6 June 1355
At a hard gallop, they could have been at Muret within a few hours. John was barely able to control his mounting excitement, and at the same time beside himself with anxiety.
Progress was tediously slow, with the repetitive task of trailing the Prince to different monasteries. Each day passed painfully slowly. John lost his appetite both for camp food and homespun camp entertainment.
He found some relief in spending hour after hour practising his archery, but even that was frustrating. Morgan made him change his grip on the bow and the way he placed his fingers on the string. The new position felt awkward and seemed to place an unnecessary strain on his shoulders, forcing him to learn how to use the bow all over again. In his darker moments he wondered if this was Morgan’s subtle way of obtaining revenge.
Then, out of the blue, he began hitting targets more reliably than ever before. Soon afterwards he commenced practising with moving targets. Initially they used a swinging target suspended from the bough of a tree, but soon Morgan was hurling a ball of straw at ever changing trajectories. Finally, Morgan taught John the rarely used skill of accuracy at extreme range. He showed John how there was an optimum elevation of discharge for every distance, and how to allow for the wind.
In the evenings, John spent more and more time with Piers, listening to tales of gods and goddesses. At the end of every tale, his thoughts turned to Ximene. He took it for granted that she would be beautiful, but would she be ruthless yet vulnerable, as the goddesses in the stories invariably were?
Eventually the group came to a halt on the banks of the Arriage, underneath a cliff below the village of Lacroix-Falgarde. They had been guided by a well-worn path through the woodland to a weir which functioned as a ford.
The Earl talked though a survey of the weir with John and Piers.
‘The water is only three inches deep. Indeed, the water upstream does not look deep either. However, the surface of the weir seems very uneven and all that brushwood piled up at this end of the weir which must have been brought down when the river was high will make the passage difficult. We must get rid of the wood.’
Once again, Jesse Milton danced across the weir, paying out the string as he went. Soon a rope was stretched tight between two sturdy trees either side.
The Earl summoned John. ‘Right, John. You are the axe man, get rid of the wood.’
Clinging to the rope with one of his axes strapped over his shoulder, John clambered out to the pile of wood and carried out his own survey.
He waited until he had a secure foothold clear of the water. He cautiously chopped through one branch at a time. The axes had been sharpened only that morning and the instinctive swinging motion he used sliced though thicker branches and its weight enabled John to simply smash through the smaller branches. Suddenly half of the pile lifted, twisted and lunged over the weir, vanishing down the river. John danced around trying to keep his balance.
There was good-natured applause. John looked up and grinned before readjusting his footing. He continued until another large agglomeration of branches broke away. He then tried to adjust his footing once more. His intention was to cut through the middle of the remaining large branch which hung over the weir. Standing on the upstream end of the branch, he hoped to release the downstream end and the cluster of branches trapped by it.
John looked up and saw Piers pointing frantically at the end of the log behind him. He decided to make a couple more cuts and then step sideways onto the weir. He didn’t want to fail in the task he had been allocated.
He got it only slightly wrong, but it was enough. The log grated off the weir and for a brief moment John was riding on it. John had time to realise that the river was flowing much faster than he had previously thought before the log, now floating free, turned beneath him. He fell backwards into the river, still clinging to his axe.
The icy water closed over his head. He made a stroke with his free hand and kicked with his legs and expected to rise to the surface, but the axe weighed him down. The axe was a family heirloom, he could not bring himself to release it. He was now on the bed of the river, crawling and scrambling. The force of the river seemed greater as he rolled over and over, still clinging on to his axe. His lungs were bursting, he opened his eyes to see a great pile of pebbles rushing towards him. Clouds of sand obscured his vision.
The strong current swept him sideways, but he just managed to hook his axe over a large stone. He pulled himself in, repeating the manoeuvre several times until he was pinned against the bank of pebbles. He then crawled painfully upwards, finally aided by the current. Suddenly his head broke water. He was on a sandbank in the river nearly two hundred feet from where he had fallen in. He gasped for air and was rewarded with a mouthful of sandy water. He pulled himself further out of the water and sat there heaving and coughing whilst he watched most of the expeditionary force running along the bank towards him.
