The king looked pale and irritable as he walked the field, stopping first where Highbury had made his charge, then striding further out, to see where a single archer had been allowed to shoot from a safe distance. The king scratched his head as he imagined the scene, convinced he had picked up lice again. The damned things leaped off dead men, he had heard. There were enough of those.
‘Tell me, Le Farges,’ he said. ‘Tell me once more how few men they have. How it will be nothing more than a boar hunt through the valleys and fields of Maine for my brave knights.’
The lord in question did not meet his eye. Fearing punishment, he went down on one knee and spoke with his head bowed.
‘They have first-rate archers, Your Majesty, much better than I expected to see here. I can only imagine they came out from Normandy, breaking the terms of the truce.’
‘That would explain it,’ Charles replied, rubbing his chin. ‘Yes, that would explain how I have lost hundreds of knights and seen my expensive crossbow troop slaughtered almost to a man. Yet no matter who they are, these men, no matter where they have come from, I have reports of no more than a few hundred, at most. We have captured and killed, what, sixty of them? Do you know how many of mine have lost their lives for that small number?’
‘I can have the lists brought, Your Majesty. I … I’m …’
‘My father fought these archers at Agincourt, Le Farges. With my own eyes, I have seen them slaughter nobles and knights like cattle, until those still alive were crushed by the weight of their own dead. I have seen their drummer boys run among armoured men to stab at them, while archers laughed. So tell me, how is it that we have no archers of our own?’
‘Your Majesty?’ Le Farges asked in confusion.
‘Always I am told how lacking in honour they are, what weak and spineless specimens of men they are, yet still they kill, Le Farges. When I send crossbowmen against them, they pick them off at a distance too great for them to reply. When I send knights, a single archer can murder four or five before being cut down — unless he is allowed to escape to return and kill again! So enlighten your king, Le Farges. By all the saints, why do we not have archers of our own?’
‘Your Majesty, no knight would use such a weapon. It would be … peu viril, dishonourable.’
‘Peasants, then! What do I care who stands, as long as I have men to stand!’
The king reached down to pick up a fallen longbow. With a disgusted expression, he tried to pull back the string and failed. He grunted with the strain, but the thick yew weapon bent only a few inches before he gave up.
‘I am not an ox, for such work, Le Farges. Yet I have seen peasants of great strength, great size. Why do we not train them for such slaughter, the way the English do?’
‘Your Majesty, I believe it takes years to build the strength for such a bow. It is not possible simply to pick one up and shoot. But, Your Majesty, will you stoop to such a course? It does not suit a chivalrous man to use such a tool.’
With a curse, the king threw the weapon away with a great heave, sending it whirring over his head.
‘Perhaps. The answer may lie in better armour. My own guards are able to come through a storm of these archers. Good French iron is proof against them.’
To make his point, he rapped his knuckles proudly against his own breastplate, making it ring. Le Farges kept silent rather than point out the king’s ornate armour was nowhere near thick enough to stop an English arrow.
‘The crossbowmen use mantlets and wicker shields, Le Farges. Yet that is no answer for knights who must wield sword and lance. Better armour and stronger men. That is what we need. Then my knights can go in deep among them, reaping heads.’
King Charles stopped, wiping a drop of spittle from his mouth. Taking a deep breath, he looked into the sunset.
‘Either way, they have broken the truce. I have sent the call to my lords, Le Farges. Every knight and man-at-arms in France is coming north even now.’
Baron Le Farges looked pleased as he rose from his kneeling position.
‘I would be honoured to lead them, Your Majesty, with your blessing. With the noble regiments and your order, I will destroy these last stragglers and take all of Maine in a month.’
King Charles looked at him, his eyes cold.
‘Not Maine, you cloth-headed fool. They have broken the truce, have they not? I will have it all. I will take back Normandy and push the last English rags into the sea. I have eleven thousand men marching north. They have mantlets and shields, Le Farges! I will not see them cut down. Yet archers or no archers, I will not stop now. I will have France back before the year is out. On the blessed virgin, I swear it.’
