Why King Edward had selected this particular rendezvous I could only guess, but I suspected that it added colour to his bellicose intentions and helped to allay any growing fears that his commitment to the war was less than wholehearted.
As soon as camp had been made, the Duke’s tents pitched alongside those of his brothers, fires for the men started and shelter scouted for in the neighbouring countryside, Timothy and I went in search of Ralph and Matthew, leaving strict instructions with the Squires of the Body that one of them was to be in attendance upon His Grace at all times. To a man, they looked down their patrician noses and muttered darkly about teaching one’s granddam to grope ducks, or the goslings wanting to drive the geese to pasture, but we departed, satisfied that they would not fail in their duty.
We found Matthew easily enough. He was already on his way, in the company of Jocelin d’Hiver and another Squire of the Household, to the Duke’s main pavilion, to present his devoir and resume his normal duties.
‘Where’s Ralph Boyse?’ Timothy asked him, adding quickly, ‘Duke Richard wants him.’
‘No longer with us,’ Jocelin answered before Matthew had a chance to reply. ‘Fortunate devil,’ he went on enviously, glancing around at the water-logged plain, the distant, rain-sodden woods of Tramecourt and the men huddled over smoking fires which offered no kind of warmth to their shivering limbs.
‘What do you mean?’ Timothy demanded sharply. ‘Where’s he gone?’
‘He was sent home to England with a dozen or so others who had developed dysentery,’ Matthew explained. ‘As Jocelin says, lucky devil.’
I forced myself not to look in Timothy’s direction. ‘Ralph seemed well enough to me when I last saw him.’
‘That was weeks ago,’ Matthew pointed out with reason. ‘There was an outbreak of dysentery in Calais just after you left.’
The third man with them nodded. ‘A lot of men were struck down. Some died. Mind you, I don’t think Ralph was very bad. In fact until the night before the ship sailed I didn’t even realize he was ill.’
‘A man can suffer in silence, I suppose,’ Matthew expostulated. ‘Anyway, Master Steward was sufficiently convinced to send him home. I’ll tell His Grace what’s happened.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Timothy said swiftly and turned back towards the tent. If Duke Richard denied that he had been asking for Ralph, Matthew might begin to wonder. Later, when the Duke was at supper, the Spy-Master sought me out to inquire, ‘What do you make of that, then?’
It had at last stopped raining, but the August evening was still dreary and overcast, an impenetrable canopy of cloud hanging low overhead. The ground squelched beneath our feet and there was a chill in the air which had caused my companion to wrap himself in a cloak. I was hardier, used to being out in all weathers, but even I found myself shivering every now and then.
‘Ralph was never our assassin,’ I answered slowly. ‘He is separating himself from Matthew now that we are getting further from the coast and into France. He is no longer necessary to the plan. His French masters – whoever they are, and one of them certainly tried to contact him that night in Calais and has probably since succeeded – have told him to return to England. They wouldn’t wish to jeopardize his position in the Duke’s household. Matthew is now on his own. If he should be caught, Ralph has no connection with him.’
‘But we know better.’
‘And would have difficulty proving it, provided both Matthew and Berys Hogan keep their mouths shut. But no one as yet, apart from the Duke, knows of our suspicions. They still think us floundering about in the dark.’
Timothy stirred up a patch of mud with the toe of his boot. ‘Will young Wardroper make another attempt, do you think?’
‘I think it probable. Unnecessarily.’ I anticipated his question and went on, ‘I don’t believe that even Duke Richard will be able to change the King’s mind in this matter, but there’s no way the French can be sure of that until His Highness finally shows his hand and successfully quells all opposition.’
Timothy sighed. ‘Let’s hope you’re right. I worry all the time that perhaps we should be looking elsewhere for some other person.’
‘Trust me,’ I said with a confidence that frequently deserted me, especially in the long, sleepless watches of the night.
Strangely enough, I slept more soundly that night than I had done for weeks.
I had stood guard with the sentries outside the Duke’s tent until the hour of Matins and Lauds, when Timothy and two others had relieved us. I wrapped my cloak about me, scorning the shelter of a baggage wagon, found myself a place beside a camp-fire in the company of half a dozen good Yorkshire fellows. One or two were snoring, lost to the world, but the rest were huddled over the flames, chatting desultorily, unable to sleep despite the fact that it was two o’clock in the morning.
I had no expectation of sleeping either, but I must have lost consciousness within a few minutes, for the next thing I knew I was standing by that empty shrine in the woods near Chilworth Manor where all sound of birds and insects was silenced, where the trees themselves seemed charged with menace. Coming towards me was the shepherd’s wife, smiling and nodding.
‘Just like his mother, you know,’ she said as she passed me. I turned my head to look after her, but she had vanished and in her place was Amice Gentle.
She murmured, ‘I’m ready to start stitching when I’ve measured you.’ Then as she smiled, her features dislimned, taking shape once more as those of Lady Wardroper, who was holding a Breton bombardt in her hand. Raising it to her lips, my lady played a stave or two of C’est la fin, then walked past me into the trees where, like Millisent Shepherd, she too disappeared. I could feel the heat breaking out all over my body and someone was shaking my arm and shouting …
‘Wake up, lad! Wake up! Tha’s got too near the fire. Thee hose is alight.’
I awoke to a smell of scorching wool and was just in time to roll clear of the fire before it could do my leg any serious injury. Only a patch of sore red flesh was revealed once I had stripped and examined it.
‘Tha wert ridin’ the night mare,’ one of the Yorkshiremen said to me. ‘Tha wert muttering in thy sleep like something’s preying on thee mind.’
‘It is,’ I answered shortly, climbing back into my scorched hose and wincing at the pain in my leg.
‘Tha wants a poultice of lettuce and house leek on that,’ another man advised me kindly.
I barely heard him, but lay down again and covered myself with my cloak, which had got thrown aside during my tossings and turnings. Sleep had fled, however, and my dream went round and around in my head until I began to assemble order out of chaos. Things which had confused me for weeks suddenly began to make sense and I was able to see the path in front of me more clearly. At last, just before dawn, I fell into a dreamless slumber, awaking refreshed to a world still wet underfoot, but with the sun breaking through the clouds and the mist rising almost knee-high across the rain-washed plain. In the distance, the woods of Agincourt and Tramecourt smudged the horizon and the morning air was acrid with smoke as men everywhere tried to breathe life into last night’s burnt-out fires in order to boil a pan of water. From the canvas pouches at their belts each man produced a handful of damp oats with which he attempted to make a little thin gruel. Refusing my companions’ generous offer to share theirs with me I departed for the Duke of Gloucester’s tents, looking for Timothy Plummer.