1356 (Special Edition)

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Roland said.

‘I lost the boots and the horses, sire.’

‘It doesn’t matter!’ Roland said more sharply than he had intended. What was he to do now? He had thought he was employed on two quests, one of them of high sanctity, yet they had led to this lonely despair. He closed his eyes in prayer, begging for guidance, then became aware that someone was breathing in his face. He shuddered, then felt a wet lick and opened his startled eyes to see a pair of wolfhounds standing over him.

‘They like you!’ a cheerful voice said, but as the man spoke in English Roland had no idea what was said. ‘Now come away, you two,’ the man went on, ‘not everyone wants to be christened by a pair of bloody hounds.’

The dogs romped away and Thomas of Hookton took their place. ‘My lord?’ he said, though there was no respect in the voice. ‘Should I kill you or thank you?’

Roland stared up at le Batard. The virgin knight was still shaking and did not know what to say, so he turned and stared at the castle again. ‘Will they attack?’ he asked.

‘Of course not,’ Thomas said.

‘Of course not?’

‘They were half asleep or half drunk. Maybe they’ll be ready for a sortie by dawn? Though I doubt it. That’s why my men have two rules, my lord.’

‘Rules?’

‘They can get drunk as much as they like, but only when I tell them. And no rape.’

‘No …’ Roland began.

‘Unless they want to be hanged off the nearest tree. I hear Labrouillade wanted to rape my wife?’ Thomas asked and Roland just nodded. ‘Then I owe you thanks, my lord,’ Thomas said, ‘because what you did was brave. So thank you.’

‘But your wife …’

‘She’ll live,’ Thomas said, ‘maybe with only one eye. Brother Michael will do what he can, though I doubt that he can do much. Only I’m not sure I should call him “brother” any more. I’m not certain what he is now. Come, my lord.’

Roland allowed himself to be raised up and led through the trees towards the farm. ‘I didn’t know,’ he said, then faltered.

‘Didn’t know what a bastard Labrouillade is? I told you he was, but so what? We’re all bastards. I’m le Batard, remember?’

‘But you don’t let your men rape?’

‘For God’s sake,’ Thomas said, turning on him. ‘You think life is easy? It might be easy in a tournament, my lord. A tournament is artificial. You’re on one side or the other and no one thinks God takes sides in a tournament, and there are marshals to make sure you don’t get carried off dead, but there are no marshals here. It’s just war, war without end, and the best you can do is try not to be on the wrong side. But who in God’s name knows which side is right? It depends where you were born. I was born in England, but if I’d been born in France I’d be fighting for King Jean and reckoning God was on my side. In the meantime I try not to do evil. It might not be much of a rule, but it works, and when I do evil I say prayers and give alms to the church and pretend my conscience is clear.’

‘You do evil?’

‘It’s war,’ Thomas said. ‘Our job is to kill. The scriptures say non occides, but we do. A clever doctor at Oxford told me that the commandment means we shouldn’t commit murder, and that isn’t the same as thou shalt not kill, but when I lift some poor bastard’s visor and slide a sword into his eye socket that isn’t a great comfort to me.’

‘Then why do you do it?’

Thomas gave him an almost hostile look. ‘Because I like it,’ he said, ‘because I’m good at it. Because in the dark of night I can sometimes persuade myself I’m fighting for all those poor folk who can’t fight for themselves.’

‘And are you?’

Thomas did not answer, but instead called to a man standing beside the farm’s door. ‘Father Levonne!’

‘Thomas?’

‘This is the bastard who caused all the trouble. The Sire Roland de Verrec.’

‘My lord,’ the priest said, bowing to Roland.

‘I need to talk to Robbie, father,’ Thomas said, ‘and look after Genevieve. So maybe you can find Sire Roland some boots?’

‘Boots?’ the priest asked, astonished. ‘Here? How?’

‘You’re a priest. Pray, pray, pray.’

Thomas unslung his bow, chiding himself for not having done it earlier. A bow that was left tensioned by the cord too long could become permanently bent; it would have followed the string, as the archers said, and such a bow had less power. He coiled the cord and pushed it into a pouch and went into the farmhouse, which was lit with feeble rush wicks. Robbie was sitting in the cattle’s byre, which was otherwise occupied by only a brindled cow with one horn. ‘He had this bird,’ Robbie said as soon as Thomas came through the heavy door, ‘a hawk. He called it a calade.’

‘I’ve heard the word,’ Thomas said.

‘I thought calades discovered sickness in a person! But he tried to blind her! I killed it. I should have killed him!’

Thomas half smiled. ‘I remember,’ he said, ‘when Genevieve killed the priest who had tortured her. You disapproved of that. Now you’d kill a priest yourself?’

Robbie lowered his head and stared at the rotted straw on the byre’s floor. He was silent for a while, then shrugged. ‘My uncle’s here, in France I mean. He’s not much older than me, but still my uncle. He killed my other uncle, the one I liked.’

‘And you don’t like this uncle?’

Robbie shook his head. ‘He frightens me. The Lord of Douglas. I suppose he’s my clan chief now.’

‘And demands what of you?’

‘That I fight against the English.’

‘Which you vowed not to do,’ Thomas said.

Robbie nodded, then shrugged. ‘And Cardinal Bessieres released me from that vow.’

‘Cardinal Bessieres is a slimy turd,’ Thomas said.

‘Aye, I know.’

‘Why is your uncle here?’

‘To fight the English, of course.’

‘And expects you to fight alongside him?’

‘He wants that, but I said I couldn’t break the oath. So he sent me to Bessieres instead.’ He looked up at Thomas. ‘The Order of the Fisherman.’

‘What in God’s name is that?’

‘Eleven knights, well, there were eleven before tonight, sworn to discover …’ He stopped suddenly.

‘La Malice,’ Thomas said.

‘You know,’ Robbie said flatly, ‘the cardinal said you knew. He hates you.’

‘I dislike him too,’ Thomas said mildly.

‘It’s a sword,’ Robbie said, ‘supposedly a magic sword.’

‘I don’t believe in magic.’

‘But other folk do,’ Robbie said, ‘and if he gets the sword he’ll have power, won’t he?’

‘Power to become Pope,’ Thomas said.

‘I suppose that’s not really a good thing?’ Robbie suggested.

‘You’d make a better Pope. Hell, I would. That cow would.’

Robbie half smiled, but said nothing.

‘So what do you do now?’ Thomas asked, and again Robbie said nothing. ‘You saved Genevieve,’ Thomas said, ‘so I release you from your oath. You’re free, Robbie.’