He was almost halfway there when he saw a single figure, a mere archer, bare-headed and unarmoured, standing in the middle of the causeway, blocking his path. The archer stood with his hands resting on the crossguard of a broadsword, the point resting on the ground between his feet. De Chargny sighed. Some commoner, intent on making his fame and fortune by capturing a French knight in an impromptu passage-at-arms. He drew his own broadsword, and charged.
Then he recognised it as Kemp, and urged his horse into a gallop, roaring his own battle-cry. ‘Chargny!’
Kemp hefted his sword in both hands, bracing himself to receive the attack.
De Chargny lifted his sword back, aiming a stroke that would lop Kemp’s head from his shoulders.
Kemp chopped at the horse’s head, ducking as he was spattered with the animal’s blood and brains. De Chargny swung and missed, so he was already off balance when the horse stumbled and fell, tumbling him from the saddle.
The Frenchman was on his feet in a moment, charging at Kemp and swinging his sword at his head. Kemp parried the blow with surprising ease.
So, the churl knew how to use a sword. So much the better: it would make killing him all the more enjoyable.
Kemp swung at de Chargny. The Frenchman met the blow almost without thinking about it. He thrust at Kemp’s chest. Kemp twisted aside and the blade lanced through his sleeve, drawing blood from his arm. He tripped, and de Chargny was standing over him in an instant. The Frenchman brought his sword down with all his might. Kemp parried again, but his arm was badly jarred. He rolled out of the way as de Chargny came at him again and, scrambling clear, rose to his feet. De Chargny followed him, dangling his sword negligently and waiting until Kemp was ready before swinging once more. Kemp thrust at de Chargny’s head, but his sword glanced harmlessly off the pointed visor. De Chargny slashed at Kemp’s chest, the tip of his sword slicing through the fabric of the archer’s tunic, scoring a line of blood across his chest. Kemp swung at de Chargny’s side, but the Frenchman turned the blow aside with his own blade. Then he thrust at Kemp’s leg, slicing him along the side of one thigh.
Kemp was exhausted, bleeding in three places, and limping. The ache of his shoulders from his torture on the rack had returned as a result of constantly wielding his sword. He whirled it above him, swinging at the side of de Chargny’s head. De Chargny raised his sword to parry, but it was a feint, and Kemp thrust at the Frenchman’s midriff. The knight twisted aside, and the tip of Kemp’s sword was turned by his chain-mail habergeon. De Chargny reacted swiftly and brought his sword down against Kemp’s blade. He forced it to the ground and stamped on it close to the hilt so it was torn from Kemp’s grip.
Disarmed, Kemp backed away. The knight advanced implacably. Holding his sword with both hands, he lifted it above his head to hack at Kemp’s skull.
Kemp threw himself forward, catching de Chargny around the waist before the Frenchman could bring his sword down and knocking him off his feet. The two of them tumbled off the causeway, rolling down the slope into the morass below.
De Chargny lost his sword in the fall. They grappled in the slime, the knight smashing a gauntleted fist into Kemp’s stomach and punching him on the jaw. Kemp was thrown back into the mud. De Chargny waded through the mire, grabbing the Englishman by the collar and lifting him up to punch him again. The front of Kemp’s tunic came away in his hand. He pulled his dagger from his belt and tried to plunge it into Kemp’s chest.
Kemp raised both hands to defend himself, catching de Chargny’s wrist. The Frenchman put his free hand on Kemp’s throat and forced his head under the morass. Kemp kicked his legs desperately, suffocating in the slime. Unable to hold his breath any longer, he opened his mouth and mud filled it at once. He was choking, suffocating, dying. Terror paralysed him.
He fought against the fear. He was not dead yet.
The only thing he had a grip on was the cuff of de Chargny’s right-hand gauntlet. He began to twist it, turning it and the hand within with all his might. De Chargny cried out in pain, releasing his grip on Kemp’s throat to clutch at his wrist. Kemp managed to get his feet on firmer ground at the bottom of the morass. He rose up out of the mire, his hands pulling free of de Chargny’s grip. With his left hand he pushed up de Chargny’s visor, driving his right fist into the knight’s face. Blood gouted from the knight’s nose as it broke under the force of the blow, and he staggered back, stunned.
