by Dan Davis
She peered at Stephen, fixing him with a fierce gaze. “What did my father say to you in Nantes?”
Stephen swallowed, bewitched by her beauty and disconcerted by her directness. “That he could no longer keep silent about what all in these parts know. He provided me with the particulars of his own tragic case and outlined many others. When we parted, we agreed that if I could get others to swear a witness statement, he would do also.”
The young woman lifted her chin and unflinchingly fired her next question at him. “Where was it, precisely, that you met my father?”
“My lord the Bishop of Nantes had taken ill, and your father was the third physician called, as the other two only caused the Bishop’s condition to worsen. After your father had administered his treatments, I asked him if he knew anything of the rumours in the area in which he lived. I admitted that I was keen to find a legal resolution to these concerns, no matter the social standing of the potential criminals involved. I believe I said I would prosecute the King himself, if he was the culprit. It was then that your father told about little Jamet. He was receptive to speaking further and so I said I would attend him here, as soon as I was able.”
The young woman nodded once, confirming this was correct. “You are late. You said you would come by the end of last week, sir, but you did not and my father had to leave.”
“I am at fault,” I said. “As Stephen had to wait for me to arrive in Nantes.”
“Neither of you are Breton,” she said, prompting us.
“I am from Normandy and Stephen comes from Paris,” I said. Small, necessary lies such as these came so easily to me by then that they were undetectable as such. Deceit is a skill and just like any other it may be improved through rigorous practice. “And this is why those in authority here have engaged us to make these enquiries. Because we are uncorrupted by any taint that might have crept into local men. May we come in to speak with you, please? It would be just for a few moments and then we will return at a time convenient for your good father.”
She glanced over her shoulder, took a deep breath, nodded once and stepped back, opening the door wide.
Inside, the house was dark. An old man, a servant, stood in the back of the room with his hand on the pommel of a short sword that he held, sheathed, but ready. He was withered and bony but his eyes were unwavering and I recognised in him a man willing to do violence. That was more important in a bodyguard than physical strength. I nodded to him in greeting but he gave no response.
The house was sparsely furnished but what furniture there was spoke of a certain wealth. The fireplace crackled with warmth and every surface appeared clean and the home was well cared for.
She invited us to sit at the dining table which dominated one side of the main room, which we did, though she herself remained standing with the old servant behind her.
“Now, to get started,” Stephen said, opening his satchel and pulling out a sheaf of parchment, an inkpot, and a pen, setting them each in turn upon the table. “Might I have your name, mademoiselle?”
She scowled and glanced around at the old man before looking at Stephen again with irritation and considerable nervousness.
“For God’s sake, Stephen,” I said. “Put your lawyer’s tackle away, man.”
“I have no desire to have my words recorded, sir,” the woman said.
“No, indeed,” I said. “Is that not so, Stephen?”
He shoved his things back in his bag and lowered his head. “My apologies.”
I leaned forward, planting my hands flat on her table. “Please understand that Stephen is entirely unused to the company of decent people, for he spends all of his waking hours amongst dusty law books and dustier old priests.”
She smiled, not because my jest was amusing but because she appreciated my attempt at levity. “No apology is required, sirs. My name is Ameline Mousillon.”
“Thank you, Ameline,” I replied. “We do not wish to pry into your particular tragedy, unless you wish to tell us of it, but we would greatly like to hear about what it is that goes on in these parts. You see, we know of rumours but because we are outsiders and completely new to this land, we have very little in the way of facts.”
“None at all,” Stephen muttered, before wiping his mouth, for the woman’s beauty had quite stoppered up his lips.
Ameline took a breath. “What is it that you wish to know, sir?” The servant behind her hissed a warning I did not catch but she turned on him. “Oh, enough, Paillart. Do you not think we have had our fill of keeping silent? I think you will find that it is the prolonged silence of too many souls in these parts that has allowed the evil to grow as it has.” Her cheeks became flushed as she spoke and she ended with a tight clearing of her throat. She pulled out a stool and sat at the table opposite us and took a moment to compose herself before continuing.
“I do not know when it began. It was some years ago, perhaps four or five years. I do not know for certain and I am unsure if anyone does. Children going missing. It was only one or two, I suppose, from each village. One or two per year, perhaps. And each village knows mainly of itself, of course.” She cleared her throat again. “Paillart, could you bring me some water, please?”
With a glare at me and Stephen, he left the room for the rear of the house.
“Speaking to us about these things shows remarkable decency and bravery, Ameline,” I said, softly. “Please, do go on. Can you give us the names of the missing children?”
Ameline bit her lip and hesitated before shaking her head. “Their mothers and fathers would not wish me to. They would not speak with you.”
“You are speaking with us,” I pointed out.
She smiled. “I am not as they are.”
“Oh? How so?”
“We are foreigners, you see. My family, we came here fourteen years ago from Poitiers. We are outsiders and always will be.”
“You and your father,” I said, “and your brother?”
