pasture that lay between the small village church and a Cistercian monastery or priory that had somehow escaped destruction, for the white-robed monks were assisting a priest who said Mass for the soldiers. Is it Sunday?” Thomas asked one of the archers.
Tuesday,“ the man said, taking off his hat in honour of the sacra-ments, Saint James's day.” They waited at the pasture's edge, close to the village church where a row of new graves suggested that some villagers had died when the army came, but most had probably fled south or west. One or two remained. An old man, bent double from work and with a white beard that almost reached the ground, mumbled along with the distant priest while a small boy, perhaps six or seven years old, tried to draw an English bow to the amusement of its owner.
The Mass ended and the mail-clad men climbed from their knees and walked towards the tents and houses. One of the archers from Thomas's escort had gone into the dispersing crowd and he now reappeared with a group of men. One stood out because he was taller than the others and had a new coat of mail that had been polished so it seemed to shine. He had long boots, a green cloak and a gold-hilted sword with a scabbard wrapped in red cloth. The finery seemed at odds with the man's face, which was pinched and gloomy. He was bald, but had a forked beard, which he had twisted into plaits. That's Scoresby,' one of the archers muttered and Thomas had no need to guess which of the approaching soldiers he meant.
Scoresby stopped a few paces away and the big archer who had arrested Thomas smirked. A deserter,“ he announced proudly,” says he walked here from Brittany.'
Scoresby gave Thomas a hard glance and Jeanette a much longer look. Her ragged dress revealed a length of thigh and a ripped neckline and Scoresby clearly wanted to see more. Like Will Skeat he had begun his military life as an archer and had risen by dint of shrewdness, and Thomas guessed there was not much mercy in his soul's mix.
Scoresby shrugged. If he's a deserter,“ he said, then hang the bastard.” He smiled. But we'll keep his woman.“ I'm not a deserter,” Thomas said, and the woman is the Countess of Armorica, who is related to the Count of Blois, nephew to the King of France.'
Most of the archers jeered at this outrageous claim, but Scoresby was a cautious man and he was aware of a small crowd that had gathered at the churchyard's edge. Two priests and some men-at-arms wearing noblemen's escutcheons were among the spectators, and Thomas's confidence had put just enough doubt in Scoresby's mind. He frowned at Jeanette, seeing a girl who looked at first glance like a peasant, but despite her tanned face she was undoubtedly beautiful and the remnants of her dress suggested she had once known elegance.
She's who?' Scoresby demanded.
I told you who she was,“ Thomas said belligerently, and I will tell you more. Her son has been stolen from her, and her son is a ward of our king's. She has come for His Majesty's help.” Thomas hastily told Jeanette what he had said and, to his relief, she nodded her agreement.
Scoresby gazed at Jeanette and something about her increased his doubt. Why are you with her?“ he asked Thomas. I rescued her,” Thomas said.
He says,“ a voice spoke in French from the crowd and Thomas could not see the speaker, who was evidently surrounded by men-at-arms, all wearing a green and white livery. He says that he rescued you, madame, is that true?”
Yes,“ Jeanette said. She frowned, unable to see who was questioning her. Tell us who you are,” the unseen man demanded.
I am Jeanette, dowager Countess of Armorica.'
Your husband was who?' The voice suggested a young man, but a very confident young man.
Jeanette bridled at the tone of the question, but answered it. Henri Chenier, Comte d'Armorique.
And why are you here, madame?'
Because Charles of Blois has kidnapped my child!“ Jeanette answered angrily. A child who was placed under the protection of the King of England.”
