He halted his wagon and began to put together the arms of his hoist so that they could remove the trestle on which would rest the largest barrel from the bed of the wagon and set it up, while Ed and Béatrice brought the two carts which held the three-barrelled ribauldequins. With them, Archibald was happy that he could hold off a large force for a while.
It was only when he sprang down from his wagon that he realised his mistake. Here, the ground rose slightly. It meant that there was a lip in the ground some eighty yards away, Until the French were that close, they would effectively be hidden from him. While any surprise to him would be matched by the surprise of the French to meet him, that was little consolation. They would have to charge him, but after he had fired his gonnes, they would be able to overrun his position with ease.
He glanced to his left to where the archers waited. At least he was protected by them, he reflected.
Berenger was standing and peering over the heads of the King and first battle when he saw the approach of the Cardinal of Périgord with a large complement of clerks supporting him. He had been with the French forces, and now passed between the two armies, trotting on their valuable horses until they were in hailing distance.
‘My Lords, Sire, I have urgent messages from the King of France!’ the Cardinal called as he came nearer.
‘Let him pass! Let him through to see the Prince!’ was bellowed from the Prince’s battle, and Berenger heard the sudden creaking as taut bows were relieved of their pressure safely, the arrows taken from the strings and replaced in their quivers. The Cardinal rode forward. As he came nearer, the Prince and senior advisers left the battle and walked behind it so they were between Berenger’s reserve and the main centre.
The Cardinal reached the space a short time after the Prince. About him the Prince had a number of his household knights, and with the Cardinal there were lawyers as well as the clerks, Berenger saw. However, more interesting to him was the appearance of Talleyrand. The Cardinal had tears streaming down his face.
‘What’s up with him?’ Grandarse muttered.
‘He’s had his ballocks in the French King’s vice too long,’ was Dogbreath’s unsympathetic view.
‘Perhaps he really wants to stop a fight?’ Baz said. There was an optimistic tone to his voice.
‘Who’s that?’ Robin asked.
Berenger saw him pointing to an ordained priest. ‘Him? He was there at the trial of Bernard, you remember? Thomas de Ladit.’
‘Why’s he there?’
‘Because he is keen to prevent a fight too?’ Berenger guessed.
Clip snorted. ‘Why would he want to stop a fight? It wouldn’t earn him another estate or money, would it? No, don’t get your hopes up, Bazzer. We’ll have our fight. And we’ll all . . .’
‘Don’t say it,’ Robin said.
‘What?’
‘We all knew what you were going to say, Clip. Just don’t, that’s all.’
‘I was going to say we’ll all have a fight today or tomorrow.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. And we’ll all get killed!’ Clip added with an evil grin, ducking under Robin’s fist and running away, laughing.
‘Sire, look at the men all about here! How many must die for this quarrel to be ended?’
‘Good Cardinal, if you have any proposals, please speak them quickly. I would prefer to spend the day in battle than in preaching.’
‘Sire, you can see that the King of France has a mighty army. He will do battle with you today, and he intends to wipe out your army and kill you, too. He is the most powerful King on Earth, and he has called together all the most notable Lords in his land! Look on his banners! Look on his men! Their armour shines so brightly, it would dazzle the eyes of any attempting to fight him.’
‘Good.’
‘Sire?’
‘My Lord Cardinal, I have been seeking to bring this army to battle for weeks. All too often the French avoid battle when they might have held their honour by daring to challenge us. If they will now seek to prove their mettle against us, that is good.’
‘But look at all these men about you! How many noble souls will you see destroyed in your search for victory?’
‘I am keen to allow the King of Heaven to show His justice in the matter,’ the Prince said. ‘He will show today perfectly clearly who is the rightful claimant to the inheritance of this country. I place my faith in Him.’
‘But He would prefer that England and France should join forces to throw the unbelievers from the Holy Land. You could go on Crusade with him and save Jerusalem, or . . .’
