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  ‘Not there,’ said Tate, and pointed to the north, out to sea. ‘There.’

  They all turned.

  ‘A sail,’ observed Inglewood.

  ‘Three sails,’ corrected Conyers.

  ‘A dozen… no, wait, dozens… hundreds of sails,’ said Kemp.

  As they watched, hundreds of sails indeed began to emerge through the early morning haze, the red and white striped sails of cogs and carracks, with wooden turrets built fore and aft, the cross of Saint George flying from the mastheads.

  Henry of Derby, Earl of Lancaster and Leicester, had arrived with reinforcements.

  * * *

  ‘You’re thinking of him, aren’t you, my lady?’

  Joan, Lady Montague, turned her face away from the thatched rooftops of Villeneuve-la-Hardie visible through the window of her chamber in her husband’s mansion and smiled at her maid’s impertinence. After her marriage to Sir William Montague she had been taken away from her friends at court, and now Maud Lacy was the only person she felt she could confide in.

  Joan sat in the window seat, the embroidery on her lap forgotten. She was not yet twenty, slender and petite, with long blonde hair, eyes of cornflower blue, and sensuous lips that contrasted sharply with her lily-white complexion. ‘Who?’ she asked.

  Changing the sheets on the bed, Maud blushed. Almost the same age as her mistress, she was a small woman with bright green eyes and dark, curly hair. ‘You know very well who I mean.’

  ‘Sir Thomas? Why should I care for him? It is clear he no longer cares for me. Why else should he have left the moment we arrived here before Calais?’

  From the smile on Maud’s lips it was clear she was not fooled by Joan’s feigned indifference. ‘Has it not occurred to you that the thought of seeing you married to another man might have driven him away?’

  It had, but Joan had not dared to believe it. ‘William is my husband now.’

  ‘But not the one you chose,’ Maud continued. ‘There are plenty of women at court who take lovers outside the marital bed.’

  ‘I could not betray my husband.’

  ‘But if your marriage to Sir Thomas is valid, then surely he must be your true husband, not Sir William.’

  Before Joan could reply, the door burst open and her mother barged in.

  At twice her daughter’s age, the Dowager Countess of Kent remained handsome, full-figured without inclining to plumpness, with a mane of ash-blonde hair fading to white. Only closer inspection revealed the crows’ feet at the corners of her eyes, her wide mouth hard and uncompromising. The death of her husband and the scandal of her daughter’s clandestine marriage to Holland had soured her, and that sourness was taking its toll on her beauty.

  She held up a particoloured gown of red and white silk with a large wine-stain down the front of it. ‘Look at this!’ she protested angrily. ‘It’s ruined!’

  ‘Can’t you have it laundered?’ asked Joan.

  ‘It has already been washed once!’ said the countess. ‘Damn your cousin the king for dragging us halfway across the world to this pestilential marsh! The laundresses in this pox-ridden town are nothing more than camp-followers, fit only to wash the bloodstains from common archers’ lousy tunics. And I’ll wager there isn’t a decent dressmaker on this side of the sea. Now I shall have to send to London for a replacement, and that will cost us a fortune!’

  ‘I could make you a new one, my lady,’ offered Maud. ‘There is silk to be had in the market on Fridays, and I can…’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, girl,’ interrupted the countess. ‘You’re as clumsy with a needle and thread as you are with a hairbrush. I should look an absolute fright in anything sewn by you…’

  She broke off at the sound of a rising hubbub in the streets outside. ‘What in God’s name is that awful row?’ Maud started towards the window but the countess pushed past her, knocking her back on to her seat.

  The street below was full of men and women running in the direction of the beach. She singled out a young page and hailed him. ‘You! Boy! What’s all the fuss about?’

  The page slowed, bowing awkwardly when he recognised the countess. ‘There’s a fleet approaching, my lady!’ he said. ‘They say the banner of my lord of Derby has been seen on the flagship. He has come from England with fresh knights and men to aid us.’

  She turned away from the window. Both Joan and Maud had risen to their feet with excitement. ‘Leave us, Maud,’ the countess said quietly. ‘And no listening at the door!’

  For Maud it was clearly the last straw. ‘I would never do such a thing, my lady!’ she protested.

