The Perfect Sinner

I looked at the outline of William Batokewaye against the flaring firelight of the windmill collapsing behind him. ‘You’ll have to explain,’ I said. ‘What business does young Montague have here?’

‘His dead father’s business. Don’t you know the story?’ He looked at the leg he was holding, ‘This man saved the old Earl. Six years ago, soon after Sluys?’

‘Montague was captured.’ It was a busy time. I had forgotten the details.

‘Montague and the Earl of Suffolk, and something went amiss with the ransom,’ said Batokewaye. ‘Phillip of France threatened to kill both of them, and the only thing that stopped him was this man here. John of Bohemia taught young King Phillip a thing or two about chivalry that day, and he shamed him into letting them live. My master wishes to make sure blind John gets a Christian burial before the crows get to him. He deserves it after a death like that.’ He sighed.

I wasn’t sure if he meant the feathered crows or the human variety which were creeping around us on the edge of the darkness. I let go of my leg for a moment.

‘It was magnificent,’ I said and crossed myself.

‘Of course it was magnificent, but what did he think he was doing?’

‘He was riding to the aid of his men,’ I answered.

‘Lashed to his knights? As blind as a mole? What difference could he hope to make?’

‘You know the answer to that as well as I do. It’s a question of the spirit.’

‘It’s a question of being dead.’

We were both silent again and I knew we were both thinking about the means of his death.

‘If you’re in Montague’s retinue, you will be familiar with Sir John Molyns,’ I suggested.

He spat.

I waited, but it seemed that was all the answer I was going to get. It was certainly the sort of answer I most wanted, because I liked this man.

I pressed him. ‘Were you with Molyns today?’

‘Molyns was on his own business today, or perhaps the King’s business but certainly not Montague’s.’

I wanted to see where he stood.

‘What business do you think that was?’

‘The devil’s business.’

We agreed on that.

‘Come on then, heave,’ he said. ‘Let’s get it over with.’

We heaved and he came out with a wet slither like a very old baby being born. He had new armour plate around his chest, one-up on chain mail, but it hadn’t done much for him. Batokewaye strode off and pulled a brand out of the nearest fire. By its light we examined the sad remains of King John of all the Bohemians, and it confirmed my very worst fears.

‘I’ll find a priest,’ I said. ‘We should say a prayer to see his soul through to daybreak.’

‘No need,’ said the big man as he studied the corpse. ‘You’ve found one. I am a priest.’

He didn’t look like a priest. He looked like a man who’d been on the winning side of many bloody fights, but we said our prayers, the two of us, there in the flickering dark, in a night that was threaded with the moans of the dying, and then we both sat down on the blood-soaked ground to keep the old king company until the sun rose.

‘I couldn’t do anything,’ I said. ‘I knew Molyns was planning something, and I couldn’t prevent it. No one else seemed to think it was wrong.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ said Batokewaye. ‘You’re a young man still. You can’t stop what can’t be stopped.’

‘It was a great sin and it should have been prevented. We’re not animals. There are rules. Even in battle we must remember…’

‘No.’ His voice was loud, cutting across me. ‘We may not be animals, but tell me this. You’re alone, walking in the darkest forest and you hear something rustle behind the next tree. What would you most want it not to be?’

‘A wolf,’ I said.

He shook his head.

‘A bear?’

‘Not a wolf, not a bear, not a snake, not a lion.’

‘What then?’

‘Another man.’

‘Yes.’

‘I tell you, we’re not animals, we’re more dangerous than any animal.’ He looked down at poor dead John. ‘When did an animal do that to one of its own?’

We talked until the sun first showed itself far away across the Somme, and by that time we were, what? Friends? Not exactly, not yet. Two people who sensed they were to know each other for years to come. Two people bound down the same road. I already knew that William Batokewaye would be a good companion on that road.

At dawn, we saw King Edward’s great mathematical exercise begin, his clerks edging their cautious way onto the butchers’ field to reckon exactly how many flowers of the French nobility we had plucked. Sir Reginald Cobham, that stalwart soldier, called together anyone with knowledge of the French colours, because in so many cases, it was only paint and crests and armour which still distinguished one pulped face from another. I closed my eyes when I had seen enough, but the distinctive noise of the aftermath made just as vivid a picture through my ears. I could hear the horse teams snorting and stamping and the sliding apart of the piles as they pulled. The clank of armour against armour and the wet thud of dead flesh hitting the ground as the bodies of horses and men were tugged apart. Every now and then there would be a sigh or a moan as air squeezed from dead lungs and, in amongst it, all the time, there was the cheerful shouting of men who found what they were doing to be perfectly acceptable.

‘I want to find a peaceful place,’ I said. ‘Somewhere to think and to gather those thoughts and to say prayers. Somewhere away from Molyns and his like. Somewhere away from war.’

‘You have your leaky castle,’ said Batokewaye.

‘Walwayns? Walwayns is a hard place to get to and a harder place to stay in. Walwayns spells struggle not peace. It is all I can do to stop it coming to pieces around my ears. Every day I spend there, I am beset by troubles. The people are full of complaints, the air is full of rain and falling rocks, the fields are full of weeds and the kitchens are full of rats. Walwayns is a penance.’

‘I know a better place,’ he said quietly.

‘Tell me about it.’

‘It is in a fold of valleys and gentle hills, a short stroll inland from a friendly sea. A long lake, full of fish, protects it from that sea and there is a drawbridge on the lake to keep off raiders. The village is sheltered from the winds and it soaks up the sun like a sponge. It has a twisting narrow street, houses built of stone and the fields around it are full of fat beasts. It is close to Heaven and there is always beer in the jug and food in the pot.’

‘You come from this blessed place?’

‘I do.’

‘I wish it were mine to live in,’ I said.

‘It is, Lord,’ he replied.