At dawn the storming parties assembled behind the grass-covered dunes. The Earl of Warwick called his captains together. ‘This is our last chance,’ he said. ‘The French army is approaching. We must seize and hold the Rysbank, if we are to take the city before they arrive. Do not fail, gentlemen.’
‘You can count on us,’ said the Earl of Oxford. He was a handsome, eternally cheerful man in his late thirties. ‘I shall enjoy this,’ he said. ‘Good to see some proper fighting again, after a damned dull winter.’
‘If it was that damned dull, you should have joined us earlier,’ Warwick said. ‘What kept you, anyway?’
‘I had some very important business in London to attend to. I’ll introduce you to her, when this is over.’ Oxford grinned. ‘Are we ready?’
Warwick looked at the tide, glistening as it receded over the mudflats around the Rysbank. ‘Ready.’
There was no fanfare or trumpet call; Oxford simply ran forward across the flats towards the Rysbank, holding his sword aloft, and his men-at-arms and archers followed that gleaming blade. Shouts came from the ramparts of Calais on the far side of the harbour, and a cannon barked, stone shot kicking up a fountain of mud. Oxford and his men ran through it, reaching the Rysbank after just a few minutes. Following them came the king’s carpenters and workmen, dragging heavy wooden beams behind them. The French guns continued to pound them with shot, but the foundations were quickly in place. More cannon thundered from the walls, smoke belching out over the harbour and forming a thick screen. The carpenters hoisted another beam into place and a cannon shot smashed it almost at once.
‘Here comes the counter move,’ said Warwick.
Out of the smoke came boats full of crossbowmen, crawling over the water. Black bolts streaked through the air, and on the Rysbank men fell, rolling over in the mud or falling into the shallow water. The English archers shot back, picking off the crossbowmen one by one, but more boats came, some full of men-at-arms and spearmen. The crossbow bolts were fire-tipped now, and in places the wooden beams began to burn.
The English archers continue to shoot, but they were outnumbered and the volleys of crossbow bolts were taking their toll. The leading French boats grounded on the mud and the men-at-arms stepped out and floundered forward, swords and spears in hand. Arrows slashed through their ranks, knocking men down, but the French came steadily on.
‘Now,’ Warwick said.
Another fresh company, Huntingdon’s men, launched itself along the spit towards the Rysbank followed by the best of the rest, Llewellyn’s Welsh spearmen and Rowton’s archers. The crossbowmen in the boats raked them, but they never slackened their pace and they crashed into the French flank just as the latter reached the fortification and began attacking the carpenters. Some of the enemy were knocked off their feet by the impetus of the charge. The English and Welsh ran on, slashing and stabbing and shooting; the French fought back desperately, but were slowly driven down to the water’s edge. Some managed to regain the boats; the others were cut down one by one.
With the arrival of Rowton’s men there were more than two hundred archers on the Rysbank and arrows flew thick as hail across the waters of the harbour. The crossbowmen were driven back into the hanging smoke. The French cannon continued to boom, but now the English guns were being dragged forward by teams of men, straining and splashing in the mud. The fires on the wooden fortification had gone out. Warwick clapped his hands. ‘By Christ, we’ve done it!’
Merrivale smiled. ‘Congratulations, my lord. I shall inform the king.’
By midday the French cannon emplaced on the walls of Calais to cover the harbour had been put out of action. A battery of English guns covered the harbour, and as the smoke began to clear two English ships sailed into the entrance and dropped anchor. Their crews smashed open their hulls with hammers and abandoned ship, and both vessels began to settle into the water. This time they made no mistake. The entrance to the harbour was now completely blocked.
‘Calais is cut off,’ Warwick reported. ‘There will be no more relief convoys, no more runs by Marant and his friends from Boulogne. When the granaries are empty, they will have to surrender or starve.’
‘Let’s reinforce the point,’ the king said. He was all bustle and energy again, his good humour restored. ‘Tell Master Coloyne to prepare a banquet. We’ll eat in the open air, in plain view of the walls. It will give the garrison something to think about, while they wonder where their own next meal is coming from.’
‘May I suggest we also send a message to the garrison, sire?’ Merrivale said. ‘Invite them to surrender now, rather than face hardship and hunger.’
‘Excellent idea, Merrivale. Clarenceux, carry the message yourself tomorrow, under a flag of truce.’
Andrew Clarenceux bowed. ‘With respect, sire, this was Master Merrivale’s idea. He should be the one to go.’
‘Very well,’ said the king. ‘Make it so.’
