‘Take it easy, lad. We’ll go in our own good time, walking to our horses nice and casually, as if we didn’t have a care in the world. No point in arousing anyone’s suspicions with undue haste.’
‘Hey, serjeant – some of them are coming over here.’ Conyers nodded towards two French knights and their squires striding in their direction, with half a dozen retainers in attendance.
‘Christ’s pain!’ hissed Kemp.
‘What is it?’ asked Preston.
‘I know him,’ explained Kemp. ‘More to the point,’ he continued, tipping his ‘kettle’ helmet forward so that the brim hid his face, ‘he knows me.’
‘How so?’
‘You remember Sir Thomas told you how I struck that French squire?’
‘Aye?’
‘That’s the one I struck,’ Kemp said.
‘Nails and blood! It’s a pity you didn’t strike him more forcefully, Kemp; he might not be here to trouble us now. All right, lads, stay calm,’ he murmured out of the corner of his mouth. ‘You let me do all the talking.’
Sir Geoffroi de Chargny halted before the table, flanked by Guilbert, and Sir Oudard de Renty and his squire. Arms akimbo, his fists balled on his hips, de Chargny regarded the three archers with contempt. ‘With the Earl of Warwick and his Flemish mercenaries ravaging the countryside hereabouts, it is a matter of great wonder to me that you three fellows have time to sit about quaffing wine,’ he remarked. ‘You look to me like professional troops, rather than peasant levies. In whose retinue do you serve?’
‘The Duke of Brittany, my lord,’ muttered Conyers.
‘I was unaware any of the duke’s troops were in this region,’ de Chargny said suspiciously.
‘We left his retinue when Va… when the king disbanded his army,’ said Conyers.
De Chargny slapped him across the face with the back of a gauntleted hand, scoring three threads of blood on his cheek. ‘You address me as “my lord”, filth!’
For a moment Kemp thought that Conyers would strike back, but the Yorkshireman had a tight and careful grip on his temper. ‘Yes, my lord,’ he apologised.
‘There is something strange about your accents,’ observed de Renty. ‘They are not Breton. Are you certain you are not routiers, mere brigands with loyalty to none, seeking plunder and booty in the wake of war’s path?’
‘No, my lord.’
‘What about you two?’ demanded de Chargny, regarding Preston and Kemp in turn. ‘Do you not have tongues of your own?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ mumbled Kemp. Preston merely imitated the Gallic shrug he had often seen French prisoners perform, drawing down his head as he raised his shoulders.
‘Doff your helm when you address your betters!’ snapped de Chargny, drawing his sword and flicking its point against the underside of the brim of Kemp’s helmet, so that it fell from his head. Kemp caught the helmet before it hit the ground, and hurriedly placed it back on his head, but the damage was already done. His sword still levelled at Kemp, de Chargny stared at him incredulously. ‘I know you, do I not?’
‘I think not, my lord,’ mumbled Kemp.
‘Look me in the eye, damn you!’ With the point of his sword against the underside of Kemp’s jaw, de Chargny tilted back his head. ‘I know you indeed! You are Sir Thomas Holland’s churlish squire!’
‘Aye, Sir Geoffroi. It is he,’ growled Guilbert.
‘I know this churl. He is an Englishman!’ de Chargny told de Renty. He looked wolfishly at Kemp. ‘We are no longer under a flag of truce. It is time for your lesson in manners, dog.’ He turned to the two squires. ‘These men are enemy spies. Seize them!’
Conyers snatched the flagon off the table and hurled it at de Renty’s squire. It bounced off the man’s helmet and he staggered, dazed. At the same moment, de Chargny raised his sword above his head to strike at Kemp. Kemp sharply tipped up the table, ducking down at the same moment, so that his opponent’s blade bit deep into the wood. Then the edge of the table came down against de Chargny’s shins and he overbalanced, sprawling on the cobbles.
De Renty’s squire drew his sword and lunged at Kemp. The young archer drew his own sword almost as swiftly, parrying the blow. Guilbert engaged Preston, his superior strength and swordsmanship steadily driving the serjeant back; while Conyers found himself facing de Renty, desperately trying to parry the huge knight’s unending succession of blows with no chance to make a thrust in retaliation. The tip of de Renty’s arcing blade scored a line of blood across Conyers’ brow, and he had to blink repeatedly as his own blood threatened to blind him.