  The countess strode across the room and slapped her hard on the cheek. Joan flinched in sympathy. The stinging blow left a crimson welt. ‘How many times must I tell you not to answer back? Get out!’

  Bowing her head to hide the tears welling in her eyes, Maud curtseyed to both the countess and Joan and ran from the room. The countess closed the door behind her and turned to her daughter. ‘Useless, idle girl! You should dismiss her, dear, and employ someone else.’

  Joan trembled with rage. ‘How dare you strike her, Mother? I have told you before: Maud is my maid, employed with my husband’s money. She’s a servant, not a villein. You should treat her with more respect. She’s of good stock, too…’

  ‘Good stock for a serving wench, perhaps,’ sneered the countess. ‘Better stock than Thomas Holland, certainly. I’m warning you, Joan: if Holland is with Henry of Derby, you are not to see him. You are not to speak to him, you are not even to acknowledge his presence…’

  It was an irony that never ceased to fill Joan with dismay. She was one of the most high-born people in the land, and yet ever since the death of her father she had been forced to do other people’s bidding; first her mother’s, then Sir William’s – she could not bring herself to think of him as her husband, for all that they lived as man and wife – and now both of them together. Only Sir Thomas had been different, treating her not with the lovesick adoration of a moonstruck squire, but with the respect any man would give to an equal, despite the disparity in their ages. ‘I shall see whom I like!’ she protested.

  ‘Not while I still draw breath!’ the countess told her sharply. ‘You’re not so grown up that I can’t take a rod to your impertinent back.’

  Joan drew herself up to her full height, fire in her eyes. ‘Just you try it!’ she hissed.

  ‘Anyway, you spend far too much time with that girl.’

  Joan’s face twisted. ‘And with whom else should I spend time, in this God-forsaken marshland? The common archers and their strumpets, perhaps?’

  ‘You should spend more time with ladies of your own class,’ insisted the countess. ‘You might even think about spending more time with your husband.’

  ‘That boor? I hate him!’

  ‘Ungrateful child. Do you have any idea how much time I spent with the king, persuading him that Sir William would be a fitting bridegroom for his cousin?’

  ‘You should have saved yourself the trouble,’ said Joan. ‘Sir Thomas is my husband…’

  Crimson with rage, the countess raised her hand to strike her daughter, but Joan caught her by the wrist before the blow could land. Breathing hard, the countess’s eyes brimmed with anger and despair, tinged with fear as she realised she could no longer control her daughter.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Joan, releasing her grip on her mother’s wrist.

  ‘I, your husband,’ Sir William Montague’s voice replied.

  ‘One moment!’ The countess patted her hair back into place. ‘Enter.’

  Montague came into the chamber and bowed low. He too was in his late teens, his weak chin covered by a stubbly and patchy excuse for a beard. ‘Is everything well? I thought I heard raised voices…?’

  The countess gestured to the window. ‘Churls shouting in the street, nothing more,’ she said smoothly.

  ‘My lord of Derby is arrived from England with reinforcements,
’ Montague explained. ‘His Majesty is going down to the beach to greet him. I thought it would be fitting for us to accompany him…’

  The countess nodded. ‘You are right, of course, William. Let us change into clothes more suited for such an occasion, and go to greet Henry.’

  * * *

  The beach was already crowded by the time the dowager countess, her daughter and son-in-law reached it. It seemed as if all the soldiers in Villeneuve not otherwise engaged had come down to witness the meeting between King Edward and his cousin, Henry of Derby, Earl of Lancaster. The men laughed and cheered, making it a joyous occasion: Derby’s reinforcements would improve the odds when Valois finally arrived with his army.

  The countess, Montague and Joan made their way on horseback through the crowds without difficulty. Even those who did not know them recognised them as nobility by their dress. Further down the beach, King Edward had dismounted and waited with Queen Philippa and two of his sons: Edward of Woodstock, Prince of Wales, and the seven-year-old John of Gaunt. They stood with the Earl of Northampton, Sir John Chandos and a few other noblemen close to where the flagship, a massive cog of three hundred tonnes, had nudged its prow against the sandy shore. The king employed a hand-picked bodyguard of archers from Cheshire, but they were not in evidence today: Edward was well loved, and there were few men on the beach who would not willingly have laid down their lives for him.

