Kemp Read online

  ‘I do not recall giving you permission to speak, villein.’

  Kemp shrugged. ‘I do not recall being told that I needed your permission,’ he replied.

  At that moment Sir Geoffroi de Chargny emerged from the pavilion behind him, his crimson cloak billowing out behind him like a hawk spreading its wings to fly. ‘Come away, Guilbert,’ hebriskly, hardly bothering to glance in Kemp’s direction. ‘You might catch something.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Kemp, fingering the hilt of his broadsword. ‘A bad case of death, most likely.’

  That brought de Chargny to a sharp halt. ‘So, it speaks French, does it?’ he drawled, walking slowly to where Kemp and Guilbert stood. ‘Badly, but it speaks it.’ He stared at Kemp as he might at a particularly poor example of horse-flesh. ‘So, this is one of the stout English yeomen who vanquished my kinsmen at Crécy.’ He turned to address the squires, pointing to the longbow slung across Kemp’s back in its bow-bag. ‘You will note its weapon, gentlemen. Lacking the courage to meet steel with steel, it kills from a distance, with a poacher’s weapon.’

  Kemp threw a fold of his cloak back over his shoulder to reveal the broadsword hanging at his hip. ‘If you wish to meet steel with steel, I’ll gladly oblige you. Then we’ll see who lacks courage.’

  De Chargny chuckled dryly at the young man’s bravado. ‘Usually I prefer not to cross swords with my inferiors, but in your case I’m tempted to teach you a lesson for your insolence. Most fortunately for you, however, I was forbidden to wear a sword when entering this nest of vipers, otherwise I might have found myself forced to perform the work of a butcher – and that is hardly suitable employment for one of my blood.’

  ‘The only nest of vipers I see lies yonder,’ responded Kemp, nodding towards the French encampment on the Heights of Sangatte.

  De Chargny slapped him across the face. ‘That’s for your insolence, churl. In future you must learn to treat your superiors with more respect.’

  The Frenchman’s blow merely stung Kemp, but it brought all his resentment of the nobility boiling up within him. He hated their arrogance, but he hated the haughtiness of the French nobility even more, having seen it routed before the arrows of himself and his lowly companions. He had thrown his fist at the knight even before he realised it.

  De Chargny did not flinch, for Guilbert caught Kemp by the wrist before the blow could land. As the younger man whirled to face him, Guilbert let go of his wrist and rammed a fist into Kemp’s jaw. Kemp did not see the blow coming until it was too late, and even then its power caught him off-guard, sending him flying so that when he finally landed on the damp greensward he slithered for several more feet. He could feel warm blood gushing from his nostrils, but he had learned to ignore the loss of his own blood when there was a battle to be won.

  Guilbert moved in for another blow, aiming a vicious kick at Kemp’s ribs. Kemp rolled swiftly out of the way, rose on one knee and drew his broadsword from its scabbard. He levelled it at Guilbert’s chest, and the sight of that razor-edged blade brought the squire up short.

  ‘Kemp! Put up your sword!’ It was Holland’s voice, curt and angry. Kemp had not seen his master emerge from the pavilion, but he was standing there now, with the other members of the English embassy. Glowering at Guilbert, Kemp replaced his sword in its scabbard and wiped the blood from his chin with his sleeve.

  ‘I must apologise, Sir Geoffroi,’ Henry of Derby was saying. ‘That such a thing should befall you and your squire when you enter our camp under a flag of truce is inexcusable. You may rest assured the churl will be punished severely for his crime,’ he added, indicating Kemp.

  De Chargny made a dismissive gesture. ‘It is of no consequence. I would rather you did not punish the peasant; that is a task I would prefer to reserve for myself, in the hope that God will one day grant me a small mercy in allowing me to encounter him when we are not under a flag of truce.’

  ‘Yet I fear your opinion of English hospitality may be permanently damaged by this,’ persisted Derby.

  De Chargny smiled thinly. ‘You may rest assured that this encounter has not changed my opinion of English hospitality one iota.’

  Then, as the other members of the French embassy emerged from the pavilion, he mounted his steed, and rode back towards the bridge at Nieullay.

