Calais, Autumn 1424
Calais, Autumn
WE WAIT IN the beautiful guest rooms of Calais Castle for the rest of the troops to join us.
My lady Jacqueline wants to march out at once, certain of a welcome from her people, but the duke is cautious.
He will not leave the safe pale of Calais; he will not cross the border into Hainault without the Earl Marshal and all the men with all the weaponry in his train.
While we are waiting, walking the walls of the castle, looking out to sea for the rest of the fleet, a deputation arrives from Flanders, the rich county belonging to Philip of Burgundy that stands between Calais and my lady’s lands.
The rich merchants, well-dressed, smiling, full of compliments, climb the steps to the top of the walls and look down at the castle courtyard and our army drilling far below.
My lady greets them as if she were a queen; Duke Humphrey at her side is as grand as any royal consort.
But as I am standing a little behind them, I can see that this is not a visit of welcome.
They smile and bow but glance aside, and shift uneasily from foot to foot.
They have come to ask that my lady and Duke Humphrey do not march through their lands.
They do not say what everyone knows: the English armies eat everything in their path and burn the rest. The English are notorious for pulling the big Flanders draught horses out of their stables, stealing them from the shafts of carts and the harnesses of ploughs, and driving them away without paying.
All of Europe dreads the chevauchée: the English army’s savage harvest of all the crops in their path, when they steal wines and beers, rob hungry people of food, and bolt farmers and their families into their little houses and set fire to the thatch.
The delegation says nothing about our bad reputation.
They merely tell the countess that the roads of Flanders are too narrow for such a force.
If we were to meet a train of wool merchants, we would be delayed all day.
The bridges are not strong enough for the heavy weight of marching men and weapons, and the ground, now it is autumn, is too wet for us to march across ploughed fields.
We have no idea, they assure us, of the floods that they expect.
We would be bogged down as soon as we leave Calais; we would be lost in the trackless marshes around the castle.
I see my lady compressing her lips on a furious retort, but Duke Humphrey is not so discreet.
‘You should’ve told John of Brabant, her false husband, not to steal my lady’s lands in the first place, and we would not have come with an army!
You should speak to him! Moreover’ – he repeats the English word, enjoying their puzzled faces – ‘moreover, your neighbours in Hainault should never have handed him the keys to their cities. What did they think would happen?’
I see their faces harden as he rages at them; but they don’t fear him.
These are men who have seen armies come and armies go, and still they make a fortune selling to the winners.
He can shout at them as if they are fools, but they are calculating the compensation they will get from him if he insists on marching over their fields.
All their towns have strong walls and gates, their own cannon, and a powerful overlord in Philip of Burgundy.
They don’t fear the English duke. Humphrey gets louder, angering himself; he strides up and down, a slight man, sharp as a little dagger, a bodkin-man.
It is Jacqueline who stops him. She takes one swift step beside him and swings him around so she can whisper in his ear. ‘Hush,’ she says in a sharp undertone.
She turns back to them. ‘I’ve no wish to offend my neighbours on my return home,’ she says.
She bares her teeth in a smile. ‘I hoped for more of a welcome, but I can march my army through Artois just as well as through Flanders, and when I am safely back in Mons and we are talking about border taxes and exemptions, about trade between our countries, I will remember that you prefer me to deal with Artois and not with you.’
They were sulky under the rage of the duke, but her cleverness fills them with real concern.
They stammer in their own language that they did not mean to seem unwelcoming to the countess; they did not quite understand the Englishman her husband.
They all speak at once: they were warning us for our safety, for our convenience, not for their own; of course she is welcome to enter her lands; of course they will help her.
She must consider them as good neighbours and future trading partners.
She smiles again, but Duke Humphrey’s face is dark and furious. They apologise, bow, and leave.
When they are safely out of earshot, down the stone steps to the lower level, and we are alone again on the high walls, Jacqueline smiles at me. ‘Always think beyond the first advantage,’ she says. ‘Not your first thought, but your second.’
The duke rounds on her. ‘Don’t ever say “hush” to me,’ he spits. ‘Not when we’re alone, not in company, not in front of Mistress Cobham here! Never speak to me like that again! Never!’
Jacqueline is wide-eyed. ‘What?’ she demands.
‘Don’t you dare!’ he says, beside himself with rage. His cloak streams out as he flings himself round and stalks away from us; even the hat on his head and the slippers on his feet bristle with offence.
Jacqueline turns to me. ‘What on earth’s the matter with him? What did I say?’
She was so alert to the danger of being banned from Flanders that she was hardly aware of her quick command to her husband.
Her intention was to win the battle of wits against the delegation – as she did.
She did not even notice that she had snapped at him.
She had no idea that he would take such offence at a single word.
‘You said “hush”.’
She looks at me as if I am being ridiculous; a smile spreads across her face.
‘He’s upset because I told him to “hush”?
’ Somewhere in the castle, we hear a door slam as he stalks down the gallery.
She shakes her head. ‘He’s going to have to get used to that,’ she predicts.
‘Any time he’s about to say something stupid, I’m going to tell him to “hush”. ’
‘He won’t like it . . .’ I start.
She shakes her head. ‘Courtly manners are for court,’ she rules.
‘Right now, we’re at war. We have to get nearly a hundred miles through lands that belong to the most powerful man in Europe, without killing anyone or damaging anything or giving offence.
And then, we have to march into Hainault with enough force to win it but not so much that we frighten everyone into locking their towns against me.
My lord husband has got better things to think about than how I stop him playing the fool. And God knows I have.’
MY LADY ACTS as if the matter is forgotten when we all meet for dinner in the great keep of the castle.
She never bears a grudge, and even though the duke does not share her easy temper, he is well aware that their joint success depends on her.
The two of them enter, hand in hand, like newlywed lovers.
But I can tell from the tightness of his jaw and the emptiness of his smile that he is still burning with resentment.
If I were his wife, I would fear his bad moods.
They sit side by side at dinner, facing their army in the great hall. I sit beside Jacqueline, her only lady companion, close enough to hear the duke tell my lady that Duke John has failed to get Philip Duke of Burgundy to agree that Jacqueline shall return to her lands and expel her false husband.
‘No, this is to our good,’ Jacqueline points out.
He glowers at her. ‘My brother has failed me,’ he says. ‘How is this to my good?’
‘Your brother is two-faced,’ she says bluntly.
‘Supporting you, his brother, one day, and his brother-in-law, Philip of Burgundy, the next. Now, he has only one side – ours. There will be no more talk of arbitration and judging the rights and wrongs, no more appeasing Philip, no more sending to the pope in Rome. We are the masters of our own destiny. You should be glad of that.’
He looks furious at her correction. This time, she sees the warning signs: his scowl, his eyes bulging wide.
‘Stop it!’ she says in an abrupt undertone. ‘You’re looking anxious. Everyone’s looking at you and thinking something’s wrong. Raise your glass to the men and make a toast. Raise your glass to me.’
I can see the colour rush to his face at her ordering him. But he looks around and sees that it is true: everyone is watching them.
With an effort, he gets to his feet. He raises his goblet to the crowded dining tables. ‘à Gloucester!’ he says and they roar back at him. ‘à Hainault!’