The fallen sword, p.35
The Fallen Sword, page 35
‘Are you supporting the English?’ Bessancourt asked.
‘Not necessarily.’ Fier Meike looked Tiphaine. ‘Who is the boy? Did you trade the herald for him?’
‘He is my groom.’
‘Good choice. Keep your friends close and your grooms closer. Are you joining us?’ She looked at Bessancourt and Mauro. ‘I can find you some crossbows.’
There were several other women in the ranks around her, Tiphaine noticed. One was carrying a standard with the black lion of Flanders. ‘You said Nortkerque was waiting for something. What is it?’
‘This.’ Meike gestured around her. ‘He has been going through the army all morning, talking to the Pilgrims.’
‘What is he saying to them?’
‘Three words. Babylon has fallen.’
‘What in Christ’s name does that mean?’
‘We don’t know. I’m not sure Nortkerque knows, yet.’
‘Wait a moment,’ said Bessancourt. ‘Do the authorities know Nortkerque is with the army? Why haven’t they arrested him?’
Topaas looked at him, pityingly. ‘For the same reason they haven’t arrested any of the Pilgrims. There would be another popular revolt in Flanders if they even tried. Also, they need men, and the Pilgrims are hard fighters.’
‘It turns out Nortkerque fought in the Peasants’ War twenty years ago,’ Meike said. ‘Then he served as a mercenary with a company from Holstein, and made enough money to buy his house in Poperinge and set up a business. When he offered his services, the League of Three bit his hand off. Metteneye is in command here, and Nortkerque is one of his senior captains.’
Mauro looked puzzled. ‘But he led the Good Friday attack in Bruges.’
‘He wasn’t in the city when the fighting happened, and there is no evidence to suggest he was involved at all,’ Meike said. ‘The only people who know are keeping quiet. And we must do so too, if we want to live.’
She looked at Tiphaine. ‘Well? Are you coming with us?’
‘For the moment,’ said Tiphaine. ‘I want to see what happens.’
Calais, 27th of July, 1347
The first French scouts appeared on the heights of Sangatte in the morning, and by midday the entire French army was arrayed, companies of crossbowmen and spearmen, rank upon rank of armoured men-at-arms on restive horses. Their shields and banners were splashes of brilliant colour, glowing like jewels.
The English army was drawn up outside the camp, its own solid lines of men-at-arms flanked by wedges of archers. ‘Do we know their numbers?’ the king asked.
‘Not for certain,’ said Warwick. ‘Enough to cause us trouble.’
‘What are they waiting for? Why don’t they advance?’
‘My guess is they are waiting for word from the town,’ Lord Rowton said. ‘We know the defenders are just about starved out. People are eating rats, even leaves and grass.’
High cloud covered the sky. Hatfield squinted into the milky sunlight. ‘What is this? A flag of truce?’
Two horsemen were coming down from the heights, a white banner fluttering overhead. ‘Go and see what they want, Clarenceux,’ the king said to his senior herald. ‘Merrivale, go with him.’
Near the foot of the heights lay the village of Nielles, deserted and burned out like every other village and hamlet around. The two Frenchmen waited for them here; Montjoie, the king of France’s herald and, undistinguished in brown, Raimon Vidal. Courteous as ever, Montjoie greeted them. ‘Well met again, Andrew. I am glad to see the rigours of the siege have not born too heavily on you.’
‘I confess there were times last winter when I began to feel my years,’ Clarenceux said. ‘I am pleased to see you well. How is your wife?’
Clarenceux and Montjoie exchanged gossip for a few moments. Merrivale looked at Vidal. The two men dismounted and walked behind the wall of a ruined house. ‘Have you thought any more about our proposal?’ Vidal asked.
‘I have thought of little else. What does Montjoie want?’
‘To propose negotiations that will save Calais and bring the war to an end. Representatives from each side will meet here, between the two armies. A neutral party, Cardinal Aubert will chair the discussions.’
‘Neutral?’
