False Ambassador E-Book

Christopher Harris

• Herausgeber: Dedalus
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 545

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

A historical novel set at the end of the Middle Ages rich in ideas, colour and action

Das E-Book wird angeboten von und wurde mit folgenden Begriffen kategorisiert:

Leseprobe

Dedalus Original Fiction in Paperback

FALSE AMBASSADOR

Christopher Harris was born in London in 1951. After studying art he had a vast array of different jobs before returning to university to take a degree in biology and teach science. He now lives in Birmingham with his wife, a university lecturer, and writes full-time. Christopher Harris is the author of the acclaimed Byzantine trilogy: Theodore (2000), False Ambassador (2001), amd Memoirs of a Byzantine Eunuch (2002).

In Mappamundi (2009) he continues the story of Thomas Deerham, begun in False Ambassador, taking Thomas to the New World.

Christopher Harris’ is currently writing a novel about Pelagius, a British heretic.

Theodore

‘ … it portrays the young Theodore as curious, sensual and very human, anxious to understand what exactly constitutes enlightenment, assailed by religious doubts and constantly at odds with the frequent irrational beliefs of the religious men surrounding him. The greatest strength of Harris’ novel is the clear and simple presentation of its often complex moral ideas. Ultimately, this is a novel of curious decency, simply and movingly written by a first-time author of real promise.’

Christopher Fowler in the Independent on Sunday

‘Theodore of Tarsus – who became Archbishop of Canterbury in 668 – was a significant figure in ecclesiastical history, and his story is told in this well researched first-person novel ….. what follows is an interesting account of the homosexual saint’s life during strange and turbulent times.’

Andrew Crumey in Scotland on Sunday

‘At its heart, however, Theodore is a beautiful and poignant love story, examining the passion between twin souls – a love too intense to remain chaste. The author challenges us to consider that while Christianity owes a lot to such love, it will never acknowledge the debt.’

Murrough O’Brien in The Daily Telegraph

‘The headline “Archbishop of Canterbury in Gay Sex Shock” may be every tabloid editor’s dream, but, in the seventh century, it was a reality, at least according to Christopher Harris’s first novel. However speculative the premise, Harris’s research is impeccable and he displays remarkable organisational abilities in chronicling the life of Theodore, first as a clerk in the service of Emperor Heraclius, then as archbishop at “the world’s misty northern edge”. The theological debates on the nature of the incarnation are somewhat fusty, but the scenes of war and episcopal intrigue are vividly described. Despite the novel’s lack of an authentic sounding voice, its very modernity underlines its relevance for the self-deceptions within today’s Church.‘

Michael Arditti in The Times

Theodore, described as the heretical memoirs of a gay priest, was 7th in The Guardian’s Top Ten Paperback Originals for January 2000.

‘These fictional memoirs of Theodore of Tarsus, a homosexual priest with heretical tendencies who became Archbishop of Canterbury in the 7th century, will appeal to admirers of Memoirs of a Gnostic Dwarf.’

The Gay Times

‘the author is adept at evoking the feeling of the time, from the strange world of the Cappodocian monks and the hollow grandeur of Constantinople, to the decay of Rome and the squalor of England. The author explores Theodore’s humanity and faith by depicting him as a homosexual, giving the book a philosophical twist that well matches the uncertainty of his times.’

Roger White in Heritage Learning

‘While we wait for the historical Theodore to emerge from the labours of professional scholarship, we have the Theodore of Christopher Harris’ ambitious and wide-ranging novel to educate and entertain us.’

Catherine Holmes in The Anglo-Hellenic Review

‘This is Harris’ first novel and Dedalus, an innovative and imaginative small publishing house, are to be commended for finding a new author of such talent and storytelling skill. This book was a pleasure to read.’

Towse Harrison in The Historical Novel Society Review

CONTENTS

Title

Dedalus Original Fiction in Paperback

Theodore

PROLOGUE

PART ONE

1Wild Men

2The Free Company

3The Feast of Fools

4Transformations

5Arras

6England

PART TWO

7A Pilgrimage

8The Morea

9Constantinople

10Slavery

11The False Ambassadors

Copyright

PROLOGUE

As we neared Venice, Brother Lodovico had a chest brought up from the hold. We had all seen it before, but not its contents. It was large, and iron-bound, and it took four men to heave it through the hatch, and two to slide it along the deck. When it stood before him, Lodovico produced a key from the folds of his habit, unlocked the chest, and reached into it. He pulled out a long gown of flimsy muslin, looked at it, shook his head sadly, then dropped it back in the chest. Then he tugged out a short jacket of figured silk, then a long brocade coat, then a fur hat trimmed with a feather. He dropped those on the deck, muttering to himself.

The dozen men who lounged on deck left aside their cards and dice, or nudged each other awake, pointing at the friar. Soon we were all watching. He called back the men who had brought up the trunk, and had them upend it, tipping its contents onto the deck. A rich cascade of slithering silk, soft velvet, striped cotton, flowered satin and stiff, white linen spread about the friar’s callused feet, joined by tumbling hats, slippers, belts and boots.

“Ambassadors!” he said, looking up at us at last. “It is time to get ready.”

We gathered round, looking, curiously but without enthusiasm, at the heap of gaudy clothing.

“You know your characters,” Lodovico said. “You know your countries and the kings and princes you represent. Now you must dress like the men you are supposed to be. And remember! The rulers of the West will not take kindly to impostors. We must convince, all of us!”

There was a murmur from the men, but whether of agreement or dissent, I could not tell. Lodovico stooped, and reached into the pile.

“This is the sort of thing,” he said, lifting an embroidered robe and holding it against his grey habit. “Anything fancy will make you look Eastern.” We held back. He waved the robe. “Come on! Dress yourselves! Do you want the Venetians to see you for what you are?”

A few men shuffled forward and began to inspect the clothes. They tugged garments from the pile and held them up, feeling the rich fabrics. Some of them smiled, remembering, perhaps, the adage that a man is made what he is by the clothes he wears. By putting on those clothes they would make themselves better than they were. With luck, there might be no need to return to what they had been. A few of them discarded their own ragged and travel-stained clothes, and stood naked, or nearly so.

