or the Englishman.’
‘Béthune is his brother-in-law.’
‘Charles is fond of his sister. He is not so enamoured of her husband. He would have married her off to someone else.’
‘Why does he distrust Hainault and the others?’
‘He is not sure if they will keep their promises. And after what happened in Scotland, he wonders if they are as clever or as competent as they claim to be.’
‘So, King Charles is considering his options. Is an alliance with England one of them?’
They stared at each other. ‘Anything is possible,’ Zajíc said.
‘I admire your king’s pragmatism. Two months ago the surgeons pulled two arrows out of his leg, and now he is contemplating an alliance with the men who shot him. There is a problem, however. Empress Margaret and Queen Philippa of England are sisters. Could you prevail upon King Edward to turn against his sister-in-law?’
‘No,’ said Zajíc. ‘But you could, Simon.’
‘You overestimate my influence.’
‘No, I don’t. And they’re all related to each other, aren’t they? King Charles is married to King Philippe’s sister, and his daughter is married to King Philippe’s son. God knows how many heads their children will have. But that won’t stop King Charles from putting his own interests first.’
‘You are quite right, Vilém, of course. You do wonder why they bother with these dynastic marriages, don’t you?’
‘It makes work for the lawyers,’ Zajíc said. ‘And brings in money for the papacy. Dispensations are not cheap.’
‘Very well, suppose we support your man’s claims to the imperial throne. What do we get in exchange? An alliance against France?’
Zajíc shook his head. ‘I cannot promise that. But we would be prepared to support the Flemish marriage.’
‘Do we need your support? We have the Count of Flanders in custody. We can sign the contracts whenever we like.’
‘Hainault and the conspirators are determined to prevent the marriage, Simon. They do not wish to see Flanders bound to England. But perhaps we can help you.’
‘How?’
‘The leader of the conspiracy is an Englishman. I believe you call him the man from the north. Suppose I tell you his name. Would that be enough to sway your king?’
Merrivale stared him. ‘Do you know who this man is?’
Zajíc shook his head. ‘The Count of Rožmberk dealt with him, but he too died at Crécy. But I can discover his name.’
‘How?’
The Bohemian shook his head. ‘I need your answer. Will England support King Charles?’
‘Two things,’ Merrivale said. ‘First, I think you are pretending to know more than you do. You have no idea who this man is, or where to start looking. King Jean may have known, Rožmberk certainly knew, but they did not confide in you and now both are dead. Second, your new master is desperate. France is too enfeebled to give him the support he needs, and he knows full well that the conspirators will only back him so long as it suits them. These men don’t make kingdoms and empires, they break them. He believes that England is the last hope.’
He paused for a moment. ‘But why should England help you? We don’t need you. We already know the shape of the conspiracy and what its object is. We only lack the name of the man behind it. Once we have him, we can pull the rest down.’
‘Now who is pretending?’ Zajíc demanded. ‘If you know so much already, why haven’t you discovered the rest? You know nothing, Simon. What you think you know is only what you see on the surface. The rest is hidden, buried deep. And you will not find it alone.’
There was a long silence. Are you familiar with the story of Pandora’s jar? Maurice de Berkeley had asked. ‘I have no reason to trust you, Vilém,’ Merrivale said finally. ‘None at all. Bring me the name of the man from the north, and then we will talk. Not before.’
‘Then it seems we are done,’ the Bohemian said. ‘The offer is genuine, but we will not help you unless you also commit to supporting us. You need us.’
‘Forgive me if I disagree with you.’
Zajíc shrugged and pointed to the pavilion. The king and archbishop were already walking out into the sunlight. ‘You were right. It was a short meeting.’
‘I am sorry you had such a long journey for nothing,’ Merrivale said shortly.
‘Yes,’ said the Bohemian. ‘So am I.’
‘I hope I did the right thing, sire,’ Merrivale said. The king had sent for him as soon as they reached camp; they were in the King’s House now, the queen sitting beside her husband, their principal advisors Warwick, Hatfield and Rowton standing to one side.
‘The possibility of King Charles changing sides is interesting, but Zajíc wanted a firm commitment. I refused.’
The king nodded. ‘Archbishop Balduin indicated that they want to keep the negotiations open. I told him to come back when he had something new to say, but I did not shut the door in his face. So, let’s see what they do next.’
‘Balduin knew what Zajíc was going to say,’ said Warwick.
‘Yes. Presumably the archbishop is worried about spies in his own entourage, so the mission was entrusted to Zajíc.’ The king stroked his chin with one hand. ‘Well, well. This makes things interesting, does it not?’
Rowton stirred a little. ‘Our policy has always been to support Emperor Louis.’
