‘The lady is right, my friend,’ de Ribeaumont said pleasantly. ‘You are a pig.’
‘She’s no lady!’ sneered Arnault, forgetting himself. ‘She’s a whore!’
It was a mistake. De Ribeaumont had no qualms about driving a booted foot into Arnault’s side. ‘When next I see Sir Geoffroi, I shall advise him against employing worthless filth such as yourself,’ he said. ‘Get out of my sight, you excrement.’
Arnault clutched his side in agony and stumbled away. De Ribeaumont turned to Typhaine. ‘Are you all right, mademoiselle?’
She nodded, curtseying. ‘Yes, thank you, my lord. But I’m not a demoiselle, I’m a chambermaid.’
He smiled disarmingly. ‘One so beautiful as yourself?’ he asked. ‘I cannot believe it. Surely no one as fair as you could have sprung from anything other than the bluest blood.’ She giggled, and he bowed. ‘And now I must take my leave of you; and may it flatter you to know that nothing short of the express command of my king, on whom I now must attend, could drag me away from your presence.’
She continued down to the kitchens, where the steward set her to work polishing the salver and the goblets while the final touches were put to the banquet. One of the goblets had a scratch where it had fallen on the floor. She prayed no one would notice.
‘Remember, serve the guests in order of precedence,’ the steward told her when she had finished. ‘First the king, then his son the Duke of Normandy, then Sir Eustache, Sir Oudard, and leave Sir Geoffroi and Geoffroi le fitz until last.’
‘But how will I know which is which?’
‘The king will be sitting at the head of the table; the others will be seated around the table in order of precedence. Just work your way around the table from left to right.’ The steward placed a large flagon of wine on the salver with the goblets. ‘As soon as the flagon is empty, come straight down and fetch some more. And don’t meet anyone’s gaze.’
She climbed the spiral staircase and paused behind the arras to take a deep breath before entering the great hall.
Soft music filtered down from the minstrels’ gallery above her head. Most of the hall was in darkness, apart from pools of light in front of the log fire blazing in the hearth and the wrought-iron candle-stands which were placed around the high table on the dais at the far end. She had to walk the full length of the hall to reach the table. The thudding of her heart, as she did so, seemed almost as loud as the rattle of the goblets against the salver she carried. It was too much to grasp: a few weeks ago she had been the wife of a simple man-at-arms; now she was waiting upon the king himself! She had been vaguely aware that de Chargny was a great lord in Artois, but it had never occurred to her that he might be on speaking terms with King Philip himself.
As she approached, a tall, handsome young man with red hair and a beard was speaking. He sat to the left of the man at the centre of the table, who she realised with a shock must be the king, even though he wore no crown. Even in his rich robes, she was surprised that he looked so – well, so ordinary. She realised the red-headed man on his left must be his eldest son, Duke Jean of Normandy.
‘To defeat the English, one must fight like the English,’ said one of the other men.
‘The English depend upon their churls for victory,’ snorted Duke Jean. ‘Where is the glory in that?’
‘The English win,’ pointed out the man. ‘Where is the glory in defeat?’
As she mounted the short flight of steps on to the dais the nightmare that had haunted her as she crossed the room came true, and she slipped. The goblets rattled loudly on the salver, but she caught herself in time and avoided dropping any. She blushed, convinced they must all be laughing at her, although only de Chargny spared her a glance.
As Typhaine balanced the salver on one hand and put a goblet at the king’s right hand, he turned to de Chargny. ‘You are acclaimed above all others when it comes to an appreciation of chivalric code, Sir Geoffroi. What say you?’ He made no attempt to acknowledge Typhaine as she poured wine into the goblet.
‘I wish there were a simple answer, sire, but there is none that I know of,’ replied de Chargny, as Typhaine poured out wine for Duke Jean. ‘The codes of chivalry were drawn up in earlier times, when honour was less rare than it is today.’
