‘It was a secret marriage, of course. Holland’s got no money to speak of, and his family is quite lowly. Sir Thomas and Joan had to get married quickly because he was ordered to fight in Flanders. After that he went straight to fight with the Teutonic knights against the Tartars. Now, while he’s in Prussia, the king decides that it’s time his young cousin is found a suitable match. And who more suitable than William Montague, the son of his old friend the Earl of Salisbury who helped him overthrow Mortimer all those years ago? So before you can say “bigamy”, Joan and Montague are exchanging vows.’
‘But didn’t Joan tell them she was already married?’ protested Kemp.
‘Who knows what happened? Maybe she was too scared to confess to having secretly married Sir Thomas. Maybe she thought he was dead, killed by the paynim Tartars. Maybe she did say something, but her parents decided such a doubtful marriage to such an undistinguished young man must be invalid.’
‘So what happened when Sir Thomas eventually got back to England?’
Brewster shrugged. ‘What could he do? Joan was married to Montague at the king’s prompting. Oh, by way of compensation they made Sir Thomas steward of her household – a sinecure to buy his silence, I’m sure, since I can’t see a fighting man like Sir Thomas working as a steward in the same household where his wife is living with another husband.’ He shook his head with a chuckle.
Kemp was stunned, not knowing what to make of the story, not even sure if any of it could be true. He had always admired Holland as a strong warrior, never imagining that a personal tragedy such as this might lie in his private life.
Jarrom spat. ‘Come on,’ he said, walking back down the side of the dune in the direction of Villeneuve. ‘Let’s get some supper before we go on the night watch.’
Preston and his platoon shared a barrack house in Villeneuve – no more than a long, low building of brushwood and thatch twenty-five feet long and fifteen feet wide, somewhere to lay on their pallets at night, with a pit dug in the centre of the floor as a makeshift hearth where they could cook the food they bought from the king’s victuallers. When Kemp, Brewster and Jarrom got back, they found the rest of the platoon already there, crowded around one of the beds listening to someone talking. Kemp recognised the Yorkshire accent at once.
‘John!’
The huddle of men parted just enough for Kemp and Brewster to see through, and there, sitting on a pallet in one corner, sat John Conyers.
Kemp and Brewster rushed forward and embraced him in turn. ‘Christ’s wounds, John, we thought you were dead!’ exclaimed Brewster.
Conyers grinned. ‘It’d take more than a French sword-thrust to put an end to John Conyers,’ he boasted. A short, wiry young man, Conyers’ dark brown eyes always had a mischievous twinkle. The last time Kemp had seen him, they had been carrying him off the field of Crécy with a stab wound in his stomach. Such an injury was usually as fatal as a thrust to the heart, if slower and more painful, and Kemp and the others had thought him dead. ‘I’ll admit it was touch and go for a while,’ he added, uncharacteristically grave. ‘At one point they even fetched a priest to read the last rites over me, but I wouldn’t let him. They say that your soul wings its way to heaven the moment the rites are complete.’
‘There ain’t no chance of your soul going to heaven, Conyers!’ jeered Oakley, and Conyers grinned.
‘Well, you’re here now,’ said Brewster, as delighted to see his friend alive as Kemp was. ‘That’s the important thing. You’re fully recovered?’
‘More or less.’ Conyers hitched up his tunic to show them the scar in his side. ‘I still get twinges every now and then. And I can’t eat as much as I used to.’
‘God’s belly! I’d hate to see how much you used to eat before!’ said Simon Elliott, one of Jarrom’s friends, who had just seen Conyers wolf back two bowls of pottage, some cheese and half a loaf of bread.
‘Anything left for us?’ asked Kemp, smiling.
* * *
Sir Thomas Holland found King Edward in the withdrawing room of his mansion talking to the Earls of Warwick and Northampton. Edward Plantagenet of Windsor, King of England, Duke of Gascony and – by claim, at least – King of France, was a tall and well-made man in his early thirties. His shoulder-length hair and beard were golden-brown, his eyes a piercing blue. His face was proud without being haughty, with sternness written in the firm jaw-line, eyes that sparkled with intelligence, and lips that would be equally swift to curse or smile.
