The Fallen Sword Read online

  The Fallen Sword

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Map

  Dramatis personae

  A note about languages

  Prologue

  I

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  II

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  III

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  IV

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by A.J. MacKenzie

  Copyright

  Cover

  Table of Contents

  Start of Content

  For Margot, a dear friend who is very much missed

  Dramatis personae

  The herald and his companions

  Simon Merrivale, formerly herald to the Prince of Wales and now in the king’s service

  Mauro, his servant

  Warin, his groom

  Tiphaine de Tesson, Norman noblewoman and daughter of an executed rebel

  The English royal household

  Edward III, King of England

  Philippa of Hainault, Queen of England

  Edward of Woodstock, Prince of Wales, their son

  Princess Isabella, their daughter

  Eustace, Lord Rowton, the king’s friend and advisor

  Thomas Hatfield, Bishop of Durham

  Michael Northburgh, the king’s secretary

  Andrew Clarenceux, senior royal herald

  Alice Bedingfield, the queen’s lady-in-waiting

  Elizabeth Chandos, one of the queen’s damsels

  Margaret Monceaux, one of the queen’s damsels

  Paon de Roet, man-at-arms in Queen Philippa’s household

  Brother Geoffrey of Maldon, Augustinian canon

  Nicholas of Prague, court musician

  Havel of Bohemia (Havel the Fiddler), court musician

  Others besieging Calais

  Thomas Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick and Marshal of England

  Ralph Stafford, English man-at-arms

  Maurice de Berkeley, English man-at-arms

  Heinrich of Holstein-Rendsburg (Iron Henry), leader of German mercenaries

  Llewellyn ap Gruffyd of Conwy, captain of Welsh spearmen

  John de Vere, Earl of Oxford

  Henry of Grosmont, Earl of Derby and Lancaster

  In Calais

  Jean de Vienne, governor of Calais

  Eustache de Saint-Pierre, mayor of Calais

  Andrieu de Maninghem, merchant and alderman

  Jehan Nortkerque, fishmonger and dealer in whale meat

  Nicodemus, an English deserter

  French and allies

  Philippe VI de Valois, King of France

  Odo IV, Duke of Burgundy

  Guillaume de Machaut, composer and secretary to Charles, King of the Romans

  Guy de Dampierre, Count of Béthune

  Yolande of Bohemia, Countess of Béthune and half-sister of the King of the Romans

