This book is dedicated to
Beryl Joan Jecks
22nd March 1929 – 4th October 2015
a perfect mother
And
Andrew Setchell
6th July 1961 – 4th February 2016
a perfect friend
Both are hugely missed
King John
the King of France
The Dauphin
the heir to the King of France
King Charles
the devious and political King of Navarre
Thomas de Ladit
priest and Chancellor to the King of Navarre
Arnaud Bernard
servant in the pay of King Charles brother to Arnaud and also King Charles’s servant
Sir John de Sully
knight bannaret and loyal servant of the Prince of Wales
Grandarse
the centener of a hundred men under Sir John
John Hawkwood
a vintener in Grandarse’s command, before known as John of Essex
Members of Vintaine
Clip
Dogbreath
Gilles
Nick
Pierre and Felix, aka Pere et Fils
Baz
Imbert
Robin
Berenger Fripper
an old soldier, now leader of a mercenary company
Will
Berenger’s second in command in the company of mercenaries
Simon of Shoreditch
vintener in Berenger’s company
Peter of Reading
vintener in Berenger’s company
Companions of Berenger’s
Saul of Plymouth, originally from
Berenger’s mercenary band
Loys, a younger member of Berenger’s
force
Fulk, a powerful Swiss warrior who joined Berenger
Archibald
a ‘gynour’ who commands a number of ‘gonnes’
Ed
assistant to Archibald
Béatrice
a French orphan who accompanies Archibald and Ed
Denisot
the Bayle of Domps
Gaillarde
wife to Denisot
Ethor
steward to the priory near Domps
Alazaïs
widow in Uzerche
Perrin and Charlot
sons of Alazaïs
Abbot Andry
the Abbot of St Jacques
Rouen, Tuesday 5 April 1356
The screams rose, rough and agonised on the warm afternoon air as the cleaver rose again, and the crowds watching shivered, appalled, as the executioner prepared to bring the blade down once more.
Grasping his heavy weapon, the man looked as though he was in a hellish nightmare, his soul already held firmly in the devil’s talons. His eyes were wide and raw-rimmed, and the cleaver trembled in his drunken grip. He was no torturer: he was a forger, and inexperienced at this butchery. Yet he had been offered a royal pardon if he would perform this task: killing four men. His life in exchange for four. It had seemed an easy arrangement.
But he was made for less stern work. He would spew if that appalling shrieking of agony and terror didn’t stop soon.
He brought the blade down yet again, and a little puff of blood rose, droplets hitting his face and making him blink as his victim wailed with a voice made raw and harsh. Colin Doublet’s Adam’s apple had been slammed three times into the executioner’s block already as the cleaver had missed its mark. The forger wrestled with the weapon. It had become stuck in Colin’s neck, gripped by a vertebra, and the bile rose as he jerked it this way and that. He hefted it again, bringing it down, his eyes closed to block the hideous sight.
Thomas de Ladit, tireless servant of King Charles, ordained priest and Chancellor to the King of Navarre, watched with revulsion. What, he reflected bitterly, was Colin’s crime, exactly? Only that he was the devoted servant to King Charles of Navarre. For that he was being slowly cut to pieces by this slaughterman. Death by a hundred cuts. And after him it would be the turn of the three noblemen.
Thomas peered up at the wagon where the King of France, John II, stood with a cup of wine, laughing. His friends joined in the merriment, but not his son the Dauphin. The heir to the throne was grim with fury. His friends and allies were being hacked to death, but protesting was futile. His father had given his command and issued the death sentence. Nothing could be done to save them. Thomas bowed his head, his face guarded by the cowl of his priest’s robe.
He wished he could shut out the screams as easily as he could shut out the sight.
The day had begun so well, too.
King Charles of Navarre was short but, as Thomas knew, although God had seen fit to reduce his height, He had given the King the strength of character, the will and determination, of an Emperor. That was why the King of France could not tolerate him. That was why he must be subdued: because Charles of Navarre had the charisma and guile of a ruler, while King John II had nothing. He was a brute, who blustered and threatened like a tavern bully.
Except today the company would learn that the French King was not so gullible as they had thought.
Thomas de Ladit stood at the rear of the great hall and observed as the servants moved among the guests. Charles himself sat at the right hand of the Dauphin, and the two men chatted quietly, laughing much, as the council ate. Navarre’s wit and charm were two of his great strengths, but Thomas knew that his sense of humour concealed a penetrating intellect. He may not be a great warrior or war leader, but he was shrewd, bold and intensely astute when it came to guessing what lay in another man’s mind.
A figure moved past him, breaking his train of thought. Thomas threw a glance at the man and saw Colin Doublet, esquire to King Charles. He was no threat. The esquire nodded to Thomas as he passed carrying a heavy plate to the King and Dauphin, bowing low as he proffered the meats laid out so temptingly. Thomas’s mouth watered at the smells and sights in the hall, but he would eat later. His duty was to remain here, to watch for danger and to be on hand in case his Lord needed his counsel. Discussions would continue during the meal here at Rouen’s great castle. The men about the table were the leading nobles of Normandy, and there was much to discuss.
