The pyre was already prepared in the upper courtyard, a wooden platform with a tall stake in its midst, and faggots of dry wood stacked all around. The smell of pine resin was thick in the air. She shivered a little, and one of her guards noticed and laughed.
‘The wood smells sweet, doesn’t it? Not half so sweet as you’ll smell burning, you traitorous bitch.’
Rollond de Brus strode down the steps from the entrance to the donjon. He had ridden on ahead to prepare her reception, and had taken advantage of the moment to change out of riding clothes into courtly doublet and hose. Of course, he had, Tiphaine thought. Vanity is what this man lives for. That is why I am to be burned; to heal his injured pride.
‘Bring her inside,’ Brus said curtly. ‘Our hostesses want a look at her before she goes down to her cell.’
The guards dragged her down from the saddle and stood her upright, still in her filthy tunic and hose with her hands bound tightly in front of her. Her hands tingled and her wrists were rubbed raw by her bonds. One of the guards shoved her in the back and she followed Brus up the stairs and into the donjon, through an antechamber and into a dark circular chamber. Despite the evening’s heat, the stone tower was cold, and a fire burned in the grate at the back of the room. Lamps flickered in sconces around the whitewashed stone walls.
The hall was crowded with people. She saw a couple of priests in black robes, but the rest were women: noblewomen in gowns and cauled headdresses with jewels sparkling darkly in the light, nuns in black habits and wimples, all staring at her in a mixture of fear and anger. Brus bowed to them with a flourish, bending one knee.
‘Mesdames,’ he said. ‘Allow me to introduce our guest, the Demoiselle de Tesson. I regret the inconvenience of housing her here, but do not fear; she will not outstay her welcome.’ He smiled. ‘She will, ah… how shall I put it? She will depart in the morning.’
Some of the women laughed openly. One of the nuns, her face hard as a slab, walked up to Tiphaine and slapped her across the face, twice. Tiphaine’s head rocked back and she felt the blood rush to her bruised cheeks.
‘You accursed harlot!’ the nun snapped. ‘You whore of Babylon! You have brought the English upon us! My convent has been despoiled and burned, my nuns dispossessed, our lands ruined and our tenants robbed of all they possess.’
‘I did not bring—’
The nun slapped her again, then spat in her face. Held rigid between her guards, Tiphaine could not move or respond. She felt the spittle running down her forehead. ‘Silence!’ the nun screamed. ‘Do not speak, harlot! Go to your cell and wait until the hour of your execution! Do not expect us to pray for your soul, for that would be blasphemy. You sold your soul to the English and the devil!’
‘Take her down,’ Brus said to the guards.
‘Farewell, demoiselle!’ shouted one of the noblewomen. ‘Tomorrow I shall enjoy watching you burn!’ Others joined in the clamour. Brus motioned with his hand and the guards seized Tiphaine’s arms and dragged her down the spiral stair into the darkness below, her heels bumping on the stone steps.
At the bottom of the stair was a heavy door. Brus unlocked it and pushed it open, and the guards shoved Tiphaine inside, so hard that she stumbled and fell sprawling on the damp cobbled floor. The door slammed shut and the key turned in the lock.
She lay for a moment, gasping in the pitch blackness, and then sat up. Her hand touched something metallic and flaking with rust, and after a moment she realised it was a length of chain. She pulled it towards her, gathering the links in her hand. Suddenly the chain pulled taut. Feeling her way along its length, she bumped into the stone wall of her cell. Her hands groped around the end of the chain and found it affixed to the wall through a metal eye.
The stone around the eye was damp too, and crumbling. Sudden hope seized her. Grabbing the chain in both hands, she heaved with all her strength, hoping to pull it out of the wall. Nothing happened. She tried again, this time bracing her feet against the wall and throwing all of her weight against the chain. Again and again she pulled, straining, arms aching, gasping with effort.
Nothing happened. The chain did not budge.
She stopped, leaning her forehead against the wall and sobbing for breath. It was hopeless; she simply wasn’t strong enough. But in the back of her mind, a flame began to burn. No, she thought, I did not survive two years in prison in Carentan in order to end like this. Drawing a long, deep breath, sucking the damp, fetid air into her lungs, she set herself against the wall once more and began to pull.
‘I need your help,’ the herald said.
‘For what purpose?’ asked John Grey.
‘The Demoiselle de Tesson was captured in Rouen, and is now imprisoned in La Roche-Guyon. The French intend to execute her at dawn. We need to bring her out.’
Richard Percy smiled. ‘A damsel in distress?’
‘I believe she was spying for us when she was taken.’
‘You believe?’ said Grey.
