In late winter, we pounced on the Auvergne by rapid marches. We joined forces with Peter of Savoy — another bastard son — to take towns on the Rhone, while the King of France scrambled to raise armies ahead of us and behind us. My old captain the archpriest, Arnaud de Cervole, was put in charge of raising a mercenary army to fight us, but of course, all the best men were with us, and the King of France didn’t offer enough money.
Jean de Bourbon, who I had rescued on the Bridge of Meaux, was appointed commander of a second French army. I imagined that Emile’s husband, the Count d’Herblay, would be with him. Indeed, their estates were in Burgundy.
When I sketched this out on the frozen ground, I became very keen for the new campaign.
But instead of sweeping a victorious, vengeful horde into Burgundy, the vice began to close on us in early March. We’d heard that there was another Great Company operating in the south — the Spaniards — and that they would occupy the King of France’s field army, but they accomplished nothing and made a truce, so a third French army was freed to contain us from the south.
Creswell got sick. We were all sick that winter, because we were out in the open with no fires all day in rain, snow and mud — it never ended, and as the noose of steel closed around our necks, we had to move faster and faster to avoid getting hanged. At any rate, Sir John Creswell summoned me to his pavilion — a grandiose name for a simple square tent with a wattle-and-daub chimney laid up to allow for a fire — and ordered me to take command.
I had never commanded anything but a handful of lances, and as the rain fell and the roads, such as they were, were churned into ever deeper mud, I had to coax several hundred men and their lemans and servants to rise with the sun, harness their carts, pack their goods and move. When all our lances were together, we had almost 300 lances in Sir John Creswell’s company, and as we marched north and west, the other corporals joined us, and my job became more difficult — twice. First, simply because I had more men to command. Second, because none of the other corporals thought I was the right choice to command.
I suppose it was difficult, but I can’t remember being as happy since I was in the Prince’s service. I rode up and down, put my shoulder to a camp-follower’s cartwheel, dragged donkeys out of the thick black soup that filled the holes in the road, and generally led. . by example.
Every day, I practiced the lessons that Milady had taught.
Courtesy — even to a prostitute with a stubborn mule.
Largesse — to peasants burned out by their own knights.
Loyalty — to Sir John Creswell, too sick to take command, and to my own people.
Courage — the physical kind never came hard, but as that March wore on, a true Lent of the soul, the skies never once let us see the sun, and I had to be everywhere — cheerful, and sure.
High up the Rhone, I rode across country with a pair of men-at-arms — good men who later followed me many years, John Courtney and William Grice. I knew them from better days and they came with me willingly enough. I needed to find the other companies we were supposed to make a rendezvous with, and plan our next move. We’d lost touch with Petit Mechin in the mountains, and I only knew the whereabouts of Peter of Savoy.
I found him sitting on his horse in the watery March sunshine with Sir John Hawkwood and John Thornbury. They were wearing their arms, like noblemen, and Sir John had his own arms on a banner held by a man-at-arms, and I remember thinking, By God, he’s done well for himself.
I didn’t ride very fast. I wasn’t sure what reception I’d get, and I wasn’t sure whose actions had been the right ones. But a fair distance away, Sir John raised a gauntleted hand and gave me a salute, and when I rode up, he clasped my hand and embraced me as if I was the prodigal son. Thornbury was more reserved, but he clasped my hand warmly enough.
‘I hear you are running Creswell’s company,’ Sir John said.
‘Trying, Sir John,’ I admitted.
Sir John nodded. ‘I know you have it,’ he said simply. ‘I’m sorry we had a difference of opinion,’ he added.
I think I burst into smiles. Until I saw black and white colours coming down the road.
It’s strange what can set a man off. I think I would have apologized to Sir John then and there — from his point of view I’d broken discipline, and I understood that better now that I was doing a little commanding of my own — but one sight of Camus and I was angry, ruffled and unrepentant.
Sir John’s eyes went where mine had been and he put a hand on my reins.
‘He’s not worth the stinking carcass of a rotting dog,’ Sir John said. ‘Don’t rise to him.’
Our eyes locked.
What he was saying, for those of you too young to understand, was that if I crossed the Bourc in public again, Sir John would have to back him, and I’d lose my command. Or be dead. And that Sir John understood this to be unfair.
This injustice is woven into the story of my life. Like Nan’s da, the alderman. He thought it was unfair, too. Even when he told me to never enter his house again.
Perhaps I’d grown a little, or perhaps I was so in love with command that it steadied me. Perhaps all those lessons on knighthood were finally getting a grip on my stubborn heart. Camus rode up to join us with Peter of Savoy, and he turned his mad eyes to mine. ‘The Butt Boy,’ he said.
I just sat my horse and bowed to Peter of Savoy. ‘I’m here for Sir John Creswell,’ I said. I explained that we had lost touch with Petit Mechin, and they all nodded, even Camus.
Savoy shrugged. ‘Marshal Audreham is close behind us,’ he said. ‘We must take a couple of towns and win ourselves a crossing of the Rhone, or we are well and truly fucked.’
Sir John nodded. To me, he said, ‘I believe I may have been mistaken in coming back from Tuscany.’ He smiled. ‘You have to see Tuscany to believe it. Impossibly rich. Beautiful.’ He smiled. ‘And full of little, foolish men who want to hire us to fight for them.’ Just for a moment he looked like Renaud the Fox.
‘Eh bien, Sir Jean. We are not in Tuscany, but right here, facing the might of France.’ The Bourc was wearing the kind of armour I dreamed of owning — Milanese white armour. Probably made for him. His eyes met mine again and he said, quite evenly, ‘Soon, I will kill you.’ He smiled. ‘I will humiliate you and then kill you, so men will mock you for ever after you are dead.’
I turned to Sir John. ‘Is this how knights talk to each other?’ I asked.
‘I mean it,’ hissed the Bourc.
I shrugged. ‘Horse or foot. Any time, any weapon. To the death. I’ll make my challenge public, so that if you have me murdered, every man-at-arms in the army will know you for what you are.’ I straightened my back and met his eyes.
Blessed Virgin. Later, in Italy, I read how the Goddess Athena, who the old men believed in before Christ came, used to whisper in the ears of heroes, sending ‘winged words’ to help them. I didn’t hear any words, and yet, the words came to me as if from God, and they struck him like the hammer blows of a poleaxe. I’m proud to say that I delivered my words in a tone of banter.
Peter of Savoy laughed. ‘Fight Camus when we’re clear of the French, eh, Gold?’
I nodded. ‘Yes, my lord.’ I said it crisply and loud.
And men — these knights of ill-reknown — laughed. Not at me, but at Camus.
We dismounted at an old roadside auberge — gutted, ruined, rebuilt, burned again and now roofed by a daring sutler with an old red and black striped pavilion. He’d collected stools and benches from the local town and made a decent sitting area that was snug. So snug, in fact, it was hard to breathe.
As the leaders of three companies, we got a table and stools of our own. We drank small beer and Sir John made our plan. We had about 900 lances and we had to assume that Petit Mechin was on the other side of the ridge behind us, with the French right behind him.