to row?’ Lussac offered. Beyond the deep shadow cast by the ship, the surface of the sea sparkled, as if studded with diamonds.
‘Gladly,’ Philippe said, wiping his forehead. ‘It took me an age to reach you.’
The two men swapped places, Lussac gripping the oars, dipping the blades rhythmically, easily, in the water. Strings of water glittered down from the pale wood. Philippe sighed, leaning back in the boat, closing his eyes and tipping his face up to the tepid heat of the September sun. The light danced off the water, shining, blinding; with a strange, keening cry, a raft of sea-birds curved in one sinuous movement towards the bouncing sea, before jerking away at the last moment, inexplicably, to head off in a different direction.
Philippe opened his eyes. ‘Thank Christ the weather has taken a turn for the better. I couldn’t imagine sleeping under canvas in the likes of that storm we went through.’
‘I suspect the Queen will call in some favours,’ Lussac replied, twisting around to see how near to the shore they were. ‘I’m sure she has no intention of sleeping under canvas either.’
Soon they were in the long swathes of white surf, shingle crunching and grinding along the bottom of the boat. Drawing the oars in to rest along the sides of the boat, Lussac climbed out into the shallow water, Philippe grumbling behind him about wet feet. The water soaked through their calf-length boots, their chainmail chausses, but Lussac scarcely noticed. He was used to harsh conditions, to being wet and damp and cold, being camped out for days and days in winter, fighting in the borderlands between the English-held Gascony and France. Fighting, battling—they were his modus operandi; without them, he would simply cease to be.
‘Ah, Lussac!’ Mortimer approached, his gait awkward across the sloping shingle. He was a tall, thin man with a rigid, angular frame and everything about him, from his jet-black hair, his brown eyes, to his grey tunic and black flapping cloak, was dark, crow-like. He slapped Lussac congenially on the back, his head making a strange bobbing motion into his shoulders.
‘How are the women faring?’ Lussac asked, the briefest of smiles on his face. Many of the Queen’s ladies had suffered on the journey, the rolling, heavy sea taking its toll on their stomachs.
Mortimer rolled his eyes. ‘Not good. Isabella’s complaining about being hungry; they all are, in fact. Honestly, when you look at the way they’re carrying on, you’d think we were out on some day trip, not invading England.’
‘How much food do we have?’
‘The bread is soaked through with sea-water...and the milk has turned. We only brought enough provisions for the journey.’ His eyes swept the cliffs in desperation, as if they would provide the answer to their dire food situation. ‘Our compass bearing, when we set off from Flanders, should have brought us within sight of the Earl of Norfolk’s castle and estates. He supports the Queen and will give us board and lodging—’
‘The storm blew us off course,’ Philippe chipped in. He understood Queen Isabella’s predicament, for his own stomach growled in sympathy.
Mortimer’s gaze slipped over to the short, stocky man at Lussac’s side, his expression blank, diffident, before switching his attention back to Lussac. ‘As the first soldiers came ashore with their horses, I sent them out as a search party, to find out where we are, to find some food. But they seem to be taking for ever!’
Lussac glanced at the soldiers huddled together in large, sprawling groups on the gently shelving beach, waiting. They were tired and hungry, and in no position to push forwards, to march any long distances. The few horses belonging to the nobles stood behind the Queen’s tent, tails fanning out in the breeze. He had no wish to sit and wait with them, to chew over the tedious details of the journey, to stare dully at the sea. Or to think.
‘I will go and look for them. They can’t have gone far.’
‘Nay, you can’t do that!’ Mortimer looked horrified. Lussac was the same rank as himself and, beyond that, he was close friends with the King of France. They had grown up together, trained together; it simply wouldn’t do to send such a high-ranking nobleman out on a simple scouting expedition. His gaze switched to Philippe. Maybe...?
‘I want to go,’ Lussac explained. How could he explain the constant nagging restlessness coursing through his big frame, the inability to sit still and reflect, to stare at a bird in flight, or watch the waves crash on to the shingle? Nay, that might be for other men, but not for him. Not now. If he allowed his mind to think too much, then the full horror of the past came back to him, filling his head with images and pictures he would prefer to forget. Better to keep active, to throw himself into every battle and skirmish when the opportunities arose, rather than sit around and brood. Never that.
Chapter Two
Lussac kicked the heels of his stout leather boots into his horse’s side, urging the animal away from the beach. After the cramped, restrictive conditions on board ship, it felt good to be moving again. He stretched his legs out against the stirrups, the taut muscles in his thighs and calves relishing the movement as the saddle-leather creaked beneath his tall, muscular frame. As his horse climbed to the top of the narrow path that led up the low cliffs, the whole sweep of this hostile country spread out before him. To his left, through a patchy area of tidal creeks, the wide, flat ribbon of a river made its slow, meandering course towards the sea. Before him, a gently sloping area of rough grass dissolved into woodland up to his right. The place was deserted.
But then his gaze swung back, sharply. What had he seen? What has his mind registered that his eyes had not? A trace of colour, blotched on the horizon? He kicked his horse on, suspecting he might find the soldiers he was looking for. The animal cantered across the uneven plain, Lussac hunkered low in the saddle. As he approached, he realised it was one soldier, sitting on the bleached ground at the edge of the tussocky marshland, his head bowed. A dark-blue patch of colour in this pale, glittery, everlasting landscape. He had removed his helmet and his thick, sandy-coloured hair riffled in the slight breeze. Galloping across to him, Lussac reined his horse brusquely, jumping down almost in the same movement.
‘You, soldier, tell me what happened!’
The boy looked dazed, drugged even, as if he had woken from a dream. Seeing Lussac, recognising his authority, he placed one hand behind him and tried to push himself to his feet, but dizziness overwhelmed him and he fell back.
‘Stay where you are, boy,’ Lussac ordered, impatiently. ‘What happened to you?’ Behind him, his horse shifted constantly, as if aware of his master’s irritation, hooves pawing the ground.
‘An angel came,’ the boy murmured.
‘And she hit you on the head?’ Lussac mocked. The boy had obviously been unconscious, judging from his addled speech. What did he think he was saying?
‘Aye, she hit me on the head. And she took my horse.’
Lussac snorted in disbelief. The boy was clearly talking nonsense. ‘Can you not remember what really happened?’ he tried once more.
‘I tell you no lie, my lord, I promise you.’ The young soldier rubbed the back of his head, tentatively. A searing, uncomfortable ache was spreading through his skull. ‘I was following the others, at the back. And then, all of a sudden, I was pulled from my horse, backwards. She pulled me from my horse.’
‘She?’
‘An angel, I swear to you. Her face...like a pearl, gleaming it was. Beautiful.
