The Ill-Made Knight (51 page)

I suppose it was difficult, but I can’t remember being as happy since I was in the Prince’s service. I rode up and down, put my shoulder to a camp-follower’s cartwheel, dragged donkeys out of the thick black soup that filled the holes in the road, and generally led . . . by example.

Every day, I practiced the lessons that Milady had taught.

Courtesy – even to a prostitute with a stubborn mule.

Largesse – to peasants burned out by their own knights.

Loyalty – to Sir John Creswell, too sick to take command, and to my own people.

Courage – the physical kind never came hard, but as that March wore on, a true Lent of the soul, the skies never once let us see the sun, and I had to be everywhere – cheerful, and sure.

High up the Rhône, I rode across country with a pair of men-at-arms – good men who later followed me many years, John Courtney and William Grice. I knew them from better days and they came with me willingly enough. I needed to find the other companies we were supposed to make a rendezvous with, and plan our next move. We’d lost touch with Petit Mechin in the mountains, and I only knew the whereabouts of Peter of Savoy.

I found him sitting on his horse in the watery March sunshine with Sir John Hawkwood and John Thornbury. They were wearing their arms, like noblemen, and Sir John had his own arms on a banner held by a man-at-arms, and I remember thinking, By God, he’s done well for himself.

I didn’t ride very fast. I wasn’t sure what reception I’d get, and I wasn’t sure whose actions had been the right ones. But a fair distance away, Sir John raised a gauntleted hand and gave me a salute, and when I rode up, he clasped my hand and embraced me as if I was the prodigal son. Thornbury was more reserved, but he clasped my hand warmly enough.

‘I hear you are running Creswell’s company,’ Sir John said.

‘Trying, Sir John,’ I admitted.

Sir John nodded. ‘I know you have it,’ he said simply. ‘I’m sorry we had a difference of opinion,’ he added.

I think I burst into smiles. Until I saw black and white colours coming down the road.

It’s strange what can set a man off. I think I would have apologized to Sir John then and there – from his point of view I’d broken discipline, and I understood that better now that I was doing a little commanding of my own – but one sight of Camus and I was angry, ruffled and unrepentant.

Sir John’s eyes went where mine had been and he put a hand on my reins.

‘He’s not worth the stinking carcass of a rotting dog,’ Sir John said. ‘Don’t rise to him.’

Our eyes locked.

What he was saying, for those of you too young to understand, was that if I crossed the Bourc in public again, Sir John would have to back him, and I’d lose my command. Or be dead. And that Sir John understood this to be unfair.

This injustice is woven into the story of my life. Like Nan’s da, the alderman. He thought it was unfair, too. Even when he told me to never enter his house again.

Perhaps I’d grown a little, or perhaps I was so in love with command that it steadied me. Perhaps all those lessons on knighthood were finally getting a grip on my stubborn heart. Camus rode up to join us with Peter of Savoy, and he turned his mad eyes to mine. ‘The Butt Boy,’ he said.

I just sat my horse and bowed to Peter of Savoy. ‘I’m here for Sir John Creswell,’ I said. I explained that we had lost touch with Petit Mechin, and they all nodded, even Camus.

Savoy shrugged. ‘Marshal Audreham is close behind us,’ he said. ‘We must take a couple of towns and win ourselves a crossing of the Rhône, or we are well and truly fucked.’

Sir John nodded. To me, he said, ‘I believe I may have been mistaken in coming back from Tuscany.’ He smiled. ‘You have to see Tuscany to believe it. Impossibly rich. Beautiful.’ He smiled. ‘And full of little, foolish men who want to hire us to fight for them.’ Just for a moment he looked like Renaud the Fox.

‘
Eh bien
, Sir Jean. We are not in Tuscany, but right here, facing the might of France.’ The Bourc was wearing the kind of armour I dreamed of owning – Milanese white armour. Probably made for him. His eyes met mine again and he said, quite evenly, ‘Soon, I will kill you.’ He smiled. ‘I will humiliate you and then kill you, so men will mock you for ever after you are dead.’

I turned to Sir John. ‘Is this how knights talk to each other?’ I asked.

‘I mean it,’ hissed the Bourc.

I shrugged. ‘Horse or foot. Any time, any weapon. To the death. I’ll make my challenge public, so that if you have me murdered, every man-at-arms in the army will know you for what you are.’ I straightened my back and met his eyes.

