1356

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘Nor should he,’ Michael responded dutifully.

  ‘He might as well disapprove of rain,’ Sam said cheerfully, leading the way into a larger square where a half-dozen horsemen waited with drawn swords. They were in mail and helmets, and all wore the bishop’s livery, and behind them was the choir, a score of boys chanting a psalm. ‘Domine eduxisti,’ they sang, ‘de inferno animam meam vivificasti me ne descenderem in lacum.’

  ‘He’d know what that meant,’ Sam said, tapping his badge and evidently meaning le Bâtard.

  ‘It means God has brought our souls out of hell,’ Brother Michael said, ‘and given us life and will keep us from the pit.’

  ‘That’s very nice of God,’ Sam said. He gave a perfunctory bow to the horsemen and touched his hand to his helmet. ‘That’s the bishop,’ he explained, and Brother Michael saw a tall man, his dark face framed by a steel helmet, sitting on his horse beneath a banner showing the crozier and the crosses. ‘He’s waiting,’ Sam explained, ‘for us to do the fighting. They all do that. Come and fight with us, they say, then they all get pissing drunk while we do all the killing. Still, it’s what we’re paid for. Careful here, brother, it gets dangerous.’ He took the bow from his shoulder, led the monk down an alley, then checked at the corner. He peered around. ‘Bloody dangerous,’ he added.

  Brother Michael, fascinated and repelled by the carnage all about him, leaned past Sam and discovered they had reached the top of the town and were at the edge of a big open space, a marketplace perhaps, and on its far side was a road cut through black rock to the castle gate. The gatehouse, lit by the flames in the lower town, was hung with great banners. Some enjoined the help of the saints, while others showed the badge of the golden merlin. A crossbow bolt struck the wall near the priest then skittered down the cobbled alley. ‘If we capture the castle by sundown tomorrow,’ Sam said, putting an arrow on his string, ‘our money is doubled.’

  ‘Doubled? Why?’

  ‘Because tomorrow is Saint Bertille’s day,’ Sam said, ‘and our employer’s wife is called Bertille, so the fall of the castle will prove that God is on our side and not on hers.’

  Brother Michael thought that was dubious theology, but he did not argue the point. ‘She’s the wife who ran away?’

  ‘Can’t blame her. He’s a pig, the count, a bloody pig, but marriage is marriage, ain’t it? And it’ll be a chill day in hell that a woman can choose a husband. Still, I do feel sorry for her, married to that pig.’ He half drew the bow, stepped around the corner, looked for a target, saw none and stepped back. ‘So the poor girl’s in there,’ he went on, ‘and the pig is paying us to fetch her out double fast.’

  Brother Michael peered around the corner, then twitched back as a pair of crossbow bolts caught the firelight. The bolts banged into the wall close to him, then ricocheted on down the alley. ‘Lucky, aren’t you?’ Sam said cheerfully. ‘Bastards saw me, took aim, then you showed yourself. You could be in heaven by now if the bastards could shoot straight.’

  ‘You’ll never get the lady out of that place,’ Brother Michael opined.

  ‘We won’t?’

  ‘It’s too strong!’

  ‘We’re the Hellequin,’ Sam said, ‘which means the poor lass has got about an hour left with her lover boy. I hope he’s giving her a good one to remember him by.’

  Michael, unseen, blushed. He was troubled by women. For most of his life that temptation had not mattered because, closed away in the Cistercian house, he rarely saw any women, but the journey from Carlisle had strewn a thousand devil’s snares across his path. In Toulouse a whore had grabbed him from behind, fondled him, and he had torn himself free, shaking with embarrassment, and fallen to his knees. The memory of her laughter was like a whip on his soul, as were the memories of all the girls he had seen, stared at, and wondered about, and he remembered the white naked skin of the girl at the town gate and he knew the devil was tempting him again, and he was about to say a prayer for strength when he was distracted by a whirring sound and saw a shower of crossbow bolts slashing down to the marketplace. Some, striking the cobbles, gave off bright sparks, and Brother Michael wondered why the defenders were shooting, then became aware that dark-cloaked men were running from every alleyway to line the open space. They were archers, who began loosing arrows at the high battlements. Flights of arrows; not the short, leather-fledged, metal bolts of crossbowmen, but English arrows, white-feathered and long, speeding silently up to the wall’s top, propelled by the great yew war bows with their hempen strings that gave a harp’s sharp note for every missile shot. The arrows trembled as they left the string, then their feathers caught the air and they streaked up, white flashes in the dark, the firelight glistening from their steel points, and the monk noted how the defenders’ bolts, so thick a moment ago, were suddenly sparse. The archers were drenching the castle’s defenders with arrows, forcing the crossbowmen to duck behind the wall’s parapet, while other bowmen shot at the slits in the flanking towers. The sound of the steel heads striking the castle walls was like hail on cobbles. One archer fell back, a bolt in his chest, but that was the only casualty the monk saw, and then he heard the wheels.

