1356

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘Joining you?’

  ‘To fight the damned English!’

  ‘When I have completed my …’ Roland had hesitated. He had been about to say ‘quest’, but suspected these two older and more hardened men would mock him for that. ‘… my duty,’ he had said instead.

  So Roland, uncomfortable on the stone stairs, had slept hardly at all. He was galled by the memory of the two men-at-arms’ mocking laughter. He could have defeated either in the lists, but suspected fate would prove very different on the battlefield. He had a sudden vision of the siege tower collapsing at Breteuil, of the men screaming as they burned. He reassured himself that he had not panicked then, he had kept calm and rescued a man, but it had still been a defeat, and none of his skill could have averted that shame. He feared war.

  Next morning, at dawn, they rode on northwards. Roland felt a great deal safer now that he was escorted by almost a score of armed and armoured men, while Genevieve was quiet. She kept looking eastwards hoping that mounted archers would appear, but nothing moved in the low summer hills. The sun was relentless, baking the fields, slowing the horses and making the men sweat in their heavy mail. Philippe was leading now, using tracks away from the high road. They passed another village ruined by plague. Sunflowers grew in abandoned gardens. There must have been folk working in the fields and vineyards, but they hid

  whenever they saw horsemen in mail. ‘How much further?’ Roland asked as they watered the horses at a ford that crossed a shrunken field.

  ‘Not far,’ Philippe said. He had taken off his helmet and was wiping his face with a scrap of cloth. ‘Maybe two hours’ riding?’

  Roland gestured for his squire to take his horse. ‘Don’t let him drink too much,’ he ordered, then looked at Philippe again. ‘And once you’re at Labrouillade,’ he asked, ‘you’ll have to leave for the north?’

  ‘Within a day or two.’

  ‘And you follow the English?’

  Philippe shrugged. ‘I assume so,’ he said. ‘If the king reaches us we join him, but otherwise we harass their foragers, cut off their laggards and keep them worried.’ He hitched up his mail coat to piss against a tree. ‘And with any luck we take some rich prisoners.’

  And the first arrow struck.

  Thomas led his men and tired horses into a small town. He had no idea what it was called, only that there was no easy way around it and so they must ride through the narrow streets and hope no one delayed them. He took the precaution of tying the prisoner’s hands and stopping his mouth with a gag made of rags.

  ‘We should buy food,’ Karyl suggested.

  ‘But do it quickly,’ Thomas said.

  The horsemen clattered into a small square at the town’s centre, though to call it a town was to flatter a place that had neither walls nor fortress. Market stalls lined the western side of the square while a tavern lay hard under a steep hill to the north, and Thomas gave Karyl some coins. ‘Dried fish, bread, cheese,’ he suggested.

  ‘No one’s selling,’ Karyl grumbled.

  The stallholders and their customers had all gathered by the church. They looked with curiosity at the horsemen, but none asked their business, though a couple, seeing that the horsemen were interested in the food offered for sale on the stalls, hurried to help. Thomas walked his horse across the cobbles to where the crowd was thickest and saw that a broad-shouldered man was reading aloud from the top of the church steps. The man had lost his right hand and instead wore a wooden spike on which a parchment was impaled. He had a close-fitting helmet, a short grey beard, and wore a faded jupon that displayed golden fleurs-de-lys against a blue field. He lowered the parchment as he saw Thomas draw close. ‘Who are you?’ he called.

  ‘We serve the Count of Berat,’ Thomas lied.

  ‘You’d do well to return there,’ the man said.

  ‘Why?’

  The man flourished the parchment. ‘This is the arrière-ban,’ he said. ‘Berat and every other lord is summoned to make war for the king. The English are out.’ The crowd made a low growling noise and some even looked nervously northwards as if expecting to see the old enemy appearing from the hills.

  ‘Are they coming this way?’ Thomas asked.

  ‘God be praised, no. Those goddams are well north of here, but who knows? The devil could bring them south any day.’

  Thomas’s horse stamped a hoof on the cobbles. Thomas leaned forward and stroked its neck. ‘And the king?’ he asked.

  ‘God will bring him victory,’ the grey-bearded man said piously, meaning that he had no news of the French king’s movements, ‘but until God does, my lord summons every man-at-arms to assemble at Bourges.’

