his feet crashed hard into a small stone parapet. ‘He’s on the refectory!’ a man shouted. Thomas ripped another tile free and hurled it far and high, through the rain and over the roof to fall wherever it might. He heard it crash home, heard the clatter of shards. ‘Other way!’ a voice called. ‘He’s on the chapter house!’ A bell started to toll, then another joined in, and Thomas heard feet on the roof beyond the ridge. He looked left and right, saw no easy escape, and so peered cautiously over the low stone parapet. There was another garden beneath him, a small one, thick with fruit trees. ‘Go left!’ a voice shouted somewhere behind him.
‘No, he went this way!’ It was the Irish student, Keane, and he sounded very sure of himself. ‘This way!’ he bellowed, ‘I saw the bastard!’
Thomas listened as the noise of the pursuit faded. Keane was taking them in entirely the wrong direction, yet even so Thomas was not out of danger. He had to find a way off the rooftops and so he decided to risk the small garden. He swung his legs over the parapet and sat there, hesitant because it was a long drop, then reckoned he had no choice. He jumped, thrashing through blossom and branches and wet leaves. He landed hard and was thrown forward onto his hands. There was a sharp pain in his right ankle so he stayed on all fours, listening to his pursuers, whose voices became fainter. Stay still, he thought. Stay still and let the hunters draw away. Wait.
‘This crossbow,’ the voice said very close behind him, ‘is aimed at your backside. It’s going to hurt you. So very much.’
It had been a stroke of genius, Father Marchant thought, to choose the Abbey of Saint Denis as the place where the Order of the Fisherman would have their vigil and receive their solemn consecration. There, beneath the roof’s soaring stone vaults, under the evening light that glowed dust-rich through the glory of the stained-glass windows and before an altar heaped with golden vessels and lustrous with silver, the Knights of the Fisherman knelt to be blessed. A choir chanted, the melody seemed sad yet inspiring as the male voices rose and fell in the great abbey where the kings of France lay cold in their tombs and the oriflamme waited on the altar. The oriflamme was France’s war banner, the great red silken pennant that flew above the king when he went into battle. It was sacred. ‘It’s new,’ Arnoul d’Audrehem, a Marshal of France, growled to his companion, the Lord of Douglas. ‘The goddamned English captured the last one at Crecy. They’re probably wiping their arses with it now.’
Douglas grunted for answer. He was watching his nephew kneeling at the altar with four other men, where Father Marchant, resplendent in robes of crimson and white, said a mass. ‘The Order of the bloody Fisherman,’ Douglas said sarcastically.
‘Rank nonsense, I agree,’ d’Audrehem said, ‘but a nonsense that might persuade the king to march south. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’
‘I came here to fight the English. I want to march south and thrash the goddamned bastards.’
‘The king is nervous,’ d’Audrehem said, ‘and he looks for a sign. Perhaps these Knights of the Fisherman will convince him?’
‘He’s nervous?’
‘Of English arrows.’
‘I’ve told you, they can be beaten.’
‘By fighting on foot?’ D’Audrehem sounded sceptical. He was in his fifties, old in war, a hard man with short grey hair and a jaw misshapen from the blow of a mace. He had known Douglas a long time, ever since, as a young man, d’Audrehem had campaigned in Scotland. He still shuddered at the memory of that cold, far land, at the thought of its food, its raw and comfortless castles, its bogs and crags and mists and moors, yet if he disliked the country he had nothing but admiration for its people. The Scots, he had told King Jean, were the finest fighters in Christendom, ‘If indeed they are in Christendom, sire.’
‘They’re pagan?’ the king had asked anxiously.
‘No, sire, it is just that they live on the world’s edge and they fight like demons to keep from falling off.’
And now two hundred of the demons were here in France, desperate for a chance to fight against their old enemy. ‘We should be back in Scotland,’ Douglas grumbled to d’Audrehem. ‘I hear the truce is broken. We can kill the English there.’
‘King Edward,’ d’Audrehem said calmly, ‘recaptured Berwick, the war is over, the English won. The truce is reinstated.’