  Jean de Dampierre, her son

  Louis of Male, Count of Flanders

  Jeanne of Evreux, Queen of Navarre

  Jean de Picquigny, acting seneschal of Picardy

  Jean Marant, pirate

  Estienne Massy, clerk in the Chambre des Comptes in Paris

  Hugolin Bessancourt, clerk in the Chambre des Comptes in Paris

  Flemish rebels, merchants and bankers

  Gillis van Coudebrouc, burgemeester (mayor) of Bruges

  Jan Metteneye, captain of the Bruges militia

  Oppicius Adornes, banker

  Maartin Adornes, his son

  Willem (William) Blyth, Anglo-Flemish banker, formerly of Newcastle-upon-Tyne

  Donato di Pacino de’ Peruzzi, Italian banker

  Sister Juliana, Beguine and one of the wise sisters of Liège

  Fier Meike, a leader of the Pilgrims

  Topaas, a Pilgrim

  Garnier, Tomaset and Marcelis, musicians

  Ecclesiastical figures

  Étienne Aubert, Cardinal-Bishop of Ostia and papal ambassador

  Raimon Vidal, his secretary

  Roger Northburgh, bishop of Coventry and Lichfield

  Balduin of Luxembourg, Archbishop of Trier

  Knights of the Order of Saint John of Jerusalem

  Loijis (Louis) DuSart, commander at Bruges

  Brother Frido, one of the Knights at Bruges

  Reynaud de Nanteuil, commander at Saint-Riquier

  Philip de Thame, Grand Prior of England

  Adela Seton, consorore (lay sister) of the Order

  Others

  Charles of Luxembourg, King of the Romans

  Vilém Zajíc, Bohemia herald

  Boček of Kunštát, Lord of Poděbrady, cup-bearer and chamberlain to King Charles

  A note about languages

  Europe in the fourteenth century had a wide variety of languages and dialects, far more diverse than today. In real life, the characters in this book might have spoken any or all the following: several dialects of English including East Midlands, Kentish, Devon and Northern; North French, Norman French, Picard French and Mitan, a dialect of Walloon French; West Flemish and Brabantian Flemish; Middle Saxon, a form of Low German; several dialects of High German including Bavarian and Rhenish-Franconian; Czech; Occitan; the Tuscan dialect of Italian; Castilian Spanish; Cymraec Canawl (Middle Welsh); and for ecclesiastical figures and educated elites, Latin. Individual cities often also had their own dialects.

  As a result, people tended to be quite polyglot, especially those who were better educated and well-travelled, and they could probably slip in and out of whatever language was required. Rather than attempt to replicate this rich linguistic complexity, we have rendered all their speech into modern English.

  Place names have for the most part been given in the form most familiar to a modern English-speaker, hence Bruges, Ghent and Ypres rather than the more correct Brugge, Gent and Ieper. Calais was probably known to its inhabitants as Kales (West Flemish) or Calés (Picard); we have opted for the modern version.

  Prologue

  Bruges, 14th of November, 1346

  Rain swept across the fields of Flanders, battering the city walls and churning up the waters of the canals, blurring the silhouettes of windmills and church spires on the horizon. The night watch at the Gentpoort, volunteers from the fullers’ guild, huddled in the gateway and wished they were home beside their warm fires. ‘Of course the weavers get all the indoor jobs,’ someone grumbled, ‘guarding the town hall and the mint and the Steen, while the poor damned fullers have to stay out here in the rain.’ The others agreed, muttering darkly that one day the weavers would get what was coming to them. The officer of the guard listened, but said nothing.

  A column of men came down the muddy road towards the gate, thirty or so, all wrapped in cloaks with hoods pulled low across their faces. Some carried wooden staves. ‘Who the hell are these?’ the officer asked, rhetorically. ‘Who comes to Bruges at this hour, and in this weather?’

  ‘Guess someone had better find out,’ said one of the men. He did not move.

  The officer sighed. Gripping his halberd, he stepped out into the rain as the column approached. ‘Who goes there?’ he asked, trying to project authority. ‘State your business.’

&nbs
p; The column halted. Its leader threw back his hood, letting rainwater run down his face. He was a big man, with dark hair and a close-trimmed beard and a scar on one cheek. He looked the officer in the eye. ‘I am a poor pilgrim, travelling in a perilous land,’ he said. ‘In God’s name I am weary, and I seek shelter.’

  The officer’s blood froze. If he tried to turn these men away, would his own company support him? If he allowed them to enter, what would the burgemeester and the aldermen say? He swallowed hard, gripping his halberd, knowing that his career and possibly his life were at stake.

  One of his own men came forward, raising a hand in salute. ‘Welcome among us, brother,’ he said. ‘Rest now, and give praise to God.’

  Silently, the leader pulled his hood down and walked through the open gate, followed by the others. Within a moment they were swallowed up by the rising darkness.

  The officer looked at the man who had spoken. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’

  The other man shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘What will happen, will happen. It’s nothing to do with us now.’

  I

  1

  Bruges, 14th of November, 1346

  ‘How dare these people defy us?’ demanded Philippa of Hainault, queen of England. Her face was flushed with anger. ‘First they insult me by refusing my men entrance to the city, now they tell me I am not allowed to see the Count of Flanders. Not allowed! Who do these merchants think they are, telling me what I can and cannot do? By God, I’m minded to teach them a lesson!’

