‘By God and Saint Denys!’ exclaimed de Chargny’s son.
Rendered speechless, Guilbert could only make the sign of the cross in awe.
‘A generous gift,’ observed de Chargny.
‘A king’s ransom, Father!’
‘Aye,’ agreed de Chargny. ‘Or the price of a town.’
Chapter Ten
The snows of winter lay thick upon the ground when Kemp came to Broughton. Clouds of condensed breath billowed from the depths of his deep, dark cowl and from the nostrils of his pale grey hackney. He reined in his horse in the middle of the village and stopped a fearful peasant who was carrying a bundle of twigs back to his hovel.
‘Is this Broughton?’ Kemp asked peremptorily.
‘Aye, master.’ The peasant nodded, knuckling his brow.
‘Which way to Sir Thomas Holland’s house?’
‘Straight up the lane, master, at the far end of the village.’
Kemp chucked the hackney’s reins, and followed the peasant’s directions until he came to the manor house. It was built along similar lines to Beaumont’s. A main building with a chapel attached and a number of outlying buildings, including stables, kitchens, and kennels, were surrounded by a high stone wall. In addition, a small moat lay outside.
Kemp dismounted and crossed the wooden bridge across the moat, drawing his sword and using the wheel-shaped pommel to hammer loudly on the great oaken gates three times. After a moment, a grille opened in one of the gates and Conyers’ face peered out at him.
‘What do you want?’ he demanded. It was evident that he did not recognise Kemp.
‘Hello, John,’ Kemp said softly. ‘I’ve come to see Sir Thomas.’
Conyers stared at him. ‘Martin? By the Holy Cross of Bromholm, you’ve changed since we all parted at Dover! Wait a moment,’ he added, his face disappearing as he opened the gate sufficiently to admit Kemp and his horse. ‘Come in, come in.’ Conyers wore a chain-mail habergeon and a visorless steel bascinet, a broadsword at his hip and a longbow slung across his back in a woollen bow-bag.
‘Expecting trouble?’ asked Kemp, as Conyers closed the gate behind him.
‘Nothing but,’ admitted Conyers. ‘These are troubled times, Martin. Nothing but thieves, brigands and murderers abroad these days.’
Kemp nodded. ‘I’ve come to join Sir Thomas’s retinue.’
‘You too, eh?’
‘Meaning?’
‘Nearly all the old platoon’s here. Hamo, Simkin, Baldwin, Elias… and Preston, of course.’
‘And you,’ observed Kemp. ‘I thought you were going to open the biggest stewhouse in Doncaster?’
Conyers grimaced. ‘Remember all that booty I won? Lost it all, didn’t I?’
‘How?’
Conyers shurgged. ‘Wine. Women. Dice. You know how it is.’ Kemp did not, but he could imagine. He thought of the others: Hamo Newton, Simon Elliott, Baldwin Gower and Elias Jarrom; they had all had plans when the truce started, and none of them included working for Holland. Did they all have tales similar to Conyers’? ‘What about the others? Daw, Pisspants, Limkin and that lot?’ he asked.
‘Daw and Perkin are dead.’
‘Christ’s blood!’ The grizzled ancient had always seemed invincible to Kemp. ‘What happened to them?’
‘The pestilence, of course. What else?’
Kemp nodded grimly. Perkin Inglewood had been a franklin’s son, a mother’s boy, always whingeing and whining, and yet suddenly Kemp knew he would miss him.
‘John Horton died of it, too,’ Conyers continued relentlessly. ‘And Jankin Launde and Tom Wistow.’
‘And Limkin?’
Conyers shook his head. ‘He was hale and hearty the last time I saw him. We travelled north together as far as Leicester. He got a job there working for the under-sheriff. How about you, Martin?’ added Conyers, smiling. ‘What have you been up to? Did you get your girl?’
Kemp’s face twisted with bitterness. ‘That bitch? She can burn in hell for eternity, for all I care.’
Conyers chuckled. ‘How was your family?’
‘My mother’s dead,’ Kemp said flatly.
Conyers’ face fell once more. ‘By Christ’s sweet tree, I’m sorry. Was it the pestilence?’
‘Brigands.’
‘God damn it!’ Conyers exclaimed. ‘The whole world is going to hell, Martin.’