‘You think the French would allow us to negotiate and leave here?’
‘With my good offices, Sire, yes! You are both noblemen, and if you would work with fairness and honour to negotiate, who knows what might be achieved? After all, you can see the strength of the French positions. They hold the land before you, and you cannot spread out, can you? You are hemmed in by woods and rivers on all sides. Consider: the King of France has an enviable position. If he wishes, he can hold you here and starve you out. You dare not flee now, for as soon as you do, he will fall upon you like a wolf upon lambs, and tear your army to pieces! You must remain here, hoping that he will attack you, but the King is no fool. It will give him a cheap victory if he merely remains where he is and lets you starve into submission.’
The Prince shook his head. ‘You think we have a weak position? I tell you plainly, Cardinal, we have supplies to last us days.’
‘And what then? After those days are passed? Will you then demand a truce to negotiate? You cannot retreat before such an army. And King John has supplies and fresh troops arriving hourly. Look how his banners catch the wind! There are so many groups from all over France, that it would be difficult to name them all. I must say plainly, Sire, to remain here and fight must expose you to ridicule. Noblemen would look at you and wonder whether this was only a prideful escapade, smacking of presumption on your part.’
‘You dare to say to me that—‘
‘I speak only of how others could interpret your behaviour, Sire,’ Talleyrand said. He held out his hands in supplication. ‘Please! I beg you, allow a truce, agree to send negotiators to meet with the King’s own in the land between the two armies. Come and discuss peace. You will be honoured by all the angels in Heaven if you do so, and your place will be guaranteed. If you refuse even to discuss peace, God will judge against you when you come before Him. But if you agree to talks, God will bless you!’
‘I do not fear battle, but I have a responsibility to my men. I will not reject peace,’ Prince Edward said. ‘Ride back and ask the French to send their negotiators. I will send my own men to meet them between the armies.’
The marching wives were all kept at the rear of the English battles, detailed to bring food to the men through the long day, but their most important duty was to fetch water.
As the heat of the day rose, Gaillarde bore her yoke with two buckets down to the Miosson and filled them repeatedly. She went with the other women, enjoying the walk down the hill before trudging back with full loads of water. The men gratefully filled leather pottles or drank from cupped hands as the women walked past, trying to ensure that both buckets emptied at the same rate. It was hard work to carry one full, one empty.
By the time the sun was overhead, she was already exhausted. She continued up the ranks of the men, and as she reached Berenger’s men, she saw her husband.
Denisot caught sight of her at the same moment. He ducked his head and looked away. She was reminded of him when she first met him, when he was a gangling youth, fearful of rejection, terrified that any advances would be thrown back in his face. He had always been anxious and fretful, she recalled, until they had their children. The children made him grow, made him mature. They gave him confidence, and it was largely because of the man he became that he was elected as bayle in their town. Men respected him, and his confidence grew as a result. It made her heart sing with love for him to see him lik
e this once more.
Gaillarde smiled haltingly in the face of his anxiety, unsure how to speak to him. The years since their children’s death, the hurt she had given him in the last weeks, the hurt she had given him by allowing him to think she wanted to stay with Bernard. He looked desperate, his eyes full of melancholy, but she took her buckets to him. ‘Drink, husband,’ she said. ‘Please.’
‘You should return to your man.’
‘Denisot, when I refused you, I had no choice. I was held by that man for weeks. I feared for my life at all times with him. When you appeared, I thought he would kill you – and me as well. You don’t know what he was capable of.’
Denisot nodded. ‘I saw the girls he killed. He butchered them, just for the pleasure of seeing them die.’
‘His brother was kind to me,’ she said. ‘But if you would have me, I would gladly return to you, husband.’
Denisot felt as though he was being choked. ‘You are sure?’
Her buckets were empty again. She reached forward and touched his cheek, bringing him closer, and kissed him. ‘I am your wife, Denisot. Even Bernard could not take that away.’