He glanced up at the knight standing awkwardly in the doorway. ‘Sir Thomas! How are you? What can I do for you? Come in, man, come in!’ He gestured for Holland to join them, evidently joyful at the arrival of his wife, or perhaps one of the other ladies of the court; it was impossible to be sure with his Majesty.
Holland entered hesitantly. ‘Your Majesty, by your leave… I should like to return to England.’
The king stared at him, ‘Return to England? While the French still hold Calais? This is not like you, Sir Thomas. When a fight is in the offing, you are usually the first to step forward.’
Holland smiled thinly. ‘Your Majesty is too kind. However, I believe it will be several months before Calais falls to us. In that time I should like to return to England and take care of… certain personal affairs. If your Majesty can spare me, of course.’
The king frowned. ‘Spare you I can, Sir Thomas, though there are few knights I would like to lose less than yourself. What personal affairs are there that require your personal attention? Cannot I use my own influence to help you?’
When Holland hesitated before answering, the king looked thoughtful. ‘Leave us,’ he told the two earls.
They swept out of the room, Warwick discreetly closing the door behind him.
The king sat down and gestured for Holland to do likewise. ‘This has naught to do with any personal affairs of yours in England, does it, Sir Thomas? It seems to me it can be no coincidence you should make such a request the day after my cousin Joan has arrived here before Calais.’
Holland hung his head. ‘It was not ambition that made me marry her, sire.’
‘An invalid marriage,’ the king reminded him sharply. Then he smiled. ‘I know, Sir Thomas. She is a lovely child. Were I not already married myself…’
‘I thought I could forget about her. That I would find another. But there can be no other like Joan.’
‘I can see why the two of you should be attracted to one another,’ the king acknowledged. ‘Both of your fathers were falsely executed by traitors for remaining loyal to my father at a time when most men subjected their loyalty to expediency.’ Holland’s father, Lord Robert Holland, had been executed by followers of the Despenser family when they had usurped the royal authority. Joan’s father, the Earl of Kent, had been executed for plotting to rescue King Edward the second from Berkeley Castle, where he had been imprisoned after the Conquest by his own queen and her lover, the usurper Roger Mortimer.
‘But Joan is my ward, and cannot be married without my permission. I judged Sir William a better match for my cousin. One day he will be Earl of Salisbury, as his father was before him…’
‘Sir William is not the same man his father was,’ asserted Holland, who had been a good friend of William Montague the elder. ‘More to the point, she does not love him…’
The king thumped his fist against the table in a sudden burst of rage. ‘Who she loves is irrelevant! She is a ward of her king, to be dealt with as I choose! And I chose for her to marry Sir William!’
Holland was shaken by the king’s sudden anger, but refused to be cowed. ‘I love her,’ he said simply. ‘It is more than I can bear to remain here in Villeneuve, and to see Montague flaunt her as his wife each day…’
The king made a visible effort to control himself. ‘I know, and I understand. I pity you, Sir Thomas.’
‘I do not ask for your pity, sire. All I ask is that I be allowed to return to England…’
‘Then go!’ The king gestured towards the doo
r with an out-flung arm.
Holland hesitated, reluctant to leave with such bad feeling between himself and his monarch. Perhaps on another day he would have a chance to regain his king’s favour…
On his way out of the mansion he encountered Sir Hugh Despenser, a descendant of the Despensers who had caused so much trouble in the old king’s reign. Holland and Despenser had fought together at the battle of Sluys – where Holland had lost his left eye – at the siege of Tournai, and alongside the prince at Crécy, but there was no camaraderie between the two. A burly man in early middle age, Despenser was Montague’s brother-in-law, and had backed Montague against Holland from the outset of their quarrel. Walking past with his head bowed in thought, Holland pretended he had not seen Despenser, but the other called out to him.
‘You seem glum, Sir Thomas. What’s the matter? Have you lost something?’
