1356 (Special Edition)

bird and the yellow fat dribbled down his chins as he scrunched the fragile bones. The cook had roasted three woodcock too, drenching the needle-beaked birds with a mixture of honey and wine.

The count liked to eat. He was mildly annoyed that his guests, the severe Father Marchant, Sir Robbie Douglas, and the risible virgin knight, were fooling around in the chapel, but he would not wait for them. The ortolans were piping hot, and the woodcocks’ dark breasts too delicious to delay, and so he left word that his guests could join him at their leisure. ‘Sire Roland has done well, eh?’ he remarked to his steward.

‘Indeed, my lord.’

‘Fellow got hold of le Batard’s wife! Roland might be a virgin,’ the count chuckled at that, ‘but he can’t be a total idiot. Let’s have a look at her.’

‘Now, my lord?’

‘Better entertainment than that fool,’ the count said, gesturing towards a minstrel who played a small harp and sang of the count’s excellence in battle. The song was largely invented, but the count’s household pretended to believe it. ‘Is everything ready for the morning?’ the count asked before the steward could leave on his errand.

‘Everything, my lord?’ the steward asked, confused.

‘Packhorses, armour, weapons, provisions. Christ’s belly, man, do I have to do it all?’

‘Everything is ready, my lord.’

The count grunted. He had been summoned to Bourges by the Duke of Berry. The duke, of course, was just some snot-nosed child, and the count had been tempted to pretend the summons had never arrived, but the snot- nosed child was a son of the French king and the arriere-ban had been delivered with a letter which delicately pointed out that the count had ignored two previous summonses, and that a failure to obey an arriere-ban justified the confiscation of land. ‘We are sure,’ the letter said, ‘that you wish to retain your estates and so we anticipate your arrival at Bourges with joy, knowing you will come with many arbalists and men-at-arms.’

‘Arbalists,’ the count grumbled. ‘Why can’t he call them crossbowmen? Or archers?’

‘My lord?’

‘The duke, you fool. He’s a damned child. Fifteen? Sixteen? Still wet. Arbalist, by Christ.’ Still, the count would take forty-seven arbalists and sixty-seven men-at-arms to Bourges, a considerable force, greater even than the small army he had led against Villon to retrieve Bertille. He had thought to let one of his captains lead the force while he stayed at home where he would be guarded by the twenty crossbowmen and sixteen men-at-arms who would garrison the castle, but the threat of losing his land had persuaded him to travel himself. ‘So fetch the woman!’ he snapped at his steward, who had hesitated, thinking his lordship might have further questions.

The count crammed a woodcock against his mouth and gnawed at the honey-flavoured flesh. Not as delicate as the ortolan, he thought, and so he let the woodcock fall and thrust a tenth ortolan into his mouth.

He was still sucking on the little carcass as Genevieve and her son were brought into the small hall where he had chosen to eat. The great hall was filled with his men-at-arms, who were drinking his wine and eating his food, though he had made sure they were not served venison, ortolans or woodcock. The count crunched the bones of the songbird, swallowed, and pointed to a space close enough to the table for the big candles to illuminate Genevieve. ‘Put her there,’ he said, ‘and why did you bring the boy?’

‘She insisted, my lord,’ one of the men-at-arms said.

‘Insisted? It’s not her place to insist. Skinny bitch, isn’t she? Turn around, woman.’ Genevieve stayed still. ‘I said turn around, all the way around, slowly,’ the count said. ‘If she doesn’t obey, Luc, you can hit her.’

Luc, the man-at-arms who had held Genevieve’s arm to bring her into the hall, drew back his hand, but had no need to strike. Genevieve turned around, then looked defiantly into the count’s eyes. He dabbed at his mouth and chins with a napkin, then drank wine. ‘Strip her,’ he said.

‘No,’ Genevieve protested.

‘I said strip her,’ the count said, looking at Luc.

Before Luc could obey, the door of the chamber opened and Jacques, now the count’s senior captain, stood there. ‘They’ve sent two messengers, my lord,’ he said, ‘offering to exchange the woman for the countess.’