“Wait!” Lodovico said. “Ambassadors should not smell like goats. You had better wash yourselves before dressing.” He called for buckets to be lowered over the side, and watched while the men sluiced each other then dried off, shivering in the breeze. “Pay particular attention to your hands,” he said. “They will be seen, and you should not look as though you have done manual work.”

I looked at my hands. They were scarred and grazed, with knobbly, swollen joints. Some of the marks were war wounds, which need not dishonour an ambassador, but much of the damage was done by the hard labour I did at Constantinople.

After washing, the Trapezuntine, who was at least Greek, put on some loose trousers and struggled into a tight silk coat with wide red and green stripes. His friend, representing Sinope, was a huge man with a full black beard. He put on a similar coat, which would not button up, and added a red hat, domed and trimmed with fur. The Trapezuntine snatched up an even grander hat, garnished with fluttering pheasant feathers. They capered and twirled, each mocking the other’s pretensions, while Lodovico scowled.

“You may look the part,” he said. “But you cannot play it. Ambassadors are grave men, they do not mince or prance!”

The two Greeks puffed out their chests, held their arms stiffly and attempted a dignified stroll along the deck.

“Ridiculous!” shouted Lodovico. “Even the prostitutes in Venice could teach you a lesson in dignity!” The Greeks smirked. “Not that I know anything of Venetian prostitutes,” Lodovico said. “And nor should you. Steer clear of anything of that sort. Women will have the secrets out of you before you’ve had what you want out of them. Keep away from women. Remember who you are supposed to be. Be grave! Be noble! Practise!”

The Sinopite took the Trapezuntine’s arm and led him, bowing and gesticulating, to the stern-castle. They would need all the dignity they could muster. Even in the West it was known that Sinope and Trebizond were all but lost to the Turks, and could deliver little, whatever their ambassadors might promise.

Lodovico turned from the Greeks and shouted to the rest of us in a language I did not understand. The other men put on the clothes they had chosen. I watched while the Persian, a small, dark man, wrapped himself in a spangled silk robe, then put on an embroidered waistcoat and a conical felt hat. The Mesopotamian pulled on a muslin shift trimmed with silk and gold thread, then wound a saffron-coloured turban round his shaven head, leaving a gap for his plaited topknot. The Mingrelian and Iberian, having little idea of what they were supposed to be, dressed themselves in whatever they could find. The Georgian, dressed in bright pantaloons and a short jacket, resumed his chess game with the grey-bearded Armenian, while the other ambassadors squabbled over the remaining clothes.

I held back, reluctant to dress up like a fool, though aware that the longer I delayed, the more absurd my costume would be. Lodovico approached me.

“You, too, must get ready,” he said, in his Tuscan Italian. He was fluent, and persuasive, in many languages, though not English. “You must look like a Scythian.”

“How can I do that?” I asked. “Scythia is just a name to me, a distant place of romances and legends.”

“That is its advantage. No one else will know anything of it either. Besides,” he said, pointing at the men clustered around the chest. “Do you think they know their countries?”

“Some of them do.”

“Remember your oath,” Lodovico said, stroking his wooden crucifix. Though I knew him to be trickster, he played the simple friar when it suited him, and an oath was an oath, whomever it was made to. “You promised,” he said. “And I have done my part.” He pointed towards the bows, where a sailor was peering ahead, shading his eyes with a hand. “We are nearly there, nearly at Venice.”

“And then?”

“You are to play the Scythian ambassador, as you agreed. You are to carry yourself gravely, and promise troops for the new crusade against the sultan.”

“In what language?”

“Any language you like, as long as no one understands it. I would not recommend English. But you know some Turkish?”

“Yes.”

“Then speak in Turkish. Add some nonsense if you need to. I will translate everything you say. No one will know the difference.”

“He will,” I said, nodding towards the Karaman Turk who stood apart, glaring at the impostors with whom he had been obliged to associate himself. He alone was genuine.

“He won’t give us away. He is in a difficult position. His master, the Emir of the Karamans, has rebelled against Sultan Mehmet, and is desperate for Western help. If he reveals our imposture his mission will fail, and I would not like to return to the emir under those circumstances. Or to the sultan, if he defeats the emir. The Turks use some very cruel punishments.”

“I know.” While we spoke the sky had filled with thin cloud and the wind had risen.

“Then you know how much you owe me,” he said. “I got you away from them, and I brought you here.” He turned and gestured at the empty horizon, as though a wave of his arm could make Venice appear from beneath the sea.

“I got away from the Turks myself. You got me away from Trebizond.”

He turned back to me, touching his crucifix again. “All you have to do is remember your oath and play your part.”

“For how long?”

“Until I am made patriarch.”

“And then?”

“You will be free to go.”

He walked away, reeling slightly as the ship pitched. Recovering his balance, he kicked a hat towards the chest with the skill of a Shrovetide footballer. The wind tugged at my clothes, reminding me that I should soon take them off. But what would I be without them? I had been a soldier, and fancied myself a gentleman, fitted out accordingly. I had been a pilgrim, penitent and humbly dressed. I had been a slave, and still wore the clothes I had escaped in. If I put on the dregs of Lodovico’s clothes-chest, I would be no better than an actor, playing King Herod in one scene and Rumour in the next. But even actors are themselves, afterwards, in the tavern. Dressed as a Scythian, speaking Turkish mixed with nonsense, known by no one, I would be nothing.

I gripped the ship’s side and watched the grey sea slip past the hull. The sky was growing darker. I shut my eyes and listened to the sea slapping against tarred planks, and the wind whistling through ropes and stays. Each time the ship slid slowly from wave to trough I felt the deck drop gently beneath my feet. With each fall, the timbers shuddered, groaning like a sick man lowered into bed. The ship’s frame was twisting and creaking, fitting itself to the shifting shape of the sea. I knew that sound of warping wood. I had heard it before. It was in my father’s house, where, each night, as a child, I had fallen asleep to the sound of green oak settling and drying, shifting in the wind.

