The Death of a King

defeat and that it was only a matter of time before they conceded the day. Eventually, a series of trumpet blasts, repeated time and time again, ordered the French to break off. As they did so, one knight, maddened by defeat, turned his horse round and rode full tilt at our group. It was an unexpected move and caught Hemple too far forward. The knight sliced at him with his sword, striking at the archer’s shoulder, and was turning round for a second charge when I ran forward, knelt and loosed a shaft which did little damage except bring the Frenchman to his senses. He checked his horse, threw down his sword and cantered off into the darkness.
    The marshals were shouting at us not to pursue the enemy as I ran forward to Hemple, who was lying face-down in the red mud. When I turned him over, I noticed his shoulder was bleeding badly though he was not in mortal danger. I ripped the cloak off a corpse and tore it into strips and, after cleaning the wound with some wine from my leather bottle, I bound his shoulder as securely as possible. Apart from the chilling moans of the dying, the fighting had now died out. The English lines had drawn back towards the torch at the ridge and the French had retreated into the darkness. I forced some wine between Hemple’s lips; he stirred, opened his eyes and looked at me.
    “You drove him off?” he asked weakly.
    I nodded and told him to keep quiet. He smiled and fumbled at his belt, then I felt his dagger point pressing against my stomach. I looked down at him. “So, you’re the master bowman?”
    “Yes,” he sighed, “with orders to kill you. They said you were a coward.” He let the knife drop. “Whoever or whatever you are, you’re no coward and I owe you my life. So take my advice. Change clothes with a dead man and go. Now! They’ll soon be combing the battlefield for the wounded and will find me. So go! Go!”
    I pressed his hand and moved off. I soon found a suitable corpse. He was my stature and his face was badly scarred and mauled. I changed garments and left enough evidence to suggest (at least for a while) that the corpse was that of Edmund Beche. I kept my purse and wallet carrying the royal warrants, then I moved off to seize one of the many horses still wandering the battle-field. I managed to capture a mount, a magnificent brute, but dull with exhaustion, and I then rode slowly north towards the river. My intention was to skirt the English camp and then follow the Somme north till I reached the port of Crotoy. I calculated that the countryside would be denuded of both French and English troops, and this proved to be correct. The news of Crécy had reached the port—God knows how—when I reached it safe but exhausted late the following evening. I sold the horse for a nominal sum and, using the king’s warrants, managed to secure passage on an English supply boat plying between Crotoy and the port of London. I spent most of the voyage sleeping for three days in a rat-infested hold, until we docked at the steel-yard this morning. London is celebrating the carnage at Crécy but I know it will only be a matter of time before the king discovers my escape. Therefore I must prepare the resumption of my quest and journey immediately to Italy.
    I have written this letter in haste from London. God keep you, Richard. 4 September, 1346.

Letter Ten
    Edmund Beche to Richard Bliton, greetings. The day I finished my last letter to you marked the end of my mission in England. I spent that day touring the docks along the river Thames and eventually secured a passage to Genoa on board the Bianca, a home-bound cog from that city. I thought it would be too dangerous and too slow to travel overland to Rome, and the Genoese ship seemed to be the safest prospect. It had delivered its spices at the steelyards and its holds were now crammed full with English felts and hides bound for the markets of northern Italy. Moreover, she was part of a well-armed convoy, a small fleet in itself. The master of the Bianca, who had agreed to take me (and my English marks), explained that the sea was a constant battlefield. From Land’s End to Gibraltar prowled the ships of France, Spain, England, as well as those of Hainault, Holland and the Hanse. Nor was the Middle Sea any safer for it was the hunting-ground of fierce corsairs from the Moorish states of North Africa.
    The Bianca slipped its moorings two days after I embarked. I was unable to bring my horse, so I sold it and only took my