The Fallen Sword Read online

  Harder than diamonds

  Harder than adamant

  Is the hardness you show to me.

  Lady, why have you no mercy for your lover

  Whom you kill for desiring your love?

  ‘Do I kill you for desiring my love?’ asked Tiphaine, her voice full of irony.

  ‘Not so far,’ said Merrivale, scanning the crowded room.

  ‘No? I saw Bedingfield wink at you.’

  ‘It was a private joke.’

  ‘Or perhaps a joke about privates? Don’t scowl at me. I am no longer in a convent, I am allowed to be vulgar.’

  ‘What do convents have to do with it? Many of the filthy stories I know were told to me by nuns. Have you noticed anything about the music? The repertory is interesting, don’t you think?’

  ‘No. After the convent, I spent two years in prison, remember. I saw only one minstrel during that time, and he was executed the next morning.’

  ‘Every song they have sung so far is by the same composer. Guillaume de Machaut, the Frenchman.’

  ‘Ah!’ She paused, thinking. ‘Someone has instructed the musicians. On the surface, they sing paeans to the beauty and power of the queen, but the music is French. The message is, the Flemings can abandon the object of their desire and go back to their French allegiance, if they choose.’

  ‘So, treat us with courtesy and respect, or face the consequences,’ Merrivale said. ‘Do not kill us for desiring your love. The lute player is very good, isn’t he? I feel I have heard him before.’

  Marcelis sat on a low stool, head bent over the lute, hair falling forward over his face. Then he raised his head a little, and Tiphaine stiffened. ‘Newcastle,’ she said quietly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t look at him, don’t let him know he has been spotted. It is the man who played at Blyth’s house. Remember?’

  Merrivale let out his breath. ‘I should have spotted him sooner.’

  A few weeks earlier they had sat in the house of William Blyth, merchant and banker of Newcastle-upon-Tyne, and listened to a Flemish lutenist. Now Blyth was in hiding with charges of high treason hanging over his head. ‘What is he doing here?’ Tiphaine asked.

  ‘Playing for hire, perhaps. Musicians are mercenaries, they go wherever someone will pay them.’

  ‘Do you really believe that? We think Blyth escaped to Flanders. The queen is here, and so is Blyth’s musician. I don’t like the coincidence, Simon.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ Merrivale said. ‘Wait here.’

  * * *

  Coudebrouc was standing beside the queen, still smiling as he watched the musicians. The negotiations during dinner might have been uncomfortable, but the entertainment was superb. Even her Grace appeared pleased.

  He turned his head as Merrivale approached. ‘A word, if you please, meneer,’ the herald murmured.

  The burgemeester frowned but he led the way into the parlour. Merrivale caught the eye of Paon de Roet and motioned with his head, and the captain followed them. ‘What is it?’ asked Coudebrouc, closing the door.

  ‘In England, I received word of a plot to assassinate King Edward,’ the herald said. ‘But the king is in the midst of his army, and well-guarded. I think it entirely possible that the plot is instead against the queen, and that the enemy is planning to attack this house, tonight.’

  He watched the burgemeester turn pale. ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘I do not know, not for certain. But we will take no chances with her Grace’s safety.’ He did not mention Marcelis; it was highly likely that Coudebrouc had hired the musicians, or a member of his household had. Anyone could be involved, including Coudebrouc himself.

  ‘The house is well guarded,’ said the burgemeester. ‘The queen will be safe here.’

  ‘She will not. You have only a handful of badly armed men, and your own servants. The enemy will have laid his plans carefully, and know exactly where and when to strike at her Grace. We are taking her away, now.’

  ‘Of course.’ Coudebrouc had begun to sweat. ‘I will give orders to ready the boats.’

  He raised his head. In the hall the music had ended abruptly. Voices murmured, some surprised, some outraged. ‘That’s it,’ the herald said. ‘They’re coming. Sir Paon, alert your men and get the queen ready to move. Now.’

  * * *

  The musicians had halted their performance without warning and run from the painted hall. The guests stood staring in astonishment; no one could ever remember such a thing happening before. Not only was it discourteous to the queen and burgemeester, but they had not even waited to receive their pay. Everyone watched Roet bend and whisper in the queen’s ear. She nodded and departed without a backward glance, followed by her surprised attendants. A whisper of alarm ran around the hall. Merrivale saw Adornes, standing at the foot of the hall and leaning on his stick.