  ‘Your lord?’

  ‘The Duke de Berry,’ the man said proudly. That explained the royal fleurs-de-lys on his jupon because the Duke de Berry was a son of King Jean and the holder of a slew of dukedoms, counties, and fiefs.

  ‘The duke plans to fight them on his own?’ Thomas asked.

  The messenger shrugged. ‘The king has ordered it. All forces from the south of France are to gather at Bourges.’

  ‘Where’s Bourges?’

  ‘North,’ the messenger said, ‘but to be honest I don’t know precisely, except you go to Nevers and there’s a fine road from there.’

  ‘Wherever the hell Nevers is,’ Thomas grumbled. ‘Has your lord summoned Labrouillade too?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course. The arrière-ban summons every lord and every vassal. With God’s grace we’re going to trap the bastards and destroy them.’

  ‘And these good people?’ Thomas gestured at the crowd that numbered perhaps sixty or seventy people, and which contained no men-at-arms as far as he could tell.

  ‘He wants our taxes!’ a man in a butcher’s bloodied apron shouted.

  ‘Taxes must be paid,’ the messenger said firmly. ‘If the English are to be beaten, the army must be paid.’

  ‘The taxes are paid!’ the butcher shouted, and the rest called out their support.

  The messenger, fearing the anger of the crowd, pointed at young Pitou. ‘A prisoner?’ he asked Thomas. ‘What has he done?’

  ‘Stolen from the count,’ Thomas lied.

  ‘You want to hang him here?’ the man asked hopefully, plainly wanting a distraction from the crowd’s hostility.

  ‘He must go back to Berat,’ Thomas said. ‘The count likes to hang thieves himself.’

  ‘Pity.’ The man pulled the document off the wooden spike and pushed his way through the crowd until he reached Thomas’s stirrup. ‘A word, monsieur?’ he asked.

  Now that he was close, Thomas could see that the messenger had a shrewd and weathered face which suggested that this man had experienced too much, and that nothing that happened in the future could surprise him. ‘You were a man-at-arms?’ Thomas asked.

  ‘I was, till some whoreson Gascon chopped off my hand.’ He used the wooden spike to wave away the men who had followed in hope of overhearing his conversation, and gestured Thomas towards the square’s centre. ‘My name is Jean Baillaud,’ he introduced himself, ‘Sergeant to Berry.’

  ‘A good master?’

  ‘He’s a goddamned child,’ Baillaud said.

  ‘Child?

  ‘Fifteen years old. Thinks he knows everything. But if you help me, I’m sure I can persuade him to be grateful.’ He paused, smiling. ‘And a prince’s gratitude is worth having.’

  ‘Then how can I help?’ Thomas asked.

  Baillaud looked back at the small crowd and lowered his voice. ‘The poor bastards have paid their taxes,’ he said, ‘or at least most of them have.’

  ‘But you want more?’

  ‘Of course. There are never enough taxes. Be stupid enough

  to pay once and you can be sure we’ll be back to squeeze you again.’

  ‘And the count sent you on your own to do the squeezing?’

  ‘He’s not that foolish. I have seven men-at-arms here, but the town knows just why we came.’

  Thomas looked at the t
avern. ‘And the town has been generous with wine?’ he guessed.

  ‘With wine and with whores,’ Baillaud said.

  ‘So,’ Thomas said, and let the word hang in the hot midday air.

  ‘So squeeze the bastards for me and you can take ten per cent back to Berat.’

  ‘The count would like that,’ Thomas said.

  ‘That butcher is the town treasurer,’ Baillaud said. ‘He has the tax list but claims to have lost it. You might start by helping him find it?’

  Thomas nodded. ‘Let me talk to my men,’ he said, and kicked his horse towards the tavern. Once out of Baillaud’s earshot he beckoned for Keane. ‘There are eight horses in the tavern stables,’ he said, ‘and we’re taking all of them. You and Brother Michael, get around the back and make sure they’re bridled. Karyl!’

  The German had finished buying supplies and was pushing food into saddlebags. ‘You want more?’ he called.

  Thomas beckoned him close. ‘There are seven men whoring in the tavern. We’ll take their mail and weapons.’

  ‘Kill them?’

  ‘Only if they cause trouble.’

