He left Peledargent until last. As much as he liked horses, the courser was huge, a powerfully muscled beast bred for war and a little too highly strung for Kemp’s liking. It was long past midnight before he finally got around to moving it. All day and most of the night the causeway leading through the marsh between Villeneuve and Calais had been chock-a-block with traffic, the people of Calais leaving, and the men of the king’s army moving in, so that each trip between Holland’s old house and the new had entailed an hour of queuing simply to get into the town. The fact the sentries at the gates were under strict instructions to question closely any man who sought to enter the town did not speed up the process.
By the small hours of the morning the streets of Calais were relatively empty, the silence of the night broken only by the singing and shouting of drunken revellers. Carousing had taken place not only in the castle but also in the town’s many inns, already restocked with wine and ale from the English camp. Kemp was in a foul mood, for while his companions had finished their duties earlier and joined in the celebrations, his own work was still not finished.
Approaching Holland’s house, leading the courser by its halter, he became aware of a figure muffled in a dark cloak waiting in the shadows by the door. He could not see its face, but he knew instinctively from her stance that it could only be Maud, and realised she was probably waiting for him. His heart sank. When he forced himself to regard her with detachment he had to admit she was attractive. But the prospect of carnal intercourse had filled him with horror ever since he committed rape and he had no wish to be tempted to repeat such brutality with Maud.
She threw back her cowl to reveal her face and smiled at him. Her dark, curly hair shone in the moonlight. Aye, she was pretty enough, Kemp had to admit, but somehow she failed to stir any passions within his breast, or within any other part of his anatomy for that matter. Nowadays when his dreams were filled with lascivious thoughts, he woke up in a cold sweat.
‘Good morning, Martin.’
He made a non-committal grunt by way of reply and led the horse past her without pausing.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Milking an oliphaunt,’ he told her, and immediately regretted his curtness. He knew he should be flattered rather than irritated by her attentions.
She grabbed his arm and caught him off-guard. ‘Don’t you find me attractive?’
‘I’ve already told you,’ he explained patiently. ‘It’s not that. It’s just that I love another.’
Maud grinned. ‘She need never know.’
‘I would.’ He spoke with the force of one who knew all there was to know about guilt.
She moved closer to him. ‘And what makes you so certain she is not betraying you with another man?’
‘Beatrice isn’t like that,’ he insisted.
‘Can you really be sure?’ She tried to slip her arms around his waist, standing on tip-toe to kiss him, but he pushed her away. There was something akin to horror in his eyes.
‘Please, Maud, stay away from me,’ he pleaded. ‘I’m not a good person to be with.’
‘What is it you’re afraid of?’
He stared at her with dark, hollow eyes, his face pale in the moonlight. ‘Only myself,’ he croaked hoarsely. He turned away abruptly and began to lead the courser down the alley at the side of the house.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked, in sudden alarm.
‘Where do you think I’m going, leading this beast?’ he asked, nodding towards the stables.
‘But you can’t go in there!’
‘Why not?’
‘Because… because you just can’t, that’s all! Please, Martin, trust me in this matter.’
‘Sir Thomas told me to put all his horses in the stable. He’d be furious if I failed in such a simple task.’
Maud ran her fingers through her dark curls in agitation. ‘Surely it can wait until the morn?’
Kemp shook his head incredulously. ‘I’ve just led this animal all the way from Villeneuve. You can’t expect me to turn around and head back now we’re only a few yards from our destination?’
She grabbed his arm again, tried to hold him. ‘Please, Martin, it can wait. Stay with me tonight… let’s take the horse and go for a ride on the beach…’
He shook her off, his arm coming free more easily than he expected so that he struck her in the face with his hand, knocking her to the ground. He was filled with horror when he realised what he had done and crouched beside her.
‘God in heaven! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you… forgive me …’
She was dazed by the blow, but otherwise unhurt. ‘You churl! You damned, brutish churl!’ she snapped, and struck him in the face, open-handed. ‘Upon my life, I hate you!’ She scrambled to her feet and fled into the night, sobbing.