  The rest of the escort waited in the courtyard where flambeaux hissed and spluttered in the rain. ‘Shall we get her Grace to the boats?’ Roet asked.

  ‘No. We’ll use the boats as a deception. Send them out empty to draw the enemy away. We are going through the streets.’

  ‘We will need lights.’

  ‘Darkness is our friend,’ Merrivale said curtly. ‘I know the way. So does Brother Geoffrey.’

  The narrow streets were indeed very dark, their gutters bubbling with water. ‘I hope you know what you are doing, Merrivale,’ the queen murmured. Her voice was quite calm.

  ‘You may trust the herald, your Grace,’ Tiphaine said quietly.

  A distant sound in the night, a faint rasp of metal, then another; the clash of steel sword blades. The fighting died away as soon as it had started. ‘They are here,’ Merrivale said softly. ‘Stay close together, everyone, and protect her Grace. Geoffrey, I need you with me.’

  * * *

  Bruges was a warren of narrow twisting streets, high walls and gateways, sudden arched bridges over canals, drains and gutters gurgling invisible in the shadows. Lamps outside the larger houses gave them occasional views down the street, but for the most part Merrivale and Brother Geoffrey felt their way in the dark, stopping occasionally to confer in whispers. That earlier clash of arms might have been an attack on the boats; if so, there was no telling how it had ended, or whether the deception had worked.

  ‘Where do you think they will come?’ Geoffrey murmured. ‘In the streets, or outside the walls?’

  ‘It could be either.’ There were nineteen in the party; Roet and the escort, the queen and three of her ladies, Tiphaine, Brother Geoffrey and Merrivale. If they could win through to the gates, they would be safe; the rest of the escort would still be waiting outside. But it was a long way to the gates.

  They reached the Hoogstraat, a long street running down to a bridge over the Sint-Anna canal. They passed a tavern shuttered against the rain; inside, someone was playing a symphonia, badly. Dogs barked in a nearby courtyard, throwing themselves at the gate as they passed. Merrivale strained his ears, listening for any sound in the shadows that might betray movement, but all he could hear was the falling rain. He murmured in Geoffrey’s ear. ‘How much further to the bridge?’

  ‘We’ve just passed Meestraat. Up ahead the street turns to the right. The bridge is just beyond that.’

  The bridge came into view moments later, a heavy stone span over the dark water. Another long street led away to the north-east, towards the Kruispoort and safety. They started across the bridge. Suddenly, Merrivale became aware of something bumping against the stone pillars of the bridge, and looked down. A long narrow boat drifted on the gentle current, another behind it. The dim reflected lamplight showed him the royal banner draped over the gunwales of the second boat and trailing in the water. It also showed him the bodies of two men lying slumped on the rowing benches.

  Brother Geoffrey was beside him. ‘Shot with crossbows,’ he said. ‘I can see the quarrels in the bodies.’

  ‘Your eyes are better than mine. Where are the rest of the boatmen?’
/>
  ‘In the canal, probably.’

  Merrivale turned. ‘Your Grace, the boats were ambushed. I fear our attackers know we were not on board and are still looking for us. If they come for us, you and your ladies must back against the wall of the nearest house and crouch down. The rest of us will shield you.’

  Paon de Roet looked at him. ‘You have no weapon, sir herald, and no armour.’

  ‘Heralds do not carry weapons,’ Merrivale said. ‘Protect the queen, Sir Paon. Nothing else matters.’

  They advanced in a tight body now, the rain soft on their faces. The four archers were out on the flanks with arrows at the nock, the serjeants in a close ring around the queen and her ladies, Roet and the other man-at-arms, Basset, leading the way with Merrivale and Geoffrey behind them. Despite his orders, the three ladies-in-waiting were in front of the queen, shielding her. Bedingfield was her constant companion, Chandos’s brother was in royal service, Monceaux had been wet nurse to one of her sons; they were ready to die for her. Tiphaine moved to join them.

