Читать книгу 1356 - Bernard Cornwell - Страница 11

The Count of Labrouillade was eager to leave Villon and gain the safety of his own fortress, which, because it possessed a moat and drawbridge, was safe from le Bâtard’s method of opening gates with gunpowder, and the count needed to be safe because le Bâtard, he was certain, would soon have a quarrel with him. And so he had left the bishop’s men to hold the newly captured castle at Villon while he and his force, sixty men-at-arms and forty-three crossbowmen, hurried home to Labrouillade.

His journey, though, was slowed by his captives. He had contemplated beating Bertille in Villon, and had even ordered one of his servants to bring a whip from the castle stables, but then had delayed the punishment to hasten his return home. Yet he wanted to humiliate her, and to that end he had brought a cart from Labrouillade. The cart had been in the stables for as long as he could remember, and on its bed was a cage big enough to hold a dancing bear or a fighting bull, and that was probably why it had been made. Or perhaps one of his ancestors had used the cart for prisoners, or for transporting the savage mastiffs used to hunt boars, but whatever its original function, the heavy cart was now a cage for his wife. The Count of Villon, bloody and weak, was being transported in another cart. If the man lived the count planned to chain him naked in his courtyard as an object for men’s laughter and as a pissing post for dogs, and that prospect cheered the count as he lumbered slowly southwards.

He had sent a dozen lightly armed horsemen eastwards. Their job was to trail le Bâtard’s mercenaries and return with a report if the Englishman pursued him. Yet that now seemed unlikely, for the count’s chaplain had good news. ‘I suspect he has been summoned by his liege, sire,’ the chaplain told the count.

‘Who is his liege?’

‘The Earl of Northampton, sire.’

‘In England?’

‘The monk had travelled from there, sire,’ the chaplain said, ‘and reckoned le Bâtard is ordered to join the Prince of Wales. He said the message was urgent.’

‘I hope you are right.’

‘It is the best explanation, sire.’

‘And if you are right then le Bâtard will be gone to Bordeaux, eh? Gone!’

‘Though he might return, sire,’ Father Vincent warned the count.

‘In time, maybe, in time,’ Labrouillade said carelessly. He was unconcerned, for if le Bâtard did go to Gascony then the count would have time to raise more men and strengthen his fortress. He slowed his horse, letting the carts catch up so he could stare down at his naked and bloody enemy. The count was pleased. Villon was in agony, and Bertille could expect an adulteress’s punishment. Life, he decided, was good.

His wife wept. The sun rose higher, warming the day. Peasants knelt as the count passed. The road climbed into the hills that separated the lands of Villon and Labrouillade, and, though there had been death in the first, there would be rejoicing in the second because the count was revenged.

Paville was only two hours’ ride west of the fallen castle. It had once been a prosperous town, famed for its monastery and for the excellence of its wine, but now there were only thirty-two monks left, and fewer than two hundred folk lived in the small town. The pestilence had come, and half the townsfolk were buried in the fields beside the river. The town walls were crumbling, and the monastery’s vineyards choked with weeds.

The Hellequin gathered in the marketplace outside the monastery where they carried their wounded into the infirmary. Tired horses were walked and arrows repaired. Brother Michael wanted to find something to eat, but le Bâtard approached him. ‘Six of my men are dying in there,’ he jerked his head at the monastery, ‘and another four might not live. Sam tells me you worked in an infirmary?’

‘I did,’ the monk said, ‘but I also have a written message for you.’

‘From whom?’

‘The Earl of Northampton, lord.’

‘Don’t call me that. What does Billy want?’ Le Bâtard waited for an answer, then scowled when none came. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t read the letter! What does he want?’

‘I didn’t read it!’ Brother Michael protested.

‘An honest monk? The world sees a miracle.’ Le Bâtard ignored the proffered message. ‘Go and tend to my wounded men. I’ll read the letter later.’

Brother Michael worked for an hour, helping two other monks wash and bind wounds, and when he had finished he went back to the sunlight to see two men counting a vast pile of shoddy-looking coins. ‘The agreement,’ le Bâtard was saying to the abbot, ‘was that the payment should be in genoins.’

The abbot looked worried. ‘The count insisted on replacing the coins,’ he said.

‘And you permitted that?’ le Bâtard asked. The abbot shrugged. ‘He cheated us,’ le Bâtard said, ‘and you allowed it to happen!’

‘He sent men-at-arms, lord,’ the abbot said unhappily. Labrouillade had agreed to pay le Bâtard’s fee in genoins, which were good golden coins, trusted everywhere, but since le Bâtard’s men had first checked the payment the count had sent men to take away the genoins and replace them with a mixture of obols, écus, agnos, florins, deniers and sacks of pence, none of them gold and most of them debased or clipped, and, though the face value of the coins was for the agreed amount, their worth was less than half. ‘His men assured me the value is the same, lord,’ the abbot added.

‘And you believed them?’ le Bâtard asked sourly.

‘I protested,’ the abbot declared, concerned that he would not receive the customary fee for holding the cash.