I felt sick, but it was not the sickness the sea brings. It was the sickness of a man who longs for home, and knows that he will not see it without much trouble and danger.

“The snow was deep and soft, and as white as …” My father hesitated, unable to think of a suitable comparison.

“As white as what?” I asked.

“As white as you like. What’s the whitest thing you can think of?”

My blanket was coarse and grey. I lifted my neck from the hard, chaff-filled pillow and looked about the room. Though the house was younger than I was, the walls were cracked and discoloured, and the boards and beams above me were shadowed and smoke-stained. The yellow candlelight illuminated little else. I thought of white things I had seen in the fields and hedgerows: sheep, swans, chalk, puffballs, hawthorn flowers, bleached bones. Some of those things were truly white. Others only seemed so, according to the season and the brightness of the day. What was the whitest thing? The thing that would always be bright and clean?

“Bone,” I said. “Whalebone.”

“Well then Thomas, the snow was as white as whalebone.”

“And the emperor?”

“I am coming to him. First we must have the procession.” He paused for a moment, searching for memories, gathering words to tell them. “Not all the snow was white. The snow on the road to Blackheath was fouled with dung, and trampled by hooves and feet and the wheels of wagons. My boots leaked, and my feet were cold and wet.” He shivered, and pushed his hands into his coat-sleeves. “But it was a fine sight. There were drums and trumpets, and flags and banners. There was a great crowd of nobles there, riding along with the new king, all showing their colours. They were warm enough in their thick cloaks. The king’s cloak had an ermine collar, and under it he wore a coat of red and black velvet, brought from Italy. His heralds’ tabards were quartered with lions and lilies, to show he was King of France as well as King of England, though some said he wasn’t either. The emperor had just come from the King of France, so I don’t know what he made of it. If he had any doubts, he kept them to himself, just like the nobles. They didn’t look down at the dung and trampled snow. They didn’t notice the men and servants trudging behind them, slipping on frozen mud. They looked at each other, smiling and laughing, trying to catch the king’s eye. They wanted to show how loyal they were, and win preferment for themselves, but only a year before, half of them supported King Richard. They had thought young Bolingbroke a usurper, but they wanted to be with him when he celebrated Christmas at Eltham Palace. It is always wise, Thomas, to support the king, whoever he may be.”

My father paused again, reflecting, perhaps, on the sudden end of his own royal service.

“They were dressed in all the colours you can think of, and all the richest fabrics. When the clouds let the sun through, they shone out against the grey sky like the figures in the cathedral window.”

I could not imagine real people looking like those luminous saints and martyrs.

“And the emperor?”

“We met him at Blackheath. He was there with his followers: some Greeks from Constantinople, some priests, of the sort they have, and some Italians to translate. There were not many of them, but they had come a long way.”

“Were they dressed brightly?”

“No. They were all wrapped in thick, dull cloaks. They felt the cold, coming to our country.”

“But under their cloaks?”

“The emperor wore white, and he rode a white horse. He and his followers wore long silk robes. I never saw anything so clean and white. They were like snow. And his beard. That was like snow, too.” He scratched his own beard, which was full and brown, as he was not yet forty. “The emperor was waiting patiently in the snow. He seemed almost made of snow, he was so still and white. The heralds greeted him, then the king greeted him. Then there were compliments and courtesies and long speeches in the cold while the rest of us stood and froze. Then the king and nobles escorted him back to Eltham, while we all trudged along behind. We knew we’d have to serve them when we got there. At the palace, everything was ready. The great hall was hung with tapestries and lit with lamps and candles. All the other rooms were furnished with the sort of comforts that nobles need.”

He looked around our room, savouring its emptiness.

“There was jousting, and music, and the king entertained the emperor to a great feast. They had the best food that could be found, seasoned with spices from the East, though, as the emperor was from the East, he would have been used to that. All the Greeks and Italians took out little silver forks and used them to pick up their food. They wouldn’t touch it with their hands. They didn’t drink much, either, just a sip, now and then. The emperor took his sips in threes, to signify the Holy Trinity, I think. The emperor was a grave man, with a noble face. Did I say he had a long white beard? He was old, much older than I am now, but he held himself upright, as though he was twenty years younger. He prayed constantly. He was very pious, even though he was a heretic. He was wise, too. No one could understand him, but his Italian interpreters said he was wise, and learned too. All the Greeks are. They know the Secrets of Life. All the Secrets left over from the Old Days and written down in books. At least that’s what the Italians said.”

My father sat silently for a while, regretting that lost knowledge, dreaming about what he would have done with it, remembering romances about magic and treasure, before resuming his story.

“But the emperor had a flaw. He was after money. That was why he came to England. His city of Constantinople was besieged by Sultan Bayezit, and he wanted money to defend it. Money or men, but chiefly money. Money is more constant than men, and can be carried to where it is wanted without being fed or watered. Money doesn’t tire or rebel. But it has to be spent to achieve its purpose. That’s its drawback. Money has to be spent.”

The candle was burning low, its flame guttering. My father watched it, seeing, perhaps, an emblem of money’s transience.

“It was an odd thing,” he said. “I’ll never forget that I saw the Emperor of the Romans begging the King of England for help. He had already begged from the princes of Italy and the kings of France and Spain, and from both popes.” He thought for a moment. “There was a puzzle!” he said. “Constantinople is the greatest city in the world, or so the emperor’s men said. It is a city of wonders, guarded by deep water and high walls, and full of treasures saved from the lands the Greeks once ruled. You wouldn’t believe what they said about the place. They told us about marble palaces, and churches full of gilded images and jewelled bibles. And busy harbours and rich markets, and wide squares where people stroll in the shade of rare trees that give fruit all year round. There are statues everywhere, of saints and emperors. They even said there were bronze statues that move and speak, but I don’t believe it. If that was true, they’d be worse than heretics.”

“If his city is so rich, why did the emperor have to beg?”

