Bernard Cornwell - 1356 (Special Edition)

The Lord of Douglas was angry. He had brought two hundred of Scotland’s best warriors to France, and instead of launching them against the English, the King of France was holding a tournament.

A bloody tournament! The English were burning towns beyond the frontiers of Gascony and besieging castles in Normandy, yet Jean of France wanted to play at soldiers. So the Lord of Douglas would play as well, and when the French suggested a melee, fifteen of King Jean’s finest knights against fifteen Scotsmen, Douglas took one of his warriors aside. ‘Put them down fast,’ Douglas growled.

The man, gaunt and hollow-cheeked, just nodded. His name was Sculley. He alone among the Lord of Douglas’s men-at-arms was not wearing a helmet, and his dark hair, streaked with grey, was worn long and twisted into pigtails into which he had inserted numerous small bones, and it was rumoured that each bone came from the finger of an Englishman he had killed, though no one ever dared ask Sculley the truth of that statement. The bones could just as easily have come from fellow Scotsmen.

‘Put them down and keep them down,’ Douglas said.

Sculley smiled, all teeth, no humour. ‘Kill them?’

‘Christ, no, you bloody fool! It’s a goddamned tournament! Just put them down hard, man, hard and fast.’

Money was changing hands as bets were made, and most of the cash was placed on the French, for they were superbly mounted, beautifully armoured, and each of the fifteen was a renowned tournament fighter. They paraded themselves, trotting their destriers up and down in front of the tiered seats where the king and his court watched, and they glanced patronisingly at the Scots, whose horses were smaller and whose armour was old-fashioned. The French had great helms, padded and plumed, while the Scots wore bascinets, mere skull caps with a tail to protect the neck, and Sculley wore no helmet at all. He kept his great falchion sheathed, preferring a mace.

‘Any knight who cries for quarter will be given it,’ a herald was reading the rules, which every man knew so no one listened. ‘Lances will be blunted. Sword points may not be used. Horses are not to be maimed.’ He droned on as the king offered a purse to a servant who hurried off to place the money on the superb French contingent. The Lord of Douglas put all he had on his own men. He had decided against fighting, not because he feared the melee, but because he had nothing to prove, and now he watched his nephew, Sir Robbie, and wondered if the youngster had been softened by his time at the French court. But at least Robbie Douglas could fight, and he was one of the fifteen, his shield, like all the Scotsmen’s shields, showing the red heart of Douglas. One of the French knights evidently knew Robbie, for he had ridden to where the Scotsmen readied themselves and the two were deep in conversation.

A fat cardinal, who had been paying court to the king all day, sidled between the padded seats to take the empty space beside Douglas. Most men avoided the hard-faced, dark-faced, grim-faced Scot, but the cardinal smiled a welcome. ‘We have not met,’ he introduced himself genially. ‘My name is Bessières, Cardinal Archbishop of Livorno, Papal Legate to King Jean of France, whom God preserves. Do you like almonds?’

‘I’ve a taste for them,’ the Lord of Douglas said grudgingly.

The cardinal held out a plump hand to offer the bowl of almonds. ‘Take as many as you wish, my lord. They come from my own estates. I am told you have placed money on your own side?’

‘What else would I do?’

‘You might have a care of your money,’ the cardinal said happily, ‘and I suspect you do. So tell me, my lord, what you know and I do not.’

‘I know fighting,’ Douglas said.

‘Then let me try another question,’ the cardinal said. ‘If I were to offer you one-third of my winnings, and I was to place a large sum of money on the fight, would you advise me to back the Scots?’

‘You’d be a fool not to.’

‘No one, I think, has ever accused me of foolishness,’ Bessières said. The cardinal summoned a servant and gave the man a heavy bag of coin. ‘Upon the Scots,’ he instructed, then waited for the servant to go. ‘You are not content, my lord,’ he said to Douglas, ‘and today is supposed to be a day of rejoicing.’

Douglas scowled at the cardinal. ‘Rejoicing for what?’

‘The sunshine, God’s blessings, good wine.’

‘With the English running loose in Normandy and Gascony?’

‘Ah, the English.’ Bessières leaned back in the chair, resting the dish of almonds on his protruding stomach. ‘The Holy Father urges us to make a peace. An everlasting peace.’ He spoke sarcastically. There had been a time, and not so long ago, when Louis Bessières had thought himself certain to become Pope. All it would have needed was for him to produce the Holy Grail, the most desired relic of Christendom, and to ensure that he could produce it he had gone to immense and expensive pains to have the false Grail made, but the cup had been dashed from his hands, and, on the old Pope’s death, the crown had gone to another man. Yet Bessières had not given up hope. By the grace of God the Pope was sick and could die any time.

Douglas caught the cardinal’s tone and was surprised. ‘You do not want peace?’

‘Of course I want peace,’ the cardinal said, ‘indeed I am charged by the Holy Father to negotiate that peace with the English. Would you like another handful of almonds?’

‘I thought the Pope wanted the English defeated,’ Douglas said.

‘He does.’

‘But he urges peace?’

‘The Pope cannot encourage war,’ Bessières said, ‘so he preaches peace and sends me to negotiate.’

‘And you?’ Douglas asked, letting the question hang.

‘I negotiate,’ Bessières said airily, ‘and I shall give France the peace that the Holy Father wants, but even he knows that the only way to give France peace is by defeating the English. So yes, my lord, the road to peace lies through war. More almonds?’

A trumpet sounded, calling the two groups of knights to go to the ends of the tilting ground. Marshals were inspecting lances, making certain they were tipped with wooden blocks so they could not pierce shields or armour.

‘There will be war,’ Douglas said, ‘yet here we are playing games.’

‘His Majesty is nervous of England,’ Bessières said frankly. ‘He fears their archers.’

‘Archers can be beaten,’ Douglas said vehemently.

‘They can?’

‘They can. There is a way.’

‘No one has found it,’ the cardinal observed.

‘Because they’re fools. Because they think that playing on horseback is the only way to make war. My father was at the Bannock burn; you know of that battle?’

‘Alas, no,’ the cardinal said.

‘We crushed the English bastards, tore them to pieces, archers and all. It can be done. It has been done. It must be done.’

The cardinal watched the French knights form a line of ten men. The remaining five would charge a few paces behind to take advantage of the chaos created by the impact of the ten. ‘The one to fear,’ Bessières said, gesturing with an almond, ‘is the brute with the gaudy shield.’ He pointed to a big man on a big horse, a man arrayed in shining plate armour and holding a shield that displayed a clenched red fist against a field of orange and white stripes. ‘His name is Joscelyn of Berat,’ the cardinal said, ‘and he is a fool, but a great fighter. He is undefeated these last five years except, of course, by Roland de Verrec, and he, alas, is not here.’

Joscelyn of Berat was the man Robbie Douglas had been talking with before the knights withdrew to the ends of the field. ‘Where’s Berat?’ Douglas asked.