The Ill-Made Knight (56 page)

‘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.

Camus, the very tool of Satan, was grinning at me. I was about to die.

‘Tell my master, hello,’ he said. He turned and rode away.

Boucicault rode up. I noted he had a crease in his beautiful helmet and another on his right pauldron. ‘I’d like to give you a priest,’ he said. ‘If I didn’t have express orders to the contrary, William, I’d save you just to spite Camus. For my part, I’m sorry. I’m doing my duty.’ He glanced at Camus. ‘I promise you that in time, I’ll make that one pay.’

I couldn’t bow as my hands were tied behind me, and I could barely stay in my saddle because the sergeants had cut my stirrups. But I nodded. ‘If you get him,’ I said. I managed a shrug. ‘He’s evil.’

Boucicault made a face. ‘All of you are about the same, to me.’ He looked around, clearly hesitant to get on with it. ‘But de Charny said you had it – had the makings of a knight. This . . . is the wrong end for you.’

I wanted to beg. I really did. I wanted to say that I’d start again, that I wouldn’t be lured by easy money and fighting, that I’d try to learn all the rules and please my Prince and . . .

Hah. I was too proud. Add to my sins, too stupid and arrogant to beg for life from a man who, however much I may sometimes have loathed him, was not happy with hanging me.

‘You know what I hate?’ he said in a low voice.

Camus yelled, ‘Get on with it!’

Boucicault ignored him. ‘You know what I hate?’ he asked. ‘I hate that d’Herblay, whose worthless arse you saved at the Bridge of Meaux, actually helped contrive this.’

I shrugged again. It was all getting far away, somehow.

Emile was gone, and so was Richard. I had lived a worthless, sinful life. You know what I said to Boucicault, there in the rain, with the noose around my neck?

I said, ‘I forgive you, Monsieur le Maingre.’ I nodded and drew myself erect.

Listen, you wretches. I’m very proud of this part.

I said, ‘I’m going to pray a paternoster. When I’m done – maybe even a word or two before . . .’ I shrugged.

He bowed. ‘You should have been a knight,’ he said.

I started my prayer.

‘Paternoster, que est in caelus . . .’

It is remarkable how we can think about many things at once.

The prayer was genuine. I had led a worthless life, and my soul was condemned to hell, but I truly repented, and my understanding was that my repentance was good for something. Even from a worthless murderer like me.

But at the same time, it was curious how long I’d taken to say the first line – it was as if time slowed. I had time to think about several things, about the taste of Emile’s skin in my mouth . . .

Santificeteur nomen tuum . . .

About the feeling of the charge of 2,000 lances . . .

Adveniat regnum tuum . . .

About the moment when the gates closed on the Bridge of Meaux and I had saved Jacques de Bourbon . . .

About serving the Prince at table . . .

Fiat voluntas tua . . .

About meeting de Charny in the shop . . .

Sicut in cael, et in terra . . .

About putting my dagger in him at Poitiers . . .

About my sister, and my uncle . . .

Panem nostrum cotiadianum da nobis hodie . . .

About Nan, my first woman . . .

Et dimitte nobis debita nostra . . .

Meeting Richard; the Inn of the Three Foxes . . .

Sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris . . .

The Abbott, my sister, Emile, Richard, Sir John, de Charny, Sir John Chandos . . .

Et ne nos inducas in tentationem . . .

Almost at the end.

The convoy of churchmen had arrived. I could hear them – the creaking of the carts, the hooves.

‘Stop!’ said a loud, harsh voice.

I opened my eyes, Hoping against hope. Why not?

I saw the Franciscan whose horse I was riding.

His heavy blue eyes met mine. ‘That is my horse,’ he said.

Camus laughed. ‘When he’s dead, you can have it back.’

The Franciscan looked at Camus, and I swear the servant of Satan flinched. ‘It is my horse, and I will talk to this man,’ he said, riding up to me.

He was a poor rider. You could see that.

In a moment of about-to-die insight, I guessed my wonderful horse had been given to him by a rich patron, precisely
because
he rode so badly.

His eyes weren’t mad, but they had something of the same quality as Camus’. This was not a man who saw things in shades of gray. ‘Have you confessed?’ he asked me.

I shook my head. ‘Nay, father, I’m excommunicate,’ I said.

He smiled and his face lit. ‘It happens,’ he said, ‘that I have a special power conferred by the Holy Father to shrive such as you,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry I stole your horse,’ I admitted.

‘Is that the sum of your confession?’ he said with a surprisingly gentle smile. ‘Perhaps your good cloak was a fair exchange. I never needed a war horse.’

‘Father, I’ve led a hard life, and my sins are about as black as they can be.’ I didn’t shrug. It was for everything – me, this priest and my soul.

‘Are you in a hurry to die, then?’ he asked.

Can you imagine a man who makes you smile when you have a halter around your neck?

I bowed my head. ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned grievously, and I can’t even remember when I last made a full confession.’

‘Better,’ he said.

I heard hoofs – clip clop. A damn big horse.

But I kept my eyes down. I began my confession. I won’t bore you with it, messieurs. You’ve heard the meat of it, anyway.

The Bourc Camus shouted, ‘Hang him – push the priest off. By Satan! Must I wait all day?’

‘Silence,’ ordered Boucicault.

‘Fuck you,’ said Camus. ‘I knew I should have put the sword to him when I had the chance. I will not be gainsayed.’

‘I don’t believe you were done confessing,’ said the priest.

But I had to look.

Camus drew his sword.

Boucicault drew his sword.

The black and white men-at-arms outnumbered the French at this point, but I don’t think Camus could have taken Boucicault.

It didn’t matter, because one of the men-at-arms from the religious column, dressed in the long black riding cloak of the Hospitallers, trotted up the road. He didn’t even have a sword in his hand. He reined in between the French and Camus.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said firmly, as if they were his children.

Boucicault breathed deeply. ‘Sir Knight,’ he said and sheathed his sword.

Camus laughed. ‘Out of my way,’ he said, and he slammed his blade two-handed at the black-cloaked knight.

It wasn’t magic. I saw what he did. When you are on the edge of death, you see things.

His right hand collected the cloak and intercepted the blow. It must have hurt, but he showed no sign, and his right hand ran up the blade and seized it near the point, while his left hand, travelling with the speed of a thought, seized the hilt. He leaned forward and his horse lunged powerfully – it must have been trained to do just that – and he used Camus’ sword against him like a staff, getting the point right under his chin.

Using the Gascon’s own sword as a lever, he threw him from the saddle. Camus hit the ground and didn’t move.

The Hospitaller nodded to Boucicault. ‘My lord is taking this man’s confession,’ he said. For the first time, I think, he actually looked at me.

It was, of course, my acquaintance. How many Hospitallers did I know? How many were riding the roads of France that spring?

Two black and whites came and took their master.

Boucicault bowed. ‘May I leave this in the hands of the church?’ he asked. ‘I mislike the murder of this man, even given the life he’s led.’

The priest nodded. He had the accent of a Provençal – of a peasant, in fact. He nodded. ‘I take responsibility,’ he said. ‘Body and soul.’

Boucicault nodded at me. I swear he might have winked.

Had he kept us waiting there all that time, waiting for the priest? I won’t ever know.

But I think he did.

The Hospitaller walked his horse to me.

I swear, all he did was look into my eyes. ‘Pierre?’ he asked the priest.

‘I am only a few months into this young man’s life,’ he said. ‘I would despair, except that he is but the product of Satan’s will in our time.’