  A gangplank was lowered from the cog’s deck into the spume, and two seamen hurried down to hold it steady at the bottom. Then the earl himself stepped down, flanked by several knights, all dressed in hose, particoloured cote-hardies and mantles. Henry of Derby was a tall, fair-haired man in his middle years whose bluff, soldierly manner disguised a pious and cultured mind. He waded through the surf and up on to the beach, bending down on one knee before the king and kissing his signet ring. The king motioned for him to rise, and the two embraced warmly.

  ‘I thank God for bringing you to me so swiftly, cousin,’ said the king. ‘And with many men, unless you have brought me a fleet of empty ships?’ he added, with a smile.

  ‘The best men left in your realm of England, your Majesty,’ asserted Derby. ‘And supplies, horses, fodder, and arrows for your archers.’

  ‘And Sir Thomas Holland,’ added the king, turning to one of the knights who flanked Derby.

  Holland wore his customary robes of azure and white, his broadsword hanging in an ivory-covered scabbard at his left hip. He likewise knelt before his king, kissing his ring. ‘Sire.’

  ‘And Sir Hugh.’ The king turned to Sir Hugh Despenser, who had returned to England early in the new year. Like Holland, Despenser’s clothes reflected only a passing interest in fashion. Neither came from the best of families, but the king had always preferred soldiers to courtiers.

  As the men began to unload the ships, the king walked back up the beach, Derby and the Prince of Wales alongside him, Despenser and Holland just behind. ‘It is good to see you, Henry,’ said the king. ‘At times it seemed that hardly a day could pass without news of another victory from Gascony.’

  Derby inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘What few skirmishes I fought on your behalf pale into insignificance compared to your own victory at the field of Crécy, sir. I hear his Royal Highness acquitted himself most nobly at the battle,’ he added, gesturing to the Prince of Wales.

  ‘Aye, he won his spurs right enough,’ agreed the king. ‘Never was a father more proud of his eldest son than I was of mine that day.’

  ‘Has Sir Walter arrived yet, your Majesty?’ Derby had last seen Sir Walter Mauny many months ago in Gascony, although he knew that Mauny had likewise been summoned to join the king’s camp before Calais.

  The king’s face grew dark. ‘No. He was captured and imprisoned by the French in Paris while travelling overland, despite having a warrant of safe conduct from Valois himself.’

  ‘I have written to London, ordering that my prisoner, the Count of Tancarville, be put in close custody at Wallingford Castle by way of retaliation,’ the prince added.

  Derby nodded approvingly, angered by this latest evidence of French perfidy. ‘And Valois himself? What news of his army?’

  The king gestured helplessly. ‘Each hour seems to bring fresh reports, all of them conflicting. One day he is at Amiens, the day after at Abbeville, and the following day at Arras.’

  Holland smiled thinly. ‘Such reports cannot be true, unless the sluggard Valois has learned how to fly – as swiftly as he does from the field of battle.’

  They all laughed at that. Then Despenser spoke: ‘Allow me to take two platoons of mounted archers, sire,’ he offered. ‘I shall have positive news of the usurper before the Feast of Saint Clothilda.’

  The king nodded his assent. ‘Very well, Sir Hugh. But tarry until the morrow, I pray you. Life before these walls grows, and I intend that I should entertain you all tonight in royal style. And see, here is our cousin Joan, with my lady of Kent and Sir William.’

  The countess, Joan and Montague all dismounted to greet the king. If Joan saw Holland standing behind Derby and Despenser, she gave no indication of it. Holland likewise failed to glance in Joan’s direction, although the countess was not fooled, not doubting for a moment that the upstart knight still lusted after her daughter; aye, and her daughter’s riches as sister to the young Earl of Kent. The countess herself looked at Holland and then averted her gaze in a deliberate snub.

  After many formalities, the king made his way back to Villeneuve with the queen and the two princes, and Derby and Holland. He insisted that his cousin Joan accompany them.

  The countess nudged her son-in-law. ‘Go with her, you fool,’ she hissed. ‘Keep her away from Holland.’