The previous day a raiding party had brought back a small herd of live sheep. These were now slaughtered and set to roast in firepits along with a variety of geese, chickens, pigeons and capons. By chance, an easterly wind blew the smoke of cooking into the city. Trestle tables were laid out on the highest piece of ground and the king and Prince of Wales, robed in brilliant scarlet, sat down at the high table, with their nobles and knights and men-at-arms around them. Extra rations were handed out to the common soldiers and they too ate and drank well, everyone lifting their cups from time to time in mocking toast to the garrison watching from the walls.
Iron Henry watched it all with disapproval. ‘I think this shows bad manners,’ he said. ‘I would never permit my own men to behave in such a way.’
‘You would not mock your enemies?’ Brother Geoffrey asked.
‘I am a mercenary, brother. We always behave well towards our enemies. Next week, they might be our friends.’
‘Very prudent,’ said Tiphaine.
Iron Henry smiled at her. ‘I met a most intriguing woman last week, while my men were scouting the enemy positions around Arras. A Fleming, and most unusually she was captain of a company of militia.’
‘That is not so unusual as you might think,’ said Merrivale. ‘More than one woman serves in the Flemish militia.’
‘Well, this one was certainly unusual. I admired her.’ He took a bite of his mutton and smacked his lips with pleasure. ‘These sauces are excellent. Your cooks have excelled themselves. I think I might have to hire one for my own men.’
There were two sauces with the mutton, one fresh with green herbs, one red and sharp with wild garlic. Tiphaine laid down her knife. ‘If you steal the king’s cooks, he will tear up your indenture,’ she said. ‘By chance, was this woman called Fier Meike?’
‘Why yes, she was! So you do know her. She claimed your acquaintance, demoiselle, but I did not know whether to believe her.’
‘Yes,’ said Tiphaine. ‘I know her.’
‘Ah. Well then, you might want to hear the message she asked me to give you. It concerns someone called Jehan. She said to tell you Jehan was waiting for something. That was all.’
‘Jehan is always waiting for something,’ Tiphaine said lightly. ‘He is one of those people who only exists to obey orders. Is there any other news?’
Iron Henry shook his head. ‘The French and Flemings are fighting steadily, raid and counter-raid almost every week, but both sides are at a standstill. The Flemings are still concentrated around Cassel, and the French forward posts at Saint-Omer and Béthune are battered but continue to hold firm.’
He paused. ‘It is said that the Countess of Béthune has returned to her husband’s castle, with her son, and has taken command of the defence. Yet another woman soldier! Times are certainly changing, and I would say they are changing for the better.’
Tiphaine glanced at Merrivale, who said nothing. ‘Why is that, count?’
‘As I have said, fighting is natural. It is good that women should fight if they wish. In Germany we already allow women to fight duels with swords. We should let them join the ranks along with the male soldiers, and follow their natural tendencies.’
‘And Fier Meike certainly follows her natural tendencies,’ Tiphaine said. ‘Do you really admire her?’
‘Of course! She is big, she is strong, she speaks her mind, and that club she carries could stun an ox. What a woman!’
He had intended to go into Calais alone, but Tiphaine and Brother Geoffrey overruled him. ‘You have never been inside the town,’ Geoffrey said. ‘We have.’
‘And I know Saint-Pierre, the mayor,’ Tiphaine added. ‘You don’t.’
The revelry after the banquet had gone on late into the evening. In the morning, the three of them walked through a silent camp and down through the field fortifications past batteries of cannon and silent rows of trebuchets and picked their way across the muddy fields towards the city. ‘What did Fier Meike’s message mean?’ Merrivale asked.
‘Jehan refers to Jehan Nortkerque,’ Tiphaine said. ‘The Pilgrims have secretly joined the Flemish militias, but I think Nortkerque still controls them. He is waiting for orders.’
‘Orders for what?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘Start a mutiny perhaps, turn and attack their fellow Flemings. Or the French, or us. It all depends on what we think the man from the north is trying to achieve.’ She looked at Merrivale. ‘How many people know what Hugh de Vere told you?’
‘The two of you, Mauro, Hugolin Bessancourt, and the king. No one else.’
‘But someone told Nicodemus to kill de Vere,’ Geoffrey said.
‘To stop him talking to me?’
‘To stop him talking to anyone. Whoever it is, they must have also spoken to De Vere and realised what he knew. Simon, my friend; what do you want to do about Yolande?’
‘Nothing,’ said Merrivale.
