‘Go where?’ Robbie asked.
‘Find a hole and bury yourself,’ Sculley advised, then looked back to Genevieve. ‘Bit small, but nice.’
‘What happened?’ Roland at last managed to ask.
‘The bastard wanted to blind her,’ Robbie said.
‘I like titties,’ Sculley said.
‘Quiet,’ Robbie snarled at him. He had thought he had found purpose and spiritual reassurance in the Order of the Fisherman, but the sight of the hawk slashing its beak at Genevieve’s eye had opened his own eyes. He realised he had run from his old oaths, that he had betrayed his promises, and now he would make good. He had ripped his sword out of its scabbard and taken the hawk’s head off in one sweep, then turned on Father Marchant and punched him with the sword’s hilt, breaking the priest’s lips and teeth. Now he had no idea what he should do.
‘We have to leave now,’ Genevieve said.
‘Where?’ Robbie asked again.
‘A very deep hole,’ Sculley said, amused, then frowned at Robbie. ‘Are we fighting anyone?’
‘No,’ Robbie said.
‘Get my cloak,’ Roland ordered Michel, and when the squire brought the garment the virgin knight draped it around Genevieve’s bare shoulders. ‘I am sorry,’ he said.
‘Sorry?’
‘You were under my protection,’ he said, ‘and I failed.’
Robbie looked at Roland. ‘We must go,’ he said, sounding frightened.
Roland nodded. Like Robbie he was finding his world turned inside out. He was desperately trying to think what he should do, what was the right thing to do. The girl was a heretic and, only this same evening, he had sworn an oath before God to join the Order of the Fisherman, yet here was the Order’s chaplain, moaning and bleeding, and the heretic was looking at him with one eye, the other still covered by her hand, and Roland knew he had to save her. He had promised her protection. ‘We must go,’ he echoed Robbie.
Both were aware that they were deep inside a castle that was suddenly a hostile place, but when Roland looked out into the passage there was no one there, and the noise from the great hall where men still drank had surely been loud enough to smother the sound of Genevieve’s scream. Roland strapped on his sword belt. ‘We just go,’ he said, sounding astonished.
‘Your boots, sire,’ Michel said.
‘There’s no time,’ Roland said. He was feeling panicky. How were they to leave?
Father Marchant tried to get up and Robbie turned and kicked his head. ‘Kick him hard, Sculley, if he moves again.’
‘Am I fighting for him or for you?’ Sculley asked.
‘Who do you serve?’ Robbie demanded.
‘The Lord of Douglas, of course!’
‘And what am I?’
‘A Douglas.’
‘Then don’t ask stupid questions.’
Sculley accepted that. ‘So you want me to kill the bastard?’ he asked, looking at the priest.
‘No!’ Robbie said. To kill a priest was to invite excommunication, and he was in trouble enough already.
‘I don’t mind,’ Sculley offered. ‘I haven’t killed anyone in a week. No, it’s been even longer. It must be at least a month! Jesus! Are you sure we’re not fighting anyone?’
Roland looked at Robbie. ‘We just walk out?’
‘We don’t have a great deal of choice,’ Robbie said, sounding nervous again.
‘Then let’s go!’ Genevieve wailed. She had found a cleaning rag that she was clutching to her eye with one hand, while the other held the cloak at her neck.
‘Take the boy,’ Roland ordered Michel, then he stepped out into the passageway. ‘Sheathe your sword,’ he said to Robbie.
‘Sheathe it?’ Robbie seemed confused.
Roland glanced at the sword, which had a smear of bloody feathers. ‘We’re guests here.’
‘For the moment.’
‘What in Christ’s name are we doing?’ Sculley demanded.
‘Fighting for the honour of Douglas,’ Robbie said curtly.
‘So we are fighting?’
‘For Douglas!’ Robbie snarled.
‘No need to shout,’ Sculley said, and, as Robbie sheathed his sword, he drew his own long blade. ‘Just tell me who you want slaughtering, eh?’
‘No one for now,’ Roland said.
‘And keep quiet,’ Robbie added. Roland glanced at Robbie as if seeking reassurance, but the young Scotsman was just as nervous as the Frenchman. ‘We must keep moving,’ Robbie suggested.
‘Are we leaving the castle?’
‘Think we have to, yes,’ he paused, looking around, ‘if we can.’
Roland led the way into the courtyard. A few fading fires on which men had baked oatcakes smoked in the wide space, but the moonlight was bright, the shadows dark. No one took any particular notice of them. Genevieve was swathed in the cloak, and Hugh was clutching at its folds as they threaded their way through the sleeping horses and men. Other men passed wineskins and talked in low voices. Someone sang. There was
the low chuckle of laughter. Lantern light glimmered in the gatehouse.
‘Look for my horse,’ Roland said to Michel.
‘You think they’ll just let us ride out?’ Robbie whispered.
‘Don’t look for my horse,’ Roland said, wondering how they were to escape on foot.
‘Your boots, sire?’ Michel offered them.
‘No time,’ Roland said. His world had fragmented; he no longer knew where his salvation lay, unless it was his honour, which meant he must save a heretic even if it meant breaking a church-sworn oath. ‘I’ll tell them to lower the drawbridge,’ he told Robbie, and strode towards the gatehouse.
‘Stop them!’ The shout came from the door behind them. Father Marchant, holding onto the doorpost, was pointing at them. ‘Stop them! In the name of God!’
The men in the courtyard were slow to respond. Some were sleeping, others were trying to sleep, and many were lulled by wine, but now they stirred as more men took up the shouts. Sculley swore, then nudged Robbie. ‘Are we fighting yet?’
‘Yes!’ Robbie shouted.
‘Who?’
‘Everyone!’
‘About bloody time!’ Sculley said, then slammed his sword in a backhanded blow against a man struggling to free himself of a cloak. The man collapsed, blood dark on his forehead, and Sculley sawed the sword through a skein of ropes tethering three horses to a ring set in the wall. He pricked one of the horses with his sword’s point, and the animal bolted, causing chaos among the waking men. He slapped the other two, and all through the yard horses were whinnying and rearing.
‘Drawbridge!’ Roland shouted. Two men were facing him, both with swords, but he was suddenly calm. This was his trade. So far he had only fought in tournaments, but his victories in the lists were the result of hours of practice, hour upon hour of obsessive sword practice, and he flicked one enemy’s blade wide, feinted back, stepped forward and his sword slid between the ribs of the left-hand man, and he stepped into the other man, inside his wild swing, and brought his sword arm back so his elbow smashed into the man’s belly.
‘I have him,’ Robbie called, just as if they were in a tournament’s melee.
Roland stepped to his left and gave a short downswing, and the first man was out of the fight and he had hardly drawn breath. Now two sentinels had come from the gatehouse, and he went for them fast. One carried a spear, which he jabbed, but Roland could see the nervousness on the man’s face and he hardly even had to think to parry the thrust and then flick the sword up so that its tip raked a horrid wound across the man’s face. He cut lips, nose and an eyebrow, and the man, one eye filling with blood, reeled back into the second guard, who panicked,