The aristocracy of France had been divided in recent years. There were those who continued to support King John, but more and more were turning to Charles of Navarre, King John’s own son-in-law.
Charles had a strong claim to the throne, in fact it was considered stronger than King John’s by many. John himself was growing irrational in the face of his financial and military woes. When he deprived Navarre of Angouleme and gave it to his favourite, the Lords and Barons saw that he could as easily deprive them of their property. For Charles of Navarre it was a humiliation too far, and led to him seeking an association with the English. Thomas de Ladit knew that Charles was keeping that route open to himself. The English King was content to split France in two and share the spoils with Charles, removing King John. He did not realise that Charles wanted to remove John so that he could take the whole realm. Most were dull enough to swallow Charles’s flattery at face value. Very few were bright enough to see his true aims. Certainly not King John!
Even the Dauphin, Prince of France and Duke of Normandy, was becoming more closely allied with Charles of Navarre. It was not surprising. The Dauphin wanted to be popular, to rule with the approval of his Lords; it was too late for King John to achieve that, but with King Charles of Navarre aiding him, the Dauphin could hope that a little of the Navarrese charisma would redound to his credit. He was keen enough, if not terribly bright.
Much had already been agreed. Soon, when th
eir meal was finished, other, more parochial, affairs would be talked over. First, these nasty stories of kidnaps from the villages about here. Children were being taken from their beds at night, it was said. The peasants were complaining about it, although the dullards probably cared little. Those taken were little girls mostly, and fathers never minded losing one of them. The brats were only additional mouths, when all was said and done, and expensive when they came of age and a dowry must be found. Besides, peasants rutted in the mud and filth and often gave rise to unexpected offspring. They could not truly care for all their brats, any more than a bitch for her pups when they were weaned. Still, it was curious that nobody seemed to know who was responsible. There were tales that the children were killed, not ransomed. If not for money, why take them? Whatever the reason, the Dauphin was keen to learn who was responsible. He had mentioned that he wanted to talk about the kidnappings later this afternoon when they reconvened and . . .
There was a rattling sound from somewhere and Thomas frowned, glancing about him. Black-haired Bernard was over at the northern wall, but he seemed to have heard nothing. The young, fair servant, Arnaud, was at his side, but he stood smiling to himself as usual, as if listening to a tune no one else could hear. Little ever seemed to unsettle him. Still, Thomas was concerned. An esquire, Martin de Rouen, stood listening intently but made no move and Thomas gradually began to relax.
This meal was a reward for those who were loyal and he didn’t want anything to spoil the effect. He and King Charles had discussed the seating in detail for days before this banquet. The Compte d’Harcourt should be closer to the Dauphin, rewarded for his loyalty during the recent attempts to remove King John and replace him with his more malleable son; the Lord of Graville could be a little further away, but not so far as to be insulting; Guillaume de Mainemares should be slightly further away . . .
Arnaud frowned. He glanced at Bernard, then shot a look at Martin, and suddenly Thomas could hear it too. The noise was growing. Thomas felt his face take on an unaccustomed frown. Everything had been planned to the minutest detail, and yet some fool was destroying the ambience of this gathering. Someone in the kitchen, no doubt, was clattering about with the pans. Although, and now his frown grew with his rising alarm, that did not sound like the coppers and pans from the kitchen. It was surely the sound of armour.
He began to step forward, but before he could take more than a half-step there was a thunderous crash as the door to the tower was flung wide, and there was a sudden roar as a party of men-at-arms rushed inside, men with swords already in their hands.
Those sitting at the great tables leaped to their feet, clumsily grabbing for swords and knives as they rose. Thomas himself was unarmed, but he saw Colin drop his platter and move to the side of his King even as Thomas saw the figure stalking into the hall, his brutish face lowered truculently, his prognathous jaw moving with rage, his eyes almost hidden beneath his heavy brows. His face was the same colour as his red hair as he moved into the middle of the chamber, glaring about him.
‘Put down your weapons, unless you want to be accused of treason!’ he roared.
Thomas felt his stomach tighten. He shivered and shrank back into the shadows of a pillar. The King’s brother, the Duke d’Orléans, was there, as was Anjou and Arnoul d’Audrehem, the Marshal of France. To have such men, and a small army of a hundred or more men-at-arms, spoke of a coming disaster.
It was the Marshal who spoke now. He stood with the Duke d’Orléans at the King’s side, his sword aloft. ‘You heard your King! Put down your weapons. Anyone who moves shall die!’
There was silence in the room. Thomas saw Harcourt gently push his sword back in his scabbard and take his hand from the hilt, others among the diners released their weapons, hands open in demonstration of compliance, although there was no diminution of tension.
‘You fucking traitor!’ King John hissed. He moved to King Charles, who still sat in his seat, unmoving, but deathly pale. Thomas felt his heart lurch at the sight. It was known, and laughed about behind the King’s back, that John was no warrior, but his temper was legendary. He could kill when he was in a black mood like this. He could even kill Charles, his son-in-law. ‘You plot to have me killed? You deserve to die!’
