Dawn was a blaze of glory in the east, the sky painted with vibrant colours, and in the brilliant light the flames leaping from the roof of the abbey of Saint-Lucien seemed pale, almost transparent. Two more monasteries burned in the middle distance, smoke rising to cloud the fading stars. Watchfires glimmered on the walls of Beauvais, the city’s defenders standing to and waiting for the English assault.
The Prince of Wales and his father were shouting at each other. ‘What are they arguing about?’ asked Lord Rowton.
‘His Highness wishes to attack,’ Merrivale said. ‘His men are spoiling for a fight, he says, and the city is rich and offers many opportunities for plunder. His Grace says it would take too long and cost too many casualties.’
Rowton snorted. His arm was still strapped in its sling, now dirty with travel and fighting. ‘His Grace is right, of course. Spoiling for a fight? Christ, have you seen the men? We’ve marched thirty miles in two days since Poissy, and they’re exhausted. Their boots are wearing out, and we’re running low on flour and pottage. I tell you, this army is in no condition to give battle.’
‘I am inclined to agree, my lord. What is the latest news of the French?’
‘While we were at Poissy, the main body of their army moved to defend Paris as we assumed they would. But King Jean and his Bohemian troops remained at Saint-Denis, and they are already in pursuit. Philip and the main army are a day behind us now, but the Bohemians are closer, and they have fast light cavalry called panzerati that can make up the ground quickly. If the prince wants fighting, he is going to see plenty of it in the days to come.’
The shouting match ended as everyone knew it would; the prince throwing his arms in the air and stalking away in a fury, the king watching him with a small smile of satisfaction on his face. Around them the army streamed past in long columns, skirting the city and pressing on north.
‘May I have a moment of your time, my lord?’ Merrivale asked. ‘There is a rather delicate matter I wish to discuss with you.’
‘Is this to do with that unfortunate incident at Poissy?’
‘Yes, my lord. Something is rotten in Sir Edward de Tracey’s retinue. The deserter, Slade, killed the king’s sauce-maker and twice attempted to poison the food. I am certain that Clerebaud was corrupted by Nicodemus, and that Slade was also working to Nicodemus’s orders.’
‘Have you found Nicodemus yet?’
‘No, my lord, but the search by Grey and Percy’s company confirmed he is still with the army, probably in some sort of disguise. Unfortunately, I am no longer able to avail myself of their services.’ The Red Company were out on the army’s eastern flank, ready to ward off the expected attacks of the Bohemians; only Matt and Pip remained behind, continuing their vigil as the herald’s bodyguards.
‘What do you need from me?’ Rowton asked.
‘How much influence does Sir Edward de Tracey have with the king?’
By the look on his face, it was clear that Rowton had not been expecting the question. ‘How much do you think he has? His brother is the king’s banker, after all.’
‘I ask, my lord, because someone persuaded the king to stop me from investigating Sir Edmund Bray’s death.’
‘And you think that might have been Tracey. Why?’
‘To protect Nicodemus, who formerly worked for Sir Edward’s father, Sir John de Tracey. Among other things, Sir John and Nicodemus bought and sold slaves after the sack of Southampton. Several hundred English children were sold to buyers overseas.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Rowton stared at him. ‘Can you prove this?’
‘At the moment, it is hearsay only. If I could lay hands on Nicodemus, I daresay I could.’
‘Have you spoken to Tracey about this?’
‘No, my lord. For whatever reason, I believe he is still protecting Nicodemus.’
The golden rim of the sun broke over the eastern horizon, inaugurating another day of fire. ‘Leave this with me,’ Rowton said. ‘I will speak with the king, and with Tracey. If he really is protecting this man, then God help him.’
‘The prince’s division only made twelve miles today,’ said Richard Percy. ‘Any idea why?’
Percy had been in the field all day; he had ridden in to report to the king’s headquarters at Sommereux, a couple of miles away to the north-west, and had stopped en route to see if there was any news.
‘The men disobeyed orders,’ Merrivale said. ‘They stopped to plunder and burn a couple of towns as we passed.’
‘Jesus Christ. Did the prince do nothing to stop them?’
‘No.’ As at Carentan, the young men had sat on the backs of their horses and laughed at the flames, cheering when roofs collapsed and ignoring the marshal when he tried to hurry them on. ‘They are boys,’ the herald said, ‘and they have a boy’s love of fire.’
