The Deadliest Sin (6 page)

Henry the Tun’s face went utterly blank. The colour left his features like water running from a leaking bucket, and Janyn could almost imagine he was facing a ghost. The thought made him
shiver.

‘You’ll regret this,’ Henry said quietly. He stood, studying Janyn for a long moment, his eyes empty of all emotion. For a while, Janyn held his breath, convinced that his
centener would draw steel and try to stab him, but at last, Henry retreated. After some paces, he turned and walked away, but before he had taken more than a few paces, he stopped again.

His eyes took in all the men there: Janyn, the bowman behind him, and the woman, and he nodded as though reminding himself of all their faces, before chuckling to himself and striding off.

Was he evil? Janyn considered that again now, sitting before the fire. He always wanted to see the good side of any man, where possible. In the past he had taken raw, savage
men, and from them honed sharp, competent warriors, and he would like to think that there was more to Henry than he met at first sight, but he knew, even as he considered the man, that there was no
point.

Some men may be overtaken with rage in an instant and forgive in the next. Henry was not of that mould. He took his hatred and viciousness and nursed it to his breast until it became a focus and
concentration of his anger.

Henry was filled with bile and spite at that moment, that was certain. To be forced away from his chosen prize by a few meagre churls from another vintaine, and by one of Sir John’s own
vinteners, was demeaning, and that alone incurred his wrath. But to leap from that to declaring him evil was a long jump. Janyn knew that many men, thwarted of their desires, could be vicious. Some
would lie in wait for a victim and take revenge for a slight. Many would punish a man by any means. Henry did none of these. He was fixed upon a different revenge. If he could not take her, he
would have those who protected her destroyed; he would have her destroyed in time. But he would take her. He had no doubts of his abilities there. He would recognise no bounds to his rage at his
humiliation. No, he would see how to get his revenge, and when he did, he would see them all utterly ruined, and they would see his hand in their destruction. He would gain satisfaction in their
horror. And he would ensure that they knew he would have her regardless.

That was the mark of his cruelty. Not that he would stab or punch in a moment’s rage, but that he would nurse his hatred and black bile to himself and nurture them, and let them grow and
fester, until they took him over entirely.

Henry did not think himself evil. His life had been one of fighting and struggling, but he was only a man, making his way as best he could.

Arriving in Guyenne after he fled London, he had been happy. He had enjoyed his time there. The warmth, the wine, the women, all were to his taste. But a man needed a career as well. He had no
trade, but he was good, he learned, at fighting, and he began to take part in the little tournaments for money. He would take on all comers, and his speed and lack of fear usually gave him the
victory. Whether he fought with swords, daggers or fists, Henry soon learned that he had an edge over most men.

It was that which led to his joining the King’s men. He fought for many of the noblemen of his day, spending much of his time with Sir John of Norwich, but then he met Sir Walter Manny,
and joined his forces. Ten years after the murder of the man in Southwark, Henry was on a ship once more, and fighting with Sir Walter against French ships near Sluys. They won a victory at Cadsand
and, from that moment, Henry knew his vocation. He was a fighter for the King.

As the war continued and conflicts spread, he found himself advancing ever further. He joined as an infantry fighter, but then gained a pony and a bow. From there he became vintener, and
gradually built a reputation for steadiness in battle, for a cool head, and a ferocity unequalled in Edward’s host. Henry was as fierce as a tiger when he was placed with an enemy before him,
but that enemy could be a Frenchman or a recalcitrant fighter from his own vintaine. A man who did not fight for him would often be forced to fight against him. He held an iron discipline in his
unit, and all who disliked it were forced to respect it.

When he rose to his current post, it was because the old centener was too incompetent for his own good, let alone the men he was supposed to lead. He couldn’t lead the men into a tavern on
a good day. On a bad day, he was too swine drunk to bother. More and more often it was Henry who took the men and led them himself, while his own men rallied them when a sudden reverse struck. And
one day, the old man was in the line, fighting, when a sword caught his belly and opened him like a paunched rabbit.

