Bernard Cornwell - 1356 (Special Edition)

‘South,’ Bessières said vaguely.

‘How would my nephew know him?’

Bessières shrugged. ‘I cannot tell you, my lord.’

‘My nephew was in the south,’ Douglas said, ‘before the pestilence arrived. He travelled with an Englishman.’ He spat. ‘Some damn archer,’ he added.

The cardinal shuddered. He knew the tale, knew it only too well. The damn archer was Thomas of Hookton whom Bessières blamed for the loss of both the Grail and of Saint Peter’s throne. The cardinal also knew of Robbie Douglas, indeed that was why he had come to the tourney. ‘Your nephew is here?’ he asked.

‘Piebald horse,’ Douglas said, nodding towards the Scots who looked so ill armed compared to their rivals.

‘I would like to talk with him,’ the cardinal said. ‘Would you be so kind as to send him to me?’ But before the Lord of Douglas could answer, the king waved, a herald lowered his banner, and the horsemen dug in their spurs.

Bessières immediately regretted his wager. The Scots’ horses looked so scrawny compared to the magnificent destriers that the French rode, and the French rode tight, knee to knee, as knights should, while the Scotsmen, slower off the mark, spread out instantly to leave gaps through which their opponents could ride. They had chosen to ride in a single wide line, all fifteen abreast, but they also rode faster, increasing their disarray, while the French came slowly, keeping station, only spurring into the canter when the two groups were about fifty paces apart. The cardinal glanced at the Lord of Douglas to see if the Scotsman shared his apprehensions, but Douglas was smiling sardonically as though he knew what was coming.

The hoofbeats were loud, but drowned by the shouts of the crowd. The king, who was exceptionally fond of jousting, leaned forward expectantly in his chair, and the cardinal looked back to see the leading Frenchmen raise their shields and couch their lances, bracing for the impact, and the crowd went suddenly quiet, as if it held its breath, waiting for the crash of armoured men and horses.

The cardinal never quite understood what happened next, or rather he did not understand until it was explained to him at the feast where cruets were used to represent the horsemen, but when he was watching, when the crash came, he did not understand it at all.

The Scots had seemed so ragged, yet at the last second they suddenly swerved inwards to make a column of horsemen, three riders in the front rank, and that column hammered through the French line like a nail driven through a sheet of vellum. Scottish lances crashed into shields, Frenchmen were thrown back onto their saddles’ high cantles, and the column sliced through the line to strike hard against the second smaller group of French riders, who, not expecting to be involved in the fight’s opening, were not ready for the impact. A lance caught a Frenchman at the base of his helmet and, though blunted, it cracked the helmet and threw the man back over his cantle. A horse screamed. The Scots in the following ranks had discarded their lances and drawn swords or else carried brutal lead-weighted maces, and they now moved outwards. Most were now behind their opponents who were blind to their attacks. Another Frenchman went down, dragged by his stirrup-trapped boot out of the melee.

So far as the cardinal could see it was sheer chaos, but it was clear the Scots were winning. Two more Frenchmen fell, and Sculley, conspicuous because he wore no helmet, was hammering his mace down on a magnificently plumed helm, hammering again and again, grimacing as he stood in his stirrups, and the horseman, plainly stunned, slid down to the turf as Sculley turned on another man, this time swinging the mace so that it slammed straight into the helmet’s eye-slits. That man went, felled in an instant, and the Scotsmen were now seeking new enemies, getting in each other’s way in their eagerness to finish off the French knights. Joscelyn of Berat was backing his horse, fighting off Robbie Douglas and another man. Joscelyn’s swordplay was fast and dangerous, but Sculley came behind him and slammed the mace into the small of his back, and Joscelyn, knowing he could not fight off three men, shouted that he yielded, and Robbie Douglas had to drive his horse between Joscelyn and Sculley to stop the mace coming again in a blow that threatened to snap the Frenchman’s spine.

Sculley wheeled away, saw a Frenchmen staggering to his feet with a drawn sword, so kicked him in the face and raised the mace to finish the man off, but the heralds were running to intervene and the trumpets were shrilling and another Scotsman stilled Sculley’s blow. The crowd was utterly silent. Sculley was growling, twitching, flicking his head from side to side in search of another man to hit, but of the Frenchmen only Joscelyn of Berat was still in his saddle, and he had yielded. The fight had been fast, brutal and one-sided, and the cardinal discovered he had been holding his breath. ‘A demonstration of Scottish prowess, my lord?’ he enquired of the Lord of Douglas.

‘Just imagine they had been fighting the English,’ Douglas growled.

‘That is a cheering thought, my lord,’ the cardinal said, watching as servants ran to rescue the fallen French knights, one of whom was not moving at all. His helm was battered and there was blood seeping from the visor’s eye-slits. ‘The sooner we release you against the English,’ Bessières went on, ‘the better.’

Douglas turned to look at the cardinal. ‘The king listens to you?’ he asked.

‘I give him advice,’ Bessières said airily.

‘Then tell him to send us south.’

‘Not to Normandy?’

‘Edward’s pup is in the south,’ Douglas said.

‘The Prince of Wales?’

‘Edward’s pup,’ Douglas said, ‘and I want him. I want him yielding to me. I want him on his damned knees whimpering for mercy.’

‘And will you grant it?’ Bessières asked, amused at the passion in the Scotsman’s voice.

‘You know our king is prisoner in England?’

‘Of course.’

‘And the ransom will break our backs. I want Edward’s pup.’

‘Ah!’ Bessières understood. ‘So your king’s ransom will be the Prince of Wales?’

‘Exactly.’

Bessières reached out and touched a gloved finger to the Scotsman’s hand. ‘I shall do as you ask,’ he promised warmly, ‘but first I want you to introduce me to your nephew.’

‘To Robbie?’

‘To Robbie,’ the cardinal said.

Bessières and Robbie met that evening as the survivors of the tourney feasted with the French court. They ate eels seethed in wine, mutton dressed with figs, roasted songbirds, venison, and a score of other dishes brought into a hall where minstrels played behind a screen. The Scottish warriors ate together, clustered at a table as if protecting themselves from the vengeful French, who had suggested that some strange pagan magic, born of the wild northern hills, had been used against their champions, so that when Robbie was summoned, and ordered by his uncle to obey the summons, he crossed the hall nervously. He bowed to the king, then followed the servant to the table where the cardinal had four trenchers in front of him. ‘You will sit beside me, young man,’ the cardinal ordered. ‘Do you like roasted larks?’

‘No, Your Eminence.’

‘Suck the flesh from the bones and you will find the taste delectable.’ The cardinal placed a tiny bird in front of Robbie. ‘You fought well,’ he said.

‘We fought as we always fight,’ Robbie said.

‘I watched you. In another moment you would have beaten the Count of Berat.’

‘I doubt it,’ Robbie said ungraciously.

‘But then your master’s beast intervened,’ the cardinal said, watching Sculley, who was hunched over his food as though he feared men might take it from him. ‘Why does he wear bones in his hair?’