The clerk, still elated after his meeting with Katherine, almost relished the prospect of battle. He held a swift meeting in the principal taproom with Roseblood, Raphael and Ignacio. They agreed that all would man the parapets to counter what would be the first and very savage assault. After a while, Sevigny and Raphael would fall back to command a schiltrom of kite-shielded foot protected by a few archers. This would deal with a breakthrough by the French or staunch any gap in the tavern defences.
Sevigny watched Simon and Ignacio talk their strange sign language. The taverner was now sober, thoughtful. Sevigny recognised Ignacio for what he was: a killer like himself; a warrior who gloried in battle. He could sense the Castilian’s anticipation. Sevigny himself had experienced that before, along the battle lines in France, a thirst for bloodletting.
The defenders, garbed in a variety of armour, bascinets, brigadines, sallets, mail shirts and other battle harness, were swiftly organised. Yellow war bows were strung, quivers crammed with yard-long shafts, their feathered flights dyed grass green or blood red. Mousehole, a cooking pot on his head, burst in to breathlessly announce how the French had landed further downriver.
‘They have avoided the main quayside at Queenhithe,’ Sevigny declared. ‘They do not want to raise the alarm too soon. The Roseblood is their main quarry.’
The meeting broke up. Sevigny followed the rest out to the southern wall of the tavern. The steps to the parapet were steep, the actual ledge rather narrow. The defenders knelt or crouched behind the top of the curtain wall. The darkness had deepened. Sevigny glanced up at the cloud-shrouded sky. The attackers had chosen their hour well; the night was now moonless, the stars well hidden. He peered over the crenellations into the blackness, staring until he glimpsed what Mousehole had seen: shapes sloping up from the river. No sound, no light, nothing but a creeping terror drawing closer and closer. Abruptly he got to his feet, holding a torch.
‘Stay silent!’ he hissed. Ignoring the whispered protests, he took a deep breath and began to sing a raucous tavern song, shouting out the doggerel lines about a tavern maid tricked by a friar. At the same time, he staggered about waving the torch, creating the illusion that he was a toper serenading the night. In truth he kept himself calm and composed. The rest of his companions now realised that he was falsely telling those dark-shrouded crawlers that the alarm had not been raised. Sevigny staggered against the wall, then huddled down. He gripped the tight twine handle of his war bow, stood up and began to sing again, keeping the weapon hidden. Every so often he would interpolate a whispered instruction.
‘Ten yards!’ he murmured hoarsely. ‘Eight yards! Six yards and closing fast!’
He kept this up until the figures below grew quite distinct, then he abruptly screamed ‘Now!’ just as the first scaling ladder crashed against the wall. The defenders immediately rose, bows braced, arrows notched. ‘Loose!’ Sevigny shouted.
The arrows whistled through the darkness, as boiling oil, scalding water and pots of fire were hurled against the enemy. The blackness beneath the walls erupted into flame, the roaring shoots of fire illuminating the mass of men swarming below. The corsairs were taken completely by surprise as this hellish rain of fire and goose-quilled shower of steel enveloped them. Screams and yells of agony shattered the night, to be answered by oaths, shouts and battle cries. Again and again the night air was riven by the whoosh of arrows and the angry whirring of crossbow bolts. Occasionally a defender staggered away as the French archers strove to cover their comrades desperately trying to climb the ladders; these were pushed away by poles with a Y-shaped blade. The windswept fire raging along the south wall shifted, and Sevigny glimpsed a stiffened scarlet pennant emblazoned with a yellow beaked crow in full flight. LeCorbeil!
Simon tugged at his arm. ‘They are breaking away,’ he shouted. ‘They will try elsewhere.’ Sevigny agreed. Simon sounded his war horn, three sharp blasts, and the two of them left the parapet, hurrying down to the Great Cloister. Here Sevigny donned a bascinet, slipped his arm through the straps of a kite-shaped shield and drew his sword. Raphael was beside him; neither he nor his father had objected to Sevigny’s authority. The mailed clerk had proven to be a skilled veteran.
Others gathered around, panting and sweating, hardly sparing a glance at the wounded being carried on makeshift stretchers into the tithe barn. Sevigny stilled his own breathing, curbing the excitement. Now it would come, the climax of battle. The tavern garrison could not hold every line of its defences. The corsairs would scale a wall, probably into the garden, and the hand-to-hand fight would ensue: heart against heart, sword on sword, the clatter of dagger against shield.