Seeing de Chargny and de Renty assailed, some men-at-arms rushed to their assistance, swords drawn. Outnumbered and outclassed, the three archers found themselves surrounded. Slowly but surely they were herded back against the wall of the tavern.
Chapter Six
Kemp killed his opponent with a thrust to the throat, earning himself the briefest moment to look around. A man-at-arms had gone to de Renty’s assistance, the two of them competing to slay Conyers. Kemp stepped up behind the man-at-arms and brought his blade down without warning. It glanced off the man’s helmet and bit through the chain-mail links of his hauberk to rest on his left shoulder, slicing deep through bone and muscle. Wiping his own blood from his eyes with his sleeve, Conyers flashed a quick grin of gratitude at Kemp, then at once had to parry de Renty’s next blow.
Kemp turned to Preston, who faced both de Chargny and Guilbert. Even as he moved to help, the point of the knight’s sword entered Preston’s side and blood splashed on to the cobbles. Kemp was about to stab the Frenchman from behind when it occurred to him that their best chance of escaping lay in keeping de Chargny alive. He grabbed a fistful of de Chargny’s russet locks in his left hand, and with his right he pressed the flat of his blade against the knight’s throat.
‘Drop your sword,’ he snarled and then repeated himself in French. The translation was unnecessary, however; even if de Chargny had not understood English, Kemp’s meaning was painfully clear. De Chargny froze, holding his sword away from his body before allowing it to clatter against the cobbles. ‘Order your men to do the same.’
‘Enough, men,’ barked de Chargny. ‘Drop your weapons and do as he says… for now.’ He seemed as cool and calm as ever, which made Kemp feel more nervous than he already was. Even with the blade of his sword at de Chargny’s throat, it seemed to Kemp as if it was the Frenchman who was in control of the situation.
De Renty hesitated, reluctant to relinquish his blade.
‘Drop it, I said!’ snapped Kemp.
De Chargny nodded. ‘Do as he says, Sir Oudard. They cannot escape.’
De Renty tossed his sword to the cobbles with a shrug.
Kemp glanced towards Preston, who was leaning against the wall of the tavern, his face pale, his bloody hand pressed hard against a dark stain on his brigandine. ‘Are you all right, serjeant?’ he asked, his voice sounding frightened and high-pitched to his own ears.
‘Your friend is obviously badly injured,’ de Chargny hissed in English. ‘If he does not receive treatment from a surgeon quickly, he will certainly die.’
‘Don’t listen to him, Kemp,’ growled Preston. ‘I’ll live.’ But the wince of pain that stole across his features belied his words.
‘Now what?’ demanded de Chargny. ‘You are fooling yourself if you think you will escape this town alive. If you surrender now, I may yet be merciful.’
‘He’s right, Martin,’ said Conyers, wiping the blood out of his eyes. ‘No one will think ill of us if we surrender now…’
‘Pay no heed to him, Kemp!’ snapped Preston. ‘Throw down your weapons and you’re as good as dead! They’ve nothing to gain by taking us prisoner…’
‘Listen to your friend, Martin,’ de Chargny said silkily. ‘I promise you all your lives, if you will but lay down your arms. You have my word of honour on it as a gentleman…’
If there had been any doubt in Kemp’s mind about the wisdom of his present course of
action, de Chargny’s ill-judged words swept it away. ‘A gentleman?’ he sneered. ‘I piss on gentlemen! One more God-damned word out of you, mon sieur, and I’ll carve you a second mouth below your chin! All right, John, we’re moving across to the horses. If anyone else raises so much as an eyebrow, then it’s your lord’s widow you’ll be making your apologies to,’ he added in French.
Conyers held his sword in his right hand, ready to strike, still wiping blood from his eyes every few seconds, as he covered Kemp’s back. Kemp forced de Chargny to follow the wounded serjeant, keeping the blade of his sword hard against the knight’s throat.
A dozen rouncies were tied up on the other side of the street. Conyers swung himself up into the saddle of the nearest. ‘Can you ride?’ Kemp asked Preston.
‘I don’t see that I’ve got a lot of choice.’ Preston put his foot into his stirrup and clambered up into the saddle.