Kemp grinned savagely. ‘Didn’t they tell you? This is hell.’
‘Aye, right enough.’ Conyers turned and Kemp followed his gaze to see Holland crossing the courtyard to where they stood, dressed in dark blue robes of thick wool and a fur-lined cloak. ‘Who’s this, Conyers?’ he called.
‘It’s Martin Kemp, Sir Thomas,’ replied Conyers, and Kemp pulled back the cowl of his cloak to reveal his face.
‘So it is,’ Holland agreed. ‘You’ve lost weight, Kemp.’
‘Aye, Sir Thomas. I’ve had a touch of the pestilence,’ he explained.
Holland threw back his head and laughed. ‘No one gets a “touch” of the pestilence, Kemp; or if they do, they certainly do not live to tell the tale. Have you come to join my retinue?’
‘If it still pleases you, sir.’
‘It does indeed, Kemp, it does indeed. Have you eaten?’
‘Not since breakfast, sir.’
Holland pointed out the kitchens. ‘Have my cook give you a bite to eat and something warm to drink. While you’re doing that, I’ll ask Brother Ambrose to draw up a contract of indenture.’
Holland’s cook was an elderly but kindly woman who bade Kemp sit by the cooking hearth to warm himself with a cup of mead while she warmed up some leftover oatmeal pottage for him. ‘So, you’re another one of the men who served under Sir Thomas in the last campaign?’ she asked.
‘Aye.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Martin Kemp.’
‘I’m Mary Cook, although everyone here calls me Malkin, so you might as well do so too. Whereabouts do you hail from, Master Kemp?’
‘Knighton.’
‘In Wales?’
‘In Leicester.’
‘Oh.’ Malkin was usually quite chatty with Holland’s men, but Kemp’s curt responses made it clear that he was not in the mood for small talk.
Kemp had almost finished eating when Preston stuck his head through the kitchen door. ‘Hullo, Kemp.’
Kemp rose instinctively to his feet. ‘Master Preston,’ he said, acknowledging the serjeant with a nod.
‘Come on, lad. Sir Thomas says I’m to get you kitted out.’
Kemp mopped up the last of his pottage with a sop of rye bread which he chewed as he followed Preston across the courtyard to the armoury. There they found a habergeon, coif and bascinet, like the ones Conyers had been wearing. ‘I see you’ve still got your sword; and a new bow, too, by the looks of it,’ said Preston. ‘Are you happy with those?’
Kemp nodded.
‘Fine. The armour belongs to Sir Thomas, so if you leave his service you’ll have to return it.’ He chuckled. ‘It’s just like old times, isn’t it? I can remember that day at Bosworth when you and the other wet-behind-the-ears recruits stood there like a flock of lost sheep. You in your girl’s coverchief, dreaming of chivalry and glory. How is she, by the way?’
‘Well enough, I suppose. She’s a mother now.’
‘Nails and blood! You didn’t waste any time, did you?’
‘I’m not the father,’ Kemp said bitterly, and suddenly Preston understood.
‘Ah. So it were like that, were it?’
Preston led Kemp to the great hall where Holland waited with Brother Ambrose. The friar greeted Kemp warmly. ‘Conyers told me about your mother, Martin. I’m truly sorry.’
Kemp shrugged. ‘These things happen.’
The indenture sheet was couched in legalistic terms that went over the top of Kemp’s head, and he was glad when the friar explained the details to him in plain English. ‘You’re to serve Sir Thomas as a mounted archer in his retinue for
thruppence a day, to be increased to sixpence if Sir Thomas indents to fight for the king in future campaigns, as I’m sure he will.’ Holland nodded. ‘The terms of the indenture are for life, or until such time as Sir Thomas decides to terminate the contract. You’ll also get bed and board provided – subject to availability on campaign, as I’m certain you’ll appreciate by now – as well as any arms, armour and equipment you may need.’ He laid the sheet of parchment back on the table and dipped a quill pen in an ink-horn, handing it to Kemp. ‘Sign here and here.’
‘Sign?’ Kemp echoed uncertainly.
‘He means put your mark, lad,’ explained Preston.