The young man said nothing for a while. Some in the crowd were edging nervously away from the liveried men-at-arms who surrounded him, and Scoresby was looking apprehensive. Who placed him under that protection?“ he eventually asked. William Bohun,” Jeanette said, Earl of Northampton.“ I believe her,” the voice said, and the men-at-arms stepped aside so that Thomas and Jeanette could see the speaker, who proved to be scarce more than a boy. Indeed, Thomas doubted he had even begun to shave, though he was surely full grown for he was tall, taller even than Thomas, and had only stayed hidden because his men-at-arms had been wearing green and white plumes in their helmets. The young man was fair-haired, had a face slightly burned by the sun, was dressed in a green cloak, plain breeches and a linen shirt, and nothing except his height explained why men were suddenly kneeling on the grass. Down,“ Scoresby hissed at Thomas who, perplexed, went on one knee. Now only Jeanette, the boy and his escort of eight tall men-at-arms were standing. The boy looked at Thomas. Did you really walk here from Brit-tany?” he asked in English, though, like many noblemen, his English was touched with a French accent.
We both did, sire,' Thomas said in French.
Why?' he demanded harshly.
To seek the protection of the King of England,“ Thomas said, who is the guardian of my lady's son, who has been treacherously taken prisoner by England's enemies.”
The boy looked at Jeanette with much the same wolfish appreci-ation that Scoresby had shown. He might not shave, but he knew a beautiful woman when he saw one. He smiled. You are most welcome, madame,“ he said. I knew of your husband's reputation, I admired him, and I regret that I will never have a chance to meet him in combat.” He bowed to Jeanette, then untied his cloak and walked to her. He placed the green cape over her shoulders to cover the torn dress. I shall ensure, madame,“ he said, that you are treated with the courtesy your rank demands and will vow to keep whatever promises England made on your son's behalf.” He bowed again.
Jeanette, astonished and pleased by the young man's manner, put the question that Thomas had been wanting answered. Who are you, my lord?“ she asked, offering a curtsey. I am Edward of Woodstock, madame,” he said, offering her his arm.
It meant nothing to Jeanette, but it astonished Thomas. He is the King's eldest son,' he whispered to her.
She dropped to one knee, but the smooth-cheeked boy raised her and walked her towards the priory. He was Edward of Wood-stock, Earl of Chester, Duke of Cornwall and Prince of Wales. And the wheel of fate had once again spun Jeanette high.
The wheel seemed indifferent towards Thomas. He was left alone, abandoned. Jeanette walked away on the Prince's arm and did not so much as glance back at Thomas. He heard her laugh. He watched her. He had nursed her, fed her, carried her and loved her, and now, without a thought, she had discarded him. No one else was interested in him. Scoresby and his men, cheated of a hanging, had gone to the village, and Thomas wondered just what he was supposed to do.
Goddamn,“ he said aloud. He felt conspicuously foolish in his tattered robe. Goddamn,” he said again. Anger, thick as the black humour that could make a man sick, rose in him, but what he could do? He was a fool in a ragged robe and the Prince was the son of a king.
The Prince had taken Jeanette to the low grassy ridge where the big tents stood in a colourful row. Each tent had a flagpole, and the tallest flew the quartered banner of the Prince of Wales, which showed the golden lions of England on the two red quarters and golden fleur-de-lis on the two blue. The fleur-de-lis were there to show the King's claim to the French throne while the whole flag, which was that of England's king, was crossed with a white-toothed bar to show that this was the banner of the King's eldest son. Thomas was tempted to follow Jeanette, to demand the Prince's help, but then one of the lower banners, the one furthest away from him, caught the small warm wind and sluggishly lifted its folds. He stared at it.
The banner had a blue field and was slashed diagonally with a white band. Three rampant yellow lions were emblazoned on either side of the bar, which was decorated with three red stars that had green centres. It was a flag Thomas knew well, but he scarcely dared believe that he was seeing it here in Normandy, for the arms were those of William Bohun, Earl of Northampton. Northampton was the King's deputy in Brittany, yet his flag was unmistakable and Thomas walked towards it, fearing that the wind-rippled flag would turn out to be a different coat of arms, similar to the Earl's, but not the same.
But it was the Earl's banner, and the Earl's tent, in contrast to the other stately pavilions on the low ridge, was still the grubby shelter made from two worn-out sails. A half-dozen men-at-arms wearing the Earl's livery