  Remembering too late that de Chargny had once been a prisoner of the English, Derby rounded on Holland, his voice icy with rage. ‘I could turn a blind eye to the fact that you chose a churl to act as a squire in the light of the fact you have not yet found a replacement for the man you lost at Crécy, Sir Thomas. However, I find it incredible you should choose one so hotheaded as to risk upsetting the most delicate negotiations by striking one of the French delegates.’

  Holland seemed unperturbed by Derby’s reproach. ‘I greatly regret the scene we have just witnessed as much as any of us, my lord,’ he replied. ‘However, I ask only that you mark this: I ask not my yeoman if he was provoked beyond all toleration for the simple reason that I know the answer to my question can only be “yes”.’

  Northampton came to Holland’s defence. ‘It would not be out of character for one of de Chargny’s overweening arrogance, Henry. Forget not that I warned you of his subtlety. See how he turns a blow received into a cause for dissent amongst his enemies.’

  Derby frowned, his brows knitted in thought, and then his face cleared and he laughed out loud. ‘By my truth, William, you are right. My apologies, Sir Thomas, both to yourself and to your yeoman. But mark I promised that vulture de Chargny your man would be suitably punished? I cannot go back on my word.’

  Holland smiled. ‘Leave the matter in my hands, my lord. I’m certain I can come up with a punishment to fit the crime.’

  Derby returned his smile. ‘Then so be it.’

  They mounted their horses and headed back to Villeneuve. Riding at the rear of the cavalcade, Kemp could not resist listening with interest to the conversation of the noblemen; now he had a smattering of French, he could understand most that was said in the Anglo-Norman tongue of the nobility.

  Their conversation was a discussion of the day’s negotiations, and from what Kemp could understand it would take several more days before anything could be agreed. Valois’ ambassadors had said he was keen for an end to the war and was thus prepared to make certain concessions to the English, practically an acknowledgement that the English had the upper hand, provided the negotiations were not part of some monstrous bluff to lull the English into a false sense of security. The question was, would the concessions be sufficient to justify everything the English had gone through to reach this position of strength, and to what extent would it be worth sacrificing that position to achieve an equitable peace? The terms they were discussing seemed no better than those that had been offered under the auspices of the same cardinals twelve months earlier, three weeks before Valois’ last army was massacred at Crécy.

  When Holland and Kemp arrived back at the barrack house where Preston’s platoon was lodged, the knight ordered Kemp to stand to attention in the street outside while Preston was summoned from within. ‘A grave crime has been committed by one of the men under your command, serjeant,’ said Holland, when Preston emerged.

  ‘Sir Thomas?’ Preston looked bewildered, shifting his gaze from Holland to Kemp and then back.

  Holland nodded, his face deadpan. ‘Kemp struck one of the Frenchmen at the negotiations today.’

  ‘Did he indeed, sir?’ Preston regarded Kemp in wonderment.

  ‘Aye, serjeant, and because of it, my lord of Derby has decreed that he must be punished. From now on Kemp is to be relieved of his usual duties and assigned to my stables… stop grinning, Kemp… and if his new duties should keep him from the usual round of sentry-go, then that is regrettable but, under the circumstances, unavoidable.’

  Kemp could not help grinning. He loved horses, and he knew that Holland knew it.

  * * *

  That night, the Valois fleurs-de-lys were once more flown fro
m the highest tower of Calais castle. This time, however, the bonfire illuminating them was markedly smaller.

  ‘What know you of Sir Geoffroi de Chargny?’ Holland asked his chaplain over dinner that night, recalling that lately the friar had been reading a book by the French knight.

  ‘He is one of France’s leading experts on chivalry and all that pertains to it,’ replied Brother Ambrose. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘He was one of Valois’ ambassadors at today’s negotaitions.’

  Brother Ambrose looked up from his trencher in some surprise. ‘De Chargny is here?’

  Holland nodded. ‘That surprises you?’

  Ambrose shrugged. ‘The last I heard, he was heading for the east to crusade against the Turks.’ He smiled. ‘But that was a couple of years ago.’