Wrenching off the knight’s helmet, Kemp punched him again, and again and again, until his own knuckles were raw and de Chargny’s face was nothing but a mass of bruises. Then he put his hands behind de Chargny’s head, and kneed him in the face with all his might.
‘That’s for Typhaine,’ he said.
De Chargny slumped back, defeated. But Kemp had not finished with him yet. Summoning up his last reserves of strength, he dragged the barely conscious knight out of the mire, back on to the side of the causeway. Then he kicked him savagely in the side. De Chargny parted bloodied lips to scream in agony. ‘That’s for Master Sigglesthorne.’
He kicked him again, in the head this time. ‘That’s for me.’
Then, standing over de Chargny, he unfastened his breech-cloth and pissed in the unconscious knight’s face. ‘And that’s for sheer spite.’
Only then, when it was all over, did his mind accept the signals his body had been trying to send it for over an hour. His eyes rolled up in his head, and he collapsed to lie unconscious beside the knight.
Epilogue
On the first day of January, 1350, Sir Geoffroi de Chargny, Sir Eustache de Ribeaumont and Sir Oudard de Renty dined with Amerigo de Pavia in the great hall of the castle at Calais, just as de Chargny had predicted; but the three French knights were captives of King Edward III. De Chargny had had his wounds tended by his personal physician, whom he had brought with him, and sat with a face that was too bruised and swollen to scowl, in fresh new robes provided by the king, as the Prince of Wales and the knights of England served the first course of the banquet in honour of their brave and noble captives.
When they had all dined, the tables were removed, and the king, bare-headed but for a fine chaplet of pearls, made his way around the room, talking to French and English knights alike. Only when he spoke to de Chargny himself did the expression on his face darken a little.
‘Sir Geoffroi, Sir Geoffroi,’ he said, shaking his head sadly. ‘I think that I owe you but little love, since you wished to steal from me by night what I obtained at very great expense. You wanted to have it at a cheaper price than I did, when you thought to win it for twenty thousand écus d’or. But God has helped me by making you fail in your intention. If it is His will, He will aid me to fulfil my entire plans.’
De Chargny said nothing, his face expressionless, and the king turned to de Ribeaumont. ‘Sir Eustache, of all the knights in the world, you are the one whom I have seen attack his enemies and defend his own body with the greatest skill and valour.’ The king was smiling again now. ‘I never yet faced anyone in close combat who gave me as much to do as you did last night. I therefore award you the prize of valour, and all my knights agree with me in this decision.’ And so saying, he took off the chaplet of pearls he was wearing and placed it firmly on an astonished de Ribeaumont’s head. ‘I present you with this chaplet, for being the best fighter of the day on either side, and I beg you to wear it all this year for love of me.’ He grinned. ‘I know you are lively of spirit, and enjoy the company of ladies and damsels,’ he said with a wink, ‘therefore wherever you go, tell of how King Edward gave it to you. And although you are one of my prisoners, I give you in addition your liberty, free of ransom. You may set out tomorrow, if you choose, to go wherever you like.’
‘Noble sire, you do me greater honour than I am worthy of. May God reward you for the courtesy you do to me,’ replied de Ribeaumont, bowing low. ‘I am a poor man who desires to improve himself, and you give me an example after which I may willingly strive. I shall carry out all you have instructed me to
do, sire, both loyally and openly; for, after the service which I owe to my own much-loved and much-revered lord the king, I know of no other king whom I would more willingly serve, nor with so much love, than I would serve you.’
* * *
That same night, Curtis found Kemp getting drunk with Preston, Conyers and Brewster in the White Lion inn. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’
‘Not at all,’ said Preston, indicating a spare stool with a magnanimous gesture. ‘We were just toasting the hero.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Kemp. His face was a mass of bruises and, below the clean new tunic he wore, his body was covered in grazes and bandaged cuts.
‘I hear you captured Sir Geoffroi de Chargny,’ said Curtis.
