Kemp dodged the thrust, seized the steward’s wrist with his left hand, and smashed his right elbow into his face. The man collapsed, and Kemp finished him off by plunging the steward’s own dagger into his heart.
Typhaine entered the gatehouse, and a look of horror crossed her face when she saw the steward’s corpse. Of all the staff at the castle, he alone had been kind to her. ‘You’ve killed him!’
‘Aye,’ Kemp responded. ‘The horses?’
‘There’s only one left in the stables.’ There was a hint of panic in her voice.
‘There must be somewhere else in Saint-Omer where we can find another horse,’ urged Kemp. ‘Think!’
She bit her lip. ‘Would they have stables adjoining the garrison’s barracks?’
‘If there are mounted troops, aye.’ They went into the castle stables, where a single pony stood in its stall. ‘You take this,’ he said, helping her to put on its saddle and harness. ‘Where will you go?’
‘Rennes, in Brittany. I have kinsmen there.’
‘It’s a long way to Brittany. Are you sure you’ll be all right?’
She led the pony out into the courtyard. ‘I’ll be fine. It’s you I’m worried about. For God’s sake, Martin! Calais is as good as recaptured. If you try to stop Sir Geoffroi you’ll be riding to your death.’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe. I have to try, though. It’s my duty. You understand, don’t you?’
She nodded wearily. ‘There’s nothing I can say that will dissuade you?’
He shook his head, and she swung herself into her saddle. ‘God be with you, Martin Kemp.’
‘And also with you,’ he echoed. He slapped the pony’s rump, and it cantered out of the courtyard and across the drawbridge.
She was several miles away from Saint-Omer before she realised that of all the things she had considered saying to Kemp to dissuade him from his intention of committing suicide, she had never thought of telling him she loved him.
* * *
Kemp watched her ride down the main street of Saint-Omer. He wondered briefly if he was making a mistake in letting her ride out of his life; well, perhaps, he decided, but there were more important matters to take care of.
He walked briskly to the barracks, remembering the way well enough from the day when he entered the town as a spy with Preston and Conyers. The barracks were almost deserted, except for a few men-at-arms and foot-soldiers running to join the column preparing to move off from before the walls of Saint-Omer. They were too busy to pay any attention to Kemp. He slipped into the large stable block where a few rouncies remained. A man-at-arms, wearing a chain-mail habergeon and a ‘kettle’ helmet, was saddling the nearest. He nodded at Kemp as he began to lead the horse out of its stall. Kemp nodded back, and waited until the man was almost past him before speaking.
‘Excuse me…?’
The man-at-arms turned, and opened his mouth to ask Kemp what he wanted. Before he could speak, however, Kemp had smashed his fist into his face. The man staggered back and Kemp followed him down, punching him until the man lost consciousness, his face covered in blood. He rolled the man over on to his front and stamped on the back of his neck to break it.
Kemp worked quickly, dragging the body to the end stall and unbuckling his sword-belt before removing the man’s habergeon. He had not imagined that it could be such hard work to remove a habergeon from a corpse and he found he was sweating despite the chill December air.
But at last he succeeded. There was no time to take off the man’s quilted gambeson as well. Kemp pulled the habergeon over his head and shoulders until the chain-mail coif was snug against his scalp, and then buckled his sword-belt on again, before placing the helmet on his head. Then he strapped on the man’s greaves to protect his calves, and picked up his foreshortened lance.
He led the rouncy out of the stables to the yard outside, where two dozen men-at-arms were forming up into a troop while their serjeant-at-arms inspected them. Kemp tried to lead the rouncy out of the yard without any of them noticing, but the serjeant called after him.
‘Hey, you! Where do you think you’re going?’
* * *
Sir Thomas Holland arrived in Calais with his retinue shortly after noon, and they made their way directly to his house adjoining the White Lion inn. He found the door bolted from within, and hammered on it with his fist until it was answered by a young page.
‘What can I do for you?’
‘What can you…?’ Holland almost exploded, but managed to control his temper. ‘Tell me, boy, whose house is this?’