‘Nonsense,’ the queen said briskly. ‘Our policy has always been to support whomever could help us gain the victory. As I recall, we have paid tens of thousands of marks to Louis, nearly bankrupting ourselves in the process, and received nothing in exchange. If Charles is willing to talk, we should listen.’
‘But can we trust him?’ demanded Hatfield. ‘If he is sincere in his intentions, why not say so openly, rather than sending his herald to deliver a message in secret? This sounds like a distraction.’
‘That is entirely possible, my lord,’ Merrivale agreed. ‘But the choice of envoys is interesting too. Archbishop Balduin is Charles’s uncle and close advisor, and the lord of Poděbrady is one of the new men, whose first loyalty was to Charles and not his father. The one I distrust is Zajíc. Charles and Balduin must know about our past entanglements. So why would they send Zajíc to talk to me?’
‘Only you can answer that, herald,’ said Lord Rowton.
Merrivale said nothing. The king rubbed his hands together. ‘Then we are agreed. We continue to try to separate the adversary from his allies. The Count of Flanders is in our hands, Geoffrey of Maldon’s rebels will press Burgundy hard, and we shall encourage the King of the Romans to keep talking. Well done, gentlemen. I am pleased with this day’s work.’
Tiphaine was waiting. ‘How did the negotiations go?’
‘About as well as expected.’ Merrivale told her briefly what had happened. ‘The king says he is pleased. I am… unsettled.’
‘Why? Because this too is raking up the past? This is taking you too close to Yolande?’
‘Partly that, yes… Zajíc seemed sincere at the end. Perhaps I misjudged him.’
‘Perhaps that is what he wants you to think,’ Tiphaine said. ‘This arrived while you were away.’
She handed Merrivale a small roll of parchment. He glanced at the broken seal, a simple blob of wax with no device or mark.
To the demoiselle de Tesson, greeting. I wish to speak to you privately. Come to the castle of Ecou on the day before Advent.
There was no signature. The writing was plain, anonymous; any educated person could have written it. ‘How did this arrive?’
‘One of the Welsh archers handed it to Warin while he was feeding the horses. Someone else had given it to him to deliver. The archer didn’t know the other man’s name, only that he paid in good coin.’
‘Good coin?’
‘Warin says that counterfeit coins are turning up in the archers’ pay. Halfpenny bits and farthings, mostly. The men are starting to grumble.’
‘I’m not surprised. Have you any idea who this might be from?’
‘Hardly anyone in Flanders knows me, and if anyone in the army wanted a secret rendezvous they would not go so far as Ecou. At a guess, it is someone I once knew in Normandy. Perhaps my past is catching up with me also,’ she added.
‘Where is Ecou?’
‘Lord Warwick says it is not far from Saint-Omer. There is also a French garrison at Saint-Omer,’ she added. ‘This could be a trap, of course.’
‘Of course.’ The herald put the letter down. ‘Will you go?’
‘I must,’ she said.
In the aftermath of the French disaster at Crécy the Flemish militias had ripped through northern Artois, plundering and burning at will. A few of the stronger towns such as Saint-Omer and Béthune had held out, but elsewhere the Flemings had destroyed everything in their path. Merrivale and Tiphaine rode through a landscape of ruins, villages reduced to blackened cob walls and charred timbers, roofless churches, a plundered abbey with its doors smashed in. In the cloister, pages torn from books fluttered in the cold wind.
Merrivale had insisted on accompanying her, and bringing Mauro and Warin with them. Bands of foragers and plunderers still wandered through these desolate lands. According to the laws of war, heralds and those who accompanied them were sacrosanct and could not be impeded or harmed. That worked, so long as people remembered the laws, or knew them in the first place… But no one molested them. The open fields were empty of people; the loudest sound was the hissing of the wind. Merrivale’s tabard was a solitary splash of colour against the dreary lands around them.
Ecou was, or had been, a small village on the edge of the marshes along the river Aa. The stone stump of a windmill stood at one end of the village, surrounded by blackened timbers. Beyond was a small castle with a water moat. Merrivale halted beside the windmill. ‘Warin and I will wait here. Mauro, you will go with the demoiselle.’
‘Yes, señor.’
Tiphaine opened her mouth to say she did not need an escort, but realised she would be glad of company in this haunted landscape. Slowly the two of them rode towards the castle. The drawbridge was down and the gates had been battered open with a ram; inside, the hall was burned out and roofless and there were unburied bodies in the courtyard, reduced to heaps of rags and bones after several months of exposure.
‘This place smells of death,’ Mauro murmured. He was not referring to the bodies.
Hoofbeats thumped on the drawbridge. Tiphaine’s heart skipped a beat and she looked for a place to hide, but there was no time. A file of men-at-arms rode into the courtyard and stopped with a jingle of harness. They carried lances and wore armour over mail coats; their surcoats were plain with no device. Behind came another figure in a dark cloak. Halting, the rider pulled back the hood of the cloak to reveal a woman’s face with high cheekbones, a broad nose and intense dark eyes. Tiphaine’s breath hissed in shock.