“That’s the puzzle! Perhaps his men exaggerated. Men do, when they’re far from home. Some of the Italians said that Constantinople is old and ruined, and that all the churches and palaces are empty, and that Florence and Venice are greater. Perhaps the emperor’s men told us what their city had been, or might be, if it could be saved.”

That was one of my father’s stories. He had many others. Some were about kings, and emperors, and treasure. Others were about battles and loot. A few were about old books with secrets in them, which made men rich. My father had a craving to make himself rich, which he nearly did once. His stories filled me with dreams, and led me to wander. I was always looking for something, though not always the same thing. But my dreams also set me apart, making me think myself better than other men, sometimes provoking resentment.

PART ONE

1428–1436

1 Wild Men

“What I say is this,” Ralph said. “Take what you want, when you want it. And if they don’t give us what we want, we’ll skin ’em!”

And he had no sooner said it than we were nearly skinned ourselves. We had followed some boar tracks into a forest. That was our right, or so Ralph said. The forests and the game that was in them were as much ours as anyone’s. That was why we had deserted, stealing away from the camp at night and following him south into a land where there was no law. Once we got clear of the regent’s men Ralph told us that we were free, and heroes, and that we would soon be eating roasted meats as often as we liked. He was a big man, with a black beard that obscured half his face like a shaggy bush, and made him look fiercer even than his size suggested. No one liked to argue with him when he said the boar were ours and only wanted killing, even though hunting would be more trouble than robbing peasants. Ralph led us into a stand of young trees thickly tangled with undergrowth, and we stumbled after him, not daring to cry out when the brambles tore our legs or branches lashed our faces. Brave free men do not complain of such things, so we let ourselves be whipped like penitents for the sake of a feast.

The thin straight beeches of the forest edge gave way to gnarled oaks. Great boughs hung over us, forking and spreading, bearing branches that twined and interlocked. The leaves were turning, but there were still plenty of them, and little light penetrated their dense canopy. Where brush and brambles could not grow, ivy cloaked the forest floor, concealing humps and hollows and knotted roots. Fallen trunks lay like dead men, crumbling to tinder when kicked. The damp air was filled with the smell of rank herbs, and of toadstools and rotting timber. We struggled on for a while, watching Ralph’s broad shoulders barging through the dense undergrowth. We blundered into fallen branches, tripped over rotten stumps or slid into drifts of dead leaves. The men’s usual chatter faltered and died. The dismal silence of the wilderness was only broken by the sound of breaking branches, or the rasp of men’s breath, or a wordless grunt when someone slipped and fell. In that eerie hush a sigh seemed a roar, a grunt a mighty oath, the snapping of twigs the rattle of gunfire.

“What’s the matter boys?” Ralph said when he realised we were falling behind him. He climbed on to a fallen trunk, settling himself into a mossy hollow. “I thought you was all country boys,” he said when we had caught up. “Ain’t there forests where you come from? I know about Thomas, of course. He comes from the Fens. Got webbed feet, he has.”

I felt reassured by Ralph’s mockery. His theme was familiar and his voice broke the forest’s silence. The others all laughed at my expense, and I did not bother to tell them that Norfolk was not all fens, or that my father owned a fine house raised up on a hill. I had told them before, and they still laughed.

“I can see why Thomas is scared,” Ralph said, looking down at me from his woodland throne. “He’s only a little’un. How old are you, boy?”

“Fifteen,” I said, conscious that I was small for my age. “And I’m not scared.”

“Hear that?” Ralph said. “If young Thomas ain’t scared, there’s no call for any of you to be.” He slid off the tree trunk, then stood before us rubbing his mossy hands on his leather jerkin. They were big hands and I was always careful to keep out of their reach, even when Ralph was smiling.

“What about the boar?” Fat Henry asked.

“What about them?”

Henry’s fleshy face made an ample battleground for the feelings that vied behind it. Fear of the boar fought with hunger and the prospect of eating a tender young sounder. “We’ve lost ’em,” he said, his face settling into sorrow.

“No we ain’t,” Ralph said. “They’re in here somewhere. Don’t none of you know nothing about hunting?” No one answered. “What we’ve got to do is keep on till we get to a clearing, to somewhere open where we can see their tracks again. We’ll catch ’em all right. Just you wait and see.”

I thought of boar, picturing their bristling backs and cruel tusks, remembering stories of how dangerous they could be when provoked. Under Ralph’s direction we cut poles and sharpened them into spears.

“These aren’t much use,” Fat Henry said, surveying our handiwork. “They need iron heads and good strong crossbars.”

“They’ll have to do,” Ralph said.

“We’ve got no hounds.”

“We’ll have to be our own hounds.”

“How can we be men and hounds?”

“Use your noses. And your eyes.”

Despite Fat Henry’s doubts, our new weapons gave us a little more courage as we plunged deeper into the thickening murk. We lost sight of the sky, and of the sun, and had no way of knowing what course we were following. The forest swallowed us up, taking us into its hollow belly, encircling us with wooden ribs. I started to see shapes in cracked oak bark. Eyes winked from knots and furrows. Mossy boles formed limbs and paunches. Gashes dripped green slime like dribbling mouths. There were faces in the shadows, and wild creatures seemed to stare out of the gloom. But they vanished when I looked at them directly. Were they spirits of the place, I wondered, or real beasts?

I remembered stories I had read at Sir William’s house, tales of monstrous creatures from the world’s wild places. Silently, to distract myself from the fear I felt, I recited their names and thought about their natures. Griffins, manticores, chimeras, dragons, unicorns and basilisks were all hybrids of other beasts. Heads, bodies, tails, legs, backs, haunches, hooves, claws, tongues, horns, scales, hides, were all jumbled up in the descriptions I had read. Why, I wondered, as I struggled to keep up with Ralph, would God have done that? Why would He have mixed and muddled His own creations, as though limbs and bodies were no more than clothes drawn at random from an ill-packed chest? Perhaps such creatures were not God’s, but the devil’s. If so, the other sort, the beasts with a human element, were more terrifying. Centaurs, satyrs, giants, lycanthropes, ogres, dwarfs, mermen, anthropophagi, pygmies, and troglodytes were distorted men, man-beasts, or men that became beasts at times. It frightened me that a man could become a wolf. What could be worse than that? To feel yourself shifting shape, sprouting hair, growing fangs, craving raw flesh, longing for darkness and wild places. That was devilish, to shackle a man to a beast’s body, or to fill him with beastly yearnings.