  ‘Stand back,’ Sam warned him, and the priest stepped into the alley as a cart thundered past him. It was a small cart, light enough for six men to push, but it had been made heavier because ten great pavises, man-sized shields designed to protect a crossbowman as he reloaded his clumsy weapon, had been nailed to the front and sides to protect the men who pushed the cart, which was loaded with small wooden barrels.

  ‘Much less than an hour,’ Sam said, stepping into the street when the cart had passed. He drew the big bow and sent an arrow towards the castle’s gate.

  It was all strangely silent. Bother Michael had expected battle to be noise, he had expected to hear men calling to God for the sake of their souls, to hear voices raised in fear or pain, but the only sounds were the shrieks of the women in the lower town, the crackle of the flames, the harp-notes of the bows, the sound of

  the cart’s wheels on the cobbles, and the rattle of bolts and arrows clattering on stone. Michael stared in awe as Sam kept shooting, not seeming to aim, but just whipping shaft after shaft at the castle’s battlements.

  ‘Good thing we can see,’ Sam said, releasing another arrow.

  ‘The flames, you mean?’

  ‘That’s why we set fire to the houses,’ Sam said, ‘to light up the bastards.’ He loosed another shaft, seemingly without effort; when Brother Michael had once tried to draw a yew bow he had not been able to pull the string more than a hand’s breadth.

  The cart had reached the castle’s gate now. It stopped there, a black shadow inside the dark archway, and Brother Michael saw a flicker of light spring up in that darkness, fade, revive, then steady to a dull glow as the six men who had pushed the cart ran back towards the archers. One of them fell, evidently struck by a crossbow bolt. Two of the others snatched his arms and dragged him back, and it was then that the monk caught his first sight of le Bâtard.

  ‘That’s him,’ Sam said fondly, ‘our bloody bastard.’ Brother Michael saw a tall man dressed in a belted haubergeon of chain mail that had been painted black. He had high boots, a black sword scabbard and his helmet was a simple bascinet that was black like his mail. His sword was drawn and he used it to wave a dozen men-at-arms forward, forming them in a line, shields overlapping, in the open space. He glanced towards Brother Michael, who saw le Bâtard’s nose was broken and his cheek scarred, but he also saw a force in the face, a savagery, and he understood why the abbot at Paville had spoken of this man with awe. Brother Michael had expected le Bâtard to be an older man, and was surprised that the black-armoured soldier looked so young. Then le Bâtard saw Sam. ‘I thought you were guarding the church, Sam,’ he said.

  ‘Poxface and Johnny are still there,’ Sam said, ‘but I brought this fellow to see you.’ He jerked his head towards Brother Michael.

  The monk took a step forward and felt the f
ull force of le Bâtard’s gaze. He was suddenly nervous and his mouth went dry with fear. ‘I have a message for you,’ he stammered, ‘it’s from …’

  ‘Later,’ le Bâtard interrupted. A servant had brought him a shield that he looped onto his left arm, then turned to look at the castle.

  Which suddenly gouted flame and smoke. The smoke was black and red, shot through with stabbing flames, and filling the night with a bursting thunder that made Brother Michael crouch in fear. Scraps of flaming wreckage seared through the night as the heated air punched past the alley’s mouth. Smoke shrouded the open space as the noise of the blast echoed and rolled back from the valley’s far side. Birds that had been nesting in crevices of the castle wall flapped into the smoky air, while one of the great banners, calling on the help of Saint Joseph, caught the fire and blazed bright against the battlements. ‘Gunpowder,’ Sam explained laconically.