Kemp remained where he was. She was right: he was nothing but a damned, brutish churl… but had he not tried to warn her it was so?
He rose and turned to Peledargent. Even the horse seemed to stare reproachfully at him with its huge, dark eyes. ‘I know, I know,’ he sighed, ruffling its mane. ‘I don’t deserve her. I don’t deserve either of them.’
He picked up the halter and led the horse to the stable door. He frowned; he was certain he had left the door bolted. As he stepped inside, he thought he heard a noise – a whispering, rustling noise, suddenly silence. Rats? Rats did not whisper. Kemp knew instinctively that, apart from himself and the horses, there was someone else in the stable.
He looped Peledargent’s halter to the nearest wooden post and reached for his broadsword. He grasped the hilt, and then realised the massive blade would be more of a hindrance than a help in the close confines of the stable. He transferred his grip to the round haft of his dagger, easing the long, triangular blade from its sheath. He realised that he too had caught his breath. Dagger in hand, he waited in deathly silence until his eyes became accustomed to the darkness – the first light of dawn was in the sky, and filtered through the gaps between the planks of the walls and roof – breathing shallowly through his mouth. Ever so slowly, he moved deeper into the stables, putting each foot down with infinitesimal care, so that his steps made not a sound. If whoever was in there was fool enough to think the silence meant he had left, then they might be tricked into making some sound that would give away their position. But the silence continued.
By now his eyes had grown used to the darkness and he could see that if there was anyone else in the stable, they were hidden. He asked himself where he would hide, if he was in the other man’s position. The rafters, of course: people rarely looked up, even when they were searching for someone, and as a boy playing hide-and-seek he had always been the last found by hiding in plain view, high in the branches of a sturdy tree or on the roof of a cottage or barn. He slowly tilted his head back, his imagination populating the rafters with all manner of murderers, demons and monsters waiting to pounce down on him, but his gaze revealed no one.
That left only the stalls.
He continued to move cat-footed along the length of the stables, keeping his back to the wall opposite the stalls, dagger poised, his eyes searching each stall in turn as he drew level with it.
He came to the last empty stall, and froze.
Two eyes stared back at him, glistening in the darkness. He could see only the top half of a woman’s face, peering at him over a man’s shoulder, but even if he lived for a thousand years he would never forget a single feature on the face of the Fair Maid of Kent. And though the man had his face buried in the crook of the woman’s neck and shoulder, the strip of white cloth that ran around the back of his head marked out his identity clearly enough.
Kemp was filled with the most acute embarrassment as he realised he had discovered not malefactors up to no good, but two lovers locked in carnal embrace. Instead of relief, he felt himself shaking with guilt at having interrupted them. His mind froze as he tried to think what he should do next. The obvious solution was to get out of there, but the woma
n had seen him, and she knew he had recognised her.
Recovering his presence of mind, he replaced his dagger in its sheath and turned to where he had left the courser tied up. ‘No one here, Peledargent,’ he said loudly. No longer making any attempt at silence, he crossed back to the far end of the stable, put the courser in an empty stall, and left, clattering the latch but leaving the door unbolted.
* * *
After all the tension, Joan giggled with relief, and Holland found himself laughing too. ‘Did he not see us?’ he asked at last.
Joan shook her head. ‘He must have. It was one of your men: the young blond one you used to send me your letter.’
Holland nodded. He had realised it must be Kemp even before he recognised the archer’s voice.
‘Will he gossip about us?’ asked Joan.
Holland shook his head. ‘Kemp never speaks unless directly addressed and almost never volunteers information unless directly asked.’
‘And if he’s directly asked?’
‘He’s loyal to me. Besides, I promised him a position in some merchant’s house in London for a year and a day so he can win his freedom from his own lord. I think we can rely on his discretion.’
‘My lady-in-waiting finds him very handsome.’
