At His Command-Historical Romance Version

by Kaufman, Ruth

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Belinda pouted prettily.

  Amice could see that trick working on men, but it didn’t move her. She set her jaw and crossed her arms. “I have nowhere else to be, nothing important to do today.”

  Or any day, for that matter.

  “All right. I’ve heard rumors of York’s increasing strength. Should he gain control of the throne, I want to join his court. Are you satisfied?”

  Amice nodded. “That I believe. What is the duke having you do?”

  “You heard me read the letter.” Belinda tucked an errant strand of blond hair under the wire mesh of her headdress.

  “I did. But how will you spread such news so it’s not traced back to you?”

  “I haven’t gotten that far,” Belinda admitted. “Stop that!”

  Galahad was worrying the hem of her gown between his teeth. Belinda pulled the offending hound to the side and pushed him toward Amice. “Here, control your animal,” she bit out, as if glad of an excuse to change the subject.

  “He’s not mine. He belongs to Nicholas.”

  Belinda pursed her lips, then frowned. “What is that to me? Now you must keep your part of the bargain and remain silent.”

  Amice smiled again. “I never promised not to tell.” Belinda opened her mouth to retort but Amice held up her hand. “What if I said I wanted to join you?”

  “Why?”

  Galahad turned in circles, oblivious to the ink and to his companions’ intense conversation. After completing his series of inked paw prints, he rested his head in Amice’s lap. He put his nose between his tiny paws and closed his eyes.

  Amice petted the sleepy pup as she prepared her answer. What should she say…she wanted to feel important, wanted to be needed? That she missed her home and Nicholas so much she’d do almost anything to add excitement and responsibility to her life? Telling Belinda her reasons would shift the power balance between them, but she’d come this far….

  She looked at Belinda, whose eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  “I’ve always believed in York’s cause, but didn’t see a way to offer aid until now. It would also increase his trust in you if you were able to bring him more loyal assistants.”

  “I’ll consider informing His Grace of your interest. What can you offer him?”

  Amice knew better than to say, “Whatever you can,” guessing Belinda’s involvement might at some point include more than she, Amice, was willing to give. “I can write, quickly and with a clear hand. Perhaps he needs documents copied.”

  “That idea I like,” Belinda said. “I’ll think on it and report back to you.”

  Why did Belinda walk away with such a satisfied smile?

  Chapter 9

  France, Near Castillon – July 1453

  Instead of missing Amice as he traveled through France, Nicholas forced himself to concentrate on the matters at hand. Such as how to succeed at their task: relieving the beleaguered English forces under siege at Castillon.

  The journey of John Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury’s six-thousand-man army had progressed smoothly. It was rumored their opponent, Jean Bureau, led anywhere from seven to ten thousand Frenchmen. Were Nicholas in charge, he wouldn’t attack without proof and a clear understanding of their opponents’ weaknesses.

  Nicholas wanted to learn about the man Amice was to marry. He was predisposed to dislike William and found nothing to change his impression. The man’s tedious descriptions of previous successes didn’t help.

  As the time to fight drew near, tension increased. Nicholas could feel it in the humid air, see it in the tightness of the men’s faces. Early in the morning, Talbot took five hundred men at arms and eight hundred mounted archers, including Nicholas and Lord William, to lead the attack.

  “I hear Bureau has more cannon and bombards than anyone in all of Europe,” one of the men offered.

  “I hear he’s got the balls to go with them!” another added, rewarded by the raucous laughter of nervous knights.

  Nicholas ignored the banter. He had a bad feeling, and feared his prayers for victory would go unheeded. The English weren’t equipped to fight an artillery battle. But they had their orders.

  Focusing on the road, he rolled his shoulders to ease his aching muscles. Annoying rivulets of sweat trickled down his back. Though it was barely daybreak, the air was hot, thick and damp. Dense forest hindered any breezes that might have broken through the heat.

  Ahead was a small priory, which a scout reported was filled with French soldiers. Taking the priory was no challenge. The taste of victory increased the knights’ confidence along with their lust for French blood.

