The Fair Maid of Kent

by Caroline Newark

  William grunted and continued his contemplation of the dregs in his cup.

  ‘And he could hardly have given the mare to you,’ I teased. ‘Your legs are much too long.’

  That brought a smile to his lips. He always enjoyed me complimenting him on his rather fine figure and I knew how proud he was of his shapely legs.

  ‘I’ll wager the next surprise will be for you and it will be something of much greater value than a horse, a silver cup or maybe some preferment.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said brightening up. ‘If that rogue Walter Manny can be made the king’s man in Merioneth, just think what I could be.’

  I didn’t show William the note but kept it tucked carefully into my clothing, reading it only when I was certain I would be undisturbed. I felt warmed by the steadfastness of Edward’s devotion, smiling at the memory of that childish kiss and the promises he had made. I didn’t love him, of course I didn’t, but there was no harm in an idle flirtation with an old friend, especially one who was not only deliciously handsome but wonderfully generous and so very, very rich.

  And I reckoned it was safer to think about Edward than to think about Thomas.

  William finally left Bisham in the last days of May, dressed like a prince and accompanied by his Uncle Montagu and half a dozen local men who were riding with him. This was to be the greatest expedition ever undertaken by an English king and yet two months earlier it had seemed doomed to failure. Great storms had lashed the south coast of England and ruined my cousin’s plans. Twice he had to reset the date for the departure of the fleet and twice William had raged and cursed and shouted as if the delay was entirely my fault. But now at last he grudgingly admitted everything was ready.

  The requisitioning officers had done their job well and hundreds of ships lay at anchor in the harbour at Portsmouth. The army was not as large as my cousin had hoped but William said thousands of men were encamped in the meadows around the town and half way up the London road, all eager to set sail. Arrangements had been made for the protection of the coast and on every cliff top from Kent across Sussex and Hampshire and down into Dorset, beacon towers had been built to give warning in case of a French attack.

  I thought they would leave as soon as they found a fair wind but it was more than a month before I received a brief note from William. He was to sail on the afternoon tide. He didn’t know where they were headed as their destination was a close-guarded secret but the captain of his ship had sealed orders which he would open once they were at sea. He would write again when they reached land.

  I looked at the date. The eve of the feast day of St Peter and St Paul. I counted on my fingers. Three days ago.

  ‘We can do nothing but wait,’ I said to the men of my household. ‘Wait and pray they arrive safely.’

  It felt as if William’s ship had been cut adrift and I feared my cousin was bent on leading his men to the uttermost ends of the earth. For those of us left behind it seemed like a dangerous journey into the unknown, one which might end in disaster.

  I stitched a little ship on the very bottom of my cloth, a red one with a pretty white sail. I would stitch another one tomorrow and one the next day, one for each day until we heard they were safe.

  By the middle of July and with no news, the household at Bisham started laying bets, every man convinced he knew exactly where the king’s fleet had gone.

  ‘It’s like as if they’ve fallen off the very edge of the world,’ said the little page from the ewery, carefully setting down my cup of ale.

  I gave a tiny gasp.

  ‘I’ll edge of the world you, my lad,’ said the steward. ‘Don’t you go frightening our mistress like that. And if you spill one drop of that good ale I’ll see you never set foot in the hall again. You’ll spend the rest of your days cleaning up horseshit.’

  ‘Thank you, that was beautifully done.’ I smiled at the boy who reddened to the tips of his ears and scuttled out like a frightened fawn.

  ‘It’s Gascony,’ said the steward. ‘It’s got to be Gascony. My sister’s husband knows a man who heard the French king’s been given money for his war chest by that Frenchie Pope. It’s paying for an army to destroy our Lord Henry, God bless him and bring him victory. Our king will not stand for that. He’ll take his army to Gascony to help Lord Henry, you mark my words.’

  ‘They’re saying in Maidenhythe, the Earl of Northampton’s been securing harbours on the coast of Brittany,’ said the clerk of the wardrobe. ‘He’d hardly be doing that if the king wasn’t going to use them, would he?’

  ‘My husband said the earl was returned from Brittany and planned to sail with the king,’ I ventured.

  ‘That proves it, my lady,’ said the clerk of the wardrobe. ‘Came to give the word first-hand, wouldn’t trust anyone to carry the news but himself.’

  ‘Last week in Great Marlow a silk merchant on his way to Oxford, said it’s Flanders,’ said the yeoman usher, pulling up a stool. ‘He’d heard it straight from a Fleming in London and you can’t get much closer to a horse’s mouth than that.’

  The clerk of the wardrobe spluttered into his ale and had to be thumped on the back by the usher.

  ‘I’ll wager it was a dockside tavern,’ laughed the steward. ‘Don’t trust a man in a London alehouse if he says he’s a Fleming because he might just be a Frenchie. My sister says the place is teeming with them. They’re like rats, they’re everywhere. They listen to what you say and then scurry back over the sea to tell their master.’

  ‘Have you not heard anything, my lady?’ said the usher.

  ‘No, not yet, but I’m sure we’ll hear soon. My husband promised to write when they reached their destination, but people say it’s a very long way to Gascony.’

