‘Where’s Wardroper?’ I asked as soon as I found him.
‘I saw to it that he was sent off with a party foraging for milk and eggs for His Grace’s breakfast.’ Timothy lowered his voice and pressed my arm. ‘There’s talk that we’re to spend a second night here, despite the news brought in by scouts at five o’clock this morning that King Louis has raised the Oriflamme and is massing an army at Beauvais. The chivalry of France, by all accounts, is flocking to his standard. Our lord and some others are champing at the bit in frustration. They can’t understand the King’s delay. But it makes me feel more certain that you have come to the right conclusion, chapman.’
The day passed uneventfully. Matthew returned with the rest of the foraging party and from then on Timothy and I scarcely let him out of our sight. Both of us were glad of the excuse to avoid the company of Duke Richard, who grew ever more fretful as the hours wore on with no summons to a council of war by his eldest brother. Indeed the King had withdrawn into his pavilion with instructions that he was not to be disturbed; a command easily comprehended when one of the higher-class camp-followers was seen being ushered into his tent. A report to this effect reaching our lord’s ears, his thin lips compressed until they almost disappeared and his temper for the rest of the day was extremely short.
I received my share of the Duke’s displeasure when he told me curtly to get myself a new pair of hose and not to enter his presence again in such a condition. I had forgotten the great hole scorched in one leg by the fire and went off, duly chastened, to find the Livery Sergeant.
His Grace was in no better mood by nightfall, when he suddenly emerged, grim-faced, from his tent, two of his Squires at his heels, and headed at a brisk pace in the direction of his eldest brother’s pavilion. I glanced inquiringly at my fellow guard, but this worthy merely shrugged and muttered that he would not care to risk the Duke’s anger by following where he was not bidden.
‘Then I must go alone,’ I said and, by running after my quarry, was able to catch up the Duke and his Squires just as they entered the King’s tent, and managed to slip in behind them without being noticed.
In the guttering torchlight which filled the confined space with a veil of smoke I could make out King Edward sitting at a table with some of his captains – Louis de Bretaylle, the Duke of Norfolk, the Earl of Northumberland and Lord Hastings. The Duke of Clarence was kneeling on the ground playing dice with Earl Rivers and the Marquess of Dorset, while the Duke of Suffolk stood a little apart, swigging wine from a leather bottle. Just inside the tent opening Lord Stanley and John Morton drew aside to allow Duke Richard’s unimpeded progress, but neither man could have been flattered by the unseeing way in which he swept past them.
The conversation was turning upon that ever-fruitful topic, Charles of Burgundy.
‘Shall I ever forget,’ the King was demanding half-laughingly of Lord Hastings, ‘his audacity in arriving in Calais with only a bodyguard, as coolly as if he had brought all the troops he had promised me …’ He broke off at the sight of his youngest brother and Duke Richard’s tense expression. He flung up a hand. ‘All right! All right, Dickon! I know you’ve come to reproach me! But we are on the march again tomorrow. You have my solemn oath.’
The Duke’s set features relaxed a little. ‘Not before time,’ he murmured gruffly; and a moment or two later, after receiving further reassurances from King Edward, his sudden and unexpected sense of humour reasserted itself. When Louis de Bretaylle complained that Duke Charles had brought not one man of that vast army which was to have been Burgundy’s contribution to the war he said, smiling, ‘But my dear Louis, my brother-in-law admitted himself that we don’t need him. And what he lacked in men he made up for in encouragement.’
The King and Lord Hastings began to laugh.
‘Charles’s self-esteem is so great,’ the former grinned, ‘that it’s almost disarming. He had the effrontery to suggest that once I had crushed the French by sheer weight of numbers he would be happy to give me his advice on the trickier aspects of an Italian campaign.’
It was at this moment that I lost all interest in what His Highness was saying. I suddenly realized that Duke Richard had moved to one side of the tent, his back almost touching its silken wall, and was, moreover, standing in the full glare of a branch of candles placed on a small camp-table. From outside, his outline must be immediately recognizable to anyone who knew him well; for not only was he small of stature, but the long, swinging curtain of hair brushed shoulders which were not quite equal in size. (I had been told that as a still-growing child of eleven, fighting for his eldest brother, his right breast and upper sword-arm had developed faster than his left, leaving him with a very slightly lopsided appearance.) These three bodily characteristics, height, hair, shoulders, together made him easy to identify.
Even as I spotted the possible danger the thing which must have unconsciously attracted my attention to it in the first place happened again: there was a faint trembling of the silken wall, as though someone were creeping close to it outside. I plunged through the tent opening into the darkness, startling the King’s sentries who were guarding the entrance. Before they had time to gather their wits or challenge me I had raced around the side of the tent and was just in time to see a shadowy figure raise an arm high above its head. I caught the gleam of metal and knew that the descending hand must hold a knife.
I was still too far away to grab our assassin and the only course left to me was to shout. After all these years I have no notion what I said, and probably had no clear idea then. But whatever I yelled, it was loud enough and fierce enough not simply to deflect our would-be murderer’s aim as he plunged his blade through the ripping silk, but also to frighten him into instant flight. I was but vaguely aware of Duke Richard crying out, followed by a general uproar inside the tent, for I was already in full pursuit of my quarry as he stumbled away across the water-logged ground, his feet slithering all ways on the soaking grass.
‘I’m going to lose him,’ I thought desperately, as my own boots slipped in a patch of mud, nearly sending me sprawling. But I had reckoned without the commotion waking most of the surrounding camp. As men staggered to their feet, blinking owlishly through the gloom, I cried, ‘Treason! Stop that man!’
By now, both sentries and most of the occupants of the King’s tent had joined in the hunt, haring across the wet ground, cursing as they stumbled over sleeping men, calling for torches to be brought. Others had appeared from all quarters of the camp and I suddenly found Timothy Plummer at my side.
‘Duke Richard,’ I panted. ‘Is he all right?’
‘A nasty gash in his upper left arm, but nothing to signify. A clean wound, quickly mended.’ He gasped in some air. ‘Was it Matthew Wardroper you saw?’
‘Until we catch him I can’t say for sure, although in my own mind I’m certain… There he goes!’ I yelled at the top of my lungs. ‘There he goes! Heading for the Tramecourt woods.’
But that fleeing figure had already been spotted by others and there was a sudden shout of triumph as the miscreant was brought crashing to the ground. As we all crowded breathlessly around, torches and firebrands were raised to illuminate the heaving, furiously writhing figure, and someone stooped, seizing the chin and twisting the contorted face up towards the light.
Timothy gave a grunt of satisfaction. ‘Matthew Wardroper,’ he said.
I shook my head. ‘No, not Matthew. He’s been dead and buried these many weeks.’