I grabbed his shoulder.
He cringed away and drew his dagger. ‘I know what men like you do,’ he said. ‘I hate all of you. By God, if you touch me, I’ll see to it the Prince has you quartered.’
‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ I said. ‘I want to know why you burned us. What have we done to hurt you?’
He spat. ‘You make me feel dirty,’ he said.
‘This from a fucking spy?’ I asked.
‘Spy?’ he asked.
‘Didn’t you just bring Tamworth his orders from the King?’ I asked.
He was pulling his horse out of the stall by the bridle. ‘Not your place to ask,’ he said.
‘Perhaps I don’t have the need to know?’ I asked.
‘Why don’t you go kill some peasants?’ he said.
‘For the King?’ I asked. ‘Or Good Prince Lionel?’
He mounted. ‘Keep your foul mouth shut,’ he spat, and rode out our gate.
The Constable of France picked him up a few hours later and ransomed him. I had nothing to do with it.
We went into Burgundy. We had sixty men-at-arms and as many archers, and Sam was still with us. We had regular lances by then, as I remember, so Sam was my archer and Perkin was my page. He was sixteen now, and still very small, but I had him in a good haubergeon, a fine steel helmet from Milan and steel gloves. He still seemed to know everything.
Richard had his own fighting page — more like a squire — named Gwillam, a Welch boy who’d come with the Cheshire men and somehow washed up with us. And we had a pair of Irish horse-boys, too — also the flotsam of the King’s army. They were Seamus and Kenneth, and they were big, they could ride anything, and they loved to fight — like Gascons, really.
As corporals, we each had a dozen lances — that is, a dozen men-at-arms, a dozen archers and a dozen armed pages or varlets. Each lance shared a fire and a tent. It was becoming a system — the boys entered as servants, grew to be armed pages and then graduated to be men-at-arms. The archers were getting thinner on the ground — there were never really that many of them, and by the winter of ’59, all the good ones were serving the King. All but Sam and John and a few hundred more like them. While we’d held Chantay against the Constable, Knolles had pushed south in Provence and been defeated — aye, it was a complicated year — and most of his good men deserted him.
I’m off my tale. We rode east and north into Burgundy, and we stormed the castle of Courcelles, which our archers had carefully scouted. It was deep inside Burgundy, and perfectly sighted to base raids. We took it in one assault — I was the first man on my ladder, and that was terrifying. I took a dose of hot sand all down my back, and it burned away all the leather straps on my old breast and back, but I got up the ladder, sent one Burgundian to the devil and the rest threw down their weapons.
Over the next three days we spread out like a plague. We took manor houses and small castles by storm, at night, killed the inhabitants and stripped the houses. We moved so fast that the locals couldn’t organize a defence, and twice we caught the local baron’s forces on the road, trying to intercept us, and beat them up. The second time, we took him prisoner — that’s the Count of Semur. I sent him along to the Prince of Wales, whose column was nearest to us, with my compliments. I did it with every sign of chivalry, and I know the count found me a good captor as he said as much.
And then one of the Prince’s squires rode in under a flag of truce and ordered Tamworth to cease making war in Burgundy under the pain of the Prince’s displeasure. King Edward met with the Burgundians at Dijon — an hour away from us, may I add — and they paid him 200,000 moutons for a three-year truce.
We didn’t see one mouton of it, and we’d done all the fighting. And messieurs, in case you’ve missed the point, this was royal war, not brigandage. Everything Tamworth did, he did on direct orders from King Edward. We were soldiers, not brigands — until the King disowned us.
To add to our ire, the Burgundians granted Courcelles — the castle I’d stormed — to Nicholas Tamworth. He kept a few men to hold it, but dismissed the rest of us.
And to crown it all, the Prince of Wales released my prisoner, the Count of Semur. Perhaps it suited his policy, but he stated to his council that the count had been taken ‘by bandits, and not in a regular episode of war’.
As the last straw, the squire who came to order us to desist also informed me, and Richard, that we should not return to court or to England.
As a soldier, my fortunes had never looked better. Tamworth praised me to the skies, and said my exile from the Prince was all politics and that he’d ‘look into it’, but the continuing exile stuck in my craw. Twice in one autumn, I had performed a good feat of arms and been punished for it.
But even then, I might have stayed the course. I might have lasted out the exile.
Richard came into the house we shared and spat on the floor — something he never did. He collapsed onto a stool, stripped his helmet and aventail off his head before his Welshman could help, and hurled it at the walls so hard it broke the plaster and left a broad patch of willow lathe.
‘God’s curse on all of them,’ he said.
Perkin handed him a cup of wine.
He looked at it for a while.
I put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t fret, brother,’ I said. ‘Tamworth will see us right.’
He looked at me, and he didn’t look like himself. He had bright colour in his dark cheeks, and his eyes sparkled as if he was mad. His eyes were wide like a young girl’s.
‘Nothing will see this right,’ he spat.
‘We’ve lived through all this before,’ I said. ‘We’re good men-at-arms and they’ll bring us back.’
‘The Prince of Wales has just accepted the homage of the Bourc Camus,’ he said. ‘The Bourc is to be his liege man for Gascony and command part of his army.’ Richard’s eyes met mine. ‘Think it through, brother.’
I was pleased when my men chose to come with me. When I went south to find Seguin de Badefol, I took with me ten men-at-arms, including de la Motte, and ten archers and pages, and Richard did just as well. We were moving up in the world — our own twisted world. Mind you, my armour was a patchwork of rust and old leather, and every fight had left its mark — my leg armour was more dirt and horse sweat than leather and iron. My fine basinet was brown.
The King of England moved away from Burgundy with his great army and settled down to the siege of Paris. The end was coming — we all knew it. The Dauphin couldn’t hold Paris for long, and Paris had already survived the Plague, the Commune, Etienne Marcel and the King of Navarre. There were no reserves in Paris.
Then the weather struck. King Edward had campaigned through the winter, and the weather had been merciful; his ‘allies’ in the companies had isolated Paris and Burgundy from the rest of France for the critical time. Even though he’d failed at Reims, he now had Paris under his hand, and he had, in one day of negotiations, knocked Burgundy out of the war.
All England needed was three weeks of decent weather.
Instead, we had three weeks that reminded everyone of the passages in the Bible about the flood that cleansed the earth and floated the ark. The English army was tired, and despite the King’s political victories, men weren’t getting rich and the army was too big to feed itself. When they sat down to the siege of Paris, they were sitting on land that the English and Navarrese companies, the Jacques and the French themselves had devastated for four years. If Paris had no reserves, the Isle de France was a desert.
Seguin de Badefol had offered to take our lances, and he was three days ride from Paris — he had a contract to serve directly under the Prince as Prince of Gascony, and he offered us good rates. We caught up with the Prince’s forces at Gallardon. I saluted de Badefol — we’d been together several times — and bowed to Jean de Grailly, who promised to represent both of us to the Prince.