‘A fine place to live.’ I hesitated a moment before continuing, ‘The earth there is such a remarkable colour, so white and chalky.’
Ralph grunted his assent and I noted that he was beginning to sweat. No doubt his burden was heavy.
We parted company close to the Duke’s tent, I to wait until I should be needed to accompany my lord back to Calais, Ralph to find some wagon going in the same direction, or else to trudge the weary way on foot. I watched him thoughtfully as he paused to exchange greetings with an armourer who had just finished hammering out a dent in a cuisse. It had been well worth the effort to seek out Ralph Boyse, if only to learn that he knew nothing of Devon and had never been there. He had no kinsman who dwelt near Exeter, for the soil thereabouts is the deep rich red that accompanies granite.
So where had he been, and what had he really been up to last May, while Duke Richard’s levies had been encamped around Northampton?
Chapter Sixteen
We did not return to Calais for our belated dinner until close upon noon, by which time my stomach was rumbling with hunger.
The reason for the delay was the Duke’s insistence on visiting his levies, walking around that part of the camp where his own particular troops were mustered and following in my footsteps of earlier that morning. He displayed an interest in the comfort and welfare of his men shown by very few of the other commanders, asking pertinent questions and displaying considerable knowledge concerning the answers. (This should not have surprised me, however, because this young man, who was my own age exactly, had been Admiral of England, Ireland and Aquitaine by the time he was eleven years old.)
At last, however, the Duke was ready to leave and return to the town, a decision I silently but heartily applauded, and not just because I was famished. The familiar way he moved among the soldiery, stopping to speak to the roughest and ugliest of characters, filled me with the greatest apprehension; and on more than one occasion I urged his Body Squires to stand closer to him, even presuming to mount guard over him myself. How easy it would be, I reflected, for someone to produce a knife from beneath his tunic and slide it between his victim’s ribs.
Duke Richard gave no sign of noticing these manoeuvres, except for a slight lift at the corners of his wide, thin mouth. However, when at last he turned to go, back to where the horses had been tethered at the edge of the vast encampment, he brushed against me, murmuring so low that only I could hear, ‘It’s time I put you out of your misery, Roger Chapman.’
He and his Squires cantered leisurely over the paved causeway which led eventually to Calais’s landward gate. The rest of us were on foot, swinging along at a vigorous pace, but unable, nevertheless, to keep abreast of the horsemen. I was relieved therefore to see a party of the Duke’s retainers, headed by the unmistakable figure of Timothy Plummer, riding out across the lowered drawbridge to meet us. I was also pleased to recognize Matthew Wardroper amongst the group. There was something reassuring about the sight of his slender, upright figure, mounted on a chestnut gelding. Moreover, it was good to know that here, at least, was one man free from the taint of any suspicion.
I was less pleased, a moment later, to note Ralph Boyse, still clutching the portable organ, standing in the crowd lining the roadside to watch the Duke and his retinue pass. Why was he not safely in Calais by now? It was an hour and more since we had parted company; ample time for him to have reached and entered the town, even hampered as he was by his burden. I tried to keep him in view as my fellows and I drew level with the onlookers, but there were too many people milling around the edge of the causeway, and on more than one occasion he vanished from sight.
The two parties of horsemen had by now met and mingled, Timothy Plummer and his escort closing in behind the Duke who, even at a distance, was patently none too gratified to see them. He was doubtless displeased by this public demonstration of concern.
Suddenly, above the general hubbub, there sounded a brief but piercing whistle. Almost immediately Duke Richard’s horse careered off the track and began a headlong gallop towards the deep ditch which surrounded Calais’s double circle of walls. For a moment nobody moved, unable to take in exactly what had happened, and then for a few short seconds after realization dawned we all waited for the Duke, deservedly famous for his equestrian skills, to bring the maddened beast under control.
‘Jesus!’ breathed the man next to me, those of us on foot having slowed to a halt. ‘His saddle’s slipping. The girth’s broken.’
‘Or been cut,’ I muttered grimly under my breath.
We all started to run, knowing full well that it was hopeless. We could never catch up. It needed another horseman, and a skilled one at that, to overtake and check the bolting thoroughbred, a high-spirited animal and difficult enough to handle at the best of times. The Duke’s entire mounted retinue was already streaming in pursuit, but I placed little faith in the ability of any one of them to prevent the tragedy so obviously impending. If the Duke did not break his neck, he must, barring a miracle, be seriously injured in a fall.
The cumbersome ornamental saddle slithered first to one side, then to the other of the horse’s back, and Duke Richard twice avoided being thrown by the merest hair’s breadth and his own superb skill as a rider. But the ditch was getting closer by the second. Once the animal stumbled into that nothing on earth could save either him or the Duke from an extremely dangerous tumble.
Then, with disaster looming, young Matthew Wardroper seemingly came out of nowhere, reaching his master’s side at breakneck speed, leaning across to snatch at the runaway’s bridle and flinging a steadying arm about the prince’s shoulders. There was a moment of wild confusion when it looked as if both men and their mounts must plunge together down the steep, rolling slope into the bottom of the ditch; but at the very second when all appeared lost, Duke Richard wrenched his horse’s head to the left and veered sharply away from the edge, taking Matthew Wardroper with him. The blown steeds came to a stop a furrow’s length from the brink, standing docilely while the two men dismounted.
I was near enough by now to see that young Matthew looked considerably more shaken than the Duke, who put up both hands to ward off a host of anxious retainers.
‘I am perfectly safe. There is nothing to be alarmed about,’ I heard him say, before he was blocked from my view by a sea of bodies.
And he was the only one of us who looked calm and unruffled as, twenty minutes later using a borrowed saddle, he rode over the drawbridge and into the town at the head of his retinue.
The following day I found myself, more by chance than design, wedged next to Timothy Plummer as the three princes, supported by their immediate household officers and friends, crowded into the market square of Calais to await the arrival of Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy. After the formal greetings and exchange of presents, King Edward and his two brothers, accompanied by their sister, would withdraw for rest and relaxation into the Hotel de Ville, where they would be able to discuss more intimate family matters.
Timothy edged a little closer and whispered in my ear, ‘Have you been told that tomorrow my lord and the Duke of Clarence will escort the Duchess back to St Omer?’ I shook my head as he grinned, taking his usual pleasure at imparting unwelcome news. ‘True, I assure you. And I have arranged with His Grace that you shall be one of his following. Can you sit a horse?’
‘I have ridden, although not recently. Does Ralph Boyse go with us?’