‘She did not confide her plans to me. But if she has information about the French and their movements, we need to hear it.’
‘If?’ said Percy. ‘What if she was caught before she learned anything at all?’
‘Then the expedition to free her will be pointless and futile,’ the herald said.
John Grey smiled. ‘What do you think, Richard?’
‘Sounds like the perfect task for the Red Company,’ Percy said. He looked at La Roche-Guyon. ‘How do we get across the river?’
‘Boats. We need to talk to Llewellyn.’
‘Which one?’
‘Ap Gruffud, the one from Conwy. His men stole some boats at Elbeuf, remember, when the rest of us were trying to force a passage across that godforsaken bridge. Ask if we can borrow them, and some men to row them.’
‘All right. I’ll bring the boats up and meet you north of Freneuse.’
Percy departed. ‘Jacques, François, Rob!’ Grey called. ‘Get the men together, as quickly as you can. We have work to do.’
Suddenly the camp was full of quiet, purposeful movement, archers and crossbowmen and spearmen collecting their weapons and gathering around their vintenars. ‘Are you going to ask Warwick or Northampton for permission?’ Merrivale asked.
‘No,’ said Grey. ‘They wouldn’t give it, so why bother? Do I take it you are intending to come with us? I can lend you a sword.’
Merrivale shook his head. ‘Thank you, but no.’
‘Please yourself.’ Grey turned to a tall young man in armour with a sword at his belt and a longbow and quiver strapped across his back. ‘This is my esquire, Harry Graham. He, Matt and Pip will look after you. Jacques, are we ready? Good, let’s get moving. I want to be over the river before Warwick realises we have gone.’
The sky overhead was inky black, but the lights of campfires and the watchful torches on the walls of La Roche-Guyon reflected off the dark river. The boats lay huddled along the bank, invisible in shadow. Behind them the ground rose sharply into low chalky cliffs, pierced here and there by the doors and windows of troglodyte houses, all deserted.
‘Llewellyn agreed to lend us his boats,’ Percy said, ‘but on one condition.’
‘That we come with you,’ said Llewellyn. He was a broad-shouldered man in mail corselet with a breastplate over top, armed with a sword and a heavy stabbing spear. ‘We haven’t had a proper fight since Caen. We’re getting bored, man.’
The Welshmen behind him nodded. ‘And you’ll need more muscle if you’re going to crack that castle,’ a voice said. Nicholas Courcy stepped forward, the eagles on his faded surcoat almost black in the dim light. Gráinne was beside him, along with Donnchad and the other gallowglasses. He grinned at Merrivale. ‘For a herald, you have a knack for getting into trouble.’
‘He does,’ Grey agreed. He turned to his master bowman. ‘Rob, you’ve scouted the place. What did you see?’
‘There’s a cluster of wooden houses at the water’s edge,’ said the archer. ‘I saw sentries there, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there are men posted in the houses. Immediately behind the houses is the lower bailey, with a strong gatehouse. The gates are open at the moment, but the portcullis is down. The upper bailey is about a hundred feet above the lower, at the top of a vertical cliff face. There are two ways up, an open stair and a covered passage carved through the rock. At the top is another gatehouse, and a high curtain wall around the donjon. All the walls and towers are manned.’
‘I doubt they would keep Mistress de Tesson in the lower bailey,’ Percy said. ‘I reckon she’ll be in the donjon.’
‘Trust the French to make things difficult for us,’ said Courcy, peering up at the dark tower.
‘Indeed,’ said Merrivale. ‘How do you propose to break into the castle, Sir John?’
Grey looked at Percy. ‘What do you think, Richard?’
‘There is a time for subtle and clever stratagems,’ Percy said. ‘This isn’t one of them. Clear the houses, sweep the wall, cut through the portcullis and then hard and fast up the stair and tunnel. Hold the donjon long enough to get the demoiselle out, and then back to the boats.’
‘That sounds simple enough,’ said Llewellyn. ‘So, what are we waiting for?’
‘There they are, my lord. You can see them now.’
Rollond de Brus squinted into the darkness, staring at the faint shimmer of the river. He had not believed the sentry at first when he claimed to have seen boats moving on the water, but the man had persisted. And there they were, a column of shallops moving under oars along the river, shadows against the greater shadow of the south bank.
‘Are they ours, or theirs?’ he wondered aloud.
‘Can’t tell from this distance, my lord.’
Silence fell. The night air had cooled a little but was still clammy with humidity. Brus mopped the sweat from his forehead, straining his eyes into the night as he watched the boats continue upriver. No, wait… was the lead boat turning? Yes, it was… by God, they were all turning, rowing hard now for the north shore and aiming to land just below the lower bailey.
