Authors: Ken Follett
Ralph looked back over the estuary. The baggage train was in midstream, horses and oxen pulling the heavy carts across the ford, lashed by drivers frantic to beat the tide. There was scrappy fighting on the far bank now. The vanguard of King Philippe's army must have arrived and engaged a few stragglers, and Ralph thought he recognized, in the sunlight, the colors of the Bohemian light cavalry. But they were too late.
He slumped in his saddle, suddenly weak with relief. The battle was over. Incredibly, against all expectations, the English had slipped out of the French trap.
For today, they were safe.
48
Caris and Mair arrived in the vicinity of Abbeville on August 25, and were dismayed to find the French army already there. Tens of thousands of foot soldiers and archers were camped in the fields around the town. On the road they heard, not just regional French accents, but the tongues of places farther afield: Flanders, Bohemia, Italy, Savoy, Majorca.
The French and their allies were chasing King Edward of England and his army - as were Caris and Mair. Caris wondered how she and Mair could ever get ahead in the race.
When they passed through the gates and entered the town, late in the afternoon, the streets were crowded with French noblemen. Caris had never seen such a display of costly clothing, fine weapons, magnificent horses, and new shoes, not even in London. It seemed as if the entire aristocracy of France was here. The innkeepers, bakers, street entertainers, and prostitutes of the town were working nonstop to fulfill the needs of their guests. Every tavern was full of counts and every house had knights sleeping on the floor.
The abbey of St. Peter was on the list of religious houses where Caris and Mair had planned to take shelter. But even if they had still been dressed as nuns they would have had trouble getting into the guest quarters: the king of France was staying there, and his entourage took up all the available space. The two Kingsbridge nuns, disguised now as Christophe de Longchamp and Michel de Longchamp, were directed to the grand abbey church, where several hundred of the king's squires, grooms, and other attendants were bedding down at night on the cold stone floor of the nave. However, the marshal in charge told them there was no room, and they would have to sleep in the fields like everyone else of low station.
The north transept was a hospital for the wounded. On the way out, Caris paused to watch a surgeon sewing up a deep cut on the cheek of a groaning man-at-arms. The surgeon was quick and skillful, and when he had finished Caris said admiringly: 'You did that very well.'
'Thank you,' he said. Glancing at her he added: 'But how would you know, laddie?'
She knew because she had watched Matthew Barber at work many times, but she had to make up a story quickly, so she said: 'Back in Longchamp, my father is surgeon to the
sieur.
'
'And are you with your
sieur
now?'
'He has been captured by the English, and my lady has sent me and my brother to negotiate his ransom.'
'Hmm. You might have done better to go straight to London. If he isn't there now, he soon will be. However, now that you're here, you can earn a bed for the night by helping me.'
'Gladly.'
'Have you seen your father wash wounds with warm wine?'
Caris could wash wounds in her sleep. In a few moments she and Mair were doing what they knew best, taking care of sick people. Most of the men had been hurt the previous day, in a battle at a ford over the River Somme. Injured noblemen had been attended to first, and now the surgeon was getting around to the common soldiers. They worked nonstop for several hours. The long summer evening turned to twilight, and candles were brought. At last all the bones had been set, the crushed extremities amputated, and the wounds sewn up; and the surgeon, Martin Chirurgien, took them to the refectory for supper.
They were treated as part of the king's entourage and fed stewed mutton with onions. They had not tasted meat for a week. They even had good red wine. Mair drank with relish. Caris was glad they had the opportunity to build up their strength, but she was still anxious about catching up with the English.
A knight at their table said: 'Do you realize that in the abbot's dining room, next door, four kings and two archbishops are eating supper?' He counted on his fingers as he named them: 'The kings of France, Bohemia, Rome, and Majorca, and the archbishops of Rouen and Sens.'
Caris decided she had to see. She went out of the room by the door that seemed to lead to the kitchen. She saw servants carrying laden platters into another room, and peeped through the door.