‘Well, they had better start growing up. The Bohemians are there.’ Percy pointed to the east, where the sky was darkening to periwinkle blue and the first stars were pricking out. ‘They drew level with us today, and they are marching faster and harder than we are. If King Jean reaches the Somme and its bridges before we do, then we can bend over and kiss our arses farewell.’
Still angry, Percy rode away towards headquarters. The herald stood for a moment, watching the stars, and then turned and walked into the Prince of Wales’s pavilion. Dinner had finished, though plates littered with fish bones were still stacked on the tables. There were no sauces.
‘Highness,’ said the herald. ‘May I have a brief word?’
The prince paused, dice in hand, and waved to his companions. ‘Leave us for a moment. What is it, herald?’
‘Your defiance of your father does you credit,’ Merrivale said. ‘It is good to see you asserting your authority. Independence of spirit is one of the assay marks of a good leader.’
The young face glowed with pride. ‘I am pleased to hear you say so, herald. I value your opinion, as you know.’
‘Thank you, Highness. However, there must be no repeat of the scenes today.’
The prince’s face lost some of its brightness. ‘Why not?’ he demanded.
‘Because while we lingered and watched French towns burn, their army marched. We have now lost all the advantage we gained when we departed from Poissy.’
‘The adversary is close at hand?’
‘The royal army is still a day behind us, Highness. But King Jean of Bohemia and his troops are far too close for comfort.’
The prince’s face lit up again. ‘Blind King Jean? The crusader, the greatest general and warrior of our time? Oh, herald! It would be such an honour to match a lance with him!’
‘King Jean will not fight us, Highness, not yet. I know his mind and how he thinks. He aims to reach the Somme before us and seize the bridges. If he succeeds, we will be in even greater peril than we were at Poissy.’
‘Ah.’ There was a pause while the implications sank in. ‘Then we shall keep the men moving tomorrow,’ the prince said abruptly. ‘I will see to it, herald, and I will order the lord marshal to make it so.’ He hesitated. ‘You say you know King Jean’s mind. Have you met him?’
‘Once,’ the herald said. ‘It did not go well.’
‘What happened?’
‘He ordered me to be tied inside a sack and thrown into a river to drown. It is his favourite way of getting rid of those who displease him.’
The prince’s jaw dropped. ‘Why did he do that?’
‘I brought him a message he did not like. He is a choleric man, and it takes little to anger him.’
‘But… a sack in the river, to drown like a rat.’ The prince paused, clearly re-evaluating his hero. ‘How did you survive?’
Memories were crowding around the herald, and he was growing tired of them. ‘I didn’t,’ he said. He bowed, turned and left the pavilion. Behind him he heard the prince explode into sudden laughter.
They had eaten Marigold two days ago, the night after the passage around Beauvais. She was the last of the milk cows to go; Garnet had been taken the day after they marched from Poissy. Milk cows were not meant for marching long distances over hard ground, and the poor beasts were so tired and worn that Nell thought it was almost a kindness to slaughter them. A farmer’s daughter, she was unsentimental about her cows, or pretended to be, but now that they were gone, she had nothing to care for and no real occupation. She helped out in the royal kitchen where she could, eating leftovers in the evening and sleeping in the open fields with the other servants. She found she was beginning to miss her home.
She knew the danger, of course. They had marched hard today, but the rumours, running fast through the army, said they would never reach the Somme. Already there had been skirmishes out on the right flank. Everyone knew about Blind Jean, the famous King of Bohemia, and the kitchen staff discussed the battles he had fought and victories he had won in hushed, apprehensive voices. Now King Jean and his veteran troops were just over the eastern horizon, poised to reach the Somme before them and cut off their advance. If that happened, her chances of seeing her home again were small.
Kicking off her worn shoes and carrying them in her hand, she walked away from the camp. After the heat of the day, the grass felt cool under her feet. The moon was a thin scimitar already low in the west, and darkness lay heavy over the fields. She stopped after a while, looking up at the stars and seeing the familiar patterns, Arthur’s Wain, the Harp, the Archer with his belt. In a moment of whimsy, she wondered where a mere archer had managed to find a belt with so many glowing jewels. Probably looted it from somewhere, she thought.
