Kemp

by Kemp- Passage at Arms (retail) (epub)

  ‘Shall I have breakfast prepared, Signor?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ The count turned his attention to the note:

  Come immediately.

  Bring money.

  K.

  The handwriting was neat. Katerina might be illiterate, but thanks to her lucrative profession she could afford the services of a scribe. ‘Stoke up the fire on your way out,’ the count told his major-domo. ‘I shall have breakfast in here.’ The major-domo complied, closing the door behind him. As soon as he was gone, the count jumped out of bed and padded across to the fireplace, tossing the letter on the flames.

  He ate a leisurely breakfast – what Katerina considered urgent might be anything but – and dressed in some of his more sober robes. Riding in a covered litter – one which did not display his coat of arms – he made his way to the nearby stewhouse where Katerina worked. As soon as they were alone together in one of the rooms on the upper floor, she started to undress him.

  ‘You said it was urgent.’

  ‘It is.’ She pulled his unbuttoned doublet off his shoulders.

  ‘Your note gave me the impression it was something important,’ he said, as she unfastened the laces which tied his hose to his breech-cloth.

  ‘You remember you said you would be willing to pay me for any interesting pieces of gossip I might pick up?’ She held out her hand.

  He reached across to where she had put his belt and purse on the chest at the end of her bed and took out a gold coin.

  She shook her head. ‘This could be very important.’

  ‘It could be,’ agreed the count. ‘On the other hand, it might be quite insignificant.’

  ‘You’ll never know if you don’t pay me.’

  He sighed and gave her another coin. She closed her hand over them, and hurried across the room to put them in a coffer, which she locked.

  ‘Cardinal Ravaillac was here last night with another man…’

  ‘That’s not the kind of gossip I had in mind.’

  ‘I know what kind of gossip you had in mind. I overheard them talking. The other man spoke of taking Calais back from the English. He wanted to know how his Holiness would react.’

  ‘With ill-concealed delight, I should imagine,’ the count commented. ‘I don’t suppose you know the name of this other man?’

  ‘I’ve never seen him before.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  She knitted her brows in concentration. ‘He was good-looking – in his late thirties, I think – with red hair. He was a French nobleman, I think.’ She grinned lasciviously. ‘He liked to fuck like a dog.’

  The count grimaced. ‘If I should happen to meet a red-haired French nobleman who likes to fuck like a dog, I’ll know it was the one you speak of.’

  She pouted. ‘Next time I shall not trouble to tell you such things.’ She frowned as she remembered something. ‘Wait a moment, I think his eminence used a name – Sir Geoffroi?’

  ‘That must narrow it down to a few hundred,’ sighed the count. ‘Did he say how he intended to take Calais back from the English? Or does he expect them to hand it over out of Christian charity?’

  ‘He said something about having the governor in his purse…’

  The count turned to face her sharply. ‘De Pavia? Yes, now that I think of it, I can well imagine it.’ So there was more to this than the dreams of some minor French nobleman; here was a plan carefully worked out by someone cynical enough to use bribery rather than a chivalrous attack. And had he not heard Sir Geoffroi de Chargny was in Avignon at the moment?

  ‘He also said Calais would be his by the end of the year.’

  ‘So soon?’

  ‘That is what he said. I did right to tell you this?’

  The count feigned disinterest. ‘What should I care if the French take Calais back from the English? It is a French town, after all.’ Seeing Katerina’s chagrin, he placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed her forehead. ‘But no; you were right to tell me. It might have been important.’

  The end of the year was less than two months’ hence, and England was almost three weeks’ journey away. That knowledge filled the count with a sense of urgency which he knew he must conceal; it was a matter of weeks rather than days, and he knew that a couple of hours could make no difference. ‘Now, since you have forced me to come here, how do you propose to make my visit worth my while?’ he asked her, with a knowing smile.

