A Clash of Lions Read online

  ‘Under your care?’ The king looked amused. ‘Well, if the lady is agreeable, by all means take her with you. Although from what I hear of the lady, it is likely to be her decision and not yours.’

  ‘Indeed, sire,’ Merrivale said patiently. ‘I think she will be willing to leave with me. One of the conspirators, the Seigneur de Brus, appears to have survived the battle. Brus hates her and has threatened her life on several occasions. I don’t think much persuasion will be needed.’

  The king waved a hand. ‘Then tell the demoiselle to go with you. An army is no place for women.’

  Ah, thought Merrivale, thinking of the two young archers who had been his guards during the summer, if only you knew how many women your army is harbouring… The king stood up, signifying the meeting was over. ‘Concentrate on ferreting out the remaining plotters,’ he said. ‘The queen and council will provide you with whatever information they have. Report to them regularly, as you did to me. That’s all.’

  * * *

  The cliffs of the English coast were drawing closer now. Merrivale shook himself from his reverie and went back to the stern of the ship to find Tiphaine. He had been right; she had not needed much persuading to come with him. The knowledge that Brus was still alive provided a strong compulsion to put the width of the Channel between herself and the vengeful Norman baron.

  He found her leaning on the rail, gazing at the thin line of coast to the south where the cliffs fell away. ‘Have you been out of France before?’ he asked gently.

  ‘No. I was sent to the nuns while very young, and lived with them for most of the time until my capture and imprisonment. This is also my first time on a boat.’ She smiled a little. ‘It is a day of many firsts. When shall we reach Hargate?’

  ‘Lord Grey’s castle is only a short ride from Dover, five or six miles.’

  She smiled wryly. ‘Ah, then I have not long until I meet my fate.’

  Ever since he had first found Tiphaine on the streets of burning Carentan, filthy from her long imprisonment and in imminent danger of being raped by English soldiers, Merrivale had been obsessed with finding her a place of safety. It was Sir John Grey, one of the talented young captains in the English army, who had suggested she go to Hargate, his family home. His sister, Lady Mary, was married to his fellow captain Sir Richard Percy, son of the powerful Northumberland baron Lord Percy, and was about the same age as Tiphaine; she would, Grey said, make a suitable companion.

  ‘I trust that Lady Mary will not fall into the category of “your fate”,’ Merrivale said. ‘According to her brother, she is a very intelligent and friendly young woman.’

  ‘I am certain she is. But how will she like having an unknown Norman woman thrust upon her? And what will the rest of her family think?’

  Merrivale smiled. ‘If Lady Mary is anything like her brother John, she will begin by submitting you to a rigorous examination of your reading habits with a view to gauging the gaps in your knowledge. Being convent educated, I am sure you will pass with honours.’

  She looked at him. ‘I am certain she will also be kind and welcoming,’ Merrivale said.

  ‘Mmm,’ said Tiphaine. ‘Well, time will tell.’

  Hargate, 3rd of September, 1346

  Late afternoon

  Time, in this case, was about three hours. Letters from Sir John Grey ensured that Merrivale, Tiphaine and their three servants were made welcome. Lord Grey, an amiable, square-built man of about fifty, and his gentle, sweet-natured wife enveloped the travellers with kindness. The daughter of the house, Lady Mary Percy, was small, humorous and sharp-witted. She eyed Tiphaine’s red hair, hanging rough-cut to the shoulders of the ragged boy’s tunic she had worn for most of the last six weeks. ‘Is that the newest fashion in Normandy?’

  ‘I had to cut my hair off when I came out of prison,’ Tiphaine said. ‘Things had begun to build nests in it.’

  ‘Prison? What did you do? Wear red shoes to church? Teach a pig to become a lawyer?’

  A small spark began to glow in Tiphaine’s eyes. ‘Something like that,’ she said.

  ‘Come and tell me all about it. And for heaven’s sake let’s find you some decent clothes. Did you see my husband before you left France? Was he well?’

  She bustled Tiphaine away. Another servant took Merrivale to his lodgings, a small room above the hall, and he sat down on the edge of the bed for a moment, feeling weary. Unlike the rest of the army, he had not celebrated much in the aftermath of Crécy. Too many things were still worrying him, too many cares resting on his shoulders.

