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  Guilbert helped de Chargny’s son remove his habergeon, and it was then that Humbert noticed the bloody rent in the fabric of his gambeson. ‘But… you’re wounded!’ he protested.

  The youth’s father made a dismissive gesture. ‘A trifle. He must learn not to shrink from the sight of blood – least of all his own – if he is ever to show any prowess as a knight.’

  Humbert was unconvinced. ‘Were you not using blunted weapons?’

  De Chargny turned his unblinking eyes on the Dauphin of Vienne. ‘I fight to train for war, not for sport,’ he said coldly. ‘He will learn nothing now if it is not reinforced with the same fear he will experience when he meets an enemy armed with an unblunted blade for the first time.’

  As de Chargny’s son left the veranda to have the wound in his shoulder seen to, a servant entered and bowed low both to Humbert and de Chargny. ‘Sir Ivo la Zouche is here to see you, Messieurs.’

  La Zouche had not waited in the hallway but followed the servant into the courtyard almost immediately. An English knight, dressed in simple pale blue robes, his cloak was emblazoned with the eight-pointed star of the Knights of the Hospital Saint John. In his right hand he waved a piece of parchment, its edges adorned with a broken wax seal. ‘There’s a ship just in from Venice, bearing news from the west,’ he explained with a grin. ‘You owe me fifteen marks, Sir Geoffroi.’

  De Chargny was bewildered. ‘How so?’

  ‘Those unconfirmed rumours of a great battle in which the English massacred the French, which you wagered could not be true? They’ve just been confirmed. My brother Roger has written to me – he was there himself.’

  De Chargny was stunned.

  ‘The King of Bohemia and the Duke of Lorraine were both killed,’ said la Zouche, reading from his letter. ‘So were the Counts of Flanders, Alençon, Auxerre, Blois, Vaudemont, Harcourt, Grandpré, the Seigneur de Briquebec…’

  ‘All dead?’ de Chargny lamented softly. Men with whom he had hunted, feasted, jousted, fought… killed by the English? ‘I cannot believe it.’

  ‘It’s all in here.’ La Zouche tapped the letter. ‘My brother would not deceive me…’

  ‘Yet he might seek to deceive me,’ hissed de Chargny.

  La Zouche reached for the hilt of his sword. ‘Are you accusing my brother of deceit?’ he demanded.

  Humbert leapt to his feet and interposed himself between the two men. ‘Friends, please, remember your place! I did not come to the East to see Christian fight Christian. I am sorry, Sir Geoffroi, but I am inclined to believe Sir Ivo’s cousin. I fear some terrible calamity has overtaken the subjects of King Philip.’

  De Chargny sat down heavily on one of the benches, resting his elbows on the table and rubbing his temples as if some headache ailed him. When he left France there had been a truce between the English and French kings, and while King Edward had been talking of war, de Chargny had dismissed it as nothing more than talk. If he had thought for a moment that the English would be successful in launching a campaign deep into the heart of France, he would never have left. ‘How came the flower of French chivalry to be laid low by a handful of barbarians from across the sea?’ he asked.

  It was a rhetorical question, but la Zouche answered it anyway. ‘With bows.’

  ‘Hardly a knightly weapon,’ sneered de Chargny.

  ‘It wasn’t the knights who used them. It was the yeomen.’

  ‘You mean to tell me that my kinsmen in France were vanquished by a mere rabble of peasants?’ he demanded incredulously.

  La Zouche shrugged. ‘It seems one English yeoman is worth ten French knights.’

  De Chargny stood, and then slowly and deliberately tugged off one of his steel gauntlets, flinging it in la Zouche’s face. La Zouche staggered under the weight of the blow, clapping a hand to his nose as blood gushed from his nostrils.

  ‘Sir Geoffroi! I must protest!’ exclaimed Humbert.

  ‘The nobility of France is a brotherhood of chivalry,’ said de Chargny. ‘Impugn the honour of one, and you impugn the honour of us all. Impugn the honour of us all, and it is up to each one of us to do all within our power to wipe out the stain.’

  ‘End this quarrel, I beg you!’ said Humbert. ‘I’m certain Sir Ivo will retract his thoughtless remark, if you will apologise for the blow…’

  ‘I’ll do no such thing!’ growled la Zouche. ‘That damned vulture struck me!’

