A Knight and a Spy 1414: A knight and a spy

By Simon Fairfax

A Knight and a Spy 1414
"Beware of secrets and daggers"
These words of warning come back to haunt Sir James de Grispere.
Sir James is thrust into a world of betrayal both in the English court and in France. Alliances are made and treaties are broken, all in the name of ambition. With no one to trust, he must navigate the corridors of power within the Court of Aragon. As military might builds for the greatest battle to conquer France, the navy is imperilled, as is King Henry V as plots against him fester.
All hangs on the Council of Constance where treachery abounds, and Sir James must protect the English Embassy at all costs. Even with his own life.
Buy A Knight and A Spy 1414 now to discover medieval England and France at their most devious and deadly!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Fairfax
• Release date: Jun 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215520482

Simon Fairfax

As a lover of crime thrillers and mystery, I turned what is seen by others as a dull 9 – 5 job into something that is exciting, as close to real life as possible, with Rupert Brett, my international man of mystery whose day job is that of a Chartered Surveyor. Rupert is an ordinary man thrown into extraordinary circumstances who uses his wit, guile and training to survive. Each book is written from my own experiences, as close to the truth as possible, set against world events that really happened. I go out and experience all the weapons, visit the places Rupert travels to, speak to the technical experts and ensure that it as realistic, as possible allowing you to delve deep in to the mystery, losing yourself in it for a few hours.

Book preview

Part One

An Old Alliance

Chapter One

St Giles’s Fields, London: 13 th January

The serried ranks of prisoners stood bravely awaiting their fate, dressed warmly in doublet and hose as if to ward off the destiny that stood before them as well as the cold. Some shivered, whether against the wind that blew from the north or the sight before them, as eight of their number were led forward under armed guard and roughly handled towards the waiting wooden structures.

Four pairs of gallows stood to the fore, hastily erected and made from fresh wood that was still sharp and white, its splinters reflecting the pale sunlight of the early morning, stark against the darker hues of the guards and executioners who stood like dark birds waiting for their prey to move. As they climbed the steps to the platforms, the accused were jostled as they stalled, seeing the ominous lengths of rope ending in loops of death secured by the traditional hangman’s knot.

There was a huge crowd gathered to watch the spectacle, and a carnival atmosphere prevailed. Pie men sold their wares, musicians played upon shawms and lutes, and as the light notes trilled through the air jesters and fools danced and shook in a terrible mocking parody of the dance that the victims would soon play out before the watchers. The crowd laughed and hooted, offering impossibly ribald advice as the prisoners were escorted to their fate. Braziers had been lit at intervals around the gallows and the tantalising aroma of roasting nuts lingered in the air as purveyors shouted for customers to try them.

The day had been declared an official holiday by the king, who now sat mounted upon his horse. He was silent, his features implacable. He looked tall even seated in the saddle, his long shanks dropping gracefully to the stirrups at the end of the leathers. He was in full harness, with a cloak of royal purple draped around his shoulders trimmed in ermine and secured by a gold chain at his neck. His head this day was bare save for a thin, golden crown that sat upon his newly styled severe haircut, synonymous with his fresh responsibilities and the change of character they had brought upon him. His long, handsome face, with full lips and steady dark eyes that all knew could change in a flash from gentle humour to withering rage, was marred only by the star-shaped scar, a pucker upon his right cheek, the stark reminder of Shrewsbury’s bloody field.

One hand was placed characteristically upon his left hip, the other was holding the reins of his iron grey stallion that stood still, save for the fretting of its huge head in impatience to be of action, a mentality the animal shared with his master. The monarch was surrounded by his brothers and lords of high rank, marking the importance of the occasion, as the traitors and heretics of the Lollard uprising were now to be executed following their trial and sentencing.

They are neither so brave nor forceful now in their rants against the true faith and Holy Spirit it would seem, my lord king, the Archbishop of Canterbury opined. He had been the main investigator and leader of the fight against Wycliffe’s heretical teachings, having had Lollardy outlawed and all its followers condemned as traitors to the True Church. He continued. My only regret is that we did not catch Sir John Oldcastle, for as leader of this insurrection he is more culpable than any here today, condemned a heretic by his own tongue, and by his treason upon the body of your majesty.