  Crécy had opened poorly healed wounds. Old adversaries, men he had not met or even thought of in years, had reappeared. Some were dead now; King Jean of Bohemia, who had once ardently desired Merrivale’s own death, had fallen on the battlefield. But many others had escaped, and now they were gathering in the shadows once more. He could feel their presence, invisible, ominous.

  Yolande would be in mourning now, he thought. She had always looked well in white…

  A servant interrupted his reverie, calling him for supper. Rising, he went out and found Tiphaine on the stairs. He blinked; he was unused to seeing her in skirts. He held out his arm as they reached the hall and said, ‘Come, my lady, supper awaits us.’ She performed an ironic curtsey and swept with him into the hall where a table was set for dining.

  As well as the family, Lord and Lady Grey and Lady Mary, there were two other diners, a grave man in a grey Franciscan habit and another in a coat of expensive Cambrai cloth lined with silk and trimmed with vair, with several rings on his fingers. Merrivale thought he looked familiar. ‘Here are our guests just arrived from France,’ Lord Grey said cheerfully, introducing Merrivale and Tiphaine. ‘They bring good news, which you will be delighted to hear. Sir Herald, demoiselle, may I present our chaplain, Brother Reynard? And this is Sir Gilbert de Tracey from London.’

  Merrivale stopped abruptly. ‘Sir Gilbert de Tracey, the banker?’

  ‘The very same,’ said the other man, smiling. ‘The Grey family and the Percys are among my clients. I have called to transact some business with Lord Grey and also Lady Mary on behalf of her husband. I am glad to meet you, Sir Herald.’

  Merrivale bowed. How glad will Tracey be, he thought, to hear that the last I saw of his brother, he was stretched dead across the back of a horse with an arrow sticking out of his back?

  2

  Crayford, 5th of September, 1346

  Afternoon

  The cavalcade of a dozen riders had passed Rochester and Dartford and was now, after nearly two days of travel, approaching London. The party was rather larger than originally planned. It had been intended that Merrivale and Lord Grey should go, the former to report to the queen and council, the latter to attend the opening of parliament scheduled for later in the month. Then Lady Mary had decided that she and Tiphaine would join them, and once she had decided, that was that; Lady Mary might be small and young, but she was every bit as formidable as her much larger soldier husband, and she would not be moved from her purpose once she had formed it.

  Gilbert de Tracey was travelling with them too. Now that he had finished his business in Kent he was anxious to get back to London, he said, to look after his brother’s finances in the wake of the terrible news of his death. Merrivale was hard put to decide whether the banker was more shocked by the death of his brother, or by the news that he had joined the Knights of Saint John shortly before his death and attempted to put all his worldly goods into the military order’s hands. As a banker, the herald thought cynically, gazing at Tracey’s back, he would likely be more concerned about the latter. Whatever the reason, like Merrivale, Tracey wanted to get to London as soon as possible.

  Lady Mary’s motives were harder for the herald to discern. Certainly there was no reason for her not to join her father, but judging by her mother’s surprise at Lady Mary’s intentions, this was not a normal occurrence. Perhaps she was simply, as she claimed, keen to visit the city for pleasure and help Tiphaine get s
ome new clothes. Whatever her reasons, she had thrown herself into the visit, sorting out baggage and arranging for the passage of larger items by water up to London. Her skills were impressive; Merrivale thought she behaved like a confident matron, not a bride of less than a year.

  Any suggestion that the ladies go by cart was firmly rejected. ‘We shall ride,’ declared Lady Mary. ‘A cart will take weeks to get there. The demoiselle and I are used to riding.’

  That was true; Tiphaine, certainly, had spent many hours on horseback crossing Normandy and northern France last summer. So here they were, Merrivale with his three servants, Baron Grey and his escort, Tracey and two more servants, and Lady Mary and Tiphaine with a groom and a maidservant. Two of Merrivale’s servants had been with him for years; Mauro, his Spanish valet, was clever and capable and Warin the senior groom was a solid, reliable man who, like Merrivale himself, hailed from Dartmoor in Devon. After Tiphaine joined them there were more horses to care for and Merrivale had engaged a second groom, another Devonian named Diccon Luxton, from Lydford.