She realised she could hear voices, very dim and faint, just on the edge of hearing. For a moment she was reminded of being back in Freshwater, waking in the barn with Marigold and listening to the men outside, but these were different voices, speaking with Devon accents; and moreover, she thought she recognised one of them. She strained for a moment, listening to the faint whispers, and realised with a shock that one of them was Nicodemus.
‘That’s the orders, boy. Do it right away, you hear? There’s no time to waste.’
‘What about the money, Nic?’ whispered another voice. ‘When do we see it?’
‘Tomorrow, when you’ve done your work. Ten florins it’ll be, for each of you. But no mistakes now. If you fail, there’s no money for any of us.’
‘Aye, Nic. We’ll attend to it.’
The voices ceased. Nell listened, holding her breath. Two shadows detached themselves from the blackness. Neither was Nicodemus; they were too tall and too broad in the shoulder. Taking a deep breath, she followed the two men back towards the camp.
Tiphaine was sitting on a bench outside the tent when the herald returned from dinner. ‘Have you eaten?’ he asked.
‘Salt fish. I did not enjoy it.’
‘The food at the prince’s table was little better. Salt fish and dried mutton are about all we have left. Who is on watch tonight?’
‘The younger one. Pip.’
Merrivale turned to see the archer standing in the shadows not far away, motionless and watchful. Since the Red Company’s deployment into the field, the two sisters had been keeping watch in turns. Merrivale had offered to send them back to their company, but John Grey had refused. ‘Keep them with you,’ he had said tersely. ‘You are still in danger, perhaps now more than ever.’
‘You should be sleeping,’ the herald said to Tiphaine.
‘Inside the tent it is hot and airless. Out here it is cool. Sit down, if you wish.’
Merrivale pulled off his heavy tabard and sat down on the bench beside her. The night air smelled of smoke and sweat, bruised grass and the scent of horses in the lines nearby. Silence fell. Tiphaine sat gazing towards the east, where the glow of the Bohemian campfires was a thin orange line on the horizon.
‘They will be over the river tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Won’t they?’
‘Yes,’ said Merrivale. ‘And we have no way of stopping them. Jean of Bohemia will win the race.’
‘And then what?’
‘I don’t know. It is up to our commanders to devise some way out of this latest trap we have fallen into.’
Another long silence ensued. Merrivale watched Tiphaine’s face, faint in profile in the dim light. He saw the long Norman nose, the straight, serious eyebrows and the thin, firm-set mouth. A strong face, he thought, and yet her chin was surprisingly soft, her eyelashes as delicate as silk threads. A perplexing face, a mixture of hard and gentle, like the soul that lay beneath it.
‘Why did you go to Rouen?’ he asked quietly.
‘The queen told me I would find Rollond de Brus there. I thought I could talk to him and he would not betray me. I was wrong,’ she added.
‘You knew him from before?’
‘Of course. His, like mine, is a prominent family. He is a cousin of the kings of Scotland, the Bruces. There was talk of a match between us. I knew Rollond wanted me for his wife. I was less certain.’
‘Why?’
Tiphaine looked down at her hands. ‘He is a very comely man; many would say he is beautiful. When he suggested we become lovers, I was more than willing.’ She glanced up at Merrivale with a wry smile. ‘And why not? You would not buy a horse without riding it first, would you?’
‘Was this what he said?’
‘That is what I said. And I will tell you the truth. I found the ride very agreeable at first.’
She waited to see if he was shocked. ‘What happened?’ Merrivale asked.
‘After a time, once the delights of fornication had worn off, I began to realise his true nature. He is beautiful, but no one admires his beauty more than he himself. Narcissus could not rival him for vanity. And he knows the power that his charm gives him over women; oh, and men too, and that is what he lives for. There is not a single particle in his body that has ever given a thought for the happiness and well-being of anyone other than himself. I realised that I was just another mirror, into which he looked in order to admire himself more fully.’
She paused. ‘I left him. But when I did so, I did not realise how much I had wounded his pride, or how badly he desired to revenge himself on me. When I walked into the castle at Rouen, he was overjoyed. I was foolish enough to believe that he was delighted to see me once more. Too late, I learned how wrong I was.’
‘Yes,’ Merrivale said. ‘We all learn too late.’
Silence fell. The words lay between them, almost visible in the air, settling like dew on the grass.
