‘I am not an ox, for such work, Le Farges. Yet I have seen peasants of great strength, great size. Why do we not train them for such slaughter, the way the English do?’
‘Your Majesty, I believe it takes years to build the strength for such a bow. It is not possible simply to pick one up and shoot. But, Your Majesty, will you stoop to such a course? It does not suit a chivalrous man to use such a tool.’
With a curse, the king threw the weapon away with a great heave, sending it whirring over his head.
‘Perhaps. The answer may lie in better armour. My own guards are able to come through a storm of these archers. Good French iron is proof against them.’
To make his point, he rapped his knuckles proudly against his own breastplate, making it ring. Le Farges kept silent rather than point out the king’s ornate armour was nowhere near thick enough to stop an English arrow.
‘The crossbowmen use mantlets and wicker shields, Le Farges. Yet that is no answer for knights who must wield
sword and lance. Better armour and stronger men. That is what we need. Then my knights can go in deep among them, reaping heads.’
King Charles stopped, wiping a drop of spittle from his mouth. Taking a deep breath, he looked into the sunset.
‘Either way, they
have
broken the truce. I have sent the call to my lords, Le Farges. Every knight and man-at-arms in France is coming north even now.’
Baron Le Farges looked pleased as he rose from his kneeling position.
‘I would be honoured to lead them, Your Majesty, with your blessing. With the noble regiments and your order, I will destroy these last stragglers and take all of Maine in a month.’
King Charles looked at him, his eyes cold.
‘Not Maine, you cloth-headed fool. They have broken the truce, have they not? I will have it all. I will take back Normandy and push the last English rags into the sea. I have eleven thousand men marching north. They have mantlets and shields, Le Farges! I will not see them cut down. Yet archers or no archers, I will not stop now. I will have France back before the year is out. On the blessed virgin, I swear it.’
There were tears in the lord’s eyes as he knelt again, overcome. The king placed his hand briefly on the man’s matted head. For an instant, a surge of spite made him consider cutting the fool’s throat. His hand tightened in the hair, making Le Farges grunt in surprise, but then the king released him.
‘I need you yet, Le Farges. I need you at my side when we drive the English out of France for the last time. I have seen enough here. The truce is broken and I will visit destruction on them that will stand for a generation. My land, Le Farges.
My
land and my vengeance. Mine!’
Jack
Cade had to push hard against the crowd to force his way through. His two companions came with him in the space he created with his elbows and broad shoulders. More than one elbow poked back in time to catch Paddy or Rob Ecclestone as they went, making them curse. The crowd was already angry and the three men earned furious glares and shoves as they made their way to the front. Only those who recognized Ecclestone or his Irish friend stopped short. The ones who knew them well edged away to the outskirts, ready to run. Their reputation made as much space as their elbows and helped to deposit Jack Cade into the open air.
He stood facing the crowd, panting, black with soot and raw as a winter gale. The man who had been shouting to the gathering broke off as if at an apparition. The rest of them slowly fell silent at the sight of the newcomers.
‘Is that you, Cade?’ the speaker asked. ‘God’s bones, what happened to
you
?’
The man was tall and made taller by a brown hat that stood six inches off his forehead. Jack knew Ben Cornish well and he’d never liked him. He stayed silent, his red-rimmed gaze drawn to the swinging figure off to one side of the square. They’d taken no notice of the body while they’d stamped and laughed and had their meeting. Jack had no idea what Cornish and the others were there for, but the sight of their blank stares made his anger rise again. He wished he had a full jug in his hand to drown it.
‘I’ve come to cut my lad down,’ he said gruffly. ‘You won’t stop me, not today.’
‘By God, Jack, there are greater matters here,’ Cornish blustered. ‘The magistrate …’
Jack’s eyes blazed.
‘Is a dead man, Cornish. As you’ll be if you cross me. I’m about sick to my guts of magistrates and bailiffs – and
sheriff’s men like you. Bootlicking pox-boys is all you are. You understand me, Cornish? Get out of here now before I take my belt to you. No, stay. I’ve a mind to do it anyway.’
To the surprise of Jack and his two friends, his speech was met with a growling cheer from the crowd. Cornish turned a deep red, his mouth working with no sound coming out. Jack reached down to the wide leather strap that held his trousers and Cornish bolted, pushing through the crowd and disappearing at speed along the street away from the square.
Under the scrutiny of the crowd, Jack flushed almost as deeply.
‘By hell, what gathering
is
this?’ he demanded. ‘Did someone raise the tax on candles or beer? What brought all of you out to block the street?’