Then, seeing in a flash of sunlight what looked like a crusted pelt, I remembered the cynocephalus. It was the most fearsome of the monsters I had read about in Sir William’s books, a creature with a man’s body and a mastiff’s head. It had a snarling mouth, hands like paws, and a long, shaggy coat. By rolling in mud it could make itself invincible to both blade and ball. Surely such beasts were not real, or lived only in the distant Indies?

My thoughts were interrupted by Ralph’s order to halt.

He had led us to a more open part of the forest, where there were patches of bare, leaf-strewn ground lit by shafts of light from above. When I caught up with him I saw that the land sloped down slightly. It looked as though the forest’s edge might not be far off. Ralph told us to fan out and look for tracks. I shouldered my spear, wondering how much use it would be if a bristling tusker crashed out of the undergrowth, and shuffled forward, peering at the forest floor. I had served Sir William as a page, not as a huntsman, and had little idea what to look for. There were twigs and acorns among the leaves, and maggot-eaten mushrooms, but nothing, as far as I knew, to show that game had passed that way. I looked up at the other men, who were advancing as aimlessly as I was, staring at the ground or probing heaped leaves with their spear tips. Then, just as I was watching him, one of the men was swallowed up by the ground. There was a sound of breaking, cracking branches, the man’s cry as he dropped, then a horrible scream as he disappeared from view. We froze, looking at the spot where the man had stood. His screaming continued, echoing round the forest, disturbing birds that called and cackled harshly.

Ralph ran forward first, shouting at the rest of us to follow. When they reached the spot where their comrade had disappeared, the men formed a rough scrimmage, some pushing forward to get a better view, others pulling back for fear of being swallowed up themselves. I dropped to my knees and pushed between their legs, shuffling along until I could see down into the hole. The smell of mouldering leaves hung in the air. The man’s twisted body lay at the bottom of a pit, surrounded by broken branches and dusted with powdery leaves. A sharpened stake, its end red with fresh blood, stuck out of his back. The stake had torn through bone and flesh, and pink, twitching guts poked out of the ragged wound. As we watched, his legs kicked, and more blood gushed from around the stake, soaking his ripped jerkin and running away into the leafy earth.

“Let’s get him out,” Fat Henry said.

“He’s done for,” Ralph said, stepping back from the brink. The other men disentangled themselves and regrouped around Ralph.

“He’s not dead yet,” Henry said. “Listen.”

The man’s screaming had stopped, but there was a muffled gurgling sound coming from his half-buried mouth. He was still breathing, and stinking offal was oozing from the hole in his back. Flies were already buzzing around him.

“We’ll leave him where he is,” Ralph said. “And here’s why. Someone dug that trap. And put that spike there. And whoever it is will have heard the noise, and they’ll be here soon to see what made it.”

“We can’t just leave him there.”

“Like I said, he’s done for. The best thing we can do is throw some earth over him.”

“While he’s still alive?”

“What d’you want to do, then? Stick him with your boar-spear?”

“No, we should wait, then give him a decent burial. And we should pray for his soul.”

“He’s nothing but dead meat now. Look at him! Food for the worms!”

“If he dies without prayers he’ll be no better than a beast.”

“You’re fools, the lot of you!” Ralph shouted. “Do I have to do everything for you?” He took his spear and stabbed it at the edge of the pit, sending dry, leafy earth down over the dying man. “Come on! Lend a hand!” He thrust the spear into the earth a few more times, loosening the edges of the pit. A couple of the others took their spears and helped, but most of us hung back. Then Fat Henry spoke out again.

“No! It’s wrong.”

Ralph’s face filled with rage. None of us had defied him before, even though he constantly told us we were free. He gripped his spear and stepped forward, and I feared that Fat Henry would end up in the trap. But it did not come to that. Instead, Ralph’s advance was checked by a short spear that hit the ground ahead of him. He looked up puzzled, then a moment later, there was a great cry, and a pack of wild creatures emerged from the bushes. They had the bodies of men, but were filthy and half-naked. The things they wore were not clothes, but scraps and rags tied together with strips of leather or woven grass. Some wore shaggy pelts like the one I had glimpsed earlier. Their hair was matted, tufted with mud and stuck with bones and twigs. Some had beards that hung down to their waists. Were they the half-men I had feared? None of them, as far as I could see, had mastiff’s heads, but they howled like wolves and snarled like terriers, baring yellow fangs as they opened their mouths wide. The horrible, inhuman noise they made echoed among the tree trunks. It so terrified me that, though I wanted to flee, I could not put one foot in front of another. I stood motionless while the wild men continued their display. They came slowly out of the thicket that had concealed them, waving short spears, banging crude clubs on the ground, grunting rhythmically. Every so often one of them would stoop or crouch, then leap into the air and launch some missile at us. A stick struck me, but it was half-rotten and did no more than jolt me out of my stupor. Other men were hit by stones, or mud, or handfuls of dung. I heard Ralph say something about holding fast, but I could only think of the pit behind us and the mangled body that lay in it. I did not want to die in a wilderness.