‘I’m sure you did,’ le Bâtard said in a tone suggesting the opposite. He was still in his black armour, but had taken off his bascinet to reveal black hair cut short. ‘Labrouillade’s a fool, isn’t he?’

‘A greedy fool,’ the abbot agreed eagerly. ‘His father was worse. The fief of Labrouillade once encompassed all the land from here to the sea, but his father gambled away most of the southern part. The son is more careful with his money. He’s rich, of course, very rich, but not a generous man.’ The abbot’s voice trailed away as he gazed at the piles of shoddy, misshapen and bent coins. ‘What will you do?’ he asked nervously.

‘Do?’ Le Bâtard seemed to think about it, then shrugged. ‘I have the money,’ he finally said, ‘such as it is.’ He paused. ‘It is a matter for lawyers,’ he finally decided.

‘For lawyers, yes.’ The abbot, worried that he would be blamed for the substitution of the coins, could not hide his relief.

‘But not in the count’s own courts,’ le Bâtard said.

‘It might be argued in the bishop’s court?’ the abbot suggested.

Le Bâtard nodded, then scowled at the abbot. ‘I shall depend on your testimony.’

‘Of course, lord.’

‘And pay well for it,’le Bâtard added.

‘You may depend on my support,’ the abbot said.

Le Bâtard tossed one of the coins up and down in a hand that was misshapen, as though the fingers had been mangled by a great weight. ‘So we shall leave it to the lawyers,’ he announced, then ordered his men to pay the abbot with whatever good coin they could find among the dross. ‘I have no quarrel with you,’ he added to the relieved churchman, and turned to Brother Michael, who had taken the parchment from his pouch and was trying to deliver it. ‘In a moment, brother,’ le Bâtard said.

A woman and child were approaching. Brother Michael had not noticed them till this moment, for they had been travelling with the other women who followed the Hellequin and who had waited outside Villon as the castle was assaulted. But the young monk noticed her now, noticed her and trembled. He had been haunted all day by the memory of Bertille, but this woman was just as beautiful, though it was a very different kind of beauty. Bertille had been dark, soft and gentle, while this woman was fair, hard and striking. She was tall, almost as tall as le Bâtard, and her pale gold hair seemed to shine in the early winter sun. She had clever eyes, a wide mouth and a long nose, while her slim body was dressed in a coat of mail that had been scrubbed with wire, sand and vinegar so that it appeared to be made of silver. Dear God, the monk thought, but flowers should blossom in her footsteps. The child, a boy who looked to be about seven or eight years old, had her face but hair as black as le Bâtard’s.

‘My wife Genevieve,’ le Bâtard introduced the woman, ‘and my son, Hugh. This is Brother …’ He paused, not knowing the monk’s name.

‘Brother Michael,’ the monk said, unable to take his eyes from Genevieve.

‘He brought me a message,’ le Bâtard said to his wife, and gestured that the monk should give Genevieve the battered fold of parchment on which the earl’s seal was now dried, cracked and chipped.

‘Sir Thomas Hookton,’ Genevieve read the name written across the folded parchment.

‘I’m le Bâtard,’ Thomas said. He had been christened Thomas and for most of his life had called himself Thomas of Hookton, though he could call himself more if he wished, for the Earl of Northampton had knighted him seven years before and, though bastard born, Thomas had a claim to a county in eastern Gascony. But he preferred to be known as le Bâtard. It put the fear of the devil into enemies, and a frightened enemy was already half beaten. He took the missive from his wife, put a fingernail under the seal, then decided he would wait before reading the letter and so, instead, he tucked it under his sword belt and clapped his hands to get the attention of his men. ‘We’re riding west in a few minutes! Get ready!’ He turned and offered a bow to the abbot. ‘My thanks,’ he said courteously, ‘and the lawyers will doubtless come to talk with you.’

‘They shall receive heaven’s assistance,’ the abbot said eagerly.

‘And this,’ Thomas added more money, ‘is for my wounded men. You will tend them and, for those who die, bury them and have masses said.’

‘Of course, lord.’

‘And I shall return to see they were properly treated.’

‘I shall anticipate your return with joy, sire,’ the abbot lied.

The Hellequin mounted and the bad coins were scooped into leather bags that were loaded onto packhorses as Thomas said his farewells to the men in the infirmary. Then, when the sun was still low in the east, they rode west. Brother Michael rode a borrowed horse alongside Sam who, despite his young face, was evidently one of the archers’ leaders. ‘Does le Bâtard often use lawyers?’ the monk asked.

‘He hates lawyers,’ Sam said. ‘If he had his way he’d bury every last bloody lawyer in the deepest pit of hell and let the devil shit on them,’

‘Yet he uses them?’

‘Uses them?’ Sam laughed. ‘He told that to the abbot, didn’t he?’ He jerked his head eastwards. ‘Back there, brother, there’s a half-dozen men following us. They ain’t very clever, ’cos we spotted them, and by now they’ll be talking to the abbot. Then they’ll go back to their master and say they saw us go west and that his fat lordship is to expect a visit from a man of law. Only he won’t get that. He’s going to get these instead.’ He patted the goose feathers of the arrows in his bag. Some of those feathers were speckled with dried blood from the fight at Villon.