  At that moment there was a shout from the yard and the sound of a horseman and almost before anyone could move, one of the little pages was up the steps and into the hall shouting that a messenger had arrived.

  It was a letter from William, a proper letter, water-stained and well-travelled and this time there was no Lady Catherine to pluck it from my grasp.

  With trembling fingers, I undid the seal.

  “My dearest and most beloved companion”

  Oh William, I thought. How conventional an opening. Perhaps he simply left that sort of thing to his clerk, I could imagine him waving his hand and instructing the man to “start in the usual fashion”.

  I smoothed out the letter and began to read.

  “You will be glad to receive news that we have landed safely on the Wednesday before St Margaret’s day after a journey of many travails. We lay at anchor off a great open beach to the south of a little port called La Hogue in the part of Normandy called the Cotentin.”

  I looked up at the expectant faces. ‘Normandy,’ I said, smiling, ‘The Cotentin.’

  “No ships were lost and all the fleet has now arrived. As soon as we disembarked the king knighted me and the Prince and several others and then Prince Edward knighted many more.”

  ‘The king has knighted my husband,’ I said. ‘He is Sir William.’

  ‘Ay, and you are now Lady Montagu, God bless you, my lady,’ said the steward.

  My eyes skimmed across the page.

  “… baked bread… went to Barfleur… town as big as Sandwich… eleven ships all of which we burned… My Lord Warwick has skirmished with the enemy… we killed many and captured many more… men at arms have all withdrawn into the towns and the common people have come over to us. Tomorrow we leave and commence our march across Normandy and thus make our way into France.”

  ‘I shall read it to the household at supper,’ I said, laying the letter aside. ‘At last we know where they are and we know where they’re heading.’

  ‘Normandy,’ mused the clerk to the wardrobe. ‘How wonderful if our king were to reclaim the Conqueror’s lands for himself. Now that
would be a grand day for England, that would.’

  ‘Wonderful indeed,’ I said, still not quite sure where Normandy was but prepared to believe it was a place of tremendous significance for my cousin.

  ‘And will it be Paris for Christmas like they’re saying in the kitchen, my lady?’ said the usher. ‘Will you be lodging in the French king’s palaces and dining off his plate?’

  ‘I think before we plan our Christmas revels we should arrange for a Mass to be said, to give thanks for the king’s safe arrival on the other side of the sea,’ I said, thinking how pious I sounded and how impressed Lady Catherine would be if only she knew.

  ‘Bravely said, my lady,’ said the steward. ‘I’ll send a boy to the priory and gather the household. We must never forget the Almighty who guides our every step and brings us safe to shore, although I do have to say I wish He had chosen Gascony instead of Normandy, then I’d not be a purseful the poorer.’

  Two weeks later another letter arrived from William and this time his excitement leapt from every page.

  “We rose early, before dawn, and at midday on the Wednesday we approached the town of Caen where many knights and men at arms had taken refuge. The king offered to spare the lives of those within if the town surrendered but the Bishop of Bayeux refused and held the king’s messenger in chains. the king wanted to delay the attack on the town but our common soldiers without leave rushed the bridge which had been well strengthened with a barricade and the Prince and my Lord Warwick joined them along the line of the river and together they won the bridge. Thus we entered the town and defeated the enemy. The constable of France, who had taken refuge in the gatehouse, surrendered to my late sire’s steward, Sir Thomas Holand, and the chamberlain surrendered to one of the Prince’s own knights, Sir Thomas Daniel.”

  At this, a cheer rang round the hall from the many men who remembered Thomas in the days when he’d served my father-in-law. I waited until the noise died down and then carried on reading.

  “We killed or captured more than one hundred valiant knights, and many thousand squires, citizens and commons were taken or killed in the streets or in their homes or gardens.‘We found wine and food in great quantities in the town, which is bigger I am told than any in England save for London, and we are well-provisioned. Our ships followed us along the coast and have destroyed many warships and other vessels and the sailors went ashore and burned everything they could find. The sky is blazing red for miles around and in the other towns the people will be in despair because they know the English King and his host will soon be at their gates. We have been here in Caen for three days and tomorrow is the last day of July and the king will order us to Rouen where if God is willing we will find the army of the French king.”

  This would be the great battle that Thomas had spoken of, the battle which would decide everything and allow my cousin to ride in triumph into Paris. He would truly be King of France and every Frenchman would bow his knee and swear fealty to the King of England. There would be another treaty, one which would give us back our lands in Gascony. The fighting would be over for ever and our men would return home.

  By the early days of September we had finished the greenwood and were making good progress on the little hill with its castle perched on top. I was generous and allowed my lady companion to stitch the delicate flower garden next to the castle walls because, if I was truthful, her stitches were neater than mine. I contented myself with the wall surrounding the park which stretched right across the top of the hill and down into the trees. It looked very dramatic undulating up and down below the sky.

  ‘It is the Grail castle,’ I said, carefully threading a needle with an appealing apricot-coloured silk. ‘Do you think this colour will suit?’

