Kemp: The Flames of Heresy

Kemp: The Flames of Heresy Cover Title Page Dedication Martin Kemp in Gascony, Summer 1356 One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Nineteen Twenty Historical Notes About the Author Also by Jonathan Lunn Copyright Cover Table of Contents Start of Content Dedication For James Martin Kemp in Gascony, Summer 1356 One The mule’s braying cut through all the other sounds of the riverfront at Bordeaux: shipmen bawling orders at mariners, seagulls mewing where they wheeled high in a summer sky, the creak of cordage and timbers, and the waters of the Garonne slapping against the hulls of the cogs, hulks and three-masted carracks jostling one another alongside the wooden jetties. At the foot of one gangplank, a flint-eyed young man with close-cropped blond hair caught a sheaf of arrows tossed down to him from the deck above. The yew bow he wore slung across his back in a greasy woollen bow bag and the leather bracer on his left wrist marked him out as an Englishman. He signalled the man who had tossed the arrows to him to wait before throwing down the next bundle, and paused to glance about the bustling quay in search of the source of the braying. A gang of muleteers had finished tying bales of cloth unloaded from the next ship to the packsaddles of a string of mules. As they tried to lead them away, one mule lived up to the reputation of its kind for stubbornness. A muleteer responded by lashing its flanks with a strip of bull hide, but still the mule refused to shift. At the cog’s bulwark, a stocky, saturnine Welshman wearing a Monmouth cap over his bowl-cropped hair called down to where the Englishman stood. ‘Martin!’ Martin Kemp looked up, and his companion threw a bundled habergeon down at him. He managed to catch the chain-mail coat, clutching it to his chest, but it was heavy enough to make him stagger under the impact. His kettle hat was strapped to it: it was summer now, and the weather was too hot to wear a helmet if there was no immediate danger of being struck on the head. He could feel the sweat drip down from his armpits in the heat, making his tunic clammy. He dropped the bundle to the jetty barely in time to catch the quilted aketon his companion threw down next. Ieuan ap Morgan descended the gangplank to join him on the jetty. There were no docks at Bordeaux: the ground between the city walls and the river’s edge simply sloped down into the water. Small ships with cargo to unload could tie up at one of the jetties, but larger vessels had to row their merchandise ashore in boats. The Caillau Quay took its name from the pebbles discarded there by ships arriving in ballast, ballast which was then spread over the muddy ground to create a cobbled surface. After ten days on the pitching deck of a cog, Kemp enjoyed the steady feel of the cobbles beneath his feet. ‘Keep an eye on my armour,’ he told Ieuan, lowering his bundle to the ground again. Ieuan brushed his bushy, drooping moustache with a fingertip. ‘Now, you’re not meaning to do aught hasty, are you? We’ve scarce set foot in Gascony. Remember: this is a foreign land; they have different customs here to those you and I are used to. ’Tis too soon to be—’ Kemp caught the brawny muleteer by the wrist and twisted his arm up into the small of his back. The muleteer tried to break free, but Kemp slammed him against a stack of barrels. He prised the bull hide from the muleteer’s fist and used it to lash him across his breach. Nor did he hold back, if the muleteer’s shrieks of pain were any indication. Many of the mariners and porters working nearby left off what they were doing to laugh at the muleteer’s discomfiture. The other muleteers were not so amused. They raced to his aid, only to stumble to a halt when they saw Kemp, their wary eyes taking in his stature, his broad shoulders and barrel chest, and the broadsword scabbarded at his hip. ‘Speak English?’ asked Kemp. One of the muleteers nodded. ‘Mules are stubborn, not stupid.’ Pushing the first muleteer away, Kemp squatted on his haunches to thrust his hand between the surcingle and the mule’s girth, demonstrating how loose it was. The mule train would not have got half a mile before the panniers fell, spilling the bales in the street. ‘Thank you.’ The chief muleteer turned to his companion and addressed him in the langue d’oc. Kemp was more fluent in the langue d’oïl, spoken in France, but this was not his first visit to Gascony and he had learned enough on his previous visit to understand what the man was saying. ‘Check the other cinches, you ass!’, he said. Kemp raised a hand as if to strike the man, who flinched, though the contemptuous curl of the chief muleteer’s upper lip seemed to suggest he did not think the man worthy of the effort of a blow. Kemp retrieved his bundled armour from where it rested at Ieuan’s feet, hefting it onto one shoulder, and the two of them set off through the crowd. ‘A wise mule,’ said Kemp. ‘Not wise enough to avoid a whipping,’ said Ieuan. ‘If I’d been in its shoes, I’d’ve moved off when the muleteer tugged on my leading rein. No skin off my nose if the muleteers’ goods are tumbled in the street.’ ‘Such a muleteer would ha’ whipped you for it anyroad.’ ‘Aye, well. The bough that does not bend must break.’ Two of the Provost of Bordeaux’s serjeants guarded the Caillau Gate. Too many people were coming and going for the serjeants to stop and question all of them, so they seemed to settle for picking out suspicious-looking characters and interrogating them.