The king turned to look at his elder statesman, who had now served three kings faithfully in his role of senior prelate. Henry knew his father had valued his services highly, both as Chancellor and Archbishop of Canterbury. Yet as he watched, he saw the archbishop shiver and pull his cloak tighter about his seventy-four year old frame and wondered how long it would be before the elderly cleric would join those before them in meeting their maker. Your grace, we give thanks for your diligence in rooting out these heretics, yet we wouldst still regret the day that those whom we once called blanchemain, should be so turned against us, the king said.

Your majesty is as ever magnanimous and shows great Christian charity in forgiveness of others.

On hearing the archbishop’s words, the other lords, including the Royal princes, pondered not for the first time upon the many contradictions that made up their royal brother and their nation’s king.

All thoughts turned toward the gallows as the prisoners reached the rough platform that would be their last mortal place upon this earth. The executioners secured the loops of hemp around the prisoners’ necks, sliding the knot home tightly to ensure that it did its job properly. Priests clad in dark robes moved forward to offer a final sacrament and absolution for the sins of the condemned. They looked like dark vultures come to feast upon the fallen.

Leave me be, priest, for you are not of my God, as none who do your foul work could be blessed by one so pure, spat one of the northern knights who had been caught up in the struggle. You taint all with your stigma of prejudice. At which he closed his eyes and began to pray, showing great courage and devotion to his belief.

There were no cheers from the crowd at this refrain, for any who would show sympathy at such reformist zeal would be singled out for later investigation as Lollard sympathisers. Yet more than a few in the crowd crossed themselves quietly and mumbled prayers for the condemned men.

The head executioner looked to King Henry and at his side the Lord Chief Justice, Sir William Hankford. The two men shared a glance, and the king nodded. Sir William returned his gaze to the gallows, nodded his head in turn and brought his arm down in a chopping motion.

The newly constructed gallows consisted of a raised wooden platform some ten feet above the ground. A thick bressummer provided a square framework supported by two staunch posts at either end forming the gantry for the ropes. There were no hinged doors, just open spaces behind the spot where the condemned men stood. At the signal from Sir William the eight men were pushed backwards over the void and dropped quickly to be suspended by their necks. One caught his foot upon the lip of the opening and struggled to retain his balance and save his life, until an executioner kicked his knee back and he fell, snapping the rope taught with a final strangled cry of anguish and pain. He danced like the others at the end of the rope, strangling to death as his tongue protruded, eyes bulged and his bowels voided, this to the jeers of the crowd. When it came, death was a blessed relief. The crowd fell silent, watching the macabre spectacle with fascinated horror until all that could be heard was the creaking of hemp against wood as the bodies swung and span in the air, pivoted by the fresh northerly breeze.

The bodies were eventually lowered to the ground, whereupon the nooses were released and the throats cut to ensure that none survived. One was marked with a red sash and this body was carried away to a funeral pyre of faggots and kindling. Two guards grabbed the body by the legs and arms and swung it until on the third heave they let go and it flew through the air to land in the middle of the ready pyre. He had been one of seven convicted of heresy as well as treason. The crowd cheered at this, jeering the lifeless body that now sprawled across the kindling as if readying itself for the flames. The jesters dived and fell, describing almost balletic arcs as the crowd laughed once more.

The day moved on and when all thirty-nine men had finally been executed, seven lifeless bodies lay supine on the pile of faggots and the pyre was ignited. Flames crackled and clouds of smoke rose upwards, greedily consuming their ghastly prize. A smell akin to sweet roasting pork permeated the air as the bodies burned and charred.

The crowd milled around the pyre, munching their food and drinking mead, drunk upon the occasion as much as the alcohol.