  ‘That would be inadvisable, your Grace,’ said Simon Merrivale. He stood before the queen, his herald’s tabard brilliant yellow embroidered with three snarling red leopards. ‘We need the support of the Flemish cities, and they know it. We shall have to bargain with them.’

  ‘Bargain!’ snapped the queen. Her hand tugged at the sleeve of her red velvet robe. ‘Are you suggesting I play huckster with weavers and dyers? Blood of God, do these merchants not realise their position? With a stroke of a pen, we could cut off their trade and bankrupt their cities. That would wipe the smiles off their faces,’ she added.

  Standing beside Merrivale, Brother Geoffrey of Maldon cleared his throat. He was a lean, weather-beaten man in the black robes of an Augustinian canon. ‘The herald is right, your Grace. The Flemings may be hucksters, but they have twenty thousand men at their backs, and they also control our supply lines. We need their ports to supply our army at Calais.’

  Someone knocked at the door of the parlour. ‘Tell them to go away,’ the queen snapped. ‘Bedingfield, see to it.’

  Her lady-in-waiting, Alice Bedingfield, opened the door and spoke briefly to someone outside. ‘The musicians are ready, your Grace,’ she said, closing the door again. ‘Our hosts are waiting for us.’

  ‘They can wait a little longer.’ The queen stared at Merrivale and Brother Geoffrey. ‘Very well. What do you advise?’

  ‘Patience, your Grace,’ said Brother Geoffrey. ‘I believe that when they refused your escort entrance to the city, they were actually thinking of your safety. Nothing is more likely to inflame the mob than the sight of foreign troops in the streets, even allied ones.’

  Earlier today there had been a stand-off when the boats carrying the royal party arrived at the city gates. Her Grace and her attendants were of course welcome, said the captain of the watch, but her bodyguard was not. No foreigner was allowed to bear arms within the city walls. Eventually a compromise was reached; a dozen men could enter, two men-at-arms, six serjeants and four archers. The rest were forced to remain outside the walls, where they were presumably getting drenched in the pouring rain. It was a prudent measure, Merrivale thought, given the febrile atmosphere in the city, but one could see why the queen was offended.

  ‘We can understand their position on the marriage too,’ he said. ‘They have fought hard to throw off the French yoke. In their eyes, they would be exchanging French tyranny for rule by England.’

  ‘Body of Christ,’ said the queen in exasperation. ‘Who said anything about ruling them? All we are proposing is a marriage between the Count of Flanders and our own daughter. It will end the civil war in Flanders, guarantee an English alliance and allow the cities to prosper. We have neither the will nor the means to rule Flanders. Don’t these jokels realise that?’

  ‘They are suspicious, your Grace. We need to offer some guarantees that will protect their independence. And, as Brother Geoffrey said, we need to be patient. These things take time.’

  ‘Do not lecture me on diplomacy, Merrivale. I was negotiating alliances and betrothals when you were still riding as a King’s Messenger.’

  ‘… Yes, your Grace.’

  ‘And don’t be so damned impertinent. I heard you sigh just now.’

  ‘Yes, your Grace.’

  The queen calmed a little. She looked into a silver mirror on the wall and adjusted the gold cap on her head. Her jewelled rings flashed rainbow fire in the lamplight. ‘You gentlemen seem to think you know everything,’ she said. ‘Very well. You shall undertake the negotiations. Persuade the burgemeester to allow me to see the Count of Flanders, and consent to his marriage with my daughter. Make it so.’

  Both men bowed. ‘We will do our best, your Grace,’ said Brother Geoffrey. ‘If I may venture to say so, it would be discourteous to keep our hosts waiting much longer.’

  It was the queen’s turn to sigh. ‘Yes, I suppose we must listen to these wretched musicians,’ she said. ‘Do you have a pin, Bedingfield? Good. Stab me if I start to fall asleep.’

