Ken Follett - World Without End

The north transept was a hospital for the wounded. On the way out, Caris paused to watch a surgeon sewing up a deep cut on the cheek of a groaning man-at-arms. The surgeon was quick and skilful, and when he had finished Caris said admiringly: “You did that very well.”

“Thank you,” he said. Glancing at her he added: “But how would you know, laddie?”

She knew because she had watched Matthew Barber at work many times, but she had to make up a story quickly, so she said: “Back in Longchamp, my father is surgeon to the sieur.”

“And are you with your sieur now?”

“He has been captured by the English, and my lady has sent me and my brother to negotiate his ransom.”

“Hmm. You might have done better to go straight to London. If he isn’t there now, he soon will be. However, now that you’re here, you can earn a bed for the night by helping me.”

“Gladly.”

“Have you seen your father wash wounds with warm wine?”

Caris could wash wounds in her sleep. In a few moments she and Mair were doing what they knew best, taking care of sick people. Most of the men had been hurt the previous day, in a battle at a ford over the river Somme. Injured noblemen had been attended to first, and now the surgeon was getting around to the common soldiers. They worked non-stop for several hours. The long summer evening turned to twilight and candles were brought. At last all the bones had been set, the crushed extremities amputated and the wounds sewn up; and the surgeon, Martin Chirurgien, took them to the refectory for supper.

They were treated as part of the king’s entourage, and fed stewed mutton with onions. They had not tasted meat for a week. They even had good red wine. Mair drank with relish. Caris was glad they had the opportunity to build up their strength, but she was still anxious about catching up with the English.

A knight at their table said: “Do you realize that in the abbot’s dining room, next door, four kings and two archbishops are eating supper?” He counted on his fingers as he named them: “The kings of France, Bohemia, Rome and Majorca, and the archbishops of Rouen and Sens.”

Caris decided she had to see. She went out of the room by the door that seemed to lead to the kitchen. She saw servants carrying laden platters into another room, and peeped through the door.

The men around the table were undoubtedly high-ranking – the board was loaded with roasted fowls, huge joints of beef and mutton, rich puddings and pyramids of sugared fruits. The man at the head was presumably King Philippe, fifty-three years old with a scatter of grey hairs in his blond beard. Beside him, a younger man who resembled him was holding forth. “The English are not noblemen,” he said, red-faced with fury. “They are like thieves, who steal in the night and then run away.”

Martin appeared at Caris’s shoulder and murmured in her ear: “That’s my master – Charles, count of Alençon, the king’s brother.”

A new voice said: “I disagree.” Caris saw immediately that the speaker was blind, and concluded that he must be King Jean of Bohemia. “The English cannot run much longer. They are low on food, and they’re tired.”

Charles said: “Edward wants to join forces with the Anglo-Flemish army that has invaded north-east France from Flanders.”

Jean shook his head. “We learned today that that army has gone into retreat. I think Edward has to stand and fight. And, from his point of view, the sooner the better, for his men are only going to become more dispirited as the days go by.”

Charles said excitedly: “Then we may catch them tomorrow. After what they have done to Normandy, every one of them should die – knights, noblemen, even Edward himself!”

King Philippe put a hand on Charles’s arm, silencing him. “Our brother’s anger is understandable,” he said. “The crimes of the English are disgusting. But remember: when we encounter the enemy, the most important thing is to put aside any differences there may be between us – forget our quarrels and grudges – and trust one another, at least for the course of the battle. We outnumber the English, and we should vanquish them easily – but we must fight together, as one army. Let us drink to unity.”

That was an interesting toast, Caris decided as she discreetly withdrew. Clearly the king could not take it for granted that his allies would act as a team. But what worried her about the conversation was the likelihood that there would be a battle soon, perhaps tomorrow. She and Mair would have to take care not to get mixed up in it.

As they returned to the refectory, Martin said quietly: “Like the king, you have an unruly brother.”

Caris saw that Mair was getting drunk. She was overplaying her boyish role, sitting with her legs splayed and her elbows on the table. “By the saints, that was a good stew, but it’s making me fart like the devil,” said the sweet-faced nun in men’s clothing. “Sorry about the stink, lads.” She refilled her wine cup and drank deeply.

The men laughed at her indulgently, amused by the sight of a boy getting drunk for the first time, doubtless remembering embarrassing incidents in their own pasts.

Caris took her arm. “Time you were in bed, baby brother,” she said. “Off we go.”

Mair went willingly enough. “My big brother acts like an old woman,” she said to the company. “But he loves me – don’t you, Christophe?”

“Yes, Michel, I love you,” Caris said, and the men laughed again.

Mair held on tightly to her. Caris walked her back to the church and found the spot in the nave where they had left their blankets. She made Mair lie down, and covered her with her blanket.

“Kiss me goodnight, Christophe,” said Mair.

Caris kissed her lips, then said: “You’re drunk. Go to sleep. We have to start early in the morning.”

Caris lay awake for some time, worrying. She felt she had had terribly bad luck. She and Mair had almost caught up with the English army and Bishop Richard – but at exactly the same moment the French had also caught up with them. She should keep well away from the battlefield. On the other hand, if she and Mair got stuck in the rear of the French army they might never catch the English.

On balance she thought she had better set off first thing in the morning, and try to get ahead of the French. An army this big could not move fast – it would take hours just to form up into marching order. If she and Mair were nimble they should be able to stay ahead. It was risky – but they had done nothing but take risks since leaving Portsmouth.

She drifted off to sleep, and woke when the bell rang for Matins soon after three o’clock in the morning. She roused Mair, and was unsympathetic when she complained of a headache. While the monks sang psalms in the church, Caris and Mair went to the stables and found their horses. The sky was clear, and they could see by starlight.

The town’s bakers had been working all night, so they were able to buy loaves for their journey. But the city gates were still closed: they had to wait impatiently until dawn, shivering in the cool air, eating the new bread.

At about half past four they at last left Abbeville and headed northwest along the right bank of the Somme, the direction the English army was said to be taking.

They were only a quarter of a mile away when the trumpets sounded a reveille on the walls of the town. Like Caris, King Philippe had decided on an early start. In the fields, the soldiers and men-at-arms began to stir. The marshals must have got their orders last night, for they seemed to know what to do, and before long some of the army joined Caris and Mair on the road.

Caris still hoped to reach the Enghsh ahead of these troops. The French would obviously have to stop and regroup before joining battle. That ought to give Caris and Mair time to reach their countrymen and find some safe place beyond the battlefield. She did not want to get caught between the two sides. She was beginning to think she had been foolhardy to set out on this mission. Knowing nothing of war, she had not been able to imagine the difficulties and dangers. But it was too late now for regrets. And they had got this far without coming to harm.