Chapter Two

The White Horse tavern was crowded with early custom as usual, yet on this day declared a holiday, trade was even brisker, and the three men had only just managed to achieve their usual seats away from the door in one of the roughly partitioned booths.

I saw that they left Sir Roger Acton hanging as a warning to others, offered one, a knight by his build of uneven shoulders, muscled in the particular way produced by long use of arms. He was clothed this day in a rich red cloak, leather lined against the cold and proofed to keep moisture out. The hood was thrown back to reveal strong features under the dark, red gold hair of his mother and her green eyes, dappled with flecks of red hazel. The strong nose and jaw were his, but the full, bow shaped mouth was also his mother’s, who had died in childbirth.

Aye, ’twill hang there anon, of that certes, yes, for none will dare to steal it away and it shall be a stark reminder to all who would rise up against the king and all good Christian men, the blond giant answered. He towered over most men and even exceeded the knight’s unusual height by a good three inches. His breadth of shoulders bespoke great strength and his large hand almost concealed the beaker of mead within it.

Amen to that, the third man of the company muttered, crossing himself. He was by comparison unremarkable in terms of physical size. He was lithe of build and seemingly slight when see against his two companions. Yet he was distinctive by virtue of his olive skin, his dark, almost black wavy hair and a pair of slate grey eyes that held a constant wary quality about them, never seeming to rest and always staying alert for any sign of trouble or danger. Yet to go against God and the Church is a mortal sin, and I have no compunction in decrying their deeds. He shrugged as though the matter had been settled well with the correct outcome.

We are well rid of them, and more’s the pity the whoreson Chaworth did not swing alongside them. Aye, him and Oldcastle, for I have a need in especial to see his life taken. The knight spat in disgust, his expression turning cold and impassioned at the mention of those two names, who had threatened and tried to kill his father and family in retribution for foiling their plot to kill the king and seize the throne.

Of which how does my Lady Alice and child? the giant asked.

Well, Mark, all hale and well. Thomas screams and wakes us all and I praise God for the wet nurse or I should be like a bear awake in winter! So I warn you both to beware and find some mission somewhere to take you abroad when you too are fathers. Mayhap for some years or more.

The others laughed at the jest, for Mark would be next to see a newborn and Cristoforo’s wife, the Contessa Alessandria de Felicini, was too with child. The years were passing quickly, they all knew, and many men of their age were fathers many times over.

Aye, sometime in May we should be a larger family, and mayhap I shall find some cause to travel and avoid the howling of an infant! Perhaps Italy, for I did so love the country and its people, Cristo.

"Grazie, Marco, yet I fear if I was to leave Alessandria it would be the end of me for she would geld me as a stallion if I dared to stray from home again so soon after the child were born."

The banter continued back and forth and on the theme, Jamie remarked: Have you heard aught from Cornwall, Mark. How does your family there?

I wrote to them a letter afore Christmas – or rather Emma did for her hand is fairer than mine – yet have received nought in return, tho’ my family be not good with letters, mind, and little schoolin’ to such. ’Twould be good to see the land again and mayhap once the child is born we can go together and show off the grandson to my family, tho’ Emma found it most disturbing when she accompanied me last, missing the noise and bustle where she felt safe, so she said. Which is mighty strange to me for all the dangers that lurk hereabouts in Lunnon. Of which I hear that a new truce is to be signed, for ’tis all the talk at court amongst the wrestlers.

Jamie looked carefully about him to see if any listened or sought intelligence, for he had learned to trust no one about the court or the capital.

Aye, that is what I too have heard. Bishop Chichele along with Sir Henry Lord Scrope heads an embassy to the French court, treating with mad King Charles. Scrope would seem to spend as much time abroad in that land as he does in England.

You speak with suspicion, Jamie. Have you heard aught in regard of his character that sets you against him? Cristoforo asked, curious as ever.

I know that his uncle was beheaded as traitor by the old king, he has strong links to France in many forms and was very close companions with John Beaufort. Little of that family do I trust, for they are ever seeking their own agenda and only fight hard for the crown when it suits their own ends. Yet if he can secure a renewal of the Treaty of Brétigny and buy us more time to prepare for war then I consider it a good cause.

