He had immense presence, though, and all the men immediately fell silent.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said softly, and turned his smile on each of us in turn, like a ray of sun on a cloudy day. ‘Friends, we are embarked on a high and dangerous empris, and many beautiful ladies, and many innocents, depend utterly on our good faith, our brave hearts and our strong arms. Is it right that any of you indulge in a private quarrel when so many depend on us against a rising tide of chaos?’
I bowed.
Camus whispered, ‘He cannot save you, little boy.’
I ignored Camus. ‘Your Grace, I have letters from the Lieutenant of Gascony. To whom shall I pass them?’
Navarre looked at me with very little interest. He gave a slight shrug — he was assessing the impact of his pretty speech on the crowd. The big Spaniard gave a small nod, and I stepped over to him, bowed and handed him the two scrolls of parchment that were addressed to the King of Navarre, whose domains, may I add, touched on Gascony in several places.
‘Martin Enriquez de Laccarra,’ he said, offering his hand to clasp. ‘I am the King’s gonfalonier. You are the English squire — Gold. There’s a Gold and a Black, yes?’
I had heard of him, of course, the captain of the Navarrese in Normandy. The Prince spoke highly of him as a knight. I was flattered that he shook my hand. ‘Black is my friend Richard,’ I said. ‘He is recovering from a sickness at Poissy.’
‘You two make good fame together — very proper,’ Enriquez said. ‘In brief, what does Sir John Cheverston want?’
‘He asks safe conducts for all his men, so he can exterminate the brigands in the high valleys, north and south. Even going over borders, if required.’ I explained about his army and the quest set him by our Prince.
King Charles passed me, going back to his pavilion. He paused in the curtained doorway, where, I think, he thought none could see him. He held up his right cuff, where I saw that he had a small mirror set in the cloth, and he used it to look at himself.
My friends, I’ve never seen a woman, even in the East, with a mirror attached to her clothes. Good God.
Enriquez saw what I saw, and effected not to notice.
‘You have a quarrel with the Bourc Camus,’ he asked quietly.
‘I do,’ I admitted. ‘None of my making.’
He shrugged. ‘My Prince has forbidden all forms of joust or duel until the peasants are crushed,’ he said. He smiled pleasantly enough, but something of his manner reminded me of Hawkwood, or Chandos. ‘I mean to see his will enforced.’
I bowed. ‘I will obey,’ I said.
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘I predict the King will sign your safe conducts as soon as I can catch his attention.’
Sam, John and I slept in Hawkwood’s camp in borrowed blankets.
The next day, servants brought us a breakfast of wine and stale bread with good soft cheese, then a French priest said Mass. Two Gascons tripped me and a third tried to kick me in the groin while I was down, but Sam broke one of the bastard’s fingers, quick as that.
Afterwards, Sir John surrounded me with his own men. His chief officer was John Thornbury, a solid man from the Midlands, a few years my senior and a head shorter, but already a famous fighter.
‘Camus hates you,’ he said, and I admitted this was true.
He laughed. ‘We’ll see you right, Will Gold.’ He spat. ‘Fucking Gascons, eh?’
I found myself quite popular with the English. I wasn’t used to popularity, but my recent feat of arms and my ‘official’ status acting for Sir John Cheverston gave me a name in an army full of famous men.
I liked it.
Reputation is everything — any boy knows as much. To enter a strange camp and discover that a thousand men know your name is a heady drink for a boy of seventeen.
At any rate, we were on the road after sunrise, and a little after midday we reached Mello, a small town twenty miles north of Paris, where, army rumour said, the leader of the rebels lived.
We made camp, observed at a distance by half a hundred cavalrymen. Sir John took us out from the camp, riding hard, to drive the enemy off, and we chased them north and east almost two miles, and saw their camp — a well-dug-in position on a round-crested ridge with steep sides. We sat our horses at the base of the slope, letting the animals breathe, while we looked up at the palisade at the top.
‘That’s steep,’ I said.
Sir John stroked his beard.
John Thornbury whistled. ‘They look pretty good,’ he said.
I started and pointed. Just above us, in a watch-port, were a dozen well-armed men in red and blue hoods.
Sir John looked at them under his hand. ‘Paris militia,’ he said.
‘But. . the King of Navarre is the master of the Paris militia!’ I said.
Sir John shrugged and smiled his small smile. ‘Today, he has chosen to be the brother-in-law of the King of France,’ he said. ‘Another day, he may choose to pose as the defender of Paris.’
We rode well to the north, in a great circle, looking for a hill that would overlook the peasant army, but we didn’t find one.
That night, men in our camp said their confessions and saw to their armour. The veterans went to sleep, and the new men — among whom I include most of the French knights — stayed awake all night bragging about their prowess.
Morning dawned and we all armed ourselves. An army of men-at-arms putting on their harness is like a nest of ants when a horse kicks it up: all at sixes and sevens, and I thought all morning that if the peasants had the sense to attack us at dawn, they might have won a great victory.
As it was. .
When we were fully armed, we learned that the King of Navarre had arranged a parley with the leader of the peasants, a local man named Guillaulme Cale. Martin Enriquez drew us up in three battles, with one mounted battle and two dismounted; I went with Sir John Hawkwood in the mounted battle. Bertrand du Guesclin was six horses to my left.
We stood by our chargers on a beautiful June morning and watched Guillaulme Cale ride down the steep hill from his nearly impregnable position. He rode across the fields between his camp and ours, with just two men, both of whom looked like knights, to my great surprise.
I expected the King of Navarre to ride out meet him, like the Prince at Poitiers with King John, but there were no cardinals here, and no rules. About fifty paces from our front lines, Enriquez and a dozen Navarrese men-at-arms closed around Cale and threw him from his horse. They bound him.
He was about twenty paces from me, and I heard him call out, ‘Is this your courtoise, monsieur the King?’
Charles was on foot, with a poleaxe. He was deep in conversation with one of the French knights, and he didn’t turn his head. Cale was dragged past him, kicking and demanding justice, and taken to the rear in our camp.
‘You gave me a safe conduct, you liar! Caitiff! God will punish you!’ cried the peasant leader.
He was beaten into silence.
All this was done in full view of the peasants on the hill. Many had come down the hill to see the parley, and more had come pouring out of their fortified camp at word that their leader was taken.
Enriquez trotted his charger across our front. He waved to Sir Robert Scot, who commanded the mounted men.
Scot closed his visor.
We all followed suit.
Next to me, Sir John said, ‘Through them — and straight up the hill before they can form. Or we’ll have a hard fight.’ He pointed at the crowd at the base of the hill.
We started forward to the sound of a trumpet. We went forward at a walk, harness jingling. The very harmony of Mars — the sound of horses and armour.