  She paused in her work to consider the matter but she was one of those women who would never disagree with the lady of the house and I didn’t know why I’d bothered to ask.

  What with William’s letters and the managing of his affairs, the summer had not been without its excitements but as we drifted into autumn I found myself tired of our endless days of stitching and tedious conversations about my companion’s children. Outside, the same sounds that I’d heard yesterday floated up from the courtyard and I swore it was the same dun-coloured bird twittering loudly in the bush against the wall that I’d been hearing all week.

  ‘I sometimes think that little page was right and they have fallen off the edge of the world,’ I said with a sigh. ‘It’s been weeks and we’ve heard nothing.’

  ‘Perhaps they are lost in a dark wood,’ said my companion, who was very attached to the romances and had an over-fertile imagination.

  ‘That would be impossible,’ I said firmly. ‘The king has thousands of men. They’d fill a wood.’

  There could be werewolves,’ she suggested. ‘Or it could be a wicked enchantment.’

  ‘You listen to far too many stories,’ I said sharply, probably more sharply than I should. She was a pale-faced milksop of a woman who believed if we heard howling at the time of a full moon it must be the great pookah hound foretelling a death. She couldn’t help but be credulous but there were times when I wished she had more sense.

  What neither of us admitted was our greatest fear, that our army had been defeated in battle by the French king and all our men were dead. At night I dreamed of men slumped over town walls and bodies lying lifeless in the shallows of a great river; blood filling the streets of Paris while the French king stood laughing on the steps of his palace, and from somewhere outside in the cold and the darkness, Thomas was calling for a candle.

  There was a commotion and shouting from down in the hall and footsteps running up the stairs. I looked up from my stitching as one of the men from the pantry was admitted.

  He fell to his knees in front of me.

  ‘Oh my lady,’ he gasped. ‘They’re saying in the town it’s a great victory, a great victory for the king.’

  My heart raced and I felt faint.

  ‘Where? What have you heard?’

  ‘In Great Marlow, my lady. A man from London. He says proclamations are being read out at every street corner. He says eleven princes of the enemy are dead. Eleven! Including the King of Bohemia and the Count of Flanders. Near two thousand of the great men of France and many thousands more French corpses on the battlefield and their holy flag of war trodden in the mud.’

  ‘And the Valois? The French King?’

  ‘Fled into the night.’

  ‘And what of our men?’

  ‘Barely any lost, twenty at most.’

  ‘And the king?’

  ‘Triumphant. And the prince. “Worthy to keep a realm”, His Grace said. Oh my lady, it is a great, great victory.’

  The man had tears streaming down his cheeks and could hardly believe his own words. I laid aside my silks and rose to my feet. A victory, and such a victory. I could barely believe it myself. In a daze I walked down to the hall where all I could see was a crowd of expectant upturned faces. I gave orders for the household to be called together and for a cup of ale to be poured for everyone. Today we would honour our men in the traditional way as my mother-in-law would have done because whatever else I was, whatever else I wished myself to be, at this moment I was the lady of Bisham.

  Crécy was the name they gave to the battle and by the end of the month there was not a man, woman or child in England who didn’t know exactly what miracle had happened there, how the king and the prince with their great dragon banner had triumphed. People talked of the thousands of English and Welsh archers who had rained arrows upon the enemy; they sang of the courage of warriors like the Earl of Northampton and Sir Reginald Cobham and how our men, outnumbered by a French army nearly twice their size, had come to glory. It was unbelievable and yet it had happened.

  As I stood in the hall that first morning amidst the noisy celebrations with a cup of ale in my hand, I
realised the men of my household were right. It would be what they had all been hoping for, what everybody said it would be – it would be Paris for Christmas.

  9

  Calais 1347

  I was wrong. We were all wrong. It wasn’t Paris. It wasn’t even Rouen or Amiens or some other great place. It was a nasty little fortress town called Calais, perched on the edge of a swamp. And we weren’t to be lodged in the town itself, we were to camp outside its walls. This was no victory celebration with my cousin dining in state in one of the defeated Valois king’s magnificent palaces. This was a siege.

  I didn’t want to leave the warmth of Bisham and travel overseas to somewhere I had never heard of but I was given no choice. Queen Philippa commanded the wives of the king’s leading men to accompany her to Calais. We were to bring comfort and relief to our husbands and there were to be no false excuses, no prevarication of any kind as our attendance was the king’s most urgent desire.

  ‘If we defeated the Valois at Crécy and killed most of his great men, why didn’t the king press on towards Paris?’ I asked the new Countess of Arundel as we rode in the queen’s train along the muddy road from Flanders. ‘Why didn’t he complete his conquest and declare himself King of France? Why is he here on the edge of nowhere?’

  ‘It is one thing to win a battle, Lady Montagu, but quite another to hold the territory you’ve conquered.’ Lady Arundel was surprisingly well informed for a woman. ‘You need men to offer up the keys of their towns and cities willing to remain loyal to a new overlord. Would you have His Grace garrison every town and put each man who voiced discontent to the sword? Would you want your husband stuck here trying to hold a town of rebellious Frenchmen? Lord Arundel says even Normandy is too difficult to hold.’