  Karyl strode towards the tavern as Baillaud caught up with Thomas. ‘They’ll do it?’

  ‘Willingly,’ Thomas said.

  ‘I didn’t hear your name,’ Baillaud said.

  ‘Thomas,’ Thomas said, and reached down to shake Baillaud’s hand, then realised there was nothing to shake.

  ‘You sound Norman,’ Baillaud said.

  ‘That’s what folk tell me. Is that where the English are going? You said they were going north.’

  ‘Christ knows,’ Baillaud said. ‘They marched out of Gascony and the last I heard they were at Périgueux.’

  ‘They could be coming this way,’ Thomas said.

  ‘More plunder northwards,’ Baillaud said. ‘The English princeling stripped everything to the south last year.’ He scowled. ‘It’s a goddamned scandal,’ he said angrily.

  ‘Scandal?’

  ‘Edward of Wales! He’s a nothing! A spoiled, privileged puppy! Women and gambling are all he cares about, and he’s running riot around France because King Jean is scared of arrows. We should catch the bastard, take his hose down and spank him like a seven-year-old.’ Baillaud suddenly turned and stared at the inn. He could hear shouting. ‘What?’ he began, then stopped abruptly as a naked man was hurled backwards through an upstairs window. The man landed heavily on his back and lay there, stirring slightly. ‘That’s …’ Baillaud said.

  ‘One of your men,’ Thomas said. ‘They must have very tough whores in this town.’

  ‘God’s blood,’ Baillaud protested, and started towards the prostrate man, then stopped because a second naked man had come out of the tavern door. He was backing away frantically, pursued by two of Thomas’s men.

  ‘I surrender!’ the man shouted. ‘Enough! Enough!’

  ‘Let him be!’ Thomas said.

  ‘Bastard threw a full piss-pot at me,’ Arnaldus snarled.

  ‘It’ll dry,’ Thomas said.

  ‘It wasn’t filled with piss,’ the Gascon said, and kicked the naked man hard between the legs. ‘Now I’ll let him be.’

  ‘What are you …’ Baillaud began

  Thomas smiled down from the saddle. ‘Men call me le Bâtard,’ he said, ‘and we’re the Hellequin.’ He touched the hilt of the sword just to remind Baillaud that it existed. ‘We’re taking your horses and weapons,’ he went on, then turned his horse and kicked it towards the townsfolk who were still gathered around the church steps. ‘Pay your taxes!’ he shouted. ‘Make your lords rich, so that when we capture them they can afford to pay us a large ransom. You’ll be poor, but we shall be rich! You have our gratitude.’ They just gaped at him.

  Thomas now had more spare horses, more weapons, more mail. If there was any pursuit from Montpellier it was left far behind, but no such pursuit worried him. Genevieve worried him.

  So they rode on northwards.

  The arrow struck Philippe full in the chest. The crunching sound reminded Roland of a butcher’s axe driving into a carcass. Philippe was thrown back by the force of the blow. The arrow had pierced his mail coat, broken a rib, and punctured a lung. He tried to speak, but instead bubbled blood at his lips, then fell backwards. More arrows flew. Two more men were down. Blood was swirling in the stream. An arrow slashed by Roland’s head, missing his ear by a hand’s breadth. The wind of it was like a slap. A horse was screaming, an arrow in its belly. The arrows were much longer than Roland expected. He was amazed he even noticed that, but even as the missiles whipped in from the west he was astonished by the length of the shafts, so much longer than the short arrows he used for hunting. Another struck a tree and shivered there.

  Philippe was dying. Men were scrambling to hide behind trees, or else beneath the shallow stream bank, but it was Jacques who saved them. He ran to Genevieve’s side and snatched her son from her protective arms. He gripped the boy’s belt and held him high with one strong hand and slid a long knife from its sheath with the other hand. He held the blade at the boy’s throat. Genevieve screamed, but the arrows stopped. ‘Tell them your son dies if there’s one more arrow,’ Jacques said.

  ‘You …’ Genevieve began.

  ‘Tell them, bitch!’ Jacques snarled.

  Genevieve cupped her hands. ‘No more arrows!’ she called in English.

  Silence, except for the gurgling in Philippe’s throat. Every gasp brought more blood to spill from his mouth. The horse began whinnying, white-eyed.