  ‘The insult has been made, the gauntlet thrown,’ de Chargny replied calmly. ‘This is an affair of honour that can only be settled in the traditional way.’

  ‘Then choose the time, the place and the weapon,’ said la Zouche.

  ‘The weapons: our swords,’ said de Chargny. ‘The place and the time: here and now.’

  La Zouche turned pale. ‘So soon?’

  ‘My sense of honour demands swift retribution for your insults. If you have no stomach for the fight, Sir Ivo, all you need do is retract your remark and apologise.’

  La Zouche clapped his hand to the hilt of his sword. ‘Nay – let us end this quarrel swiftly.’

  ‘But this is sheer folly!’ protested Humbert. ‘Sir Ivo has no armour…’

  ‘I shall remove mine,’ de Chargny responded, and with Guilbert’s help he pulled his habergeon up over his head.

  ‘You would fight unarmoured, with unblunted weapons?’ Humbert demanded incredulously. ‘Fie! One of you will be slain.’

  De Chargny turned his pale eyes on Humbert. ‘Aye, that is the idea. A duel à outrance: to the death.’ He stripped off his armour until he was clad only in his hose and quilted gambeson, Guilbert helping him to buckle his sword-belt back around his waist.

  The two men strode out into the centre of the courtyard and drew their swords, turning to face one another, measuring out two sword’s lengths between them. La Zouche nodded curtly to indicate that he was ready, and both of them bowed.

  Then la Zouche lunged forward, swinging the blade of his broadsword in a wide arc aimed at de Chargny’s head. De Chargny brought up his sword, parrying the blow with such sudden and unexpected force that la Zouche was driven back, stumbling. De Chargny followed through swiftly, aiming a stroke at la Zouche’s side which the Englishman was hard-pressed to parry, wielding his sword at an awkward angle which barely deflected the blade.

  A seasoned campaigner, la Zouche fought with both strength and skill, but he was clearly outclassed by the Frenchman. De Chargny’s every movement was swift and economical, graceful and yet with the full strength of his limbs behind each blow. La Zouche was slowly forced back until he lost his footing on the cobbles and slipped. He sprawled on his back, his broadsword flying from his grip to fall several feet from his hand. He reached for it desperately, but de Chargny was swifter, placing one booted foot roughly on la Zouche’s outstretched wrist, pinning his arm to the cobbles. La Zouche grunted in pain.

  ‘I yield,’ he told de Chargny, who stood over him with the point of his sword levelled at his throat. ‘You are the victor. My arms and armour are forfeit.’

  ‘I don’t need them,’ said de Chargny, and thrust his sword-point into la Zouche’s throat. Blood gouted on to the pale cobbles.

  De Chargny wiped the blood from his blade and walked with his usual measured tread back to where Humbert and Guilbert stood, the former staring at him in horror, the latter stone-faced. De Chargny slotted his sword back into its scabbard. ‘Arrange our passage on the next ship to Venice or Marseilles,’ he told Guilbert. ‘We have a great many deaths to avenge.’

  Chapter Two

  How much longer do we get stuck with the night watch, serjeant?’ asked John Conyers.

  ‘End of the month, lad,’ Preston told him. ‘You know that. One month on, one month off.’

  ‘What day is it?’ Conyers asked his companions.

  ‘Tuesday,’ Brewster replied, talking around the stalk of marsh reed he habitually chewed in the corner of his mouth.

  ‘The Feast of Saint Matthias,’ added Inglewood.

  It w
as a bright morning in the middle of May, eight and a half months since the siege of Calais had begun, and they still seemed no nearer taking the town. At first the slow tedium of life in camp had dragged by, but now they had been there so long it was difficult to remember another way of life. For many of them, the life of a peasant farmer trying to scrape a living from the soil had been far inferior to their current status as archers. Food was plentiful as long as the supply ships got through, and occasionally they were sent on foraging expeditions into the Calaisian hinterland.