The savages rushed towards us then, waving their weapons and yelling. Their snarls and grunts, incomprehensible at first, resolved themselves into words. I stood for a moment, transfixed, trying to make out what they were saying. I realised that they were speaking a sort of French, saying that they would salt us down for the winter if they caught any of us, that they had done it to some other Englishmen, that we had better watch out if we did not want to be eaten. Were they truly inhuman? Or were they men like us, only more desperate? Then one of the savages dashed forward and swung a great club at a man standing only a few yards from me. He turned to run just too late. I saw the crudely hewn bough smash into the man’s head, and his shocked expression as he fell forward, and the blood and brains that spewed from his crushed skull. I felt the thud as he hit the soft ground. That was enough for me. I ran, but took only a few steps before a pole shot out of the undergrowth and caught my stumbling feet. As I fell, a dwarfish figure emerged from the bushes and grabbed me. I felt callused hands grip my arms and pull them behind my back. The stunted savage climbed on top of me, pressing me down into the soft mould until I feared I would choke on powdered leaves. I twisted and struggled, trying to turn my face away from the ground. The savage on my back shifted his weight, shuffling forward, pressing on my head, but loosening his grip on my arms. I feared he would go for my neck, sticking me like a pig. I did not want to end up as salt meat, feeding savages for the winter.

When the savage shifted again, I jerked my body round, twisting it so that I faced upwards. I was not free, but I could see my captor. He sat astride me, looking down, his grimy face only inches from mine, his teeth bared in a cruel grin. They were sharp, yellow, stuck with stringy fragments of flesh. Despite his small stature, the savage was well fed, and strong. His mouth came down, moving towards my neck, opening and closing, drooling and mumbling. By turning over I had made his task easier. Unless I stopped him, he would bite my throat out.

Then, as drops of stinking spittle splashed over my face, a thought struck me. If the savage had to use his teeth, he could have no knife. Mine had been in my hand when I tripped, but it must have fallen unseen to the ground. The savage leaned further forward, preparing to bite at my flesh. As he did so he raised his hindquarters, which had been pressing down on my arms. Quickly, I felt at my belt. My eating knife was still there. It was short, but sharp. There was only one place I could reach. I slipped the knife from its loop, then plunged it upwards, forcing it into the savage’s breech. His mouth opened wide, yelling with pain, jerking back from my throat. As his hindquarters pressed down again, I pushed the knife away, then dragged it up, ripping it through his dangling cod and yard. Blood and shit gushed over me, fouling my hose and coat. But the savage leapt back, clutching at the gash from which his innards were pouring. There was no need to cut him again. I knew he would soon be as dead as the man in the pit.

Leaving the savage to trip and stumble in his own guts, I rolled away, scrambling to my feet. Then I headed down the slope as fast as I could, feeling my fouled coat slapping against my thighs. I kept going until I could no longer hear the wild men’s taunts, and could see the edge of the forest ahead of me. I crashed through tangled undergrowth and out into a sunlit meadow. The grass was as high as my waist, and I fell into it gratefully, lying among the flattened blades until I got my breath back.

Of the men who went into the forest, only a dozen came out. Ralph was the last to emerge. There was blood on his spear-tip, and a grim smile on his bruised face. “Savages!” he said. “D’you hear that jibber-jabber they were speaking?”

“It was French,” I said.

“It didn’t sound like French to me. Anyway, you’re only a boy. What do you know?”

“I killed one of them.”

“A little fellow like you?” A smile spread across Ralph’s face, making a pink gash in his black beard. “O’ course you did, Thomas. O’ course you did.”

I pointed at the foul mixture that spattered my clothes.

“I reckon you shit yourself running away,” Ralph said. The others laughed. “Still, it ain’t surprising. There’s better men than you that’s done that. And told lies about it afterwards.”

Without meaning to, I had given Ralph what he needed, a chance to reassert his authority. He led us away, into the open where we could see our enemies coming, and might hope to avoid them.

After that came another humiliation. We ran into a gang of ragged children, who blocked our way, crowding round us and pulling at our clothes with bony fingers. They had stick legs and pot bellies and faces like skulls. They stared up at us with wide eyes, whining that they were starving, begging us to give them food. Ralph refused, saying honestly that we had no food, but the children were not put off. They swarmed over us like rats, tugging at our clothes and hair, gripping hands and legs, climbing onto backs, nipping our skin with sharp teeth, all the time shrieking like squabbling seagulls. Ralph threw his body this way and that, and struck out at the little bodies that tried to drag him down. He looked like a baited bear trying to throw off the dogs, and the rest of us were no better. We had to pull the children off each other as though they were leeches, then drive them away with sticks and swords. But they reformed ahead of us and started to bombard us with stones. They must have laid in a great stock, and some of the children were very skilled, both with the hand and the sling. Ralph, being an easy target, was hit more than once, and blood trickled down his face from a gash on his forehead. One of the other men was so enraged that he charged at the gang, wielding his sword. The oaths he shouted were stopped instantly when a score of stones hit him and he pitched forward onto the ground.

Ralph ran forward then, and some of us followed. We got close enough to see the fallen man’s blood running into the bare earth of the path, but no closer. The children launched a new volley of stones and we were forced to withdraw, leaving the man where he lay.

There was no arguing that time. Even Fat Henry backed off silently.

“Those weren’t children,” Ralph said as we trudged back the way we had come. “They were a devil’s brood. Conjured up by the French, I shouldn’t wonder.” Ralph rubbed the dried blood on his brow. “Just like those savages in the forest. They weren’t human either.”

“I reckon Ralph’s right,” one of the other men said. “Those savages had tails.”

“And cloven feet!”

“Devils, all of them.”

“The whole land’s cursed!”

Ralph could hardly argue with them. He was always telling us about sorcery and bad luck. Among Sir William’s men he had a reputation as a wrestler, but I never knew him to do much more than talk. When the nights were dark and the drink was in him, he talked of life’s injustices, and of ours. And when we marched, he talked about our leaders’ folly and the faulty tactics they were using. He liked to dwell on the unreliability of the French, who had risen against us in Maine, and the greed of the nobles, who disobeyed orders, changed sides and repudiated oaths, all the time grabbing what wealth they could until the people had nothing left to pay taxes with. It was the same back at Orléans, where we had spent a winter digging trenches and raising embankments. The ground was hard frozen, but we hacked at it with picks, slowly extending an earth circle round the besieged city.

