‘I’m here!’ Jacques Solliere called into the dark, ‘is that you, Philippe?’
‘I’m the Holy Ghost, you idiot,’ the man called Philippe shouted back.
‘Philippe!’ The men-at-arms in the tower were on their feet now, shouting a welcome.
‘They’re friends,’ Jacques told Roland, ‘the count’s men.’
‘Oh God,’ Roland breathed. He could not believe the relief that flooded through him, so much relief that he felt weak. He was no coward. No man who had faced Walter of Siegenthaler in the lists could be called a coward. The German had killed and maimed men in a score of tournaments, always claiming the carnage was an accident, but Roland had fought the man four times and humiliated him in every bout. He was no coward, but he had been terrified in this creeping dusk. War, he was realising, had no rules, and all the skill in the world might not be enough to help him survive.
Philippe appeared as a shadow beneath the tower. ‘The count sent us,’ he called up.
‘Labrouillade?’ Roland asked, though the question was unnecessary. The count’s men-at-arms had greeted their comrades familiarly.
‘The English are marching,’ Philippe explained. ‘Are you the Sire de Verrec?’
‘Yes. Where are the English?’
‘Somewhere north,’ Philippe said vaguely, ‘but that’s why we’re here. The count wants all his men-at-arms.’ More soldiers were coming from the dark, leading their horses into the ruined nave. ‘Can we light a fire?’
‘Of course.’ Roland hurried down the steps. ‘The count sent you because the English are marching?’
‘He’s been summoned to Bourges, and he wants to take at least sixty men to war. He needs the men who went with you.’ Philippe watched as a servant struck steel and flint to light a twist of straw. ‘Did you find
‘He’s in Montpellier, a prisoner, I hope.’ Roland was still feeling weak, astonished by the fear that had driven him to his knees. ‘He’s in Montpellier,’ he said again, ‘but I have his wife.’
‘The boys will enjoy that,’ Philippe said.
‘She is under my protection,’ Roland said stiffly. ‘I propose exchanging her for the countess.’
‘The boys will enjoy that even more,’ Philippe said.
‘Because justice will have been served.’
‘Damn justice, they’ll enjoy watching the bitch being punished. Oh, and some fellows have come to Labrouillade. They want you.’
‘Who?’
‘A churchman,’ Philippe said vaguely.
‘How did you know where to find me?’ Roland asked, still surprised at the relief he was feeling.
‘We weren’t looking for you,’ Philippe said curtly. ‘It’s Jacques and his men we want, but we knew you’d gone to Montpellier. We have a man in Castillon d’Arbizon. He owns a tavern, listens to the talk, and sends us messages. He told us
‘My churchman?’
‘The one who’s looking for you. Bastard might even be following us. Very eager he is.’ Philippe stopped abruptly, watching Genevieve as she came down the steps into the light of the small fire, which was now blazing with straw and rotted wood. ‘Oh, that’s nice,’ he said.
‘I told you,’ Roland said, ‘she is under my protection.’
‘Won’t count for much if her husband doesn’t give us the countess, will it? And he’s in Montpellier, you say. Anyway, the count wants his men-at-arms back. The English bastards are burning, plundering, raping, killing. We’ve got a proper war to fight.’
‘There’ll be a battle?’ Roland asked, suddenly aware of taking part in a fight where there were no rules.
‘God knows,’ Philippe said. ‘Some say the king’s bringing an army south, some say he’s not, and the truth is no one knows. We’re all ordered to Bourges, and they want us there as fast as possible.’
‘I won a tournament at Bourges,’ Roland said.
‘You’ll find war a bit different,’ Philippe said. ‘No marshals to stop the killing, for a start. Though God knows if it will come to a fight. For now our job is just to keep an eye on the bastards.’
‘And mine is to return the countess to her husband,’ Roland said firmly.
‘He’ll be glad of that,’ Philippe said, then grinned, ‘as will the rest of us.’ He clapped his hands to draw the men’s attention. ‘We’re leaving at dawn! Get some rest! Horses stay here; if you want to kick some bastards out of bed in the village, do it. Jean, other Jean, Francois, you’re on guard duty.’
‘My prisoner will sleep in the tower,’ Roland said, ‘and I shall guard her.’
‘Good, good,’ Philippe said absently.
Roland hardly slept that night. He sat on the church tower’s stone stairs and thought how the world was crumbling. To Roland’s mind there was a proper order of things. A king ruled, advised by his nobles and by the wise men of the church, and together they made justice and prosperity. The people should be grateful for that governance and show their gratitude in deference. There were enemies, of course, but a wise king dealt with those enemies with courtesy, and God would decide the outcome of any disagreement by the workings of destiny. That was the proper order, but instead the world was infested with men like Jacques and Philippe, hard men, men who showed no respect, men who robbed and cheated and were proud of it. If the English were marching then that was regrettable and plainly against the will of God, but the King of France, with his bishops and lords, would bring the banner of Saint Denis to destroy them. That was a holy duty, a lamentable duty, but to Roland’s disgust, Philippe positively relished the thought of warfare. ‘It’s a chance to make money,’ he had told Roland over the sparse evening meal. ‘Take a rich prisoner? That’s the best thing.’
‘Or get into the enemy’s baggage train,’ Jacques had said wolfishly.
‘There’s usually nothing but wounded men and servants with the baggage,’ Philippe had explained to Roland, ‘so you just cut the bastards down and help yourself.’
‘And the women,’ Jacques had said.
‘Oh Jesus, the women. Remember that fight at … where was it?’ Philippe had frowned, trying to remember. ‘Place with the broken bridge?’
‘I never knew the name. South of Reims, wasn’t it?’
Philippe had laughed at the memory. ‘The English were one side of the river and their women on the other. I had four of them tied to my horse’s tail, all of them naked. Jesus, that was a good month.’
‘He was hiring them out,’ Jacques had told Roland.
‘Except to the count, of course,’ Philippe had said, ‘he got it for nothing on account of being the count.’
‘Lords have privileges,’ Jacques had said.
‘The privilege not to fight too,’ Philippe had added, sounding resentful.
‘He’s too fat,’ Jacques had defended the Count of Labrouillade, ‘but when he does fight he’s a devil! I’ve seen him crush a man’s head, skull, helmet and everything, with one swipe of that morningstar. There was brains everywhere!’
‘The fight was already over,’ Philippe had said scornfully. ‘He only joined in when it was safe.’ He had shaken his head at the memory, then looked at Roland. ‘So you’ll be joining us, sire?’
‘Joining you?’
‘To fight the damned English!’
‘When I have completed my …’ Roland had hesitated. He had been about to say ‘quest’, but suspected these two older and more hardened men would mock him for that. ‘… my duty,’ he had said instead.
So Roland, uncomfortable on the stone stairs, had slept hardly at all. He was galled by the memory of the two men-at-arms’ mocking laughter. He could have defeated either in the lists, but suspected fate would prove very different on the battlefield. He had a sudden vision of the siege tower collapsing at Breteuil, of the men screaming as they burned. He reassured himself that he had not panicked then, he had kept calm and rescued a man, but it had still been a defeat, and none of his skill could have averted that shame. He feared war.
Next morning, at dawn, they rode on northwards. Roland felt a great deal safer now that he was escorted by almost a score of armed and armoured men, while Genevieve was quiet. She kept looking eastwards hoping that mounted archers would appear, but nothing moved in the low summer hills. The sun was relentless, baking the fields, slowing the horses and making the men sweat in their heavy mail. Philippe was leading now, using tracks away from the high road. They passed another village ruined by plague. Sunflowers grew in abandoned gardens.