  ‘Would you say he is a man of honour?’

  Ambrose thought carefully before replying. ‘He would say he is a man of honour. He is a man of honour – by his own terms. But from what I have heard of Sir Geoffroi, I would not as an Englishman be too swift to trust him.’

  The negotiations dragged on for the next few days and at the end of each day the bonfire atop Calais castle grew smaller until its significance became clear to all: it represented the waning strength of the garrison, symbolising that while they would do all they could to keep the Valois fleurs-de-lys shining over Calais, their ability to do so declined with each passing day. It must have been torture for the garrison to see that Valois had finally arrived with his army to raise the siege, and yet his army showed no inclination to tackle that of King Edward and his allies in battle.

  For the rest of the negotiations, Holland chose a squire from Sir Reginald Cobham’s retinue to serve him and Kemp, sweating in the summer heat as he mucked out Holland’s stables and groomed his horses, could only pick up what news of the talks filtered down to his companions. The only concessions that Valois seemed prepared to make were the Duchy of Gascony – rightfully a fief of King Edward’s anyway – and the town of Calais which, as the evidence of the bonfires testified, was as good as in the hands of the English already. The discussions were dragged out by the fact that at the end of each day the ambassadors had to report their opposite numbers’ proposals to their respective monarchs, and at the start of each day they had to return to the negotiating table with fresh counter-proposals.

  On the fourth day of negotiations – the last day of July – the French ambassadors came up with an entirely new proposal: that the English should come out of the marsh and fight a battle in ‘a fitting place’, to be chosen by a joint commission of eight knights, four from each side. When the English ambassadors reported this proposal to their king that night, he laughed out loud. This, he explained, was a bluff, a face-saving manoeuvre typical of the slippery Valois: a challenge made safe in the knowledge that he, King Edward, would never abandon his position of strength in the marshes to meet the French on more or less equal terms. Two could play at that game, he told his courtiers; he knew Valois better than Valois knew him, and with this in mind came up with a simple counter-bluff. The next day, the English ambassadors told their French couinterparts that King Edward would be more than happy to take Valois up on his offer. Valois had no choice but to accept. That night, however, the bonfire atop Calais castle was reduced to a flicker and all the banners were taken in except for the flag of Calais. The garrison could hold out no longer.

  The following morning – the day appointed for the battle – Kemp was awoken before dawn by the sound of trumpets. Not the usual blare of reveille, but the call to arms. He jumped up from his pallet, hurrying to pull on his boots and buckle on his sword belt. He might be assigned to Holland’s stables, he told himself as he reached for his longbow and his quiver, but he was damned if he was going to miss out on this battle, the long-awaited climax to this seemingly interminable siege. There was no fear in his heart, only excitement. Here at last was his chance to win glory and return home a hero, to capture some noble prisoner as Holland had done and return home fabulously wealthy. Kemp was the first one out of the door of the barrack-house by a long way. Without waiting for orders from Preston or Holland, he hurried through the streets of Villeneuve, still relatively empty in the dingy light of dawn as people only just began to stumble out of the buildings, sleepy-eyed, to find out what all the noise was about.

  He ran all the way to the bridge at Nieullay and was gasping for breath by the time he reached it, his lungs aflame. He arrived in time to see Derby’s men-at-arms in their full coats of mail mount their horses and form into troops, riding across the narrow bridge and setting out towards the Heights of Sangatte. He saw a man-at-arms he knew vaguely there, carrying a long lance upright. Seeing Kemp, the man-at-arms gestured helplessly, and then turned his attention back to the direction in which he was riding.

  Kemp too looked in that direction, towards the French encampment, and his heart sank with despair.

  Valois’ mighty army was fleeing.

  * * *

  The king’s bluff had worked. Valois had never had any intention of meeting the English on equal terms, and once Calais had signalled its intention to surrender, there seemed no point in lingering any longer. To de Chargny’s dismay, Valois had ordered that camp be struck, that they should slip off during the night, getting as far away as possible before the English realised they were leaving – ‘slinking away with our tails between our legs,’ as de Chargny put it to Sir Oudard de Renty.