The men around the table were undoubtedly high-ranking - the board was loaded with roasted fowls, huge joints of beef and mutton, rich puddings, and pyramids of sugared fruits. The man at the head was presumably King Philippe, fifty-three years old, with a scatter of gray hairs in his blond beard. Beside him, a younger man who resembled him was holding forth. 'The English are not noblemen,' he said, red-faced with fury. 'They are like thieves, who steal in the night and then run away.'
Martin appeared at Caris's shoulder and murmured in her ear: 'That's my master - Charles, count of Alençon, the king's brother.'
A new voice said: 'I disagree.' Caris saw immediately that the speaker was blind, and concluded that he must be King Jean of Bohemia. 'The English cannot run much longer. They are low on food, and they're tired.'
Charles said: 'Edward wants to join forces with the Anglo-Flemish army that has invaded northeast France from Flanders.'
Jean shook his head. 'We learned today that that army has gone into retreat. I think Edward has to stand and fight. And, from his point of view, the sooner the better, for his men are only going to become more dispirited as the days go by.'
Charles said excitedly: 'Then we may catch them tomorrow. After what they have done to Normandy, every one of them should die - knights, noblemen, even Edward himself!'
King Philippe put a hand on Charles's arm, silencing him. 'Our brother's anger is understandable,' he said. 'The crimes of the English are disgusting. But remember: when we encounter the enemy, the most important thing is to put aside any differences there may be between us - forget our quarrels and grudges - and trust one another, at least for the course of the battle. We outnumber the English, and we should vanquish them easily - but we must fight together, as one army. Let us drink to unity.'
That was an interesting toast, Caris decided as she discreetly withdrew. Clearly the king could not take it for granted that his allies would act as a team. But what worried her about the conversation was the likelihood that there would be a battle soon, perhaps tomorrow. She and Mair would have to take care not to get mixed up in it.
As they returned to the refectory, Martin said quietly: 'Like the king, you have an unruly brother.'
Caris saw that Mair was getting drunk. She was overplaying her boyish role, sitting with her legs splayed and her elbows on the table. 'By the saints, that was a good stew, but it's making me fart like the devil,' said the sweet-faced nun in men's clothing. 'Sorry about the stink, lads.' She refilled her wine cup and drank deeply.
The men laughed at her indulgently, amused by the sight of a boy getting drunk for the first time, doubtless remembering embarrassing incidents in their own pasts.
Caris took her arm. 'Time you were in bed, baby brother,' she said. 'Off we go.'
Mair went willingly enough. 'My big brother acts like an old woman,' she said to the company. 'But he loves me - don't you, Christophe?'
'Yes, Michel, I love you,' Caris said, and the men laughed again.
Mair held on tightly to her. Caris walked her back to the church and found the spot in the nave where they had left their blankets. She made Mair lie down, and covered her with her blanket.
'Kiss me good night, Christophe,' said Mair.
Caris kissed her lips, then said: 'You're drunk. Go to sleep. We have to start early in the morning.'
Caris lay awake for some time, worrying. She felt she had had terribly bad luck. She and Mair had almost caught up with the English army and Bishop Richard - but at exactly the same moment the French had also caught up with them. She should keep well away from the battlefield. On the other hand, if she and Mair got stuck in the rear of the French army they might never catch the English.
On balance she thought she had better set off first thing in the morning, and try to get ahead of the French. An army this big could not move fast - it would take hours just to form up into marching order. If she and Mair were nimble, they should be able to stay ahead. It was risky - but they had done nothing but take risks since leaving Portsmouth.
She drifted off to sleep, and woke when the bell rang for Matins soon after three o'clock in the morning. She roused Mair, and was unsympathetic when she complained of a headache. While the monks sang psalms in the church, Caris and Mair went to the stables and found their horses. The sky was clear, and they could see by starlight.
The town's bakers had been working all night, so they were able to buy loaves for their journey. But the city gates were still closed: they had to wait impatiently until dawn, shivering in the cool air, eating the new bread.
At about half past four they at last left Abbeville and headed northwest along the right bank of the Somme, the direction the English army was said to be taking.
