1356

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘But I have another use for the bitch first,’ he said, and with those words a terrible anger overwhelmed the count. He had been humiliated, first by his wife and then by le Bâtard. He suspected his own men mocked him behind his back, which is why he preferred to eat in a separate hall. Indeed, he knew that all France laughed at him. He had been insulted, he had been crowned with the cuckold’s horns, and he was a proud man, and the wound to his honour went deep so that the rage was suddenly red in him, and he roared in what sounded like pain as he reached out, took hold of Genevieve’s linen dress and ripped it open.

  Genevieve screamed.

  The scream only enraged the count further. All the hurt of the last weeks was seething in him, and all he could think of was to wreak revenge on the men who had belittled him, and how better than to take the horns from his own head and put them on le Bâtard? He tore the dress down as Genevieve screamed a second time and staggered backwards. Her son was crying and the count cuffed him hard around the head, then tugged at Genevieve’s dress again. She clutched the torn linen to her throat. ‘You foul bitch!’ the count shouted. ‘Show me your tits, you skinny bitch!’ He struck her a stinging blow, and just then half a dozen men came through the chamber door.

  ‘Stop!’ It was Roland de Verrec who shouted. ‘Stop!’ he called again. ‘She is my hostage.’

  Still more men came through the door. Robbie Douglas was there, gaping at Genevieve, who was now crouching on the flagstones and trying to pull the ripped fragments of her dress up to her neck. Sculley was grinning. The count’s men-at-arms were looking from the furious Labrouillade to the calm Roland, while Father Marchant took stock and stepped between them. ‘The girl,’ he told the count, ‘is the captive of the Order, my lord.’

  That statement puzzled Roland who thought she was his hostage, but he took the words as a statement of support and so made no protest.

  The count was breathing heavily. He was a cornered boar. For a heartbeat it seemed that prudence might govern his rage, but then, like a wave breaking inside him, the rage overwhelmed him again. ‘Get out,’ he snarled at the newcomers.

  ‘My lord …’ Father Marchant started emolliently.

  ‘Get out!’ the count roared. ‘This is my castle!’

  No one moved.

  ‘You!’ the count pointed at Luc. ‘Get rid of them!

  Luc did try to shepherd Roland, Father Marchant and the other knights of the Order of the Fisherman from the hall, but Roland stayed firm. ‘She is my hostage,’ he said again.

  ‘Let’s fight for the bint,’ Sculley said cheerfully.

  ‘Quiet,’ Robbie hissed. Robbie was aware of all the old turmoil that he thought had been calmed by the Order of the Fisherman. He knew Genevieve, he had been in love with her since the day he had first seen her in the cells at Castillon d’Arbizon. That unrequited love had broken his friendship with Thomas, it had led to the breaking of oaths, to his arguments with the Lord of Douglas, and had only ended, Robbie had thought, with the sacred duty of the Order of the Fisherman. Now he saw Roland put a hand on the hilt of his sword, and he dreaded the choice that must follow. Genevieve was staring up at him, surprise and appeal in her hurt eyes.

  The count saw Roland’s hand go to Durandal’s sword hilt and, foolishly, he reached for his own blade. Father Marchant held up both hands. ‘In the name of God!’ he shouted, and snatched at Roland’s arm. ‘In the name of God!’ he said again, and held a cautionary hand towards the count. ‘My lord,’ he said in a reasonable voice, ‘you are right. This is your castle. What happens in these walls is by your command, by your privilege, and we cannot prevent it. But, my lord,’ and here Father Marchant bowed low to the count, ‘this woman must talk to us. His Holiness the Pope demands it, the King of France demands it, and, my lord, His Holiness and His Majesty will be grateful to you if you will allow me, your most humble servant,’ and here he bowed again to Labrouillade, ‘to question this wretched woman.’

  Father Marchant had invented the interest of the Pope and the king, but it was an inspired invention, sufficient to cool Labrouillade’s fury. ‘I am right?’ the count demanded.

  ‘Entirely, and if any of us has impeded you, my lord, if any of us has challenged your undoubted authority, then you have our humblest apology.’

  ‘But the Pope and the king have an interest here?’

  ‘Astonishing though that may seem, my lord, yes. It is why I am here, sent by Cardinal Bessières. My lord, if you would earn a reputation as a man who has fought valiantly for the kingdom of heaven here upon earth then I would beg you to allow me some time with this creature.’

  ‘And when you’re done with her?’

  ‘As I said, my lord, this is your castle.’

  ‘And your men would do well to remember that,’ the count snarled.

  ‘Indeed, my lord.’

  ‘Then take her,’ the count said magnanimously.

  ‘The church will be for ever in your debt, my lord,’ Father Marchant said, and beckoned to Sculley and Robbie to take Genevieve out. He pointed at Hugh. ‘Take him too.’

  And Robbie breathed a sigh of relief.

  Thomas knelt at the wood’s edge. ‘What did he say?’ he asked for the tenth time.

  ‘To go back at first light.’ Keane said.

