I’d love to say that someone — the Earl, perhaps — came and saved me from that beating, but no one did.
Of course I fought back! I left every mark I could on those popinjays, those pampered rich boys. I blackened their eyes and broke one blackguard’s nose. But at odds of three to one, I was hard put to accomplish much, and sometimes, if they took me by surprise, I wouldn’t even get to land a blow.
I had two cracked ribs, my nose was broken so often it lay almost flat and my left hand was swollen like a club. I couldn’t be on my guard all the time, though I tried to be wary.
I went to Mass with John, where I knelt on the stone floor and said my beads and looked at the paintings. I knew more Latin than the priest, but he said a good piece about Jesus as a man-at-arms.
John rose from his knees. ‘See you at camp,’ he said.
‘You won’t stay?’ I asked.
‘I had a bellyful of this crap as a monk,’ he replied. ‘I’ve prayed enough for my entire life.’
I hadn’t. The chapel was beautiful, decorated with the pillage of a generation of English raids and victories, I suppose, and it was the finest church I’d ever been inside to pray. I felt safe, and happy. After Mass, I went and said my confession — only the second time, I think, that I had made a private confession, but soldiers are honorary gentlemen, in many ways.
I was unwary walking out the door, and four of the squires were waiting for me. They pulled me down immediately — I didn’t even land a blow — and Richard sat on my chest while another sat on my legs.
The bastard on my chest grinned and breathed his foul breath all over me. He was wearing Oxford’s colours.
‘Only criminals need to spend so much time in church,’ he said. He bounced a little, but he didn’t hurt me much — yet. Except, of course, that his bouncing moved my ribs.
This was going to be bad.
I cursed myself for a fool, letting my guard down. At the same time, I felt curiously absent. What kind of man attacks you just after you are shriven?
Best to get it over with.
‘Is your breath so foul from sucking a pig’s member?’ I asked.
He turned so red I thought he might explode. He began to beat me — one fist and then the other, right to my unprotected face. There was nothing I could do: left, right, left, right.
I remember it well.
And then God sent me a miracle.
Like a mother cat picking up a kitten, the priest grabbed Richard by the neck and lifted him with one hand, then hit him so hard he broke Master Richard’s jaw. I heard it go.
The other squires ran, but Richard just lay there and moaned.
The priest kicked him.
He screamed and moaned.
The priest looked at me. ‘Go with God, my son,’ he said.
It didn’t raise my popularity with the squires. But that didn’t matter as much as it might have, because we’d spent six weeks or more in Gascony, and suddenly the Prince was ready.
I’d seen him at a distance, with Sir John Chandos and other famous men, all instantly recognizable to a boy like me by their arms and their horses. For me, seeing Chandos was like seeing Jesus come to earth. But the Prince — by God, messieurs, the Prince was one of the best men I ever saw: tall, debonair and as full of preux as any man could be. Too few men of high station have the bearing and power to maintain their status in the eyes of the world, but the Prince looked just as he was — one of the most powerful lords in all the world, whether by strength of arms or strength of lands.
At any rate, the Prince did not ride out to visit the archers every day, so we seldom saw him, but at about the end of June, rumours began to fly that we were to march against the Count of Armagnac, because the French King and his army were busy in the far north, facing the famous Duke of Lancaster, our finest captain. Now, I could tell you that we didn’t know anything about the Prince’s plans, but I’d be a liar, because in an army of 5,000 men, in which 2,000 are men-at-arms, every man knew what the Prince intended, and his plans and stratagems were discussed round every campfire and in every inn. God help me I, too, criticized his plans. There is no critic louder than an ignorant fifteen-year-old making his first campaign.
I therefore knew that the King, that is, King Edward, had decided to knock the Count of Armagnac out of the war. The whoreson count had promised to become the King’s man, but he had reneged, and we were going to make him pay — or so all the older men said. And certes, the Prince had hit Armagnac hard in the fall, so it seemed likely we’d march on Armagnac.
But then, as so often passes in war, nothing happened.
Aye, comrades. For weeks. We saw the ships sail in from England with more arrows and more livery coats — I finally got one of my own — and we practiced, and I cooked better meals. Some of the Gascon lords who had ridden in took their retinues and went raiding. I stopped bathing in the river to avoid being beaten or losing my new coat, which I had tailored to fit tight, like a knight’s jupon.
And then we marched.
When we marched, it was like a bolt of levin had flashed across the heavens and illuminated the landscape. Every man in Bordeaux — about 7,000 men — marched together, and we moved fast, heading north to Bergerac in the Dordogne. We were there before anyone could say where we were headed, and suddenly I learned a whole new set of lessons about finding firewood when 6,000 other men were doing the same; about finding a chicken, when 6,000 other men wanted one; about feeding my horse; about having time to sew; about finding a place to sleep. John was no help — he was as raw as I was myself. Abelard, on the other hand, was the consummate veteran, and he could spot a dry barn with a solid loft across six leagues of hills, predict it as being near the army’s eventual halting place and ride there cross country to set his camp. Although Abelard held no rank above that of ‘cook’ with de Vere’s retinue, he made himself indispensable by riding with the outriders, choosing a camp and arranging for the Earl’s great pavilion and all the lesser tents. He worked hard and I rode after him, and found that I was riding double the distance the army travelled. I became Abelard’s messenger boy, which suited me, as it meant I came in daily contact with the Earl and sometimes rode along with his men-at-arms or squires.
I have to laugh, even now. Listen — boys torment each other when there’s nothing else to do and no Frenchmen to fight, but once we were on the march, that ill-feeling was mostly gone. You think I should have harboured a grudge? Perhaps. But to tell the truth, I was far more afraid that the Earl would leave me with the baggage then I was of the squires.
A few of them felt differently, though, as you’ll hear.
And I admit that when I saw Richard riding with a bandage on his jaw like a nun’s wimple, I mocked him.
At any rate, when we arrived at Bergerac after five days rapid marching, I slept for most of day, rose, ate Abelard’s meal and slept again. It wasn’t until our third day in Bergerac that I pulled my weight or worked, because I was so tired and awestruck by the cook’s constitution. He was made of iron. He could ride all day and cook all night.
After our lightning fast ride across Gascony, we stopped and waited.
The waiting was brutal. And dull.
By then, I was wary all the time. And after sleeping a long time and working a day or two, I was aware of a certain watchfulness from the squires. I hadn’t won them over. Most of the oldsters had something better to do than work on me, but the younger ones — and the fools, and Richard, who had had his jaw broke — weren’t going to change their minds, and the oldsters weren’t going to stop them. I could feel it. Abelard warned me — twice, in just so many words — that they meant me harm.