‘When the English stayed at home, you mean,’ said Duke Jean, and they all laughed. Even de Chargny smiled thinly at the jest.
Next Typhaine came to the knight who had come to her rescue earlier. He smiled at her as she poured out his wine. She blushed again and, feeling her face grow hot, blushed all the more.
De Ribeaumont gave her a wink and supped his wine, smacking his lips in satisfaction. ‘Excellent. Your taste in wine remains as good as ever, Sir Geoffroi. Burgundian, unless I am mistaken. From your vineyards?’
De Chargny nodded curtly, and Typhaine felt his eyes on her as she served Sir Oudard de Renty.
‘Will the English stay at home now, do you think, Sir Geoffroi?’ asked the king.
‘My spies inform me that their preparations for war are nearing completion. They are in earnest, sire.’
The king sighed, rubbing the scar on his cheek. ‘What would you have me do, gentlemen? Yield to their demands?’
‘The English are mustering at Sandwich, a port on the southeast coast of England, just across the sea from Calais,’ mused de Chargny. ‘Obviously they intend to use Calais as their base-camp for their next invasion. If we seize Calais before it can be reinforced, then their plans will be ruined.’
De Ribeaumont shook his head. ‘It took the English eleven months to take Calais, with an army far greater than any we can muster now. We could not hope to take Calais by storm, and a siege would take too long.’
‘Then we take it not be siege or by storm, but by stealth,’ said de Chargny.
De Renty smiled. ‘Fight like the English, you mean?’
‘Aye, if necessary,’ de Chargny agreed. ‘There can be no peace until Calais is restored to France.’
‘And how would you take Calais by stealth, Sir Geoffroi?’ the king asked.
‘The governor of Calais, Sir John Montgomery, is dead, killed by the pestilence,’ said de Chargny, and the whole company crossed itself at the mention of the plague which had already swept through France. ‘My informants tell me that the captain of the Calais galleys – a Lombard knight named Sir Amerigo de Pavia – is acting in his stead.’
‘He has no loyalty to the English king?’ asked de Ribeaumont.
‘Before Calais fell, he served in the French garrison with Jean de Vienne,’ de Chargny shrugged. ‘De Pavia is a Lombard. Doubtless like all his folk, he has a greater loyalty to gold. I think he could be bribed into betraying Calais to us.’
‘You would buy Calais?’ de Ribeaumont asked. ‘I see no honour in such an adventure, Sir Geoffroi.’
‘No honour for the men who did so; but the honour of France and her king demands that Calais be restored,’ said de Chargny. ‘And what greater glory could there be, than to sacrifice one’s own honour for a higher purpose?’
The king considered the proposition for a moment, but then shook his head. ‘I could not countenance such an inglorious conquest; not while the truce remains in force.’
‘The truce will remain in force until the English break it; and they will break it when it pleases them to do so, with the sword and the lance,’ protested de Chargny.
‘Then let the dishonour go to them for their deceit, for I shall not be party to such a plan.’
De Chargny shrugged. His counsel had been sought, given, and was now to be ignored. ‘As your Majesty decrees,’ he said, glancing at Typhaine as she poured the last of the wine into his goblet.
The flagon empty, she was glad to be able to return to the more comfortable surroundings of the kitchens to refill it. As she made the long walk back across the great hall, she heard the king speaking.
‘Have one of my clerks write to Cardinal Ravaillac. Tell him that I agree to an extension of the truce for another two
years, on the terms of the English. Time is what we need, gentlemen. Time to rebuild our army. We are weak now, but it will not always be so. One day we will have recovered sufficiently to meet the English on the field and we will be in a position to defeat them chivalrously, without resorting to underhand methods.’
She made several more trips between the great hall and the kitchens before the banquet ended, but spent most of the evening standing in the shadows, waiting for one of them to wave her across when his goblet needed refilling.
