The Sword of Calais Read online

  The Sword of Calais

  Paul Meachair

  Austin Macauley Publishers

  The Sword of Calais

  About the Author

  Copyright Information ©

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Paul Meachair has had a varied career. He went to sea at 16, travelled and photographed much of the world. He lived in Gibraltar, managing a gymnasium then moved to Greece for two years. Later, he worked in Australia a year. Returning to the UK, he studied photography and media having illustrated article success and exhibitions. He began writing full time some time before retiring, sports psychology, a couple of novellas along with script writing and is about to finish another historical novel.

  Copyright Information ©

  Paul Meachair 2022

  The right of Paul Meachair to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781398465022 (Paperback)

  ISBN 9781398465039 (ePub e-book)

  www.austinmacauley.com

  First Published 2022

  Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

  1 Canada Square

  Canary Wharf

  London

  E14 5AA

  Chapter 1

  A perfectly balanced execution sword drops into the sea. Light near the surface shimmers on the blade as it descends down, then drifting deeper it begins to darken, until it finally disappears into overwhelming darkness.

  Standing in the darkness, the condemned prisoner can feel his heart rapidly beating as it bangs against his chest. He can hear it echoing in his ears over the muffled clamour made by the hostile crowd who have been waiting outside for hours. The crowd who are there to cheer as they watch him die. With dread he hears the metallic sound of an iron bolt being pulled back, then the squeak of rusty hinges as the heavy, iron-studded wooden door before him swings open. He is temporary blinded by the sudden blaze of sunlight as the sound of the braying crowd increases.

  He feels the grip of panic in the pit of his stomach as two mailed soldiers, one either side, grab hold of his arms and step forward pulling him outside, beyond the doorway into the crowded square of malevolent townspeople, spitting, pointing and shaking their fists. They slowly stand aside to allow his stumbling passage. His limited movement caused by the heavy chains and manacles securing his wrists and ankles.

  Looking ahead beyond the crowd, the stark form of the scaffold brings on a quickening of his heart beat. As he is being dragged toward it, he looks around for an escape, knowing escape is not possible, no one will help him. To one side he sights the busy food stalls which have been set up for today’s occasion, even a Punch & Judy booth and to the side of it, a young entertainer, Vincent, who, with extended arm, is about to swallow the sword he is brandishing. Vincent is positioned just in front of his father, a magician, who is taller and heavier in build, wearing a hooded robe, he grins as he seems to conjure a pigeon out of nowhere.

  The condemned reaches the scaffold. With bowed head he looks down to watch his footsteps as they automatically ascend the narrow stairway. As he nears the top, he raises his head to see first, a pair of boots, slowly looking up as muscular legs are revealed, then a stocky body of medium height radiating masculinity, to be finally confronted by the grim-faced, masked executioner. Jean Rombaud is waiting for him, a grave expression in his bright grey eyes.

  The prisoner nervously looks around the straw-covered decking. To one side a priest stands, about to commence the prayers that will accompany him into the next world, then looking to the other side, the prisoner for an instant, becomes gripped by sheer terror that paralyses him when he catches sight of the executioner’s sword, casually being swung from side to side by Rombaud’s assistant Raoul. Raoul’s high forehead is fringed by dark hair above sharp features, a sparse beard growing that shows his younger age and his piercing blue eyes that study the prisoner resentfully.

  Aware he is in full view on the scaffold, he hears the angry crowd behind him become more vocal, shouting their abuse at him. Suddenly, the executioner stands before him. He glares at the condemned, straight into his eyes and with a slow, cruel smile tells him, ‘Here we say goodbye.’

  Placing a hand on each shoulder, Jean Rombaud slowly turns him around to face the crowd, then presses down on his shoulders to get him into a kneeling position where his knees feel the hardness of the decking. Numb with terror, the condemned man’s attention is suddenly attracted by a bright flash over to one side. Vincent the sword-swallower is now going through a fire-eating routine, spitting out orange flames like a dragon.

  To the side the priest begins to chant in Latin. The prisoner can picture behind him, the assistant quietly passing the damned sword, hilt first to the executioner. A hush comes over the attentive crowd which only amplifies the noise of his rapidly beating heart and anguished breathing. He senses a sudden, overwhelming feeling of remorse and guilt for his crimes. Tears well up, but he is aware this self-pity is far too late. From the corner of his eye, he sees the assistant suddenly appear and flick a black handkerchief to attract his attention. At the same moment, as if as one, the crowd draws in a breath, there’s a swish sound, then eternal blackness.

  The crowd surges forward as it roars in approval. Jean Rombaud removes his mask with a flourish, revealing his mane of steel-grey hair above his tanned, chiselled face, while Raoul his nephew and assistant, has to rush forward to catch the rolling head before it flips over the scaffold’s side. He catches it just in time and he raises the head, hanging from its hair, his arm stretched skywards victoriously, to present to the applauding, cheering crowd.