  ‘Gunpowder?’

  ‘He’s a clever bastard, our bastard,’ Sam said. ‘Knocks down gates fast, don’t it? Mind you, it’s expensive. The wifeless pig had to pay double if he wanted us to use powder. He must want the bitch bad to pay that much! I hope she’s bloody worth it.’

  Brother Michael saw small flames flickering in the archway’s thick smoke. He understood now why the town’s entrance looked as though it had been torn, blackened and wrenched apart by the devil’s fist. Le Bâtard had forced his way into the town with gunpowder, and he had repeated the trick to blow down the castle’s great wooden gates. Now he led his twenty men-at-arms towards the wreckage.

  ‘Archers!’ another man called, and the bowmen, including Sam, followed the men-at-arms towards the gate. They advanced in silence, and that too was terrifying. These men in their black and white livery, Brother Michael thought, had learned to live calmly and fight ruthlessly in the dark valley of death. None of them appeared to be drunk. They were disciplined, efficient and frightening.

  Le Bâtard vanished in the smoke. There were shouts from the castle, but the monk could not see what was happening there, though it was plain the attackers were inside, for the archers were now streaming through the smoking gate-arch. More men were following, men wearing the badges of the bishop and the count, going to seek more plunder in the doomed fortress.

  ‘It could be dangerous,’ Sam warned the young monk.

  ‘God is with us,’ Brother Michael said, and wondered at the fierce excitement he felt, so fierce that he hefted the pilgrim’s staff as though it were a weapon.

  The castle had looked big from the alleyway, but as he jostled through the scorched gate Brother Michael saw it was much smaller than it had appeared. It had no bailey and no great keep, but merely the gatehouse and one tall tower, which were separated by a small courtyard where a dozen crossbowmen in the red and gold livery lay dying. One man had been eviscerated by the explosion at the gate and, though his intestines had spilt across the yard’s stones, he still lived and moaned. The monk paused to offer the man some help, then sprang back as Sam, with an ease that was as casual as it seemed heartless, cut his throat. ‘You killed him!’ Brother Michael said in horror.

  ‘Of course I bloody killed him,’ Sam said cheerfully. ‘What did you expect me to do? Kiss him? I hope someone does the same for me if I’m in that state.’ He wiped the blood from his short knife. A defender screamed as he fell from the gatehouse parapet, while another man staggered down the tower steps to collapse at the foot.

  There was a door at the top of the steps, but it had not been defended, or else the defenders’ courage had evaporated when the main gate exploded inwards, and so le Bâtard’s men were streaming into the tower. Brother Michael followed, then turned as a trumpet sounded. A cavalcade of horsemen, all in green and white, were forcing their way through the castle gate where they used swords to drive their own men from their path. At the centre of the horsemen, where he was protected by their weapons, was a monstrously fat man clad in mail and plate and mounted on a huge horse. The cavalcade stopped at the foot of the steps and it took four men to ease the fat one out of his saddle and steady him on his feet. ‘His piggy lordship,’ Sam said sardonically.

  ‘The Count of Labrouillade?’

  ‘One of our employers,’ Sam said, ‘and here’s the other one.’ The bishop and his men had followed the count through the gate, and Sam and Michael went onto their knees as the two leaders mounted the steps and went into the tower.

  Sam and Brother Michael followed the bishop’s men into the entrance chamber, up a flight of shallow stairs and into a great hall that was a high, pillared space lit by a dozen smoking torches and hung with tapestries showing the golden merlin on its red background. There were at least sixty men already in the hall and they now shuffled to the edges, allowing the Count of Labrouillade and the Bishop of Lavence to walk slowly towards the dais where two of le Bâtard’s men were holding the defeated lord on his knees. Behind them, tall and black in his armour, was le Bâtard himself, his face expressionless, while beside him, unrestrained, was a young woman in a red dress. ‘That’s Bertille?’ Brother Michael asked.

  ‘Must be,’ Sam said appreciatively. ‘And a nice little mare she is too!’

  Brother Michael held his breath, stared, and, for an heretical moment, he regretted ever taking holy orders. Bertille, the faithless Countess of Labrouillade, was more than a nice little mare, she was a beauty. She could not have been a day over twenty and had a sweet face, unmarked by scars or disease, with full lips and dark eyes. Her hair was black and curly, her eyes wide, and despite the obvious terror on her face she was so lovely that Brother Michael, who was only twenty-two himself, trembled.