  They expected attack; they did not expect it from above. Crossbows clacked from the rooftops, iron quarrels struck sparks off the cobbles. Two of the archers were down before they could raise their bows. The queen’s ladies were already pushing her into the shadows by the nearest wall, the escort following, the remaining archers shooting at shadowy shapes on the rooftops. A body tumbled down over the tiles and fell into the street. More crossbow bolts, and two of the serjeants went down, one shot through the body, the other hit in the leg and struggling to rise again.

  The attackers came silently from every side, up the street, over the bridge, jumping down from first-floor windows. They had swords and staffs and they used them with vicious skill. The wounded serjeant dragged himself up to fight and was clubbed down at once. Basset was surrounded by hacking, stabbing men, two more serjeants trying to fight their way through to him. A dark figure came at Merrivale, jumping like a panther, wooden staff swinging towards the herald’s ribs. The heavy tabard absorbed part of the blow and Merrivale seized the staff and ripped it out of the other man’s hands, ramming the butt end into his stomach. The man doubled up and Merrivale hit him hard across the back of the neck, reversed his grip and hit the next man a double-handed blow on the side of the head and sent him reeling away. The rest hesitated, falling back to the far side of the street.

  Roet was alongside him, breathing deeply, his sword blade covered in blood. ‘We killed two more of them, but Basset is finished. They’re regrouping.’

  ‘Yes.’ Merrivale could feel the swelling bruise over his ribs, but nothing seemed to be broken. Brother Geoffrey picked up the knife that Merrivale’s second victim had dropped and stood beside the herald. Basset’s sword was lying on the cobbles; Tiphaine dashed out and seized it, scrambling back as men advanced across the street towards her.

  Silence in the street, apart from the rustle of footsteps and soft patter of rain.

  They came fast, a dozen or more in a single hard wave. Merrivale hit the first man with his staff, driving him back onto his fellows, who shouldered him out of the way and came on. Brother Geoffrey stabbed someone with his knife, but a clubbing blow to the head sent him sprawling on the cobbles; Roet jumped over his body, lunging with his sword, and another heavy blow from a club hit the blade and broke it, leaving him with a three-inch stump standing out from the guards. Roet hurled the broken weapon into his attacker’s face and drew his dagger. The man, who had a badly scarred cheek, lifted his club again, aiming at Roet’s head. Merrivale hit him a hard, bone-shattering blow on the knee and he screamed and hobbled back, clutching at his leg. More screams behind and he turned to see Bedingfield and Chandos standing in front of the queen, faces full of terror as an attacker raised his sword; and then Tiphaine stabbed the man in the back, twisting her own sword as she drove it in. The man dropped his weapon and collapsed slowly at her feet. She stabbed him again for good measure and turned, raising the dripping weapon.

  Over the clatter of metal and hoarse, rasping breath of struggling men came another sound, hard like the rattle of a drum; hoofbeats on cobbles. At once, without any signal or word of command, the attackers fled into the shadows. Down Hoogstraat and over the bridge came a column of mounted men, two of them carrying torches that fluttered and rippled with movement. Falling raindrops glinted like crystals in the sudden flare of light.

  The leader reined in, looking at the bodies in the street. ‘What is going on here?’ he demanded sharply. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘We are the escort of her Grace the queen of England,’ Merrivale said curtly. ‘And who might you be?’

  ‘The queen! My God!’ The man slid out of the saddle and hurried towards them. ‘I am Jan Metteneye, captain of the night watch. We heard the noise and came to investigate. What is her Grace doing here?’

  ‘I am attempting to return to my lodgings,’ the queen said, her voice firm. Bedingfield knelt beside her, clinging to her skirts and sobbing with relief; the queen rested a hand on her head, soothing her. ‘I don’t know what sort of watch you set in this city, Captain Metteneye, but five of my men are dead, as are the boatmen who conveyed us into Bruges. I think you have some explaining to do.’

  ‘My God,’ Metteneye said again, and he knelt on the wet cobbles. ‘I beg your Grace’s humble pardon. I had no idea you were in danger. Why did the burgemeester not send for me? I could have provided you with further escort.’

  ‘Because there wasn’t time,’ said Tiphaine. Torchlight reflected off the blood on the front of her gown. ‘Her Grace is right. You need to explain why this happened.’