He thought of Katherine, slender and lovely, her hair brightly braided, lips warmly smiling, eyes all merry. Even as the red mist gathered, he recognised that she was his heart’s love. Souls would be smudged out tonight by gashes and rents through which their blood would pour, but Sevigny was determined to survive because of Katherine, a woman he had just met. He would be her hawk prince. He would swoop to kill her enemies and those of her father. In truth, he shouldn’t even be here defending York’s enemies, but where else could he go? The ties that bound him to the duke were fraying fast. He had met Ravenspur and LeCorbeil, and no intimation had been given about this ferocious assault. The die was cast. Malpas would hear of this. Sevigny did not care. His world had abruptly changed. Roseblood’s enemies were now his.
‘The garden!’ Mousehole burst into the cloisters. ‘They have breached the walls!’
Sevigny rapped out orders: his retinue, about three dozen men, closed, locked their shields, swords out. The schiltrom moved through the arched entrance into the sweet-smelling night air, pushing by the flower borders, trellis arbours and herb plots. Sevigny peered over his shield and breathed a prayer as the enemy, torches in one hand, axes or swords in the other, stormed out of the darkness, their hooded faces full of the murderous fury of battle. Cries of ‘St Denis! Mountjoie!’ were greeted by those of ‘St George! St George!’
Sevigny’s world shrank to the heart-chilling clash of steel. He became locked in the packed confusion, the slaughter, the bloodletting, the sheer soul-numbing terror of battle. At first there were pricks of fear, until the blood-red mist engulfed him. He was butchering foes on every side, men with desperate, fierce faces, mouths snarling, eyes murderous, yet all he could see was his parents’ manor house roaring with flames and his father and mother hanging from the branches of that elm tree that overlooked the flower-covered grotto of the Virgin. He believed that if he could reach them, if he could only break through this sea of swords, all would be well. He sensed he was too late, as he was always too late; the house was fire-devoured, his parents dead, but he could still wreak vengeance.
Sevigny began to chant. He dropped his shield, holding his great sword with two hands. This now became part of him, a cruel scythe to cull and kill. He was in the vineyard of the great slaughter, blood oozing like wine between his trampling feet. He was in a field where the sunlight hurtled before him, a blurring flash of flame drawing him on. He could hear the howling of a wolf pack and the piercing shriek of the battle raven. Pelting blows rained down on him, but he blocked them, moving forward into the meadows of the dead until he could go no further. Great weights hung on his arms; something held him fast around the waist.
‘Master Sevigny, Master Sevigny, in God’s name!’
The clerk shook his head and stared around. He was in the tavern orchard, his sword blade deep in the trunk of a tree. Raphael gripped one arm and a bloody-faced Wormwood the other. Simon stood behind him, pulling him away. Sevigny grasped his sword hilt, freed the blade and thrust the point into the ground. He sank down, sweat-soaked, his skin chilling swiftly under the night breeze. Shouts and cries carried the groans of the wounded.
‘They’ve gone!’ Simon knelt before him. ‘Master Sevigny, they’ve fled. Look.’ The taverner pointed through the darkness at men-at-arms wearing the red and white city livery. ‘Relief came sooner than we thought. In God’s name, man, are you well? I have heard of the battle rage but never seen it.’ He gestured across the garden. ‘Shattered, they are! Men shorn and slaughtered like pigs on fleshing day. They fled from you!’
Sevigny let his hands fall away from his sword. He slumped to the ground, turning on his side, knees coming up as the shock of battle faded.
‘Leave me,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘It will pass.’
‘Nonsense!’ Simon grabbed him by the arm; Raphael and Ignacio helped. Sevigny did not resist. A cold trembling had begun.
‘Some wine,’ he muttered, ‘and bread. My belly…’
He was dragged across the garden. Turf seats, trellises, benches and fences lay overturned. Herb plots and flower beds were trampled down. Strewn across all these were the remains of the butchery of battle: puddles of blood, patches of gore, scraps of armour, splintered weapons. Corpses lay huddled like sleepers; here and there a hacked limb or a severed head. The English wounded had already been moved. Simon explained how the French had taken their injured. The few who had been left had been given a mercy cut before being gibbeted along the riverbank.