  One of the injured French cried, “You cannot win. We have cannon, so very many! You English dogs will perish. We built a wall of guns….” The man died.

  Had he spoken true? Sir Thomas Evringham, their standard bearer, was sent to investigate. Talbot, clearly invigorated by their early success, encouraged the men to drink wine while they waited for the rest of the men to catch up. But it seemed to Nicholas as if the man’s words had dampened some soldiers’ spirits.

  A dust-covered messenger interrupted their respite.

  “The French are retreating,” he gasped. When all stared at him in surprise, he repeated, “The French are retreating! They’re leaving!”

  Sir John beckoned the man over. “Who are you? Are you sure of this?”

  “I escaped from Castillon. Many horses were fleeing the French camp….”

  Talbot turned toward his men. “We ride,” he shouted.

  Nicholas didn’t recognize the messenger. He prayed their commander was right to trust him.

  Distant cannon thunder heralded their approach, surging into ear-numbing explosions as they rode closer. Nicholas and the rest halted abruptly as Castillon came into view. He’d never seen as much artillery in one place. The dying man had told the truth. Mounted on a wall of earth were more culverins than he could count. Plus heavy bombards and newer, lighter cannon that loaded from the back, not the muzzle.

  So many shots fired that the noise never abated. The roar was deafening. A huge cloud of dust grew in the distance…the retreating French?

  Should the English retreat? Were they mad to attack?

  As they splashed across the Lidoire River, wet clothes and armor slowing their progress, a shout rose above the din. “How are we supposed to beat them?”

  Then another, “We’re coming from behind. With a sneak approach they’ll not get those guns on us!”

  Talbot yelled, “Where in hell is that messenger? Did he see those horses or did he lie? The French are still here!”

  He ordered them to dismount and fight on foot, following the tradition of only using horses to carry soldiers to the battlefield. Talbot alone would remain mounted. At his age, fighting on foot clad in armor wasn’t feasible, and he could better command his troops from on high. He gave the signal to move forward.

  Nicholas tensed, then shouted along with the others, “Talbot! St. George!”

  The archers made the sign of the cross on the earth and kissed it before taking up their positions. English longbows picked off a few of the French. But hearts plummeted when Sir Thomas Evringham was the first to fall. A bad omen. Someone grabbed the standard before it was trampled, and the battle was joined.

  The lighter guns shifted position with surprising speed and fired into their ranks. As if that wasn’t enough, from the south across the Lidoire came hundreds of fresh French soldiers. The battle turned into a complete rout. Those the guns didn’t kill, the Frenchmen did.

  “No retreat!” Talbot cried, in an effort to recall men running toward the Dordogne River. Too late. Too many were fleeing.

  Pungent smoke filled the air, thick clouds swooshing by as Nicholas fought to breathe and see. Everything seemed to be moving slower than normal.

  The smell of death.

  Cannon shot slammed into Talbot. His horse collapsed, trapping him underneath. As Nicholas fought his way t
o his fallen commander, a French soldier hacked at Talbot with an ax. An arrow pierced Talbot’s son in the neck.

  Blood splattered Nicholas. Suddenly his left leg stung. Struggling to stand but failing, he sank to the trampled ground. With growing horror, he examined his thigh. A piece of cannon shot must’ve gone through his leg. Blood seeped from both sides.

  A hand appeared through the haze. Lord William. Nicholas struggled to rise, biting back a scream of pain as William hauled him to his feet.

  “I can’t tell how bad it is,” Nicholas shouted. “Leave me. I don’t think I can walk…. I’ll crawl, stay close to the ground. Get away now!”

  William looked to the safety of retreat, toward the fray, then at Nicholas. Even through his pain, Nicholas knew the war raged in the man’s conscience. Would William have tried to help him if he knew what he’d been to Amice? What he wished he could be? As always, his thoughts were of her.

  “For God’s sake. Go, man, go!” Nicholas encouraged, dropping to his hands and knees.

  “No. We go together.”