Colin Doublet sprang forward at that, pulling his dagger free, but before he could strike, two of the King’s men-at-arms grabbed him. One brought his sword’s pommel down hard onto his head, and Colin’s legs buckled as the dagger fell from his grasp.
The Dauphin peered haughtily at his father. He dared to speak with disdain. ‘What’s the meaning of this? What are you doing here? My Lord, these men are my guests, they are safe here, under my roof.’
The King ignored him. ‘Take that scum out of my sight!’ he bellowed, and King Charles was hauled to his feet and dragged towards the doors, his esquire behind him.
It was the signal for the rest of the room. Men slipped past the King’s guards and ran for the doors. Thomas stood long enough to see Harcourt shoved back against a wall, a sword at his throat, Graville was beaten to the ground and kicked until he was silent, while a servant who tried to protect him was knocked senseless.
He had seen enough. Thomas de Ladit slipped through the door behind him and made his way down the spiral staircase inside the tower. At the bottom there was a door to the inner court, and he made his way through that to the outer. Soon he was in the streets of Rouen.
There was a scream, and then there came the sound of running feet and shouting. Quickly he pulled into a doorway. Soon Arnaud and Bernard appeared, Arnaud still wearing that stupid smile on his face as though this was all some game, while Bernard held the single-minded glower of a man who would stop at nothing. Thomas beckoned them. They joined him in his dark doorway, and soon a group of men-at-arms hurtled past.
‘We must escape,’ Bernard said.
‘We will,’ Thomas said, ‘but first we must see what happens to King Charles and the others. We must bear witness, both for King Charles’s allies here and in England, but also for Navarre. I will not leave until I know what is to happen to them.’
Thus it was that Thomas de Ladit heard the sentence of imprisonment in the Louvre for his master and King, and that he was witness to the execution of the others.
And thus it was that he swore vengeance on the King of France for that injustice. He looked up at the King of France again, and momentarily he caught the eye of the Dauphin. The King’s son stared at him, and Thomas could have sworn that there was a fleeting smile on his face, as though the Prince was already planning his father’s demise for this insult.
Later, at the Champ-du-Pardon, when the four had finally been silenced, Thomas did not wait to watch as they were wrapped in chains and hanged from the gibbet, their heads spiked on lances overlooking Rouen from the execution hill. He met Arnaud and Bernard, and together with them made his way south, hoping to find a Navarrese stronghold where he could be safe. Behind him, the forger knelt, shaking like a man with an ague, staring at his hands, while the headless bodies of the Compte d’Harcourt, the Lord de Graville and Guillaume de Mainemares were hauled up to join Colin’s.
‘We will be avenged, my King,’ Thomas swore under his breath as he walked away. ‘I swear it.’
Bordeaux, Tuesday 5 July
The body was near the common sewer, at the back of the rows of poor timber and mud cottages that lined the roads here south of the river in the suburbs of the English town of Bordeaux. At first Ed thought it was an obscene painting on the wall of a cottage. Then he saw the hair move in the breeze.
It was a small figure, with hair the colour of dirty straw, limbs like fragile sticks, wearing a thin shift that had been ripped aside, the legs forced apart, the arms outstretched like the crucifixion paintings he had seen on church walls, although this was no painting.
When Ed first caught sight of her, he stopped and stood still, the alarm ringing in his head as though a tocsin was tolling just for him. These were dangerous parts. Men would kill
to steal shoes or an empty purse, anything for the price of a whore in the stews or a jug of ale in a tavern. Ed had been a soldier, and he knew when to keep quiet. He carefully moved back into the shadow at the corner of a wall, cautiously looking all around him.
No, even in the gathering gloom of twilight the body didn’t scare him. Rather it was the men who could do this to a little girl that alarmed him. They would do worse to him.
Ed had seen death in many forms for a man of only three-and-twenty; he had grown habituated to it. When he was seven years old and the French attacked their city, he had seen his father slain and his mother raped and murdered the same day. Five years afterwards, seeking revenge, he had joined the English host and travelled with the King to France for the astonishing chevauchée that ended in the magnificent achievement that was Crécy and the capture of Calais. That campaign was such a glorious success that men still spoke of it in hushed, reverential tones even now, but all he saw was still more butchery – men, women and children – until death itself had become a commonplace.
And then, a scant couple of years later, when he was back in England, he had seen God’s judgement. Like a disciplinarian parent who gives a beating after a treat so that his children will not grow up believing that they are entitled to constant rewards, it seemed He was demonstrating that the English might be granted a glorious victory, but there would inevitably be a reckoning. That was when the Great Pestilence had swept up from France and settled in England, taking one life in every two, so it seemed, before it disappeared.
This body was not like any of those others.
He stared at her for a long time before stepping forward cautiously. That was when he noticed the other man, the man who rocked on his haunches and moaned to himself, his head in his hands. He was almost hidden behind a cart and the detritus of the road, crouched low.
Blood of the Innocents Page 1