It was late before de Chargny and his guests retired for the night, and she was glad to return to the room in one of the outhouses in the courtyard where she slept with the rest of the castle’s domestic staff. Most of them were already asleep, at least as exhausted by the night’s work as she was. She sat down on the edge of her pallet and took off her shoes, rubbing her aching feet. She was about to start undressing when the door opened, and the steward thrust his head through.
‘Typhaine?’ He beckoned her with one finger, and she hurriedly pulled her shoes back on.
‘What is it, maître?’ she asked, as she followed him back across the courtyard. But the steward would not say anything until they had reached the kitchens. He pointed to where the salver stood on one of the tables, bearing the flagon and a single goblet. At first she thought someone had noticed the scratched goblet, and she was in for a beating.
‘Sir Geoffroi wants wine taken up to his chamber,’ the steward told her. Typhaine wondered why the steward himself could not perform such a simple task, but he continued. ‘He specifically asked for you.’
She had got as far as the door when he called after her. ‘You… you are not a maiden, are you?’
She blushed. ‘No, maître. I was married for… oh!’ She broke off as the full import of his words hit her.
He nodded apologetically. ‘It is just as well. Sir Geoffroi… well, just do as you are told, and you will be all right.’
‘Do I have any choice?’
He pursed his lips. ‘Typhaine… you are a good girl. If you want to leave the castle now, I will help you. But you will have to leave Artois if you do.’
She hesitated. De Chargny was not an unattractive man and, because he had saved her life and taken her in, she felt as if she were in his debt. ‘Thank you, maître, that will not be necessary.’
The steward nodded, evidently relieved, and she carried the salver up to the gallery, her heart pounding. She found herself thinking of Sir Eustache de Ribeaumont; he was not as handsome as de Chargny, but there was a warmth and a kindliness to him that her master lacked.
But it had not been de Ribeaumont who had summoned her, so it was useless to think such thoughts.
She reached the door to the smaller bedchamber de Chargny was using while the king was a guest at the castle. Swallowing hard, she knocked.
De Chargny sat at the desk in front of the window, working by the light of a candle, his quill scratching on a piece of parchment. She knew that when he was at the castle he spent much of his time working alone in his room, and she wondered what he was writing.
He did not glance over his shoulder at her, but continued to scratch away. ‘Put the wine down on the chest.’
There was a chest at the end of the bed, with two heavy, silver-plated candlesticks on it. She put the salver down between them and hesitated. Had the steward misinterpreted de Chargny’s intention in asking specifically for her?
De Chargny drained the excess ink from the nib of his quill and laid it across the top of the desk, before turning to regard her thoughtfully. ‘Close the door. Bolt it.’
She did as he bade her.
He sat with his legs crossed, his elbows resting on the arms of his X-pattern chair, fingers steepled. ‘Take your clothes off,’ he ordered her, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
She hesitated only briefly before stripping off her clothes, trying to seem neither demure nor teasingly coy. She stood on the hearth rug, her arms straight down by her sides, consciously stopping herself from trying to hide her nipples. She was grateful for the warmth of the embers in the grate.
De Chargny rose and walked around her as if he were examining a piece of horseflesh that was up for sale. She remembered the steward’s earlier injunction not to meet a nobleman’s gaze and stared straight ahead, keeping her eyes fixed on the candles flickering on the desk until de Chargny moved into her line of vision once again, standing facing her.
‘Damn you,’ he muttered, and she gasped as he clasped her around the waist, pulling her forcefully against him. She stood on tip-toe to kiss him, and pressed herself against his hips.
He pulled away from her, as if he had betrayed a weakness, but he recovered quickly, sinking to his knees before her and nuzzling her breasts while she ran her fingers through his locks, clenching her fists in his hair as she pulled him against her.
Then he was on his feet again, whirling her around and seizing her by the arms as he marched her across to the bed. Before she realised what he intended, he had pushed her to her knees at the side of the bed and bent her over the mattress.