  William put his arm around Nicholas, helping to support his weight. They ducked instinctively as a whining ball burst behind them. After a few seconds, they rose and pressed on.

  Pain seared him with each step. He couldn’t keep up.

  “Let me go!” Nicholas yelled, his words lost in another cannon blast. “Save yourself!”

  They’d only managed to cover a few feet when William shoved Nicholas down, sending shafts of fire radiating through his leg as he landed with a grunt. The earth behind them exploded, showering them with stinging bits of rock and soil. He caught his breath.

  “That was close.” He strained to look at William, who lay partially on top of him. “Hurry, we’ve got to get out of here!”

  He pushed William’s arm, but there was no response. “My God, William, move!”

  With a mighty shove that hurt his injured leg, he raised himself on his arms. William slid off of him. Nicholas inhaled dust and smoke. Coughing and spitting, he tried to remove the grit from his mouth as William tried to rise. His helmet was gone, his head covered in shiny blood.

  William’s mouth moved. He beckoned Nicholas closer. Resting his weight on his good leg, Nicholas bent toward the wounded man.

  “I’m the one who isn’t going anywhere,” William said. “You go. Tell everyone how it was and why some of us had to die. Don’t let this go unremembered…” His voice trailed off. “For God, for England and for Henry.” He coughed, blood spilling from his mouth. Nicholas could barely hear William’s hushed tones over the fading sounds of fighting. “I was to be married….”

  William was dead.

  Nicholas dropped his head. Was he to blame? Anguish battered him, thicker than the smoke, hotter than the pain in his leg. He’d fought before, seen men die. Nothing equaled the horrors of this day. The absurdity of archers and knights trying to battle hundreds of guns, the waste of life, disgusted him.

  Another blast hit nearby. He curled into a ball. As he unwound, something caught his eye. A sparkle amidst swirls of smoke. William wore a chain around his neck, almost hidden by sweaty dirt. He’d take it for Amice. As he tugged the chain free, he recognized the portrait of Amice’s mother. His heart wrenched. Had she come to care for William so much in such a short time she’d parted with her favorite necklace?

  His hands shook as he pulled the chain over his bare head, his helmet lost long ago. He could only think now of getting to safety.

  Of staying alive.

  The remnants of Henry’s forces huddled beneath a stand of trees in a vain effort to avoid a downpour. Nicholas rested against a tree. Cool rain ran down his neck and arms, leaving watery streaks in the soot, but couldn’t soothe the fire in his leg.

  There was no physician. He’d have to ask someone to help bind the wound, knew he should try to clean it, but for the moment another pain tormented him.

  William had died saving his life. Though Nicholas had encouraged William to escape, to abandon him, the fact remained that Amice’s betrothed died trying to help him. How could he return to face her, when, because of him, her betrothed would not?

  Why did so many good Englishmen have to die? Why had he been spared? “Nicholas. We can’t stay here, the French may pursue us. Can you travel?” asked a soldier with dried blood on his face and armor.

  “My leg, I need to bind it. Then I’ll be able to ride.”

  One man positioned himself at Nicholas’s head to hold his shoulders against the pain, another at his feet to keep him steady. A third pulled a relatively clean piece of cloth tight around the wound.

  With that, more agony than Nicholas thought possible coursed through him, and he felt no more.

  He awoke in a barn, lying on his back in a pile of fresh-smelling straw. Moonlight shone through broken slats in the roof. A bottle of wine and some hard bread lay beside him. His leg throbbed and his rambling thoughts continued their torturous paths.

  He’d survived the battle, but his troubles were nowhere near over.

  A week after the soldiers departed, Amice answered a knock at her door. Sitting and waiting for news with the queen so aggravated her she’d asked for an evening alone. Had she already been recalled to service?

  Belinda swept in, closing the door. “The duke has agreed,” she said without preamble. “You shall copy documents. I’ll serve as courier. Here’s your first assignment.” She set several rolled parchments on Amice’s table. “He wants three copies, which I’m to pick up tomorrow.”

  Amice unrolled several blank sheets of parchment and a long, unsigned letter. She’d have to work through the night to make three copies. “By tomorrow?”