‘Do not get too involved with words, Simon. This gives the cardinal a chance to discreetly sound out the English about the possibility of his switching sides. He is also interested in this notion that Hatfield may be seeking the papacy. He wants to meet him, and has requested that Hatfield be part of your negotiating party.’
‘He will jump at the chance’ Merrivale said dryly. ‘He likes to be at the centre of things. Very well. I will create an opportunity to speak to Aubert.’
‘He doesn’t want you. He wants to speak to King Edward personally. In private, without the French knowing about it, of course.’
Merrivale stared at him. ‘How? We can’t smuggle the cardinal into our camp, the French would be bound to hear of it.’
‘No. You must bring the king here, to the negotiations.’
‘There is no possibility of Edward attending unless King Philippe is also here.’
‘Good,’ said Vidal. ‘Because Philippe has already agreed. His son, the Duke of Normandy, will accompany him. They are serious, Simon. The loss of life at Crécy last year and the strain on the finances have brought France to her knees. Your country is in little better condition; we know the king has pawned his crowns once more to pay for the siege of Calais. It is time to make an end.’
28
Calais, 27th of July, 1347
The argument about whether the king should attend the negotiations lasted long into the night. Lord Rowton had been passionately against it. ‘Why bother to meet them at all? They won’t act in good faith, they never have. They’ll keep us talking while our strength withers away, and Calais slips through our fingers.’
‘Delay will weaken the French as well,’ Hatfield pointed out. ‘Eustace, you said yourself that Calais is about to fall. They cannot delay the inevitable much longer.’
The king looked at Warwick. ‘Thomas? What do you think?’
Warwick frowned. ‘The choice is talk, or fight,’ he said. ‘We would win a fight, I think. Their numbers are not as great as we have been led to believe, and we have the Flemings protecting our flank. But unlike at Crécy, the French have the advantage of high ground. We would win a victory, but it might be a Pyrrhic one.’
‘Very well,’ the king said finally. ‘We talk. Tell the French to pull back their forward positions so there is a wide separation between the armies. We’ll spend tomorrow making the arrangements and preparing our negotiating tactics. Eustace, I want you to concentrate on Calais. No one gets in or out of the town to carry messages. Brother Geoffrey will advise you, as he knows the routes.’
‘I will attend to it, sire,’ Rowton said sourly. ‘I would far rather this duty than sit and listen to whatever pointless proposals the French offer.’
The king grinned at him. ‘Clarenceux, tell the cardinal we will meet him and the adversary day after tomorrow. Tell his highness the prince to attend on me also. Very well, gentlemen, make it so.’
Calais, 29th of July, 1347
A pavilion had been erected near the ruins of Nielles. A handful of bodyguard troops from both sides stood around it, staring at each other suspiciously. The king dismounted and strode into the pavilion, followed by the Prince of Wales and their attendants, Bishop Hatfield, the Earl of Warwick, Clarenceux and Merrivale, Northburgh and a few clerks. Cardinal Aubert, in full episcopal regalia, bowed deeply. ‘It is an honour to receive you, your Grace. I recall your gracious hospitality last year at Lisieux.’
The French party arrived a few minutes later. Nearly twenty years older than his English rival, Philippe VI of France was already growing grey. He stood for a moment as if not knowing what to say. ‘Greetings, cousin,’ he said a little stiffly. ‘I trust you are well.’
‘Very well,’ King Edward said heartily. ‘And I hope you, cousin, are fully recovered from the wounds you received last August?’
Philippe flushed and sat down heavily. His son Jean, Duke of Normandy, glanced once at the Prince of Wales and then the two younger men ignored each other. Another man entered the tent and King Edward looked up sharply. ‘For God’s sake! What is he doing here?’
‘Greetings, sire,’ said Count Louis of Flanders smoothly. ‘I trust all is well with you, and your lady wife? Is there any word of her accouchement?’
‘Of her… You lying, treacherous piece of shit. I swore I would hang you if I ever saw you again, and by Christ I will!’
‘Sit down, cousin,’ said the king of France, in the voice of a man weary of arguing. ‘No one is going to hang anyone. I invited Count Louis here, as it is quite possible that the future of Flanders will come into the discussions. He is under my protection.’
