It was mid-April when we rode down a long ridge to the crossroads, where the road to Gascony crosses the road to Paris and the Road to Provence — a crossroads in Auxerre that every routier of that time must have known like an old friend. It was pissing with rain, and we came down the ridge just about nones — not that Auxerre had a working set of bells to announce the hour. We routiers had seen to that.
Ahead, we could see fifty men-at-arms sitting in sodden splendour on the road, watery red, blue and gold.
At the same time that we came down the ridge to the east of the crossroads, there was another party — a dozen wagons and twenty horsemen — coming down the far ridge towards us. I knew a moment of fear until I saw their colours.
They were churchmen, with a heavy escort of men-at-arms.
I ignored them. I rode up our column to the Bourc, and nodded as politely as I could manage. ‘How do we handle this?’ I asked.
He smiled. It was a horrible smile, one full of knowledge. So might Satan have smiled at Eve in the garden. ‘Any way you like,’ he said, with real amusement.
I knew right there that something was wrong. I knew he wanted me to know something was wrong.
At some further level, I didn’t care. I think I knew then that I was betrayed, and I was prepared to let it happen. Why not? Emile was dead.
‘Who is the lieutenant of Auxerre?’ I asked, staring into the rain.
Camus barked a mad laugh. ‘Does it matter?’ he asked. ‘I have a safe conduct.’
It was true.
We rode down the ridge.
The Lieutenant of Auxerre was my old friend and enemy, Boucicault. Seeing him cheered me, and I rode up to him with my hands bare of gauntlets and offered my hand to him.
He let his horse shy slightly, widening the distance between us. The distaste on his face was palpable.
‘My lord, I have the prisoners for exchange,’ I said into the silence.
‘I am required to ask for your letters patent and your safe conduct,’ he said.
This was the sort of tedious bureaucracy that ruled our lives — the French seemed more hag-ridden with it than anyone else, but I hadn’t been to Italy yet.
I reined my horse to one side, writhing at the humiliation of having my hand refused by Jehan le Maingre.
I was in harness, with my dented basinet on my head — Christ, I remember thinking how marvellous Boucicault appeared in shining blue and gold harness, with all his points tipped in real gold, all his harness leather in matching blue, his eagles worked in enamel on his shoulder rondels.
My eye caught movement and I saw Richard take Milady’s bridle, and for the first time in two days I thought, Why is Richard here?
Milady screamed, ‘William! It’s a trap!’
In that moment, I saw it.
I saw Sir Hugh flip his visor down.
I saw the uncontrollable smile spread over d’Herblay’s face.
I saw Richard strike Milady, and I saw her fall back, and he took her.
I saw Camus, convulsed with laughter.
I saw Boucicault turn on me. He didn’t smile or frown. He said, ‘William Gold, I arrest you in the name of the King of France as an infamous bandit.’
As I say, I saw it. Creswell had held me back until Sir John was gone so that he could take my name off the safe conduct.
Like the blow that puts you down, I never saw it coming.
I think, if things had been different, I’d have fought better. If I’d thought Emile was alive. If Richard hadn’t betrayed me.
Instead, my realization of the betrayal was all at a distance, and if Camus hadn’t laughed so heartily, I might have let them take me without a fight. But his derision — and his long-repeated promise of the humiliations he would heap on me and my corpse — caused me to back my horse. Two French knights tried to get my reins, and one got my steel-clad elbow in his teeth. I eluded the other by luck — I half ducked and his armoured fist brushed the top of my basinet and carried on; he lost a stirrup and I put the toe of a sabaton into his horse’s side. The horse reared, he was down and I was a free man.
Things were happening over in our convoy. I got my longsword clear of the scabbard and half-reared my horse, looking for an opening.
Jehan le Maingre nodded heavily. ‘He’s mine,’ he called to his men-at-arms.’ He flicked me a salute with his sword and flipped down his visor.
Jehan le Maingre was, in that moment, the knight I wanted to be. Confident. Brave. And courteous. He saluted me, man-at-arms to man-at-arms.
I sat on my stolen horse with my rusty armour and put my spurs in, unwilling to go easy.
It is a tribute to what chivalry really is, even on that day, that no one interfered. They let us go at each other. Camus’s mad laugh rang in my ears.
Boucicault’s sword swept up, two handed. He was a fine horseman, and he guided his stallion with his knees, pointing its head for my midriff. I raised my sword one handed to guard my head on the left side.
His horse crashed into mine as his blow fell like a bolt from Jove in the heavens, and it was so sudden and so hard that it went through my guard and struck me on the helmet. My horse turned away from his, and his second blow, fast as an adder, hit my left shoulder. I couldn’t get my arm up high enough to parry his blows — my leather and splint arm-harnesses didn’t fit well enough. He hit me a third time, and I responded by snapping a blow behind me.
I missed.
I got my horse around as he hit me in the head — again.
I was reeling now, but I gritted my teeth and gathered my horse under me for one final effort. The nobly born bastard was beating me. I wasn’t used to being beaten.
I caught his next blow, and our blades ran down, hilt to hilt. I powered my blade over his, rotated the point, wagering everything on getting my point into his neck or his faceplate.
I caught his faceplate. I ripped a gouge across it, and his pommel caught me in my visor and punched me off balance, then his back cut to my head knocked me from the saddle.
When I hit, I hurt. When I say hurt, I think, in that moment, something died.
So I didn’t twitch when the sergeants came and took me.
I didn’t move when they cut the spurs from my heels, and I didn’t shout or fuss.
In fact, I noted with a sort of detached satisfaction when Richard Musard rode away, because he had Ned Candleman, John Hughes, Perkin and Robert Langland with him. He had our two French boys and Amory Carpenter and Jack Sumner. Camus said something. Richard Musard shouted back, Sir Hugh rode his horse in between them, and all my people rode away. I’m happy to say that John Hughes and Perkin never took their eyes from me all the way up the ridge until they passed out of sight.
Then the French put a noose on the tree.
Camus wrote out, ‘William Gold — Thief’ on parchment. He rode up. ‘To hang around your neck,’ he said, with a smile. ‘Don’t fear, Butt Boy. When you are dead, I’ll take your body and make leather of your skin.’ He laughed. ‘Maybe I’ll have you stuffed.’ He smiled. ‘I wanted this moment to tell you that I did this. Me. I bested you, merely by using my head. I undertook to make your friends — your own captain, Sir John Creswell, and your friend Richard — betray you. I hope you like it. I hope that you see you are utterly defeated, and I am victorious. You are nothing — worm dung.’ His voice burbled and rather ruined the effect of his own superiority.
He leaned over. ‘I’ll have the woman, as well,’ he said, grinning. ‘And eventually, the black squire. In this world of shit, destroying you and your friends is the greatest satisfaction I can have.’ He laughed. ‘All of you will be my slaves in hell!’
I’d like to say that he didn’t scare me, but a royal sergeant was preparing my noose and I was excommunicate. I was going straight to hell, and for excellent reasons.