The Ill-Made Knight (19 page)

At any rate, I was half dressed, in my hose and braes and a shirt and sleeveless doublet when there was a commotion in the inn’s yard.

I threw open the windows and looked out.

There were half-a dozen men on bad horses in the yard.

Richard Musard had his sword drawn.

You could tell at a glance that these were hard men, and that the talking part was over.

Listen, I had learned a dozen lessons from the Bourc Camus. I’d worked on my swordsmanship and my jousting all winter, because I was never going to allow myself to be so easily bested again. And I’d learned that when the talking is over, you fight. In fact, you can save a great deal of trouble if you start fighting while the other bastard is still talking.

The Three Foxes had a slate roof and lead drains. I was out the windows of my room, over the balcony and onto the stable roof before I’d really thought it through. I
knew
what to do.

‘It’s my inn now,’ said the leader. He was English, tall and broad like an archer. ‘You kept it warm for me. Now run along and play, Blackie.’

The other five men chuckled. They were hairy, about ten years older than me, with grey at their temples, flat purses and a lot of spring mud on their boots. They weren’t archers, though. Archers always have bows.

They were brigands. Mercenaries, or worse.

Richard didn’t budge. ‘Whose man are you?’ he asked.

‘I’m my own man, Blackie. And I won’t ask again. Walk away.’ He reached for his sword.

I felt he’d asked one too many times. After the Bourc, I’d learned a great deal about who was dangerous and who was merely tough.

I jumped onto his back from the stable roof. De Charny’s dagger went into the top of his head and he was dead before I had control of his horse. I wheeled the horse and dumped his body in the yard.

I backed the terrified horse – no horse likes the smell of blood – until I was at Richard’s side.

‘That took you too long,’ he said pleasantly enough. ‘I didn’t think I could kill them all myself.’

Oh, how I loved him. I never saw him lose his nerve – then or later.

‘Marie was dressing me,’ I said, as if the other five weren’t even there. ‘I was busy.’

The five men were disconcerted to say the least.

I raised my bloody dagger. ‘Get you gone,’ I said. ‘Or I’ll kill the lot of you. This is Bordeaux, not the marches. We don’t allow broken men here.’

The closest man to me met my eye, and I knew in a moment that he was the most dangerous of the lot. He didn’t care. His eyes were vague, empty.

I addressed him directly. ‘I’m the Earl of Oxford’s man,’ I said. ‘Get you gone.’

He looked down at his former leader, now leaking into the already foul mud of the inn yard. ‘Fuck me,’ he muttered and turned his horse.

The last man of the five was not as hard and looked as if he would weep.

‘
Par dieu,
messire! Have pity! We are Englishmen no worse than you!’

The fellow next to him was, one could see, the castle lawyer of the group. Seeing me hesitate – I’m death in a fight, but soft as a snail inside, as all the girls knew – he leaned forward.

‘It’s all a misunderstanding, messire. We need work.’ He smiled. I’m sure he meant it to be ingratiating, or reassuring, but his ugly breath and worse teeth were enough to cause grave offence.

‘And you meant to take my inn to have your work,’ I said.

‘We could help you run your inn,’ he said.

Marie leaned over the balcony. ‘Like fuck, messire! I don’t need five new rams poking at my ewes.
eh bien
?’

I summoned Christophe, the inn’s lord. ‘Messire, would you do me a favour and feed these men? And give them a place to sleep tonight?’ I asked.

He shrugged. He was making a fair amount of silver these days, as I took less out of him than the Gascons had. ‘For you? Anything, messire.’

‘What in the name of all the apostles are you doing?’ Richard asked me.

I shrugged. I didn’t know myself. In fact, in my heart I knew I’d done the wrong thing, and that they’d catch me sleeping, kill me and take my girls.

But they were English, and the empty-eyed man had been at Poitiers. I knew him immediately as one of Master Peter’s men. So I waited for the other five to pass me, and I held him back.

‘I know you,’ he said slowly. He fingered his dirty beard. ‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why let us stay?’ he asked slowly.

I had thought he was slow, or stupid, or had received an injury, but now I realized he wasn’t English. He was from the north. York, or even further.