‘I asked you once if there had ever been a woman in your life,’ Tiphaine said. ‘You did not answer. I assume that means there was.’
‘Yes,’ Merrivale said finally. ‘There was.’
‘Is she still alive?’
‘Yes. But she is unobtainable, at least to me.’
‘Did you love her?’ Tiphaine asked quietly.
He considered the question for a long time. ‘Love,’ he said finally. ‘Such a small and insignificant word. It hardly begins to describe the turmoil of the soul, the terror and ecstasy and lunacy that burn like fever-candles… yes, I did love her. But those words don’t do her justice, nor me.’
‘Tell me about her.’
‘What can I say? She was everything. She was Iseult and Morgana and Blanchefleur all rolled into one. She was the fire and the flame; she was the lily, and the rose.’
Tiphaine’s voice was low. ‘But it ended.’
‘Yes. It turns out that the storybooks are all wrong. Our wishes were not granted. The kindly fates did not bring us together. No Olympian gods turned us into stars and planted us in the night sky to shine for evermore. No smiling Virgin looked down from her ikon and granted us eternal bliss. What we had turned to ashes and left us with nothing. And I still don’t understand, Tiphaine. Why give us happiness in the first place, if only to take it away?’
‘What happened?’ she asked, echoing his own words.
‘She was unobtainable. There is really no more to say.’
Tiphaine did not speak again. After a while, she turned and kissed his cheek, her lips soft as a bee’s wing as they brushed his skin, and then she rose and went inside the tent.
Memories, the herald thought. As if we do not have enough cares in the present world, the past sends its phantoms to plague us as well. He shivered as he shrugged on his tabard once more, and he knew that it was not the cold that made him shiver.
He walked away from the tent, looking out towards the orange glow in the east. Ten miles to the Somme, he thought. Irrational hope suggested that there might still be a way across; after all, they had triumphed at Poissy when all seemed lost. Reason told him this was a lie. Lightning did not strike twice.
Something rustled in the darkness behind him. Nell Driver’s voice screamed, ‘Sir Herald! Look out!’
That half-second of warning saved his life. Merrivale turned, and the cudgel that had been aimed for the crown of his head hit his left shoulder instead. The padding of his tabard absorbed most of the blow, but it was still hard enough to numb his arm and make him wince with pain. He stumbled, a second blow thudding into his back, and then the man behind him was grappling with him, trying to slip something around his throat. A few yards away Pip was fighting with another man in the shadows. With his good hand, Merrivale caught hold of the bowstring his assailant was trying to use to choke him and pulled it forward, shuffling his boots to locate the other man’s foot and then stamping down hard. The man grunted, his grip on the bowstring slackening, and Merrivale ripped it out of his hands and spun around, hitting him with a back-handed blow across his jaw that knocked him onto his back.
Pip was down on her knees, and her attacker had looped his own bowstring around her neck and was pulling hard. Choking silently, she scrabbled at the string, trying to pull it free. Merrivale ran straight into the man, knocking him sideways. The man stumbled but stayed on his feet and swung his fist, hitting Merrivale a powerful blow in the midriff and knocking the wind from his lungs. Gasping, the herald sank to his knees, seeing a dim flash of light as the man pulled something from his belt. Out of the shadows Nell came running, knife in hand, but the man turned to face her, towering over her with his own knife raised for the kill.
A bowstring twanged and an arrow drove into the man’s ribs, burying itself halfway to the fletchings. Shot through the heart, he collapsed and fell without a sound, blood pouring black from his mouth as he lay on the grass. Pip walked forward, carrying her bow in one hand and rubbing her neck with the other. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Likewise,’ Merrivale said, getting to his feet. His arm was still tingling, but he could feel his fingers again, and when he flexed his shoulder, nothing seemed to be broken.
Tiphaine appeared, followed by Mauro and Warin. The shot man lay lifeless on the ground. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Pip said. ‘Looks like we’ve done it again. You probably wanted him alive to question him.’
‘Under the circumstances, you were fully justified. What about the other one?’ But there was no sign of the man Merrivale had knocked down. Clearly I didn’t hit him hard enough, he thought. He looked at Nell.
‘What are you doing here, Mistress Driver?’
‘I overheard them two talking with Nicodemus, sir. They were Devon men, I reckon. They called him Nic, like they were friends.’