‘God damn Edward,’ Douglas said.
‘And you think the archers can be beaten by men on foot?’ d’Audrehem asked.
‘On foot,’ the Lord of Douglas said. ‘You can throw some mounted men at the bastards, but put good armour on their horses. It isn’t the archers, it’s the horses! Those damned arrows don’t pierce armour, not good armour, but they play hell with horses. They drive the beasts mad. So you have knights being thrown, being trampled, their horses running wild with pain, and all because the archers aim at the horses. Arrows turn a cavalry charge into a charnel house, so don’t give them horses to kill.’ That had been a long speech from the usually taciturn Lord of Douglas.
‘What you say makes sense,’ d’Audrehem admitted. ‘I was not at Crecy, but I hear the horses suffered.’
‘But men on foot can carry shields,’ Douglas said, ‘or wear heavy armour. They can get close to the bastards and kill them. That’s how it’s done.’
‘Is that how your king fought at, where was it? Durham?’
‘He chose the wrong ground to fight on,’ Douglas said, ‘so now the poor bastard’s a prisoner in London, and we can’t pay the ransom.’
‘Which is why you want the Prince of Wales?’
‘I want the damned boy on his knees, pissing himself with fear, licking the horse shit off my boots and begging me to be kind.’ Douglas gave a snort of laughter that echoed in the great abbey. ‘And when I have him, I’ll exchange him for my king.’
‘He has a reputation,’ d’Audrehem said mildly.
‘For what? Gambling? Women? Luxury? For Christ’s sake, he’s a puppy.’
‘Twenty-six? A puppy?’
‘A puppy,’ Douglas insisted, ‘and we can cage him.’
‘Or Lancaster.’
‘Bugger Lancaster!’ Douglas spat. Henry, Duke of Lancaster, had led an English army out of Brittany that was ravaging Maine and Anjou. King Jean had considered leading an army against him, leaving his eldest son to harry the Prince of Wales in the south, and that was what Douglas feared. Lancaster was no fool. Faced with a large army he would likely retreat to the great fortresses of Brittany, but Prince Edward of Wales was young and headstrong. He had survived the previous summer, leading his destructive army all the way to the Mediterranean and back to Gascony without meeting real opposition, and that surely had emboldened him for the campaign that had just begun. The prince, Douglas was sure, would march too far from his secure bases in Gascony, and so could be trapped and thrashed. The English prince was too irresponsible, too fond of his whores and of his gold, too addicted to the luxuries of privilege. And his ransom would be huge. ‘We should be going south,’ Douglas said, ‘not farting about with fishermen nonsense.’
‘If you want to go south,’ d’Audrehem said, ‘then give every help you can to the Order of the Fisherman. The king doesn’t listen to us! But he listens to the cardinal. The cardinal can persuade him, and the cardinal wants to go south. So do whatever the cardinal wants.’
‘I did! I let him take Sculley. For Christ’s sake, Sculley isn’t a man, he’s an animal. He’s got the strength of a bull, the claws of a bear, the teeth of a wolf, and the loins of a goat. He terrifies me, so God knows what he’ll do to the English. But what in God’s name does Bessieres want of him?’
‘Some relic, I’m told,’ d’Audrehem said, ‘and he believes the relic will give him the papacy, and the papacy will give him power. And if he does become Pope, my friend, then better to have him on your side than against you.’
‘But making Sculley a knight, good Christ Almighty!’ Douglas laughed.
Yet Sculley was there, at the steps of the high altar, kneeling between Robbie and a knight called Guiscard de Chauvigny, a man whose lands had been lost to the English in Brittany. De Chauvigny, like the other men, was famous for his exploits in tourneys across Europe. Only Roland de Verrec was missing, and Father Marchant had sent men far across France to find him. These were the best fighters the cardinal could recruit, the greatest warriors, men who struck fear into their opponents. Now they would kill for Christ, or at least for Cardinal Bessieres. The last sunlight drained from the sky to leave the stained glass dark. Candles glowed and flickered on the many