  And between now, the night’s heart, and first light, what would happen to Genevieve? This was the question that tortured Thomas, and to which imagination provided a foul answer, and for which intelligence offered no solution. He could not rescue her. He could not cross a moat, climb a wall, and fight his way inside. For that he would need an army and time. ‘You should get some sleep,’ he said to his men, and that was true, but the archers had chosen to keep their vigil with Thomas. None wanted to sleep. ‘How many men inside?’ Thomas wondered aloud.

  ‘The bastard had about a hundred men when we fought at Villon,’ Sam offered.

  ‘They can’t all be inside,’ Thomas said, though that was hope speaking.

  ‘It’s a big enough place,’ Keane said.

  ‘And we have thirty-four archers here,’ Thomas said.

  ‘And we have men-at-arms,’ Karyl added.

  ‘He had about forty crossbows,’ Sam said, ‘maybe more?’

  ‘He didn’t say he’d exchange her?’ Thomas asked, for the tenth time.

  ‘He just said to come back,’ Keane said. ‘I’d have asked the fellow a few questions if I could, but they dropped a hint with a crossbow that Father Levonne and I weren’t exactly welcome.’

  If Genevieve was hurt, Thomas thought, he would forget la Malice, he would forget the Prince of Wales, he would forget everything until he had tied the Count of Labrouillade down onto a table and cut him as the count had cut Villon. And that was a futile hope in this moonlit night. There were times when all a man could do was wait and fortify himself with dreams against despair.

  ‘At dawn,’ Thomas said, ‘I want every archer, every man-at-arms. We’ll show ourselves. We’ll be ready to fight, but stay just out of crossbow range.’ It was a gesture, he knew, nothing more, but right now he was reduced to gestures.

  ‘We’re ready now,’ Sam said. Like all the archers he had his bow, though in the expectation of dew he had taken the cord from the stave and stored it in his hat. ‘And it’ll be an early dawn.’

  ‘You should sleep,’ Thomas said, ‘all of you who aren’t sentries, you should sleep.’

  ‘Aye, we should,’ Sam said.

  And no one moved.

  Father Marchant laid a gentle hand on Roland’s arm. ‘You did right, my son. She is your prisoner and you had to defend her, but you must use caution.’

  ‘Caution?’

  ‘This is the count’s demesne. He rules here.’ He smiled. ‘But that is past. Now you must give the prisoner to us.’

  ‘Prisoner?’ Roland asked. ‘She is a hostage, father.’

  Father Marchant hesitated, ‘What do you know of her?’ he asked.

  Roland fro
wned. ‘She is base-born and married to le Bâtard, but beyond that nothing of consequence.’

  ‘You like her?’

  Roland hesitated, then remembered his duty to the truth. ‘I didn’t like her at first, father, but I’ve come to admire her. She has spirit. She has a quick mind. Yes, I like her.’

  ‘She has bewitched you,’ Father Marchant said sternly, ‘and for that you are not to blame. But you should know she is excommunicated, condemned by Holy Mother Church. She was to be burned for heresy, but le Bâtard rescued her, and then, to compound her evil, she killed a pious Dominican who had discovered her heresy. In all conscience, my son, I cannot let her go now, I cannot permit her to spread her loathsome doctrines. She is condemned.’

  ‘I swore to protect her,’ Roland said uneasily.

  ‘I release you from that oath.’

  ‘But she seems such a good woman!’

  ‘The devil masks his work, my son,’ Father Marchant said, ‘he cloaks the vile in raiments of light and sweetens their foulness with honeyed words. She looks fair, but she is the devil’s creature, as is her husband. They are both excommunicated, both heretics.’ He turned as his servant approached down the shadowed corridor. ‘Thank you,’ he said, taking the hawk from the man. He had pulled on a leather glove and now wrapped the bird’s jesses around his wrist before stroking the hood that covered the bird’s eyes. ‘Do you know,’ he enquired of Roland, ‘why the heretics went to Montpellier?’

  ‘She told me they went to escort an English monk who would enrol at the university, father.’

  Father Marchant smiled sadly. ‘She lied about that, my son.’

  ‘She did?’

  ‘Her husband seeks la Malice.’

  ‘No!’ Roland said, not in protest, but in astonishment.

  ‘It’s my surmise that he heard the weapon might be there.’

  Roland shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t think so,’ he said confidently.

  It was Father Marchant’s turn to be astonished. ‘You wouldn’t …’ he said weakly, then stopped.

  ‘Well, of course I don’t know,’ Roland said, ‘and perhaps you have news of la Malice that I haven’t heard?’

  ‘We heard it was at a place called Mouthoumet, but it was gone when we arrived.’

  ‘It’s possible it was taken to Montpellier,’ Roland said dubiously, ‘but a man who cares for la Malice would surely return it to its proper place.’

  ‘There is a proper place?’ the priest asked cautiously. He was stroking the bird’s hooded head, his finger gentle against the soft leather.