‘You mean we’re going to fight him?’ Brother Michael said, and did not notice that he had used the word ‘we’, any more than he had thought about why he was still with the Hellequin instead of walking on towards Montpellier.

‘Of course we’re bloody going to fight him,’ Sam said scornfully. ‘The bloody count cheated us, didn’t he? So we’ll cut south and east as soon as those dozy bastards have finished chatting with the abbot. ’Cos they won’t follow us to make sure we’ve gone west. They’re the sort of dozy bastards who don’t think beyond their next pot of ale, but Thomas does, Thomas is a two-pot thinker, he is.’

Thomas heard the compliment and twisted in his saddle. ‘Only two pots, Sam?’

‘As many pots as you like,’ Sam said.

‘It all depends,’ Thomas let Brother Michael catch up with him, ‘on whether the Count of Labrouillade stays in that castle we gave him. I suspect he won’t. He doesn’t feel safe there, and he’s a man who likes his comfort, so I reckon he’ll head south.’

‘And you’ll ride to meet him?’

‘Ride to ambush him,’ Thomas said. He glanced back at the sun to judge the time. ‘With God’s help, brother, we’ll bar his road this afternoon.’ He took the parchment from under his belt. ‘You didn’t read this?’

‘No!’ Brother Michael insisted, and spoke truly. He watched as le Bâtard cracked the seal apart and unfolded the stiff parchment, then he gazed at Genevieve who rode a grey horse on le Bâtard’s far side. Thomas saw the monk’s yearning gaze and was amused. ‘Didn’t you see last night, brother, what happens to a man who takes another man’s wife?’

Michael blushed. ‘I …’ he began, but found he had nothing to say.

‘And besides,’ Thomas went on, ‘my wife is a heretic. She was excommunicated from the church and consigned to hell. As was I. Doesn’t that worry you?’

Brother Michael still had nothing to say.

‘And why are you still here?’ Thomas asked.

‘Here?’ The young monk was confused.

‘Aren’t you under orders?’

‘I am supposed to go to Montpellier,’ Brother Michael confessed.

‘It’s that way, brother,’ Thomas said, pointing south.

‘We’re going south,’ Genevieve said drily, ‘and I think Brother Michael would like our company.’

‘You would?’ Thomas asked.

‘I would be glad of it,’ Brother Michael said, and wondered why he had spoken so eagerly.

‘Then welcome,’ Thomas said, ‘to the devil’s lost souls.’

Who now turned south and east to teach a fat and greedy count a lesson.

The Count of Labrouillade made slow progress. The horses were tired, the day grew warmer, most of his men were suffering from the wine they had drunk in the captured city, and the carts lumbered awkwardly on the rough road. Yet it did not matter, for shortly after midday the men he had sent to spy on le Bâtard returned with the news Labrouillade wanted.

The Englishman had ridden west. ‘You’re sure?’ the count snapped.

‘We watched him, my lord.’

‘You watched him do what?’ the count asked suspiciously.

‘He counted the money, lord, his men stripped off their armour, then they rode westwards. All of them. And he told the abbot he would send lawyers to demand payment.’

‘Lawyers!’ The count laughed.

‘The abbot said so, and he promised your lordship that he would speak for you in any proceedings.’

‘Lawyers!’ The count laughed again. ‘Then the quarrel won’t be settled in our lifetime!’ He was safe now and the slowness of his journey did not matter. He stopped in a miserable village and demanded wine, bread and cheese, none of which he paid for, but the peasants’ reward was to be in his presence and that, he sincerely believed, was recompense enough. After the meal he rattled the gelding knife on the bars of his wife’s cage. ‘You want it as a keepsake, Bertille?’ he asked.

Bertille said nothing. Her throat was raw from sobbing; her eyes were red and fixed on the rusted blade.

‘I shall shave your hair off, madame,’ the count promised her, ‘and make you go on your knees to the altar to beg for forgiveness. And God may forgive you, madame, but I shall not, and you’ll go to a convent when I’ve done with you. You will scrub their floors, madame, and wash their habits until your sins have been cleansed, and then you can live in regret for the rest of your miserable days.’

She still said nothing, and the count, bored that he could not provoke her to protest, called for his men to heave him into the saddle. He had discarded his armour now and was wearing a light surcoat blazoned with his badge, while his men’s armour was piled on packhorses along with their shields and lances. They rode carelessly, unthreatened, and the crossbowmen walked behind packhorses that were laden with sacks of plunder.

They followed a road that wound into the hills between chestnut trees. Pigs rooted between the trunks, and the count ordered a couple of them killed because he liked pork. The carcasses were thrown on top of the countess’s cage so that the blood dripped down onto her tattered dress.

By mid afternoon they were approaching the pass that would lead them into the count’s own land. It was a high place of scrawny pines and massive rocks, and legend said a force of Saracens had fought and died in the pass many years before. The country people went there to cast curses, a practice officially disapproved of by both the count and by the church, though when Bertille had first run off with her lover the count had gone to the Saracen’s Pass and buried a coin, struck the high rock at the top of the hill three times, and so put a curse on Villon. It had worked, he thought, and Villon was now a gelded lump of bleeding misery chained to the bed of a dung cart.