‘From Tracey’s retinue,’ the herald said grimly. ‘Did you see where Nicodemus went?’
‘No, sir, but I followed the other two. Nicodemus promised them money to do something, but I didn’t realise what it was till now.’
Rowton had said he would speak to Tracey about Nicodemus. This was the archer’s response. ‘How much did he offer them?’ the herald asked.
‘Ten florins each, sir.’
‘So little? I would set a higher value on my life than that.’
He looked around the little group. ‘I think that is quite enough excitement for one night,’ he said. ‘I suggest we all get some sleep. Tomorrow promises to be a long day.’
‘That was a damned stupid thing to do,’ said the man from the north.
‘Someone had to do something,’ snapped the man from the West Country. ‘You promised you would take care of the herald, but you didn’t. He sank us at Poissy, and now we have to go and grovel in front of our partners and explain what went wrong.’
‘I said I would take care of him, and I will.’
‘Would you care to tell me how?’
‘Not yet.’
‘What do you mean, not yet? You haven’t thought of anything, have you?’
‘No, but I will,’ said the man from the north. ‘Now concentrate on the matter at hand. This is going to be difficult.’
The horizon was full of fire. To the west, watchfires glowed on the walls of the towns of Oisemont and Abbeville; to the east and south lay a long convex arc of orange light marking the positions of the main French army. And ominously, to the north, clusters of twinkling lights showed where Bohemian troops now guarded the bridges over the Somme. The race was over, and the blind king had won.
Closer at hand, the flames of burning farms and villages flickered like candles as the English continued their work of devastation. The lurid light showed five men waiting by a grove of trees, standing by their saddled horses. The man from the north frowned. ‘There should be more of them,’ he murmured. ‘Something is wrong.’
John of Hainault stepped forward and bowed, stiffly and with a muffled clank of armour under his cloak. Nanteuil, the Grand Prior of the Knights of Saint John, was with him. ‘Welcome,’ Hainault said quietly.
‘Where is the Count of Alençon?’ asked the man from the north.
‘His duties do not permit him to leave the army,’ a younger man said smoothly. ‘He sent me in his place to represent him. We met at Poissy, my lord. My name is Rollond de Brus.’ He gestured to the other two men. ‘This is Monsignor Raimon Vidal, secretary to Cardinal Aubert. He represents the cardinals, and by extension Signors Doria and Grimaldi. And this is Vilém Zajíc, herald to King Jean of Bohemia. He represents the interests of Count Rožmberk.’
They don’t want to meet us, the man from the north thought in sudden anger. They are fobbing us off with their underlings. The Savoyard, Louis of Vaud had not even bothered to send a representative.
‘Tell us what you want,’ said Brus. ‘Quickly, so that we may be gone.’
‘We have a new plan,’ said the man from the West Country.
The Grand Prior raised his eyebrows. ‘What happened to the last one? You promised us you would cripple the English at Poissy. The king and his captains would die, and – what was your phrase? We could round up the rest at our leisure.’
‘That plan failed. We have another one. Must we go over old ground?’
Vidal the secretary cleared his throat. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think we must. My master the cardinal insists on knowing what went wrong.’
‘We attempted to poison the food at the feast of the Assumption,’ the man from the West Country said. ‘We thought the plan was foolproof, but someone found out about it.’
‘Someone?’ demanded Zajíc the herald. ‘Who?’
‘Simon Merrivale,’ said the man from the West Country. ‘The Prince of Wales’s herald.’
Zajíc and Vidal looked at each other in the dim light. ‘That man is dangerous,’ said Vidal. ‘You must remove him.’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ said the man from the West Country. ‘We have tried to kill him several times.’
‘I did not say, kill him,’ said Vidal. ‘I said, remove him from the game. Or even better, turn him. Bring him over to our side.’
There was a long pause. ‘Can that be done?’ asked the man from the north.
‘I know Merrivale well, as does my friend from Bohemia. We have sparred with him in the past. He is impressive. We could use his services.’
The West Country man was reluctant. ‘Killing him would be safer.’
Vidal shook his head. ‘But you have failed already, remember? Merrivale is a survivor. And as long as he lives, he will make trouble for you. My advice is to buy him.’
‘What do you have in mind?’ asked the man from the north.
‘Tomorrow your army will attack the bridges on the Somme and try to force a passage,’ said Zajíc. ‘They will fail, of course. No one has ever defeated the blind king.’