That day, Henry took the top job. It was his right. It was his reward, he felt, for having endured the laziness and cowardice of his predecessor. He had to kill the man for the good of his unit
and that whole arm of the King’s host.

In all these last years, no one had dared gainsay him. No one had thought to refuse him anything he demanded. And this miserable cur, this mewling kitten, this streak of piss, this Janyn
Hussett, dared to stand before him and deny him the woman he should have as a right!

He would have her. He wanted her, and no one would stand in his way.

No, he did not think himself evil. He merely did not consider how any action of his own would affect other people. He didn’t care.

Janyn and his men could guess that no good could come of this.

‘Well, Janyn, by my faith, you’ve dropped us right into the shite this time,’ Barda muttered, taking the arrow from the string and putting it back with its sheave before
reaching up to unstring his bow. ‘Ballocks to that! I didn’t come over the water to fight my own folk. I thought I was going to fight and kill the King of France’s men.’

Barda atte Mill was a short man, with a fuzz of grizzled hair circling his bald pate. About his cheeks and chin was a thick growth of beard as if to compensate for his hairless skull. His eyes
were shrewd and kindly, with enough laughter creases to make him look like a modern Bacchus.

‘What would you have had me do? Let him take her?’ Janyn demanded, glancing round at Pelagia.

She was still staring after Henry and, when she felt his eyes on her, she threw him a cursory look before bending and continuing with her work preparing vegetables for the pot.

‘Aye. If it makes our life easier,’ Barda said. His eyes were narrowed as he peered after Henry, but there was no humour in them. ‘It’s a mistake to go upsetting the man
who commands you in battle, Jan.’

‘Don’t talk of her like that,’ Bill said. His face blackened with his mood. ‘Would you see the poor maid raped by that son of a dog?’

‘I’d prefer to see her open her legs wide for him rather than see us suffer his anger.’

‘Perhaps. But I wouldn’t let him take her,’ Janyn said.

‘Is she your wife?’

Janyn didn’t answer that.

‘Well, I hope she’s worth it in the end, Vintener,’ Barda said, and walked off.

Bill and Walter stood together, muttering in low voices, their eyes drifting off to where Henry had gone, but Janyn squatted with his back against a tree and closed his eyes. After the rush of
excitement, he felt light-headed and slightly sick. He had been so close to drawing a knife that he could feel how it would have been, to have stabbed and slain the centener. There was a metallic
taste in his mouth at the thought, just like he had after a battle.

Pelagia was over at the fireside, and Janyn opened his eyes to watch her. She was entirely unaffected by the presence of the men about her, as if she knew that she was safe with them. Sitting
amongst them, she pulled her hair up, away from her neck. She had a fine neck, Janyn thought, like a swan’s. Pale, long, slender, it looked vulnerable. He wanted to kiss it. It was rare for
him to be attracted to women, but this one had something, an inner strength like a cord of hemp that kept her together. Even when threatened by Henry, she had shown no fear. Perhaps it had been
throttled from her. The tribulations of her last weeks, losing her family, seeing her countrymen slaughtered all about her, maybe that had had the effect of squeezing all her feelings from her, so
that now there was nothing left at her core but a savage determination to survive.

There was something in her eyes that he saw occasionally. A gleam, as if she entertained a thought that gave her solace. Perhaps it was a dream of quiet and rest, a view of an
all-but-unattainable peace. For he was sure that there was little peace in her soul usually. Not during her waking hours. While she slept, she looked as though she was calm enough. Sometimes he had
seen her lips curl into a gentle smile . . . but other times she gave muffled screams and moans as she thrashed from side to side. And always, as soon as she woke and took in her surroundings, any
happiness faded until her eyes took on that distant harshness once more. Hers was not a soul at rest.

Janyn desired her, yes, but he would not go near her. She was a focus and target of danger. He could feel it about her. She could bring only disaster. Barda was right: they should throw her from
the vintaine, send her away to fend for herself.

Except if Janyn were to do that, he would lose the support of newer recruits like Bill and Walter.