“The dauphin’s a fool,” Ralph said. “Everyone knows that. He’s ugly, feeble and stupid. He’s afraid of the dark. He’s afraid of everything. He couldn’t win a war on his own. He couldn’t win a game of dice! He couldn’t piss in a pot without a servant to hold his yard for him.”

The men sniggered, and one of them illustrated the point by pissing against the embankment and watching the steam rise into the icy air.

“It’s the dauphin’s cronies that rule for him,” Ralph said. “And a rotten bunch they are! When they ain’t gambling and drinking, they’re fighting each other for their whores. Mistresses they call ’em, but they’re whores just the same. But the French nobles ain’t fools, like the dauphin. They’ve got one big advantage that means they’ll win this war, fool for a ruler or not.”

Ralph had got his audience by then, and we leaned on our shovels, keen to hear what he would say next.

“They’re in league with the devil! That’s where the dauphin’s true power lies. Everyone knows how the dauphin spends his time with astrologers and alchemists. Well, some of his cronies do worse than that. They get together in dark cellars and conjure up the devil himself. They make him rise up from Hell, and hold him captive by spells, and get him to grant them what they want. That’s why we can’t win! The devil has promised them victory!”

I never knew how much of Ralph’s talk to believe. But there must have been something in it. Sir William would not mention the dauphin without crossing himself, and said that we were doing God’s work, as well as King Henry’s, by driving him from France. That was why he sent me to the trenches, saying I was more use there than serving him. That was a breach of the agreement he had made with my father, but I could hardly complain, and was still digging when Joan the peasant girl rode into Orléans at the head of a relief column.

After that, it was all over in a few days. Thousands more Frenchman arrived, and we could do nothing to stop them reaching the city. Urged on by Joan, and by the priests, who told them that the Holy Ghost was on their side, the French sallied out repeatedly. They filled trenches, and stormed redoubts, and burned fortifications. She led charges that no man would have led, and the English seemed to lose their reason when they saw her. Men dropped their swords, and threw down their shields and helmets as they ran. Afterwards they swore that they had seen angels in the sky, or fiery spirits goading on the French knights. Whatever it was that inspired the French and enchanted us, they captured our camps one by one until we were driven away from the city and into the countryside.

But for Joan I might have been a hero like my father, not a starving deserter wandering lawless France. She was the cause of everything that happened to me afterwards. I saw Joan myself. I am sure I did. She rode a horse and wore armour and swung a battle-axe, just like a man. They said she was a girl like any other, in appearance, at any rate. Ralph was one of those who thought otherwise.

“I told you so,” he said. “That Joan’s a fiend, conjured up by the dauphin’s cronies. She’s protected. She’s got magic for a mailcoat. That’s why we can’t kill her. And that’s why we can’t win.”

Sir William died at Orléans, and I might have died with him had I still been his page. Ralph and I were lumped in with a lot of other masterless men and sent to do garrison duty in the parts of France that were still English. Ralph found a new audience for his grumbling, turning his attention from the dauphin to King Henry.

“The king’s only a boy,” he said. “And he’s a simpleton, they say. He spends all his time praying, and ain’t fit to rule. The regent’s no better. He rules France for himself, not for the king. But the king ain’t such a big fool as we are for fighting for him. If we’re to fight, we ought to fight for ourselves, and get the benefit of what we win.”

We had not been paid for weeks, and it did not take much more of Ralph’s talk to persuade a score of men to desert with him.

After circling round the starving children, we wandered for a while, heading gradually south, away from the sharp winds that blew the last leaves from the trees, leaving us with no cover but gorse and ditches. Ralph kept up his talk of loot and feasts, but I could see that there was nothing to be had by terrorising poor peasants, even if we could catch any. There were too few of them, and of us. The people still living in the countryside had little left that was worth stealing, and we were not strong enough to attack towns or fortified houses. Sometimes we came across corpses strung up in trees. In one place there were a dozen of them, all stripped and mutilated, swinging slowly in the wind. Their empty eye sockets seemed to watch us as we passed, warning us what to expect if we crossed men more powerful than we were. The crows watched too, hopping and flapping, waiting to resume their feast. There were days when everything we saw seemed to be dead or starving. We roamed the countryside for weeks, foraging rather than looting, living off fruit found in untended orchards, or mushrooms gathered in the woods. Game, which was scarce anyway, disappeared, and we were reduced to grubbing for roots and nuts like pigs in an orchard. Fat Henry, much thinner by then, died from all the toadstools and other foul things he ate. Ralph made us tumble his body into a ditch and scratch earth over it with sticks, not out of respect, he said, but to deny the dead flesh to the savages. One of the other men, ignoring Ralph’s disapproval, muttered something he thought sounded like a prayer.

Some of the men were barefoot, and I only had some wooden clogs to walk in because they were too small to fit any of the others. Ralph kept telling us that the weather was better south of the Loire, that the land never froze, that grapes grew all year round, and that wine was so cheap that it was given away freely. I knew all that was false, as my mother had told me all about life in Guyenne. But I said nothing. When we reached the Loire the water was running high, and the bridges had either fallen or were fortified. We stood on the sandy bank, looking across a windswept stretch of water that might as well have been the sea. We could not cross to the land promised by Ralph, so we trudged along the bank, hoping for an unguarded bridge or an abandoned boat.

We were camped by a ruined farmhouse, and were trying to roast some scrawny hares when Umberto’s men found us. We should have set sentries, or at least posted someone on what remained of the roof, to keep watch. But we did not, and were exhausted and still unfed when a dozen well armed men rode into the yard, their mounts stepping neatly through the gaps in the fence. Ralph stood as quickly as he could, and tried to face the men, but one of them covered him with a handgun. It was a clumsy weapon, and I knew he would not be able to fire it easily without dismounting, but its inaccuracy was its strength. We were huddled closely round the fire, and the shot might have hit any of us.

None of us moved. We sat by the fire hopelessly, while more men rode in behind the others, fanning out as they came through the gaps. Some of the men jumped down from their mounts, drawing their swords as they stepped towards us. Unlike us, they wore helmets, and some had mailcoats under their leather jerkins. They were clearly a well-organised force, though they wore no colours to show who their master was. It was almost a relief to see them, as though they had come to rescue us. One of the men called out in French, telling us to get to our feet. We obeyed, knowing that we had little chance of escaping alive if they were the dauphin’s men.

