“
How is the English pay?” demanded one fellow, as I took his sword and bade him make his way to the gate. He was a tall man who seemed to have some prominence among the mercenary group. He was lean from hunger, and his sharp, shiny face eyed our ranks inquisitively.
“
The pay is well enough,” said I. “But there are enough English to fight for England, and our king does not put his trust in foreign hire.”
“
Ah, well,” said the Lombard, “If the English will not have us, we’ll find the French again.” And as he turned about to join his companions, I saw that his ears had no lobes, but were joined curiously to his face like the handle of a drinking cup. “
A più tardi
!” he said, but I doubted that I would see him again.
SEPTEMBER
–
OCTOBER, 1347
6
We did not know it at the time, but the capture of Calais marked the end of our campaign in France. Though Philip’s army was not doughty enough to dislodge us, there were forces more powerful than he to send us scurrying homeward. An evil wind had blown in from the east and brought with it the pestilence. Araby and Italy had felt it first. At the same time as we entered Calais, the plague entered the kingdom of France. There were stories of cities in southern France that had sickened and died overnight, with half their people laid to rest from this evil pestilence. In Paris the schools closed their doors, and scholars from all over Europe fled home to their own countries.
But, pardon me, Madame—I jump ahead of myself. I will tell you of the plague and the distresses it caused all in good time. First, however, I must return to Edward’s army and tell you of the celebration that followed the surrender.
We had camped outside of Calais for nearly a year; no wonder then that the streets were rife with revelry when at last we possessed them. The king ordered that masses of thanksgiving be said in all the churches. The prince himself spent a whole night in vigil giving thanks to the Holy Trinity for the victory.
The soldiers received their thanks as well as the Almighty. To the common men-at-arms Edward dispersed a bounty of golden coin; for the knights and nobles he held a grand fete. He sent raiding parties throughout the countryside; they commandeered the meat, bread, cheese, and wine that French Calais had been lacking for so many months. The same city that had starved for so many months under the rule of King Philip would now see eating, drinking, dance, and song under the rule of King Edward.
The prince had been in a particularly pleasant mood the week following the cessation of the siege. He seemed determined to enjoy the sights of the city from the inside, for he would leave his quarters for half a day at a time, and when I looked for him he was nowhere to be found. I ascribed it at first to his excitement at entering Calais, but Sir Brocas found another cause for his good humor. “His highness is a free man again,” he remarked as we waited for the prince outside his quarters. He had bid us meet him there when the bells rang None and here it was nearly Vespers.
“
Free from the siege?” I asked.
“
No, free from La Brabant!” said Brocas laughingly and he grimaced like a gorgon at the name.
“
Why, who’s she?” I asked.
“
She
was
his intended,” said Brocas. “But her father’s just broken off the match and wed her to the Count of Flanders instead. The king is furious, of course, but I daresay his highness is glad for the reprieve. They say the lady is a shrew and ill-favored at that.”
“
But if Flanders is England’s ally,” said I, “is it not unwise of the Count to take the lady that was promised to our prince?”
“
Nay, it is not the Count that is our ally, but the artisans,” replied Brocas patiently. “And that is no wonder, when their looms are all supplied with English wool. The Flemish guilds are for us, but the Count of Flanders favors the French. He rode with Philip against us at Crecy even while his own people were supporting us in Picardy.”
“
And Brabant?” I asked, confused about the tangled alliances of the lowland countries. “Whose side does he take?”
“
The Duke of Brabant has always fawned on Philip, but His Majesty assumed that this union with the Plantagents would bring Brabant into the English camp. Brabant and Flanders would put two arrows in our quiver to hedge in the eastern border of France.”
“
But the prince cannot marry Brabant’s daughter now.”
“
You say true,” said Brocas, “unless it were possible for a lady to have two husbands. Now Brabant’s daughter is in bed with Flanders, and Brabant is in bed with France.”
“
And the prince makes his bed alone,” said I.
“
Aye,” said Brocas with a wink, “though I warrant there are more than a few maids who would gladly keep it warm.”
“
What is this bawdy talk?” demanded the prince who had materialized behind us as quietly as a hunting cat.
“
We do but pass the time, highness,” said Brocas saucily with a shake of his curly locks, for the prince had kept us waiting long.
“
You had better pass the time in dressing yourselves,” said the prince curtly. “The hour approaches for my father’s fete.” We took his exhortation to heart and sought our rooms to change our raiment.
In my years of service with the prince, I have often been amazed by the lavishness of his attire. The costume that his highness chose for the fete, however, was unparalleled in its opulence. His doublet was all of black and secured down the front with a row of perfectly matched pearls. The sleeves of the doublet were close fitting and buttoned with rubies and sapphires. A golden belt sat low upon his hips, with carvings of lions inset on dark enamel. The doublet ended midway down his thigh with a pair of red hose covering the rest of his leg. At the base of this costume, a pair of leather buskins jutted out with martial acuity. On these, the shoemaker’s awl had been as hard at work as an Italian’s paintbrush. A delicate tracery of leafwork, as elaborate as any rose window, adorned the shoes from heel to point. Over all of this splendor, the prince cast a black cloak scalloped along the edges; he pinned it to the side with a great brooch that bore the crest of the Plantagenets.
You may ask how the prince managed to obtain such fantastic attire in a foreign land when our army, only a week since, and lain encamped in the field. Such a question could only be asked because I have not done full justice in describing our “English Calais.” The camp itself had every sort of cooper, cobbler, and carpenter that a man might desire; there was no reason that the prince should lack a tailor simply because he tarried in the field.