The light was fading. The sun was low over the western hills, but there was an hour of daylight left and that should be sufficient to see the tired soldiers over the pass, and from there the road ran straight downhill to Labrouillade. The bells of the castle would ring for the count’s victory, filling the new darkness with jubilation.

And just then the first arrow flew.

Le Bâtard had led thirty archers and twenty-two men-at-arms southwards while the rest of his force was continuing westwards with those wounded who could still ride. Le Bâtard’s horses were tired, but they kept a steady pace, following paths they had reconnoitred in the long days as they waited for the attack on Villon.

Thomas read the Earl of Northampton’s message as he rode. He read it once, then again, and his face betrayed nothing. His men watched him, suspecting the message might affect their future, but Thomas just folded the parchment and pushed it into a pouch hanging from his sword belt. ‘Has he summoned us?’ Sam finally asked.

‘No,’ Thomas said. ‘And why would he summon us? What use are you to the earl, Sam?’

‘None at all!’ Sam said cheerfully. He was pleased that the Earl had not called Thomas back to England or, more likely, to Gascony. The Earl of Northampton was Thomas’s liege lord, his master, but the earl was happy to let Thomas and his men serve as mercenaries. He shared the profits, and those profits were lavish.

‘He says we must be ready to join the prince’s army in the summer,’ Thomas said.

‘Prince Edward won’t need us,’ Sam replied.

‘He might if the King of France decides to play games,’ Thomas said. He knew the Prince of Wales was ravaging southern France and that King Jean was doing nothing to stop him, but he would surely march if the prince conducted another chevauchée. And that must be tempting, Thomas thought, because France was weak. The King of Scotland, France’s ally, was a prisoner in the Tower of London, and there were Englishmen in Normandy, Brittany and Aquitaine. France was like a great stag being mauled by hounds.

‘And that’s all the message says?’ Sam asked.

‘No,’ Thomas said, ‘but the rest of it is none of your business, Sam.’ Thomas spurred his horse ahead and beckoned Genevieve to follow him. They went into the trees, seeking privacy. Hugh, their son who was mounted on a small gelding, had followed his mother, and Thomas nodded to show the boy he was allowed closer. ‘You remember that Black Friar who came to Castillon?’ Thomas asked Genevieve.

‘The one you threw out of the town?’

‘He was preaching nonsense,’ Thomas said sourly.

‘What was his nonsense called?’

‘La Malice,’ Thomas said, ‘a magic sword, another Excalibur.’ He spat.

‘Why do you remember him now?’

Thomas sighed. ‘Because Billy has heard of the goddamned thing.’ ‘Billy’ was Thomas’s lord, William Bohun, Earl of Northampton. Thomas handed Genevieve the letter. ‘It seems another Black Friar preached in Carlisle and spouted the same nonsense. A treasure of the Seven Lords.’

‘And the earl knows …’ Genevieve began uncertainly, then checked.

‘That I’m one of the seven lords.’ Some people had called them the Seven Dark Lords of hell, and all were dead, but their descendants lived. Thomas was one. ‘So Billy wants us to find the treasure.’ He sneered as he said the last three words. ‘And when we find it we’re to deliver it to the Prince of Wales.’

Genevieve frowned over the letter. It was, of course, written in French, the language of England’s aristocracy. ‘The Seven Dark Lords possessed it,’ she read aloud, ‘and they are cursed. He who must rule us will find it, and he shall be blessed.’

‘The same nonsense,’ Thomas said. ‘It seems the Black Friars have got excited. They’re spreading the tale everywhere.’

‘So where do you look?’

Thomas wanted to say nowhere, that the nonsense was not worth a moment of their time, but the Abbé Planchard, the best man he had ever known, a Christian who was truly Christ-like and also a descendant of one of the Dark Lords, had an elder brother. ‘There’s a place called Mouthoumet,’ Thomas said, ‘in Armagnac. I can think of nowhere else to look.’

‘“Do not fail us in this,”’ Genevieve read the letter’s last line aloud.

‘Billy’s caught the madness,’ Thomas said, amused.

‘But we go to Armagnac?’

‘Once we’re finished here,’ Thomas said.

Because before the treasure could be sought the Count of Labrouillade must be taught that greed has a price.

So le Bâtard set up the ambush.

It was raining in Paris. A steady rain that diluted the filth in the gutters and spread its stink through the narrow streets. Beggars crouched under the overhanging houses, holding out skinny hands to the horsemen who threaded through the city gate. There were two hundred men-at-arms, all big men on big horses, and the riders were shrouded in woollen cloaks with their heads protected from the rain by steel helmets. They looked about them as they rode through the rain, plainly astonished by such a great city, and the Parisians sheltering beneath the jutting storeys noted that these men looked wild and strange, like warriors from a nightmare. Many were bearded and all had faces roughened by weather and scarred by war. Real soldiers, these, not the followers of a great lord who spent half their time quarrelling in castle precincts, but men who carried their weapons through snow and wind and sun, and men who rode battle-scarred horses and carried battered shields. Men who would kill for the price of a button. A standard bearer rode with the men-at-arms and his rain-soaked flag showed a great red heart.