They were only a quarter of a mile away when the trumpets sounded a reveille on the walls of the town. Like Caris, King Philippe had decided on an early start. In the fields, the soldiers and men-at-arms began to stir. The marshals must have got their orders last night, for they seemed to know what to do, and before long some of the army joined Caris and Mair on the road.
Caris still hoped to reach the English ahead of these troops. The French would obviously have to stop and regroup before joining battle. That ought to give Caris and Mair time to reach their countrymen and find some safe place beyond the battlefield. She did not want to get caught between the two sides. She was beginning to think she had been foolhardy to set out on this mission. Knowing nothing of war, she had not been able to imagine the difficulties and dangers. But it was too late now for regrets. And they had got this far without coming to harm.
The soldiers on the road were not French but Italian. They carried steel crossbows and sheaves of iron arrows. They were friendly, and Caris chatted to them in a mixture of Norman French, Latin, and the Italian she had picked up from Buonaventura Caroli. They told her that in battle they always formed the front line, and fired from behind their heavy wooden pavises, which at the moment were in wagons somewhere behind them. They grumbled about their hasty breakfast, disparaged French knights as impulsive and quarrelsome, and spoke with admiration of their leader, Ottone Doria, who could be seen a few yards ahead.
The sun climbed in the sky and everyone got hot. Because the crossbowmen knew they might do battle today, they were wearing heavy quilted coats and carrying iron helmets and knee guards as well as their bows and arrows. Toward noon, Mair declared that she would faint unless they stopped for a break. Caris, too, felt exhausted - they had been riding since dawn - and she knew their horses also needed rest. So, against her inclination, she was forced to stop while thousands of crossbowmen overtook them.
Caris and Mair watered their ponies in the Somme and ate some more bread. When they set off again, they found themselves marching with French knights and men-at-arms. Caris recognized Philippe's choleric brother Charles at the head of the group. She was in the thick of the French army, but there was nothing to do but keep moving and hope for a chance to get ahead.
Soon after midday an order came down the line. The English were not west of here, as previously believed, but north; and the French king had ordered that his army should swing in that direction - not in a column, but all at the same time. The men around Caris and Mair, led by Count Charles, turned off the riverside road down a narrow path through the fields. Caris followed with a sinking heart.
A familiar voice hailed her, and Martin Chirurgien came alongside. 'This is chaos,' he said grimly. 'The marching order has completely broken down.'
A small group of men on fast horses appeared across the fields and hailed Count Charles. 'Scouts,' said Martin, and he went forward to hear what they had to say. Caris and Mair's ponies went too, with the natural instinct of horses to stick together.
'The English have halted,' they heard. 'They've taken up a defensive position on a ridge near the town of Crécy.'
Martin said: 'That's Henri le Moine, an old comrade of the king of Bohemia.'
Charles was pleased by the news. 'Then we shall have battle today!' he said, and the knights around him gave a ragged cheer.
Henri raised a hand in caution. 'We're suggesting that all units stop and regroup,' he said.
'Stop now?' Charles roared. 'When the English are at last willing to stand and fight? Let's get at them!'
'Our men and horses need rest,' Henri said quietly. 'The king is far in the rear. Give him a chance to catch up and look at the battlefield. He can make his dispositions today for an attack tomorrow, when the men will be fresh.'
'To hell with dispositions. There are only a few thousand English. We'll just overrun them.'
Henri made a helpless gesture. 'It is not for me to command you, my lord. But I will ask your brother the king for his orders.'
'Ask him! Ask him!' said Charles, and he rode on.
Martin said to Caris: 'I don't know why my master is so intemperate.'
Caris said thoughtfully: 'I suppose he has to prove that he's brave enough to rule, even though by an accident of birth he's not the king.'
Martin shot her a sharp look. 'You're very wise, for a mere boy.'
Caris avoided his eye, and vowed to remember her false identity. There was no hostility in Martin's voice, but he was suspicious. As a surgeon, he would be familiar with the subtle differences in bone structure between men and women, and he might have noticed that Christophe and Michel de Longchamp were abnormal. Fortunately, he did not press the matter.