Crossbowmen on the walls covered them as they approached. A postern gate opened to admit them. Men with levelled spears confronted them as they stepped through. ‘I am Simon Merrivale, herald to King Edward of England,’ Merrivale said. ‘I have a message for your governor.’
‘Wait here.’
They waited in the warm morning sun. The town was even more battered than before, roofs punctured and chimney stacks broken, bricks and stone shot littering the street. Something shook the air with thunder; a cannon firing from the Rysbank.
Five men walked up the street towards them. Three were men-at-arms; their leader bore the red eagle device of Jean de Vienne, governor of the garrison. Two were in the black robes of burgesses; one, red-haired, wore the mayor’s chain of office around his neck.
Vienne stopped in front of Merrivale. ‘What do you want?’ he asked without ceremony.
‘May we talk privately, my lord?’
Vienne waved the guards away. ‘My message is from King Edward,’ the herald said. ‘He invites you to avoid further suffering, and surrender the town now.’
‘Whose suffering would I be avoiding? Yours, or ours?’
‘Both,’ said Brother Geoffrey. ‘The lives of all men are equally precious in the eyes of God.’
‘Geoffrey of Maldon. I know your reputation, brother. There is not much about human life that is precious to you, is there?’
‘Perhaps so,’ said Geoffrey. ‘But then, I am not God. Calais is encircled now, and more men are arriving in the English camp every day. The Flemish rebels are strengthening their forces as well. You have no hope, my lord.’
‘The French army is on the way. Any day now, they will march to relieve the siege.’
‘What is stopping them, my lord? Why have they not marched already?’
Vienne said nothing. ‘King Philippe is not as strong as you would like to believe he is,’ Merrivale said. ‘If he does march on Calais, he will face the English to his front and the Flemings on his right flank. He would need a powerful army indeed to confront both. So, he waits, building up his strength, while you run out of food and begin to starve.’ He paused for a moment. ‘The end cannot be escaped, my lord. Surrender now, and you and all your men can walk out of the city and go free.’
‘My orders are to hold this city until the end,’ Vienne said. ‘With respect, I think this conversation is over.’
Merrivale waited until Vienne and his men-at-arms had gone, and turned to the two burgesses.
‘This is Eustache de Saint-Pierre, mayor of the city,’ Tiphaine said. ‘His colleague is Andrieu de Maninghem.’
Merrivale nodded. ‘Do you agree with the governor?’ he asked.
‘If you guaranteed our lives and property, we would surrender today,’ Saint-Pierre said bluntly. He indicated Tiphaine. ‘I have already told your spy this. The war is ruining our businesses and our lives. We want to make an end.’
‘King Edward is not in a mood to bargain,’ the herald said. ‘He has expended much treasure and many lives on this siege. He is tempted to hand over the city to his men and let them do their worst. You will have heard of the sack of Caen.’
Saint-Pierre went pale, but the bald man, Maninghem, smiled a little. ‘You say he is not in a mood to bargain,’ he said, ‘but I smell a bargain in the air nonetheless. You would not be here otherwise.’
Tiphaine looked at the two burgesses. ‘Do you trust me, gentlemen?’
‘No,’ said Maninghem.
Saint-Pierre waved a hand, irritably. ‘What have you to offer?’
‘You have been in secret contact with Bishop Hatfield, through me,’ Tiphaine said. ‘Meneer Maninghem has likewise been in correspondence with his cousin Lord Rowton. Do not continue to deny it, please. Lord Rowton himself makes no secret of this.’
Maninghem fell silent. ‘One of the two is a traitor,’ said the herald. ‘One of the two, Hatfield or Rowton, is conspiring against both France and England. And one of you knows who it is.’
The two men looked at each other. ‘We both do,’ Saint-Pierre said.
There was silence in the street. The guards waited, still out of earshot, wondering what was going on. ‘We formed an alliance early on,’ the mayor said. ‘We shared our secrets because we had to. We owe these men no loyalty, we are acting entirely out of self-interest. Our first priority is to save the town. Our second, if that is not possible, is to save ourselves.’
‘Go on,’ said Merrivale.
‘Guarantee our lives and property will be spared. When the town falls, get us out safely. As soon as we are free, we will tell you the name of your traitor. But we need to be assured of our safety before we speak. Is that clear?’
‘Yes,’ said Merrivale. ‘When will the town fall?’
‘There is enough food in the granaries to last until autumn.’
Brother Geoffrey shook his head. ‘Too late. The longer we delay, the more time Philippe has to build up his forces and advance to your rescue. We will give you two months. Then the town must surrender.’
