After a swift discussion of plans, the King divided his forces accordingly. Some were to remain in the tower with the Italian to await the approach of the French, who were massing at St Omer, twenty-five miles away. The King’s contingent would enter the town and assemble at the main Boulogne Gate, and Prince Edward would have command of the Water Gate on the other side of the town. Thomas, Otto and Henry de la Haye were assigned to the Boulogne Gate with the Holland archers. In ostensible control of the operation was Walter Manny, a former captain of Calais. The plan was to allay suspicions by making it appear as though Manny had arrived to spend the New Year in Calais with a few old friends. Being known for his connections with the town, there would be nothing untoward about him making a visit.
Playing up to the theme, the King had disguised himself as a common knight, and a spark of dark amusement twinkled in his eyes as he acted as Manny’s subordinate. This was far better than any Christmas mumming because it was real and dangerous. Thomas joined in the charade, he and Otto and Henry wearing their dulled armour, the blue garters of their elite knighthood stowed away in their baggage. To the superficial observer, the King of England and his knights were common soldiers on routine business.
Thomas and Otto were billeted in a stable with the warhorses that had been shipped across, and made their beds from clean straw with their cloaks laid over. The King, posing as one of Walter Manny’s guards, slept in the house attached to the stables, the home of a wealthy English cloth merchant. Thomas’sarchers had set up their quarters in a couple of outhouses nearby belonging to another merchant family. They had been told nothing thus far beyond their orders to muster, but now Thomas went to sit with them, share a cup of ale and inform them why they were here.
He looked at their eager faces as they sat over their bowls of stew. Swift and keen as ferrets ready to hunt. He sipped the ale – an acquired taste when he was accustomed to wine – and asked after their wives and families. Young Joss’s wife had given birth to their first child two weeks ago, and Thomas made a note not to volunteer the lad for any dangerous tasks. He promised him a gold noble for the infant when they returned. Then he discussed Cygnet’s progress with Samson and agreed what a strong young horse he was becoming, although not yet ready for the saddle. Thomas enjoyed conversing with his soldiers. After long months of inaction, doing battle with quill pens and relying on lawyers, it was so good to be back in his own arena, in the company of fighting men – like salt on bread. He adored Jeanette with all of his being, but this too was part of who he was.
‘We shall be here for a few days,’ he said. ‘Keep to yourselves and stay low. The French must not know of our presence. Geoffrey de Charny is leading a plot – secret, as he thinks – to seize Calais from us, but it will not happen. It is our task to ensure it does not.’
He drew lines in the dirt with an arrow to explain the plan.
‘A group of them will come round by the marshes at the lowest tide and call for Amerigo di Pavia to open the harbour tower to them. He will do so, but only to a certain number, and then we shall drop the drawbridge, trapping the men inside and netting a fine catch of ransoms. The French plan is to enter the harbour tower by treachery and stealth and overpower our garrison. They will then come into the town via the harbour tower postern and open the Boulogne Gate to de Charny, whowill be waiting with the rest of the French. Only they will never reach that far, and this is where we shall be waiting, to welcome them instead.’ Thomas grinned at his men. ‘I expect you to use every arrow you have to its best advantage and sow a fine crop.’
‘Sir, how will we know when the time is right to gather at the gate?’ Samson asked.
‘There will be a signal from the citadel. We shall have runners in place and will have plenty of time to be in position, have no qualms on that score.’
Thomas finished his ale and returned to his own billet where Otto and Henry were still up, playing a game of dice for pennies by the light of a lantern.
‘The men know their business,’ Thomas said, joining them. He took a swig from Otto’s cup of wine to clear the taste of the ale. ‘We’ll all be ready and eager when it’s time.’
‘It is still difficult to know who to trust,’ Otto said. ‘What if di Pavia does not honour his side of the bargain? How do we know he does not have a deal with the French to take us captive?’
‘We don’t, but is it likely?’ Thomas replied. ‘It would be a glorious victory for the French if it came to fruition and de Charny took the King of England and the heir to the throne prisoner, or even brought them down in battle – in which case we would die long before the King did. But far better for di Pavia to have a king in his pocket than a French adventurer.’