  * * *

  ‘I have reviewed all the evidence presented not only to myself but also to Cardinal Adhemar, and all that remains for me to do before I pronounce judgement is to assure all parties concerned that my decision has been reached following careful deliberation on my part and extensive consultation with other experts in canon and civil law.’ The presiding cardinal’s expression was grave as he surveyed the faces that stared back at him in the court. ‘I hereby declare that the contract of marriage entered into by Sir Thomas Holland of Broughton and Lady Joan of Kent was then, and remains to this day, a valid marital union; that the said Lady Joan is to be restored to Sir Thomas; that their union is to be solemnized publicly and in facie ecclesiae; and that the de facto marriage entered into by Sir William Montague, now Earl of Salisbury, and Lady Joan, is henceforth to be considered null and void.’

  Sigglesthorne felt a surge of relief. As the case progressed, he had been increasingly confident of a verdict in his client’s favour, but even after Bugwell had admitted his client no longer had any wish to fight the case, there had always been an irrepressible feeling of doubt, a nagging worry that things might yet go against Holland. Sigglesthorne liked the gruff knight, but – more importantly – the case had become so notorious that his whole reputation as a serjeant-at-law now hung on the outcome.

  The three attorneys – Sigglesthorne, Vise and Bugwell – shook hands, and then each in turn knelt before the cardinal to kiss his ring before bowing out of the chamber.

  In the courtyard outside, Kemp stirred from where he had been dozing in a foetal position on the stone bench as Sigglesthorne emerged, beaming triumphantly. ‘I take it you won?’ said Kemp.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Sigglesthorne. ‘However, it is not the simple fact of my victory that gives me cause for celebration so much as the fact that after two years of travelling back and forth between England and the meetings of the tribunal – only to be told that the opposition still had not got their latest evidence prepared, as often as not – this damned case is finally over, and we can all go home.’

  ‘Until your next case here in Avignon,’ Vise said with a smile.

  ‘Of course, his eminence’s verdict will still have to be ratified by the Pope,’ Bugwell pointed out with a sniff. ‘However, since that is merely a formality, I must confess that it seems unlikely his Holiness will decide to reverse the cardinal’s decision.’

  Sigglesthorne, Vise and Kemp made their way back through the crowded streets to del Fiesco’s house. The count was waiting for them. ‘You will return to England now?’ he asked before they had a chance to tell him of the outcome of the case.

  Vise shook his head. ‘I’ve always had a hankering to go on a pilgrimage to see the shrine of Saint Peter in Rome,’ he explained. ‘Before I undertook this case, I gained permission from my bishop to make the pilgrimage as soon as the case was concluded. This coming year will be the jubilee, after all, and I expect the celebrations will be something to see.’

  But the count was not interested in the jubilee. His eyes burned with a feverish excitement that made Kemp frown. Del Fiesco turned to Sigglesthorne. ‘But you will be returning to England? To London?’

  ‘In a few days,’ agreed Sigglesthorne. ‘I thought I might tarry in Avignon until the Pope pronounces the final verdict of the case. Aren’t you interested to know how it went?’

  The count glanced about the room to make sure that only the four of them were in earshot. ‘There is no time to lose,’ he whispered. ‘You must leave first thing tomorrow, at dawn.’

  ‘You seem in rather
a hurry to be rid of us,’ Sigglesthorne observed. ‘Have we out-stayed our welcome, perchance?’

  ‘May I have a word with you in private?’

  Sigglesthorne followed the count up to his private chamber. The count closed the heavy oak door behind them.

  ‘You seem fevered, your lordship,’ protested Sigglesthorne. ‘Are you ill? What in the name of the Lord does all this excitement signify?’

  The count crossed to his writing desk and picked up a sealed envelope. ‘You seem to me to be a loyal and trustworthy subject of King Edward, if I am any judge of men,’ he said. ‘I beg you to ask no questions but to put your faith in me, and deliver this letter to Canon Reynard of the King’s Chamber. Please believe me that in so doing you will be performing a service beyond value for his Majesty the King.’

  Sigglesthorne took the letter reluctantly, and turned it over in his hands. The seal was plain, and there was no address on the front. ‘To whom do you say I should deliver it?’

  ‘Canon Reynard of the King’s Chamber, and none other. Deliver it into his hands, and his hands alone, or else those of the king himself. Speak of it to no one, not even Master Vise or your bodyguard. Tell none that you had it from me, if you value my life. And when you have delivered it, forget we ever spoke of this, or of Canon Reynard.’