Behind the two hundred men-at-arms came packhorses, over three hundred of them, loaded with bags, lances and armour. The squires and servants who led the packhorses wore blankets, or so it seemed to the onlookers. The garments, little more than matted and grubby rags, were thrown over a shoulder then wrapped and belted at the waist, and the servants wore no breeches, though no one laughed at them because their belts carried weapons, either crude long swords with plain hilts, or chipped axes, or skinning knives. They were country weapons, but weapons that looked as though they had received much use. There were women with the servants and they were dressed in the same barbaric manner, with their bare legs muddied and red. They wore their hair loose, but no Parisian would dare mock them, for these ragged women were armed like their men and looked just as dangerous.

The horsemen and their servants stopped beside the river at the city’s centre and there they divided into small groups, each going to find their own lodgings, but one group of half a dozen men, attended by servants better dressed than the others, crossed the bridge to an island in the Seine. They twisted down narrow alleys until they came to a gilded gatehouse where liveried spearmen stood guard. Inside was a courtyard, stables, a chapel and stairways leading into the royal palace, and the half-dozen horsemen were greeted with bows, their horses were taken away and they were led up stairs and down corridors to their quarters.

William, Lord of Douglas and leader of the two hundred men-at-arms, was given a chamber facing the river. Sheets of horn covered the windows, but he knocked them out to let the damp air into the room, where a great fire burned in a hearth carved with the French royal coat of arms. The Lord of Douglas stood by the fire as servants brought in bedding, wine, food and three women. ‘You may take your choice, my lord,’ the steward said.

‘I’ll take all three,’ Douglas said.

‘A wise choice, my lord,’ the steward replied, bowing, ‘and is there anything else your lordship desires?’

‘Is my nephew here?’

‘He is, my lord.’

‘Then I want him.’

‘He shall be sent,’ the steward said, ‘and His Majesty will receive you for supper.’

‘Tell him I am filled with happiness at the prospect,’ Douglas said flatly. William, Lord of Douglas, was twenty-eight years old and looked forty. He had a clipped brown beard, a face scarred from a dozen skirmishes, and eyes as cold as the winter sky. He spoke perfect French because he had spent much of his boyhood in France, learning the ways of French knights and perfecting his skills with sword and lance, but for ten years now he had been home in Scotland where he had become the leader of the Douglas clan and a magnate in the Scottish council. He had opposed the truce with England, but the rest of the council had insisted, and so the Lord of Douglas had brought his fiercest warriors to France. If they could not fight the English at home then he would unleash them on the old enemy in France.

‘Take off your clothes,’ he told the three girls. For a heartbeat they looked astonished, but the expression on Douglas’s grim face persuaded them to obey. A good-looking man, all three thought, tall and well muscled, but he had a warrior’s face, hard as a blade and with no pity. It promised to be a long night. The three were naked by the time Douglas’s nephew arrived. He was not much younger than his uncle, had a broad, cheerful face, and was wearing a velvet jerkin trimmed with gold embroidery above sky-blue skin-tight leggings that were tucked into soft leather boots tasselled with gold thread. ‘What the hell are you wearing?’ Douglas asked.

The young man plucked the embroidered hem of the jerkin. ‘It’s what everyone wears in Paris.’

‘Good Christ, Robbie, you look like an Edinburgh whore. What do you think of those three?’

Sir Robert Douglas turned and inspected the three girls. ‘I like the one in the middle,’ he said.

‘Jesus Christ, she’s so skinny you could use her as a needle. I like girls with meat on the bone. So what has the king decided?’

‘To wait on events.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Douglas said again, and went to the window where he stared at the river, which was being dappled by rain. The stench of sewage seeped from the slow swirling water. ‘Does he know what’s looming?’

‘I have told him,’ Robbie said. He had been sent to Paris to negotiate terms with King Jean, and he had arranged for his uncle’s men to be paid and armoured by the French king, and now the men had come and the Lord of Douglas was eager for them to be unleashed. There were English forces in Flanders, in Brittany and in Gascony, and the Prince of Wales was raping southern France, and Douglas wanted a chance to kill some of the bastards. He hated the English.

‘He knows the boy Edward will likely strike north next year?’ Douglas asked. The boy Edward was the Prince of Wales.

‘I have told him.’

‘And he’s havering?’

‘He’s havering,’ Robbie confirmed. ‘He likes feasts and music and entertainment. He’s not fond of soldiering.’

‘Then we’ll have to put some backbone into the bloody man, won’t we?’

Scotland had known little but disaster in the last few years. The pestilence had come and emptied the valleys of souls, but almost ten years before, at Durham, a Scottish army had been defeated and the King of Scotland had been taken prisoner by the hated English. King David was now a prisoner in London’s Tower, and the Scots, to get him back, were expected to pay a ransom so vast that it would impoverish the kingdom for years.