‘I will not breathe the same air as this man,’ Edward said shortly, and he turned towards the door.
Cardinal Aubert barred his way. ‘Sire, may I remind you of our purpose here? There are more important issues to discuss than the actions, appropriate or otherwise, of the Count of Flanders.’
The cardinal didn’t wink, Merrivale thought, but he came close to it. Edward stood for a moment, remembering the real reason he had agreed to come here. ‘Very well,’ he said shortly. ‘But keep that little prick as far from me as possible.’
They took their positions, the English on one side of the long table, the French on the other, the clerks at smaller tables to one side. At the head of the table, Cardinal Aubert cleared his throat. ‘Let us turn to the first item on the agenda,’ he intoned. ‘We shall now proceed to discuss the sovereignty of Aquitaine…’
* * *
In the cool blue dusk Tiphaine slipped back into the camp, wearing a shapeless leather coat with her hair tucked up under a steel cap. Merrivale regarded her. ‘Do I need to know where you have been, and why you have stolen my servants?’
‘I have been with the Pilgrims,’ she said. ‘There is something in the wind, but I don’t know what. Even Fier Meike is prevaricating. Do the words Babylon has fallen mean anything to you, apart from the obvious?’
‘Babylon the great is fallen, is fallen, and has become a dwelling place of demons… Hedge preachers foretelling the end of the world sometimes speak of this, but it doesn’t sound like the man from the north and his friends. If anyone is Babylon, it is them.’
‘But they could be using the Pilgrims’ beliefs to control them, or at least some of them. And the Pilgrims have wormed their way into the heart of the Flemish army. According to Fier Meike, there are members in every militia company.’
‘Are you going back?’
‘Yes, at once. Mauro and Hugolin are waiting for me. I came to see if there was any news. How are the negotiations?’
‘Agonising. Cardinal Aubert loves God, but he loves the sound of his own voice even more.’
Tiphaine looked at him for a moment. ‘What else has happened?’
Merrivale handed her a sheet of parchment. ‘This arrived today from Ireland while I was in the negotiations. It is the news we have been waiting for.’
‘Trust Nicholas Courcy to wait until the last minute,’ she said, glancing at the seal. She read the parchment and stood for a moment, very still. ‘It is what we suspected. But this is the worst possible result, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Of all the three, why in God’s name does it have to be him?’
‘Is this enough to accuse him?’
‘Not quite. Courcy says he has witnesses, but they are in Ireland. Yolande and Vidal will not speak. We must have those men in Calais. Only they can give personal testimony.’
Calais, 30th of July, 1347
‘We’re shifting position. Prepare to move.’
The order came from Nortkerque, riding down the Flemish line. He had acquired a mail coat, Tiphaine saw, and an open-faced helmet with a plume of black feathers that made him instantly visible. Mauro and Bessancourt had been watching him all day, and reported that he seemed popular with the Flemish troops. He spent most of his time riding around giving orders, which he claimed were on behalf of Captain Metteneye, but Tiphaine wondered whether this was always true. He had yet to spot herself, hidden in the ranks of Fier Meike’s company. Quietly, she touched the crossbow strapped across her back.
‘Come on, shift yourselves.’ That was Fier Meike, snapping at her company.
‘Where are we going?’ someone asked.
Nortkerque had overheard. ‘This marsh will flood when the tide comes in. We’re moving south onto dryer ground.’
South meant closer to the French. Tiphaine looked up at the heights and saw the distant ranks of men-at-arms, little sparkling glints of steel in the light. They splashed forward through the mud, other companies moving around them. A column of light armoured horsemen trotted past, churning up the shallow water as they rode. Jan Metteneye, formerly watch commander in Bruges and now commanding the Flemish militia, rode up alongside Nortkerque. ‘What are you doing? Where are you taking these men?’
‘We need to move positions, sir. The tide is coming in.’
Metteneye looked at Nortkerque for a long moment, then turned his horse and rode away without a word. Why didn’t he assert his authority? Tiphaine wondered. What is he afraid of?