  The sun shone in an azure sky dotted with tufts of cloud. Preston and his men were off duty, roasting a haunch of beef over a camp-fire. Conyers turned the handle of the makeshift spit as Brewster caught the dripping fat with a ladle and spooned it back on top with loving care. Kemp, who had been lounging on his back on the sand with his ‘kettle’ helmet tipped forward over his eyes, sat up sharply, pushing the helmet back on to his head. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘It’s the Feast of Saint Matthias,’ replied Inglewood. ‘Since when did you ever care about holy days?’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Kemp. ‘It’s just that means I’ve been in the army over twelve months now.’ Was it really only twelve months since he had been impressed into the king’s army? So much had happened since then it seemed more like a lifetime. ‘I thought when the end drew near I’d be counting the days, not letting them fly past without being aware of them.’

  Preston looked up from where he was honing the blade of his sword with a whetstone. ‘End of what, lad?’ he asked.

  Kemp glanced at him in surprise. ‘End of my term of service, serjeant.’ He pushed himself to his feet, stretching stiff and aching limbs. ‘I’ve done my twelve months. That was the deal. Twelve months in the king’s army, and then I get my pardon.’

  ‘You sit down, lad,’ Preston told him sternly. ‘Your term of service ends when my lord of Warwick says it does.’

  Elias Jarrom was also paying attention now. He too had enlisted for twelve months in return for a pardon. ‘God’s bones, you’re pulling our legs, aren’t you, serjeant?’

  Preston shook his head. ‘You’re to stay in the army for as long as the king stays on this side of the sea.’

  ‘And how much longer will that be?’ Jarrom demanded.

  Preston jerked his thumb over his shoulder, towards the Valois banner fluttering above the battlements of Calais. ‘Until them fleur-de-lyses are replaced with the arms of Saint George.’

  ‘Lord Christ! That could take for ever!’ exclaimed Jarrom. He hawked noisily and spat on the ground at his feet. ‘To hell with that. What’s to stop me from jumping on the next ship bound for Sandwich?’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ admitted Preston. ‘Of course, you’ll become an outlaw again when you get back to England. You won’t see a pardon before the king’s done with you.’

  ‘And how much longer until we do see a pardon, if we stay?’ Kemp asked, sharing Jarrom’s feeling of betrayal. He had been a villein before he was recruited in the king’s service, and his enmity with the lord of his manor, Sir John Beaumont, meant that he did not relish the idea of returning to his former life of servitude. If he resided in a borough town for a year and a day he would be granted freeman status, but the thought that once he was finished in the army he would have to spend another year away before he could return to his village as a free man chafed him sorely. ‘Another twelve months waiting in this pestilential marsh, with nothing better to do than watch the moon rise and fall each night?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Preston replied evenly, and after a moment’s hesitation he put down the sword and whetstone. ‘They say Valois has left Amiens with a fresh army.’

  The archers around him leapt to their feet and stared at him, except for Brewster, who continued to baste the meat as calmly as if Preston had been commenting on the weather, and Oakley, who was getting too old to start leaping about at the least provocation.

  ‘How large?’ asked Conyers.

  ‘Large enough, by all accounts,’ said Preston. ‘His Majesty is writing to Henry of Derby, asking him to raise an army of reinforcement in England.’

  ‘And how long will that take?’ demanded Jarrom.

  Preston shrugged. ‘Not long, if I know his lordship. Derby’s not one for wasting time when a battle’s in the offing.’

  ‘And how soon until Valois gets here?’ asked Kemp.

  Once again Preston hesitated before replying. ‘They say he could be here by Monday,’ he admitted.

  Just six days away.

  * * *

  The next few days saw a flurry of activity in and around the English lines before Calais. When building the camp, the king had realised that the advent of a relieving army would be a far greater threat than any sally the town’s garrison could muster, and had made sure that the camp’s defences against attack from such an army were even more extensive than the ring of earthworks and palisades that surrounded the town walls to the landward sides. Even so, he decided that the defences must be strengthened and improved. Everyone was put to work in one way or another, building new palisades and look-out towers, digging fresh trenches, throwing up new ramparts, all the way around the camp’s perimeter. Siege engines that had been facing the town walls were now moved to protect the roads. Reveille was sounded an hour earlier, and every soldier in the camp started the day with an hour of drill before being allowed to grab a breakfast of bread and ale. When Valois arrived with his army, it was imperative the English be ready for him.