‘Why, Sir Thomas Holland’s, sir, but I’m afraid he’s not in. If you will state your business, I shall inform his brother Sir Otho, and see if he can help you.’
‘Can you describe Sir Thomas to me?’
‘I’ve never seen him, sir, but they say he wears a white patch over one…’ The page’s voice trailed away, and he blushed bright scarlet.
Holland turned to Preston and his men. ‘Quarter yourselves in the inn,’ he commanded. As Preston and his men headed for the White Lion next door, Holland pushed past the page and mounted the steps to the hall, where he found Sir Otho dining with the Count of Eu. Astonished by the unannounced appearance of his elder brother, Sir Otho rose to his feet.
‘Hullo, Tom! What a pleasant surprise! I thought you were going to spend the New Year with mother and John at Upholland.’
‘So did I,’ Holland said heavily. ‘But I was summoned into the king’s presence, and he asked me to come here, to Calais.’
‘What in the world for?’
‘Search your memory, Otho. See if you can dredge from the depths of what is laughingly referred to as your brain the instructions which his Majesty gave you as regards keeping Raoul in your custody,’ said Holland, gesturing towards de Brienne.
‘He said that Raoul was not to leave England, and not to be seen bearing arms publicly.’ Otho looked puzzled.
‘Where are we, Otho?’
Otho considered the question. ‘Calais?’ he hazarded.
‘And where, pray, is Calais?’
Otho grinned sheepishly. ‘In France, geographically, but I thought now it’s an English possession, it must be part of England..
‘It is not an English possession, it is a possession of his Majesty the king, like Gascony. Would you describe Gascony as part of England?’
Otho squirmed in his seat. ‘Well, not as such, no.’
The count rose to his feet. ‘Do not be so harsh with Otho, Sir Thomas. I was well aware of the conditions imposed on my custody. I am as much to blame as him…’
Holland held up a hand for silence. ‘Please, Raoul. It was not you the king ordered to carry out such a simple set of instructions. While you are in my house you are my guest, and will not be held responsible for the failings of my brother. God forbid anyone should have to bear that burden other than Otho himself,’ he added. ‘Could I have a few moments alone with him?’
The count nodded, and bowed low, heading for the door. ‘I’m a guest in your house, too,’ he heard Otho plead as he closed the door behind him. ‘Stop hitting me, Tom!’
‘And for the thousandth time, stop calling me Tom, as if I were some God-damned peasant lad!’ snapped Holland, clipping Otho across the back of the head once more. ‘I am Sir Thomas Holland of Upholland, not Tom the village swain. Friends and –’ he grimaced – ‘relatives call me Thomas; but never Tom. Do you understand?’
Holland explained to his brother – slowly, avoiding words of more than one syllable wherever possible – that he would have to return to England at the earliest opportunity to present himself at the King’s Bench, and throw himself on the marshal’s mercy. Otho nodded miserably, and Holland left him, making his way to the tavern next door where he found Preston and the others having a reunion not only with Brewster but also Sigglesthorne. They all rose to their feet as he entered. ‘Good afternooon, Sir Thomas,’ Brewster said cheerfully. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
But Holland was
staring at Sigglesthorne, his face as dark as thunder. ‘Tell me, Master Sigglesthorne, why I should pay you a small fortune in fees, and then not hear of the success of my petition until the king himself tells me?’
‘I had to leave Avignon before the Pope confirmed Cardinal d’Albi’s verdict. You must have heard about what happened to Kemp and me? I would have returned to England almost a month ago, but I couldn’t get a pass to leave Calais.’
‘What happened to Kemp?’ asked Conyers.
‘Never mind what happened to Kemp,’ snapped Holland. ‘Why did you have to leave Avignon early? When I pay you for your time, I expect you to use it in my service not the service of…’
‘The king?’ put in Sigglesthorne.
Holland creased his brow. ‘The king? What are you talking about? Explain yourself, man!’
Now it was Sigglesthorne’s turn to look puzzled. ‘But surely you must have heard? About de Chargny’s plot to seize Calais? De Pavia assured me he would inform the king…’
‘What plot? I was with the king less than two weeks ago, and he made no mention of de Chargny or of any plot to seize Calais. Hell’s teeth!’ he exclaimed suddenly.