The French were moving too; as they reached firmer ground, a column of heavily armoured men-at-arms came down the slope and rode towards them. Nortkerque held up a hand to halt the Flemings. The French came steadily on, finally stopping a few yards away. ‘What the devil are you doing?’ their leader demanded. He was a big arrogant man in full armour with a red lion device on blue and gold bars. ‘You are in breach of the truce! We’re within our rights to attack you, you know.’
Nortkerque waited for a while before replying. The wind off the sea hissed through the long grass around them.
‘I am a poor pilgrim, travelling in a perilous land,’ the Fleming said finally. ‘In God’s name I am weary, and I seek shelter.’
The other man stiffened. After a long moment he raised his hand. ‘Welcome among us, brother,’ he said. ‘Rest now, and give praise to God.’ He turned to his men. ‘There is nothing for us here. Let us return to our own lines.’
* * *
They waited. The ground was indeed more solid, and their boots began to dry out. The white pavilion where the two kings were meeting lay next to a ruined village about half a mile away. Something drifted through Tiphaine’s mind, nagging her, and she suddenly realised what it was.
She turned to Fier Meike. ‘Did you say Nortkerque served as a mercenary in the Count of Holstein’s company?’
‘Yes, so he claims. That was before the count took service with England.’
‘I need to see someone,’ Tiphaine said.
She splashed her way back across the marsh towards the English lines. Some of the archers were still watching the Flemish companies, puzzled by their sudden advance. Iron Henry’s men were deployed along the Saint-Omer causeway, ready to move forward and reinforce the archers if needed. The truce was in force and the men were in relaxed mood; they sat on the grass with their helmets off, some talking or playing dice. Iron Henry waved a hand in salute as Tiphaine approached. ‘Demoiselle de Tesson! Or should I say, Diana the huntress? That crossbow is a bit large for you, I think.’
‘It was the smallest they had,’ Tiphaine said. ‘May I ask you a question, my lord? Do you often take men from other lands into your troop?’
‘Of course. We call ourselves Holsteiners, but we have men from other parts of Germany, Spain, France, the Swiss cantons, Bohemia. We even have a couple of Moors. So long as a man can fight, he is welcome among us.’
‘Do you recall a Fleming who served in our company a few years ago, before the present war started? His name is Jehan Nortkerque. He did very well with you, apparently. He earned enough to return home, buy a big house and start a business.’
Iron Henry’s face went red. He stared at her, eyes dark with anger. ‘Nortkerque! He told you this?’
‘No. Someone else did.’
‘Nortkerque is a thief and a liar. Yes, he served under my command when I led a company in the service of King Magnus of Sweden. We were paid our fee in gold, but Nortkerque stole the money and fled. I swore that if I ever found him, I would skin him alive.’ Iron Henry paused. ‘Do you know where he is?’
‘Yes. First, let us work out what he is trying to do. Then I will lead you to him.’
* * *
‘At first I thought Nortkerque was trying to provoke the French and break the truce,’ she said to Merrivale later that day. ‘That would put an end to the negotiations, which I assume is what they want. But that French captain knew the Pilgrim identification and response. They must have friends in the French army.’
‘And probably in our own as well,’ Merrivale said.
‘I don’t think we should wait any longer, Simon. We should arrest him.’
‘The king would never countenance it. And if he escapes, he will go into hiding and become even more dangerous than before. We must bide our time, Tiphaine. It is the only way.’
Calais, 31st of July, 1347
Babylon is fallen. The whisper ran through the ranks of waiting Flemings. Some raised their weapons, faces full of grim determination. Others looked around, perplexed, trying to see what the rest were doing, looking for some sort of guidance. Fier Meike’s company waited in silence, watchful.
Babylon is fallen. Nortkerque rose to his feet, holding up his sword. The woman with the black lion standard stood beside him. Another man, in battered armour with a dog-faced bascinet, visor covering his face, moved up behind them. ‘Now is the time,’ Nortkerque said.