There were tears in the lord’s eyes as he knelt again, overcome. The king placed his hand briefly on the man’s matted head. For an instant, a surge of spite made him consider cutting the fool’s throat. His hand tightened in the hair, making Le Farges grunt in surprise, but then the king released him.
‘I need you yet, Le Farges. I need you at my side when we drive the English out of France for the last time. I have seen enough here. The truce is broken and I will visit destruction on them that will stand for a generation. My land, Le Farges. My land and my vengeance. Mine!’
Jack Cade had to push hard against the crowd to force his way through. His two companions came with him in the space he created with his elbows and broad shoulders. More than one elbow poked back in time to catch Paddy or Rob Ecclestone as they went, making them curse. The crowd was already angry and the three men earned furious glares and shoves as they made their way to the front. Only those who recognized Ecclestone or his Irish friend stopped short. The ones who knew them well edged away to the outskirts, ready to run. Their reputation made as much space as their elbows and helped to deposit Jack Cade into the open air.
He stood facing the crowd, panting, black with soot and raw as a winter gale. The man who had been shouting to the gathering broke off as if at an apparition. The rest of them slowly fell silent at the sight of the newcomers.
‘Is that you, Cade?’ the speaker asked. ‘God’s bones, what happened to you?’
The man was tall and made taller by a brown hat that stood six inches off his forehead. Jack knew Ben Cornish well and he’d never liked him. He stayed silent, his red-rimmed gaze drawn to the swinging figure off to one side of the square. They’d taken no notice of the body while they’d stamped and laughed and had their meeting. Jack had no idea what Cornish and the others were there for, but the sight of their blank stares made his anger rise again. He wished he had a full jug in his hand to drown it.
‘I’ve come to cut my lad down,’ he said gruffly. ‘You won’t stop me, not today.’
‘By God, Jack, there are greater matters here,’ Cornish blustered. ‘The magistrate …’
Jack’s eyes blazed.
‘Is a dead man, Cornish. As you’ll be if you cross me. I’m about sick to my guts of magistrates and bailiffs — and sheriff’s men like you. Bootlicking pox-boys is all you are. You understand me, Cornish? Get out of here now before I take my belt to you. No, stay. I’ve a mind to do it anyway.’
To the surprise of Jack and his two friends, his speech was met with a growling cheer from the crowd. Cornish turned a deep red, his mouth working with no sound coming out. Jack reached down to the wide leather strap that held his trousers and Cornish bolted, pushing through the crowd and disappearing at speed along the street away from the square.
Under the scrutiny of the crowd, Jack flushed almost as deeply.
‘By hell, what gathering is this?’ he demanded. ‘Did someone raise the tax on candles or beer? What brought all of you out to block the street?’
‘You’ll remember me, Jack!’ a voice called. A burly figure in a leather apron pushed forward. ‘I know you.’
Jack peered at the man.
‘Dunbar, aye, I know you. I thought you were in France, making your fortune.’
‘So I was, till they stole my land from under me.’
Jack raised his eyebrows, privately pleased to hear of the man’s failure.
‘Well, I ain’t never had land, Dunbar, so I wouldn’t know how that feels.’
The smith glowered, but he raised his chin.
‘It’s coming back to me why I didn’t like you, Jack Cade.’ For an instant, both men bristled with rising anger. With an effort, the smith forced himself to be pleasant. ‘Mind you, Cade, if you killed the magistrate, I’ll call you friend and see no shame in it. He got what he was due and nothing more.’
‘I didn’t …’ Jack began to reply, but the crowd roared their approval and he blinked at them.
‘We need a man to take our grievances to Maidstone, Jack,’ Dunbar said, taking him by the shoulder. ‘Someone who’ll hold those county bastards by the throat and shake them until they remember what justice is.’
‘Well, I ain’t him,’ Jack replied, pulling himself free. ‘I came for my boy and that’s all. Now step out of my way, Dunbar, or by God, I’ll make you.’
With a firm hand, he pushed the smith to one side and went to stand under the swaying body of his son, looking up with a terrible expression.