  ‘Will you not also come?’ asked Montague.

  She shook her head. ‘Give my apologies to his Majesty. This ride has fatigued me, and I fear the sun may ruin my complexion.’ The truth was that the quarrel with her daughter had drained her, emotionally at least, and the strain of trying to maintain her smile in public was proving wearying. She took her leave of Montague and returned to her son’s mansion. She handed the bridle of her jennet to a squire and walked upstairs, unfastening her girdle as she entered her bedchamber.

  ‘Good afternoon.’ Sir Hugh Despenser was lounging on the bed, his sand-covered boots dirtying the coverlet.

  The countess froze with a gasp in the act of removing her gown. ‘What the devil are you doing in here, you rogue?’ she demanded, her heart pounding.

  ‘Why, waiting to pay my respects to you, my lady,’ he responded easily.

  ‘How dare you sneak unannounced into my bedchamber! Get out!’

  Despenser did not move, grinning self-confidently. ‘Are you not pleased to see your old lover? It was unmannerly of you to snub me so at the beach.’

  ‘It was Holland I snubbed, as you damned well know.’

  ‘I sometimes think you hate Sir Thomas more than you love me,’ observed Despenser, still smiling.

  ‘I never claimed to love you.’

  He pushed himself off the bed and closed the door before replying, suddenly clasping her around the waist. ‘But you keep coming back, don’t you?’

  She made a pretence of struggling. ‘May I remind you it was you who came to me? Unhand me, you coarse dog! You forget yourself.’

  He laughed, pulling her closer. ‘My poor, sweet countess. How difficult it must be for a woman as proud and haughty as you, to find herself attracted to a man whose family is as disreputable as mine. Is that why you hate Sir Thomas, I wonder? Perhaps it is him you love, and you envy the attention he paid your daughter.’

  She slapped him, though she was too close to get a good enough swing to hurt him. ‘Holland was never good enough for my daughter, just as you are not fit to touch me.’

  ‘Your past actions belie your words, my lady.’

  ‘That was in the past when I was young and foolish. I do not want my daughter to make the same mistakes I did. Let go of me. You forget you are mar
ried; aye, to my own son-in-law’s sister.’

  ‘That milksop? Aye, I married her, but only that I might be nearer you.’

  He pulled her against him, looping one arm around her waist and kissing her roughly. When he placed a hand on one of her breasts she hit him so hard that the faintest trickle of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth. He seized her arm and threw her face-down across the bed. Lifting the hem of his tunic and tugging at the strings that fastened his breech cloth, he wrenched up the hem of her skirts so that they gathered around her waist. She sobbed as he thrust himself into her from behind, and he reached underneath her to maul her breasts. He used her roughly, with no thought for her pleasure, yet he knew from experience that the very violence of his passion excited her. She was so very different from his own wife who recoiled at his very touch; and yet that too gave him a kind of pleasure.

  The moment of climax came swiftly for both of them, and he stayed slumped over her, panting for breath. ‘Bastard,’ she whispered.

  He chuckled. ‘Why must you insist on pretending to hate me? I was never fooled, as well you know.’

  ‘I have no need of pretence,’ she sneered.

  ‘I think it is yourself you hate, for loving such as me.’ He stood up and began to rearrange his clothing.

  ‘Now you have had your pleasure of me, you must return the favour.’

  He laughed. ‘Well, what is it you want, you hellspite?’

  She hesitated before answering. ‘I want you to destroy Sir Thomas Holland.’

  He stared at her in astounded admiration. ‘Destroy Holland? Why, you…!’ He broke off. ‘What do you take me for, a hired murderer? I should hang for such a deed. Although perhaps if I engineered a quarrel, and challenged him to a duel…’ He mused, then shook his head. ‘No. I think not.’

  ‘You fear him!’

  ‘Aye. What wise man would not?’

  She shrugged. ‘It matters not. I did not say kill him, I said destroy him. Ever since he captured the Count of Eu at Caen, his worth in the king’s eyes has waxed daily. Now his Majesty seems to value Holland more than he does my son-in-law, when William is heir to the County of Salisbury and Holland is no more than a younger son of the traitorous Lord Holland.’