But the Lord of Douglas reckoned the king could be restored in a different way, a soldier’s way, and that was the main reason he had brought his men to France. In the spring the Prince of Wales would probably lead another army out of Gascony, and that army would do what English armies always did, rape and burn and pillage and destroy, and the purpose of that chevauchée was to force the French to bring an army against them, and then the dreaded English archers would go to work and France would suffer another defeat. Its great men would be taken prisoner and England would get even wealthier on their ransoms.

But the Lord of Douglas knew how to defeat archers, and that was the gift he brought to France, and if he could persuade the French king to oppose the boy Edward then he saw the chance of a great victory, and in that victory he planned to capture the prince. He would hold the prince to ransom, a ransom equal to that of the King of Scotland. It could be done, he thought, if only the King of France would fight.

‘And you, Robbie? You’ll fight?’

Robbie coloured. ‘I took an oath.’

‘Damn your bloody oath!’

‘I took an oath,’ Robbie persisted. He had been a prisoner of the English, but he had been released and his ransom paid on a promise not to fight the English ever again. The promise had been extracted and the ransom had been paid by his friend, Thomas of Hookton, and for eight years Robbie had kept the promise, but now his uncle was pushing him to break the oath.

‘What money do you have, boy?’

‘Your money, uncle.’

‘And do you have any left?’ Douglas waited, saw his nephew’s sheepishness. ‘So you’ve gambled it away?’

‘Yes.’

‘In debt?’

Robbie nodded.

‘If you want more, boy, you fight. You strip off that whore’s jacket and put on mail. For Christ’s sake, Robbie, you’re a good fighter! I want you! Have you no pride?’

‘I took an oath,’ Robbie repeated stubbornly.

‘Then you can untake the bloody thing. Or become a pauper. See if I care. Now take that skinny bitch and prove you’re a man, and I’ll see you at supper.’

When the Lord of Douglas would try to make the King of France into a man.

The archers lined the woods. Their horses were picketed a hundred yards away, guarded by two men, but the bowmen hurried to the edge of the trees and, when the leading horsemen of the Count of Labrouillade’s straggling column were less than one hundred yards away, they loosed their arrows.

The Hellequin had become rich on two things. The first was their leader, Thomas of Hookton, who was a good soldier, a supple thinker, and clever in battle, but there were plenty of men in southern France who could match le Bâtard’s cleverness. What they could not do was deploy the Hellequin’s second advantage, the English war bow, and it was that which had made Thomas and his men wealthy.

It was a simple thing. A stave of yew, a little longer than the height of a man and preferably cut from one of the lands close to the Mediterranean. The bowyer would take the stave and shape it, keeping the dense heartwood on one side and the springy sapwood on the other, and he would paint it to keep the moisture trapped in the stave, then nock it with two tips of horn that held the cord, which was woven from fibres of hemp. Some archers liked to add strands of their woman’s hair to the cord, claiming that it stopped the strings from breaking, but Thomas, in twelve years of fighting, had found no difference. The cord was whipped where the arrow rested on the string, and that was the war bow. A peasant’s weapon of yew, hemp and horn, shooting an arrow made from ash, hornbeam or birch, tipped with a steel point and fledged with feathers taken from the wing of a goose, and always taken from the same wing so that the feathers curved in the same direction.

The war bow was cheap and it was lethal. Brother Michael was not a weak man, but he could not draw a bow’s cord more than a hand’s breadth, but Thomas’s archers hauled the string back to their ears and did it sixteen or seventeen times a minute. They had muscles like steel, humps of muscle on their backs, broad chests, thick arms, and the bow was useless without the muscles. Any man could shoot a crossbow, and a good crossbow outranged the yew bow, but it cost a hundred times as much to manufacture and it took five times longer to reload, and, while the crossbowman was winding the ratchet to haul back his cord, the English archer would close the range and shoot a half-dozen points. It was the English and the Welsh archers who had the muscle, and they began training as children, just as Hugh, Thomas’s son, was training now. He had a small bow and his father expected him to shoot three hundred arrows a day. He must shoot and shoot and shoot until he no longer had to think about where the arrow would go, but would simply loose in the knowledge that the arrow would speed where he intended, and every day the muscle grew until, in ten years’ time, Hugh would be ready to stand in the archers’ line and loose goose-feathered death from a great war bow.

Thomas had thirty archers at the edge of the wood and in the first half-minute they launched more than one hundred and fifty arrows, and it was not war, but massacre. An arrow could pierce chain mail at two hundred paces, but none of the Count of Labrouillade’s men were wearing armour or carrying shields, all of which they had loaded onto packhorses. Some of the men had leather coats, but all had taken off their heavy plate or mail, and so the arrows slashed into them, wounding men and horses, driving them to instant chaos. The crossbowmen were on foot and a long way behind the count’s horsemen, and anyway they were cumbered with their sacks of plunder. It would take minutes for them to ready for battle, and Thomas did not give them the minutes. Instead, as the arrows plunged into the screaming horses and fallen riders, Thomas led his twenty-two men-at-arms out of the woods onto the count’s flank.

