Three Lions of England
Patrick Cinnamond
Patrick Cinnamond 2017
Patrick Cinnamond has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published by Endeavour Press Ltd in 2017.
Table of Contents
Prologue
The King came courteously to greet Reason .
He sat him between himself and his son on the benches ,
And they conversed gravely for a great while together .
Then Peace came to Parliament and proffered his charges .
Against his will , Wrong took his wife from him ,
And ravished her . His prowlers prey on pigs and ganders ,
I am so filled with fear that I dare not fight with him ,
I bear no silver he watches well when I have money .
When I am plodding on the path he is prying about
Or robs me and rifles me if I ride softly
He maintains his men in murdering my servants ;
He forestalls my fairs ; he fights in my markets ;
He breaks down my barn door ; bears off my provisions
More than this , he beats me , and lies with my servant ;
Because of him I have hardly the courage to seek justice .
*
The King credited his words , for Conscience told him
That Wrong was a wicked man who brought woe to many .
*
Piers Plowman by William Langland, Passus IV, 47-70 (circa 1377)
I
Normandy, the Kalends of May, in the Year of Our Lord, 1376
Bastard Knolles had assigned Wat and his lance of eight men to be the vanguard for the whole damned column of plunder wagons, all the way to Calais, along a road infamous for ambushes.
It had been a pissing down morning, skies grey as death, but at noon the sun launched a sally, routed the clouds. Since then, all had been the hiss of crickets, and rolling in the saddle, clip-clop dozing in the heat.
Wat basked his face in the May sun. The Frenchies had a better sun; the rays tanned the skin, heated the blood and warmed the marrow in the bones. Fucking Frenchies! Hed give them that.
The last thing the vanguard wanted to hear on the road was the pounding of hooves.
Three or more horses, full gallop, a fearful rhythm attacking the beat of Wats heart, quickening his breathing. His own charger snorted, scenting war or sex, getting uppity either way. He hooded his head in coif and ventails, lifted his basinet from the pommel of the saddle and clipped it onto his head suffocating dark until he flipped the visor open. Heavy horse coming in, Jack. Look lively lads!
Jack Straw, Wats second-in-command, sighed deeply. The devil strikes like a roaring lion.
Wat gave him a hard stare. You drop Bible babblings like dung, you do.
I should have been a priest.
Step to it, Father Jack.
Yes, Serjeant. Right away, Serjeant. Jack slid out of his saddle. It wasnt far to go to reach the ground he was as tall as the withers on his seventeen-hand warhorse. Giant Jack made good use of the extra height God had gifted him. He was an archer and the six foot six black yew stave hed bought from a Greek and cured back home was as tall and straight as him. He strung the war bow with hemp cord, took a white-fledged arrow from his bag and nocked it. All the movements were grooved by decades of practice at the butts and on the battlefield, he didnt even have to think, and like as not hundreds of strides away a man would die.
Three riders galloped round the sharp bend, a league off, heading straight for the vanguard.
Jack took aim, down the road. At thirty-eight, his eyesight wasnt as sharp as it had once been, he wouldnt be shaming any falcons, but he saw red and that was enough. English colours. Relieved he didnt even have to haul the string back, he lowered the bow and slotted the arrow back into his bag. Theyre ours!
Wat let out a sigh of relief, slotted his glaive back into its holder. He clicked off the helmet and took a deep breath in the sunshine.
As the three English serjeants, rattling plate armour, thundered up to a halt, Wats charger brayed and stamped, lashed out a front-strike. He reined the stallion in tight, jabbed it in the ribs with his spurs, into a wheel. It was a five-year-old, horny bastard, given to breakneck bouts of trying to mount other horses, mares or otherwise, rider-less or otherwise. Shagged to death by a stallion, not a nice fate for anyone, even Knolles. Although, there was a thought.
Wat stared at the white foam on the horses flanks. Working up quite a lather there lads. Whats got you so hot and bothered?
The usual, the lead rider, a Serjeant Baker, said. Fucking Frenchies.
Wat laughed. Fucking Frenchies.
Serjeant Baker laughed. He liked this serjeant right away, he decided. War might have cut deep into that face; a scar ran from forehead to chin, through his left eyebrow, and that nose had been broken, more than once, but the fellows eyes were bright with wit. Where is your captain? I need a word.
He is all the way back with his plunder, Wat answered. Follow my lads. Well see you right. He turned his charger, forced it to walk back along the road, with its cock slapping its sides.
Jack pointed at the hunching-up stallion. That randy sods got a stiffy again, Wat.
Wat laughed. Life is hard.
II
This good fellow is Serjeant Baker, from Abbeville, Wat announced. Good fellow, meet Sir Robert Knolles.
Good day to you, Sir Robert, Serjeant Baker said. We are from the castle at Abbeville. A column of Frenchies are advancing on us with canon and siege towers. We need reinforcements.
I am sorry, Serjeant, Sir Robert said. I am charged by the Duke of Lancaster to see these wagons make Calais by tomorrow.
Wat shook his head in disgust. Knolles was a fifty-year-old fake. People back home hailed him a great hero: Londoners told stories of his exploits in the tavern named after him the Sir Robert Knolles Inn and sang ballads to honour his victories at Poitiers and Najera when he didnt even fight at Poitiers.
Knolles, the ignoble condottiere , who had risen from the ranks in the infamous White Company.
Knolles, who had fought in the Tournament of the Thirty, been wounded, captured, and ransomed.
Knolles, who had won his spurs by cunning, not valour, and placed a ransom price of one hundred thousand moutons on his own head literally, it was inscribed on the bastards helmet!
Knolles, Knolles, Canolles, the Hammer of the Frenchies, the sacker of towns, villes, the killer of innocents.
Knolles, the Black Princes right hand, the Kings one true bandit, now the favourite of King John of Castile, the Prime Regent, pretender to the throne.
If only they knew the real man under all that armour, small, pink, wrinkled thing that he was, lived without a shred of honour. Who would let Abbeville guarding the site of the battle of Crecy, where a handful of English archers destroyed the flower of Frenchie chivalry and captured their king fall into enemy hands?
Would you at least spare us some men, Sir, or we will be overrun in days? Serjeant Bakers voice was tight, almost boyish, as it escaped from his grizzled grey-beard.
Sir Robert looked to Master Serjeant Lyons.
The old war dog took the cue, answering gruffly for him: We can spare you none, son.
Serjeant Baker was crestfallen. We have been ordered to hold at all costs.
Then God be with you. Sir Robert offered the poor wretch a grim smile. He was not entirely unsympathetic. They were losing the war. Wrong strategy. Wrong tactics. Wrong leader. The King was senile and doddery, mad with age; Edward, the Black Prince, was at deaths door. And all the while so-called King John of Castile, the feckless Duke of Lancaster, charged over Normandy in chevauche after chevauche , pillaging everything, but avoiding pitched battles at all cost, the French were systematically taking back all the keeps that had been hard-won over the decades of the war. What could one do as a mere banneret? A nobleman had to learn when to act and when to hold off, if he was to better his lot in this life, and more importantly, that of his heirs.
