“Yes, sir.' Audley relaxed.
'Oxford, I presume?'
'Cambridge actually. The climate in Oxford . . . it's terribly muggy. I didn't fancy it at all. I think Cambridge is much
Butler was impressed. The subaltern might be exaggerating, but he had spoken as though he'd had a choice between the two ancient and exclusive seats of learning, and not even the great Dr. Fredericks of King Edward's had ever boasted of that so far as he could recall.
'Besides, there was this fellow at Balliol who was mad keen for me to read Greats, and the truth is I've Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
never been absolutely sold on the classics since—'
Butler had just worked out that 'Greats' must be Latin and Greek when the jeep hammered violently over a pothole again, catching him unprepared and throwing him sideways against Audley before he could swing against the lurch. He felt the subaltern shrink away from him, and then tense up with pain as their shoulders met. 'Sorry,' said Audley for the twenty-first time, automatically. Butler looked away, embarrassed. Ahead of them the road now arrowed towards a far skyline that was just beginning to blur with the haze of evening. They had left the Norman Switzerland behind them and were heading into a countryside untouched by war. But for the evenly spaced trees along the road and the hedgeless fields beyond them, it might almost have been the anonymous landscape of southern England he had glimpsed on the battalion's journey southwards a month before. It hardly seemed possible that only a few days back this might-have-been England had been German territory.
Audley lapsed into silence, leaving the sentence unfinished, as though the pain had reminded him where he was. He had managed all those words, from 'Cambridge' onwards, without a trace of a stutter, Butler realised.
'So you decided to study history?' The major seemed determined to drive the young officer from cover.
'A more useful subject—eh?'
Audley gave the question some thought before answering. 'I wouldn't go so f-far as to say useful. I certainly d-didn't find my knowledge of ... W-William the Conqueror's f-feudal administration in Normandy awfully useful in the
'Medieval history?' The major's good eye widened. 'Now there you might just be wrong, young David, you know.'
'I b-beg your pardon, sir?' Audley looked at the major with a mixture of surprise and unconcealed curiosity.
'I said you may be wrong—eh, Sergeant-major?' The major sought confirmation from what Butler regarded as a most unlikely source.
The sergeant-major grunted knowingly.
'Sir?' Audley's interest fluttered like a bird in a cage.
The major's golden smile showed. 'The name Chandos mean anything to you, my lad?'
'Chandos?' Audley repeated the name, frowning.
Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage
'That's right And there was an Audley too in his time, I rather think—does he ring a bell with you?'
'Sir James Audley,' said Audley.
'An ancestor perhaps? That would be highly appropriate.' The eye closed for an instant 'The O'Conors themselves were kings of Connaught in those days, would you believe it! But Chandos now—'
'Sir John Chandos,' said Audley.
'That's the man. Chandos, Manny, Holland, Burghersh, Audley, Mowbray, Beauchamp, Neville, Percy—
aye, and the Black lad himself ... all names to conjure with, David. As fine a band of cutthroats as ever left home to make their fortunes at someone else's expense! But Chandos first and last—and best.'
Butler looked questioningly from one to the other, completely at sea, and the major caught the look.
'Never heard of Sir John Chandos, Corporal? What
Butler flushed with shame at his latest display of ignorance. The full extent of his medieval history lay between the covers of E. Wilmot Buxton, but there had been none of those names in those pages; and the rest of his historical knowledge coincided exactly with the School Certificate syllabus, which had acknowledged nothing before 1815.
His tongue was like a piece of balsa wood in his mouth.
'Tell the man, David,' said the major.
Audley glanced at Butler sympathetically. 'Hundred Years' War and all that, Corporal—the Black Prince and the battle of Crecy, 1346—' he blinked and cut short the recital of facts as though they irritated him.
'Go on,' the major urged him. 'Sir John Chandos?'
Audley turned towards him. 'What's Sir John Chandos got to do with us ... sir?'
'I said
Audley's chin lifted. 'I didn't know it was an order, sir. Chandos was a fourteenth-century soldier, one of Edward III's field commanders and a comrade of the Black Prince's. That's all I know about him—
