The Medieval Murderers - The Deadliest Sin

There was something in her eyes that he saw occasionally. A gleam, as if she entertained a thought that gave her solace. Perhaps it was a dream of quiet and rest, a view of an all-but-unattainable peace. For he was sure that there was little peace in her soul usually. Not during her waking hours. While she slept, she looked as though she was calm enough. Sometimes he had seen her lips curl into a gentle smile… but other times she gave muffled screams and moans as she thrashed from side to side. And always, as soon as she woke and took in her surroundings, any happiness faded until her eyes took on that distant harshness once more. Hers was not a soul at rest.

Janyn desired her, yes, but he would not go near her. She was a focus and target of danger. He could feel it about her. She could bring only disaster. Barda was right: they should throw her from the vintaine, send her away to fend for herself.

Except if Janyn were to do that, he would lose the support of newer recruits like Bill and Walter.

Barda had walked to her. As Janyn watched, he hunkered down beside her. ‘Maid, do you want food?’

She said nothing, but Janyn saw her give him a slanted smile and a flash of her eyes. She knew she had him already. Like a spider watching a fly willingly land on her web.

It was a thought that made Janyn shiver with sudden trepidation.

It was in April that things grew more troubling for the English. Janyn could remember it with such clarity: the mud, the constant dampness, the grey faces of the troops forced to endure.

All that winter the weather had been foul and, in March, when their spirits were at their lowest, came the news that they had all feared: the French King had taken up the great crimson banner of France, the Oriflamme of St Denis. With this flag in the hands of the French, they could not be defeated, some said in hushed whispers – but they had borne it with them at Crécy, and there it had served them no useful purpose, as others said. These loud denials, however, could not change the increased tension that affected the English with the news of the gathering French host.

But after March, there was nothing for weeks. Snippets of information came to say that Flemings and French were fighting on their borders, and occasionally there were tales of sea battles, of English convoys being savaged by the damned Genoese, but more often the news was of victories by the English. Even when French fleets tried to force the blockade and bring food to the starving population of Calais, they failed. At last, in late April, the English captured the last piece of land encircling the town: the Rysbank. With this narrow spit of sand taken, the English could control the whole harbour with cannon and other artillery. It was the beginning of the end for Calais. The English had their mailed fist on the throat of the town, and they were slowly strangling it.

A few weeks later, the French made a last attempt to rescue their town. A fleet of fifty or more ships set sail – cogs and barges laden with provisions – all guarded by galleys full of fighting men, but before they could approach the stricken town they were met with a larger English force that sank or put to flight the whole convoy. Not a single ship reached the garrison of Calais.

For the people of the town it was dismal news. The commander, Jean de Vienne, wrote to his king to say that there was no more food left in the town, and that they must resort to the horrible expedience of human flesh or die. A terrible, grim letter, it was, as the English soon learned.

It was entrusted to a Genoese, who tried to slip from the town at night in a small boat to make his way to Paris, but before he could pass by the English lines, he was seen. English ships were launched in pursuit, and he was captured, although not before he had bound the letter to a hatchet and hurled it into the sea. But at low tide the message was discovered, still tied to its weight, protected by its oil-cloth wrapping, and the letter was read by King Edward. He resealed the letter, placing the mark of his own seal on it, and had the letter dispatched to King Philippe. It was a flagrant challenge, and the King of France took it up.

He mustered an army, at least five-and-twenty thousand strong, and marched to meet the English.

It was a few days later that the call came for the English in Janyn’s vintaine to gather their weapons. There were rumours of an army marching to meet them, and while it was scarcely to be thought that it could equal the size of the army they had destroyed at Crécy, still, a host of French knights was a force to be reckoned with.

‘They’re coming up the road there,’ Janyn was told.

He and the other vinteners and centeners from the force with Sir John de Sully were gathered together in a wide space behind a wagon-park. Men were standing on wagons and carts to listen as Sir John, tall, hawkish and lean, told them of the danger approaching.

‘They are coming slowly, we believe. I doubt me not that after Crécy they will be keen to show us that our success there was a mere chance. They will have as many knights and men-at-arms as they can gather together in so short a space. It will not be easy for them, for we slaughtered their army. There can be few fighting men in the whole of the French King’s northern lands.’

Next to Janyn, Barda grimaced, then muttered, ‘The French King’s son had an army. He was bringing that up here in a hurry. What if this is his army? Battle-hardened and powerful.’

Janyn said nothing. Barda was his most trusted companion from the vintaine, but there were times when his grumbling and complaining were annoying.

Sir John was continuing: ‘So we have to hurry and meet them. We have to assess their speed of march, gauge their size and abilities. If need be, we shall have to make them pause on their march. The siege is essential, and nothing can be allowed to prevent us from taking Calais. No matter what this army may be. But we do need to know all we can about it so we can find the best way to deter it. Are there any questions?’

The usual few hands rose, with queries about the food and provisions for the march, but all issues were soon resolved and a basic plan agreed.

‘So, off we go again.’ Barda grunted. ‘Always us at the foreground. The army likes us to be the bleeding spearpoint, doesn’t it? And when we’re blunted, other bastards can claim the sodding glory.’

‘We’ll be fine,’ Janyn said as they made their way back to their men.

‘You know what I think? I reckon the King knows he can replace any number of men over here. So many English would be glad to come and join in the sack of Calais that he will never lack for men. And after Calais, well, it’ll be easier to launch an attack with a town already colonised, won’t it? He doesn’t care about you and me, Jan. He thinks he’s got the country by the short hairs as it is.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘No “perhaps” about it, old son. Take my oath on it. We are the dispensable vanguard. He can lose any or all of us. Right now, we’re the most experienced of his soldiers, but he’ll throw us at the enemy, like a lure to the French hawk. We can be discarded – just so long as we hold them back for a little while, until the King’s host is ready to receive them.’

‘You’re too cynical,’ Janyn said.

‘You think so? You’re too trusting, man. You’re gambling, but you’re gambling with your life,’ Barda said harshly. ‘And ours, too.’

It was a thought that would return to haunt Janyn later.

The vintaine was packed and ready in short order. Janyn looked about him and assessed their strength, studying each man and his weapons.

Although they had marched hundreds of miles to get here, and then endured the winter over the long months, they did not have the appearance of men worn out by their journeys and privations. Still, there was the usual grumbling and complaining. Will of Whitchurch, a scrawny, ill-favoured malcontent with the look and sound of a whining cur, muttered loudly as he packed about: ‘These gits. Why don’t they send in the Welshies, eh? Just about done, me. Nay, but they’ll send us all in until we’re all jiggered. They can’t risk the Prince’s little darlings, can they, oh, no. But us, they can throw us into every battle.’