‘John, John. Are you alright?’ The same call from twenty different voices.
Eventually he found voice. ‘No, I am not alright, but I am alive.’
It took hours to rescue John from his predicament and then to cross the river.
John was humiliated by his mistake, but many of the men made a point of praising his courage and skill.
Even the Earl seemed pleased, but counselled John not to take the fulsome praise too seriously. ‘They are just glad that they did not have to do it.’
It crossed John’s mind as they left the weir, that it had nearly ended there and that if so he would have been unable to fulfil his duty to Ximene Trencavel, whatever that might be.
They left the banks of the Arriege and, travelling south, reached the peak of a ridge running parallel to the Garonne. From there, just before midday on the sixth of June, they finally saw Muret and the bridge they would use to access the other bank of the river. As they moved towards the bridge, a campsite came into view. John counted five major tents, conical in shape, shining brilliant white, edged in red. Dozens of bivouac tents, of the type that ordinary soldiers and servants might use, surrounded the major tents. Because of it’s location on a bend of the river, the camp was bordered on two sides by the river.
On the third side, a barricade was marked along its whole length by pennants mounted on pikes. Every white pennant carried the unmistakeable Lion Rampant of Aquitaine. Just to make sure that no one could mistake the allegiance of the camp, in the very centre was an enormous flag on which the Lion of Aquitaine was at least nine feet tall as the flag rippled in the wind.
John noticed that neither the Prince nor the Earl was particularly surprised. In fact, as the Earl urged his horse to move on, John heard him say to the Prince that Pierre-Raimond de Comminges appeared to have done a good job.
He realised that the Earl had chosen to keep this from him and couldn’t help but feel disturbed. He wondered what else he did not know, but then dismissed the thought immediately, deciding he had no reason for complaint.
The river was now much narrower than it had been at the start of their journey, but ran with considerable force, the race between various small islands creating a sea of foaming undulating water. Though it was a pleasant day, the river had a greyish appearance. It was as if it was a symbolic warning of how even at the height of summer the river was icy cold. This was not a river to cross without assistance.
As they approached Muret, John was glad to observe that the bridge, although not far above the water level, looked solid and reliable. At the far end of the bridge was the town and the castle. The severity of the man-made structures was softened by an extensive meadow fringed by trees which reached out to higher ground both upstream and downstream of the town walls.
As they turned to make the descent to cross the bridge they saw, on the same bank of the river but on lower ground upstream of Muret, a copy of their own camp. Similar conical tents dominated the layout though gold and red took the place of red and white.
‘At least two hundred strong,’ commented the Earl, narrowing an eye. ‘Is that a hunting party?’
Even as he spoke, a column of riders left the camp and wound their way up the hill towards them. The riders were in ceremonial dress, which repeated the colour scheme of the camp, whitest white with trimmings of red and gold. Every rider carried a lance with red and gold pennant fluttering from its tip.
John saw the Prince glance around his own little troop. They were travel worn and dirty and in any case had avoided finery to avoid attracting attention. Embarrassment showed clearly on the Prince’s face.
As the column drew nearer the Prince swore under his breath. ‘The Comte de Foix himself coming to meet us, I did not want him to see us like this.’
He pulled himself upright in his saddle, forced a smile and urging his horse forwards, held out his hand “Gaston, good to see you again.” The two men manoeuvred their horses alongside each other and shook hands.”John was amazed to see that Gaston, Comte de Foix was a very young man.
Gaston and the Prince rode about fifty feet away for a private discussion. The Prince returned, looking a little easier. After a hurried conversation with the Earl, the Prince led the whole force as it wound its way down to the bridge, across the river and ascended the other side. Instead of entering the town they turned to the right, down-stream, to their own camp.
Once they were within the bounds of the camp the Earl called John and Piers over. ‘The Prince was absolutely furious at the way the Gaston Phoebus stole the ascendancy at the first meeting. Incidentally, he was also furious that Gaston, who owes allegiance to him for his lands in Bearn, routinely treats him as an equal. But that is not really what I want to address.