Vidal nodded. ‘When the fighting is over, we will send a flag of truce and offer to exchange prisoners. Make certain Merrivale is one of those who comes to meet us. Vilém and I will speak to him then. Be prepared to pay whatever price he asks.’
‘Why are you so certain he will betray his masters?’ asked the man from the West Country.
‘Everyone has his price,’ the Grand Prior said. ‘You have proven that already, my lords.’
The man from the north nodded. ‘We will do as you ask,’ he said.
‘And then what?’ asked the Grand Prior. ‘You spoke of another plan.’
‘Edward’s army is exhausted and running low on food. You must use the Bohemians to hold the bridges, as Master Zajíc suggests, while the rest of the army drives Edward west. Beyond Abbeville, the Somme broadens out into a wide estuary, and there are no more bridges.’
‘But there is a ford,’ John of Hainault said. ‘The White Road across the Somme, which can be crossed at low tide. Remember?’
‘We remember. And we will ensure that Edward remembers too. He is running out of ground for manoeuvre. Faced with a choice between starvation and being pushed into the sea, he will attempt the ford. Once his army is in the river, all you need do is stop up both ends of the ford, pin him there and wait for the tide to come in.’
‘The entire English army will drown,’ said the man from the West Country. ‘And that, gentlemen, will be your moment to strike.’
‘I think you may rely on us to know when it is time to strike,’ said the Grand Prior. He moved towards his horse and stepped up into the saddle. ‘Come, it is dangerous to linger here. Have your money ready, gentlemen. We shall require payment in full.’
He turned his horse and rode away. Brus, Vidal and Zajíc followed him. Hainault waited until they were out of earshot. ‘You must make no mistake this time,’ he said.
‘We shall not,’ said the man from the north.
‘Things happen in war. I understand this, but my friends are less tolerant. Alençon in particular will lose patience quickly. Are you certain you can find the White Road?’
‘I am.’
‘Good.’ Hainault mounted his horse and sat for a moment in the saddle, looking down at them. ‘Good luck, my friends. And remember, no more mistakes.’ Hainault rode away. The man from the north stood looking after him for a moment, and then suddenly, uncharacteristically, he spat hard on the ground.
‘He always was an arrogant bastard,’ he said.
‘We have tried every bridge,’ said Warwick. The marshal looked exhausted, his armour covered with dust and his surcoat dark with dried blood. ‘Pont-Remy, Longpré, Hangest, Picquigny, every time with the same result. Our archers cut the Bohemians to pieces, but they stood their ground and replied with crossbows and stone shot. We could gain no ground.’
Another sunset flamed and died in the west, the end of the hardest day of the campaign so far. A few miles away to the south, the rearguard under Arundel, reinforced by the Red Company, had spent the entire day fighting off a relentless series of French attacks.
‘We left the causeway at Pont-Remy paved with blood,’ said Godefroi d’Harcourt. ‘Their losses were terrible, but so were ours. God curse King Jean. Even blind, he can read a battlefield better than most men.’
‘What about Amiens?’ the king demanded.
‘Heavily fortified, and now most of the adversary’s army are inside the walls. It is even more impregnable than Paris.’
‘Abbeville? That is the last bridge downstream.’
‘Fortified too, with a garrison of local troops and a contingent of Bohemians to stiffen them.’ Warwick paused. ‘There is still the Blanchetaque. The White Road.’
‘The ford west of Abbeville,’ said the king. ‘I’ve heard of it, of course. Does anyone know where it is?’
‘The Blanchetaque? It is a myth, sire,’ said Lord Rowton. ‘The country people talk about a white road under the water where ghosts of Roman soldiers march when the moon is full.’
‘Perhaps it is a myth, and perhaps it isn’t,’ the king said. ‘But if the ford is there, and we can’t force the bridges, then it may be the answer to our prayers.’
Rowton looked sceptical. ‘Even if there is a ford, it is fifteen miles from Abbeville to the sea. Finding it will not be easy.’
The king turned on him. ‘God damn it, Eustace, what else are we supposed to do? We’ve food for only three more days and no other way across the river. What do you suggest?’
Rowton said nothing. ‘Find that ford,’ the king said. ‘Either that, or find someone who knows where it is. That is an order, Eustace. I am holding you personally responsible for this.’