You think war is comin’, Jamie?

War is always coming, Mark, as sure as Oldcastle is a traitor. Jamie sipped upon his mead, an old head on young shoulders formed by his experiences over the last few years. The signs are there and now is a good time. We talk of Brétigny, why the ransom of many ecus is still due for King John Second, that and lands owed to England’s throne pledged to us by birthright, too. No, King Henry will not sit idly by and let the province be stolen away from him. It was his father’s ambition to see it rightfully restored to England and he will take up that mantle to cast his own net.

Cristoforo considered the words and his sharp mind turned over what he knew of both French and English affairs. For such a campaign he will need ships and men, all of which cost gold and silver. He has a foothold in France now and a good one after Prince Thomas secured the lands which Beaufort added to this winter past. Yet it will take much for the French to cede the lands and bounty due, I’m bound.

Aye, on that I agree. I shall know more soon enough once the treaty is secure and terms agreed. A meeting of the king’s Council shall be called to decide what terms are to be accepted, I’m bound. Yet I’ll not trust the word of a Frenchman against a pig’s turd to come about and honour a clause, let alone a whole treaty, Jamie spat.

Amen to that, Cristoforo offered. And of turds, what news of my lord of Burgundy?

He skulks to the north in the lands of my father, licking his wounds. From what I hear he makes overtures still to our sovereign king, promising this and that, as though the world be his to promise. One day I shall look to him over the hilt of my sword, for I owe him much and would repay with interest. I would rather treat with an Armagnac than a Burgundian, for Charles Duc de Berry was most civil to us and offered his thanks, did he not, Cristo?

"Si, he did. Yet the tally was not equal, for he owed us much and we saved his house from capture – yet he was as you say, of generous spirit."

Now my companions, the hour grows late, as the bell for Vespers sounded a while ago. I must depart or I shall face worse enemies at home and would see Thomas before he sleeps.

The friends smiled at this and bade him goodnight, at which Jamie left the tavern and trudged the short distance south to his home on Le Straunde through the gloom, aided by the light that reflected from the glistening snow beneath his feet.

Chapter Three

The Painted Chamber, Westminster Palace: 30 th January

The king’s private chamber was filled with councillors, advisors, lords and knights of importance to any forthcoming campaign, but for all that, it was a leading prelate and Lord Scrope who held sway at this moment. The high ceilinged chamber of intricate design echoed back the words they spoke. Friezes decorated the long walls and two huge fireplaces cast out heat from yule logs that spat and hissed, throwing light into the void of the chamber. Despite the fires, the air was chill, as was so often the case with the Palace chambers because of their proximity to the river. Each man retained his cloak and stood listening to the words of the king and the two figures who commanded the stage before them, lately returned from Paris.

The two men in question could not have been more different in their physical appearance. The elderly Bishop Chichele was now in his fifty-first year, with slightly hunched shoulders and close cropped grey hair beneath his mitre. He contrasted with the visible power of the soldier by his side.

Lord Scrope had been at all the old King Henry’s battles and had accounted himself well, fighting at his sovereign’s side. Now he stood strong before the new king, still upright in posture in his forty-fourth year. His dark hair was cut in a similar manner to the king, and he had a firm jaw line with a heavy nose and shrewd, deep set eyes.

My lord king, we bring good tidings of peace and an agreement for marriage in accordance with your wishes. Offered Bishop Chichele.

This was news to most of the assembled company, and it drew gasps of surprise from all those who were gathered. All but Sir Richard Whittington, that is, who stood to one side, observing yet unobserved. An almost imperceptible crinkle of the elder statesman’s eyes showed the ghost of a smile that did not quite reach his mouth.