From down the hill he heard a trumpet blowing the alarm. Further uphill the call was repeated, and he heard men running across the cobbles and up the stone steps to their posts on the walls. La Roche-Guyon was powerful and well defended, he thought; why would the English attack it now? The answer came on the heels of the thought; they were here to rescue their spy.
He looked down at the pyre waiting in the courtyard. By God, we’ll see about that, he thought. She’ll not cheat the executioner, not this time. Alençon would have to be disappointed. Turning, he ran down the spiral stair, shouldering men out of the way as they climbed up to man the defences, and on down to Tiphaine’s cell. He knew he needed to go and put on his armour and take command of the defence, but that could wait. This was more important.
Unlocking the door, he drew his sword and stepped inside, peering around in the darkness. Tiphaine, who had been standing behind the door, smashed him across the back of the head with a length of heavy iron chain, and he staggered forward. A second blow, delivered with furious force, knocked him unconscious, and he fell heavily onto the cobbles.
‘Now,’ Richard Percy said quietly. ‘Boatmen, turn towards the castle and pull like hell. Crossbowmen, make ready.’
The boats turned and began driving across the water towards the flickering torches of La Roche-Guyon. The men around him crouched in the boats, waiting. Harry Graham sat beside the herald, bow resting on the thwarts beside him. Young though he was, he exuded a calm confidence that Merrivale found reassuring, and Matt and Pip, seated behind them, were ruthless killers. Grey was right, he thought. I have stopped thinking of them as women. They are archers of the Red Company, and I am glad I have them at my back.
Something whipped through the air and struck the water beside the boat with a hard splash. More followed, crossbow bolts hitting the river or thudding into the boats, and one of the Welshmen shouted with pain and dropped his oar, clutching at his bloody arm. The longbowmen of the Red Company were hampered by the crowded boats, but the crossbowmen, crouching in the bows, shot back, picking off the enemy on the waterfront. Steadily the boats pushed on across the dark waters of the Seine.
Keels grated on shingle. The men were over the side in seconds, splashing in the shallows and running up into the town. Harry Graham turned and courteously offered Merrivale a hand. My God, the herald thought, how old does he think I am? They ran up the bank, Matt and Pip flanking them and nocking arrows as they went.
A street lined with half-timbered houses led to the gatehouse. The gates were still open, but they would not be for long. Crossbow bolts continued to fly, shot from the windows and doorways of the houses. ‘Clear them out,’ said Percy. ‘Llewellyn, take the left side, Courcy the right, Red Company straight up the middle. Stop for nothing.’
They ran, a solid corps of spearmen leading the way, the rest following. Genoese crossbowmen leaned out of the windows to shoot at them, and the Red Company’s archers fanned out across the street, picking off most of them before they could pull their triggers. A couple of spearmen fell wounded, tumbling down onto the cobbles, but the rest ran on, the air full of flying arrows and bolts, men shouting and yelling, the sounds of screaming behind them as the gallowglasses and the Welsh ran from house to house, smashing down doors, stabbing and killing.
Ahead loomed the gatehouse, gates already swinging shut. John Grey and the leading spearmen charged into the rapidly closing gap. There was a brief flurry of violence and the gates slammed open again. Men were still shooting from the ramparts, but clouds of arrows rose and a Genoese fell from the wall into the street, half a dozen arrows protruding from his body. More bodies lay in the arch under the gatehouse where Red Company men were attacking the portcullis with axes.
‘Ware the murder holes!’ someone shouted, and they all dodged to one side just as long lances stabbed down through holes in the ceiling, grating on the cobbles. A door in the stone wall slammed open and French men-at-arms charged out into the archway. For a moment Merrivale found himself hemmed against the wall by the mass of struggling, shouting men around him. Then Richard Percy crashed into the press, a dozen spearmen at his back, and the Red Company began howling their war cries – ‘Rouge! Roooouge!’ – and they drove French through the archway and out into the open courtyard beyond. The enemy turned to run, and the archers, stepping over the bodies of men bleeding on the ground, shot them one by one, steel points smashing through armour and flesh and bone and stretching the men-at-arms dead or dying on the cobbles.
They were in the lower bailey now, the cliff climbing above them towards the torchlit donjon dark against the clouds. At the top of the hill a trumpet was blowing the alarm, over and over. Close at hand a bowstring twanged, and Merrivale turned to see another crossbowman fall from the ramparts, transfixed by an arrow. Calmly, Pip nocked a fresh shaft and shot another man racing up the stairs towards the upper bailey. Courcy, Gráinne and the gallowglasses ran into the courtyard, followed by Llewellyn and his spearmen. ‘Everyone ready?’ asked John Grey. ‘Now comes the hard part.’