Holland glanced up with a grimace.
Despenser grinned. ‘A wife, perchance?’
Holland turned away, determined not to rise to the bait.
‘I’m surprised Sir William and you cannot come to some kind of arrangement,’ jeered Despenser. ‘Sir William could have her during the week, and you could have her at weekends…’
Holland lunged at Despenser, catching him by the throat and driving him back against the wall, but in the same instant Despenser drew his dagger from his belt and held the point against Holland’s breast, directly over his heart. Grinning, he shook his head chidingly. Holland glared down at the blade and then released him, backing away quickly.
‘Only a churl would strike at an unarmed man, Sir Hugh.’
Despenser did not reply. Still grinning, he replaced his dagger in its sheath and strolled off nonchalantly.
* * *
Behind the visor of his steel bascinet, Sir Geoffroi de Chargny’s face was coursing with sweat. It was a warm day for February, even on the island of Rhodes, but mild for all that. Despite his full suit of armour, a quilted gambeson beneath his habergeon of chain-mail, he would not have sweated had he been inactive. But de Chargny did not don his armour to remain inactive.
He swung his broadsword once more at his opponent, who caught the stroke on his heater-shaped shield, before riposting with a swipe of his own. De Chargny raised his own similar shield, decorated with his coat-of-arms – three white shields on a crimson background, the same design as the one emblazoned on his jupon – and caught the heavy blow with ease. Then he aimed a thrust at his opponent’s stomach and the other was too slow with his shield, barely managing to parry the blow with his broadsword. The thrust had caught him off guard.
De Chargny sensed his advantage and pressed home his attack, aiming a blow at his opponent’s bascinet. The other man raised his shield, but the force of the blow was enough to force him down on to one knee. He thrust at de Chargny’s midriff, but it was a thrust of desperation, and de Chargny parried it with ease. He slid the edge of his sword down the length of his opponent’s blade and hooked the point under the cross-guard with a skilful, well-practised motion. His opponent was wearing articulated steel gauntlets, the same as de Chargny’s, but the trick gave de Chargny enough leverage to twist his opponent’s sword from his grip. The sword struck the cobbles with a dull clank. As the other man tried to hide underneath his shield de Chargny swung his sword again, striking the edge of the shield, knocking it from his opponent’s arm. Then he took one sure-footed step forwards and thrust his sword at his opponent’s shoulder. The point of the razor-edged blade split the links of the man’s chain-mail habergeon, and the man gave a sob as the cold steel bit into his skin. He sprawled on his back on the cobbles, blood seeping through his habergeon.
De Chargny stood over him, the point of his sword levelled at the fallen man’s throat. He hesitated momentarily, to rub in the fact that he had his opponent at his mercy. Then he used the point of his sword to flick back the man’s visor. The face thus revealed was a young one, barely out of its mid-teens, the watery pale blue eyes blinking at the bright Mediterranean sunlight that suddenly flooded into his helmet.
De Chargny wiped the blood off the blade of his sword with an old rag and returned it to the scabbard hanging at his hip. Instead of lifting his own visor, he began to unlace the cord which fastened his bascinet to his mail coif. ‘I could have killed you,’ he said in calm, measured tones – the voice of a man who would never become flustered no matter how adverse the circumstance, a man who could stay cool even in the heat of battle. ‘You’ll have to do better than that. Your next opponent may not be as merciful as I.’
The young man nodded miserably, accepting the hand which de Chargny offered to help him back on his feet. ‘Yes, Father.’
De Chargny finished unfastening his bascinet and lifted it off his head. The face he thus revealed was handsome yet cold, with a thin-lipped mouth framed by a neatly trimmed beard. An aquiline nose gave his whole face a sleek, predatory appearance, and his hooded eyes were the palest blue, full of cold intelligence, watchful, unblinking. The body beneath his armour was tall and lean without an ounce of fat. He moved with elegant, almost fastidious precision, like a bird of prey preening itself after devouring its kill.