Thereupon Lord Scrope took up the exchange. The extension of the Treaty is to continue for another year – and as to the matter of marriage, his grace and I have agreed that you should not treat with another until the first day of May, being bound to her Royal Highness Princess Catherine of the Court of Aragon, daughter to His Majesty King Charles VI of France. Scrope had a satisfied smile upon his face, knowing that the embassy had exceeded expectations. We have here documents sealing the agreements in your majesty’s name. He produced bound scrolls of parchment, each bearing the royal seal of King Charles of France.

A royal clerk took them on the king’s behalf, breaking the seals one by one and reading the contents to the king, who remained impassive until the final words were read out, then gently slapped the back of his clenched fist into his left palm. His eyes were aflame with passion, creased around the edges in a wintry smile. "Now we have time to array ourselves in mantles of war, both at sea and upon land. For we have an open door, which we intend to open still further.

Tell us, how was the Constable of France, Charles d’Albret? For upon his visit here last month he seemed frosty and cynical. What were their responses to the land holdings outstanding and the ransom owed? The king asked.

My liege, they seemed most preoccupied with peace at all costs. The response came from Lord Scrope.

In the flickering shadows of the fires, Sir Richard Whittington watched all the by-plays in the panoply before him, listening for things that were not said as much as things that were. The old statesman’s eyes betrayed a look of amused cynicism as Scrope continued.

Of d’Albret, my lord, why he seems most unimpressed with our military might and determination to exact our demands to the hilt. Scrope paused here, seeking in his own mind how he might couch the next words. Eventually he ploughed forwards as a horse into a snow drift, unsure of his footing, yet with the need to press on, urged by his master’s bidding heedless of the danger. The Court of Aragon would seem to be of the same mind, my liege, that this was merely an opening ploy from which they or we might negotiate past the impasse. Yet this will be to our vantage, for whilst they see in us a weakness of purpose, we shall strengthen our cause and seek to redouble our efforts for the preparation of war, should the French not cede to our honourable demands for what is rightfully ours, Lord Scrope finished strongly.

The king snorted at this and picked upon a point of order that both ambassadors knew he would notice: I see that they seek to score points other than with arrow heads, for the documents are writ in both Latin and French?

My lord king you are as ever prescient, and as Your Majesty pleases, they tussled on this point and we conceded that if they were unable to juxtapose Latin then for the sake of peace and harmony we would cede the use of duplication in French, for the barbarians know aught of English.

This last was pleasing to King Henry who had, since his ascension to the throne and for the first time in England’s history, insisted that courts and documents and even parliamentary proceedings, were now carried out and recorded in the native English tongue and word. And is she, as our cousin the Duke of York describes her to be, ‘of beauty, grace and good demeanour’?

As Your Majesty says and in accordance with His Grace, she is of all those qualities and more, Lord Scrope responded.

Just so, just so. Then we shall continue with this game of exploitation and allow both Burgundy and King Charles to woo us. For as I live and breathe, Burgundy is to send a new envoy to us, pleading the case for his own daughter, she too named Katherine, and much more besides. And whilst this does continue, France shall not unite against us and the division thereof shall act as a multiplier for our strength to unite against a common foe.

The assembled company immediately picked up on the jest and smiled in response, some stamping the floor in support for the proclamation.

Any Anglo-Burgundian alliance would be suspect, my lord king, opined Bishop Chichele, by virtue of the fact that the Duke of Burgundy is out of sorts with His Majesty and can barely deliver what he would promise. Yet the proof shall ever be in the eating of the pudding, my liege.

Yet with this turn of events we must turn our minds to matters both at home and abroad, from which base we shall seek to strengthen our position, both in the eyes of the royal courts of Europe and at home. The king turned to Sir Henry Beaufort, Admiral of the Fleet, who had particular duties pertaining to the build up of the navy. Sir Henry, how does master Caxton do in his endeavours?

"My lord king, as your loyal servant, I take great interest in this matter, and your Clerk of the King’s ships thrives and does tolerably better than ever before in his endeavours to re-arm Your Majesty’s navy. Yet we are woefully short of vessels, as I am sure you are aware. Three new commissions of great ships are under construction, yet barges, balingers, carracks and such are in short supply and we still implore those far flung ports, particularly in the West