  Vincent, is now juggling three clubs. Raoul calls over to his brother and pretends to toss him the blood dripping head, ‘Vincent, juggle this!’

  Distracted, Vincent fumbles, misses a club and all three clatters to the ground to his annoyance and the crowd’s laughter.

  Louis, the magician removes his hood, steps forward with the hint of a smile on his strong-featured face, steel hair pulled back thickly from his forehead. He displays his pigeon, throws a silk cloth over it, passes a hand over the cloth in a magical gesture and the cloth, with the bird inside, disappears in a burst of flame.

  Chapter 2

  The fireplace in the Governor of Calais chamber gives out a warm, welcome glow t
his spring morning. The governor’s corpulent figure stands before it, warming his hands, a wry smile on his heavy, chubby face. He turns in anticipation to the knock on his door, cheerfully calls out in welcome as Jean enters. ‘Jean, good day to you.’

  After shaking Jean’s hand, he leads him across to a side table where he picks up a carafe of wine and pours the contents into two bell-shaped goblets, one for himself and one for Jean which he hands over. ‘Well done, Jean. Another murderer successfully dispatched.’

  ‘Waste no tears on him, excellency.’ Jean remarks in a deep voice. ‘It was my pleasure to rid the world of that blaspheming villain. He’ll not murder for gain no more.’

  The governor gives him a satisfied smile. ‘He has only his own sins to blame for the place he is in now.’ He takes a drink and continues. ‘Keep your sword sharp, your next assignment has come in.’

  Jean raises the goblet up to his nose, eager to smell the bouquet as he takes a sip of the wine. ‘Mmm, you can taste the berries.’

  ‘Last year’s harvest,’ the governor informs him. He leans forward to whisper. ‘A special assignment which is to be kept most secret!’

  He puts down his goblet and hands Jean a rolled-up document from the table. Jean notices the Seal of King Henry VIII. Curious, he spreads the document open and reads, then, eyes wide, reads again and looks up at the governor in surprise.

  The governor nods knowingly. ‘A private commission yes, but the command is sovereign. I must repeat, this remains secret until you reach London.’

  ‘The Queen?’

  ‘Anne Boleyn herself!’ The governor admits. ‘Although no longer queen. She has been stripped of her titles and their marriage has been dissolved. The execution is set for the eighteenth, so you have just over five days to get yourself there. It shouldn’t be a problem.’

  Jean thinks back to years before when he had business at the court of Queen Claude of France, training some of her guard. Anne had spent some nine years at the court, the most fashionable court in Europe. He would not have taken Anne to be English at first, as she appeared rather sophisticated, high spirited and flirtatious, more in the French manner. Then later she returned to the English court to serve Catherine of Aragon as a lady-in-waiting. Her gaiety must have been like a breath of fresh air to the more sombre royal household.

  The governor nods. ‘She stayed here at The Exchequer a month with the King just before they married. About four years ago.’ He sniggers, ‘It is rumoured that is the first time Henry bedded her.’

  ‘I heard. I was away on an assignment at the time. Do you really think she bewitched the King as some claim?’ He glances through the document again. ‘I saw her a few times when she was studying at Queen Claude’s Court. She was quite an eye catcher then.’

  ‘An eye catcher worth one hundred crowns to behead. And you to do it Jean! Quality is worth paying for. This, you can take, as being a great compliment to your skill and in gaining a reputation as the finest executioner in Europe.’

  Jean lets out a deep breath, stunned. ‘It’s an absolute fortune.’

  The governor smiles broadly. ‘You can retire very wealthy on that. Although no doubt the fortune will be spent toward establishing your sword of fence school.’

  ‘Well yes. You know it’s been my life-long ambition. I’ve spent my whole life in the study and use of arms. One hundred crowns would make it the best equipped in the kingdom.’

  ‘You will thank your King for that.’ He licks his lips, taking another drink. ‘Now, if you will undertake this assignment, there is more. Something a little more gentle. I have been requested to arrange safe conduct for the daughter of a noble family who has been here at finishing school. As you are going to London, I would like you to escort their daughter home. A girl of beauty and education I hear.’

  ‘I have no problem with that,’ Jean grins before he continues, ‘but I can’t speak for that young gamecock Raoul!’

  They both laugh jovially. As the meeting is just about over and Jean has his travel arrangements to make, they drink up.

  The governor holds up a hand. ‘Before you go, Jean. Would you do one more service for me? I have one more request, a favour for a good friend of mine, a Cherbourg banker.’

  Chapter 3

  Jean’s gloved hand grabs hold of the old Verdigris coated bronze door knocker, banging it three times. After hearing some movement inside, a bolt is drawn back, then the door opens just wide enough for a red, rheumy eye to peep out. Without waiting, Jean hurls the door back, sending the eye’s owner flying backward.