As de Chargny and his son began to walk towards the shade of the veranda at the edge of the courtyard, his faithful squire Guilbert hurried forward to relieve them of their helmets. A younger son of a knight from de Chargny’s native Burgundy, Guilbert was heavily built, with black curly hair and a tangled beard. His movements were as clumsy as his master’s were graceful, but there was so much strength in his tall, powerfully muscled body that few people protested if he inadvertently bumped into them. Guilbert would never rise to the knighthood even if he had been able to afford the financial obligations which the honour imposed. He lacked refinement, money and intelligence; and while very few knights had all three qualities, even fewer had none. But Guilbert did not aspire to a knighthood. He was quite content to serve his master with slavish devotion, while de Chargny in return valued his loyalty and unquestioning obedience.
A wooden table and two benches were set on the veranda, and it was from there, in the shade, that the Dauphin of Vienne, Humbert II, had watched the combat. He applauded as they approached. He was roughly the same age as de Chargny. Normally inclining towards plumpness, a recent savage bout of dysentery had left his sallow skin hanging loosely from his bones.
‘Well fought, Sir Geoffroi. And you too, boy,’ he added, with a nod in the direction of de Chargny’s son. He gestured to where a flagon of diluted wine stood on the table. ‘Sit down. Drink. You must be parched.’
De Chargny acknowledged Humbert’s praise with a curt nod. It was thanks to Humbert that de Chargny and his son now found themselves on this benighted rock in the eastern Mediterranean. The Order of the Knights of the Hospital of Saint John had made it their home more than half a century earlier after the fall of Acre drove the Crusaders from the Holy Land.
They sat in the courtyard of a fine villa in the old quarter of the town of Rhodes. A short distance down the street was the Grand Harbour, and only eight miles to the north – visible from the town walls on a clear day such as this – was the coast of Anatolia, home of the Turkish pirates who preyed on Christian maritime trade. Foremost of the ports used by these corsairs had been Smyrna, until it fell in a joint attack by the Hospitallers, the Venetians, the Cypriots and the Papacy two and a half years earlier. News of this victory against the infidel Turks had quickly spread throughout Christendom, and had so filled Humbert with crusading ardour that he – with the help of a few flagons of fine Burgundy wine – persuaded Pope Clement to appoint him ‘Captain of the Holy Apostolic See and Leader of the Whole Army of Christians Against the Turks’. The title was far more impressive than the desultory crusade that followed.
De Chargny had taken the cross as a young man, swearing that at some point in his life he would wield his sword against the infidels; nevertheless, he had been reluctant to join Humbert’s ill-planned, ill-financed campaign. The two of t
hem had known one another socially for several years, and they shared a fascination with chivalric codes and values. When Humbert founded the secular Order of Saint Katherine, it had been a feather in his cap when he persuaded de Chargny – widely acknowledged as one of the world’s leading experts on all things chivalrous – to join. The Order of Saint Katherine had failed to prove itself, and de Chargny privately admitted to his friends that Humbert had got him drunk before persuading him to join.
Given this experience, de Chargny had kicked himself for not knowing better than to accept Humbert’s offer of a drink or two in May 1345. He had awoken the following morning with a thick head, while Humbert had his promise that he would accompany him on a crusade to consolidate the foot-hold gained in Anatolia by the capture of Smyrna.
De Chargny’s doubts about Humbert’s tactical and strategic prowess had proved well-founded. They had failed to capture the island of Chios, and once their substantial army had landed in Anatolia, it soon suffered from lack of provisions and disease. They found themselves unable to get to grips with the enemy, and after a few desultory sorties Humbert, by now ravaged with dysentery, had decided to call it a day, returning to the island of Rhodes to spend the winter there; for as even de Chargny acknowledged – without a trace of irony – there was a season for hunting infidels, as surely as there were for hunting and hawking. But Humbert’s experiences in Anatolia had dampened his enthusiasm for fighting, and despite an earlier vow to remain in the East for three years, he had written to the Pope requesting permission to end his crusade and return to France. Pope Clement – himself keen on crusading – had sighed, shaking his head wryly, and granted his permission.
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