‘We’ll take the stair,’ Percy said. ‘The rest of you, up the tunnel. You too, herald. Rob, archers out in front this time.’
Heavy stones came crashing down the stair, hurled from the ramparts above, and the Red Company archers raised their bows and shot at the men silhouetted against the orange clouds, arrows black streaks in the unearthly light. Smoke began to boil up from burning houses below, sparks whirling around them like fireflies. Under cover of the smoke, the archers inched up the stairs, crouching, nocking arrows, rising, shooting and then ducking down again. The stones still fell, but less thickly than before.
Courcy nodded to his men and led the rush into the tunnel, the gallowglasses following with Merrivale and the Welshmen crowding behind. The tunnel was high and steep, the cobbles smooth and worn by the passage of wagon wheels and iron-shod horses, and the men around gasped and swore as they struggled to maintain their footing.
Torchlight flared ahead, the French shouting their own war cry, ‘Montjoie! Montjoie Saint-Denis!’, and heavily armoured men-at-arms ran down the slope, hurling themselves bodily into the gallowglasses. Courcy was knocked off his feet; Gráinne stood over him, her helm off, bleeding from a cut above one eye, slashing around her. A French knight raised a heavy mace, aiming a blow at her head, and paused in surprise when he realised she was a woman; and in that second of hesitation, Gráinne drove her sword point through his neck. Courcy was up again, the gallowglasses stabbing and slashing, the Welsh pressing forward, men screaming, the stench of hot blood strong in the air, and then they were moving again, driving the French back up the steep slope towards the top of the tunnel.
Gasping and bleeding, they broke out into the open space before the gatehouse. The Red Company were running up the stair, the ramparts were silent above them. A few bodies lay on the ground, pierced by feathered shafts. The gates were shut; the last of the French men-at-arms, with nowhere to run, turned and fought and died. Even as they fell, Red Company men were throwing grapnels over the ramparts of the gatehouse and beginning to climb. A crossbowman leaned over the wall to shoot at them; a dozen bowstrings twanged and the Genoese dropped his bow, which clattered to the ground in front of the gate. His body slumped against the rampart.
The first men reached the rampart and climbed over. There was a brief clatter of fighting beyond the wall, followed by a tense silence; then the gates swung open and the Red Company swarmed inside, followed by the rest. They ducked under the partly lifted portcullis and ran into the upper bailey, the archers picking off the last defenders as they tried to flee. A woman screamed, and Merrivale turned in sudden horror.
Tiphaine stood on the platform above the pyre. She held a sword in her hand. Facing her was a half-circle of nuns in black habits, their faces hard and implacable under their wimples, barring her escape. Below, more nuns with torches were lighting the faggots. In several places the fire had already taken hold.
Merrivale ran towards the pyre. One of the nuns turned towards him, swinging her torch viciously at his head, but he ducked under it and rammed her with his shoulder, knocking her off her feet. Running up the steps to the platform, he found the other nuns barring his way. He tried to dodge past them to reach Tiphaine, but they seized his arms, screaming curses at him and trying to push him over the edge of the platform. Bracing himself, he tore free and shoved the nearest woman hard, throwing her onto her back. Another nun ran at him, spitting in his face and clawing at his eyes; he stepped sideways to avoid her and she tripped on the hem of her long habit and fell, toppling over the edge of the platform into the fire below.
Then Graham was alongside him, and Matt and Pip with arrows at the nock. At the sight of their grim faces, the other nuns hesitated. ‘Get back!’ the herald commanded.
‘English devil-spawn!’ one of the women screamed. ‘Burn, all of you, burn! Roast in hell for eternity!’
Merrivale grabbed Tiphaine’s arm and pulled her down the steps. She was shaking and trembling as though she had a fever. Graham and the two archers followed, the nuns still screaming abuse at them.
John Grey was in the courtyard, receiving reports from the vintenars. ‘That’s the garrison taken care of, sir,’ said one of them. ‘There’s no one left but the sisters, and the ladies and their servants in the hall.’
‘Leave them be,’ Grey said. ‘What about the enemy?’
An archer ran up, touching his cap in salute. ‘The French camp is arming, sir. And there is already a strong company of men-at-arms and crossbowmen coming this way. They’ll be here in a few minutes.’
Grey nodded. ‘Is this the lady we came for, herald?’
‘Yes,’ said Merrivale.
‘Signal the men to fall back to the boats. Right, everyone. Time to go.’