Kemp wondered if he were signing his life away. Probably, he reflected, but since he learned of Beatrice’s falseness it had become something which he valued little anyway. Bending over the table, he handled the quill awkwardly. He had seen other people use quills before, but had never been called upon to use one himself. He scrawled a crude cross, breaking the nib and blotting the parchment; but the ink did not spill across the writing, so Ambrose let it pass. Then Holland countersigned both halves of the indenture sheet with a fresh quill, while Preston and Ambrose witnessed it. Ambrose added the words, ‘Martyn Kempe de Knighton, his mark’ under both of Kemp’s crosses, and ‘Walter de Presstone, his mark’ under the serjeant’s. Finally he produced a pair of scissors and used them to cut the indenture sheet in half in a random, jagged line which would mean that the two could later be matched up, preventing forgery. He kept the upper half to go with the rest of Holland’s documents, giving the lower half to Kemp.
‘Of course, the best part of this job is you get paid each week in advance,’ said Preston, as Ambrose unlocked a small, iron-bound coffer and counted out one and a half shillings, handing them to Kemp, who slipped them into his purse.
Martin Kemp had become a professional soldier.
* * *
There was no sign of spring’s thaw when Sir Hugh Despenser reached the castle of Mold in Flintshire. Identifying himself to the man-at-arms on duty at the gatehouse, he rode into the courtyard. A squire emerged to take his palfrey’s bridle as he dismounted.
Sir William Montague came down the wooden steps from the entrance of the keep. ‘Sir Hugh! What brings you to Wales?’
‘A letter,’ explained Despenser, handing him a parchment envelope.
Montague glanced at the seal. ‘From the king!’
Despenser nodded. ‘When I told him I would be passing this way, he asked me if I would bring it to you…’ He broke off as a fit of coughing wracked his body.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Montague, concerned.
‘A touch of ague, that is all. This damned weather…’
Montague gestured to the keep. ‘Come inside, and warm yourself by the fire.’
‘How is Lady Montague?’ asked Despenser, following him up the stairs.
‘Well enough,’ said Montague, although there seemed to be a trace of doubt in his voice.
‘And the Countess Margaret?’ asked Despenser.
‘She is well also.’ Montague had broken the seal on the letter and was reading it as he led the way into the great hall. A log fire roared in the hearth and the countess sat in front of it, embroidering. She looked up as Montague and Despenser entered.
‘See who has come to visit us, my lady,’ said Montague, before turning his attention back to the king’s letter.
‘An unexpected pleasure,’ the countess said drily.
Despenser bowed low. ‘I am pleased to find you well, my lady, and to see your radiance undimmed.’
‘By all that’s wonderful!’ Montague exclaimed. ‘I am to inherit my father’s title, and be created Earl of Salisbury!’
‘Did you ever doubt it?’ asked Despenser.
‘It is not before time,’ agreed the countess.
‘We are to attend parliament at Westminster this year, for the ceremony of girding, and I am to renew my oath of fealty to his Majesty.’
‘Once you are Earl of Salisbury, the king will never accept…’ Despenser put a hand to his forehead. His face had grown pale.
‘Sir Hugh! Are you certain you are not ill?’ asked Montague.
Despenser nodded, and slumped into a chair. ‘The heat in here, after the chill outside…’ He gestured dismissively. ‘What was I saying? Ah, yes: the king will never accept Holland’s claim on Joan once you are Earl of Salisbury. The Earl of Kent’s sister could not be married to an obscure knight in preference to a peer of the realm.’
‘Not so obscure any more, now he is a knight of the Companionship of Saint George,’ said the countess.
‘As am I!’ protested Montague, and then turned and ran for the stairs. ‘I must tell Joan.’
‘I’m certain she will be delighted by the news,’ the countess said sardonically, but Montague had already gone.
‘How is your daughter?’ Despenser asked her.
‘As troublesome as ever. We have to keep her all but locked up. When the summoner arrived from Avignon it was all we could do to prevent her from learning that Holland had taken his case to the Papal Court. We appointed an attorney on her behalf.’
‘And does he represent her?’
The countess looked scornful. ‘He represents her interests, as an attorney should.’
‘How goes…?’ Despenser broke off to clear his throat. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, coughing into his fist. ‘This damned ague…’ He tried to clear his throat, but a spasm of coughs racked his body so violently he fell forward on to his knees.
