The Ill-Made Knight (25 page)

If the monks found anything remarkable about a party of Englishman riding abroad on the Isle de France, they didn’t say a thing. They didn’t seem afraid – the day porter opened the gate, and let us in. We gave him Master Hoo’s corpse, and explained that he’d been murdered by brigands. Apparently that sounded likely.

We left the monk ten gold florins for candles and a Mass. It was past noon when we left, and only as we went back into the rain on our tired horses did I see how
big
Paris was. Paris was, and is, about ten times the size of London.

Nevertheless, we could see the Louvre looming over the fields and shanties. We were on the right side of the river. All we had to do was ride six miles through the largest city in Europe. Being boys who believed we could save the world, we had to try.

And Sam Bibbo humoured us.

We came up under the walls of the Louvre almost unchallenged. That is to say, a number of men in red and blue hoods yelled at us. We rode on, and they ignored us, because it was pouring rain. No one is brave in a downpour. At least, no one dry is brave. If you are already wet, it’s different.

Chaucer had never been to Paris, but he’d heard a great deal about it, and read books. Sam
had
been to Paris, as an archer in a retinue during the long truce. But he didn’t know how to get into the Louvre.

Really, we were fools.

But God smiles on fools and lovers. Doubly on men who are both, and I have always been a good lover of women. So we rode up to the Louvre, and there was a sort of shanty town running back away from the ditch. I felt at home, because it’s like that around the Tower, too, but this was worse, and bigger.

Christopher had the idea of asking. We were trying to be secretive, but he got fed up and asked a whore who was standing in the cold rain as if that was her job. She had a soaking red dress and looked to be twelve.

She didn’t seem to be afraid of us, which, to be frank, I found odd.

‘Can you take us to the Louvre? To the gate where they admit visitors?’ Chaucer asked her.

She shrugged. ‘I suppose,’ she said. ‘I might.’

Richard held up a gold florin. Lo, the mighty knights will achieve their quest, but only if they have a florin.

Gower never wrote a romance like this, and neither did Chaucer, although he might have. Hah! That makes me laugh.

We gave her ten days’ wages in gold, and she took us around a corner of nasty tenements and up what I’d have taken for an alley, except that it ended in a wicket gate with a half door and a very elegant small portcullis.

It was closed.

‘Oh!’ she said. Now she was frightened. ‘Ne’er seen it closed before.’

It had been a long day. The sun was setting somewhere far beyond the clouds, and the rain was falling as if God had elected to cleanse the earth again. I knew that if we rode away, we’d never get this close again. I
knew
how lucky we were to have reached the wicket of the Louvre.

‘Blessed St Michael,’ I said aloud. I drew my sword, rode to the great wooden half door behind the portcullis and started pounding on the gate with my pommel.

Richard joined me.

Chaucer pulled his hood tighter around his face. ‘We’re all going to die,’ he said.

Sam laughed aloud. ‘You think
they’re
mad?’ He laughed into the rain. ‘We’re
following
them.’

Far off, Notre Dame rung the half hour.

Chaucer was cold. His lips were blue. He wasn’t as well dressed as we – armour may look cold, but it blocks the wind, and good plate will keep the clothes under it dry. Or perhaps it would be better to say, warm and damp in a cold, clammy way. Mind you, my cloak had soaked through a full day ago, so my warmth was a relative thing.

Still, Chaucer’s mind was working. ‘She isn’t used to this being closed,’ he said aloud, and his teeth chattered. ‘The Dauphin thinks that Charles of Navarre is in Paris.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s not fucking
fair.
’

Richard looked down the alley. There were a dozen people watching us. So much for secrecy.

‘Write a note.’ Richard grabbed Chaucer’s arm. ‘Say we’re on a special errand from the King. Say anything. Write a note.’

Chaucer shook him off. ‘In a downpour?’

Richard laughed. ‘We can fight in the rain. You can write in the rain.’

In the end, he could, although it took Sam holding his huge Scot’s wool cloak over the notary while he scribbled. As we waited for the ink to dry on the scrap of parchment, Geoffrey told us
why
he had a scrap of parchment . . .

Richard looked at Sam. ‘Now you shoot it over the wall.’

Sam was completely still for a moment. Then he nodded. ‘Of course I do.’