‘No,’ she panted. ‘Not like this…’
He did not seem to hear her, quickly entering her from behind. He thrust himself rapidly in and out of her, his hands gripping her hips, pulling her buttocks back against him. It hurt, but she did not dare protest; after all, was this not what she had wanted?
But somehow it wasn’t. She wanted to look into his eyes as they made love, to feel his lips upon hers. This was not lovemaking, merely carnal intercourse, and she realised she had mistaken her simple lust for some deeper longing.
De Chargny’s breathing came in ragged gasps now, as rapid as his almost frantic thrusts, then suddenly he groaned and slumped over her, still. She realised his pleasure had had nothing to do with her, she had merely been a vessel into which he could empty his urges. She felt used, cheapened.
After a few moments he pulled out of her, straightened his clothing and returned to the desk, sitting with his back to her. She remained where she was, listening in shocked disbelief to the scratching of his quill on the parchment. ‘You can go now,’ he said, when she did not move.
Blinking, she stood up and got dressed. She stumbled out of the chamber, fighting back the tears until she could reach the sanctuary of her garret, where she threw herself on the bed and wept.
* * *
The master of Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital was roused before dawn by the sound of the priory’s bells tolling, calling the brethren to lauds. He dressed in his habit and sandals and made his way to the cloister, washing his hands and face in the lavabo with the other monks before attending the early morning service of prayers and hymns.
He visited the hospital before breakfast, knowing that he could not face the stench of the pestilence victims on a full stomach. The main room was dimly illuminated by a number of rush candles, their weak flames guttering as they neared their end. The pestilence had filled every bed in the hospital and brought more victims besides, so he had had to arrange for straw-stuffed pallets to be laid on the floor wherever there was space, to accommodate the additional patients. Most of the patients were asleep, some of them twitching feverishly, others snoring peacefully, while others lay absolutely still, having found a deeper peace: nothing short of a release, after the suffering the pestilence inflicted. The master wondered how many more of their patients would have to be carted to the burial ground. The death toll was growing so rapidly that the gravediggers could no longer cope, and there was already talk of building communal pits for the victims. At least any deaths which had occurred in the course of the night would make more places available, but the master did not doubt that those places would be quickly filled as fresh victims were brought in.
The plump Austin nun who had watched over the patients during the course of the night sat in a chair in one corner, a psalter open on her lap, her head bowed, her ample chest rising and falling rhythmically with her snores. The master felt no anger th
at she had fallen asleep while on duty; if any one had needed help in the course of the night their groans would have roused her in time to fetch a priest, for their was little else to be done for these poor souls. Some of them even refused the last rites, like the young man who slept…
Glancing across, the master noticed that one of the beds was empty, the soiled sheets tossed back. He crossed quickly and seized the nun by the shoulder, shaking her to rouse her. She snorted and opened her eyes, blinking owlishly at him.
The master pointed across to the empty bed. ‘The young man who slept there. What happened to him?’
Still half asleep, she shrugged helplessly. ‘I… I don’t know. All the beds were full when last I looked.’
The master hurried out of the building. The false dawn had turned the sky a pale grey, and the city was only just beginning to stir. Smithfield was empty as yet, with none of the market stalls set up for the day’s trading. A figure stood stock-still in the middle of the market place, dressed in a black cloak with a loose-fitting cowl. The master crossed to where he stood, and was about to touch the man on the shoulder when something about his stance made him think better of it. He moved round to stand in front of him.
It was the young man who had refused the last rites; the same man whose swellings the stranger had insisted on lancing. It was common enough for victims of the pestilence to rise from their beds as the end drew near, and sometimes they even enjoyed moments of lucidity, but although the young man’s complexion was as pale as the sky overhead, the spots on his face seemed to have faded from their earlier lividity, and his eyes lacked the bright shine of those close to death.
‘You’re… alive,’ the master said helplessly.
Gazing north up Saint John’s Street towards the village of Islington and beyond, the man’s eyes did not even flicker in the master’s direction. ‘Aye.’
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