the great hall that contained the gold and silver that Thomas wanted to take back to England. A third of it belonged to his lord, the Earl of Northampton, but the rest would buy him a fair estate. ‘In Dorset,’ he said, thinking aloud, ‘back home.’
‘I thought this was home?’
‘I’d rather live in a place where I don’t need sentinels every night.’
Sir Henri smiled. ‘That sounds good.’
‘Then come to Dorset with us.’
‘And listen to your barbaric language every day?’ Sir Henri asked. He was over fifty now, a man who had spent his long life in mail and plate. He had been the commander of the old Count of Berat’s men-at-arms, and thus had been an enemy of Thomas, but the new count had reckoned Sir Henri was too old and too cautious. He had scornfully promised Sir Henri command of the small garrison at Castillon d’Arbizon when it was recaptured, but instead the count’s siege had been defeated. Sir Henri, abandoned by the count, had been taken prisoner by Thomas, who, recognising the older man’s vast experience and common sense, had kept the count’s promise by making Sir Henri his own castellan. He had never regretted it. Sir Henri was reliable, honest, stoic, and determined to make his former lord regret his scorn. ‘I hear Joscelyn has gone north,’ Sir Henri said.
Joscelyn was the new Count of Berat, a headstrong man who had still not given up his dream of reclaiming Castillon d’Arbizon. ‘To Bourges?’ Thomas asked.
‘Probably.’
‘Where is Bourges?’
‘North,’ Sir Henri said, though he was plainly uncertain. ‘If it was me I’d ride to Limoges and ask the way from there.’
‘And the Prince of Wales?’
‘He was near Limoges,’ Sir Henri said cautiously, ‘or so they say.’
‘They?’
‘A friar was here last week. He said the English had ridden somewhere north of Limoges.’
‘And where’s Limoges?’ Thomas wondered. ‘Is Bourges to the east or the west of Limoges?’
‘I know it’s north of it,’ Sir Henri said, ‘but I have a mind it’s eastwards of it too? You could ask Father Levonne. He’s travelled a lot.’
Thomas was trying to make a picture of unknown territory and to fit within that vague idea an estimation of what the armies did. He knew the French were gathering forces, and that the men from southern France were assembling at Bourges while the northerners, under the king, would surely gather somewhere near Paris. But what of the Prince of Wales? He was making another
‘If I was you,’ Sir Henri said, ‘I’d go westwards. Limoges first, then up to Poitiers and keep going north from there towards Tours. You’re bound to come across the prince somewhere.’
‘Is Poitiers in Poitou?’
‘Of course.’
‘The man who tried to blind Genevieve might be there,’ Thomas said, and did not add that
‘And what about Genny?’ Sir Henri asked. ‘Will she stay here?’
Thomas shook his head. ‘Saint Paul said wives should be submissive to their husbands, but no one bothered to tell Genny that.’
‘How is her eye?’
Thomas grimaced. Genevieve had made herself a leather eye-patch which she hated wearing, but she preferred it to the milky white of her ruined eyeball. ‘Brother Michael thinks she’ll keep it, but it’s blinded.’ He shrugged. ‘She thinks she’s ugly now.’
‘Genny couldn’t be ugly if she tried,’ Sir Henri said gallantly. ‘And what about Brother Michael? Will you take him?’
Thomas grinned. ‘He’s all yours. Give him a crossbow; he should manage to shoot one of those without killing himself.’
‘You don’t want him?’
‘And watch him despair over Bertille?’
Sir Henri chuckled. ‘God, he’s fast!’ He was watching the Sire Roland de Verrec, who was fighting two men at once, fending them off with his swift sword. He seemed to do it effortlessly, though the two men attacking him were plainly straining every muscle to get past his parries. ‘He’ll go north with you,’ Sir Henri said.
‘He wants to, yes.’
‘You know why? He doesn’t want to be the virgin knight any more.’
Thomas laughed. ‘That’s easily remedied. I’m amazed it isn’t already.’
Sir Henri watched Roland fight. ‘He’s extraordinary! How did he parry that thrust?’
‘Skill,’ Thomas said, ‘and practice.’
‘And purity,’ Sir Henri said. ‘He believes his skill lies in his purity.’
‘God, I must be such a weakling. Really?’
‘Which means he must make Bertille a widow before he can marry her, and he won’t lose his virginity until he is married.’
‘Dear God,’ Thomas said. ‘Truly?’
‘He says they’re betrothed. Can you be betrothed to a married woman? Anyway, he’s talked to Father Levonne, and reckons he can keep his purity by marrying, but to marry the countess she has to be a widow, so first he has to kill the husband.’
‘I hope Father Levonne explained that Labrouillade probably won’t die in battle.’
‘He won’t?’ Sir Henri asked.
‘Of course not. He’s too rich. He’s worth a fortune as a prisoner. If things go badly for him he’ll surrender, and no one will forgo a vast ransom to help Roland de Verrec lose his virginity.’
‘I don’t think our virgin knight has quite reckoned with that,’ Sir Henri said. ‘And what about Sir Robbie?’
‘He goes with me,’ Thomas said, his voice sounding grim.
Sir Henri nodded. ‘You don’t trust him?’
‘Let’s say I want him where I can see him.’
Sir Henri massaged his ankle. ‘His man went back north?’
Thomas nodded. Sculley had wanted to go back to the Lord of Douglas and so Thomas had thanked him, given him a purse and let him ride north. ‘The last thing he said to me was that he looked forward to killing me,’ Thomas said.
‘God, he was a horrible thing.’
‘Horrible,’ Thomas agreed.
‘You think he’ll make it to the French army?’
‘I think Sculley could ride through hell untouched,’ Thomas said.
‘Is that a Scottish name? Sculley?’
‘He told me his mother was English,’ Thomas said, ‘and he took her name because she didn’t know who his father was. She was captured from Northumberland by a Scottish raiding party and they evidently took turns on her.’
‘So he’s really an Englishman?’
‘Not according to him. I just hope I don’t have to fight the bastard.’
Then there were two days of preparation, days of rubbing bows with lanolin, of trimming the fledging on hundreds of arrows, of mending harness, of sharpening swords and axes, of looking at the future and wondering what it held. Thomas could not get the fight at Crecy out of his mind. Not that he remembered much outside the chaos of battle, the screams of horses and the screams of men, the whimpering of the dying and the stink of shit across a field of slaughtered soldiers. He did remember the noise of a thousand arrows leaping off their strings, and
