‘This is a black day for France,’ Sens was saying. He wore full armour under his religious habit, and his hawkish face was taut with anger and humiliation. ‘There cannot be a noble family in the country that has not lost a son in today’s slaughter.’
‘No,’ agreed Eu numbly. He had been wounded, and owed his survival to the English medicus who had been on hand to sew him up. He was not yet sure whether to be grateful. ‘I still do not understand why we lost. We outnumbered them, for God’s sake!’
‘It was Orléans’s fault,’ said Sens bitterly. ‘When he and the Dauphin fled, the Prince of Wales thought he had won, and ordered his troops to put the rest of us to rout. Filled with triumph, even his archers surged forward to fight, and they slammed into us with such force that we could not hold them. And then there were the Gascons.’
‘Why?’ asked Eu tiredly. ‘What did they do?’
‘They sneaked through the woods and struck our left flank. Their timing was perfect, because it threw us into utter confusion. Many of our warriors ran to take refuge in Poitiers, but the townsfolk refused to open their gates, so the Gascons slaughtered them all outside the walls.’
‘Worse will follow,’ predicted Rougé, speaking for the first time since he had been taken. His voice was hoarse, and he did not think the terrible ache in his heart would ever ease. ‘The Prince will march on Bordeaux next, killing and looting as he goes.’
Sens sighed gloomily. ‘This disaster was our own fault. First, we underestimated them, which was foolish. Second, the lie of the land was in their favour, which we ignored. Third, there was a lack of cohesion among our leaders – the Dauphin should never have become entangled in Orléans’s division, and neither one should have retreated. And last, we certainly should have predicted that Gascon trick.’
‘They had ribauldequins, too,’ added Eu, somewhat defensively. ‘It conferred an unfair advantage on them, because using such evil devices is tantamount to cheating, not chivalrous at all. Look – they have left one standing over there. Have you ever seen a more diabolical creation?’
Rougé turned to stare at the weapon. It comprised a row of slender tubes, each with its own powder-pot at the opposite end to the muzzle. There was a ratcheted lever behind them, curving upwards like the tail of a scorpion, so that the barrels could be aimed higher or lower, and the whole thing was on wheels, allowing it to be trundled from place to place.
‘I saw it spit out its deadly missiles,’ Eu said with a shudder. ‘It made a lot of noise and produced a hellish stench. It terrified the horses, and caused many of my men to take flight – they thought it was some manner of witchcraft.’
‘That is no excuse,’ said Rougé sourly. ‘They should have stood firm. France needed us all today, and we failed her.’
‘Perhaps we did,’ sighed Sens. ‘And it galls me to think that our capture will earn a pretty penny for King Edward – money that will be used to advance his claim on our throne, no doubt.’
‘What?’ asked Rougé, uneasily. ‘How?’
‘Ransoms,’ explained the Archbishop. ‘We shall all be taken to England, and I have already been told that my freedom alone will cost eight thousand pounds. Eu’s will be six, and you will not fetch less than one and a half. God only knows what price will be put on King Jean.’
Rougé was silent. He knew about the practice of ransoming, of course, but he was suddenly stricken with the realisation that his desperate attempt to rescue his monarch would ruin his family – and ruin them it would, because years of war had taken their toll on his estates, and fifteen hundred pounds was an impossible sum. He closed his eyes in despair. The conflict had brought famine and poverty to France already, and the ransoms would exacerbate the problem beyond endurance. The common folk would refuse to buy their masters’ freedom, and there would be rebellion and anarchy.
It was then that he knew he hated England with every fibre of his being, and would do anything humanly possible to avenge himself on the nation that had wreaked such havoc on his own. In the fading light, he could see the carnage of the battlefield, the once-proud banners fluttering forlornly in the evening breeze, and the undignified piles of corpses set ready for mass burial the following morning.
‘I shall avenge our dead,’ he vowed, his resolve strengthening by the moment. ‘I shall ensure that France never suffers a rout like this again. Not ever.’
His companions regarded him askance. ‘How?’ asked Sens. ‘You are a guest of the English now, and there is not much you can do from the Tower of London.’
‘I have a plan,’ replied Rougé. ‘It entails me learning a secret.’
A gleam of hope flared in the Archbishop’s eyes when he heard the conviction in the younger man’s voice. ‘What secret?’
Rougé’s face became cold and hard. ‘One that will change the world for ever.’
Cambridge, early May 1358
It was not often that the University at Cambridge called a Convocation of Regents – a gathering of all its masters – but one was certainly organised when Sir Eustace Dunning offered to finance a Common Library. It was a contentious matter, and while some scholars were delighted by the prospect of unlimited access to books, others thought the concept was fraught with dangerous precedents, and argued that the gift should be politely but firmly declined.
The Regents, who were the University’s governing body and so responsible for deciding what was best for it, began to arrive at the church of St Mary the Great long before noon, when the meeting was scheduled to begin. As it was a formal occasion, they wore their ceremonial robes: scarlet gowns and hats for the seculars, and best habits for the monks and friars. Tensions were high, and spats had broken out long before Chancellor Tynkell called for silence, intoned some prayers, and declared the Convocation officially open.
There was an immediate clamour as virtually every man present strove to make his views known. Tynkell, a timid, ineffectual man wholly incapable of controlling hundreds of opinionated scholars, could only wave his hands in feeble entreaty, and it was left to his Senior Proctor, the plump, charismatic Brother Michael, to take charge. Once he had stilled the commotion, Michael indicated that Philip de London was to speak first.
‘Books are expensive,’ London began in a quiet, dignified voice. He and his brother were scribes, employed by the University’s stationer. ‘And only the wealthiest foundations can afford them. A Common Library will ensure that even our poorest scholars will see texts that–’
‘There are more important issues at stake here than the education of paupers,’ interrupted John Teversham, a Fellow of Bene’t College, whose exquisite robes suggested that money would never come between him and the tomes he wanted to study. ‘And I believe that such a foundation will endanger our University.’
‘How?’ asked London irritably. ‘Oxford has had one for the past thirty years, and no harm has befallen it. Indeed, its scholars say it is an excellent addition to–’
‘What that rabble does is not always sensible,’ interrupted Teversham. ‘Besides, where will this collection go? We do not have a suitable building for it.’
‘Actually, we do,’ interjected Tynkell. He smiled nervously, knowing that his news would receive a mixed reaction. ‘Sir Eustace Dunning has given us Newe Inn in Cholles Lane.’
Half the scholars cheered their delight, while the others booed and hissed, and it was some time before Michael was able to restore calm again. Once the church was quiet, he let Principal Coslaye of Batayl Hostel speak first, because the man was scarlet with apoplectic rage, and Michael was afraid he might have a fatal seizure if he was not permitted to have his say soon.