“My mother also and my sister. They died. My sister before Jamet and my mother soon after. It was a fever but my father could do nothing for her. The villagers say she died from a broken heart but of course that is mere superstition.”
The servant Paillart returned and placed a cup of water in front of Ameline. He did not bring any for us and Ameline did not offer us any either. She was yet unsure about us and remained nervous. She wanted us gone and I sensed she might throw us out at any moment.
I sat back and looked at her again. “Were you in receipt of an education, Ameline?”
“I can write in French and Latin,” she said, surprised by my question but proud enough of her accomplishments to speak of them. “And I manage the household finances and my father’s business.”
“You have books here?” I asked by way of conversation.
She frowned. “Only my mother’s book of hours. It brings me great comfort.”
I nodded, smiling. “May I ask why your father remains in this place? Why not move to Nantes or back to Poitiers?”
She coloured and lowered her head. “We live here.”
“Of course, of course. Tell me, does your father have much business at the castle? At Tiffauges?”
The name of the place was like a jolt through Ameline and Paillart both and I thought that we would be asked to leave immediately. But the moment passed.
“On occasion, my father has been called on to attend to a member of the Marshal’s household,” Ameline said. “But the Marshal has other physicians, thanks to God.”
Sensing I was on dangerous ground, I spoke softly. “I wonder if I wanted to speak to a servant of that place, who might I speak to?”
From behind her came a gravelly, Breton’s growl. “Say nothing, my lady.” Paillart stepped forward behind Ameline. “These men must go.”
I looked at him and spoke in a low but firm voice. “We are here for justice, Master Paillart. We are here for Jamet and for all the other boys and the girls who have had no justice. Mademoiselle, I know you are a
fraid and I am sure you are right to be. But look at me. Look closely at me. I say again that I am here for justice. And I am not afraid.”
Ameline sat up and seemed about to speak but Paillart got there first. “Then you are a fool. Mistress, these men must leave. They have been here too long. Your father would wish them to leave, Mistress.”
I stood and dragged Stephen to his feet. “Of course, we shall take our leave. Thank you for speaking with us, Ameline. We shall, I think, be staying at the inn north of here, in Mortagne. When your father returns, we shall speak with him then. And I hope that I shall see you again, also.”
She smiled. “My thanks, sir. I hope for that, also.”
As we walked through the quiet village to our horses, the evening sunlight broke through the low layer of clouds and I slowed to savour the feeling of warmth on my face.
Stephen looked up at me, shaking his head. “Why must you seduce every pretty young woman you meet, Richard?”
“Seduce?” I said. “You mistake courtesy for seduction, sir.”
“Hmm,” he said. “Your courtesy is so forward it is enough to make a whore blush.”
“Do stop acting the old maid, Stephen. Why are you in such a foul mood?”
Our pages brought our horses and held them ready. In the distance, I saw Rob at one end of the village and Walt at the other. They both reported, through gesture, that all was well. The daylight would soon be gone.
“I am in no foul mood,” Stephen replied. “But if I were, it would be because we have wasted our time coming here.”
I swung myself into the saddle and looked to the north. “Oh, I would not call it wasted.”
“Yes, and we both know why. But we have nothing to do now but wait for Pierre Mousillon to return, and who knows how long that will be.”
“No, there is much to be done. Let us return to the inn at Mortagne. We may begin asking the locals for what information they are willing to give. And, if at all possible, I will go to Castle Tiffauges.”
“What? You are mad. The Marshal is not there, so why would you go?”
“Someone may be there. A servant, at least, who might be willing to reveal his master’s secrets.”
“Richard, you agreed to conduct yourself in accordance with the law. If you go around torturing people for information, it risks invalidating all of our—”
“Keep your hose on, Stephen. I said nothing of torture.” I patted the purse on my belt. “I mean to obtain information by way of bribery.”
“We must be careful,” he argued. “The poor commoners of this land have been much abused by their lord.”
“So it seems, at least,” I pointed out.
“Whatever the truth of it, you must admit that something terrible has been going on here. The people are mightily oppressed and have absolutely no legal recourse to do anything about it.”
“Of course not,” I said. “Why would they have?”
“But do you not see how powerless it makes them? How utterly at the mercy of their lord they are?”
“That is the proper way of things,” I pointed out and not for the first time.
“Their collective will is close to being crushed and so we must tread carefully and not go barrelling about with random questions and so risk ruining our investigation before it begins.”
“Do not concern yourself, Stephen. One way or another, we shall learn what we need to know. And then we shall have our revenge on Gilles de Rais.”
“Revenge?” he said, aghast. “What do you mean revenge? This must be about justice, not revenge. Richard?”
I ignored him and rode north to find the inn at Mortagne.
That night, I lay awake, looking up at the gloomy beams and ceiling above my bed, thinking back with deep dread and clinging regret to eleven years earlier. It had started at the battle that ultimately brought me into conflict with the mad girl Joan of Lorraine and her captain Gilles de Rais.