‘The Prince pushed for Ximene to spend a few days in our camp. It will mean that they are more accessible to each other… herumph… for discussions.
‘The Prince is determined that she should be entertained royally. He has agreed however that for propriety it is essential she has a chaperone. The obvious choice is her grandmother, Lady Eleanor, who is already the Prince’s guest at his castle at Beaufort, only three leagues from here.’
He stopped and looked them up and down. They were as dishevelled as anyone else in their little troop. ‘By all means refresh yourselves by bathing in the river but within the hour I want you in your uniform, ready to accompany me to Beaufort to escort Lady Eleanor back to our camp.’
John looked with satisfaction at the pennant fluttering from his lance. He rose in the saddle and turned to look at the riders behind them. He turned and smiled at Piers who was riding beside him.
‘This is more like it,’ he said.
‘From what I heard, the Prince would agree with you!’ laughed Piers.
The journey to Beaufort took less than hour, even though they did not break out of a trot. Half way through the journey they saw the castle on the horizon, situated on a low range of hills with pleasant streams running either side of it. Initially it appeared as a white exclamation mark against the green and brown landscape.
Beaufort was not so much a castle but an isolated tower. Around the tower there was a fortification, which contained stables, barns and accommodation for servants, guards, artisans and farm labourers.
The Earl dismounted and walked up a semicircular flight of steps towards a massive but graceful arch. He signalled John and Piers to follow him.
The arch’s heavy doors opened wide and they were greeted by a very large man who they quickly learned was the constable of the castle, Payne de Roet himself.
‘I have been expecting you,’ he said. ‘The activity behind you,’ he indicated several pack horses and a cart being loaded with a variety of domestic accoutrements, ‘Represents Milady’s preparations to join you. Your return trip will I think take a little longer than your journey here!’
As they passed through the entrance they found themselves in a huge hall, in which several rows of pillars supported a roof which appeared to be solid stone fabricated into graceful archways. Payne explained that the castle had been constructed by the Holy Roman Emperor Fredrick II as a gift to the Comptes of Comminges and had recently been given to King Edward as a gesture of loyalty.
Down the stairs from the upper floor, holding hands almost as if they were dancing, came an elegant couple.
Payne turned on cue. ‘Ah, here is Lady Eleanor now.’
John stood transfixed. The man he recognised as the Seigneur of Clermont, who had awarded him the prize at the archery contest. The lady he recognised as the Mistress of Ceremonies from the festival of the moon! John glanced at Piers and saw from the astonishment on his face that he also struggled to make sense of it.
John’s mind was in a whirl. So this was Lady Eleanor, Ximene’s grandmother who was also the mistress of ceremonies at the Festival of the Moon. Inevitably he wondered whether it meant that Ximene herself took part in similar ceremonies; a thought he dismissed, at least temporarily, to concentrate on the task in hand.
The Earl made the introductions.
‘May I present Prince Edward’s bodyguards, members of the Lions of Aquitaine, whom you will remember from Clermont.’
Both Guillam and Lady Eleanor nodded. Lady Eleanor said how honoured she was to have such a prestigious escort.
The Earl apologised that he would not accompany her back to the camp immediately as there were some issues at Beaufort he needed to deal with.
‘Yes I do understand, in fact Guillam also has some unfinished business here at Beaufort, so for the time being I will travel to your camp alone. It causes me no concern. I am sure I will be in safe hands.’
She smiled at John and Piers to let them know that she was talking about them. She then addressed them directly.‘There have been heavy mists the last few nights due to the cold air rolling north from the mountains. We should move soon so that we are settled before the mist descends.’
For a while, Eleanor led the small procession. John took the opportunity to have a whispered conversation with Piers.
‘Why is the Earl staying here?’
Piers chuckled. ‘To avoid sleeping in a tent?’
‘Surely not. What is he up to? And why didn’t he tell us? Sometimes I believe he is still testing us.’
Just at that moment, Lady Eleanor dropped back to position herself alongside John. ‘So, tell me young man, how is it possible to rise from a humble squire to a member of the Prince’s bodyguard in just a few days? I cannot believe it was because you won an archery contest in a remote village?’