We tied the note to a shaft, and covered it with a bit of silk from the lining of my arming jack. This all took time, and it was getting dark.

Then we held the cloak for him, while he bent his bow and strung it. He took the shaft and, in one swift movement, he bent the bow and sent the shaft into the air.

The twenty or so people watching all said, ‘Oooh,’ together.

‘Good Christ,’ muttered Chaucer. ‘Shall we ask the whore if she has a place for all of us to sleep?’

‘With our horses and armour?’ Richard asked. ‘No thanks.’ But he smiled at her.

She smiled at him. Women who could see past his dark skin always liked him.

Suddenly the wicket gate opened.

There was a big man – older, but a fighter, you could see. He was in armour, with a heavy pole-hammer in his fists, and there were ten men like him at his back.

The portcullis stayed down.

‘Who are you? State your names and styles.’

Chaucer was too cold.

Richard looked at me.

‘I’m William Gold. I’m a gentleman of . . .’ Christ, what was I getting us into? ‘Of the Earl of Oxford’s retinue. I have escorted this worthy man.’ That for Chaucer, and he never thanked me. ‘From Bordeaux. He has a copy of the King of France’s agreement with the King of England. Messires, we are cold and hungry, and we have fought brigands and Paris militia, and we would very much appreciate it if you would let us in.’

Chaucer glared at me, so apparently I’d said too much.

But the older man in armour nodded brusquely and removed his helmet. ‘I’m Robert de Clermont,’ he said.

Didn’t mean a thing to me, but his sergeants were opening the portcullis.

An hour later, still damp and cold, Richard, Geoffrey and I were standing before the Dauphin. King Charles V as he later was.

He was young – about my own age. His brother Philippe was even younger, and stood by him, playing with the hilt of his dagger. He looked like a saint: pale, dark-haired, with translucent skin, a long face and a noble brow.

His hands never stopped moving. He should have been a tailor, not a King. His eyes never met mine, but darted around the room. I understood that the Paris Commune played him a merry dance and treated him badly, that he was riding a bad horse as best he could. But I also thought that he’d lost Poitiers for France by leaving the field.

We bowed very deeply. He looked us over carefully.

‘But you are just boys?’ he said – rather spontaneously, I think.

Chaucer had fortified himself with two cups of hippocras and he smiled. ‘No younger than your Grace,’ he said with a fine bow.

The Dauphin nodded and looked at his brother, then at the Marshal of Normandy, Robert de Clermont.

Chaucer bowed again, was suffered to approach and handed the Dauphin a heavy scroll.

‘The draft of the treaty,’ he said. ‘My . . . I was sent to ask for your approval.’

‘Who sent you?’ the Dauphin asked. He might suffer from battlefield anxiety, but he was as sharp as a new knife.

‘My lord, the King, your father,’ Chaucer said boldly.

‘You met him?’ the Dauphin asked.

‘Yes,’ Chaucer said.

‘In person?’ the Dauphin asked.

‘Yes, your Grace,’ Chaucer replied. ‘I copied out our safe conduct as his express direction.’

I nodded in secret approval. When lying, it’s best to stay close to the truth.

The Dauphin nodded.

Chaucer bowed again. ‘My lord, if I may?’

‘Speak, sir,’ said the Dauphin.

‘Your Grace knows that the King of Navarre has escaped from prison?’ Chaucer said.

The Dauphin pursed his lips.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘We wanted to reach you before . . . the King of Navarre.’ Chaucer sounded unsure of himself for the first time.

‘Why?’ The Dauphin asked.

Chaucer stood as if dumbfounded.

‘Why?’ he asked again. ‘Do you imagine I have any freedom of action? I might have, but Charles of Navarre will rob me of that. What does my father imagine I’m doing here. Governing? I am not completely in control of the gates of this building. I do what I’m told. When I don’t, the Provost has some of my friends beaten. Or killed. And this agreement . . . is worthless. Because there are no funds to pay my father’s ransom – because the Provost of Paris is the law, and not I.’

Chaucer’s mouth moved like that of a fish out of water.

‘When Charles of Navarre comes – I’ve already signed his safe conduct – I will sign whatever he orders me to sign. He will give me orders in his own name, and in the name of his ally, the King of England. Whom you gentlemen claim to represent. As if the King of England is suddenly solicitous for the health of France. A murderer might stab a victim a few times and then hold his hand and ask after his health, eh?’ The Dauphin was halfway off his chair now.