Conyers rode round to where Kemp and de Chargny stood, laying the blade of his own sword against the Frenchman’s throat so Kemp could sheath his weapon and vault into the saddle of the next rouncy. ‘Ready?’ Conyers asked his companions. They all nodded. ‘Let’s go!’ He kicked de Chargny in the face, sending him sprawling on the cobbles once more, and the three of them dug their heels into their horses’ flanks, drawing their swords again as they galloped through the town. The French militiamen who crowded in the street parted as the armed horsemen charged through.
Preston was half out of his saddle from loss of blood by the time he and his men met the Earl of Warwick’s column about two miles from the walls of Saint-Omer, on the road to Calais. There were perhaps two and a half thousand men in the column: roughly seven hundred and fifty archers, five hundred men-at-arms, and twelve thousand and fifty Flemish foot-soldiers. The three archers reined in at the head of the column, where they were greeted by Warwick and Holland. ‘Well?’ demanded Warwick.
Preston tried to speak but he was weak from loss of blood and out of breath after the hard ride. He shook his head helplessly, gasping air into his lungs in huge sobs.
‘Twenty-two hundred professional soldiers, my lord, and a citizens’ militia maybe four hundred strong, all armed and ready for battle,’ panted Kemp.
‘You’re sure, boy?’ demanded Warwick.
Kemp nodded.
‘What happened?’ asked Holland.
Kemp gestured at the bloody stain that continued to spread around Preston’s side. ‘The serjeant’s wounded, Sir Thomas.’
Holland nodded and turned to Conyers. ‘Help the serjeant find someone who can tend to his hurt.’ He turned back to Kemp. ‘What happened?’ he repeated.
‘You know that French squire I had a scrap with during the negotiations at Villeneuve-la-Hardie, sir?’
‘Sir Geoffroi de Chargny’s squire, aye.’
‘Him and his master – de Chargny – were there. De Chargny recognised me.’
Holland clenched one fist and beat it against his armoured thigh in frustration; he should never have allowed them to go on the reconnaissance mission.
‘My lord!’ A page pointed to where a large body of mounted troops was riding out of Saint-Omer, the banners of de Chargny and de Renty at their head.
‘Too many for pursuing these men, Sir Thomas,’ observed Warwick. ‘I believe they mean to take us on!’ He glanced over his shoulder, back at the column that straggled along the road behind him. The men were in good marching order, but it would take them several minutes to manoeuvre into a defensive position, and it would hardly take that much time for the advancing French to reach them.
Warwick searched the terrain for a suitable hill on which they could take a stand, but there was nothing they could reach and still have time to manoeuvre to meet the French. They would be as well to form up on the road where they stood. He began to bark out orders at his marshals, and the column slowly folded out into two battalions, one Flemish, the other the standard combination of English archers and men-at-arms.
‘What about me, Sir Thomas?’ asked Kemp.
Holland wheeled his horse amidst the confusion to glare momentarily at the archer. ‘Rejoin your platoon. You’re twentieth man now, Kemp.’
Kemp was deep in his own thoughts by the time he reached the other men of his platoon, who were tying up their rouncies to a nearby fence. Twentieth man – platoon commander – a great responsibility. Preston had been twentieth man up until now, doing all the thinking while Kemp and the others merely obeyed his orders. Kemp was not sure he was up to the task. When Preston had been wounded in the market-place of Saint-Omer he had taken charge of the situation but that was instinctive, when an obvious solution to their predicament presented itself to his mind.
‘Where’s the serjeant?’ demanded Jarrom, as Kemp took his longbow back from Brewster.
‘He’s wounded,’ Kemp told him tightly. ‘John’s taking him back to the baggage train. I’m twentieth man now.’
‘You!’ Jarrom exclaimed incredulously ‘Says who?’
‘Says Sir Thomas,’ Kemp snapped.
‘I’ve had much more experience than you!’ protested Jarrom. ‘Why, this is only your first campaign.’
‘We’d better take up position over there, between those two units of men-at-arms,’ decided Kemp, ignoring Jarrom.
Most of the others were happy so long as they were taking orders off anyone other than themselves, but Jarrom was feeling quarrelsome. ‘What the devil would you know about it?’ he demanded.
At that moment a herald rode up. ‘Which one of you is in command here?’ he asked the archers.
‘I am,’ Kemp told him.
‘That’s debatable,’ muttered Jarrom.
