De Rohan began talking before the King was seated. He was excited.
“Your grace, my lords, we have a golden opportunity here if only we can grasp it.” He smiled at the King. “The Occitans are neighbours-and foreigners. We can unite the support of the people who matter to us-the knights and the gentry-to fight them. Their coast is rich. The campaign will pay for itself.”
Du Corse was cautious. “We have very little time,” he said. “And for myself, I have heard that the men of Occitan know how to wield a lance, and I have never trusted armchair generals who tell me wars will be over by midsummer.”
The King raised his head. “Why do we have very little time?” he asked.
Du Corse froze. It was perceptible. Then he shrugged. “Your grace must know that our Kingdom of Galle is also threatened by the Wild,” he said.
The King’s eyes went to those of the archbishop. “You maintain, I think, that the Wild is a fable,” he said. “A snare of the enemy.”
Du Corse looked away.
De Rohan frowned. “We must discuss what answer to make to this coxcomb.” He nodded to the archbishop. “I like the word.”
The King sat back, and scratched his beard. “No. I want to hear the archbishop tell me his views on the Wild. In light of there being an attack in Galle.”
“Fleeing men report ten where there is only one,” the archbishop said. “It is all exaggeration and fable.”
Du Corse frowned.
The King looked around as if for wine. He shrugged. “But Monsieur Du Corse will take his lances home to fight it,” he said slowly. “What is your departure date, Du Corse?”
Du Corse too obviously looked at de Rohan.
When the King had moments like this, the Galles were used to de Vrailly smoothing things over with his absolute certainty. The archbishop regretted leaving him behind-but only until he saw de Rohan pour wine at the sideboard, and then he knew he’d guessed correctly.
“That date is of little moment compared to the presence of a foreign army on our doorstep,” de Rohan said, setting the King’s golden cup at his elbow. It was small personal services like this that had won the King’s esteem when de Rohan was only de Vrailly’s standard bearer. The King, despite the vector of the conversation, smiled warmly at de Rohan.
The King liked to like people. But he shook his head. “It is not an army. One of my guardsmen says it is fewer than three hundred knights, no archers, and no spearmen. They came for the tournament, gentles.”
De Rohan grinned. He couldn’t help himself. “Better and better,” he said.
The King looked down the table, took a long draught of wine, and then shrugged. “I don’t see where you want to go with this, de Rohan.”
The first privy council smiled. “Only three hundred knights?” he said. “It could be the shortest war in history.”
At that, the King’s head snapped around.
But de Rohan was only just warming to his idea. “A complete victory-it will take the wind out of the sails of the Queen’s supporters, it will deflate the commons and show our power and unite the gentles against the foreigner.” He raised his eyebrows at Du Corse. “And pay the routiers in loot.”
Du Corse frowned.
But anything he might have said was interrupted by the King, who shot to his feet. “That’s it, then,” he said. His open palm slapped the table so loudly that the archbishop jumped. “I have had time to think of many things, gentlemen. And it occurs to me-I have begun to think-that you-do not…”
Suddenly he slumped. His knees relaxed, and he went down into his chair. Only the immediate presence of de Rohan and two large servants kept the King from falling to the floor.
“A surfeit of wine,” de Rohan said with a soft smile. “You heard him, my friends. ‘That’s it.’ He agreed.”
Du Corse narrowed his eyes. “That’s how it is going to be, is it?” he asked.
De Rohan pursed his lips and wiped his hands fastidiously on the King’s cloth napkin. “On Tuesday, de Vrailly will kill the Queen’s champion. We’ll burn her as a witch, and the rest will follow easily enough.”
L’Isle d’Adam shook his head. “He’ll never stomach it.” He looked at de Rohan. “Grande Dieu, de Rohan, I do not think I can stomach it.”
“You do not think she is guilty?” de Rohan asked.
L’Isle d’Adam shook his head. “I do not think there’s a man present who could stomach burning the Queen.”
“She’s a heretic-a temptress-a seducer and a murderer,” the archbishop spat.
“As I said, I do not think there is a man present who could stomach it,” l’Isle d’Adam said. “May I suggest-very strongly, Monsieur de Rohan-that the Queen suffer an accident after her trial by combat?”
“Perhaps trying to escape?” Du Corse said. “For the love of God, de Rohan-we don’t have ice water in our veins like you. And the commons…”
De Rohan snapped his fingers. “That, for them,” he said.
Du Corse nodded very slightly. “What a fine time you will have ruling this fair country when I take my lances back to the King.”
De Rohan turned to the two big servants. “Take him to bed,” he said.
They bowed.
“Do you have any news of our army in the north?” de Rohan asked.
Du Corse sighed. “Army is far too strong a word. Ser Hartmut has a fine siege train and about a hundred lances-and some sailors.”
“Too far away to be any use,” de Rohan said.
Du Corse looked at l’Isle d’Adam and shrugged again. “Monsieur d’Abblemont had a plan for the union of our forces,” he admitted. “And he was intending to reinforce the so-called Black Knight with two hundred more lances this spring.” He looked at de Rohan, his face wrinkling with suppressed displeasure. “But I suspect the troops were never sent. The King and council in Lutrece are adamant about the summer campaign. The reports from Arelat are very serious.”
“Shall we go back and inform the herald of the King’s decision?” de Rohan asked. He seemed uninterested in the events in Arelat.
“What do you perceive was the King’s decision?” Du Corse asked.
“Why, war, of course!” de Rohan said. “In the morning, at dawn, the King asks that you attack their camp.”
Du Corse nodded again, very slightly. “We are very chivalrous, are we not?” he asked.
By the time the first market carts rolled into the squares of Cheapside on Easter Monday, the boys who spread news knew there had been a battle.
Most of the Royal Guard, and all the lances that the Conte Du Corse had brought from Galle, rode through the town before first light. They passed without challenge through Southgate.
They formed, four deep, across the front of the Occitan camp, where sleepy sentries watched.
One of the sentries blew his horn.
The “Alban” army charged the camp.
It should have been a massacre. The Galles were in full harness, and so were the men of the Royal Guard. Most of the Occitan knights, stumbling from their decorative pavilions, should have been unarmed and unprepared.
They were not. They were fully armed, cap-à-pied.
There were also surprisingly few of them-only a hundred or so, led by a knight in the blue and gold chequey of the royal house. There were no squires and no pages.
The Occitans gathered together in the tight wedge and charged the “Alban Army” that outnumbered it ten to one.
The fighting was brutal. And very skilled. The Galles suffered because their horses were not yet recovered from the sea voyage. The Occitan horses were superb.
But no knight can triumph at odds of ten to one.
Du Corse eventually unhorsed the blue and gold knight, after they had gone lance to lance and sword to sword. And finally, dagger to dagger. Du Corse got his arm in front of the other man’s neck and his dagger pommel past his head, hooked him and threw him to the ground.
Even then, the blue and gold knight would not relent. He found a sword on the ground and fought back-even as a dozen Gallish and Alban knights cut at him. He killed a horse, dismounting an Alban midlands knight named Ser Gilles. He cut the Conte Du Corse’s reins.