I stood up, and punched him, straight in the teeth.
‘You stupid, brain-dead bastard,’ I cried, ‘you’ve killed your own wife’s cousin.’
4
I’ve no wish to set myself up as an authority on dungeons of the world, but I reckon that those at Valognes would rate five stars in any guide book for dankness, darkness and deepness.
Yes, friends, Alianore Audley was up to her hennin in the solid stuff. I sat there wondering what they did to spies in France. I had an idea it would be something even worse than having to dance with Lord Stanley, or drawing Richard of Gloucester as partner for a joke-cracking competition.
They hadn’t found my knife, and I tried to pick the lock with it. The blade broke in half. Typical English workmanship. Cheers, Hastings!
In the morning they led me into the adjoining chamber. Warwick was waiting for me, and with him an oily-looking young scrub. This, I learned, was Prince Edward of Lancaster, his new ally and prospective son-in-law. (The same Prince who, as a pretty little boy, had been touted around Cheshire and Shropshire by his dear mother, Margaret of Anjou.) In the corner, a chap with a hood over his head was stoking up a fire. I had a look at the implements on the wall, and realised that they weren’t planning a barbecue. They weren’t just going to pluck my eyebrows, either.
‘Look,’ I said hurriedly, ‘there’s no need to use any of this stuff. I’ll tell you everything I know. I’ll even tell you some things I don’t know.’
I think they were a bit disappointed, to be honest with you. I dare say that torturing a damosel would have brightened up their day. I gave them all the facts about my mission, and a bit more besides. I’m not the sort that gets a kick out of being hurt.
‘Aye,’ said Warwick, thoughtfully. ‘It’s just like Edward to send one of his tarts over to try to win Clarence back.’
I don’t know where Warwick got the idea that I was one of the King’s tarts, as he so tastefully put it, but I can tell you it got me pretty wound up to hear him say it. After all, I was still practically a virgin. It’s one thing to be threatened with sundry hideous torments, but to have your reputation questioned into the bargain is really a bit rich.
‘And you still trust Clarence? After this?’ asked the Prince.
‘I trust none but myself. But I think I’ve shown young George which side his bread’s buttered. No need to worry yourself, lad.’
‘What are you going to do with me now?’ I asked, trying to sound bold. I wasn’t sure that I really wanted to know the answer.
The Prince smiled. He was only about eighteen years old, but as nasty a piece of work as you’d wish not to meet.
‘We’re going to arrange for you to have a nice little swim,’ he said.
I was taken back to the dungeon. Quite a while later two French chaps came in. Big lads. Without so much as a by-your-leave they started to strip me, and before I could do them much damage they had me down to my shift. I thought that they were going to rape me, but it turned out that the mean-spirited bastards only wanted to steal my clothes. They left me the shift. The French are a funny lot, and I dare say that there’s a law against throwing naked women into their rivers.
They made me walk upstairs with them to the guardroom, where they had a monk to hear my confession. I was about half way through my sins before they threw him out and sewed me into a big sack, with two large stones for company.
Was I afraid? You can bet your bottom groat I was!
The sack was picked up. I was thrown into a cart. We rattled through the streets. (I assume all this, because I was in no position to see.)
I felt myself lifted. There was a grunt, and I was pitched into space. There was a bloody big splash, and the icy water closed over me.
I kicked like buggery, as they say in Yorkshire. The sack, however, was strong, and didn’t just fall apart at the seams as I anticipated. I’ll be plain with you. At that moment I thought that I was riding side-saddle to the big manor house in the sky. This, I thought, is how it feels to be an unwanted kitten.
Something grabbed me. It began to drag me towards the bank. It was Guy the archer.
I’d forgotten all about Guy. Luckily, he hadn’t forgotten me.
‘I took the two Frogs out just as they threw you,’ he told me. ‘Pity they dropped you on the wrong side of the parapet. Good job I can swim.’
I coughed the water out of my lungs. It was dark, and we were sitting on a muddy bank outside the town walls. There didn’t seem to be anyone else about.
‘Honour forbids me to mix my blood with a mere peasant, or I’d reward you here and now,’ I said, still choking. ‘I hope you’ll accept the cash alternative.’
He grinned. ‘To be honest, Mistress Audley, I much prefer the earthy smell of a country wench. In fact, I’m a bit of a sheep-crap fetishist on the quiet.’
‘Well, if that’s sorted, we’d better get on our way,’ I suggested. ‘The Frogs are likely to get a shade suspicious when they find those two punters with huge great arrows sticking out of them.’
To all young damosels looking for a fresh experience I would say this: Walking around France in the dark wearing only a saturated shift is not something that I’d recommend. If you get the chance to do it, give it a miss.
Guy was more or less carrying me by the time dawn came up. He had the idea that we had to keep moving, and I knew that he was right, even though I just wanted to lie down and die.
He left me under a tree while he went off to do a bit of scavenging. When he came back he had a bundle of clothes, a loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese. Apparently he’d stopped some people on the road, and a little friendly English diplomacy had persuaded them to co-operate.
The bread and cheese went down very well. I was less happy with the change of clothes, as they rather obviously belonged to a man. Still, they had one big advantage. They were dry.
‘Nice legs,’ Guy remarked, when I stepped out from behind the tree.
‘I feel like a complete prat,’ I said, angrily.
‘You’ll have to remember to keep your hood up,’ he added.‘Unless you want to cut your hair short? Could you draw a boy’s bow? If I can lay my hands on one?’
‘My good man,’ I said, ‘I have shot at deer in the park at Middleham. Of course I can draw a bloody bow. Just as long as you don’t expect me to hit anything.’
‘We’ve got to get back to England,’ Guy continued. ‘Warwick’s planning an invasion. I reckon he’ll be able to find room for a couple of extra archers.’
We walked. Don’t ask me how far. A hell of a sight further than I had ever walked before, that’s for sure. (My idea of a long walk is from my horse to my place in the stands at a tournament.)
After only a few days of this we ended up at Barfleur. The place was swarming with soldiers, most of who were in an angry mood because Warwick had forgotten to pay them. Funnily enough, this lack of cash did not stop them drinking. There was an Englishman lying in every gutter, and Guy had no trouble stealing a bow and a dozen arrows for me.
The ancient who recruited us asked us to take a shot each at a target he had set up. This was meat and drink to Guy. In one swift movement he notched his arrow in the bow string and landed it in the dead centre of the gold.
My bow was only about a hundred and ten pounds pull. It was a hell of a struggle just to draw it, let alone take aim. The arrow flew out of my grip and split Guy’s right down the middle.
I wish to make one thing very clear. That arrow could have landed anywhere from my left foot to the Isle of Wight. I claim no credit at all for skill. It was in fact the biggest fluke since Agincourt. I knew that. Guy knew that. Fortunately, the man signing us on for Warwick’s livery didn’t. He thought he’d just got hold of two chaps who’d been kicked out of Robin Hood’s Merry Men for being better shots than the boss.