  The low hills and marshes stretched around them. Ahead was a final river to cross, the Cray, with the village of Crayford huddled around a ford in the river. It was late summer and the river was low, the water barely a trickle over its stony bed.

  As the group prepared to cross the ford, a rumbling noise behind them drew their attention. Tracey and Merrivale, riding at the rear, turned to see a horseless farm wagon careering down the hill towards them, gathering speed. ‘Get off the road!’ Tracey shouted at the others, but there were houses and shops lining the road; there was nowhere for them to go.

  Merrivale and Luxton the groom leaped down from their mounts and ran towards the oncoming cart, looking frantically for anything that might stop or at least slow down its progress towards the vulnerable mounted party trapped on the road ahead. Baron Grey and his men grabbed the bridles of the women’s horses and sped them down the slope to the river where they could spread out and let the wagon pass through; Mauro, Warin and Tracey rode behind them, shielding them with their bodies and those of their horses. One of Tracey’s men had dismounted too, and he grabbed a wooden stool sitting outside a shop and threw it in front of the wheel of the wagon. The stool splintered but the wagon slowed slightly, buying the party in front a little more time. Merrivale’s horse, panicked by the oncoming vehicle, added to the confusion by racing neighing through the party, jostling other horses out of the way as it escaped towards the river.

  Luxton seized a broom leaning against a fence and thrust it between the front wheel and body of the wagon. It turned sharply, crushing him between the wheel and the fence, knocking part of the fence down. The groom screamed, adding to the noise and confusion, but the wagon came to a halt, its iron-rimmed wheel resting on the groom’s legs. Merrivale and Tracey’s man scrambled to move the cart off the howling man while at the same time preventing it from rolling down the hill again. Mauro came running with several saddlebags in his hands and thrust them under the wheels, while a shopkeeper ran out with a bench and jammed it under one wheel too. Further disaster had been prevented.

  With the wagon secured, Merrivale knelt beside his moaning groom. The young man was slumped against the broken fence, his breathing ragged. His legs were bloodied and broken. As Merrivale reached him, a woman appeared from a nearby cottage with cloths and a jug of water. Between them, the herald and the woman tried to move Luxton into a position that would not add to his pains.

  ‘Here you go, lad, have a sip of this,’ said the woman. She held the jug to the lips of the injured man, but he struggled to drink. She turned her attention to the damaged legs and started tearing up cloths for bandages to staunch the blood. Merrivale ran his hands gently over Luxton’s torso, but a scream of pain stopped him.

  ‘I can’t feel my legs,’ the groom moaned. He coughed, and blood ran down from the corner of his mouth. Merrivale and the woman exchanged looks and she laid down the bandages, knowing there would be no need for them.

  Warin arrived. ‘Is everyone else safe?’ the herald asked.

  ‘No one else was hurt apart from a few chickens who were behind the fence when it collapsed,’ said Warin. He gazed in horror at Luxton, whose breathing grew more shallow with each passing moment. The woman knelt beside the young man, holding his hand and murmuring soft words of comfort as his breathing slowed and gradually ceased. She remained kneeling in prayer as Merrivale bent down, crossing Luxton’s arms across his chest and gently closing his eyes.

  After some moments the herald stirred. ‘Is there a priest here, who could give my man a decent burial? He has no family in this part of the country, and burial here would be gentler and kinder than taking him to London with us.’

  The woman nodded. ‘I’ll send my lad to fetch Father John. He might be on the way already, if he’s heard the noise.’

  A black-robed figure came hurrying up from the river, threading his way through the mounted party and local onlookers who had gathered to look at the scene of disaster. He saw Merrivale’s tabard bearing the royal livery, three red leopards on a field of yellow, and bowed, then knelt beside Luxton and began to pray for the dead man’s soul. After several minutes he rose again.

  ‘Will you bury him?’ Merrivale asked. ‘I will defray all costs, of course.’