Sevigny was taken to a trestle set up in the main taproom. He stripped off his armour and carefully checked his war belt and weapons. Wine and food were brought, and he became aware of the bustle of the tavern. He asked after Katherine, and was told that she would not return until her father believed it was safe. He grunted his agreement, wolfed down the wine and food and promptly fell asleep.
Sevigny left the tavern early the next morning. He had visited the garderobe, bathed his hands and face in a tub of clear water and broken his fast at the common table in the taproom. Simon’s henchmen were busy combing the bailey, garden, orchard and heathland beyond for any wounded or scraps of plunder, be it a mailed shirt or a sword. Voices carried, shouts echoed.
He visited his horse in the stables, then concentrated on what he must do. He would complete the task York had entrusted him with before making a decision about his future. He just wanted to be free, to get away from the Roseblood, despite the allure of Katherine, so that he could think, reflect, plan and plot. Mousehole assured him that Leonardo would be safe and well. Sevigny paid him to take the destrier back to the Golden Harp, then left the tavern.
He found the mist-filled streets of Queenhithe eerily silent. The previous night’s events had frightened even the whores and beggars back to their dungeon-like lairs. Men-at-arms patrolled. Archers wearing Beaufort’s livery stood at the mouths of alleyways; horsemen clattered by. Some of the main streets still had chains drawn across them. At one crossroads a movable scaffold bore the corpses of those summarily tried and executed for using the confusion to attempt pillage and housebreaking. Sevigny was stopped, but once he produced his warrants and seals he was allowed to pass on.
He could still smell the stench of battle and the reek of slaughter. The clash of steel and the hiss of arrows remained as faint echoes in his mind, whilst his arms, legs and wrists ached painfully. He paused as the bells tolled to announce the Jesus mass. Finding himself outside St Nicholas Olave, he went up the main steps. Above the arched doorway sat four stone angels each wearing a hat. In one hand they carried a sword, and in the other a flambeau. The carvings reminded Sevigny of the enemy he’d battled the previous evening.
He pushed open the door and went inside. Taper flame shimmered in the darkness. Through the door of the heavy rood screen he glimpsed the high altar and the sanctuary lamp glowing on guard next to the brilliantly jewelled pyx box. Voices prayed from a chantry chapel along one of the transepts. Morning mass was being celebrated, but Sevigny found he could not answer the sacring bell summoning the faithful. He could not take the Eucharist after the hideous blood-spilling of the previous evening. He glanced to his right at a wall painting depicting Christ with snow-white hair, flame-coloured eyebrows, moustache and beard: the Saviour in Judgement. He felt the guilt well within him. He shifted his glance to an angel with auburn hair, her lovely face all merry, and thought of Katherine. He shook his head at these distractions, resting against a pillar as he collected his thoughts and plotted the logic of what he intended…
A short while later, Sevigny rapped on the door of the narrow two-storey house in Soap Lane. Ramler the scribe, eyes heavy with sleep, opened the door and stepped back in alarm as Sevigny knocked him inside, slamming the door shut behind him.
‘You are not a soldier, Master Ramler,’ Sevigny warned, ‘so please do not act the part.’ He pushed the scribe, dressed only in a bed tunic, down the needle-thin passageway into what must be a chancery chamber, and made him sit on a stool whilst he brought another, positioning himself so close their knees nearly touched.
‘What is this?’ Ramler stammered. ‘I heard about the affray at Queenhithe. I am to attend on Sir Philip. He is—’
‘Shut up!’ Sevigny hissed. ‘Shut up and listen. True, you are Sheriff Malpas’s scribe, but you are also Roseblood’s spy and indeed his assassin.’
‘I—’
‘Hush now,’ Sevigny soothed. ‘Sir Philip is York’s man. His master wanted that silver intended for the Tower mint. Malpas suborned Candlemas and his coven to steal it, enrich his master and humiliate Beaufort and the Queen. The second part of the plot was to lay the blame for all of this on Roseblood, Beaufort’s principal ally in the city, who was to be arrested and accused of a whole string of crimes. Roseblood might be brought down or at least seriously impeded. I was to play a part in this. Candlemas would be arrested and secretly offered a pardon if he turned King’s Approver.’ Sevigny pointed at the scribe. ‘You, however, informed Roseblood about all of this. The silver was replaced with scraps of rubbish and Candlemas depicted as a fool. Sir Philip was furious. Four of Candlemas’s coven were executed as a warning. I was used to hunt the rest of the gang down. Candlemas was then held to his bargain.