  Sigglesthorne was not sure if he could trust the count. He could not guarantee he would forget all about the affair, either; but he had certain friends at court whom he could ask about del Fiesco and this Canon Reynard, to cover his own back as much as anything. Treason was an ugly word and usually shortly followed by a phrase that Sigglesthorne had occasionally encountered in the course of his career, although usually addressed to his less fortunate clients: ‘… and may God have mercy on your soul.’

  Perhaps it might be better if instead of delivering the letter he burned it as soon as he got the chance.

  * * *

  Sigglesthorne and Kemp reached the village of Corbeil, fifteen miles south of Paris, within two weeks of setting out from Avignon. Instead of a leisurely cruise up the Rhone, Sigglesthorne had insisted they travel up the valley on their horses, a hard ride which left the serjeant-at-law so saddle-sore that Kemp could not understand why he insisted on such a punishing pace. It was only mid-November, and they would be back at Broughton long before Yuletide, as they had originally planned. Much to Kemp’s mystification, they had not even waited for the Pope’s ratification of the cardinal’s verdict.

  The afternoon was wearing on when they reached the village and made for the inn there. Sigglesthorne dismounted, and Kemp was about to do likewise when he saw a shield hanging from one of the upper-storey windows, signifying that a nobleman was in residence: a red shield with three white shields emblazoned on it. He leaned down from his hackney to touch Sigglesthorne on the shoulder, and pointed out the shield.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The arms of Sir Geoffroi de Chargny,’ Kemp told him.

  ‘So?’

  ‘I do not think it would be a good idea to stay at the same inn.’

  Sigglesthorne smiled. ‘The war is over, Master Kemp.’ He sighed. ‘However, if this French knight makes you feel so uncomfortable, I’m certain we will find another inn further down the road before nightfall.’

  Guilbert emerged from the tavern with one of de Chargny’s men-at-arms in time to see Kemp and Sigglesthorne ride on. He froze, staring in astonishment at their backs.

  ‘What is it?’ asked the man-at-arms. ‘The two Englishmen?’

  ‘How do you know they are English, Baudet?’ Guilbert asked sharply.

  ‘Apart from the fact the young one carries an English bow? I have seen them before. I overheard them speaking English.’

  Guilbert seized him by the hem of his cape, swinging him around to face him. ‘Where?’

  Baudet was caught off-guard. ‘At Lyon, on the way south, and again in Avignon itself.’

  Guilbert rubbed his jaw. ‘Can they be following us, I wonder?’

  Baudet shrugged. ‘If they were travelling from Avignon to England, surely they would follow the same route as us. Our paths would be bound to cross.’

  ‘Perhaps. It is a great coincidence, nonetheless. Sir Geoffroi must be informed of this at once.’

  De Chargny was sitting down to supper when the squire and the man-at-arms entered. He listened in silence to what they had to say, his face impassive. ‘Do you think they may be following us, Sir Geoffroi?’ Guilbert concluded.

  ‘Baudet is probably right,’ said de Chargny. ‘Doubtless the serjeant-at-law was merely on his way to plead at the Papal Court. I have heard that Holland is disputing Joan of Kent’s marriage to the Earl of Salisbury.’ He paused, chewing over his last mouthful. ‘However, there is too much at stake for me to take a chance on that.’ He wiped his dagger on the tablecloth and replaced it in the jewelled sheath at his belt. Then he rose, his supper half-eaten. ‘Follow them at once, Baudet,’ he commanded. ‘They cannot hope to reach Paris before nightfall. Find out where they lodge tonight, and then ride back to meet the rest of us.’

  Baudet nodded, and hurried out of the back door, heading for the stables.

  De Chargny turned to his squire. ‘Have the men fall in and mount up, Guilbert,’ he ordered.

  Within minutes the remaining seven men in de Chargny’s retinue were waiting astride their rouncies in the lane outside. De Chargny swung himself into the saddle of his palfrey while Guilbert held the bridle, and then the squire vaulted astride his own rouncy. At a signal from de Chargny, the nine men galloped out of the village, heading north.