Further along, in the line of trees, Arnaud’s face paled. ‘But you are mine!’ he whispered. ‘You promised!’
Berenger felt the Prince’s eyes on him even as the Cardinal hurried away, puffing and blowing with the urgency of his mission. He beckoned Berenger to him.
‘I know you. Your name is Fripper. I remember you from Crécy and Calais. Many years have passed since those days, eh?’
He looked as though the weight of the lives that depended on him had just fallen onto his shoulders. ‘Fripper, a man cannot fight when the Host of God stands against him. If we fight now, without seeking a peace, I will be damned for all time. Any death will be laid at my door.’
Berenger was unsure what to say. He nodded as though in understanding.
The Prince turned and faced him. ‘Go with the negotiators, Fripper. Take your vintaine, and stand away with your bows ready. If there is any sign of bad faith, any sign at all, you will protect the English negotiators. You understand me?’
‘Yes, Sire,’ Berenger said.
Messengers were sent and returned, the primary negotiation being who should take part, and where. As soon as that was agreed, Berenger had his archers formed in a column. As he and the men waited, they could see a similar body of men forming in front of the French army, and when they began to march towards the English, Grandarse hoicked up his belt. ‘You be careful, Frip. Keep your bow in your hand and an arrow ready to nock, but in God’s name, don’t let fly until you are certain there’s a need. If you do, you’ll take on all the guilt of Judas for starting a battle that wasn’t needed. Mind you, if you do, we’ll thrash these Frenchies. Never have any doubts about that.’
Berenger nodded.
Clip shook his head. ‘Aye, ye know, we’ll all . . .’
Berenger grasped his shirt and pulled him to him. ‘Clip. If you say it, I’ll knock your teeth so far down your throat, you’ll be shitting them for a week. Leave it.’
There was no humour in his words. Berenger was aware of the responsibility the Prince had settled on his shoulders. If he misread the signs and precipitated a fight, he would be one of the first to pay for it, but it could also cost the rest of the English army dearly.
Clip nodded, shocked, and when he was released he returned to his place and stood silently.
‘Archers!’ Berenger called. ‘March!’
As Berenger marched on, he glanced about him. The Earls of Warwick and Suffolk, Audley, Chandos and the King’s closest adviser, Sir Bartholomew Burghersh, were riding with them, as was the dark-clothed priest, Thomas de Ladit. That man walked, keeping a little apart from the rest of the men as though he felt he was separate from the Prince’s army, as he was – there to act as witness to the negotiations on behalf of Navarre.
It was curious to march down the plain towards the French, always aware of the eyes on them. Before him, Berenger could feel the hatred of the French as if it was vitriol flowing through the ground towards him, and behind him he could feel the English army staring at his back, some in hope of peace, others desperate for the battle that would end these wars forever. And one man, the Prince, who watched with the keen desire for a battle, but who must first give peace every opportunity.
The Earls stopped and waited for the French to come closer. Suffolk, the grey-haired veteran of a hundred fights, turned and pointed at the ground. ‘Archers! Remain here. Do not approach unless you are called.’
Berenger nodded, and the men spread out on his command. The French had a group of men-at-arms and Genoese crossbowmen with them, who were also detailed to wait some fifteen paces behind the negotiators, and then the Cardinal approached and stood between the two parties.
Berenger could hear the names of the English representatives being called out, and then the French side was introduced: the Count of Tancarville, Jean de Talaru, Charny, Boucicaut and even the Archbishop of Sens, along with some other men Berenger had not heard of.
The discussions began coolly, with the French disdainful and apparently determined to force through demeaning demands. The English remained calm but obdurate, until the Cardinal began to lose his temper. It was already close to evening when Talleyrand proposed resolutions to the problems. ‘This truce is to the advantage of the English. If we have a battle, the majority of the casualties must lie with the English. For peace, clearly the English must give back all the lands they have taken. I suggest that all the possessions they have taken in the last three years should be returned to the French crown. Further, the English should make reparations. Perhaps a quarter of a million nobles would suffice to compensate the French King?’