‘Sir Hugh! You are gravely ill…’
A spasm shook Despenser and he retched horribly. A torrent of blood and bile gushed from his mouth, spattering on to the pale grey flagstones.
The countess leapt to her feet, upsetting the stool she had been seated on. ‘God preserve us! The pestilence!’
Despenser stared down at the pool of blood he knelt in, and confronted what he had been trying to convince himself for the past two days could not be true: he had contracted the plague. He raised his head to stare at her beseechingly, tears of pain running down his blood-flecked cheeks. ‘Help me!’ he sobbed.
The countess’s revulsion gave way to fury. ‘You knew, didn’t you? You knew you were carrying the plague when you came here!’
Despenser struggled to his feet. ‘I thought it no more than an ague…’
‘How dare you endanger us by bringing the pestilence into our home!’
‘For the love of God, help me,’ he pleaded. ‘It’s not too late… send for a physician, I pray you!’ He staggered towards her, his arms stretched out imploringly.
Deaf to his entreaties, she retreated from him until she felt one of the huge stone pillars supporting the mantelpiece against her back. ‘Get out! Get out of here at once, before you infect us all!’
‘For the love of the Virgin, have I meant nothing to you?’ he sobbed.
She snatched an iron poker from the fireplace and brandished it. ‘Stay away from me! I’m warning you. One more step…’
‘Please. Margaret. Don’t let me die!’
She tried to slip past him but he lurched towards her, his face a mask of terror. She swung the poker at him with all the strength of her disgust and fear of the pestilence. It struck him on the side of the head and he fell prostrate in front of the fire.
The countess stared at his prone body, waiting for him to rise, but he was dead. She replaced the poker where she had found it, and wiped her sweaty palms on the front of her gown. He had been dead already, she told herself. The pestilence spared none. It had been a mercy killing, really.
She heard a sound from the minstrels’ gallery and raised her head sharply, but her eyes could not penetrate the shadows. ‘Who’s there?’ she demanded.
There was no reply. A chill ran down her spine.
‘My lady?’ Montague emerged at the foot of the spiral staircase at the far side of the hall. Then he saw Despenser’s corpse. ‘Sir Hugh!’ he exclaimed, and started across the room.
/> ‘Stay away from him!’ she shrieked. ‘The pestilence… there is nothing you can do for him.’
‘He seemed well enough a moment ago…’
She pointed to the pool of blood. ‘He spewed up that gore, and then collapsed. I think he must have hit his head on the mantelpiece as he fell,’ she added hurriedly. ‘Fetch the servants at once. Send for a physician, lest we all contract it.’
On learning there was pestilence at the castle, the physician refused to come in person, but gave strict instructions to the servant sent to fetch him. He ordered that aromatic herbs be burned in every room to purify the air and keep out the miasma that caused the pestilence. He also advised that everyone avoid carnal intercourse and eating vegetables such as beetroot and lettuce, and then gave the servant a large bill.
‘Is there nothing else we can do?’ asked the servant.
‘Aye,’ the physician told him sternly. ‘Pray!’
Back at the castle, the countess ordered Maud Lacy to fill a hot bath for her. Alone in the privacy of her room, she wiped sweat from her forehead with her sleeve. Had there been someone hiding in the gallery? Had anyone seen her kill Despenser? No one had said anything. No one would dare, she told herself. If it had been a servant, they would not be believed above a noblewoman.
Glancing at her dishevelled state in a mirror, to her horror she saw sooty marks down the front of her gown. She must have wiped her hands there after handling the poker. When Maud returned with the hot water, she would get the girl to launder it – no, that would never do. The girl would wonder how the marks had got there. She hurriedly stripped off the gown and tossed it on the fire that blazed in the hearth in her chamber.
She fell into a trance as she watched the expensive cloth burn to a crisp, the flames dancing before her eyes. Presently there was a knock on the door and she started guiltily. ‘Who is it?’
‘Maud, my lady.’
She glanced in the mirror to check her appearance. ‘Come in.’
Maud filled the bath with steaming water. When the countess was satisfied with the temperature she dismissed the young woman, locking the door behind her, and lowered herself into the tub. The heat brought beads of sweat to her skin, and she scrubbed herself thoroughly with soap before lying back in the tub, allowing the water to wash away the strain of guilt and fear.
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