Barda had walked to her. As Janyn watched, he hunkered down beside her. ‘Maid, do you want food?’

She said nothing, but Janyn saw her give him a slanted smile and a flash of her eyes. She knew she had him already. Like a spider watching a fly willingly land on her web.

It was a thought that made Janyn shiver with sudden trepidation.

It was in April that things grew more troubling for the English. Janyn could remember it with such clarity: the mud, the constant dampness, the grey faces of the troops forced
to endure.

All that winter the weather had been foul and, in March, when their spirits were at their lowest, came the news that they had all feared: the French King had taken up the great crimson banner of
France, the Oriflamme of St Denis. With this flag in the hands of the French, they could not be defeated, some said in hushed whispers – but they had borne it with them at Crécy, and
there it had served them no useful purpose, as others said. These loud denials, however, could not change the increased tension that affected the English with the news of the gathering French
host.

But after March, there was nothing for weeks. Snippets of information came to say that Flemings and French were fighting on their borders, and occasionally there were tales of sea battles, of
English convoys being savaged by the damned Genoese, but more often the news was of victories by the English. Even when French fleets tried to force the blockade and bring food to the starving
population of Calais, they failed. At last, in late April, the English captured the last piece of land encircling the town: the Rysbank. With this narrow spit of sand taken, the English could
control the whole harbour with cannon and other artillery. It was the beginning of the end for Calais. The English had their mailed fist on the throat of the town, and they were slowly strangling
it.

A few weeks later, the French made a last attempt to rescue their town. A fleet of fifty or more ships set sail – cogs and barges laden with provisions – all guarded by galleys full
of fighting men, but before they could approach the stricken town they were met with a larger English force that sank or put to flight the whole convoy. Not a single ship reached the garrison of
Calais.

For the people of the town it was dismal news. The commander, Jean de Vienne, wrote to his king to say that there was no more food left in the town, and that they must resort to the horrible
expedience of human flesh or die. A terrible, grim letter, it was, as the English soon learned.

It was entrusted to a Genoese, who tried to slip from the town at night in a small boat to make his way to Paris, but before he could pass by the English lines, he was seen. English ships were
launched in pursuit, and he was captured, although not before he had bound the letter to a hatchet and hurled it into the sea. But at low tide the message was discovered, still tied to its weight,
protected by its oil-cloth wrapping, and the letter was read by King Edward. He resealed the letter, placing the mark of his own seal on it, and had the letter dispatched to King Philippe. It was a
flagrant challenge, and the King of France took it up.

He mustered an army, at least five-and-twenty thousand strong, and marched to meet the English.

It was a few days later that the call came for the English in Janyn’s vintaine to gather their weapons. There were rumours of an army marching to meet them, and while it
was scarcely to be thought that it could equal the size of the army they had destroyed at Crécy, still, a host of French knights was a force to be reckoned with.

‘They’re coming up the road there,’ Janyn was told.

He and the other vinteners and centeners from the force with Sir John de Sully were gathered together in a wide space behind a wagon-park. Men were standing on wagons and carts to listen as Sir
John, tall, hawkish and lean, told them of the danger approaching.

‘They are coming slowly, we believe. I doubt me not that after Crécy they will be keen to show us that our success there was a mere chance. They will have as many knights and
men-at-arms as they can gather together in so short a space. It will not be easy for them, for we slaughtered their army. There can be few fighting men in the whole of the French King’s
northern lands.’

Next to Janyn, Barda grimaced, then muttered, ‘The French King’s son had an army. He was bringing that up here in a hurry. What if this is his army? Battle-hardened and
powerful.’

Janyn said nothing. Barda was his most trusted companion from the vintaine, but there were times when his grumbling and complaining were annoying.

Sir John was continuing: ‘So we have to hurry and meet them. We have to assess their speed of march, gauge their size and abilities. If need be, we shall have to make them pause on their
march. The siege is essential, and nothing can be allowed to prevent us from taking Calais. No matter what this army may be. But we do need to know all we can about it so we can find the best way
to deter it. Are there any questions?’