‘You’ll remember me, Jack!’ a voice called. A burly figure in a leather apron pushed forward. ‘I know you.’
Jack peered at the man.
‘Dunbar, aye, I know you. I thought you were in France, making your fortune.’
‘So I was, till they stole my land from under me.’
Jack raised his eyebrows, privately pleased to hear of the man’s failure.
‘Well, I ain’t never had land, Dunbar, so I wouldn’t know how that feels.’
The smith glowered, but he raised his chin.
‘It’s coming back to me why I didn’t like you, Jack Cade.’ For an instant, both men bristled with rising anger. With an effort, the smith forced himself to be pleasant. ‘Mind you, Cade, if you killed the magistrate, I’ll call you friend and see no shame in it. He got what he was due and nothing more.’
‘I didn’t …’ Jack began to reply, but the crowd roared their approval and he blinked at them.
‘We need a man to take our grievances to Maidstone, Jack,’
Dunbar said, taking him by the shoulder. ‘Someone who’ll hold those county bastards by the throat and shake them until they remember what justice is.’
‘Well, I ain’t him,’ Jack replied, pulling himself free. ‘I came for my boy and that’s all. Now step out of my way, Dunbar, or by God, I’ll make you.’
With a firm hand, he pushed the smith to one side and went to stand under the swaying body of his son, looking up with a terrible expression.
‘We’ll be going anyway, Jack,’ Dunbar said, raising his voice. ‘There’s sixty men here, but there’s thousands coming back from France. We’re going to show them that they can’t ride roughshod over Kentish men, not here.’
The crowd cheered the words, but they were all watching Jack as he took his old seax knife and sawed at the rope holding his son. Paddy and Ecclestone stepped in to take the body as it fell, lowering it gently to the stones. Jack looked at the swollen face and knuckled tears from his eyes before he looked up.
‘Ain’t never been to Maidstone,’ he said softly. ‘There’ll be soldiers there. You’ll get yourself killed, Dunbar, you and the rest of them. Kentish men or not, you’ll be cut down. They’ll set their dogs and bully boys on you – and you’ll tug your forelock and beg their pardon, I don’t doubt it.’
‘Not with a thousand, they won’t, Jack. They’ll hear us. We’ll
make
them hear.’
‘No, mate, they’ll send out men just like you, is what they’ll do. They’ll sit in their fancy houses and hard, London men will come out and crack your pates for you. Take the warning, Dunbar. Take it from one who knows.’
The smith rubbed the back of his neck, thinking.
‘Maybe they will. Or maybe we’ll find justice. Will you walk with us?’
‘I
won’t, didn’t I just say? You can ask me that with my son lying here? I’ve given enough of my own to the bailiffs and judges, haven’t I? Go on your way, Dunbar. Your troubles ain’t mine.’ He knelt by his son, his head sagging from exhaustion and grief.
‘You’ve paid enough, Jack. The good Lord himself can see that. Maybe it isn’t in you to walk with Kentish lads, to demand of our king’s men a little of the fine justice they only give out to the rich.’
The smith watched as Jack straightened, very aware that the burned and blackened man before him was still carrying an ugly great seax with a blade as long as his forearm.
‘Steady there, Jack,’ he said, raising his palms. ‘We need men with experience. You were a soldier, weren’t you?’
‘I’ve seen my share.’
Jack looked thoughtfully at the crowd, noting how many of them were fit and strong. They were not city men, those refugees. He could see they’d lived lives of hard work. He felt their eyes on him as he scratched the back of his neck. His throat was dry and his thoughts seemed to move like slow boats drifting on a wide river.
‘A thousand men?’ he said at last.
‘Or more, Jack, or more!’ Dunbar said. ‘Enough to set a few fires and break a few heads, eh? Are you in, Jack? It might be your only chance to take a good thick stick to the king’s bailiffs.’
Jack glanced at Ecclestone, who looked steadily back, giving nothing away. Paddy was grinning like the Irishman he was, delighted at the prospect of chaos that had descended on them from a clear morning. Jack felt his own mouth twist in reply.
‘I suppose I could be the man for that kind of work, Dunbar. I burned two houses last night. It may be I’ve got an itch for it now.’
‘That’s
good, Jack!’ Dunbar said, beaming. ‘We’ll march through the villages first and gather up all those back from France – and anyone else who feels the same.’
The smith broke off as he felt Jack’s big hand press against his chest for the second time that morning.