The prince, when procuring his own raiment for the revelry, had not neglected to provide for his retainers. My own suit of green and gold was far less dazzling than his highness’s costume, but still the finest clothes I had ever worn. I adorned myself with particular care, for the fete was of particular interest to me. The ladies who had come over from England had not gone back again. Joan of Kent was sure to be at the ball, and in her train was a maid with red-gold hair with whom I longed to have further speech.
We were late coming to the ball. The musicians had already struck up their carols as we entered the doors of the hall. It was too near to the sea for flowers, so the room had been garlanded with greenery from the marsh. But the bright costumes of a hundred ladies made up for any lack of flowers, and my eyes flickered over shapely forms in red, yellow, and green joining hands in their own garland as they danced.
The king and his fair consort sat on a dais overlooking the floor. Her majesty, Queen Philippa, was too far advanced in pregnancy to partake in the revelries of the ball, but the intricacy of her costume must have made up for her forced inactivity. Her short figure was encased in a mosaic of gemstones, and the golden coronet upon her headdress sparkled with the vivacity of the dancers. The queen smiled softly to see her eldest son enter, and I followed my master to her side where she greeted him with a kiss.
“
What a sight you are, my son! As handsome as you are brave.”
“
But neither as handsome nor as brave as my mother is beautiful.”
She laughed a little at his compliment, and bade him sit by her and talk a while. The prince dismissed me with a nod, and I set out to find the fairest flower in the room, by which you must understand that I mean Margery.
The lady Joan of Kent was dancing, always dancing, for no sooner would she gratify one lord’s wish, than another would whisk her away into the
estampie
. Just now, she was with William Montague, the earl of Salisbury, and I saw Mortimer hovering patiently in the background waiting to engage her hand. It was no wonder that Joan was so sought after by men. Her violet eyes met theirs frankly and innocently, her rich coils of hair glowed like honey, and her curving figure swayed gracefully to the tune. I was less enamored with Joan than most but I kept a wary eye out for where she might be, for I suspected that wherever Joan strayed my sweet mistress Margery would not be far off.
I spotted Margery seated snugly against the wall. She was dressed in the blue of a cloudless summer day. Her gown was simple; the bodice and sleeves molded tightly to her form and a great cascade of fabric felldown from her waist. I stepped before her a little tremulously, blinking stupidly like a mole come into the sunlight.
“
The prince’s messenger boy!” she said with a laugh, and her red-gold hair nearly shook loose from the gold netting that confined it. “You are late,” she said reprovingly.
“
I am honored that milady should notice,” I said, for from her words I supposed that she must have been looking out for me.
“
There is little that I do not notice,” said she. “For instance, I notice that you do not wear my color.”
I glanced down at my yellow and green doublet in some confusion and saw that it did sort poorly with her blue gown. “If milady had sent word of what she would have me wear, I should have contrived to find another costume.”
“
Ah,” said she, “But I feared that if I sent a message, you would have lost it or given it into the hands of another.”
“
You are too cruel, lady,” said I, flushing with mortification.
“
Cruel, but not too cruel,” she said gaily. I saw that it was her pleasure to laugh at me.
“
I had thought to find you dancing, lady,” said I.
“
That is surely unlikely,” said she, “for I have taken a vow.”
“
What manner of vow is this?” I demanded.
“
That I shall dance only with a man in green and gold, and gentlemen of this description are scarce.”
“
Why, here’s a lucky chance,” said I, “for I have the very outfit to match your vow.” I held out my hand to her so that we could join the circle.
“
Ah, but my vow was very clear that I must dance only with a
man
in those colors,” said she. “I see none such here.”
My beardless face flushed once again. I would have answered her hotly, but her attention had turned elsewhere. A man in a great red doublet stood before her and begged her to enter the dance with him. It was Thomas Holland, that one-eyed knave who had captured the Comte d’Eu. His decorated clothing displayed the degree that his fortunes had improved since Caen, and his full face displayed the self-satisfied leer that had always betokened it. Margery lowered her gaze when he addressed her, and the light in her eyes was snuffed out like a guttering candle. “Sir Thomas,” said she, “I do not mean to dance tonight.”
“
Natheless, Margery,” said he, imperiously, “I think that you will dance with
me
.” I listened to hear her sharp retort, but nothing came. She rose without a word and put her hand in his. “Good girl,” said Holland, as he led her out into the circle, complacent and preening like an overfed cat. The musicians struck up another carol, and I watched Holland put his arm about her waist. My throat began to burn with anger, but the anger was not at Margery.
*****
The king himself was fond of dancing, and he usually joined in a carol or two at the side of his fair consort. But Queen Philippa, as I have told you, was indisposed to dance that night, and so the king led out two or three of the other ladies in turn. As the evening wore on, I saw the king take the hand of his cousin Joan. Montague had already bespoke her for the dance, but he graciously gave way to his sovereign.
The prince, who had spent the evening at the side of his mother or in speech with several of his father’s captains, approached me with a glass of wine and inquired after my enjoyment of the festivities. “You do not dance, I see?”
“
No,” said I shortly. Margery had disappeared after her dance with Holland and I was in no mood to pay compliments to another lady.
“
So,” said the prince, and he seemed abstracted in thought. “Sir Walter Manny says that my father means to withdraw from Calais with all speed.”
“
Is the truce then concluded?” I asked.
“
Soon,” said the prince, “for the French are of no mind to fight with this foul pestilence sweeping their land. And His Majesty’s of no mind to stay in France and fight the infection as well as Philip. We’ll keep our gains and retire, then come back again when the black cloud is gone.”