Blessed Virgin. Later, in Italy, I read how the Goddess Athena, who the old men believed in before Christ came, used to whisper in the ears of heroes, sending ‘winged words’ to help them. I didn’t hear any words, and yet, the words came to me as if from God, and they struck him like the hammer blows of a poleaxe. I’m proud to say that I delivered my words in a tone of banter.

Peter of Savoy laughed. ‘Fight Camus when we’re clear of the French, eh, Gold?’

I nodded. ‘Yes, my lord.’ I said it crisply and loud.

And men – these knights of ill-reknown – laughed. Not at me, but at Camus.

We dismounted at an old roadside auberge – gutted, ruined, rebuilt, burned again and now roofed by a daring sutler with an old red and black striped pavilion. He’d collected stools and benches from the local town and made a decent sitting area that was snug. So snug, in fact, it was hard to breathe.

As the leaders of three companies, we got a table and stools of our own. We drank small beer and Sir John made our plan. We had about 900 lances and we had to assume that Petit Mechin was on the other side of the ridge behind us, with the French right behind him.

‘Lyons,’ Sir John said. ‘If we take Lyons, they’ll have to pay us to leave. We’ll be rich. Best of all, we’ll be safe.’

Peter of Savoy shook his head. We’ll never get into Lyons,’ he said. ‘Last spring they raised the wall. It has a
bailli
, two thousand men and two out-castles.’ Even as he spoke, he was drawing – in beer, of course – the course of the river. He put filberts down. ‘Rive-de-Gier and Brignais. And here’s Le Puy.’ He sighed. ‘I can’t see taking Lyons by escalade.’

Sir John thought.

Peter of Savoy grunted. ‘We have no choice. Needs must when the devil drives.’

Camus sat slumped.

‘William Gold and I will take Brignais and Rive-de-Gier,’ Sir John Hawkwood said. ‘By escalade. You two wait six hours and try Lyon. If the garrison is alert, light the suburbs afire and retreat on us.’

None of us disagreed. We had the more difficult task, and yet I was well satisfied. I finished my small beer and rode away into the watery sunshine.

I was filled with confidence as we rode cross-country, and then, as I came down on my own convoy, I watched the line of carts and wondered why they were tailing along behind instead of protected in the middle of the column.

I got my horse to a heavy trot, and rolled down the hill, headed for the front of the column, the priest’s excellent war horse labouring in the heavy mud of the unploughed fields.

At the front, there were half a dozen horsemen, arguing. There was Sir Hugh and Richard Cressy, two other corporals and John Hughes. Hughes was as red as a beet. There was a dead man lying under the horse’s hooves.

I knew immediately that Sir Hugh had usurped command in my half-day absence, and that he’d made some error that caused the others to come after him. I could see it all in their postures and those of their horses. I put my gauntlets on and made sure my sword was loose in my scabbard.

They roared at each other like stallions fighting over a mare, and I rode up behind Sir Hugh without being noticed.

‘Gentlemen?’ I said, as I pushed my horse in behind his. I wasn’t too gentle.

Cressy didn’t really know me. He was a good man-at-arms, as big as a small house and cautious. He was barely capable of being a corporal and lacked even the most rudimentary organizational skills.

He also lacked both courtesy and self-control. Although even at twenty-two, I was learning that courtesy – the very foundation of knighthood – was all about self-control.

I mention this because, alone among the corporals, he’d never suggested, by word or deed, that he thought he’d be a better acting captain that I was. His eyes met mine. ‘This idiot,’ he said, pointing at Sir Hugh.

Sir Hugh tried to wheel his horse. He didn’t like having me behind him, and he was afraid of what I might do.

‘He took the wrong fucking turn and killed our guide!’ Cressy said.

‘He betrayed us!’ Sir Hugh said. ‘I made no error!’

He had his horse around, now, and he was glaring at me with a hand on his sword.

John Hughes, who was the informal captain of the archers, just shook his head. ‘He grabbed command from Cressy and fucked it away,’ he said. ‘Order of march changed, down the wrong road, all so he can grab some market town that isn’t where he thought it was.’

I looked at him. I didn’t think anyone would back him – if he’d had skills like that, he’d have been a corporal. ‘I’m surprised any of you obeyed him,’ I said.

Hughes spat. ‘He
said
he had orders from Sir John Creswell,’ he said.