  There was a long pause. Torches spluttered in the rain. ‘At the moment, I cannot,’ Metteneye said.

  ‘Then I suggest you escort us back to our lodgings at Maele without delay,’ the queen said. ‘In the morning, my herald will call on you and the burgemeester and demand a reckoning. That gives you plenty of time to think of an excuse, meneer. I suggest you make it a good one.’

  2

  Hesdin, 15th of November, 1346

  Forty miles south of the war zone at Calais, two men walked past the deserted castle of Hesdin and into the park. Both wore long black cloaks to keep out the damp. The trees around them blazed with late colour, leaves golden and orange against the grey autumnal mist. Ahead lay a small lake, spanned by an ornate stone bridge. Monkeys wrapped in badger fur, with horns on their heads, perched on the balustrade of the bridge; as the two men drew closer, the monkeys swivelled their heads and waved their arms in the air. Raimon Vidal, secretary to the Cardinal-Bishop of Ostia, made the sign of the cross. ‘This is the devil’s work,’ he said.

  ‘Automatons,’ said his companion. ‘Mechanical devices made by the hand of man, not the devil. Surely you have heard of them.’

  ‘I have seen automatons before,’ said Vidal. ‘That does not mean I like them.’ He glared at the monkeys, who grimaced back. They crossed the bridge and walked on, passing fountains that squirted water in the air, mechanical knights tilting at each other, a brilliantly painted water clock resting on the backs of lions and shaggy-haired beast-men. ‘What is this place?’ Vidal demanded.

  ‘It is called the Garden of Earthly Delights,’ the other man said. ‘The old Count of Artois hired craftsmen to come and build a pleasure park next to his castle. The count’s granddaughter still pays for the machines to be kept in working order. She sometimes brings her friends here, for amusement.’

  A whisper of wind rattled the dry leaves overhead. Vidal was not a superstitious man, but the sound reminded him of the clatter of bones. He crossed himself again.

  At the end of the garden was a chapel with a smooth stone floor, its walls made almost entirely of stained glass; only the very thinnest of pillars supported the roof. It reminded Vidal of the Sainte-Chapelle in Paris, built by Saint Louis to house a relic of the True Cross. Instead of relics, this chapel contained more automata: gilded birds, a robed and crowned king who raised his arms in the air, a lion that pawed at the gro
und and lashed its tail.

  ‘Why are we meeting here, I wonder?’ asked the other man.

  ‘You know how he likes to control things,’ said Vidal. ‘He hopes he can control us as easily as he directs these engines.’

  ‘Actually, I am reliving old memories,’ said a voice behind them.

  Vidal turned. Three more men had entered the chapel, all similarly wrapped in dark cloaks to keep out the mist. The man who had spoken was in his late thirties, unremarkable in looks and bearing; you could pass him in the street, Vidal thought, and never notice him. He spoke excellent North French with barely a trace of accent, but Vidal knew he was English and a man of influence at the court of King Edward III of England. Beyond that, Vidal knew very little about him.

  The other two were, or had been, well-known figures at the French court. One was John of Hainault, formerly one of King Philippe’s closest advisors; despite being in his late fifties, he walked with the muscular ease of a champion jouster and fighting man. The other was younger, a little above thirty, with sleek dark hair; Guy de Dampierre, the Count of Béthune.

  ‘I first visited this place when I was a boy,’ the Englishman said. His voice echoed a little in the vaults of the chapel. ‘The old man who maintained the machines showed me how they worked. I used to return sometimes, until the war intervened. Introduce your companion, Vidal.’

  Vidal inclined his head. ‘It is my pleasure to present Guillaume de Machaut, canon of Rheims, formerly secretary to the late King Jean of Bohemia.’

  ‘My condolences on the death of your master,’ said the Englishman. ‘He was a great man. I understand you have now taken service with his son.’

  Jean of Bohemia had been killed two months earlier, one of thousands shot down by English archers at the bloody battle of Crécy. Guy of Béthune’s brother, the Count of Flanders, had been killed there too. ‘Thank you, my lord,’ said Machaut. ‘King Charles has generously taken me into his service.’