‘You told us we were safe,’ the miller rasped accusingly. ‘We believed you. It was–’
‘It is not my fault,’ snapped Arnold, wrenching free. ‘Blame the spies who told the French that I was in Rye today, thus leaving no one to mount a proper defence. They are the ones responsible for this outrage, not me. I was appalled when I came home to find–’
‘You? Mount a defence?’ sneered Dover. ‘And what is this about spies? I hope you do not aim to accuse our settlers again. They are our friends.’
At that moment, a gaggle of invaders swaggered past – stragglers, drunk on stolen wine, who were in no hurry to follow their compatriots back to France while there was still plunder to be had. Yelling for Arnold to follow, Dover plunged among them, cudgel flailing furiously. Two stalwart defenders could have defeated them with ease, but Arnold was too frightened to help, and only watched uselessly from the shadows.
When Dover was dead and his killers had lurched away, Arnold hid, vowing not to emerge again until the last enemy ship had sailed away. While he waited, he became increasingly convinced that someone had sent word to the French, telling them when to come. He scowled into the darkness. It was the settlers – their gratitude for Winchelsea’s friendship was a ruse, and they had betrayed their hosts at the first opportunity. Well, he would not sit back while they profited from their treachery – he would round them up and hang them all.
But what if Dover was right, and they were innocent? His heart hardened. Then that was too bad. He needed a way to deflect the accusations of cowardice he knew would be coming his way, and the settlers would provide it. His mind made up, he hunkered down until it was safe enough to show his face.
Cambridge, late April 1360
‘The French are coming!’
Isnard the bargeman’s frantic howl attracted a sizeable audience, and folk listened agog as he gasped out his report. Then they hurried away to tell their friends and families, adding their own embellishments to the story as they did so. By the time the news reached the castle, Sheriff Tulyet was startled to hear that a vast enemy horde was marching along the Trumpington road, and would be sacking Cambridge within the hour.
‘They landed on the coast and headed straight for us, sir,’ declared Sergeant Orwel, delighted by the prospect of a skirmish; he had fought at Poitiers and hated Frenchmen with a passion. ‘They heard about the great riches held by the University, see, and aim to carry it all home with them. We must prepare for battle at once.’
Although small in stature, with elfin features and a boyish beard, Tulyet was one of the strongest, ablest and most astute royal officials in the country. Unlike his sergeant, he understood how quickly rumours blossomed beyond all truth, and was disinclined to fly into action over a tale that was patently absurd – particularly as he knew exactly how Isnard had reached the conclusions he was currently bawling around the town.
‘I had a letter from the King this morning,’ he explained. ‘Rashly, I left it on the table while I went to Mass, and I came home to find my clerk reading it out to the servants. Unfortunately, Isnard happened to hear – he was there delivering firewood – and he seems to have interpreted His Majesty’s words rather liberally.’
Orwel frowned his mystification. ‘What do you mean, sir?’
‘The first part of the letter described how several thousand Frenchmen attacked Winchelsea last month,’ began Tulyet.
Orwel nodded. ‘And slaughtered every single citizen. It was an outrage!’
‘It was an outrage,’ agreed Tulyet soberly. ‘And although many people were killed, far more survived. In the next part of the letter, the King wrote that the marauders went home so loaded with plunder that it may encourage them to come back for more. Somehow, Isnard took this to mean that they will return and that Cambridge is the target.’
‘And it is not?’ asked Orwel, disappointed to learn he was to be cheated of a battle that day. ‘Why did the King write to you then?’
‘As part of a country-wide call to arms. We are to gather every able-bodied man aged between sixteen and sixty, and train them in hand-to-hand combat and archery. Then if the French do mount a major invasion, he will have competent troops ready to fight them off.’
‘A major invasion?’ echoed Orwel eagerly. ‘So we might see the French at our gates yet? We are easy to reach from the sea – you just sail a boat up the river.’
‘Yes,’ acknowledged Tulyet, ‘but the enemy will opt for easier targets first, and if they do, we shall march there to fight them. Personally, I cannot see it happening, but the King is wise to take precautions.’
Orwel was dismayed by the Sheriff’s predictions, but tried to look on the bright side. ‘I suppose training new troops might be fun. Does the order apply to the University as well? Most of them are between sixteen and sixty.’
Tulyet nodded. ‘Which means we shall have a lot of armed scholars and armed townsfolk in close proximity to each other, which is never a good thing. Let us hope Brother Michael and I will be able to keep the peace.’
‘Why bother?’ asked Orwel, scowling. ‘Most of them University bastards are French – I hear them blathering in that foul tongue all the time. Fighting them would be a good way to hone our battle skills and deal a blow to the enemy at the same time.’
‘Most scholars are English,’ countered Tulyet sharply. ‘They speak French because … it is the language they use at home.’
It was actually the language of the ruling elite, while those of lower birth tended to stick to the vernacular. Tulyet just managed to stop himself from saying so, unwilling for Orwel to repeat his words to the garrison. Soldiers already resented scholars’ assumed superiority, and reminding them of it would not be a good idea.
Orwel continued to glower. ‘They live in England, so they should learn English. I do not hold with talking foreign.’
‘No,’ said Tulyet drily. ‘I can see that.’
Orwel regarded him rather challengingly. ‘Will you tell Brother Michael to stop them from strutting around in packs, pretending they are better than us? Because they are not. And if the French do invade and the University rushes to fight at their side, we shall beat them soundly. No scholar is a match for me and the lads.’
‘Underestimate them at your peril,’ warned Tulyet. ‘Some trained as knights, while others are skilled swordsmen. They are a formidable force, which is why the King has included them in his call to arms.’
‘We have knights,’ Orwel pointed out stoutly. ‘And all of them are better warriors than any French-babbling scholar.’
Tulyet saw he was wasting his time trying to reason with such rigidly held convictions, and only hoped the belligerent sergeant could be trusted not to provoke a fight. Relations between the University and the town were uneasy at best, and it took very little to spark a brawl. A taunting insult from a soldier to a student would certainly ignite trouble.
‘We shall have two more knights by the end of the week,’ he said, to change the subject. ‘The King is sending them to help us drill our new recruits. Sir Leger and Sir Norbert, both veterans of the French wars.’
Orwel was delighted by the news, although Tulyet was full of trepidation. He knew exactly what the newcomers would be like – vicious, hard-bitten warriors whose experiences on the battlefield would have left them with a deep and unbending hatred of all things French. The townsfolk would follow their example, and friction would follow for certain. He heartily wished the King had sent them to some other town.