‘Aye, though I’ll not get a farthing,’ Kemp replied bitterly. ‘He’s the king’s captive, and the king gets the ransom.’ Kemp would not even get the glory of de Chargny’s capture to his credit: while he had lain unconscious, a knight from the West Country had ridden up and found de Chargny, claiming him as his own captive.
‘Aye, and ransoms from all the other French knights captured last night,’ said Curtis. ‘Add to all that money the twenty thousand écus de Chargny brought for de Pavia, and all in all it was a very profitable night for his Majesty. And as a bonus, he gets to keep Calais.’
‘Just how did the king get to hear of the plot, anyway?’ asked Kemp.
‘Sigglesthorne didn’t know de Pavia was central to de Chargny’s plan, so when he reached Calais what more natural than that he should warn the acting governor?’ explained Curtis. ‘When Sigglesthorne came to him, de Pavia panicked. How many other people knew of the plot? If the king heard of it from anyone other than de Pavia first, de Pavia would have been for the chop. So he decided to hedge his bets and warn the king in person, slipping incognito across the Channel. The king told him to send a message to de Chargny, telling him that Sigglesthorne knew of the plot, but that he had told no one but de Pavia, so de Chargny would think it safe to go ahead. Then the king prepared his response, smuggling men and arms to Calais in preparation. Hardly anyone knew of the ambush. Even Sir Thomas Holland was not let in on the secret until yesterday afternoon, when he and Sigglesthorne marched into the castle demanding to speak to de Pavia, only to find themselves shown into the room where the king and the prince were lying in concealment with Sir Walter Mauny and his men!’
‘So everything I did was for nothing?’ asked Kemp.
‘I wouldn’t exactly say that, lad,’ said Preston. ‘If you hadn’t held de Chargny and his men on the road to Paris, Sigglesthorne would never have made it to Calais to panic de Pavia like that.’
‘So even you can claim a share of the credit for saving the day,’ said Curtis, taking an apple from the bowl of fruit Brewster had placed on the table and biting into it.
‘What about that letter Sigglesthorne had, that de Chargny’s men found in his saddle-bags?’ asked Kemp. ‘Where did that come from?’
Curtis shook his head vigorously until he had swallowed his mouthful of apple. ‘Forget it. It never existed.’
Kemp frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘You don’t have to. Suffice to say whoever wrote that letter is a loyal servant of King Edward, whose identity is best kept secret for his own safety.’
Kemp stared at him. ‘What about you? You’re not just a shipmaster, are you?’
Curtis grinned. ‘Let’s just say I’ve had occasion in the past to act as a courier for his Majesty, carrying out the kind of mission his knights and noblemen consider below their dignity.’
‘By the way, did you hear that the Pope confirmed Cardinal d’Albi’s verdict annulling the Lady Joan’s marriage to the Earl of Salisbury in favour of Sir Thomas?’ asked Conyers. Kemp shook his head. ‘They’re finally living as husband and wife now.’
‘What about that?’ asked Curtis. ‘Is it true what they say of that business?’
‘That depends on what they say,’ Preston said carefully.
‘That there was no clandestine marriage between Holland and Joan of Kent,’ said Curtis. ‘That they only met one another after Holland was appointed steward of Montague’s household at Mold in Flintshire, and became lovers; and concocted the story of the clandestine marriage so Joan could leave Montague for Holland. Come on, Master Preston, you’ve been with Holland for a long time now. You must know the truth of the matter.’
‘It’s because I’ve been with Sir Thomas for so long that I refuse to dignify your slanderous accusation with a response,’ growled Preston.
Curtis laughed, and slapped his knee. ‘I knew it! There’s no smoke without fire.’
Kemp sighed, and shook his head. ‘Nothing is ever what it seems, is it?’
‘Aye,’ agreed Curtis, smiling. ‘But bear that in mind, Master Kemp, and I think you’ll go a long way in life. A very long way indeed.’
‘Never mind that,’ said Conyers, grinning lecherously. ‘I want to know more about you and this Typhaine lass. Did you…?’
‘No,’ Kemp cut in firmly, scowling.