‘Kemp? Handsome?’ Holland sounded unconvinced.
‘You have not a woman’s eye, my lord. I think she is right – he is handsome, in a rather brutish way.’
‘You stay away from him!’ snapped Holland.
‘My lord! I do believe you are jealous.’
‘It’s not that. There’s something about that lad… I am glad he serves the king and not Valois. I would hate to have such a man against me. There is something…’ He shook his head. He could not articulate the sense of unease the young archer sometimes gave him, and he was not in the mood to try. ‘Besides,’ he continued, smiling as he lowered his head to brush her nipples with his lips, ‘what man would not be jealous, when the woman he loves is married to another?’
She ran pale, slender fingers through his dark hair. ‘How much longer, Thomas? How much longer must we put up with this charade?’
‘You have heard that I sold the Count of Eu to his Majesty?’
She nodded.
‘Your royal cousin has unwittingly given me the means to challenge his match between you and Montague. Now I can afford the legal costs of a protracted court case…’
‘How protracted?’ she asked.
He smiled down at her. ‘The sooner it is begun, the sooner it will be ended.’
‘There is a man who has been in the queen’s service for nearly ten years now; a serjeant-at-law named Master Robert Sigglesthorne of Beverley. Her Majesty speaks highly of him as an attorney.’
Holland frowned. ‘He sounds expensive.’
‘But you can afford it now, can you not?’
‘Aye…’
‘And will it not be worth it to have me as your lawful wedded wife?’
He grinned. ‘Worth every last farthing,’ he assured her, and bent his head to kiss her again.
She pushed him away. ‘I must get back, before William misses me.’
The two of them began to dress. Holland pulled his breech-cloth back on, adjusting it around his hips below the hem of his tunic before fastening it to the laces of his hose. Joan was still sorting out her own undergarments as Holland buckled his sword belt around his waist. ‘You wait here,’ he told her. ‘I’ll make sure the coast is clear.’
She nodded and he lifted the latch before slipping outside.
The coast was not clear. Despenser and Montague stood there, dressed in cloaks and cowls. Montague looked nervous, his pale young face whiter in the moonlight, but Despenser was smiling, full of his usual self-assurance, and clearly in control of the situation. Both of them clasped the hilts of their scabbarded swords, blocking Holland’s path.
Chapter Five
Holland’s mind raced. How long had they been waiting there? Did they know that Joan was in the stable? Had Kemp deliberately brought them there, so that they might catch him in flagrante delicto? No; Kemp would not betray him like that… or would he?
It was Despenser who brought the uncomfortable silence to an end. ‘You are abroad late, Sir Thomas.’
Holland tried to look nonchalant. He did not fear Montague, but Despenser was another kettle of fish, a fighting man like himself. ‘It seems I am not the only one, Sir Hugh,’ he remarked.
‘We are in pursuit of a fugitive,’ explained Despenser.
‘Oh?’ said Holland. ‘What was his crime?’
‘Abduction and rape,’ said Despenser, with a grin. ‘We thought he might be hiding in your stables.’
Holland shook his head, hooking his right thumb over the buckle of his sword belt in a casual, relaxed pose which had the advantage of placing his hand inches from the hilt of his sword. ‘There is no one in there.’
‘But surely you can have no objection if we prefer to see for ourselves?’ persisted Despenser.
‘I object to being called a liar,’ Holland replied evenly. ‘Tell me, who was the victim of this rape and abduction?’
‘Better for the lady’s honour if her name is not brought into this,’ Montague said.
Holland smiled. ‘Then perhaps it might also be better for her honour if you do not insist on entering these stables.’ The battlelines were drawn now; they knew Joan was in the stables, and they also knew that Holland knew they knew it. ‘If it is the honour of the victim and her husband you care to protect, then perhaps you should return in the morning to give the victim a chance to return home without any public humiliation.’
‘And what would I find if I were to return in the morning, apart from the stable door bolted and the horse gone?’ Montague asked coldly.