Thomas’s men were mounted on destriers, the great stallions that could carry the weight of man, armour and weapons. They had not brought lances, for those weapons were heavy and would have slowed their march; instead they drew their swords or wielded axes and maces. Many carried a shield on which the black-barred badge of le Bâtard was painted, and Thomas, once they were out of the trees, turned the line to face the enemy and swung his sword blade down as a signal to advance.

They trotted forward, knee to knee. Rocks studded the high grassland and the line would divide around them, then rejoin. The men were in mail. Some had added pieces of plate armour, a breastplate or perhaps an espalier to protect the shoulders, and all wore bascinets, the simple open-faced helmet that let a man see in battle. The arrows continued to fall. Some of the count’s horsemen were trying to escape, wrenching their reins to ride back northwards, but the thrashing of the wounded horses obstructed them and they could see the black line of Hellequin men-at-arms coming from the side, and some, in desperation, hauled out their swords. A handful broke clear and raced back towards the northern woods where the crossbowmen might be found, while another handful gathered around their lord, the count, who had one arrow in his thigh despite Thomas’s orders that the count was not to be killed. ‘A dead man can’t pay his debts,’ Thomas had said, ‘so shoot anyone else, but make certain Labrouillade lives.’ Now the count was trying to turn his horse, but his weight was too great and the horse was wounded, and he could not turn, and then the Hellequin spurred into the canter, the swords were lowered to the lunge position, and the arrows stopped.

The archers stopped for fear of hitting their own horsemen, then discarded their bows and pulled out swords and ran to join the killing as the men-at-arms struck.

The sound of the charge striking home was like butchers’ cleavers hitting carcasses. Men screamed. Some threw down swords and held their hands out in mute surrender. Thomas, not as comfortable on horseback as he was with a bow, had his lunge deflected by a sword. He crashed past the man, backswung his blade that hammered harmlessly against leather, then swept it forward into a man’s red hair. That man went down, spilling from his saddle, and the Hellequin were turning, coming back to finish the enemy. A rider wearing a black hat plumed with long white feathers lunged a sword at Thomas’s belly. The blade slid off his mail, and Thomas brought his sword back in a wild swing that sliced into the man’s face just as Arnaldus, one of the Gascons in the Hellequin, speared the man’s spine with another sword. The count’s rider was making a high-pitched keening sound, shaking uncontrollably, blood pouring from his shattered face. He let his sword drop, and Arnaldus speared him again. He fell slowly sideways. An archer seized the reins of the man’s horse. The dying man was the last to offer any resistance. The count’s men had been taken by surprise, they had fought an unequal skirmish against men in armour whose lives were spent fighting, and the struggle was over in seconds. A dozen of the count’s men escaped, the rest were dead or prisoners, and the count himself was captured. ‘Archers!’ Thomas shouted. ‘Bows!’ Their job would be to watch the northern woods in case the crossbowmen had fight in them, though Thomas doubted any would want to fight after their lord was captured. A dozen archers collected arrows, cutting them out of dead and wounded horses, picking them from the ground and filling their arrow bags. The prisoners were herded to one side and made to yield their weapons as Thomas walked his horse to where the wounded count lay on the turf. ‘My lord,’ he greeted him, ‘you owe me money.’

‘You were paid!’ the count blustered.

‘Sam,’ Thomas called to the archer, ‘if his lordship argues with me you can fill him with arrows.’ He spoke in French, which Sam understood, and the bowman put an arrow on his string and offered the count a happy grin.

‘My lord,’ Thomas said again, ‘you owe me money.’

‘You could have pleaded your case,’ Labrouillade said.

‘Pleaded? Argued? Wrangled? Delayed? Why should I let your lawyers weave spells?’ Thomas shook his head. ‘Where are the genoins you took from Paville?’

The count thought of claiming that the coins were still at Villon’s castle, but the archer had his string half drawn and le Bâtard’s face was implacable, and so the count reluctantly told the truth. ‘They are in Labrouillade.’

‘Then you will send one of your men-at-arms to Labrouillade,’ Thomas said courteously, ‘with orders that the money is to be brought here. And when it is, my lord, we shall let you go.’

‘Let me go?’ The count was surprised.

‘What use are you to me?’ Thomas asked. ‘It would take months to raise your ransom, my lord, and in those years you’d consume a greater value than the ransom in food. No, I shall let you go. And now, my lord, when you have sent for the coins you might permit my men to take that arrow from your thigh?’

A man-at-arms was summoned from the prisoners, given a captured horse and sent south with his message. Thomas then called Brother Michael. ‘You know how to take arrows out of flesh?’

The young monk looked alarmed. ‘No, sir.’

‘Then watch as Sam does it. You can learn.’

‘I don’t want to learn,’ Brother Michael blurted out, then looked abashed.

‘You don’t want to learn?’

‘I don’t like medicine,’ the monk confessed, ‘but my abbot insisted.’

‘What do you want?’ Thomas asked.

Michael looked confused. ‘To serve God?’ he suggested.

‘Then serve him by learning how to extract arrows,’ Thomas said.

‘You’d better hope it’s a bodkin,’ Sam told the count cheerfully. ‘It’s going to hurt either way, but I can get a bodkin out in an eyeblink. If it’s a flesh arrow I’ll have to cut the bastard out. Are you ready?’