  As he steps inside, Jean sees the pawnbroker, a scruffy, skinny, miserly figure has collided with one of the shop’s supporting column’s and lies in a heap, his long, lank, mousy hair falling free from the cap he was wearing. He looks up fearfully at Jean and Raoul, watching as they enter to walk around, inspecting the slovenly, junk-filled premises. Raoul continues to handle and examine cheap objects while Jean comes over and hunches down in front of the pawnbroker, slowly removing his gloves.

  ‘Do you know why we’re here? A certain Cherbourg banker is rather concerned why his business partner has not sent any money, neither with or without the interest payments agreed on, for some time. Your partner is so concerned he has asked us to come around and see if everything is well with you. Are you well?’

  The pawnbroker, eyes wide, can only nod his head, his words stuck in his throat.

  ‘Then why are you shaking?’ Jean asks.

  Raoul notices a lunch of fresh bread, various cheeses, fruit and vegetables sat on the table toward the back of the shop. ‘You’re having lunch?’ he calls. ‘Do you mind?’

  The pawnbroker shakes his head and looks away. Raoul pulls up a chair and breaks a bread roll in half, gesturing to Jean with one of the pieces. ‘I love the texture of fresh bread.’

  Jean rises to join Raoul at the table, helping himself to his piece of bread. Nodding favourably, he turns back to the pawnbroker. ‘Your partner was concerned you might have hit hard times, but from this food, I can see he misunderstood your position. So, to be sure there are no misunderstandings, and as a show of good faith, perhaps he could see some of that loan you owe.’

  The pawnbroker replaces his cap and hurries to his feet, diving into the back room. Jean and Raoul look at each other as the clatter of searching commences. A few moments later, the pawnbroker, breathless, returns with a valuable bronze figurine. ‘This is worth quite a bit. I have no cash at the moment, but if you present this to him, he will see it is worth more than the loan.’

  Jean examines the figurine. ‘I’ll see if he will accept this compromise.’

  The pawnbroker wipes sweat from his forehead awkwardly, running his fingers through his thin hair. ‘I just want you to know how sorry I am, things got a bit messed up. You can tell him.’

  They rise on finishing the lunch, heading toward the door. The pawnbroker relieved they are leaving. As they reach the door, Jean turns back, his voice mocking, ‘Perhaps you should deposit the rest of your stash in a bank, it may be safer there.’

  ***

  Two louts notice Jean and Raoul leave the pawnbrokers. Just as Raoul covers up the bronze figurine with a cloth, the low, late afternoon sun shines on the figurine, fooling the louts, making it appear golden in the glow. The louts squint and their eyes light up in excitement. ‘Look at that. Is it gold?’ The taller blurts out in a thick, rough accent, ‘Let’s follow them.’

  His mate’s more cautious. ‘No. They look well able to handle themselves.’

  ‘That gold could set us up for life. Come on.’

  His mate’s still not sure. ‘No, I’ve had enough. Let’s be sensible, we’re taking too many chances lately. Let’s find something easier.’

  ‘Let’s take them! We’re almost destitute! I’m starving! It’s got to be worth the chance,’ he argues, determination on his face. ‘They’re heading toward the docks. We can get them down there, we’ll have the element of surprise.’ He grabs his mate’s arm impatient
ly and pulls him along.

  Jean and Raoul move toward the docks area in deep conversation. Jean stops while discussing the differences found in England to Raoul. Each time they stop, the two louts cautiously following at a distance, have to stop in time with them.

  ‘The thing with England is all the little differences. Like us, but different.’ His shoulders raise in a shrug. ‘The ale is different. Flavoured more with heather.’

  ‘Anything like our cider?’ asks Raoul.

  ‘I believe there are similarities.’

  They continue their walk. The two villains nudge each other and hurry after them, waiting for the right opportunity.

  ‘How about the English maiden’s uncle? Are they friendly?’ he asks in an amused voice. ‘Would I find one to compose songs for?’

  They stop again, Jean amused this time, Raoul expectant.

  The two robbers stop, put off their step.

  Jean has something further to say to Raoul. ‘There is more to our assignment. We are also to escort an English lady staying here at finishing school back to her home in London.’

  ‘Oh. Learning what?’ Raoul asks with a soft, curious laugh.

  ‘I don’t know. Learning ladies things, I suppose. Dance, music, books, sewing, those sorts of things.’

  They move on again, the louts impatiently following. Suddenly, Raoul, stops yet again, holding out the covered figurine to stop Jean. The robbers, watching it like a cat watching a mouse are a bit closer.

  ‘Then I will find out how friendly English ladies can be.’ Raoul declares grandiosely. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Roselyn. And don’t get involved if that’s what you’re thinking. She is of higher birth so keep away,’ Jean warns with a mocking tone to his voice.

  Raoul laughs affably. ‘We can make sweet music together, I’ll keep her company, make sure she doesn’t get lonely,’ Jean shakes his head. ‘If you play with fire you’ll get burnt. Ask your father.’