‘Your Grace!’ she said. ‘Was it you who sent the letter?’
‘Yes,’ said Jeanne of Evreux, Queen of Navarre. ‘Forgive me, demoiselle, for summoning you to this wild place, but it is important that we not be seen together. I hope the presence of my men has not alarmed you.’
‘Not at all,’ Tiphaine said, untruthfully. ‘How may I serve you?’
‘I wish you to convey an offer in secret to my cousin, King Edward of England,’ said Jeanne. ‘I intend to declare myself neutral in the war between France and England. In return, my lands in Normandy and Navarre must be left in peace. He must promise that his troops will not molest them.’
Tiphaine took her time about replying. Jeanne of Evreux was one of the most powerful landowners in eastern Normandy, and was also sovereign of the mountain kingdom of Navarre far away in the south; her loss would be a blow to France.
‘Why choose me as your messenger?’ she asked.
‘Because I know you and respect you, demoiselle, as I knew and respected your father. I trust you.’
‘I am flattered,’ said Tiphaine. ‘But I think the king would be better pleased if you openly joined his cause. Declare for him, and persuade the other Norman lords to do likewise.’
Jeanne laughed. ‘How English you have become in a few short months. I will not lead a Norman rebellion against France, demoiselle. That hour has come and gone. Your father rebelled, and was executed. Harcourt rebelled last summer, and came crawling back to France with his tail between his legs, begging King Philippe’s forgiveness. I am too proud to beg, and too young to see my head on a spike. Neutrality is the best Cousin Edward will get from me, and I advise him to accept it. He will need all the assurance he can get, when the storm breaks.’
Tiphaine stared at her. ‘Storm? What storm?’
‘An attempt will be made to kill the King of France and his son in Paris, today. If it succeeds, the throne of France will be vacant.’
Tiphaine felt a chill that was nothing to do with the wind. ‘The king has other heirs. So does his son.’
‘All are children, and they lack followers. If they do try to take the throne, they will be overthrown and killed within days, children or no.’
‘I beg your pardon, your Grace, but how do you know this?’
Jeanne drew a deep breath. ‘Three days ago, I met some of the conspirators. Cardinal Aubert, Guy of Béthune and John of Hainault. They offered me the throne, when Philippe and his son are dead.’
Tiphaine said nothing. ‘It is not the first time they have approached me, of course,’ said Jeanne. ‘Like your king, they wanted me to join their rebellion last summer. I turned them down then, and I turned them down now. I will not be their puppet. For one thing, I have a feeling that I too would not sit long upon the throne.’
‘If your Grace refused them directly, you may be in danger,’ Tiphaine said. ‘These men do not like being thwarted.’
‘Do not fear for me. I have five thousand men-at-arms at my back, and I am guarded night and day. But Cousin Edward needs to take care. There are spies in his court, listening and watching. They told me they control what happens in Calais, too.’
Tiphaine frowned. ‘How?’
‘They did not say. But it goes much further. They are already taking steps to control the papacy and the Knights of Saint John, and they will soon have the empire in their hands as well. Guy of Béthune boasted about this, to show me how powerful they are.’
Tiphaine thought about the herald waiting by the ruined windmill. ‘Guy of Béthune is a provincial nobleman. How can he possibly threaten the empire?’
‘He is also the brother-in-law of King Charles. He sits on the high council in Trier, and advises the king on policy. He is also the uncle of the young Count of Flanders.’ Jeanne raised one finger. ‘Warn Cousin Edward. And tell him to consider my offer carefully.’
She turned her horse and rode through the gate. Her escort wheeled and followed her. Within a few moments the drumming of their hooves had died away.
Back at the windmill Tiphaine let out a long breath, dispelling some of the tension she felt. ‘We must return to the camp,’ she said. ‘I have an urgent message for the king.’
‘What happened?’
Tiphaine told him. She watched his face change at the mention of Guy of Béthune. ‘Did she say where Béthune is now?’
‘In Trier, with the king.’
Merrivale nodded. ‘We need to know more about this plot against the empire. There is someone near to hand who might be willing to help.’
‘Yolande,’ she said quietly.
‘Yolande,’ the herald repeated.
‘Are you going to see her?’
‘I have no choice. If there is a chance, any chance at all that she knows the name of the man we are looking for, then I must find her.’
‘Shall I come with you?’
‘No, the message for the king is urgent. Mauro will accompany you back to the camp. I will take Warin with me. God speed you, Tiphaine.’
‘You too,’ she said. She watched with troubled eyes as he mounted his horse and rode away towards the east, followed by Warin. The red and gold of his tabard glinted briefly in the dull landscape, and then he was gone.