‘And God be with you, Roger my friend. I trust that our paths will cross again in the future.’
On King Louis’s orders a covered bridge had been built across the River Somme at Picquigny, divided in half by a wooden grating through which he and his fellow monarch could parley; a device which lessened the threat of assassination at the hands of the untrustworthy English. (For every Frenchman worth his salt knows that we all conceal devils’ tails beneath our tunics and hose.) King Louis also took the added precaution of ensuring that his approach to the bridge was from open ground, while our King was forced to advance along a narrow causeway between marshy flats. In addition, four Englishmen were stationed on the French side of the bridge and the same number of Frenchmen on the English, further hostages against misfortune, and neither sovereign was accompanied by more than a dozen attendants.
Amongst his following King Edward had chosen the Duke of Clarence, the Earl of Northumberland, Lord Hastings and John Morton. In King Louis’s retinue several of his men were dressed exactly like him in order to confuse any would-be assassin, with the result that the French looked a far shabbier company than the English. This was because the outward trappings of kingship seemed to mean nothing to Louis, who was robed in a motley assortment of old and faded garments which would have put a mountebank to shame. King Edward, on the other hand, was wearing cloth-of-gold lined with red satin and a black velvet cap in which sparkled a diamond fleur-de-lys as a compliment to his host. No greater contrast could have been imagined than between these two men, one so tall and still handsome, even if running a little to fat, the other stooped and ugly, with glossy, protuberant eyes and an overpoweringly large and bulbous nose.
Timothy Plummer, who had come with me to Picquigny, whispered, ‘Duke Richard kept his word, then. There’s no sign of him anywhere.’
I shook my head. ‘Nor will be. He’ll have no truck with anything that smacks of betrayal.’
It was a lovely summer’s morning, voices carrying well on the still, clear air; and so it was that from our position near the bridge we could hear something of what was being said. Both kings made speeches in French, then someone on our side spoke up in English, saying there was an ancient prophecy which foretold that an honourable peace should be made at Picquigny between the two countries.
Timothy muttered in my ear, ‘We’ve always got a bloody prophecy whatever the occasion. That’s something you can bet on.’
I begged him to be silent as I wanted to listen, but the two monarchs were now embracing one another through the wooden bars of the grille and speaking in French. A missal was brought, together with a fragment of the True Cross, on which both men swore to keep faith with the articles about to be concluded between them; and a parchment containing the terms of the treaty being duly signed, the Peace of Picquigny was thus safely concluded. The two kings then withdrew to Amiens to talk in secret, but only after King Louis had made some jest which set the English in a roar and which I later got Jocelin d’Hiver to translate for me. It seemed that King Edward had been invited to Paris to amuse himself with the ladies and had also been promised the Cardinal de Bourbon as his confessor, a churchman who would easily grant him absolution for any number of sins committed. King Edward had replied that he had always heard that His Eminence was a jolly good fellow.
And it was on that note of ribaldry that the greatest invasion of France ever embarked on by an English army came to its inglorious end.
After witnessing the events at Picquigny I took ship at Calais and made my way to London and Baynard’s Castle, where I changed into my own clothes and retrieved my pack and staff. I lingered long enough to see the return of King Edward as, early in September, he and his brothers rode through the streets of London. Although everyone cheered, the huzzas were thin and mainly directed towards Duke Richard. I had heard sufficient mutterings among the people to convince me that they felt bitterly let down by what had happened.
The following day I set out for Bristol. My troubled conscience told me that I had been away from my little daughter for far too long and that she would grow up not knowing who I was unless I spent the winter with her. And the thought of winter quarters, of being cosseted and well fed by my mother-in-law, Margaret Walker, was not unpleasant. Already there was a chill in the air as evenings grew shorter and the darkness closed in. It would be good to sit by a fire again, my child on my knee, while the cold and the rain did their worst outside.
But not for too long. As soon as new life began to stir in the earth, the trees to bud, the flowers to blossom, I should be off once more on my travels. I could not bear the confines of four walls indefinitely; I should be on my way, savouring again the pleasures of the open road, abandoning Elizabeth to her doting granddam. I was not proud of the fact, but I knew myself too well to be blind to my faults. I was as God made me, a wanderer – at least I was in those green years. Today it is a different story.
About the Author
Kate Sedley is the pen-name of Brenda Margaret Lilian Clarke (née Honeyman), an English historical novelist. She was born in Bristol in 1926 and educated at The Red Maids’ School, Westbury-on-Trym. She is married and has a son and a daughter, and three grandchildren. Her medieval historical whodunnits feature Roger the Chapman, who has given up a monk’s cell for the freedom of peddling his wares on the road.