Rowton bowed, his face stony. ‘Yes, sire.’
‘Good, make it so.’ The king turned again, shading his eyes in the sunset light. ‘Who are these people, and what do they want?’
Three horsemen were riding down from the north, pulling up as they neared the camp. Their leader held a large white flag on a staff over his head. ‘It is Montjoie Herald, sire,’ said Andrew Clarenceux. ‘The adversary’s ambassador. It seems he wishes to parley.’
‘What in Christ’s name for? He already has us exactly where he wants us.’ The king nodded. ‘Very well, Clarenceux, go and see him. Merrivale, go with him. But if they are offering another proposal for peace, tell them to go to hell.’
‘What do you suppose they do want?’ Clarenceux asked as they trotted their horses towards the waiting men.
‘I don’t know,’ said Merrivale, watching them with narrowed eyes. ‘Andrew, I suggest you talk directly with Montjoie. I will deal with the other two.’
They reined in their horses a few yards from the waiting men and bowed from the saddle. ‘Montjoie,’ said Clarenceux. ‘What brings you here?’
‘I am glad to see you well, Andrew,’ the French herald said, smiling. ‘I heard you were running low on food. I can send for some bread, if you wish, or perhaps some fruit? The quinces have ripened early this year.’
‘Ah, you remember my fondness for quinces,’ said Clarenceux, bowing again. ‘It is kind of you to think of me, but the hour is growing late and I think we should get down to business.’
‘Very well. We took some of your men-at-arms prisoner today, and I believe you took some of ours a few days ago. Would your king be willing to consider an exchange, with prisoners on both sides to go free provided they give their parole?’
‘Certainly we can discuss it,’ said Clarenceux. ‘Whom have you taken?’
Merrivale listened a moment while Montjoie began to list the prisoners, and then turned his mount and rode a few yards away. The other two horsemen followed.
‘Simon, my friend,’ said Vidal, the brown-robed Franciscan. ‘A pleasure to see you again. And you remember Vilém Zajíc, of course.’
‘Good evening, sir,’ said Zajíc smiling. He wore a tabard with a distinctive badge, a white lion rampant with two tails on a field of red. ‘I see you survived your dip in the river.’
‘It was kind of your master to arrange for me to have a bath,’ said Merrivale. ‘What do you two want?’
‘I will be honest with you,’ said Vidal.
‘That would be a novelty.’
‘There is a first time for everything,’ he agreed. ‘You know about the plots, of course, the conspiracies in England and in France. But you do not yet know who is behind them.’
‘Are you going to tell me?’
‘Here and now? No. But there is a way you can gratify your curiosity.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You can join us,’ said Zajíc.
‘Ah,’ said Merrivale after a moment. ‘Why would I wish to do that?’
‘Because we are going to win,’ Vidal said. ‘What you said in Lisieux was right. The French plot centres around Alençon and Cardinal Aubert. The Italians are involved too, Cardinal Ceccano and Doria and Grimaldi. But there are others too.’
Merrivale looked at Zajíc. ‘The King of Bohemia?’
The other herald nodded. ‘Count Rožmberk his chamberlain is one of us.’
‘And the Knights of Saint John,’ said Vidal. He paused for a moment. ‘And an old friend of yours. Louis of Vaud, the regent of Savoy.’
Merrivale turned his head for a moment, staring out at the livid red glow of the sunset, full of smoky brilliance like the entrance to a furnace, or the gates of hell. ‘Why do you mention him?’
‘As a lure, of course,’ said Vidal. ‘We know you trust Louis. With him on our side, you can be sure that our intention is genuine and that our actions will be honourable. We are doing this to bring about the end of the war, Simon. The fighting has already lasted for too long. We all need peace. Removing both Edward and Philippe is the only way to reconcile the two nations.’
Merrivale shook his head. ‘This is not about the war. This conspiracy has longer roots than that, Raimon. Is John of Hainault involved?’
The two men glanced at each other. ‘Yes,’ said Vidal. ‘He is.’
‘King Philip’s councillor and friend. Formerly, councillor and friend to the young King Edward. And before that, he was Roger Mortimer’s right hand. This conspiracy has been twenty years in the making, has it not, Raimon?’
‘I cannot answer that,’ Vidal said. ‘But Louis of Vaud can.’