‘Hold up there, Dunbar. I ain’t taking orders from you. You wanted a man with experience? You ain’t even Kentish yet. You may live here now, Dunbar, but you were born some other place, one of those villages where sheep run from sight of man.’ He took a breath and the locals chuckled. ‘No, lads. I’ll get you to Maidstone and I’ll break heads as called upon. My word on it, Dunbar.’
The smith turned a deeper colour, though he dipped his head.
‘Right, Jack, of course.’
Cade let his gaze drift over the crowd, picking out the faces he knew.
‘I see you there, Ronald Pincher, you old bastard. Is your inn shut this morning, with a big gasping crowd like this one? I’ve a thirst on me and you’re the man to quench it, even with the piss-poor beer you serve.’ He raised his eyebrows as a thought struck him. ‘Free drink to Kentish men on a day like today, I’m thinking?’
The innkeeper in question looked less than pleased, but raised his eyes and blew air from puffed cheeks, accepting his lot. The men roared and laughed, already smacking their lips at the prospect. As they moved off, Dunbar looked back to see Jack and his two friends still standing by the gibbet.
‘Are you coming?’ Dunbar called.
‘Go ahead. I’ll find you,’ Jack replied without looking. His voice was hoarse.
As the crowd moved away, his shoulders slumped in grief. Dunbar watched for a moment as the big man lifted his son’s
body on to his shoulder, patting it gently as he took the weight. With Paddy and Ecclestone walking on either side of him, Jack began the long trudge up to the churchyard to bury his boy.
William de la Pole walked up spiralling wooden stairs to the room above. It was a spartan place for a man with authority over the prestigious Calais garrison. One small table looked over a leaden sea through narrow slots in the stone walls. William could see white-flecked waves in the distance and heard the ever-present calls of gulls wheeling and hovering in the wind over the coast. The room was very cold, despite the fire burning in the hearth.
The Duke of York rose from his seat as William entered and the two men shook hands briefly before York waved him to a seat and settled himself. His expression was sardonic as he folded his hands on his belt and leaned back.
‘How should I address you now, William? You have so many new titles, by the king’s hand. Admiral of the fleet, is it? The king’s steward? Earl of Pembroke? Or perhaps
Duke
of Suffolk now, my equal? How you have risen! Like fresh bread. I can hardly comprehend what service to the Crown could have been so valuable as to earn such rewards.’
William stared back calmly, ignoring the mocking tone.
‘I suspect you know I have been sent here to relieve you, Richard. Would you like to see the royal order?’
York waved a hand dismissively.
‘Something else Derry Brewer put together, is it? I’m sure it is all correct. Leave it with my servant on the way out, William, if that’s all you have to say.’
With ponderous care, William removed the scroll from a battered leather satchel and pushed it across the table.
Despite himself, Richard of York eyed the massive seal with a dour expression.
‘King Henry sealed it with his own hand, in my presence, my lord. Active upon my arrival in Calais. Whether you choose to read it now or not, you are hereby relieved of your post here.’
William frowned at his own tone. The Duke of York was losing his most prized possession. It was surely a moment to be gracious. He looked out of the window at the gulls and the sea, the waves of slate and white, with England just twenty miles away. On a clear day, William knew the coast was visible from Calais, a constant reminder of home to the man who sat in the tower and ruled in the king’s name.
‘I regret … that I must be the bearer of such news, Richard,’ he said.
To his surprise, York broke into harsh laughter, patting the table with his outstretched palm as he shook and gasped.
‘Oh, William, I’m sorry, it’s just your grave expression, your funeral manner! Do you think this is the end of me?’
‘I don’t know what to think, Richard!’ William retorted. ‘The army sits in Calais and doesn’t move a step, while the king’s subjects are forced on to the road across Anjou and Maine. What did you expect, if not to be relieved from this post? God knows, I would rather not see you shamed in such a way, but the king commands and so I am here. I do not understand your mirth. And still you laugh! Have you lost your wits?’
York controlled himself with difficulty.
‘Oh, William. You will always be a cat’s-paw to other men, do you know that? If ever there was a poisoned cup, this is it. What will you do with my soldiers in Calais? Send them out? Will you have them play nursemaid to all the English stragglers
coming home? They won’t thank you for it. Have you even heard of the riots in England, or are your ears stopped up by all your new titles? I tell you this scroll is no favour to you, no matter what it says. I wish you luck in Calais, William. You will need it, and more.’
With a sharp gesture, York broke the wax seal and unrolled the sheet, looking it over. He shrugged as he read.
‘Lieutenant of Ireland, the king’s man? As good a place as any to watch this fall apart, William, don’t you think? I could have wished for somewhere warm, I suppose, but I have a small estate in the north there. Yes, it will do well enough.’