‘We’ll be going anyway, Jack,’ Dunbar said, raising his voice. ‘There’s sixty men here, but there’s thousands coming back from France. We’re going to show them that they can’t ride roughshod over Kentish men, not here.’
The crowd cheered the words, but they were all watching Jack as he took his old seax knife and sawed at the rope holding his son. Paddy and Ecclestone stepped in to take the body as it fell, lowering it gently to the stones. Jack looked at the swollen face and knuckled tears from his eyes before he looked up.
‘Ain’t never been to Maidstone,’ he said softly. ‘There’ll be soldiers there. You’ll get yourself killed, Dunbar, you and the rest of them. Kentish men or not, you’ll be cut down. They’ll set their dogs and bully boys on you — and you’ll tug your forelock and beg their pardon, I don’t doubt it.’
‘Not with a thousand, they won’t, Jack. They’ll hear us. We’ll make them hear.’
‘No, mate, they’ll send out men just like you, is what they’ll do. They’ll sit in their fancy houses and hard, London men will come out and crack your pates for you. Take the warning, Dunbar. Take it from one who knows.’
The smith rubbed the back of his neck, thinking.
‘Maybe they will. Or maybe we’ll find justice. Will you walk with us?’
‘I won’t, didn’t I just say? You can ask me that with my son lying here? I’ve given enough of my own to the bailiffs and judges, haven’t I? Go on your way, Dunbar. Your troubles ain’t mine.’ He knelt by his son, his head sagging from exhaustion and grief.
‘You’ve paid enough, Jack. The good Lord himself can see that. Maybe it isn’t in you to walk with Kentish lads, to demand of our king’s men a little of the fine justice they only give out to the rich.’
The smith watched as Jack straightened, very aware that the burned and blackened man before him was still carrying an ugly great seax with a blade as long as his forearm.
‘Steady there, Jack,’ he said, raising his palms. ‘We need men with experience. You were a soldier, weren’t you?’
‘I’ve seen my share.’
Jack looked thoughtfully at the crowd, noting how many of them were fit and strong. They were not city men, those refugees. He could see they’d lived lives of hard work. He felt their eyes on him as he scratched the back of his neck. His throat was dry and his thoughts seemed to move like slow boats drifting on a wide river.
‘A thousand men?’ he said at last.
‘Or more, Jack, or more!’ Dunbar said. ‘Enough to set a few fires and break a few heads, eh? Are you in, Jack? It might be your only chance to take a good thick stick to the king’s bailiffs.’
Jack glanced at Ecclestone, who looked steadily back, giving nothing away. Paddy was grinning like the Irishman he was, delighted at the prospect of chaos that had descended on them from a clear morning. Jack felt his own mouth twist in reply.
‘I suppose I could be the man for that kind of work, Dunbar. I burned two houses last night. It may be I’ve got an itch for it now.’
‘That’s good, Jack!’ Dunbar said, beaming. ‘We’ll march through the villages first and gather up all those back from France — and anyone else who feels the same.’
The smith broke off as he felt Jack’s big hand press against his chest for the second time that morning.
‘Hold up there, Dunbar. I ain’t taking orders from you. You wanted a man with experience? You ain’t even Kentish yet. You may live here now, Dunbar, but you were born some other place, one of those villages where sheep run from sight of man.’ He took a breath and the locals chuckled. ‘No, lads. I’ll get you to Maidstone and I’ll break heads as called upon. My word on it, Dunbar.’
The smith turned a deeper colour, though he dipped his head.
‘Right, Jack, of course.’
Cade let his gaze drift over the crowd, picking out the faces he knew.
‘I see you there, Ronald Pincher, you old bastard. Is your inn shut this morning, with a big gasping crowd like this one? I’ve a thirst on me and you’re the man to quench it, even with the piss-poor beer you serve.’ He raised his eyebrows as a thought struck him. ‘Free drink to Kentish men on a day like today, I’m thinking?’
The innkeeper in question looked less than pleased, but raised his eyes and blew air from puffed cheeks, accepting his lot. The men roared and laughed, already smacking their lips at the prospect. As they moved off, Dunbar looked back to see Jack and his two friends still standing by the gibbet.