  ‘Tell them we’re going,’ Jacques said, ‘and the boy dies if they try to stop us.’

  ‘You must leave us alone!’ Genevieve shouted.

  Then the archers appeared from a copse a hundred yards to the east. There were sixteen of them, all holding the long war bows. ‘Genny!’ one of them called.

  ‘They’ll kill Hugh if you try to stop them,’ she called back.

  ‘Any news of Thomas?’

  ‘No, Sam! Now let them go!’

  Sam waved, as if to suggest they could leave, and Roland began to breathe again. Two men were lifting the dying Philippe onto a horse, and two corpses were draped over other saddles. The men mounted, but Jacques took care to keep hold of the boy. ‘Break the arrows,’ he ordered a man.

  ‘Break them?’

  ‘So they can’t use them again, you half-brained idiot.’

  The man snapped as many fallen arrows as he could find, then Jacques led them northwards. Roland was silent. He was thinking of the arrows searing in. By God’s grace none had struck him, but the terror of those shafts was still making him tremble, and that had been a mere handful of archers. What could a thousand such men do? ‘How did they find us?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re archers,’ Genevieve said, ‘they’ll find you.’

  ‘Quiet, bitch,’ Jacques shouted. He had Hugh across his saddle bow and still held the knife.

  ‘Be courteous!’ Roland said more angrily than he had intended.

  Jacques muttered something under his breath, but spurred ahead to get out of Roland’s company. Roland looked back down the road and saw that the archers were mounted now and following, but keeping a good distance. He wondered how far an English war bow could shoot, then forgot the question as the men-at-arms crested a small rise, and there was Labrouillade. The castle lay at the centre of a wide, shallow valley, the moat fed by a meandering stream that looped through calm pastureland. No trees grew close to the castle, nor was any building allowed within a quarter-mile, so that no besieger could find shelter for a bowman or a siege engine. The stones of the curtain wall looked almost white in the strong sun. The moat glittered. The count’s green banner hung listless from the topmost tower, then Jacques spurred on and the other horsemen followed, and Roland saw the great drawbridge creak down. The hooves echoed loud on the bridge’s planks; he plunged through the sudden darkness of the entrance arch and there, waiting in the castle’s courtyard, was a tall churchman with green eyes and a hawk on his wrist.r />
  The huge capstan in the gatehouse creaked as two men turned its handle to close the heavy drawbridge. The pawl that held it closed clattered on the metal teeth, then the planks met the arch with a crash and two men ran to bolt the massive bridge upright.

  And Roland felt safe.

  Eight

  Thomas arrived at last light. His horses were worn out, stumbling into the grove of chestnut and oak where an archer, seeing horsemen dark against the furnace of the sunset, shouted a challenge. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘It’s no good shouting in English, Simon,’ Thomas called back.

  ‘God’s belly,’ Simon lowered his bow. ‘We thought you was dead.’

  ‘I feel dead,’ Thomas said. He and his companions had ridden hard all day, then cast around the Count of Labrouillade’s castle in search of the men who had ridden from Castillon d’Arbizon, not knowing if they would be there, but finding them on this tree-covered hill that offered a view of the castle’s sole entrance. Thomas slid from the saddle, his spirits as low as the swollen sun, which threw long shadows down the wide valley where Labrouillade had his fortress.

  ‘We tried to stop them,’ Sam told him.

  ‘You did well,’ Thomas said when he had heard the whole story. Sam and his archers had reached the stream only minutes before Roland and his escort came into sight and they had indeed done well to set up an ambush.

  ‘We’d have taken down every last man if it hadn’t been for Hugh,’ Sam went on. ‘Bastard had a knife at his throat. We killed a couple though.’

  ‘But Genevieve’s inside?’

  Sam nodded. ‘She and Hugh.’

  Thomas stared at the castle from the edge of the trees. No chance, he thought. The sun reddened the curtain wall, glimmered the moat scarlet, and reflected a wink of lurid light from the helmet of a sentinel. With a cannon, he thought, he could shatter the drawbridge in a day, but how would he cross the moat?

  ‘I brought your bow,’ Sam said.

  ‘You were expecting me?’ Thomas asked. ‘Or planning to use it yourself?’