‘No my lady, it is a long story but I am very pleased to be able to serve the Prince in this way.’
Piers blushed and rode ahead. Lady Eleanor watched him go.
‘What a nice sensitive young man. He understood that I needed to talk to you.’
Eleanor eyed John carefully. ‘We are progressing at a walk,’ she said, ‘mainly because of the possessions I feel necessary to make life in a tent more comfortable. We have at least an hour to talk, so even if it is a very long story there is no need to concern yourself, start at the beginning.’
And so John told Eleanor the events at Moissac, giving her all the detail he remembered.
‘So you risked everything to rescue a young woman in distress.’
John was unsure whether it was a statement or a question.
‘I only tried to enforce the standards which the Captal de Buch and the Earl of Salisbury had explained to us,’ he replied.
‘It is one thing to wish to comply with a set of standards which have been explained to you, but quite a different thing to put those standards ahead of your own safety. As I see it you put your whole career, possibly your life, in jeopardy to protect a young girl. I am glad it is you who will be guarding me, and my granddaughter Ximene over the next few days. I would have no other!’
John’s heart suddenly leapt in anticipation. He would be guarding Ximene! But where was she?
Upon arrival, the Captal took Lady Eleanor to meet the Prince. A short time later she returned, accompanied by the Earl. His stay at Beaufort had evidently been a short one.
The Earl and pulled the two Lion’s to one side. ‘Heerumph. The Prince has decided that you will act as bodyguards to Lady Eleanor and Lady Ximene whilst they are within our camp. Take that literally. You will be expected if necessary to give up your lives to protect them whilst they are under our… your care. You will position the tents for the Ladies Eleanor and Ximene close to the river bank. You should position you own tents close at hand. The Comte de Foix is very anxious about Lady Ximene’s safety and will send some of his own guards to secure the perimeter of their location, but you will stay inside that perimeter. However, help will never be far away. Our own force will then surround the Comte’s Guards. Hopefully there will be no incidents, and we will all feel comfortable and secure.’
He looked over at Lady Eleanor. ‘See they want for nothing,’ he hissed under his breath as and then more loudly, ‘This way my lady, a tent is being prepared for you. I am assigning the Prince’s personal bodyguards who escorted you from Beaufort to continue in your service.’
Lady Eleanor smiled warmly at the Earl and kissed him on both cheeks, taking rather longer over it than convention demanded.
John and Piers busied themselves working alongside Lady Eleanor’s servants unloading chairs, cushions, tables and even rugs from the cart.
It was now dusk, and John went on a search for fresh rushes with which to stuff the mattresses. Piers had been busy on his own account. He had managed to find half a dozen torches which he was positioning in a circle around the tent and an assortment of candles to illuminate the inside of the tent.
Lady Eleanor arranged and rearranged the positioning of the furniture, eventually creating within the tent separate living and sleeping areas. Finally she stood in the middle of the living area with a broad smile on her face.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘this is very pleasant.’
Outside, just as she had predicted, a mist was rolling in and the light from the torches created the illusion of rays of light penetrating the mist. John raised his head as he heard the whinny of a protesting horse. He walked to the door of the tent. Suddenly there was a thunder of hooves and a dozen of the Comte de Foix’s soldiers arrived to take up their positions.
Then, as if carefully planned, a grey horse appeared through the mist, illuminated by the glimmering shafts of light from the torches. The rider was wearing a full-length cloak and hood, very similar to those which had been used at Clermont.
The horse reared and thrashed the air with its hooves, unhappy at being halted. The rider settled the horse effortlessly and slipped from the saddle, handing the reins to one of the guards. The hood was pulled back, revealing the rider to be female.
She strode purposefully towards the tent. As she walked the light from one of the torches was immediately behind her. She was framed by light.
She swung her hips as she walked so that each foot was placed immediately in front of the other. The cloak responded by swaying from side to side as if in slow motion. As the cloak moved, there were glimpses of what lay beneath.
Boots and hose! This lady dressed like a man! Finally, as she drew close to Lady Eleanor’s tent the flares around the tent illuminated her face.
Lady Eleanor’s smile grew broader.
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Ximene has arrived.’