  “Time is of the essence.” Belinda tapped her foot. “I thought you wanted to help. Will you do it or not?”

  Guilt whisked through Amice. Working for York while living in Henry’s castle? But York was the rightful king and would be a better leader. Time would pass faster. And her life would have purpose again.

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Good. If York is satisfied, I’ll bring more work. And payment.”

  When Belinda had gone, Amice opened her ink, picked up her pen and set to work.

  Clarendon – August 1453

  The king and select members of his household retreated to the forest manor of Clarendon, ostensibly for him and Margaret, with her advancing pregnancy, to escape the heat and propensity for disease in London in the summer. Amice was glad for the sojourn to the royal hunting lodge near Salisbury and change of scenery.

  She wasn’t as glad that York continued to send documents for her to copy. Yes, she wanted to help his cause. Yes, she was glad to have something of import to do. But working in secrecy against the king and queen, having to trust Belinda, combined with her worries for Nicholas and William made for restless nights. If she were caught, she’d likely be tossed in the Tower, or worse, burned at the stake.

  “They come, they come!” An out-of-breath guard raced into the hall.

  Finally. A messenger from France. The few reports so far hadn’t been good. As Amice and the courtiers hurried outside, she knew something had gone very wrong.

  The women’s veils fluttered in the hot drafts, their finery contrasting with the mud-covered, dejected men on horseback or being carried on litters. No one spoke. No cheers, no words of welcome, just desperate silence as they waited to hear the tale.

  Amice’s breath came in spurts. Most of the soldiers probably had returned to their homes. But where would those close to the king go? She bobbed from side to side searching for the face she’d dreamed of each night and thought of each day. Where was he? Where was Nicholas?

  She checked herself. Where was William?

  A soldier broke away from the small cadre of troops, dismounted and knelt in front of the king and queen. His armor was dented and covered with smeared, brown stains Amice didn’t want to identify. He took off his helmet, revealing brown hair plastered with sweat.

  “My liege….” His
voice broke. “I know not how to tell you. We have lost. We have lost all. They had hundreds of cannon, there was so much blood. Four thousand Englishmen perished. My lord Talbot and his sons among them.”

  Amice gasped along with the rest. Some burst into tears.

  Four thousand archers, soldiers and commanders dead. William, dead. Sorrow filled Amice at the death of a prominent man, a good man, at England’s losses. But all she could think was, “What of Nicholas? Who will they find for me now?” Was she selfish to be more concerned about her future than mourning one already dead? A man she’d barely known.

  “And how many of our enemies died?” the king asked.

  The officer bowed his head.

  “How many Frenchmen? Answer me!”

  “Around one hundred, Your Grace.”

  More gasps.

  Amice snapped to alertness. Where was Nicholas? She put her hand to her mouth, fearing the worst. Struggling to remain calm, she fought the urge to cry out his name and race toward the survivors. As long moments passed, Amice worked herself into a frenzy of fear.

  Her will crumbled when she saw Nicholas’s tousled, matted head appear as he raised himself to his elbows on a litter among a handful lined up on the grass. Oblivious to what anyone would think, she ran to him and dropped to her knees, tears falling onto the trampled ground. He must’ve been sorely wounded to allow himself to be carried home. Love, fear, uncertainty and more rushed through her, buffeting her like gusts of wind. What could she say?

  Nicholas stared straight ahead, his eyes vacant. He looked right through her.

  How badly was he injured?

  “Nicholas? Nicholas?” No response. Fears renewed, barely able to draw breath, she scrambled to find assistance.

  The king’s physician, William Hatclyf, hurried by. His doublet was badly stained. Who knew with how many men’s blood?

  “We need help, please!” she cried. “Sir Nicholas is ill!”

  “My lady, many need my aid. A few are bleeding, almost to death. I’ll send someone for him as soon as I can.” He glanced at Nicholas’s sweat-covered face. “Hmmm. An infection of some kind, most like.” He took a step closer and sniffed. “Possibly a putrified wound.”