‘Sir Thomas?’ said Sigglesthorne.
‘Wat: if you were Sir Geoffroi de Chargny, and you planned to seize Calais back from the English, how would you go about it?’
Preston pulled back his chain-mail coif to scratch his head. ‘If it were me, sir, I’d make sure I had someone on the inside, to open the gates at the right moment.’
‘And who would be able to do that?’
Preston shrugged. ‘Anyone with access to the keys, sir, from the governor right down to…’
Holland shook his head. ‘The acting governor, Wat. A Lombard knight who would sell his own mother for a fistful of florins.’ He turned to Sigglesthorne. ‘Come on. I think it’s time you and I had words with de Pavia.’
Holland left his men with Brewster at the White Lion and marched to the castle while Sigglesthorne trotted behind him, struggling to keep up.
The castle gate was shut. Holland hailed the gatekeeper.
‘State your name and your business!’
‘Sir Thomas Holland of Broughton and Master Robert Sigglesthorne of Beverley. We have urgent business with the acting governor.’
‘What business?’
‘That’s for the acting governor’s ears. Open up!’
There was a long pause while the gatekeeper consulted someone who was out of sight in low tones. Then the drawbridge was slowly lowered. ‘You may enter.’
Holland and Sigglesthorne crossed the drawbridge, Holland looking about him with a puzzled expression. ‘There’s something wrong here. Something very wrong,’ he muttered to Sigglesthorne.
They were met in the courtyard by a page. ‘If you would follow me, sirs?’ The page led them into the keep and up a spiral staircase, opening a door for them near the top. He ushered them inside.
Holland and Sigglesthorne entered the room, and found themselves surrounded by armed men.
* * *
De Chargny’s column halted at the walled town of Guines towards nightfall. He glanced to where the sun was setting over the Heights of Sangatte. ‘We’ll break our march here,’ he told de Ribeaumont. ‘Tell the men they have one hour to eat and rest before the final leg of our journey. Then send de Werre and de Mortagne ahead to Calais to see if it is safe for us to advance. We’ll meet them at the bridge at Nieullay in three hours.’
‘The men are weary,’ warned de Ribeaumont. ‘We’ve already covered over twenty miles today, and we’ve another six miles to go.’
‘That can’t be helped,’ said de Chargny. ‘We must reach Calais before sun-up.’ He smiled. ‘Once there, they’ll have nothing to do but take possession of the town and castle.’
‘I hope you’re right, Sir Geoffroi. I have little liking for this stealthy approach. The sooner we get this business over with, the happier I’ll feel. The more blood is spilled in the taking of Calais, the more likely King Edward is to declare the truce broken.’
De Chargny gestured dismissively. ‘He’ll declare the truce broken; but he would have done so sooner or later anyway. At least this way, we make it harder for him to renew the war. Fear not, Sir Eustache; there’ll be little or no blood spilled tonight. I’ll wager we can take Calais without so much as a blow being struck.’ De Ribeaumont turned away to pass on de Chargny’s orders.
‘It seems Sir Eustache has little stomach for our enterprise,’ murmured de Renty. ‘Can we rely on him, do you think?’
De Chargny shrugged. ‘I share some of his misgivings about our approach. But this is war, Sir Oudard, war against an enemy with little understanding of chivalry. If we fight by the rules while they ignore them, we are certain to be beaten. Sir Eustache, like myself, will never stand by and allow that to happen.’
Sitting uncomfortably close to de Chargny and Guilbert, the brim of his stolen helmet tilted low across his brow to hide his face, Kemp overheard them speak. The thought of Calais falling without a blow being struck filled him with frustrated rage. He was the only man who could warn the garrison of the town, and here he was unable to act, unable to get away.
It had been fortunate that the French serjeant-at-arms believed Kemp when he explained away his accent – now slight – by claiming to be a Breton; although what had at the time seemed like good luck now seemed like bad. He was riding to Calais just as he had intended, but as a member of the attacking force rather than as its saviour. The irony of it almost made him choke on the salt-fish he was eating.