‘Last winter, someone was spoiling food and water to weaken the garrison,’ Tiphaine said. ‘Was it Nortkerque?’
‘Yes,’ Maninghem said reluctantly. ‘He fled when Vienne’s men discovered what he was doing.’
‘Then you must do the same,’ she said. ‘Slowly, carefully, so you are not caught. When the city falls, we will be waiting to save you. Do we have a bargain?’
There was a long silence, broken by the echoing roar of another cannon. ‘Yes,’ said Saint-Pierre.
To my friend the heraldus Simon Merrivale, greeting. In response to your request, I have invaded both the Chancery and Treasury, compelling the clerks to search for any documents relating to the former mint in Dublin. According to them, no such documents exist. This is surprising to me, because there is nothing our clerks love better than keeping records. They hoard parchment like magpies gathering tinsel. I am therefore drawn to conclude that either the clerks are deceiving me, which I doubt, as I am not easy to deceive, or the records have been deliberately destroyed. Either way, I feel this bodes no good.
I have taken the liberty of informing my father and we will continue to make inquiries, but I fear we can make no promises.
We hear news that King Philip had gathered a vast army and will advance shortly against your position at Calais. Our thoughts and prayers are with all of you. With respect and friendship, Lady Mary.
The morning was chilly but the air was bright and clear. In the golden light of sunrise the sea seemed carpeted with sails, a hundred ships or more coming in slowly from the west. Banners flew from their masts, bright specks of colour above the red sails. Horsemen raced down the causeway into the camp and in a moment the news was running like fire. Lancaster is coming. He has two thousand men, at least. They will land at Gravelines and march to join us.
‘Splendid news!’ said the Prince of Wales, slapping his thigh with delight. ‘Now old Henry is here, we really shall see some action. What do you think, herald?’
Henry of Grosmont, Earl of Lancaster, was thirty-seven years old, enough to make him appear ancient in the prince’s eyes. ‘Don’t raise your hopes too greatly, Highness,’ the herald said. ‘His Grace is determined to starve the enemy out, rather than lose more men in an assault on the walls.’
‘What about the French army? They’ll advance against us soon.’
‘They have made no move so far,’ Merrivale said. ‘They are waiting until they feel strong enough to attack us.’
‘Well, I wish they would hurry up. This siege feels like it has gone on forever. When are you coming back into my service, herald?’
‘When the king gives me leave, Highness.’
‘I wish he’d hurry up too. I miss having you at my court. You always sound like you are talking good sense, even when you are rebuking me.’
Merrivale smiled. ‘Especially when I am rebuking you, Highness.’
The prince chortled, slapped him on the shoulder, and went off to play hazard with his friends. Merrivale stood, leaning on his stick and watching the ships.
Always a good soldier, Lancaster oversaw the disembarkation of his men and ensured they were encamped and fed before riding down from Gravelines in the evening. The king met him outside the King’s House, watched by thousands of men, and embraced him as he dismounted. ‘It is good to see you at last, cousin.’
‘I am sorry I am so late,’ Lancaster said. Tall and fair like the king, he was a little quieter, more grave in manner. ‘My men will follow tomorrow.’
‘Good, good. What news of the queen?’
‘She is resting at Windsor, surrounded by her ladies. I carry letters from her.’
‘Come inside and I will tell you more about our situation.’
Lancaster was another friend from the king’s youth, trusted, respected, honoured. He and the king talked privately for several hours, and it was late before the earl finally departed. Merrivale was waiting for him outside the King’s House. ‘Greetings, my lord. I wonder if you would honour me with a word in private?’
Lancaster smiled at his former herald. ‘Of course. Come with me.’
The earl’s lodgings were another wooden hut of the same type as Merrivale’s own, though larger and more spacious. Lancaster waited until the candles were lit and dismissed the servants, pouring two cups of wine with his own hand and adding water. ‘It is good to see you again, Simon.’
‘You too, my lord. The king has missed you.’
‘I know. I am three months later than I should have been. Despite the king’s explicit instructions to raise a new army, there has been nothing but confusion, obstruction and delay. Letters and reports have gone missing, summonses and writs have not been delivered, orders have been given but not carried out. I have never seen such a state of chaos. The chancellor and Archbishop Stratford are as mystified as I am.’
‘Do you think someone was deliberately trying to impede you, my lord?’
‘The thought occurred to me, more than once. The king told me about his conversation with you. Can all these things be connected?’
‘I believe so, though I am not certain how. My lord, I need to ask you some questions about the events of twenty years ago.’