But that night he dreamed of her, and for once they were pleasant dreams.
Historical Notes
Some of the situations and events I have described in this book are so outrageous and far-fetched that I would never have dared to use them were it not for the fact they are completely true.
Michael Packe has described King Edward III’s ambush of de Chargny at Calais as ‘surely the most irresponsible adventure ever undertaken by a king of England1’; and any student of English history can tell you there are plenty to choose from. Packe takes a very cynical view of most of the famous episodes I have described, and I have generally accepted his viewpoints as more realistic than the simple anecdotes of chivalry that Froissart relates in his chronicles.
Packe argues that ‘the pantomime whereby the leading burgesses were brought out [of Calais] with halters round their necks, and Queen Philippa save[d] them from his wrath by pleading mercy on her knees2’ was stage-managed, partly to impress on the people of Calais King Edward’s rage at being kept so long besieging the town, and partly to cover the fact of his indiscretion with a mistress – Alice Montague, perhaps – by playing up publicly his susceptibility to his wife’s entreaties. Pantomime or not, one cannot detract from the courage of the six burghers of Calais who offered to sacrifice their own lives for the lives of the rest of the townspeople.
Packe also deals admirably with the bizarre quarrel between Holland and Montague over which one of them was married to Joan of Kent. It seems incredible that Joan of Kent should have made no mention of her marriage to Holland when she was wedded to Montague (although she was only about twelve at the time of the first wedding), and more incredible still that Holland should subsequently have been appointed steward of their household on his return from Prussia. ‘It is possible that the whole tale was cock-and-bull,’ suggests Packe; ‘that they had simply become lovers quite lately, while Holland was serving as her steward in Montagu’s [sic] household3’. Montague does not seem to have been desperately upset by the loss of the fairest woman in England as his bride, but then he did have his earldom to console him, and he married Elizabeth Mohun about a year later.
Although Sir Thomas Holland’s star continued to rise at court, King Edward cannot have been pleased that the marriage he had arranged between the son of one of his old friends and his ward and cousin should be annulled by a French pope. Perhaps it is significant that a little over three years later the parliament at Westminster passed the Statute of Praemunire, forbidding appeals to the papacy.
Both Hollands – Thomas and Otho – were founder members of the Companionship of Saint George. Most scholars now accept that the order was founded on or around April 23 1348, although Froissart – described by some as the first ever journalist, and certainly as inaccurate as most members of that breed – puts the year as 1344, confusing it with the foundation of the Order of the Round Table, a precursor to the companionship which never quite got off the gr
ound in the way that the Companionship of Saint George did. The order exists to this day, although it is of course better known as the Order of the Garter. The story as to how the order got its motto – Honi soit qui mal y pense, ‘Evil to him who evils thinks’ – is apocryphal, but quite in keeping with the morals of the time. Which lady at the ball at Calais actually lost her garter while dancing with the king – or indeed whether the ball was at Calais, Windsor, or somewhere else – is open to debate. For many years it was said to be Joan, the Fair Maid of Kent (who, according to another legend, was raped by King Edward III at the castle of Wark while her husband was out campaigning against the Scots). Once again it requires the scholarship of Packe to untangle the many threads of legend and argue quite convincingly that it was Alice rather than Joan Montague (or should that have been Joan Holland?) who danced with the king at Calais4.
1348 was also the year the Great Pestilence, known to later generations as the Black Death, reached England. Some people did contract the pestilence and survive, including Guy de Chauliac, Pope Clement VI’s personal physician; although it seems more probable that, like Kemp, he contracted bubonic plague, rather than the pneumonic plague which was confused by fourteenth-century medicine with the bubonic. Bubonic or pneumonic, it seems that roughly a third of the population of western Europe died of the pestilence during this period. The learned blamed God and the stars; the unlearned – including the flagellants – blamed the Jews and, whatever Pope Clement VI’s faults, he must be praised for doing his best to protect the Jews against the pogroms that were carried out in those years. If no such pogroms were carried out in England at this time, it was simply because those Jews who had not converted to Christianity had already been expelled from the country.
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