‘You were at Poitiers,’ I said.

‘Heh,’ he said, and smiled. ‘Samuel Bibbo,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘An’ you too, eh?’

We shook.

I promise you that wouldn’t have ended well, but then, everything happened quickly. It was that evening at court that Sir John Chandos took me aside.

‘Master Gold,’ he said. ‘You have something of a mixed reputation. A fine blade, men say. And as brave as a lion.’

I could hear the ‘but’, so I didn’t let the praise go to my head.

‘Brave men are as common as lice here in Gascony. The Prince is here to govern, and not to loot his own lands.’ Chandos was a man I never wanted to cross – he was distant, careful and very slow to anger. He was always courteous, even to those he detested. ‘The Prince needs men who are brave and loyal and
thoughtful.
’ He sat back. ‘You are very young – and I think you had a misunderstanding with the law in London.’

I nodded, chilled to the bone. Was I about to be dismissed from the Prince’s court? I could feel it.

But Sir John Chandos was much more subtle than that. Instead, he let the threat of my colourful past stay on the table between us, so to speak. ‘Some men say you are cunning. One man – Sir John Hawkwood – says you are wise beyond your years. I understand you can read.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ I answered.

‘Like a clerk?’ he asked. He put a document in front of me. It was a draft, full of blots and misspellings. It was in Latin. A grant of lands to a Gascon lord.

I read a sentence of the mediocre Latin aloud. ‘It is a land grant,’ I said.

Sir John steepled his fingers. He rocked back and forth slowly. ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘Do you seek to serve the Prince?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said. I was surprised at my own vehemence.

He looked at me. His eyes didn’t move, and I suspect I fidgeted. I had a great deal about which to be nervous. Many secrets that could be used against me.

‘We will see. I will try you, and see what metal there is in your body. Come, Master Gold. You will have your future with the Prince’s household in your own hands. I have a man for you to meet.’

We walked along one of the bishop’s endless corridors to a small solar – like a closet with a fireplace, set in the wainscotting. There was a young man with an older man’s forked beard sitting on a low stool. He had ink stains on his right hand and a touch of ink at the corner of his mouth – a touch that added to the perpetual sneer he wore.

‘Master Chaucer,’ Sir John said. ‘This is William Gold, Esquire. He serves us sometimes. Master Gold, this is Geoffrey Chaucer, a page of Prince Lionel’s wife’s household, and with us at this time to do the Prince a service or two. I have a mind to send the two of you on an errand together.’

‘I am mere clay to accompany your Gold,’ Chaucer said. He looked at me. ‘Best send him on his own.’

His intent was uncivil, but he smirked and bowed.

Sir John Chandos was so unused to any form of cheek that he continued, assuming Chaucer had been respectful. ‘In light of the letter you brought from Sir John Hawkwood, the Prince would like an answer taken straight away. And perhaps, ahem, a further message for Paris.’

Chaucer looked at me. ‘He doesn’t have a clue what you are talking about, Sir John,’ he said. He smiled at me in a patronizing manner.

Sir John glared at him, having caught the tone. ‘Keep a civil tongue, young Chaucer.’ He looked at me. ‘This is all about the government of the Prince’s realm,’ Sir John said. ‘Can you keep your mouth shut?’ asked the old knight. Well, he was old to me, even if he was reputed to be one of the top fighting men in the world.

I bowed. Let’s be frank,
compères
, never ask a man if he can keep a secret. Who will say no, eh?

‘Give me your solemn word,’ he said.

I knelt. ‘I swear to keep your secret, my lord,’ I said.

‘On his brothel, he swears it,’ Chaucer said.

‘What’s that?’ Sir John asked.

Chaucer smiled. He looked like a ferret when he smiled. ‘Nothing, my lord.’

Sir John looked at me, clearly off balance. Chaucer had the habit of putting you off balance. He was that kind of boy.

‘The King of France has negotiated a peace with our King Edward,’ he said portentously.

Now, in truth, this was mighty news. It struck me in ten ways. First that my employment was going to end, and I hadn’t even worn all my harness yet. In fact, all my looted armour was in pawn with the Italians – why redeem it when there was wine to be drunk – but now the war was going to end.

