Let me tell you about lying all night on sandy soil. It’s dull. Every noise is an enemy; every rock digs into you, despite your harness. I wore my brigantine and my arm harness, and no legs, sabatons or breastplate. I couldn’t be comfortable.
Sam Bibbo snored behind me.
The stars crept across the sky.
When you go out to lay an ambush, you go out full of the soundness of your plan and the excellence of your men. By the time the moon has crept halfway across the sky, the plan seems like lunacy and the men with you a paltry force to face the destined counter-ambush, or far too large and noisy for the task. The enemy is never coming.
What I remember best was the tricks my eyes played on me and the plans I hadn’t made. Somehow I’d forgotten to tell everyone under what circumstances we’d retreat. I lay there and worried as my stomach roiled, and I farted too much.
Ah! Command. Everyone desires it. But once you have it, it’s a fool’s game, and you are always better off having some other man, who you tell yourself is brilliant, preux, daring and sure — let him make the decisions.
A night ambush is for a monster of self-assurance.
I kept thinking that the sun was rising, that it was lighter. I have no explanation for this, except that as I rolled over to start telling men to withdraw — this happened at least twice — I realized that it was still black as pitch, even with moonlight.
When I heard the clink of metal on stone, I assumed it was from one of us.
Then a boot scraping, and then metal.
Sabatons. A knight in full harness, walking on the road.
I raised my head.
In the moonlight, they were like a procession of the dead — twenty men at least, in harness, coming down the road.
Was it a sortie?
But they had another half a dozen men with yokes.
They’d come for water.
So much for my night of worries.
I had chosen a spot below the road, with a clear view. My archers were all to my right, so they had unobstructed shooting, and my men-at-arms were on both sides of the road but a little lower down.
I waited, my heart beating so hard that I could watch my brigantine’s plates move in the moonlight.
The last man passed me.
I stood up. ‘St George and England!’ I roared.
We killed or took them all.
It wasn’t a great feat of arms, but all the famous names were off fighting in the north with Navarre, and so Richard and I made our names. I took the Captain, Philippe de Monfer — he was the man in sabatons — sword to sword. He hacked at me overhand — most men do, to be frank — but in two years I had learned a few things about the longsword. I held mine in two hands — one hand on the hilt and one almost at the point — caught his first great blow over my head, threw my blade around his neck and threw him to the ground, using my sword as a lever. He went down with a crash, and Sam stripped him of weapons while I stood on his sword arm and fought off his squire. The squire had an axe. I cut at his hands until I broke his fingers. He gave himself up.
Richard took four men. He was getting better, too.
The rest threw down their weapons. These were routiers, not great knights. They weren’t worth much — in fact, Cheverston hanged a few of them — but we made a fair amount on our ransoms.
That was all in the future, though. The taking of Nadaillac was an event, as much for the French as for us, because the ‘captain’ had preyed on both sides. Cheverston had a writ from the Black Prince to clean out every nest of robbers in the Dordogne, and with the fame of our deed behind us, Sir John sent us, as he had threatened, back into France to get him the permission he needed to make war against the brigands who preyed on both sides. He also gave me letters to Charles of Navarre, two of the King of France’s officers and the Dauphin.
He read them over very carefully after a scribe had copied them fair. ‘Listen, Master Gold. None of us really knows who is governing France these days. We do not want to break the truce, but we do not want to offend the wrong. . hmm. The wrong government. If you can, get me a sauvegarde from all three: the Dauphin, the King of Navarre and the King’s lieutenant. Understand?’
I think I smiled. ‘All too well, my lord,’ I said.
‘Sir John Chandos says you have a good head on your shoulders,’ he nodded. ‘Governing is not all about swords, eh? Get this done for the Prince and I’ll see you are rewarded.’ He looked at me. ‘I’d have sent Master Chaucer on this mission, but he, mmm, is not available.’
I bowed gratefully.
A letter had come to the army from England and ordered Chaucer home for a wedding. I wasn’t that sorry to see him go, but Richard was. We gave him a fine dinner, and so did Marie, as he passed through Bordeaux.
We rode north in spring. Our horses and gear were the worse for wear after almost ten months’ constant campaign, but we had just made our fortunes and we were cheerful. We sang. We told stories. That’s when we missed Chaucer the most, of course — he was an endless fund of stories, and that’s before he went to Italy.
We repeated our earlier route to Tours. The same royal officer passed us, with the same courtesy — this is one of the reasons the same men are used as couriers again and again. Once you are known, passing borders and gates is much easier.
North of Tours, we stayed within France and rode on to Paris. We passed north through a sullen country, full of furtive people. Bibbo was on his guard. I’d learned my lesson from du Guesclin, and now we went into our cloaks as soon as we’d eaten, and we kept watch all night. My page, Rob, was growing into a man, and had a good sword from Nadaillac; the rest of them were solid enough. We were used to each other’s ways — we could halt and, in an hour, the food was cooked, the fire out, the horses curried, fed and picketed, the blanket rolls laid on firesh-cut bracken of whatever type the area allowed, whether plundered straw or pine boughs. The taking of Nadaillac had improved our kit by four small tents, simple wedges of white linen that went up easily and stowed flat in wicker panniers. We often used them to roof over other structures, byres and barns and roofless hovels, but they were better than a sky full of rain, even by themselves.
By day, very little moved across the country. We never saw a wagon or a cart. Sam and John took to riding with their bows strung and over their shoulders, because despite the spring sun, there was an air of thunder over the whole country.
Twice we passed manor houses with smoke coming from the chimneys, but they weren’t interested in having us, so we rode on.
Forty miles south of Paris, at Etampes, we found the town taken and full of an English garrison. They claimed to be holding the town for the King of Navarre, but they gave us lodging, let us refill the feed bags for our horses and baggage animals, and we got wine and news.
The news was that the Dauphin had escaped from Pairs and was raising an army.
Word was that he was at Meaux, on the far side of the Seine. That set us a fine problem as we didn’t relish entering Paris, especially Paris controlled by Etienne Marcel and his red and blue hoods. Word was they were killing every aristocrat they could find.
The English held the lower Seine, but it was a hundred dangerous miles round Paris to the English-held crossings.
We discussed trying our luck.
But the captain of Etampes told us that the Isle de France was ‘the very cockpit of war’, so we elected to go south around Paris. We decided to go straight to the King of Navarre.
I wanted to see the trail of slime, I guess.
We rode north first. We weren’t following a rational route, but rather jumping from English-held manor to English-held castle. It was interesting to talk to the captains — all new men, as far as I could tell, many as young as me, and some — you may laugh to hear me say this — the sweepings of English prisons. Hard men were pouring into France from England. They were here for plunder and nothing else. Most had only the vaguest idea of what side they supported in the French civil war.