He rose, tucking the scroll into his tunic and putting out his right hand.
‘I have heard there is fighting in Maine, William. You’ll find I have a good man here in Jenkins. He passes out coin so that I am kept informed. I’ll tell him you are his new master in France. Well, then. My regards to your lady wife. I wish you luck.’
William rose slowly, taking the hand offered to him and shaking it. York’s grip was good and his palm dry. William shook his head, nonplussed at the man’s mercurial moods.
‘My regards to Duchess Cecily, Richard. I believe she is enceinte?’
Richard smiled.
‘Any day now. She has taken to sucking on pieces of coal, does it not amaze you? Perhaps the child will be born on the Channel, now that we are leaving. Or the Irish Sea, who knows? Salt and soot in its veins, with Plantagenet blood. It would be a good omen, William. God willing they both survive.’
William bowed his head at the brief prayer, only to be startled as York clapped him on the shoulder.
‘You’ll
want to be about your work now, William. It’s been my practice to have a ship and crew ready at all hours for the commander of the Calais garrison. I trust you won’t object to me taking her home?’ He waited while William de la Pole shook his head. ‘Good man. Well, I won’t disturb you further.’
The duke strode over to the steps leading down and William was left alone in the high tower, with the gulls calling overhead.
Baron Highbury panted as he drew rein, his lungs feeling cored out and raw with the cold. Every breath hurt as if he bled inside. Above the wedge of his beard, his pale skin was spattered by mud thrown up from the hooves of his mount. He’d halted in a field of green, growing crops, with a cold wind blowing straight through his men. He could see they were as bedraggled and weary as he was, with their chargers in an even worse state. Highbury worked his dry tongue around his mouth, feeling spit glue his jaws. The water flasks were all empty and though they’d ridden over two streams that morning, they hadn’t dared stop. The French were relentless in their pursuit and a drink was a high price to pay for being caught and slaughtered.
Highbury’s mood was sombre at how few had made it through with him. He’d brought forty horsemen south into Maine the previous winter, the best of those retained by his family. They’d known the odds against them and volunteered even so. Just sixteen remained, while the rest had been left to rot on French fields. There had been twenty men just that morning, but four of the mounts had been lame and when the French horns blew, they were run down.
At the thought, Highbury dismounted with a groan, standing with his head pressed against his saddle for a moment
while his legs uncramped. He walked quickly around his brown gelding, running his hands up and down the legs, checking for heat. The trouble was, it was there, in every swollen joint. His horse reached back to nuzzle him at his touch and he wished he had an apple, or anything at all. As he heaved himself up into the saddle once more, Highbury scratched his beard, pulling a fat louse from the black depths and crushing it between his teeth.
‘Right, lads,’ he said. ‘I think that’s it for us. We’ve bloodied their noses and lost good men in turn.’
His men-at-arms were listening intently, knowing that their lives depended on whether the baron saw his family honour as satisfied or not. They’d all seen the massive numbers flooding into the area over the previous few days. It seemed the French king had summoned every peasant, knight and lord in France to Maine, an army to dwarf his original force.
‘Anyone seen Woodchurch? Or that coxcomb Strange? No one?’
Highbury scratched at his beard roughly, almost angrily. He’d ridden miles that morning, pursued by French forces doggedly on their tracks. He wasn’t even sure where Woodchurch had gone to ground, or whether he was still alive. Yet Highbury didn’t like the idea of leaving without a word. Honour demanded he return, even if it was only to say he was leaving. Woodchurch was no fool, he told himself. If he lived, he’d surely be finding his own way north, now that the towns and fields of Maine were full of French soldiers.
Highbury smiled tiredly to himself. He’d repaid his nephew’s murder, many times over. He’d disobeyed orders from Lord York to come south into Maine and he suspected there would be a reckoning for that. Even so, he had forced the French king to run from archers and English horsemen. He
had seen the man’s soldiers cut down by the hundred and Highbury had taken a personal tally of six knights to add to his slate. It was not enough, but it was something – and far better than sitting safe in Calais while the world fell apart.
‘We’re thirty miles south of the Normandy border, perhaps a little less. Our horses are blown and if any of you feel the way I do, you’ll be about ready to lie down and die right here.’ A few of his men chuckled at that as he went on. ‘There’s a good road about four miles to the east. If we cut across to it, we’ll have a straight run north.’