  The last units to leave the encampment were ordered to put to the torch the tents and anything else they could not carry, and it was those fires that had alerted Derby’s men to the flight of the enemy. Derby had ordered that his men hurry to arm themselves, furious that the French should seek to give up before the English had had a chance to defeat them.

  Kemp watched as the men-at-arms rode up the escarpments of the Heights of Sangatte and turned the enemy’s flight into a rout, riding down the fleeing Frenchmen with their lances. He was too exhausted by his run to find a horse, and anyway there would have been precious little a lone mounted archer could have done. Archers came into their own when a position needed defending. Once the enemy had been put to flight, it was the turn of the men-at-arms.

  When the full light of dawn fell upon the countryside around Calais, Jean de Vienne made his way to the uppermost tower of Calais castle, using a crutch for support, his leg having been broken in a sally from the city walls a few weeks earlier. His subordinates had reported the flight of Valois’ army, but he refused to believe it until he had seen it with his own eyes. Tears filled those eyes as they beheld the smoking waste where only a few hours earlier Valois’ army had been encamped. For eleven months he and the townsfolk had held out against all the odds, remaining loyal to Valois, believing that sooner or later he would come to raise the siege. When he finally arrived, just as it seemed they could not hold out another day, it had seemed too good to be true. And now Valois had fled, abandoning his loyal subjects in the town of Calais. Everything they had suffered – the assaults, the bombardments, the hunger and privation – had been for nothing.

  Holding on to the parapet for support, de Vienne picked up the pole from which the flag of Calais fluttered, tugged it from its socket and tossed it over the battlements. His last hope was gone, fled in the night like an impossible dream. It was time to surrender.

  * * *

  Sir Walter Mauny spent the rest of that day riding to and fro between his adopted king in his mansion at Villeneuve-la-Hardie, and Sir Jean de Vienne who stood on the battlements of Calais, parleying for the surrender of the town. When de Vienne had heard the terms under which the English king would accept the surrender, the parleying ended, and later that afternoon the church bells of the town pealed for the first time since the siege had begun, summoning the townsfolk to the market-place to discuss the terms.

  King Edward was furious with the people of Calais for their lengthy resistance and was reluctant to grant them the honours of war, arguing that they had only offered to surre
nder when they had no choice. He wanted the whole city to be put to the sack, and the lives of the townsfolk to be forfeit. De Vienne had threatened to continue with the siege but the king knew there was so little food left in the town that the garrison could not even last another day. The town was his to do with as he pleased, the king argued, won by right of conquest. If he chose to put the townsfolk to death, there was nothing they could do to stop him.

  Despite the king’s evident determination to carry out his revenge on the people of Calais, Sir Walter Mauny courageously spoke out against such inclemency. He argued that if one day their positions were reversed and the English found themselves besieged by the French, then the French might exact vengeance by killing them in turn. The other noblemen who were with the king at the time backed Mauny, and the king reluctantly consented to spare the lives of the townsfolk, provided that six of the leading burghers of the town were handed over to him, with their heads and feet bare, halters around their necks, and the keys to the town and castle in their hands. Those six would be sacrificial lambs, to be dispensed with as he saw fit.

  De Vienne rode out of the main gate the following noon, on a nag so emaciated that each of its ribs was clearly outlined through its taut skin. He was followed by six men – once plump, their skin now hanging loosely from their bones – stripped to their shirtsleeves, bare-headed and bare-footed, wearing halters around their necks, exactly as the king had demanded. Their faces were pale with fear, but nonetheless they followed de Vienne willingly.

  Surrounded by scores of platoons of soldiers, drawn up in ranks to witness the formal surrender, the king awaited them with the queen and his noblemen. De Vienne handed over the keys of the town and castle to Sir Walter Mauny.

  The king ordered that the burghers should be beheaded. Again Mauny boldly pleaded for their lives, arguing a second time that if they showed such cruelty to the French now, in future sieges when their positions were reversed the French would be unlikely to show mercy. But the king would have none of it, until Queen Philippa, now in an advanced state of pregnancy, added her pleas to Mauny’s.