Some of the men wandered away from the camp-fire to answer the call of nature, and Kemp strolled after them, hoping to use the opportunity to escape; but he bumped into the serjeant again.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ the serjeant demanded. ‘The camp’s back that way.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘You were trying to slip away again, weren’t you?’
Kemp said nothing. He had said as little as possible all day, knowing the more he said the more likely he was to betray himself.
‘I know what you are,’ snarled the serjeant.
Kemp felt his stomach twist itself into knots.
‘You’re a damned coward!’
Kemp almost vomited with relief.
‘Let me tell you something, my friend. You’re coming with us to Calais, and you’ll fight the English whether you like it or not. I’ll make a man of you yet, and if I don’t I’ll see you die in the attempt. Don’t you love your king?’
‘More than you can possibly imagine,’ Kemp could not resist sneering.
The serjeant raised a gauntleted hand as if to strike him, but then thought better of it. ‘Hold your insolent tongue, damn you! I’ve got my eye on you, so don’t try slipping away again.’
De Chargny and the other knights had donned their armour by the time Kemp and the serjeant got back to the camp. De Chargny was wearing the new style of ‘pig-faced’ bascinet, with a pointed visor. He ordered the men to mount up, and presently they set out marching once more, skirting the marshes to approach Calais from the west. It was dark by the time they reached the bridge at Nieullay, where the two knights de Ribeaumont had sent ahead were waiting for them. Smiling, they greeted de Chargny.
‘De Pavia is ready to let us in,’ reported one. ‘There are no sentries posted anywhere in the town.’
‘The Lombard has played his part well,’ de Renty admitted.
De Chargny grunted. ‘We shall see. Any problems?’ he asked the two knights.
One of them grinned. ‘An English knight stumbled into us. We took him prisoner, gagged him, and put him in the stocks.’
De Chargny smiled. ‘And you are certain it is not a trap?’
The two knights nodded. ‘We searched the castle. All is quiet.’
‘Good.’ De Chargny turned to Sir Robert de Fiennes. ‘You stay here with your men and some of my crossbowmen and hold this bridge. I’ll send word as soon as the town is taken.’ De Chargny detached some of
his men, leaving a force of about six hundred men-at-arms and crossbowmen behind to guard the western approach. Then the rest of the column, still over three thousand strong, continued on its way, marching along one of the causeways through the marsh around Calais.
The walled town looked dark and forbidding in the moonlight. There was no sign of any activity. But for the host of armed men gathered outside the Boulogne gate to the west, all seemed quiet and peaceful.
‘It’s quiet,’ said de Ribeaumont.
‘Too quiet,’ replied de Chargny, and turned to de Renty. ‘You have the gold for de Pavia?’ De Renty nodded. ‘Take a dozen of your knights and a hundred men-at-arms to take control of the castle. Once we have that, the town is as good as ours. The rest of us will wait here. Take Guilbert with you. As soon as the castle is in your hands, send him to bring word to us.’
Guilbert looked up from where he sat on his rouncy. ‘Sir Geoffroi?’
‘Go with them, Guilbert. If de Pavia has betrayed us in any way, I want you to make sure he is the first to die.’
Guilbert grinned. ‘Yes, my lord.’
De Renty picked twelve of his best knights and singled out five troops of men-at-arms. ‘You men will come with me. The rest of you, wait here with Sir Geoffroi.’
‘Come on, lad, that’s us,’ the serjeant-at-arms told Kemp. ‘Remember, I’ve got my eye on you.’
The Boulogne gate was opened from within by agents of de Chargny who had been waiting for them. There was no sign of any sentries, and de Renty’s small force entered the town unchallenged. As they rode through the dark and deserted streets, Kemp looked about in desperation. There had to be some way to alert the garrison. He thought about simply shouting. The men would kill him, but he considered his life of little value now, and it would be worth it, to save the town. But a mere shout might not be enough; and if he must die, he did not want his death to be in vain.
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