‘So?’

‘They have the countess here, my lord,’ Jacques said.

‘Here?’

‘So he says.’

The count stood and limped around the table. The arrow wound in his leg throbbed, though it was healing well enough. It still hurt to put his considerable weight on that leg, and he flinched as he stepped off the dais to confront Genevieve. ‘Your husband, madame,’ he growled, ‘defied me.’ He waited for her to respond, but she stayed silent. ‘Tell their messengers to come back in the morning,’ the count ordered, not taking his eyes off Genevieve, ‘we’ll exchange her at dawn.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘But I have another use for the bitch first,’ he said, and with those words a terrible anger overwhelmed the count. He had been humiliated, first by his wife and then by le Batard. He suspected his own men mocked him behind his back, which is why he preferred to eat in a separate hall. Indeed, he knew that all France laughed at him. He had been insulted, he had been crowned with the cuckold’s horns, and he was a proud man, and the wound to his honour went deep so that the rage was suddenly red in him, and he roared in what sounded like pain as he reached out, took hold of Genevieve’s linen dress and ripped it open.

Genevieve screamed.

The scream only enraged the count further. All the hurt of the last weeks was seething in him, and all he could think of was to wreak revenge on the men who had belittled him, and how better than to take the horns from his own head and put them on le Batard? He tore the dress down as Genevieve screamed a second time and staggered backwards. Her son was crying and the count cuffed him hard around the head, then tugged at Genevieve’s dress again. She clutched the torn linen to her throat. ‘You foul bitch!’ the count shouted. ‘Show me your tits, you skinny bitch!’ He struck her a stinging blow, and just then half a dozen men came through the chamber door.

‘Stop!’ It was Roland de Verrec who shouted. ‘Stop!’ he called again. ‘She is my hostage.’

Still more men came through the door. Robbie Douglas was there, gaping at Genevieve, who was now crouching on the flagstones and trying to pull the ripped fragments of her dress up to her neck. Sculley was grinning. The count’s men-at-arms were looking from the furious Labrouillade to the calm Roland, while Father Marchant took stock and stepped between them. ‘The girl,’ he told the count, ‘is the captive of the Order, my lord.’

That statement puzzled Roland who thought she was his hostage, but he took the words as a statement of support and so made no protest.

The count was breathing heavily. He was a cornered boar. For a heartbeat it seemed that prudence might govern his rage, but then, like a wave breaking inside him, the rage overwhelmed him again. ‘Get out,’ he snarled at the newcomers.

‘My lord …’ Father Marchant started emolliently.

‘Get out!’ the count roared. ‘This is my castle!’

No one moved.

‘You!’ the count pointed at Luc. ‘Get rid of them!

Luc did try to shepherd Roland, Father Marchant and the other knights of the Order of the Fisherman from the hall, but Roland stayed firm. ‘She is my hostage,’ he said again.

‘Let’s fight for the bint,’ Sculley said cheerfully.

‘Quiet,’ Robbie hissed. Robbie was aware of all the old turmoil that he thought had been calmed by the Order of the Fisherman. He knew Genevieve, he had been in love with her since the day he had first seen her in the cells at Castillon d’Arbizon. That unrequited love had broken his friendship with Thomas, it had led to the breaking of oaths, to his arguments with the Lord of Douglas, and had only ended, Robbie had thought, with the sacred duty of the Order of the Fisherman. Now he saw Roland put a hand on the hilt of his sword, and he dreaded the choice that must follow. Genevieve was staring up at him, surprise and appeal in her hurt eyes.

The count saw Roland’s hand go to Durandal’s sword hilt and, foolishly, he reached for his own blade. Father Marchant held up both hands. ‘In the name of God!’ he shouted, and snatched at Roland’s arm. ‘In the name of God!’ he said again, and held a cautionary hand towards the count. ‘My lord,’ he said in a reasonable voice, ‘you are