‘Well, Sir Hugh? I asked. An hour with Sir John Hawkwood and I was emulating his careful, clipped speech and mannerisms.

Sir Hugh glared at me. ‘I, sir, am a belted knight, a landed man, a servant of the King. I should be in command here. These men obey me as their natural superior.’

I nodded. ‘Prepare yourself,’ I said. ‘We’re going to fight right here. If you unhorse me, you can try and command the company, but in truth, Sir Hugh, you couldn’t command a sack of meal in a mill. If I unhorse you, I expect nothing but silent obedience from you. We have an adventure ahead of us, and I, for one, don’t have any more time to waste on you.’

‘With pleasure,
boy
, he said. He gathered his reins and drew his sword. ‘Butt Boy!’

I put that away for later. The Bourc’s insult in Sir Hugh’s mouth?

He came for me without the formality of choosing ground or seizing a lance. He held up his sword, high above his head, and cut at me – one, two, three times. He wanted to close and grapple, and he pushed in as close as his horse could manage.

My horse – the horse I’d stolen from a priest – proved to have more fight than I’d imagined. He side-stepped and bit Sir Hugh’s mount savagely, ripping off a piece of the other horse’s nose and scattering blood.

Sir Hugh’s horse stumbled and half-reared, and I got my sword in both hands and thrust Sir Hugh cleanly through the aventail. My sword went in just where the collarbone met the breastbone. I’ll be honest, I didn’t care if I killed him, because he was large and dangerous and I needed to get on with my part in Sir John’s plan.

My two-handed thrust penetrated his chain aventail and stuck in bone, but the whole force went into his breastbone, and he lost his seat and fell to the ground. The fight was over.

To add insult to injury, my horse kicked him when he tried to rise. Compared to the kick of a stallion, my little poke was a pinprick.

I ignored the man under the hooves of my horse. ‘Gentlemen,’ I said. ‘We are going to try a bold adventure – to seize the walls of Brignais this very night.’

Ah.
Preux
. yes, I had
preux
. Courtesy, loyalty, largesse, courage and
preux
.

Four hours later, we left our warm fires of the previous light and mounted our horses. Our pages carried our ladders. We rode along the web of roads, following John Hughes and Ned, who had scouted the route, and we assembled our ladders in the ditch without being challenged.

I had about ninety men. I’d left the rest in camp, under Cressy.

‘Fast as you can,
mes amis
!’ That was my first battlefield speech.

We went up the ladders, and instead of being first, I waited with Courtney and Grice and six other men-at-arms with good harness and good fighting reputations. We were the reserve.

We didn’t even have to fight. We utterly surprised the garrison, and took the place while most of them were locked into their guard rooms from the outside. As soon as we had the gate tower in our hands, I sent Courtney for the rest of the company.

We stripped the garrison to their braes, and threw them out into the night, then built up the fires and gorged on their stores. We moved into their guardrooms and barracks and stables.

A day later, Sir John Creswell came and took the reins away from me. His news was grim – Sir John had taken Rive-de-Gire, but the Bourc and Savoy had failed with Lyon and failed even to fire the suburbs. The main French army, with the archpriest and the Lord of Tancraville, was closing in on us from the north.

He was coldly polite to me, and the only thing he said was, ‘Hawkwood says you’ve run the company better than I do myself.’

Well, messieurs. I’m sure Sir John meant it as praise, although it is possible he meant it to sting Creswell. Hawkwood wasn’t called ‘The Fox’ for nothing.

The second day after we stormed the place, Creswell sent me to find Petit Mechin with six lances. Every man he sent with me was one of my friends – men, squires and archers. With the countryside crawling with French troops, it was an insane risk to take. In fact, like David with Bathsheba’s husband Uriah, he was sending me out to die. He knew it, and I knew it, and worst of all, when he ordered me out, Sir Hugh stood at his shoulder, his right shoulder a mass of linen bandages, and smiled at me. He had what he wanted.

We left before dawn, and I led my band away from Brignais and headed directly north; they didn’t question me. I’d had time to think, by then, and what I decided was that Camus was in league with Sir Hugh. I know that sounds insane, but command in an army of criminals and mercenaries isn’t about chivalry. Or gentility.

No, that’s wrong. The qualities of chivalry had given me a good reputation. The men would follow me. I was just. I was well-spoken and temperate. It was my supposed peers who disdained chivalry and justice.