Ralph seemed dazed. He had led us until then, dominating us with his size and rough tongue, but he had no idea how to face the men who had caught us. He looked from the men to us, and back again, licking his lips as though about to speak. But he said nothing.

I was the youngest of Ralph’s men. They thought me just a boy. But they were children themselves when it came to speaking French. They understood nothing, and could not make themselves understood, even to the peasants we had tried to rob, except by blows and curses. And that language would not work with the men who faced us then. I saw the growing impatience in their faces. They must have thought us simple, not worth dealing with. They would kill us, I thought, just for sport, as boys throw stones at village idiots.

The man with the gun still covered us, and I watched the glow of his match anxiously. One of the others stepped forward and asked who led us. Ralph stayed silent. I was the only one who could talk to them.

“He does,” I said, pointing at Ralph.

“And do you speak for him?”

“I can. What do you want?”

“What have you got?”

“Nothing. We are poor men. We have only these hares we are cooking, which you are welcome to share.”

“You are the regent’s men?” he said, looking with distaste at the hares, which, unattended, were charring in the flames.

“We were.”

“Deserters,” he said, looking round at his colleagues. One of them stood forward and spoke to Ralph in English. “It’s dangerous here. You can’t just wander around. This is Umberto’s territory.”

“Who is Umberto?” Ralph asked, looking slightly happier. They were not the dauphin’s men, and, as we had nothing to steal, they probably had no reason to kill us.

“You’ll find out.”

It was almost dark. The men kindled torches from our fire and quickly searched the ruined farmhouse to make sure we had not hidden any booty there. Before they led us away they insisted that we were roped together. “It’s for your own safety,” the English speaker said. “We wouldn’t want you getting lost in the dark.”

We stumbled along among the horses, barely able to see the path, tripping in potholes and slithering in mud. Ralph muttered to me as we went. “Who do you think you are?” he said. “You little squit-tail! You spoke out of turn back there. And you can keep quiet from now on. I’m the leader, and I’ll do the talking.”

The rest of Umberto’s men were camped in a clearing, and had organised themselves like an army, with tents pitched neatly in lines, and a well set fire where men toiled over pots and cauldrons. Once inside the camp, we were untied and taken to the men’s leader.

Umberto was a short, broad man with dark, bulging eyes and a protruding chin that was cleft like a pair of buttocks. He had that chin well scraped with a razor, even in the field, and his clothes, too, were rich, hinting at a life spent at court rather than at war. Under a fur-trimmed winter cloak, he wore a brocade doublet of rakish cut, and parti-coloured hose tucked into leather boots. A pair of greyhounds stood beside him, alert and graceful. They looked gentle, but, like all hunting dogs, they were capable of savagery. Umberto looked a gentleman, but his cruel eyes revealed his true nature.

I watched while Ralph told our story, looking from the rags he wore to the fine clothes of the Italian, wondering what Umberto had done to get his wealth. I had heard of such men, leaders of free companies that preyed on the French, English and Burgundians alike. In a way, we were lucky to have been caught by him. Unlike the dauphin’s men, he had no particular grudge against us. We had not defied him, or taken anything of his. But I could not help being afraid. How many men had been killed on his orders? How many houses burned and villages despoiled before Umberto made himself master of the lands he claimed? We might get away with our lives, but I knew that we would not get anything from him without making a bigger sacrifice ourselves.

Ralph seemed to think we had found what we were looking for. He stood before Umberto, towering above him, not noticing his contemptuous expression, boasting.

“We were at Rouen,” Ralph said, though he was far too young to have been at that famously bloody siege. “And at Falaise, and Caen, and Paris, too. But Orléans, that was our greatest day. You should have seen us there!”

Umberto, who must have known as well as we did what a disaster Orléans was for the English, smiled grimly but said nothing.

“We are all brave men,” Ralph said. “All tested in battle and skilled with weapons. We’ll do anything, fight anyone,” he said, his voice weakening. Umberto stood silently, running a gloved hand over a greyhound’s head, looking at us sceptically. His men could kill us easily, if they wanted to, or send us out into the cold if they thought us not worth the bother of killing. It would amount to the same thing. We knew how empty the countryside had become, and could smell the stew that seethed over the glowing fire. Warming ourselves and filling our bellies seemed more important than anything else.

Then Umberto spoke. His greyhounds pricked up their ears when they heard his voice. His English was broken but his meaning was clear enough. He told us that, as his company was a free one, if we fought for him, we would indeed be fighting for ourselves, and would have the benefit of what we won, which would be greater for having been won by a bigger company. There would, of course, be terms and conditions, but nothing that a brave and honourable man would hesitate to accept. While Ralph treated with Umberto, I kept quiet and listened to what was being said around me. Unlike most of my companions, I could understand what the men of the free company said among themselves, in a gabble of French and Gascon. It was clear that they thought us a half-starved rabble, no use in battle. I had my doubts about them, too, but I kept them to myself. We could not go back.

Umberto tugged off a glove and, with visible revulsion, held out his hand. Ralph knelt and kissed it, then the rest of us knelt in the mud and swore allegiance, giving up our freedom to join the free company. Umberto, leaving a deputy to deal with us, retired from the clearing to his tent. The greyhounds trotted after him. Then, at last, we were allowed to draw close to the fire and receive a dole of stew.

When Umberto told us that our first task would be to help him capture a castle, I was uneasy. Something told me that it would be all risk for us, and all gain for Umberto. But it was cold by then, bitterly so, and it was clear to us that if we wanted to eat we would have to fight. And as Umberto told it, the castle would be warm and comfortable and full of everything a man could want to get him through the winter, even the bitterest. There was to be no siege. We would take the castle quickly or not at all. And if we failed, Umberto said, we would starve. So my fellow deserters cheered and took their places among Umberto’s men, ready to march to the castle.