‘You would find me ready to wash any slur on my honour in your blood.’ The challenge was easily made, because Montague would never accept it: Holland was too good a swordsman.
Despenser shook his head. ‘We settle this now, Holland,’ he snarled, drawing his sword.
Holland and Montague did likewise. ‘Two against one?’ challenged Holland. ‘Your sense of chivalry has abandoned you, Sir Hugh.’
‘Two against two, Sir Thomas,’ said a familiar voice, and they turned to see a fourth figure standing there, dressed in a black cloak with a loose-fitting cowl that concealed his face.
‘And who are you?’ demanded Despenser. ‘A churl, by your accent.’
‘Who I am does not concern you,’ growled the newcomer.
‘It concerns me greatly, if I am to cross swords with a churl…’ began Despenser, breaking off in mid-sentence to lunge with his sword at Holland, judging the knight to be the greater threat of his two opponents. Holland knew Despenser of old, however, and had been awaiting such a tactic. He parried the thrust with ease, before swinging his sword at Despenser’s head.
Taking his lead from Despenser, Montague joined the attack, charging at the other man, who seemed to be unarmed. Before he could cover even half the distance between them, however, the cowled figure reached inside his cloak and produced a broadsword, swinging it above his head to bring it crashing down against the up-raised blade of Montague’s weapon. Montague stumbled under the force of the blow, and the cowled figure dashed in close, jabbing at his opponent’s shoulder with the point of his sword. Montague fell back with a cry, clutching at a dark stain which spread across the rent in his tunic.
‘Sir Hugh! I am wounded!’
Despenser was only too well aware of the fact because it meant he now faced both Holland and the newcomer alone. He hoped he could hold his own against Holland in single combat; but the peasant had proved to be surprisingly skilled with the broadsword and even Despenser knew when he was outnumbered. He levelled his blade at Holland’s face. ‘I’ll not forget this, Holland!’ he growled.
Holland smiled. ‘I should hope not, Sir Hugh.’
Despenser returned his sword to his scabbard, and turned to help Montague. The tw
o of them backed away, the younger man leaning on Despenser for support. The wound he had received was not serious but it would certainly provide him with some discomfort for the next month or two.
When they had disappeared from sight, Holland sheathed his own blade. ‘Well done, Kem…’ he began, turning, only to find that the archer had slipped away as silently as he had arrived. Holland shuddered with cold, only to realise that it was a warm midsummer’s night, and any chill he felt must come from within.
* * *
Robert Sigglesthorne of Beverley was a portly middle-aged man with long, wavy iron-grey hair, a heavily jowled face dominated by a strawberry nose, and a pair of rheumy, bloodshot eyes. He was dressed in particoloured robes of brown and green, and a white silk coif, the uniform of a serjeant-at-law in court; the fact he was dressed so out of court suggested that he was at pains to present himself in a professional light. He allowed the page to take his cloak before following him into the main room of the house in Calais where Holland had just finished his supper. The page announced him in formal fashion and Holland rose to his feet to greet his guest.
‘Sir Thomas Holland? It is a great honour, sir.’ Sigglesthorne had a deep and fruity voice. ‘Your reputation precedes you,’ he said, bowing low.
‘And yours you,’ returned Holland. ‘You were recommended to me by a lady of the queen’s household…’
‘Ah, yes. Lady Joan, I presume,’ Sigglesthorne guessed shrewdly.
‘Indeed,’ Holland admitted, a little thrown by Sigglesthorne’s presumption. He supposed that a serjeant-at-law of Sigglesthorne’s reputation was permitted a certain degree of latitude in his behaviour towards his betters. ‘You came swiftly in answer to my summons.’
Sigglesthorne nodded. ‘I am already locked in a number of other cases of litigation back in London, but I confess that your particular case intrigues me. I would be most honoured to have the privilege of acting as your attorney in this matter. Is that claret in yon flagon?’
Kemp Page 11
