with her husband. As the Mass began, she sensed Henry turn towards her and looked back at him, tilting her head in silent question.
‘You are very beautiful,’ he whispered. ‘William told me I should say so, but it is true anyway.’
Margaret began to reply, but when he reached over and took her hand once more, she found herself weeping in reaction. Henry looked sideways at her in blank astonishment as the abbot performed the final part of the service over their bowed heads.
‘If we do this, we don’t stop,’ Thomas said, leaning close to Baron Strange. ‘As soon as the French king hears there is fighting in Maine, he’ll come in fast and rough, with his blood up. They won’t dally in estates and vineyards any longer, sampling the wines and village girls. With spring on the way, there will be murder and destruction, and it won’t end until we’re all dead or we break the back of his men. Do you understand, milord baron? It won’t be enough to kill a few and vanish into the woods like Rob Hood or some outlaw. If we attack tonight, there’ll be no going home for any of us, not till it’s done.’
‘Thomas, I can’t tell that to the men,’ Strange replied, rubbing his face wearily with his hand. ‘They’ll have no hope at all. They’re with me to pay back the French, perhaps to slit a few throats. You’d have them take on an army? Most of them are still hoping King Henry will relent, or Lord York. They still believe there’ll be English soldiers coming to save us. If that doesn’t happen, they’ll break and they’ll run.’
Thomas Woodchurch shook his head, smiling wryly.
‘They won’t run, unless they see you riding away, or me dead maybe. I know these men, baron. They’re no stronger than the French. They can’t fight longer without losing their wind. But they
A low whistle interrupted their conversation. Thomas contented himself with a meaningful last glance, then stood up in the shadows. The moon was out and he had a good view of the road ahead.
He saw a bare-headed knight come staggering out of the inn with his helmet tucked under his arm and his free hand fumbling at his groin. Two more followed him and Thomas understood they were looking for a place to empty their bladders. It took a while for a man to remove a metal codpiece. Thomas remembered the smell in battle, when knights just emptied their bladders and bowels down their legs, relying on their squires to clean up after the fighting had ended.
Thomas took his time placing an arrow on the string of his bow. He wanted them all to come out and his mind seethed with the best way to do it. If he let the French company barricade themselves inside, they could be there for days, with food and drink and comfort. He turned back to the baron, sighing to himself.
‘I’ll get them out,’ he said. ‘You just call the attack when it’s time. No one moves and no one comes to get me, no matter what happens. Understand? Pass the word. Oh, and tell the men not to shoot me in the back.’
As Baron Strange vanished into the gloom, Thomas put his arrow back in the quiver and rested his bow against a wall. He tapped his hip to reassure himself he still had his hunting seax. With his heart beating hard and fast, he stepped out into the moonlight and approached the three French knights.
One of them was already groaning with relief as he released a stream of urine into the road. The others were laughing at him as Thomas came up behind, so that they didn’t hear his approach until he was just a few steps away. The closest knight jumped and swore, then laughed at his own shock as he saw there was just one man standing there.
‘Another peasant! I swear they breed like rabbits around here. On your way, monsieur, and stop bothering your betters.’
Thomas saw the knight was standing unsteadily. He gave a whoop and pushed him over in a crash of metal on the road.
‘You French bastards!’ he shouted. ‘Go home!’
One of the others was blinking at him in amazement as Thomas rushed him and kicked hard at his leg. He too went over, flailing wildly as he tried to right himself.
‘You’ve made a mistake tonight, son,’ a third knight said. He seemed a little steadier on his feet than the others and Thomas backed away as the man drew a sword from his scabbard.
‘Eh? You think you can attack a man of honour and not pay the consequences?’
The knight advanced.
‘Help!’ Thomas yelled, then in a moment of inspiration, switched to a French phrase he knew just as well. ‘Aidez-moi!’
The knight swung at him, but Thomas stayed out of range, moving quickly. He could hear the man puffing after a night of heavy drinking in the inn. If it all went wrong, Thomas thought he could still run for it.
The first knight he’d pushed over was clambering noisily to his feet when the inn door crashed open and a dozen armoured men came out with swords ready. They saw one peasant dancing around an increasingly frustrated knight and some of them laughed and called to him.
‘Can you not catch the devil, Pierre? Try a lunge, man! Put his liver through!’
The knight in question didn’t respond, focused as he was on killing the peasant who had infuriated him.
Thomas was beginning to sweat. He saw that another of the first three had drawn a narrow bollock dagger and was trying to get round to his side, either to attack or grab him for Pierre to spit with the larger blade. Thomas could hear the man chuckling blearily to himself, almost too drunk to stand, yet inching closer every moment.
He heard Strange shout an order and Thomas threw himself to the ground.
‘He’s down!’ he heard someone shout delightedly in French. ‘Did he fall over? Pierre?’
The voice choked off as the air filled with shafts, a rushing, meaty sound as the knights were struck, punched backwards as arrows sent at full draw stopped in them. They roared and shouted, but the arrows kept coming, slotting through armour and mail links so that they spattered blood behind.
Thomas looked up to see the knight stalking him staring in shock at the feathered shafts standing out from his collarbone and through one of his thighs. The man made a sound of horror and tried to turn to face his unseen attackers. Thomas stood up behind him as the knight scrabbled round, dragging his damaged leg. Grimly, Thomas unsheathed his seax and stepped in close, taking a firm hold of the knight’s helmet. He wrenched the head back as the man spasmed in panic, revealing the links of the metal gorget protecting his throat. Using the heavy blade like a hammer, Thomas rammed it down with all the strength of his bow arm, breaking the softer iron and cutting deep before wrenching the seax back and forth. The knight stiffened, choking and weeping as Thomas stepped away and let him fall.
Most of the knights were down, though some of the wounded had gathered around one who must have been their leader. De Roche watched in terror as he saw dozens of men wearing dark clothes and carrying longbows step out of the side streets and clamber like spiders down from roofs. As a group they walked in, silent.
The innkeeper had come to his door, crossing himself in the presence of death. Thomas made an angry gesture for him to go inside and the man vanished back to the warmth and cheer of the inn.
‘Monsieur!’ de Roche called to him. ‘I can be held for ransom. You wish for gold?’
‘I have gold,’ Thomas replied.
De Roche stared around him as he and four battered knights were surrounded.
‘You understand the king of France is just a few miles away, monsieur? He and I are like brothers. Leave me alive and there will be no reprisals, not for this town.’
‘You make that promise? On your honour?’ Thomas asked.
‘Yes, on my honour! I swear it.’
‘And what about the rest of Maine? Will you leave that territory in peace? Will your king withdraw his men?’
De Roche hesitated. He wanted to agree, but it would be such an obvious lie that he could not speak. His voice lost its edge of desperation.
‘Monsieur, if I could arrange such a thing, I would, but it is not possible.’
‘Very well. God be with you, my lord.’
Thomas muttered an order to the archers around him even as the French baron cried out and raised his hands. One of the shafts went straight through his palm.
‘Check the bodies now,’ Thomas said, feeling old and tired. ‘Cut their throats to be sure. There can’t be