  He thought he had never seen a creature so beautiful, and then he breathed again, made the sign of the cross, and uttered a silent prayer that the Virgin and Saint Michael would keep him from temptation. ‘She’s worth the price of the gunpowder, I’d say,’ Sam commented cheerfully.

  Brother Michael watched as Bertille’s husband, who had taken off his helmet to reveal a head of greasy grey hair and a heavy, porcine face, waddled towards her. The count’s breath was short because of the effort of walking in his heavy armour. He stopped a few paces from the dais and stared at the breast of his wife’s dress, which was blazoned with the golden merlin, the symbol of her defeated lover. ‘It seems to me, madame,’ the count said, ‘that you show poor taste in clothing.’

  The countess dropped to her knees and held her clasped hands towards her husband. She wanted to speak, but the only sound she made was a whimpering sob. Tears on her cheeks reflected the flames of the torches. Brother Michael reminded himself that she was an adulteress, a sinner, a fornicator lost to grace, and Sam glanced at the young monk and thought that one day a woman would cause trouble in his life.

  ‘Take that badge off her,’ the count ordered two of his men-at-arms, gesturing at the golden merlin embroidered on his wife’s dress, and the two men, their chain mail clinking and plated boots heavy on the flagstones, climbed the dais and seized the countess. She tried to resist them, shrieked once, but then surrendered as one man held her arms behind her back and the other drew a short knife from his belt.

  Brother Michael instinctively moved as though to help her, but Sam checked him with his one hand. ‘She’s the count’s wife, brother,’ the archer said softly, ‘which means she’s his property. He can do with her whatever he wants, and if you interfere he’ll slit your belly open.’

  ‘I was not …’ Brother Michael began, then fell silent rather than tell a lie, for he had been moved to intervene, or at least protest, but now he just watched as the man-at-arms slashed at the precious fabric, ripping the golden threads away from the scarlet, tearing the bodice down to the countess’s waist and finally pulling the embroidered merlin free and throwing it at the feet of his master. The countess, released from the second man’s grip, crouched and clutched the remnants of the dress to her breasts.

  ‘Villon!’ the count commanded. ‘Look at me!’

  The man held by le Bâtard’s two
soldiers reluctantly looked up at his enemy. He was a young man, handsome as a hawk, and, till an hour before, he had been ruler of this place, lord of its lands and owner of its peasants, but now he was nothing. He was in mail, with a breastplate and leg plates, and a smear of blood in his dark hair showed that he had fought the besiegers, but now he was in their grasp and he was forced to watch as the fat count fumbled to drag up the skirt of his chain mail. No one in the hall moved or spoke, they just watched as the count wrenched leather and steel aside and then, with a smile on his face, pissed on the merlin torn from his wife’s dress. He had the bladder of an ox and the urine splashed for a long time. Somewhere in the castle a man screamed and the scream went on and on, until at last, blessedly, it stopped.

  The count finished at the same time, then held out a hand to his squire, who gave him a small knife with a wickedly curved blade. ‘See this, Villon?’ The count held the knife up so its blade caught the light. ‘Know what it is?’

  Villon, held by the two men-at-arms, said nothing.

  ‘It’s for you,’ the count said. ‘She,’ he pointed the knife at his wife, ‘will go back to Labrouillade, and so will you, but only after we’ve cut you.’

  The men in green and white livery grinned, anticipating the pain and pleasure to come. The knife, its blade rusted and its handle a worn sliver of wood, was a castrator’s knife, used to geld rams or calves or the small boys destined for the choirs of great churches. ‘Strip him,’ the count ordered his men.

  ‘Oh, God,’ Brother Michael murmured.

  ‘No stomach for it, brother?’ Sam asked.

  ‘He fought well,’ a new voice intervened, and the monk saw that le Bâtard had stepped to the edge of the dais. ‘He fought bravely and he deserves to die like a man.’

  Some of the count’s men put their hands on their sword hilts, but the bishop waved them down. ‘He has offended the laws of man and God,’ the bishop told le Bâtard, ‘and placed himself beyond the boundaries of chivalry.’