He turned to the Marshal of Normandy. ‘See to it these men are fed – and outside the walls before Charles arrives in the morning.’ He laughed. ‘With his English army.’

He rose from his chair, walked to the fireplace and threw the whole treaty – seals and all – in the fire. When he laughed, he sounded a little mad.

We were escorted out. Politely.

We were fed. Well enough.

A very efficient house staff – this was the property of the King of France, and he had the very best domestic servants in the world, I think – dried our clothes.

It didn’t matter. Because we left in the dark, into a steady rain. Sam led the way. He knew where he was going, give or take a few miles. The ground was soaked and our horses were not recuperated after only six hours rest. Young Bob was all but crying with fatigue, and the rest of us weren’t much better.

But we made it away from the walls of Paris. As we rode north, across the fields and on small farm roads, we saw Navarre’s patchwork army marching down the main road from St Denis. I saw his colours on his banner at the head of his army. And I saw Sir James Pipe’s banner.

Chaucer reined in.

Sir James Pipe passed within a few hundred paces of us.

‘We’ll have a clear road to Normandy,’ Sam said. ‘These gentry have cleared it for us.’

I saw the Bourc Camus’ colours, black and white. And de Badefol’s. And Hawkwood’s.

I just sat there, dumbfounded. ‘Are we on the wrong side?’ I asked.

Chaucer breathed in and out a few times, like a dying man. When he spoke, his voice was gasping. ‘I . . . how? We talked about it. He said the treaty was everything. That we had to reach the Dauphin.’ He looked at me.

For the first and perhaps only time, I felt bad for him. He’d been really brave, resourceful, loyal and capable. By my standards, he’d proved himself.

Richard shrugged. ‘I don’t think we’re all going to be made Knights of the Garter this time,’ he said.

A crowd was pouring out of Paris, cheering Charles of Navarre. Now Paris had three masters: the Provost, the Dauphin and Charles of Navarre.

I met Richard’s eye. ‘We cocked this up,’ I said.

He shrugged. ‘We did what we were ordered to do,’ he said.

‘That’s our story,’ I agreed. ‘Let’s stick to it.’

That was hard. The feeling of failure. The feeling that somehow we were on the wrong side.

I remember looking at my little pennon with the Prince’s white feather in white on a black field. I wasn’t sure I should still be displaying it openly.

But I had days riding across the devastated landscape of the Isle de France and the Seine valley to contemplate just how we’d got the whole thing so wrong.

Every night, at small fires that didn’t really warm us, we shared looted wine and chewed it over again and again.

I had begun to harbour a suspicion that we – that is, Master Hoo – had been used. The fourth night on the road, we were camped in a corner of a burned-out stone barn. It had enough of the upper floor left intact to provide a feeling of dryness – mostly false, but with a fire of dry timber from what had once been the house, we did well enough.

I was trying to work some oil into the straps on my sabatons. The straps under the feet were about to give, and that required an armourer to pull the rivets. Rich men pointed the sabatons to their shoes, but that meant having a steady supply of shoes that fit just right.

Richard was sewing.

Chaucer was staring into the fire.

Sam was asleep, as were the other men. We were young and raw, so we sat and talked. They were older and knew how desperate our situation was, so they slept.

‘May I have your beeswax?’ Richard asked.

I tossed him my housewife – a small fabric pocket that held my horn needlecase, my silver thimble, my beeswax and my sewing knife. Every soldier has one.

He missed his catch and it went
splot
into the muddy water at the edge of the fire.

I shot to my feet. ‘By all the saints, you useless mongrel! All my thread wet! And my pins ruined! Give me that—’

‘I meant no offence . . .’ He looked very hurt. Richard had been treated worse than me as a boy and he didn’t stand up well to harsh words. Blows, yes – he was brave as a paladin – but words . . .

‘Leave off,’ Chaucer said. ‘Your foul temper is your least attractive trait, on a long list of them.’

‘You’re a canting hypocrite, and your lying story landed us in this state—’ I barked.

‘You can’t kill everything you don’t like, bully-boy,’ Chaucer said. ‘I never lied—’

‘Yon story about the treaty – Master Hoo never said such a word! Or if he did, he didn’t say it to you!’ I shouted.