‘I shall be in the infirmary with the wounded,’ said Father Jean, indicating the stable block on the eastern wall I had noted before. ‘I think I understand what you wish to speak to me about and, when you are next at liberty, you will find me there.’ And with that he nodded, turned on his heel and strode away to the western side of the courtyard.
I hurried to the gate, bounding up the wooden steps to the walkway to the right of the castle’s main entrance. I peered over the parapet and saw, as I had expected, two horsemen in gorgeous surcoats of blue and gold, each holding a French royal standard and mounted on superb horses, white as lilies. They were enemy heralds-at-arms.
I waved merrily at them, and grinned, and they stared up from their saddles in surprise: it was hardly appropriate behaviour in the circumstances, but I had no herald of my own, not even a trumpeter. And a strange feeling of reckless cheer had come over me, as if I were drunk on strong wine. Nothing seemed important, least of all chivalric conventions and proper knightly etiquette – given the odds that we faced against these teeming French hordes, in a few hours I’d likely be dead.
‘Hello there!’ I called. ‘Beautiful day, isn’t it.’
The left-hand herald coughed into his slim, pale hand and began intoning in a solemn carrying voice: ‘His Royal Highness Philip Augustus, King of France, by the grace of God Almighty rightful overlord of the rebellious Duke of Normandy, sovereign lord of the territories of—’
‘Sorry, didn’t catch that – who did you say?’ I shouted down to the herald. I had an almost overwhelming urge to giggle like a naughty schoolboy.
The herald was completely thrown by my flippancy. He looked up at me in bafflement and said in a slightly questioning, uncertain tone: ‘Ah, His Royal Highness, um, Philip, the King of France, by the grace of God rightful overlord of the rebellious Duke of Normandy, sovereign lord—’
I cut him off again, saying cheerfully, ‘Oh, him – you mean Old Mace-Dick. And what does he want?’
The second herald, who had been studying the rude chalk drawing on the outside gate, had gone red in the face. He was clearly furious and it was he who answered the question for his now-speechless colleague.
‘His Royal Highness instructs and commands you to leave this castle forthwith, to come forth in the garb of penitents and to surrender your persons to his royal justice, trusting in his mercy—’
‘I don’t think so. Not today, thank you. We are rather busy. Perhaps some other time,’ I said. There were a few guffaws from along the battlements: our men were enjoying my cheeky performance even if the heralds were not. I continued: ‘God be with you both – but we have far more important matters to attend to. So I must ask you to go now and leave us in peace.’
‘His Royal Highness Philip Augustus, by the grace of God, the King of France, instructs and commands you, on pain of death—’
‘I said “Go”.’ My voice hardened. ‘Get ye hence. Quit this place. Be gone. Go.’
‘But the King of France—’
‘If you are not away from this gate by the time I count to five, I will order the bowmen to shoot you down.’
The heralds gawped at me. Their mouths working like land-drowning carp. To offer injury to a herald during a parley was a grave crime of war, and a terrible sin to boot.
‘One,’ I said.
The angry left-hand herald said: ‘So then, you formally defy King Philip’s rightful demand—’
I said: ‘Two.’ And his fellow herald cut him off with a gentling hand on the arm. They both shot me a glare of deep hatred, but when I said: ‘Three,’ they turned their horses smartly and cantered away.
The men on the battlements cheered as the two heralds rode back to the French encampment, their refined spines as straight as the poles that carried the royal standards, and it felt as if we had won a victory, even if it had been won in such an absurdly childish fashion. I was pleased that my tomfoolery had put some heart into the men – although I knew that we could expect no quarter if the enemy breached the walls.
‘Men of Verneuil,’ I shouted, and I was glad that the castle was small enough so that every man could make out my words. ‘Men of Verneuil, you may take comfort in the knowledge that your true liege lord is very close at hand. King Richard is no more than one or two days’ ride away, and if we can only hold here for a little while we will earn his undying gratitude. Any man who fights valiantly here today with all his heart and soul, and lives to tell the tale, can expect a rich reward from our royal master.’