At another level, it meant there was some hope of getting my prisoner’s ransom paid, which would give me the money to—

Good Christ, what was I going to do?

The war had, at that point, dragged on for twenty years. France was bankrupt; England was better off, but the grumblings I heard from new drafts were that, despite recent victories, parliament wasn’t voting the King any more money to fight.

It was like a lightning bolt. King John had shipped out of Bordeaux earlier that year, taking his growing retinue of fellow prisoners and servants, as well as all of the bloody Count of Armagnac’s silver plate. I only mention that as I was there when it arrived, and I directed its polishing – my goldsmith skills weren’t completely wasted – and King John thanked me.

Well, I think it’s funny.

Where was I?

Oh!

Peace.

Sir John allowed me to digest this information. ‘If you were to take a return letter to Sir John Hawkwood, the Prince would esteem it a favour,’ he said.

‘He means that now we’re to have peace, you’ll be wanting a job at court,’ Chaucer quipped.

‘Of course I’ll go,’ I said, privately agreeing with the annoying boy’s assessment.

Sir John nodded. ‘You’ll need an escort,’ he said.

‘I have a small retinue,’ I said. The arrogance of the seventeen-year-old knows no bounds. ‘And I’d esteem it a favour if I might have Richard Musard.’

Sir John fingered his beard. ‘A retinue?’ He smiled. ‘How many men and how armed?’ He looked at me. ‘I seem to remember you as a cook, lad, not a great noble.’

I glared, preemptively, at Chaucer. ‘My lord, I have an archer and four men-at-arms available for pay.’

He nodded approvingly. ‘Muster them for me this evening in the courtyard with your horses and arms. You will be paid. I’d prefer it you would leave immediately.’

I walked out of the palace floating on air – I was to have my own indenture for four weeks’ service as a direct contractor. It wasn’t just the money. Very well, it
was
the money, but it was also honour. For the rest of my life, I would be able to say that I mustered a retinue for the Prince of Wales.

I ditched Chaucer at the gate – I didn’t like him – and ran to the inn.

I ignored the castle lawyer – Christopher, as he proved to be called. ‘Where’s Sam?’ I asked Marie.

‘Riding Helene.’ She smirked. ‘He paid.’

Richard made a motion with his hand to his dagger. It was rude, and it conveyed a great deal of information. Sam hadn’t wanted to pay, but he had paid.

‘Gentleman, a knight is with Petit Claire,’ Marie went on. She held up a solid gold Venetian ducat.

‘By Saint George, he can take her home for that.’ I grinned at my leman, who grinned back. ‘And keep her.’ Claire was by far and away our most beautiful girl; she was also a vicious, willful bully who probably needed a whipping from me. She got them from Marie instead – Marie insisted on being the only voice of discipline.

I think she liked it.

I walked over to Richard. ‘We have a contract – a retinue contract – from the Prince. To take a message to Sir John Hawkwood in Brittany.’ I grinned. ‘Four weeks full pay.’

Whores and inns fell away. Richard bounced to his feet. ‘
Ventre
Saint Gris!’ he swore. ‘My harness!’

‘And mine. Send the inn’s boy to fetch them. Send one of the girls to the market for two wicker baskets. Send round to Rolf the armourer for two apprentices to bring it all up to fighting condition.’

Marie looked at me. ‘You will spend all our money,’ she said.

I rolled my eyes. ‘This is what it’s for, my sweet.’

‘For war? We lie on our backs and fuck strangers so you can make war?’ she spat at me.

‘Yes,’ I said, and went about getting horses.

Richard and I didn’t have horses. Owning a horse in Bordeaux was fiendishly expensive. After Poitiers, I owned a fine golden war horse for a few weeks, but his stall and manger cost me more than I spent on my garret and my food, so he went to the first rich knight who offered.

Now I needed a riding horse
and
a war horse, and the pleasure of it was that I was buying in a depressed market. The Prince hadn’t fought a campaign all year, and he was about to leave for England; there was no word of any fighting, and knights going with the Prince were selling out. Word of the peace was probably alive among the horse and arms merchants – they always know these things first.