An hour later, we found four nuns and a priest at a crossroads.
Richard rode up to the priest. ‘Can we be of service!’ he asked.
One of the nuns began to scream.
She screamed and screamed.
Another nun began to beat at Richard with her fists. Considering she was about five feet high and he was a fully armoured knight on a war horse, you can see why this sticks in my memory. She meant him harm. She didn’t care what harm she took in return.
Richard backed his horse away. ‘Sweet Jesu,’ he said. ‘Leave off, ma soeur. I’ve done you no harm.’
‘All of you,’ she shrieked. ‘All of you! I’ll kill you all, you hell-spawn!’
The priest just shook his head. ‘Ride on,’ he said. ‘And do us no harm, I beg.’
The nun stood in the road behind us. ‘May Satan rape you! May demons rip out your eyes! May he grind your flesh with a mill — rip you with red-hot pincers! May you take the plague!’ she shrieked. ‘Boil in oil! May worms eat your eyes, you shit-eating English!’
We rode a little faster, as if her curses carried weight.
Chaucer watched me. I felt his eyes on me, and I looked away from the nuns and at him. ‘What?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘Hawkwood’s men, or Knolles’, or Camus’ or one of the other captain’s men raped them all. Good fun. Very chivalrous, no doubt.’ He nodded. ‘Perhaps they had it coming.’
‘Camus’ men are Gascons, not Englishmen,’ I said.
Chaucer nodded. ‘That makes it different, I’m sure,’ he said.
She was still screaming. She was too far away for her words to carry, but the shrill tone was like a witch, I thought.
I leaned towards him and he flinched.
‘Richard and I saved your life,’ I said.
Chaucer shrugged. ‘My ransom, I expect.’ He smiled his annoying, superior smile. ‘Camus wouldn’t kill me. He’d just sell me to the Prince.’
I got control of myself and rode away. Richard rode with me.
‘Let me hit him, next time,’ he said. He grinned. ‘By God, William, that was a good fight.’
It was our first one together, as brothers-in-arms, so to speak.
The next day, we made contact with Sir James Pipe’s men, and Master Hoo gave them some sort of password, and we were taken to the Lieutenant of Normandy. Bah — perhaps he was made Lieutenant of Normandy later. I can’t remember.
Sir James held the convent of Poissy. From the walls, we could see Paris on the horizon.
He had fewer than 500 men, and he was waiting for Knolles and Hawkwood. He met with Master Hoo for half an hour, and Hoo emerged looking grey. I’d just seen to the horses — by then I was resigned to being a sort of military servant, and I’d admitted to myself that Hoo was the one in charge of the expedition. Richard and I got the convent’s servants to curry our horses. Given what we’d seen on the road, the convent made me. . anxious.
There wasn’t a nun to be seen, and all I could think of was the Bourc Camus’ assertion that nuns made good whores.
By the blessed virgin, this courier duty was giving me heartache.
At any rate, the horses were fed and clean for the first time in six days, and most of the men were already asleep. Chaucer was lying across a saddle, out cold.
We were tired.
‘We need to ride. Immediately,’ Hoo said.
I just looked at him. But he was not given to dramatics, and he hardly ever spoke.
‘It is. .’ he shrugged. ‘I can’t say. But we must go. Now.’
As I say, I’d realized he was the true commander of our enterprise, so I hauled our tired horses out of the stables, kicked the men awake — I didn’t kick John Hughes or Sam Bibbo, by the by. That would have been foolish.
Richard shook his head. ‘What the fuck?’ he asked.
Chaucer got to his feet. ‘You curried my horse!’ he said to Richard.
Richard shrugged. ‘William curried your horse, you ingrate.’
Chaucer looked at me as if waiting for the trick. He probably was.
Richard raised an eyebrow. ‘Why don’t you repay him by finding out why the hell your master needs us to ride right now?’
Chaucer nodded. ‘I’ll try,’ he said.
Of course, while he tried, I had to saddle his mare. I looked at Goldie and shook my head. I’d been on him for two solid days and he needed rest, so I saddled my riding horse.
We were out the gate with three hours of late autumn light left.
‘Paris?’ I asked Master Hoo.
He nodded.
‘Messire, may I ask how dangerous this is?’ We were moving briskly.
Hoo shrugged. ‘In truth, lad, I have no idea. Everything just went to hell.’ He looked at me. ‘You and your friend have done a fine job of keeping us alive so far. You are luck’s own child. Let’s pray you haven’t burned it all.’ He stopped for a moment. ‘I have good credit with the Prince. I swear to you that if you get me to Paris, I’ll see you well.’
‘Can I ask what all this is about?’ I tried.
‘No,’ he said.
‘Sweet Jesus,’ I muttered, or something equally blasphemous.
We reached St Cloud by the simple expedient of riding all night and not giving way to the temptation to hide. There was fire all around us, but very few people, and the roads were clear. I have seen this many times — if you move fast on a good road it’s very hard for an enemy to ambush you, and in many cases, no one will lay an ambush on a highway.
Luck? Good strategy? Whichever way you take it, we entered St Cloud as the sun rose, in heavy winter rain. There were guards on the gate, in hoods of crimson and royal blue — the colours of Paris. Their weapons were ill-kept and they had the indefinable air of incompetence that marks the militiaman.
Master Hoo spat. ‘Fuck me,’ he said bitterly. He glanced at me. ‘Be very, very calm, messire. This is not-’
He had no more time to speak, because we were surrounded by the militia at the gate.
They read Master Hoo’s sauvegarde over and over, until I became convinced that none of them could read. My hands were numb, the gloves of my steel gauntlets were soaked through and bitter cold, and rain was running down the middle of my back between my shoulder blades, having soaked through my best three-quarter cloak about two in the morning.
The ‘captain’ of the gate was younger than I was and very full of his own importance.
Master Hoo looked bored.
I began to grow angry. I was cold and wet, and I at least wanted into the warmth of the guard room, but none of the Paris militiamen seemed inclined to offer us so much as a cup of small beer.
‘May we come in and get warm?’ I asked.
The man nearest me snarled. He had a partisan — a spear with heavy side lugs. He raised it and made to place it against my throat.
I caught it in my left hand. I was still mounted, and without thinking I gave my riding horse the command to back, and he backed, dragging the Frenchman off his feet. He let go his weapon.
Quite a few crossbows were suddenly levelled at me.
‘Your English friends are burning their way across France,’ the captain said. ‘We hesitate a little to let you into our city? Eh?’ he asked.
‘Your man tried to poke me with a spear,’ I said. I extended the spear to the captain. ‘Then he seems to have dropped it.’
‘Fucking aristo,’ spat the man whose weapon I’d taken. ‘Let’s just kill them all.’
‘Why are you here?’ the captain suddenly asked John Hughes.
The Cumbrian looked blankly at him.
Now, I happen to know that John had been in France ten years, and spoke good, if Gascon, French. But he glared sullenly at the French captain, and the captain went from man to man. ‘Why are you here?’ he finally asked me.
I shrugged. ‘To escort that man,’ I said. I waved at Hoo. Let him fight his own battles.
‘Your sauvegarde is signed by the King of France,’ the captain said. ‘The King is a prisoner in England and no longer the head of our state. Your safe conduct is worthless.’