Lancaster sat down. ‘I will answer if I can, but I’m not certain how much I can tell you. I was in my father’s service, but I had only just turned seventeen when the old king… met his end.’
‘It is your father I wanted to talk about. He was regent of England during King Edward’s minority. I believe the regent’s council employed Michael Northburgh as clerk. Did you know him well?’
Lancaster hesitated for a moment. ‘I saw him at council meetings. He appeared to be a good and faithful servant, very diligent in performing his duties.’
That is damning with faint praise, the herald thought. ‘Thomas Hatfield was also employed by the council, but not just as a clerk, of course. Did you know about the secret meeting in Calais?’
‘I knew of it, though I had nothing to do with it. A rather misguided move of my father’s, I fear. His sight was beginning to fail by this point, and I fear he did not always make good decisions.’
‘Will you tell me what happened, my lord?’
‘My father always believed Mortimer was a threat to the kingdom, he and John of Hainault and their allies. When the old king of France died, he saw an opportunity to press King Edward’s claim to the French crown. If the French had agreed, it would have been a feather in my father’s cap and increased his power at the expense of Mortimer.’
‘The French sent a strong delegation. A royal secretary, a professor of theology, an archbishop. We sent a young and unknown cleric. Why?’
‘An excellent question,’ Lancaster said dryly. ‘My father wanted to go himself, but his blindness prevented him. He trusted Geoffrey of Maldon to go in his place, but Mortimer prevented him. Mortimer sent Hatfield and Eustace Rowton instead.’
‘Mortimer sent Rowton?’
‘Yes. Rowton’s father, Gerard, had fallen out with Mortimer over the king’s abdication. But Eustace was deemed a safe pair of hands, even though he too was still quite young. His loyalty to the king was well known.’
‘Was any record of this meeting kept?’
‘None.’ Lancaster smiled a little. ‘So far as the world is concerned, the meeting never happened. Both sides wanted it that way.’
‘The meeting failed in its purpose. A year later, Mortimer was dead and the king was in full control. That was the end of negotiations with France.’
‘Not quite,’ Lancaster said. ‘There was another meeting a year later, in 1331. This time I attended, along with the king. Rowton was there again, and so was Michael Northburgh. John of Hainault brokered the meeting.’
‘I was sceptical from the beginning,’ Lancaster said. ‘I was surprised when the king agreed to go, and absolutely astonished when King Philip – I beg your pardon, when our adversary agreed to meet him. But Hainault insisted he had been approached by people in Paris who said the French were willing to bargain.’
‘So it was all Hainault’s idea.’
‘Yes. He insisted the whole thing be kept secret. We crossed over to France in disguise, myself and the king as merchants, Rowton and Northburgh as our servants.’
‘Not Hatfield?’
‘No. He was engaged somewhere else, I don’t remember where. We met at Pont-Saint-Maxence, not far from Beauvais. I advised the king to be conciliatory, but he wouldn’t have it. He insisted on laying down demands.’
‘What did he want?’
‘France must drop its claim to sovereignty over Aquitaine and allow the English crown to hold the duchy in its own right. In return, King Edward would consider dropping his claim to the French throne.’
‘I imagine that went well,’ the herald said dryly.
‘About as well as you might expect. The French turned us down and walked out of the meeting. Edward was furious, and blamed Hainault for making him look like a fool. He didn’t even wait until we returned home, he sent Rowton ahead on a fast horse to get back to England as soon as possible, and instruct the council to order Hainault’s dismissal and exile.’ Lancaster chuckled. ‘I remember the queen was delighted. Hainault may be her uncle, but she cannot stand the sight of him.’
‘Was that the end of the matter, my lord?’
‘Not quite. We were ambushed on the way home, not far from Dieppe. On the surface it seemed like an everyday event, bandits attacking a couple of merchants. But I think those men knew exactly where to find us. I believe we were betrayed.’
‘By whom, my lord?’
‘It is a hard thing to say, herald. He has given many years of good service to the crown, with never another hint of anything suspicious. But in my heart, I have always believed it was Michael Northburgh who told those bandits where to find us.’
Quietly, Merrivale let himself into his lodgings. The others were waiting for him; Brother Geoffrey, Tiphaine, Mauro and Bessancourt, eyes bright in the candlelight. ‘Well?’ asked Tiphaine. ‘What did you learn?’
‘That what we suspected is true,’ Merrivale said quietly. ‘It is him. It can only be him.’
‘Can we prove it?’
‘No, not yet. Not to a level that would satisfy the king. Now, we must be patient. When Calais is ready to fall, then he will show his hand.’