‘True,’ Otto agreed, ‘but it’s still wise to be cautious.’
‘Indeed, but this way, if we prevail, we stamp our authority on Calais without question, and no one will doubt the King of England’s abilities or his spy networks again – for a while at least.’
Otto shook his head. ‘I confess I am a simple man.’
Thomas rumpled Otto’s tawny hair with affection. ‘You see clearly enough at need. I’ll leave you and Henry to your dice and sleep a while, then take second watch.’
Shortly before dawn on the last day of the year, de Charny’s advance party crossed the marsh at low tide and entered through the door that had been left unguarded as agreed. Di Pavia ushered them within, and received the first part of his payment in return for his son, and within moments the English banners had been torn down from the top of the citadel and replaced with the Oriflamme of France. The French soldiers sped down to the portcullis to wind it up and open the gate to the rest of their number who had traversed the salt marsh and crept along the narrow strip of beach revealed by the low tide.
The French piled in through the tower entrance, but moments later, when the net was full, the portcullis slammed down, trapping them, leaving the rest stranded, and giving the English troops concealed in the harbour tower a fine catch of ransoms. At the Boulogne Gate, everyone had been waiting the signal since well before dawn, and it arrived at first light on swift feet and with a shrill whistle.
‘The French banner is planted!’
Thomas waited by the gate, mounted on Noir with Otto and Henry either side, and the archers ready to shoot through the arrow slits in the gate towers and bring down the enemy. King Edward was still maintaining the pretence of being subordinate to Walter Manny, although everyone in the troop knew exactly where he was and a stalwart ring of protection surrounded him.
Noir pawed and snorted, his coat twitching. Tension trembled through Thomas’s own body as their soldiers swung open the great wooden gates and the early morning light shone upon the massed array of five thousand French soldiers, eager to seize and plunder Calais to the bones.
At the sight of the waiting English, a roar of dismay surged out from the French. Howls of ‘Treachery!’ and ‘Betrayal!’ writhed through the ranks.
‘St Edward! St George!’ bellowed Thomas and Otto in unison, and the cry was taken up and roared from every English throat and the trumpets blared the charge. From the battlements and through the arrow slits of the gatehouse towers, the archers sent their arrows deep into the amassed French, stitching bloody confusion and mayhem.
Many tried to turn about and flee, for this greeting was an utter shock, but de Charny refused to yield so easily and rallied the men around him, exhorting them forward to seize the gate and hold it by their greater numbers.
Thomas, on the King’s left flank, was soon hard-pressed. He focused on protecting the King while trying to prevent any French from winning through. His gaze flicked over the enemy banners and livery, checking for fierce and accomplished fighters who were the greatest threat. When the opportunity came to press forward, he did so with intent, but at an angle so that the slant of his attack protected the King, making his own body a barrier.
Arrows thrummed overhead into the depths of the French, but still the battle was fierce and bloody. Thomas, Otto and Henry fought like steady flames, destroying whatever came at them, but it was a never-ending surge. Wave upon wave, even with the support of the archers, and they had to hold the line. The King had engaged several times. Swords, axes, hatchets flickered at him, and Thomas and others beat them aside with desperate strength.
Otto gasped as he took a hard blow and his horse stumbled, leaving Thomas open for a moment. Thomas pivoted Noir, brought his own sword to bear, and forced the big stallion forward instead of retreating. His enemy grunted and fell back, and Thomas pushed his advantage yet again, by which time Otto had rallied and was once more at his side.
Then . . . sweet relief! Prince Edward arrived from his own station, galloping his troops around to seize on the French rear flank. Heartened, the tiring King’s men redoubled their efforts, although the archers desisted theirs lest they strike their own. Seeing the tide turn imbued Thomas with a fresh surge of energy and he spurred forward to help pincer the French between the English lines, until those too slow to flee were caught and either dispatched or taken for ransom, while the English trumpets sounded the victory, and the archers cheered from the walls, and shot volleys into the retreating foe.
The command went through the line not to pursue. De Charny had been taken with many other high-ranking knights, and there was no possibility of the French regrouping for a second assault.