The herald shot a glance of irritation in Jarrom’s direction before turning his attention back to Kemp. ‘You’re to plug yonder gap,’ he ordered, indicating the space between the two units of men-at-arms that Kemp had noticed earlier. Then he rode on, without another word.
Kemp did not even bother to smile victoriously, merely leading the way across to the designated position.
‘Well, of course we’re to plug the gap,’ muttered Jarrom. ‘It’s God-damn obvious to anyone with any campaigning experience. I don’t need no God-damned herald to tell me that. All I’m saying, I don’t see what right Kemp’s got to go giving the rest of us orders.’
‘Shut your God-damned mouth before I put one of my boots in, Elias,’ snapped Kemp. ‘Is that a good enough right for you?’
They formed a line on the right flank of the battle-line drawn up by the earl. Kemp glanced towards the French, still advancing and now less than half a mile away. Behind the archers, Holland sat astride his palfrey. Aware that the knight’s eyes were upon him, Kemp cast an anxious glance at the men temporarily under his command, lest their line be crooked or uneven; but they had all done this so many times that it was second nature. Holland fixed his single eye on Kemp and nodded, but Kemp did not dare to presume that it might be an indication of approval.
Kemp planted a sheaf of arrows in the ground at his feet, as did the other men of the platoon. Battles were decided by how quickly a large number of the enemy could be killed, and each arrow fired could mean one French knight or man-at-arms dead, wounded or unhorsed. Kemp might now be twentieth man but he was damned if he would use that as an excuse not to do his duty. He glanced over his shoulder every few moments to check what signals Holland and the earl were giving out. Holland had drawn his sword, and held it pointing straight down at the ground.
‘Nock!’ Along with his companions, Kemp plucked an arrow from the ground and nocked it to his bow. He felt the ground beneath his feet tremble as the French knights and men-at-arms accelerated into a lumbering canter, thundering towards them. The horses did not move swiftly – they and their riders were too heavily armoured to permit that – but their inexorable momentum, rather than their speed, did the damage. They couched their lances, their sharp tips coming down almost as one, reaching out towards the ranks of English yeomen who stood before them.
&nbs
p; Kemp’s hand was sweaty where it gripped the stave of his longbow. There was a tightness in his chest and stomach, that old, familiar feeling of fear. Normally he found the experience comforting, but it had a new element now, something less familiar. Kemp had faced death in battle before and knew he did not fear it. A greater danger lay in the fear of fear itself, the fear that would shame a man by driving him to flight, his own cowardice unmanning him. That fear, too, he had overcome.
But this time it was different. This time he was responsible not only for himself, but also the seventeen men who stood with him. His appointment as twentieth man might only be temporary; even if Preston died, Kemp knew he was too inexperienced to replace him. But if he did well, it would increase his chances of one day becoming a serjeant-at-arms. If he failed, he would have failed himself, failed the men he temporarily commanded, and failed Holland. It was fear of failure that gripped him now.
Holland raised his sword above his head, pointing the blade straight up into the sky. ‘Mark! Draw!’ Kemp forced himself to get a grip. If he wanted to be a serjeant-at-arms, why should he now fear the chance to prove he could do it?
He pushed the stave of his longbow away from his body, his powerful shoulder muscles holding string and stave apart, but he did not yet take aim, watching Holland rather than the approaching French, confident the knight was able to judge the right moment for the opening volley to perfection.
Holland brought the blade of his sword sharply down in a broad arc so that it glittered in the bright September sun. ‘Loose!’ ordered Kemp. Seventeen arrows arced away from his platoon, to merge with the hundreds loosed by the English archers. Kemp’s arrow followed a moment later, as he paused to take careful aim before shooting. The horse he had aimed at went down, along with a hundred others, spilling its rider on to the ground.
The column of charging knights seemed to shudder as the first volley of arrows rained down on it. Then it split into two, de Chargny’s banner leading the half that peeled to the right, where the Flemish foot-soldiers were still trying to manoeuvre into position, while de Renty’s banner led the other half of the column round to the left, riding in front of Kemp’s platoon. Kemp and his men kept on shooting, as quickly as they could nock arrows to their bows and let fly, but it was not fast enough. De Renty’s knights wheeled in a tightly executed circle, and suddenly smashed into the end of the line, ploughing through the English ranks.
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