Some of the small group turned sharply as they heard a horn blowing. Highbury cursed under his breath. He couldn’t see over the closest hedge from the height of his saddle, so he pulled his feet from the stirrups and clambered up to kneel on it, feeling his hips and knees creak. He heard the horn blow again, sounding close. Highbury swore softly at the sight of eighty or ninety horsemen streaming along a path across the nearest hill. As he stared, they began to cut across the ploughed land in his direction, their horses making hard work of the clogging mud.
‘Christ, they’ve seen us,’ he said bitterly. ‘Ride, lads, and the devil take the hindmost – or the French will.’
Thomas Woodchurch lay flat. His hand was on Rowan’s arm, keeping him still but also bringing some comfort to the father.
‘Now,’ he said.
The two men staggered up from the ditch and crossed the road. Thomas checked both ways as they ran and dropped down on the other side. They waited breathlessly for a shout to go up, or the horn call that would bring French horsemen galloping in search of them. Seconds passed before Thomas released his breath.
‘Help
me up, lad,’ he said, accepting an arm and limping on through the trees.
Thomas kept the sun on his right hand as best he could, heading north to stay ahead of the men hunting for them. He could feel the wound he’d taken stretch and pull with every step. Leaking blood had made his trousers sodden on the right side and the pain was unceasing. He knew he had a needle and thread pressed into a seam somewhere, if he could find a place to rest out the day. If he’d been alone, he would have hidden himself in some deep bracken and set strangling traps for rabbits with a few pieces of twine. His stomach grumbled at the thought, but he had Rowan to keep safe and he stumbled on.
He reached the boundary of a ploughed field and looked out from the trees and bushes along the edge over open ground, with all its possibilities for being spotted and run down. Thomas took his bearings once again. He could see horsemen in the distance, thankfully heading away from them.
‘Stay low, Rowan. There’s cover enough, so we’ll wait here awhile.’
His son nodded wearily, his eyes large and bruised-looking. Neither man had slept since the attack the day before. A massive force of pikemen had charged the archers. Dozens of the French had died, but it seemed their lords had put more of a scare into them than even English bowmen could. If there had been a way to get new arrows, Thomas thought they would have stopped them cold, but bows were no more use than sticks when the quivers were empty.
They’d scattered, sprinting away through fields and farms Thomas knew well. At one point, he’d even crossed his own land at the western field, causing him a different kind of pain. The French had fired his home, perhaps for no other reason
than delight in destruction. The smell of smoke seemed to stay with him for miles.
He lay back and looked up at grey clouds, gasping. Rowan remained in a crouch, his eyes sweeping back and forth for the enemy. They’d both seen Baron Strange killed, though neither had mentioned it. Thomas had to admit the man had died well, fighting to the end as he was surrounded and hacked off his horse with axes. Thomas had felt his fingers itch then, but his arrows had all gone and he’d forced himself to run again as they removed the baron’s head.
‘Can you stitch a gash?’ Thomas said quietly, without looking at his son. ‘It’s on my right side, towards the back. I don’t think I can reach it. There’s a needle in my collar, if you feel for it.’
His arms and legs were leaden and he only wished he could lie there and sleep. He felt Rowan tugging at his shirt, pulling out the valuable steel and thread.
‘Not yet, lad. Let me rest for a time first.’
Thomas was exhausted, he knew it. Just the thought of examining the wound was too much. His son ignored him and Thomas was too weary to raise the will to sit up.
Rowan hissed to himself as he revealed the deep gash on his father’s hip.
‘How’s it look?’ Thomas said.
‘Not good. There’s a lot of blood. I can close it, I think. I’ve practised on dogs before.’
‘That is … a great comfort. Thank you for telling me,’ Thomas replied, closing his eyes for a moment. His side felt like it was on fire and he thought a couple of his ribs were cracked. He hadn’t even seen the French soldier until the sod had leaped up and almost disembowelled him. If the blade hadn’t turned on his hip bone, he’d be dead already.
He
felt a wave of sick dizziness sweep over him as he lay there, panting.
‘Son, I may pass out for a time. If I do …’
His voice trailed away and Rowan sat by his side, waiting to see if his father would speak again. He looked through the bushes and took a sharp breath. Just across the field there were soldiers marching. He could see a host of their pikes above the hedges. With an expression of fierce concentration, Rowan began to stitch his father’s wound.
Highbury knew he was no more than a few miles from the border of English Normandy. The roads were filled with families of refugees and it was an odd contrast to be running for his life while he passed wagons and carts piled high with personal possessions, their owners trudging along the same roads. Some of them called out for his aid, but he was close to collapse and ignored them. Behind him, French horsemen followed, getting closer with every step.