3. The Battle of the Herrings
February 1429
The English and Burgundian armies were besieging the great city of Orléans. It was a cold February in 1429 when I joined a supply column heading south from Paris to our forts ringing the walls of Orléans, bringing three hundred carts and wagons laden with arrows, cannons, cannonballs, and barrels of herring. The tons of preserved fish were because Lent was approaching and even on campaign the proper fast was attempted to the best of our ability.
There were a mere fifteen hundred men in our supply column. We were led by Sir John Fastolf and I was posing as a common man at arms, though a well-respected and well-equipped one. The only authority I commanded was that which was expressed naturally by my manner and bearing and I was contented to quietly follow Fastolf, who appeared to be a competent captain.
I had known some of his ancestors over the decades. The Fastolfs hailed from Norfolk and ruled over boggy coastal lands quite competently and every so often a son would rise to prominence as a bishop or a sheriff. A perfectly conventional English noble family. The kind of family that quietly and dutifully served its king and its people and thusly made England into the magnificent kingdom it was.
By 1429, Sir John was getting on a bit. Almost fifty, he had married a wealthy older widow, passing up the opportunity for sons in exchange for fortune and now held a series of rather splendid estates all over England.
I had seen him conduct himself well during the siege of Harfleur, fourteen years earlier but he had been wounded and sent home and so had missed the bloody glory that was the battle of Agincourt. All men who had been abed in England thought themselves accursed that they were not at Agincourt and no man thought it more keenly than Sir John Fastolf. Though I was a nobody, a poor man-at-arms with inexplicably fine armour, I had been there and Sir John, I am certain, held it against me.
The relief column that he led seemed to be protected well enough. Our eventual defeat at the hands of the French was yet many months away and it seemed to me, and to many of those fighting on both sides, that an ultimate English victory was almost inevitable.
Why was I fighting there at all? It was a question I asked myself even at the time and more so ever since, for my duty was to the Order of the White Dagger and not to the King of England.
And yet, we had come so close to taking the crown of France for the English king but after Henry V’s untimely death, it was in danger of being snatched away.
And so I fought because I was an Englishman, first and foremost and also because we had uncovered no more immortals after the nest of them we had cleared out almost ninety years before.
That was why I found myself fighting once more with the English army against the French. Not as a lord, because I wished to keep out of the politics and the endless questions and plots of the nobility and because I believed it would be easier, simpler, to fight as a common man-at-arms.
I was wrong. Utterly and idiotically wrong to think such a thing but I did not know it yet.
In those days, there were spies everywhere. The front line of the war, that is the extent of English control from the north coast and Paris, was the Loire River but it was far from a solid barrier. Indeed, it could hardly have been more porous to enemy incursions and our coming was well noted. Indeed, it was essentially impossible to hide our coming across the featureless plain as we approached our siege works, far beyond the horizon to the south.
I was in the vanguard at the front of the long wagon train but had sent Rob and Walt further ahead to watch for ambushes. Vigilance was our only defence at being caught out in the open.
Both men came back, riding hard, to our convoy, their horses breathing heavy.
“Enemies, Sir Richard,” Rob called to me from the saddle.
He had been knighted on the field of Poitiers, as had Walter, and all three of us were posing as mortal men-at-arms fighting for the pay and for the promise of spoils and ransoms. Yet, old habits die hard and especially when feelings are high and battle may be near.
“How far?” I replied. “How many?”
“Thousands.”
Sir John Fastolf rode up with his retinue behind him. “What is this you say, man?” he cried. “Thousands of French? I doubt that.”
He turned to the knight at his side. “Send someone credible to the south, Hugh, see what this is all about.”
A few moments later and two riders trotted off.
“Sir John,” I said from my horse. “Perhaps we should bring the men in to make a defensible line here?”
“Here?” Fastolf looked around at the flat plain. “There is nowhere to make a defence. Besides, our supplies are needed by the army. No, no, we shall continue onward, I think.”
“But sir!” Walter called. “There are thousands of mounted men-at-arms not three miles southward. Coming this way, sir.”
Fastolf hesitated. I knew he doubted my men’s judgement but if they were right then an enemy force of such a size and strength would mean the death of us. Our three hundred wagons were spread out over a vast area and our mounted men and archers would be unable to protect them.
“Order a halt,” Fastolf commanded. “We shall wait here until we can confirm this rumour.”
“Most likely it is our own men, sir,” Sir Hugh said to his friend and commander. “Our own men come out from the forts to meet us. Escort us in.”
“No, my lord,” Rob blurted. “Forgive me, sir, but the enemy had banners unfurled and the ones I recognised were French.”
“And Scots,” Walter added. “Bloody treacherous Scots, hundreds of the bastards. No doubts about that, sirs.”
I kept silent, watching Fastolf’s face crease into frustration. The wagons creaked to a stop behind us and the men drifted forward to see what was occurring.
In little time, the two men who had trotted off came charging back in full gallop. Before they even came close, Fastolf was calling out orders to prepare for battle.
“We shall make for that hillock,” Fastolf said, pointing with outstretched finger. “And prepare stakes.”
“What about the wagons, sir?” one of his men said.