  The priest bowed again. ‘He will be safe in our hands. The coroner will want to make a report about what happened here today.’

  ‘Our party are due in London as soon as possible. I am instructed to meet the queen and the royal council and Baron Grey has been called to parliament.’

  ‘I understand, Sir Herald. If you are able to write a report, I will see it safely delivered to the coroner. He will of course be able to ask local witnesses for their testimony.’

  Merrivale nodded. He looked again at Luxton. Too young, he thought; too young to die in such a way, thanks to someone else’s stupidity. This was a wasteful and avoidable death.

  * * *

  Anxious to reach London as soon as possible, Tracey and his servants rode on. Merrivale spoke to the banker before he departed, and while Luxton’s body was being prepared for burial, he spoke also to the woman and the shopkeeper and as many locals as he could about what they had seen and where the wagon had come from.

  After the funeral service the party reassembled and rode on, but instead of continuing on to London they made a stop at Bexley where there was a decent, if rather small inn that could house them for the night. The last stage of the journey tomorrow would be a short one. As they sat at the table for their evening meal there was only one topic of rather subdued conversation.

  ‘So nobody knew how that wagon had broken free?’ asked Tiphaine.

  ‘No one would own up to it, at any rate,’ said Baron Grey. ‘The wagon’s owner was half a mile away in a field, overseeing the cutting of the last of his rye crop. The oxen had been left to graze on the stubble and the wagon was waiting unattended to take away yesterday’s harvest.’

  ‘But someone must have set it on its way,’ Tiphaine persisted. ‘Wagons do not move on their own.’

  ‘True,’ said Lord Grey, ‘but whoever set it moving wasn’t seen, either by the farm workers or by us.’

  Tiphaine snorted. ‘Well it was certainly not a farm worker I saw lurking beside the road when we rode back to find you. Or do your farm workers wear heraldic devices here in England?’

  Merrivale looked up from his plate. ‘Demoiselle, what do you mean by heraldic devices? What did you see?’

  ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘our herald’s attention is caught by the thought of heraldry. I did not see the device clearly, but there was some part of a coat of arms of red and possibly yellow. It was worn by a horseman, just at the top of the hill. He was there, half hidden by a tree, for about ten minutes. When the poor boy’s body was taken away, he rode away to the east and disappeared.’

  ‘A device,’ Lord Grey said thoughtfully. ‘I assure you, demoiselle, it is not common for farm workers to wear such things on t
heir clothes. Curious, very curious indeed.’

  There was a short silence. ‘So,’ said Lady Mary, ‘do we believe this was not an accident? It was a deliberate attack?’

  ‘That is quite possible,’ said the herald.

  She looked completely unfazed by this. ‘Any thoughts about which of us was the target?’

  * * *

  After most of the party had gone to bed, Merrivale found a quiet corner. Mauro brought his writing box and he settled himself to make sense of the day’s events and write a report for the coroner.

  Notes on the event at Crayford, co. Kent on the Vth day of September, in the twentieth year of the reign of King Edward III

  Item, at Crayford in the county of Kent, a runaway wagon was apparently aimed at the party consisting of myself, Simon Merrivale, herald to Prince Edward and special envoy of his Grace Edward III of England and France; the Demoiselle Tiphaine de Tesson; Lord Grey of Hargate; his daughter Lady Mary Percy (wife of Sir Richard Percy of Maldon); Sir Gilbert de Tracey, banker and merchant of London; and our servants. One of my men, Diccon Luxton of Lydford, was killed when the wagon crushed him against a fence on the road to the river crossing at Crayford.

  Item, the wagon belonged to a local freeman, but the wagon was not attended by him or his servants. The freeman, Walter Coster, and his men were working in the field some distance from the wagon and none saw it move or saw anyone near it.

  Item, the Demoiselle Tiphaine de Tesson has deposed that she glimpsed someone with a heraldic device on his coat but could not identify the device as it was only partially seen. No other person saw anyone near the wagon at the time of the incident.

  Item, myself and my servants and Sir Gilbert de Tracey were riding at the rear of the party. However, there is at present no evidence to suggest which member or members of the party were the target of this attack, if attack it was.