  * * *

  The house of Gillis van Coudebrouc, burgemeester of Bruges, faced onto the canal known as the Groenerei. It was one of the richest houses Merrivale had seen, and his experience included the palazzos of Italy and Moorish alcázars in Spain. The great hall had a floor of black and white tiles polished to mirror smoothness, and gilded roofbeams that glowed in the light of candles and lamps. Every square inch of wall had been painted with pastoral scenes or geometric designs in dazzling reds and blues and yellows. A panel at one end of the room showed a scene purporting to be from the city’s early history, a hunting party driving off a marauding white bear.

  More than a hundred richly dressed people were crammed into the hall; guild representatives and their wives, envoys from the cities of Ghent and Ypres which, along with Bruges, made up the League of Three. Earlier they had dined lavishly. The queen had sat at the high table and listened while polite, smiling representatives of the League told her that under no circumstances would they consent to a marriage between her daughter and the Count of Flanders; nor would they allow her access to the count, a prisoner in their hands since his father was killed at Crécy.

  Now the boards had been cleared and people wandered around the hall with goblets of wine in their hands, stretching their legs and chatting. They bowed when the queen swept back into the room, followed by her ladies, the herald, Brother Geoffrey and Paon de Roet, the captain of her pared-down bodyguard. Coudebrouc, their host, smiled his most emollient smile. He knew perfectly well that the queen was angry, and why. ‘Does your Grace wish to be seated?’

  Her Grace did. A gilded chair was brought, with a purple cushion to support the royal back. ‘The musicians who will play tonight are among the best in Flanders,’ said the burgemeester. ‘And if I may be so bold, your Grace, that means they are among the best in Christendom.’

  ‘I have no doubt of it, meneer,’ the queen said smoothly. ‘The minstrel school of Bruges is famous even in England. I look forward to a splendid entertainment.’

  She took her seat, smoothing her skirts. Roet and her ladies stood behind her; the rest of her guards were outside the hall. Merrivale glanced at Bedingfield, who held up a small jewelled pin and winked at him. The three musicians entered, bowing and introducing themselves to the company; Garnier the singer, Tomaset who played the viol and Marcelis who alternated between psaltery and lute. They struck up a tune, a rondeau that Merrivale recognised at once.

>   Whiter than the lily, more red than vermilion,

  Resplendent as a ruby from the Orient,

  Nothing touches your unparalleled beauty.

  Whiter than the lily, more red than vermilion,

  The delight of my waking heart,

  My desire is to serve you loyally

  Whiter than the lily, more red than vermilion,

  Resplendent as a ruby from the Orient.

  A young woman in a green gown with shoulder-length red hair stood to one side of the hall, talking to a white-bearded man robed in rich black and leaning on an ebony stick. Quietly, Merrivale made his way through the crowd towards them. ‘Sir herald,’ the young woman said brightly. ‘May I present Heer Oppicius Adornes, master of the bankers’ guild of Bruges? Meneer, this is Simon Merrivale, herald in her Grace’s household.’

  The old man looked at Merrivale’s tabard. His white eyebrows bristled a little. ‘Welcome to Bruges, sir herald. Is this your first time in the city?’

  ‘I have been here before,’ said Merrivale. ‘Though not as a herald.’

  ‘But still in royal service, I assume.’

  ‘Yes. Of a sort.’

  Adornes nodded. ‘I hope your stay in Bruges is a pleasant one. Now, if you will forgive me, I must pay my respects to her Grace.’

  The old man turned and hobbled away. Others bowed respectfully as he passed. Merrivale looked at the young woman. ‘He is willing to talk,’ she said. ‘Privately, at his house. The utmost discretion is necessary, he said. I have the name and location of the house, but you probably know it already.’

  ‘As it happens, I don’t.’

  Tiphaine de Tesson looked up at him and smiled. ‘You see? I can be useful after all.’

  ‘I never doubted it.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you did. You still think I need protecting.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Merrivale. ‘After Scotland, I think the rest of the world needs protecting from you.’