  They met Baudet coming back about two miles further on, and reined in their horses. ‘There’s an inn half a mile away,’ explained the man-at-arms. ‘They stopped there for the night.’

  De Chargny nodded curtly and they rode on, at a more leisurely pace now. Their quarry had gone to ground, but could soon be rooted out.

  The inn stood in a clearing in the midst of the woods to the south of Paris, part of Valois’ hunting grounds. De Chargny and his men were about to emerge from the shadow of the trees when they saw the door of the inn open, firelight spilling out across the road beneath the darkening sky. There was no mistaking the figure briefly silhouetted in the doorway. Holding a burning brand aloft it made its way around the outside of the inn to the stables at the back.

  ‘Kemp,’ Guilbert whispered.

  ‘Kemp is unimportant,’ said de Chargny. ‘It is the man riding with him who interests me – the serjeant-at-law. Renaud, you stay here and watch the horses. Baudet: you go into the stables and kill the churl.’ Baudet nodded, grinning. ‘The rest of you come with me.’

  Kemp had left the stable door ajar, the light from his brand clearly visible. Baudet peered inside; his quarry stood in one of the stalls, whistling tunelessly to himself as he rubbed down the flanks of a pale grey hackney nag. Baudet pulled back sharply, but Kemp had not seen him. The Frenchman peered through a knothole in the stable’s wooden walls, waiting until Kemp moved around to the other side of the horse. Then he eased the door open on its leather hinges, entering the stable with practised stealth. He slipped into the stall behind Kemp and produced a slender leather thong, wrapping both ends around the fingers of each hand to make a garrotte.

  Kemp was aware of something flickering before his eyes, and then the garrotte was pulled tight around his neck, jerking him back so that his shoulder blades struck the wooden partition behind him. He dropped his brush, clawing at the leather thong that bit deep into his windpipe, choking him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Baudet pulled the garrotte tighter, the leather thong biting deep into his opponent’s neck. Kemp’s vision became hazy. Already he could feel his limbs turning to water as he flailed about, his back hard against the wooden partition. Reaching for the dagger sheathed on his belt, he remembered with despair that he had left belt, dagger and sword in the room upstairs with Sigglesthorne. He saw the burning brand that guttered fitfully in the wall bracket and reached out
with one hand, but it was too far away.

  Baudet gave the garrotte another jerk. A red mist began to fill Kemp’s eyes, and he felt the darkness closing in on him. He could just make out the longbow in its canvas case slung from the pommel of his horse’s saddle, hung up on a beam nearby. Next to it were his arrows, held together by a leather retainer. He reached up with trembling fingers but they came less than two inches short of the nearest fletching. Straining against the garrotte, he felt it cut into his windpipe, choking off his breath. Baudet pulled back, tightening it even further. Kemp’s back slammed against the partition.

  Kemp tried again, ignoring the dizzying sickness he felt. Whirling dots and colours filled his vision and he could no longer see the arrows, but still he groped for them as Baudet tried to drag him back. A fletching brushed his fingertips. Making a supreme effort, he gained half an inch, catching the fletching between the tips of his first and second fingers.

  Baudet jerked again, and once again Kemp smacked against the wooden partition. Somehow he managed to maintain his tenuous grip on the fletching as he teased the arrow from the retainer. The barbed head caught on the leather and he felt the fletching slip through his fingers. He tightened his grip, and the fletching began to work loose of the shaft. Panic gripped him, but he fought it back, pushing the arrow to free the barb, and then pulling once more.

  Then, as the arrow came free, the fletching slipped from his fingers. His open hand arced down, the fingers snapping shut as soon as he felt his palm hit ash, fingers closing around the shaft. He adjusted his grip on the arrow and stabbed blindly over his left shoulder. The steel arrowhead connected with something and he heard Baudet hiss with pain.

  The garrotte loosened just enough for him to get the fingers of one hand around it. Baudet tried to tighten it again but Kemp slipped the tip of the arrowhead under the thong and sliced it in two. The arrowhead nicked the underside of his jaw, but he was free. Gasping for breath, he stumbled forward against the side of the nag.