The Death of a King

Neither Sir Edmund nor his retinue spoke to me except on the second day after we left London. He curtly announced that we were going to Dover. The same evening we arrived outside that bustling port and encamped in the castle yard while Sir Edmund went into town to secure passage to France. Within hours he was back and announced that a cog, bound for Harfleur with provisions, could take us. Cursing and muttering, the escort remounted and we made our way down, along dark cobbled streets to the smelly quayside. Sir Edmund decided to return the horses to the castle, but we were ordered to take all our equipment and saddles which were heaped along with us into waiting boats and precariously rowed out to a fat squat cog, The Saint Mary. It was an evil-smelling barque already lying dangerously low in the water, and I prayed for a safe passage as I huddled in its fetid little hold.
    For once, my prayers were answered. The cog sailed on the next morning tide and the next day, late in the afternoon, we reached Harfleur. The port was now a vast munitions camp, filled with fat-bellied merchantmen from London to the Hanseatic ports on the Baltic. Sir Edmund arranged our landing and used a royal warrant to secure remounts, provisions and some vinegar-tasting wine from one of the royal purveyors stationed in the town. The place seethed like a dung-heap in summer. Troops struggled to find commanders and billets, carts jammed the narrow streets and horsemen slashed at each other as they fought to get by. Sir Edmund kept us all together and used his warrant like a wand to get through the melee. Once through the town, we entered the countryside heading southwest, so I was informed, to Valonges and Cotentin. Sir Edmund now became more relaxed and informed me that we were following the king’s route across Normandy as he marched north to link up with a Flemish army against Philip VI of France.
    The weather was warm. The sun was usually hidden by a haze but we felt its heat and made constant stops for water. At first, the flat dreary countryside showed little effect of Edward’s march but, as we crossed the River Vire at St Lo, the war began to show itself. Burnt fields surrounded scorched deserted hamlets, farmsteads and manor houses. Cattle and other livestock lay butchered in streams and ditches. Their black swelling bodies feeding large fat buzzing flies or, having burst, fouled the water and filled the air with such a stench that we held cloths soaked in wine across our mouths and nostrils. The horses became nervous when we caught glimpses of large bands of roving peasants who would scatter at our approach, but then dog our heels in the hope of rich pickings or bloody revenge.
    At Fontenay, Sir Edmund decided on a show of force. Two men-at-arms were left to guard me while the rest swung around and began to advance at a slow trot in a wide arc across the fields we had just passed. It was just like flushing conies from the hay. Ragged peasants jumped out of ditches or from behind hedges and made pathetic attempts to escape, only to be ruthlessly cut down by the mounted men. However, Sir Edmund refused to let the escort proceed too far and when they reached the summit of a slight ridge, I saw him turn his horse and lead the troop back on to the track where he had left us. Sir Edmund announced that they had killed a good baker’s dozen. The soldiers were more at ease and began to chatter and talk amongst themselves. As we approached Caen, the chatter died as we saw long columns of black smoke rising from behind the ruined town walls. We passed through where the town gates once stood only to see row upon row of charred houses, their timbers still red-hot with burning ash. We proceeded cautiously up the main street. Our horses picked their way delicately and snorted angrily at the fiery sparks blown into the air by a light evening breeze. The town square presented even worse horrors. The stone church had been badly mauled and looted but the cobbled fair-ground was strewn with dead of every age and sex. A baby lay against a horse-trough, its little skull smashed to pulp, whilst nearby its mother lay open-eyed with thick red gashes across both neck and stomach. Tradesmen lay sprawled in grotesque poses, clubs and staves still clenched in their dead hands. Those who had been stupid enough to surrender swung from improvised scaffolds, their heads twisted and lolling to one side.
    I had seen enough. I leaned over my horse’s neck and