‘Are you coming?’ Dunbar called.
‘Go ahead. I’ll find you,’ Jack replied without looking. His voice was hoarse.
As the crowd moved away, his shoulders slumped in grief. Dunbar watched for a moment as the big man lifted his son’s body on to his shoulder, patting it gently as he took the weight. With Paddy and Ecclestone walking on either side of him, Jack began the long trudge up to the churchyard to bury his boy.
16
William de la Pole walked up spiralling wooden stairs to the room above. It was a spartan place for a man with authority over the prestigious Calais garrison. One small table looked over a leaden sea through narrow slots in the stone walls. William could see white-flecked waves in the distance and heard the ever-present calls of gulls wheeling and hovering in the wind over the coast. The room was very cold, despite the fire burning in the hearth.
The Duke of York rose from his seat as William entered and the two men shook hands briefly before York waved him to a seat and settled himself. His expression was sardonic as he folded his hands on his belt and leaned back.
‘How should I address you now, William? You have so many new titles, by the king’s hand. Admiral of the fleet, is it? The king’s steward? Earl of Pembroke? Or perhaps Duke of Suffolk now, my equal? How you have risen! Like fresh bread. I can hardly comprehend what service to the Crown could have been so valuable as to earn such rewards.’
William stared back calmly, ignoring the mocking tone.
‘I suspect you know I have been sent here to relieve you, Richard. Would you like to see the royal order?’
York waved a hand dismissively.
‘Something else Derry Brewer put together, is it? I’m sure it is all correct. Leave it with my servant on the way out, William, if that’s all you have to say.’
With ponderous care, William removed the scroll from a battered leather satchel and pushed it across the table. Despite himself, Richard of York eyed the massive seal with a dour expression.
‘King Henry sealed it with his own hand, in my presence, my lord. Active upon my arrival in Calais. Whether you choose to read it now or not, you are hereby relieved of your post here.’
William frowned at his own tone. The Duke of York was losing his most prized possession. It was surely a moment to be gracious. He looked out of the window at the gulls and the sea, the waves of slate and white
, with England just twenty miles away. On a clear day, William knew the coast was visible from Calais, a constant reminder of home to the man who sat in the tower and ruled in the king’s name.
‘I regret … that I must be the bearer of such news, Richard,’ he said.
To his surprise, York broke into harsh laughter, patting the table with his outstretched palm as he shook and gasped.
‘Oh, William, I’m sorry, it’s just your grave expression, your funeral manner! Do you think this is the end of me?’
‘I don’t know what to think, Richard!’ William retorted. ‘The army sits in Calais and doesn’t move a step, while the king’s subjects are forced on to the road across Anjou and Maine. What did you expect, if not to be relieved from this post? God knows, I would rather not see you shamed in such a way, but the king commands and so I am here. I do not understand your mirth. And still you laugh! Have you lost your wits?’
York controlled himself with difficulty.
‘Oh, William. You will always be a cat’s-paw to other men, do you know that? If ever there was a poisoned cup, this is it. What will you do with my soldiers in Calais? Send them out? Will you have them play nursemaid to all the English stragglers coming home? They won’t thank you for it. Have you even heard of the riots in England, or are your ears stopped up by all your new titles? I tell you this scroll is no favour to you, no matter what it says. I wish you luck in Calais, William. You will need it, and more.’
With a sharp gesture, York broke the wax seal and unrolled the sheet, looking it over. He shrugged as he read.
‘Lieutenant of Ireland, the king’s man? As good a place as any to watch this fall apart, William, don’t you think? I could have wished for somewhere warm, I suppose, but I have a small estate in the north there. Yes, it will do well enough.’
He rose, tucking the scroll into his tunic and putting out his right hand.
‘I have heard there is fighting in Maine, William. You’ll find I have a good man here in Jenkins. He passes out coin so that I am kept informed. I’ll tell him you are his new master in France. Well, then. My regards to your lady wife. I wish you luck.’
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