Silence fell. ‘We have told you who the actors are,’ said Zajíc. ‘If you want to know the rest, how the plot began and who is pulling the strings, all you have to do is join us. But of course you will never be able to go back.’
‘You will not want to,’ Vidal said. ‘This time you will be on the winning side.’
‘I wish to speak to Louis of Vaud,’ Merrivale said. ‘And to Doria and Grimaldi. All three of them.’
Again the two men glanced at each other. ‘Perhaps it can be arranged,’ said Zajíc.
‘Where and when?’
‘That depends on whether they are willing to meet you,’ Vidal said. ‘We will let you know.’
Clarenceux and Montjoie finished their business, parting with professional courtesy. Silently Merrivale rejoined his colleague and rode back towards the camp around Airaines. Vidal and Zajíc watched him go. ‘He is an unusual man,’ said Vidal.
‘Why do you say so?’
‘Well, for one thing, he didn’t even ask how much we were going to pay him.’
Inquisition into the death of Edmund Bray, knight, near the village of Quettehou in Normandy on the XIIth day of July, in the nineteenth year of the reign of King Edward III. This report was composed on the XXIInd day of August, at the town of Airaines.
Item, one of the leaders of the conspiracy can now be identified as John of Hainault, Lord of Beaumont, a member of the adversary’s council.
Item, John of Hainault was also a lieutenant of Roger Mortimer, Earl of March, and was present at Berkeley Castle the night the king’s late father was assassinated. Hainault was also privy to a plot by Mortimer to remove his Grace the king and to rule England in the name of the King of France.
Item, some of Hainault’s late co-conspirators are still working with him, and are attempting to complete the plot they began at Berkeley Castle. Their aim is the overthrow of both England and France. They have powerful allies, including the King of Bohemia, the Count of Alençon, Cardinals Aubert and Ceccano, the Knights of Saint John, the captains of the Genoese mercenaries, and possibly the regent of Savoy, Count Louis of Vaud.
Item, the conspirators attempted to destroy the English army at Poissy. They are now attempting to complete their work, and are undermining our foundations even as I write these words.
Simon Merrivale, heraldus
‘What in hell’s name is this?’ The king, in his night robe, waved the piece of parchment at the herald. ‘You were appointed to enquire into Bray’s death, not go raking up old events. For Christ’s sake, Merrivale, what did you think you were doing?’
‘There is something else I did not put in the report, sire,’ said Merrivale. ‘Edmund Bray’s father was also present at Berkeley Castle that night. He fell out with the others when he learned of your father’s death, and never spoke to them again.’
The king stared at him. ‘Bray’s father? How do you know this?’
‘Does your Grace really wish me to answer that question?’
The king paused for a moment. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, God damn it, I don’t. I want this entire business to disappear. Do you understand me? If my father really did die at Berkeley, it was twenty years ago. There is nothing to be gained by bringing it up again now. Understood?’
‘Yes, sire. What about John of Hainault?’
‘Even if he is plotting against the King of France, so what? Let the bastard plot. Have you any direct evidence that he is plotting against me also?’
‘No, sire. Just rumours and suspicion.’
‘Rumours and suspicion,’ the king repeated. ‘The usual stock-in-trade of you spies.’
‘Yet someone tried to poison you and your entire court at Poissy, sire.’
‘The poisoners are both dead. Can you connect them with Hainault?’
‘No, sire. But men wearing his badges also raided our camp several days before Poissy. It is possible that they were attempting to assassinate you and the prince.’
The king waved the parchment again. ‘Of course they were. We are at war, and Hainault is on the enemy’s side. He always was a ruthless bastard. Well, so am I, Merrivale. This army will cross the Somme, and we will reach Flanders and safety, and Hainault is damned well not going to stand in our way. Right now, that is the only thing that matters.’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘Dragging up the past is not going to help. Twenty years ago, we were a nation divided and riven by strife. I have spent two decades reuniting us and giving us a sense of purpose. I will not see that undone now. Do you understand me?’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘Good. Now, make an end to your enquiry and resume your usual duties. Let Edmund Bray rest easy in his grave.’ The king paused for a moment, staring into space. ‘His father, you say. Is he still alive?’
‘Yes, sire.’
‘Hmm, well… a matter for another time, perhaps.’ The king dropped the parchment onto a side table. ‘That is all, Merrivale. You may go.’