‘Bodkin?’ the count asked faintly. Sam had spoken in English, but the count had half understood.

Sam produced two arrows from his bag. One had a long slender head without barbs. ‘A bodkin, my lord, made for slipping through armour.’ He tapped it with the second arrow that had a barbed triangular head. ‘A flesh arrow,’ he said. He drew a short knife from his belt. ‘Won’t take a moment. Are you ready?’

‘My own physician will treat me!’ the count shouted at Thomas.

‘If you wish, my lord,’ Thomas said. ‘Sam? Cut the shaft off, bind him up.’

The count yelped as the arrow was cut. Thomas rode away, going to where the Lord of Villon lay in his cart. The man was curled up, naked and bloody. Thomas dismounted, tied his horse to the shafts and called Villon’s name. The count did not move and Thomas clambered into the wagon, turned the man over, and saw he had died. There was enough congealed blood in the cart to fill a pair of buckets, and Thomas grimaced as he jumped down, then wiped his boots on the pale grass before going to the caged cart where the Countess Bertille watched him with wide eyes. ‘The Lord of Villon is dead,’ Thomas said.

‘Why didn’t you kill the Lord of Labrouillade?’ she asked, jerking her head towards her husband.

‘I don’t kill a man for owing me money,’ Thomas said, ‘but only for refusing to pay it.’ He drew his sword and used it to snap the feeble lock of the cage door, then held out his hand to help the countess down to the grass. ‘Your husband,’ he said, ‘will be free to go soon. You also, my lady.’

‘I’m not going with him!’ she said defiantly. She stalked to where the count lay on the grass. ‘He can sleep with the pigs,’ she said, pointing to the two carcasses on top of the cage, ‘he won’t know the difference.’

The count tried to get to his feet to slap his wife, but Sam was binding his wound with a strip of linen torn from a corpse’s shirt and he yanked the linen tightly so that the count yelped with pain again. ‘Sorry, my lord,’ Sam said. ‘Just stay still, sire, won’t be but a moment.’

The countess spat at him and walked away.

‘Bring the bitch here!’ the count shouted.

The countess kept walking, clutching her torn dress to her breasts. Genevieve touched her shoulder, said something, then approached Thomas. ‘What will you do with her?’

‘She’s not mine to do anything with,’ Thomas said, ‘but she can’t come with us.’

‘Why not?’ Genevieve asked.

‘When we leave here,’ Thomas said, ‘we have to go to Mouthoumet. We might have to fight our way there. We can’t take useless mouths that will slow us down.’

Genevieve smiled briefly, then gazed at the crossbowmen who were sitting at the edge of the northern woods. None of them had a weapon, instead they just watched their lord’s humiliation. ‘Your soul has hardened, Thomas,’ she said softly.

‘I’m a soldier.’

‘You were a soldier when I met you,’ Genevieve said, ‘and I was a prisoner, accused of heresy, excommunicated, condemned to death, but you took me away. What was I but a useless mouth?’

‘She’s trouble,’ Thomas said irritably.

‘And I wasn’t?’

‘But what will we do with her?’ he asked.

‘Take her away.’

‘From what?’

‘From that hog of a husband,’ Genevieve said, ‘from a future in a convent? From being clawed by dried-up nuns who hate her beauty? She must do what I did. Find her future.’

‘Her future,’ Thomas said, ‘is to cause dissension among the men.’

‘Good,’ Genevieve said, ‘because men cause enough trouble for women. I’ll protect her.’

‘Dear God,’ Thomas said in exasperation, then turned to look at Bertille. She was, he thought, a rare beauty. His men were staring at her with undisguised longing, and he could not blame them. Men would die for a woman who looked like Bertille. Brother Michael had found a cloak rolled up behind the cantle of the count’s saddle and he shook it out, carried it to her and offered it as a covering for her torn dress. She said something to him and the young monk blushed as scarlet as the western clouds. ‘It looks,’ Thomas said, ‘as though she already has a protector.’

‘I will do a better job,’ Genevieve said, and she walked to the count’s horse and reached for the blood-stained gelding knife that hung by a loop from the saddle’s pommel. She crossed to the count, who flinched at the sight of the blade. He glowered at the silver-mailed woman who looked down at him with disdain. ‘Your wife will ride with us,’ Genevieve told him, ‘and if you make any attempt to take her back then I will cut you myself. I will cut you slowly and make you squeal like the pig you are.’ She spat at him and walked away.

Another enemy, Thomas thought.

The genoins came as dusk shaded into night. The coins were loaded on two packhorses and, once Thomas was satisfied that all the coins were there, he went back to the count. ‘I shall keep all the coins, my lord, the bad and the good. You’ve paid me twice, the second payment for the trouble you caused me today.’

‘I’ll kill you,’ the count said.

‘It was our pleasure to serve you, my lord,’ Thomas said. He mounted, then led his men and all the captured horses westwards. The first stars pricked the darkening sky. It was cold suddenly because a northern wind had blown up, bringing a hint of winter.

And in the spring that followed, Thomas thought, there would be another war. But first he must go to Armagnac.

And so the Hellequin rode north.