‘You want us to pay how much?’ Suffolk demanded. Always choleric, his face had become the colour of a ripe plum.
‘Perhaps less, then. Let us say two hundred thousand nobles. But in return, the Prince could marry the daughter of the King of France, thus sealing the peace for all time. She could bring Angouleme as her dowry.’
‘I would rather fight to keep the lands God has given us in battle!’ Chandos roared. He clenched his fist, adding, ‘And take Angouleme as well!’
Thomas de Ladit winced to hear the man’s hoarse bellow. This was no way to conduct talks to avoid war.
He was sure that he recognised an esquire on the other side. A slim fellow with mail habergeon and some cuir bouilli armour, he was instantly familiar, but Thomas was not sure where he had met, until a memory sparked and he realised that this was Martin de Rouen, the esquire who had been with him when King Charles of Navarre had been captured.
While the Lords bickered and squabbled, he edged his way around them all. He saw no reason not to talk to an old companion. Others in the two parties were mingling. So many were friends with men on the opposing side, and it was only natural that they should speak and discuss mutual friends while their Lords argued.
‘Martin? Esquire?’ he said.
‘Thomas de Ladit!’ the other responded, and the two smiled and clasped hands, for a moment without words.
‘I had thought you were captured,’ the esquire said.
‘And I you.’
‘I was fortunate. The King decided he had little use for an esquire to demonstrate his anger on, when he had so many others,’ the esquire said with some bitterness.
‘And what do you do here now?’ Thomas asked.
‘Oh, I am here to see that Rouen doesn’t suffer,’ Martin said.
‘And have you heard of our Lord?’ Thomas wondered. ‘I have heard nothing from him since his capture. I have myself been forced to wander about the lands, trying to work my way south. I was captured here by the English, and now serve that Navarre may have a record of what happens here.’
‘I am in much the same position,’ Martin said. ‘I hope that the two armies here can agree a sensible peace. Did you hear of Bernard of Rouen?’
Thomas told the esquire of the mu
rders and the capture of the guilty man, and Martin nodded seriously. ‘I am glad to hear it. There were many rumours of the killings. The peasants barely dared to leave their children for a moment or two.’
They continued chatting, but the two groups of negotiators began to separate and draw apart. Martin and Thomas exchanged another hand clasp and wished each other Godspeed.
Later, Thomas would not know what prompted him. For some reason, as the two began to walk towards their joint parties, he asked, ‘What of the Dauphin and the King?
The reply was enough to make Thomas want to hurry from the field and speak to the Prince.
The parties separated and returned to their armies to take counsel. Berenger and the archers marched back to the English lines and waited while the advisers told the Prince what had been discussed. To Berenger’s surprise, Thomas de Ladit insisted on talking to Sir John, and shortly afterwards he and Sir John hurried to the Prince’s pavilion. Thomas and Sir John were soon back, and Berenger was surprised to see a fresh excitement about Sir John. There was little disappointment to be seen in the faces of the negotiators either. The men strode back to the place of truce without a look back. Berenger was not sure how to take that. He had his archers stop at the same point as before, and the English delegation continued to the negotiation.
Soon the French and the Cardinal had arrived. Talleyrand looked pale, Berenger thought. The day’s efforts must have cost him dearly.
‘What does your Prince say to the Cardinal’s proposals?’ the Archbishop of Sens asked brusquely.
Suffolk glanced at his companions, and then said quietly, ‘He will accept the proposals.’
‘He will accept the fair demands of the French King?’ Talleyrand said, thunderstruck.
‘If they are sworn, yes.’
‘When the lands are returned, he will need to return all the prisoners captured in the last three years as well,’ the Archbishop said. ‘And furthermore, he must swear not to take up arms against France for seven years. We will not negotiate a truce for now, only for him to come with a fresh army as soon as one can be gathered.’
Blood of the Innocents Page 42