  Patrols of mounted archers set out in the direction of Amiens each day, and each night they returned to report that there was still no sign of Valois. The men stationed in the watch towers were changed constantly so that they would not grow bored with their duty and fall asleep.

  Monday finally arrived.

  There was no sign of Valois or his army.

  The next day brought fresh reports – Valois had reached Arras, and could be expected by the following Monday. Far from relieving the tension, this news dragged it out to the point where, for the vast majority of the men in the English camp, it was unbearable. When the day finally came, the sounding of reveille woke few men – most of them had been unable to sleep the night before anyway. Redeyed and weary, Preston’s platoon reported for drill only to be instructed to take up position by the Nieullay Bridge.

  Two miles to the west of Calais, the broad, sluggish waters of the River Hem flowed through the marshes and across the beach into the sea, protecting the western approaches. The road from Calais south-west to Boulogne ran along a causeway between the marshes and the beach. Where the causeway crossed the river at the tiny hamlet of Nieullay, an old stone bridge had been built, the only bridge across the Hem for several miles. Since the French were expected to approach from the south-west, a considerable amount of effort had been put into reinforcing the bridge, where perhaps a few men could hold off an army.

  Sir John Chandos commanded the bridge and it was to him that Preston reported.

  ‘You’re Holland’s men?’ Chandos demanded curtly. He was a huge, heavily built man whose rough-hewn, square-jawed face gave him a brutal look which belied the keen and cultured mind that lay behind it.

  Preston nodded. ‘Aye, Sir John.’

  ‘You can take a turn up in the tower today,’ said Chandos, pointing beyond the bridge and a little to the south of it where a tall wooden watch-tower had been built. ‘I hope you and your men have sharp eyes.’

  A troop of men-at-arms were digging a network of trenches around the base of the tower. Preston and his men marched across the bridge and climbed up the ladder to the tower’s top floor. The Heights of Sangatte, a line of escarpments, rose up about two miles to the south-west, ending at Cap Gris-Nez where they met the sea.

  Kemp remembered the day he first landed in France, when he had been assigned to picket duty on the dunes overlooking the beach at Saint-Vaast-la-Hougue, looking out for the French. It seemed like a thousand years ago, yet at the same time he could remember
every detail of that day – the first time he had killed a man – as clearly as if it were yesterday. Looking back, it was not himself he remembered standing on that dune but another Martin Kemp, younger, more naïve.

  ‘What do we do if we see Valois’ army?’ asked Tate.

  ‘Run for our lives,’ Conyers replied jocularly.

  ‘We could hold them off,’ suggested Inglewood.

  ‘What, just the twelve of us?’ sneered Jarrom.

  ‘On the bridge, I mean. Like Horatio and his friends.’

  ‘Who in Christ’s name is Horatio?’

  ‘He was a warrior in the olden days,’ explained Inglewood. ‘I read about him in a book.’

  ‘Oh, books.' Jarrom sniffed.

  ‘He’s a regular fund of useless information, is this one,’ said Conyers, jerking a thumb at Inglewood.

  ‘There were just three of them, Horatio and two friends, and they held a bridge against an entire army,’ Inglewood said enthusiastically. ‘Three men could hold off an army until Judgement Day, if they were guarding a bridge or a pass or something like that.’

  ‘Didn’t they have any bows?’ asked Tate.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The men who were trying to get across the bridge. They could have shot the three men guarding the bridge.’

  Inglewood frowned. He hadn’t thought of that.

  ‘Maybe they thought that would be unchivalrous,’ suggested Brewster, chewing his customary marsh-reed as he gazed out across the dunes.

  ‘Come again?’ scoffed Jarrom.

  ‘You know, like a passage-at-arms,’ said Brewster. ‘Like at a tournament, where a knight vows to hold some narrow place – such as a bridge, or a pass – against any challengers.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Jarrom.

  Brewster shrugged. ‘For honour, I suppose.’

  Jarrom’s reply, as usual, was to hawk noisily and spit over the parapet of the tower.

  Tate straightened suddenly. ‘Look!’

  Such was the urgency in his voice that immediately everyone strained to peer down the road to the south-west in search of Valois’ army approaching. ‘I don’t see owt,’ grumbled Jarrom.