  Roland smiled modestly. ‘My mother, God bless her, is descended from the ancient Counts of Cambrai. They were great warriors, but one of them defied his father and gave up the profession of arms to become a monk. Junien, he was called, and family tradition says that the blessed Saint Peter appeared to him in a dream and gave him the sword. Saint Peter told Junien that only a man who was both a saint and a warrior was fit to protect the blade.’

  ‘Saint Junien?’

  ‘He’s not well known,’ Roland admitted sadly, ‘indeed, if he’s famous at all it’s for sleeping through a snowstorm that should have killed him, but he was protected by the grace of God …’ He paused because Father Marchant had gripped his arm so tightly that it hurt. ‘Father?’ he asked.

  ‘Does this Junien have a shrine?’

  ‘The Benedictines at Nouaillé keep his earthly remains, father.’

  ‘At Nouaillé?’

  ‘It’s in Poitou, father.’

  ‘God bless you, my son,’ Father Marchant said.

  Roland heard the relief in the priest’s voice. ‘I don’t know that la Malice is there, father,’ he warned cautiously.

  ‘But she may be, she may be,’ Father Marchant said, then paused as a servant carried a chamber pot down the passageway that was lit by what small glow leaked from the candle-lit hall. ‘I don’t know,’ he finally admitted when the servant had passed. ‘I don’t know,’ he repeated, sounding weary. ‘It could be anywhere! I don’t know where else to look, but perhaps le Bâtard knows?’ He stroked the hawk that was stirring restlessly on his wrist. ‘So we must discover just what he knows and why he went to Montpellier.’ He lifted his arm on which the hawk was perched. ‘Soon, my dear one,’ he spoke to the hawk, ‘we shall unhood you very soon.’

  ‘Unhood her?’ Roland asked. It seemed a strange thing to do in the night-time.

  ‘She is a calade,’ Father Marchant said.

  ‘A calade?’ Roland asked.

  ‘Most calades discover sickness in a person,’ Father Marchant explained, ‘but this bird also has the God-given talent of discovering the truth.’ He stepped away from Roland. ‘You look tired, my son. Might I suggest you sleep?’

  Roland smiled ruefully. ‘I’ve slept little these past nights.’

  ‘Then rest now, my son, with God’s good blessing on you, rest.’ He watched Roland walk away, then turned to where his other knights were waiting at the passage’s end. ‘Sir Robbie! Will you bring the girl and her boy?’ He pushed open a random door and found himself in a small room where wine barrels were stacked around a table on which stood jugs, funnels, and goblets. He swept them off, clearing the table’s top. ‘This will do,’ he called, ‘and bring candles!’

  He stroked the hawk. ‘Are you hungry?’ he asked the bird. ‘Is my darling hungry? We shall feed you very soon.’ He stood to one side of the small chamber as Robbie brought Genevieve through the door. She was clutching her torn dress to her breasts. ‘It seems you have met the heretic before?’ Father Marchant suggested to Robbie.

  ‘I have, father,’ Robbie said.

  ‘He’s a traitor,’ Genevieve said, and spat into Robbie’s face.

  ‘He is sworn to God’s purpose,’ Father Marchant said, ‘and you are cursed by God.’

  Sculley dragged Hugh through the door and pushed him down beside the table.

  ‘Candles,’ Father Marchant demanded of Sculley. ‘Fetch some from the hall.’

  ‘Like to see what you’re doing, eh?’ Sculley said with a grin.

  ‘Go,’ Father Marchant ordered harshly, then turned back to Robbie. ‘I want her on the table. If she resists, you may strike her.’

  Genevieve did not resist. She knew she could not fight Robbie, let alone Robbie and the ghastly man with the bones in his hair who now brought two huge candles that were placed on wine barrels. ‘Lie flat,’ Father Marchant ordered her, ‘as if you were dead.’ He saw her shivering. She had placed her hands on her breasts to keep the torn dress in place, and the priest now unwound the jesses from his glove and put the hawk on her topmost wrist. The claws dug into her thin flesh and she made a small whimpering sound. ‘In nomine Patris,’ Father Marchant said softly, ‘et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, amen. Sir Robert?’

  ‘Father?’

  ‘We have no notary to record this sinner’s confession, so you will pay attention and be a witness to what is said. You have a holy duty to remember the truth.’

  ‘Yes, father.’

  The priest looked at Genevieve who lay with closed eyes and clasped hands. ‘Sinner,’ he said gently, ‘tell me why you went to Montpellier.’

  ‘We took an English monk there,’ Genevieve said.

  ‘And why?’

  ‘He was to study medicine at the university.’

  ‘You wish me to believe that le Bâtard went all the way to Montpellier just to escort a monk?’ Father Marchant asked.

  ‘It was a favour to his liege lord,’ Genevieve said.

  ‘Open your eyes,’ the priest ordered. He still spoke softly. He waited till she obeyed. ‘Now tell me,’ he said, ‘have you heard of Saint Junien?’

  ‘No,’ Genevieve said. The hooded hawk did not move.

  ‘You are excommunicated, are you not?’

  She hesitated, then gave a small nod.

  ‘And you went to Montpellier as a favour to a monk?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said in a small voice.

  ‘It would be
in your interest,’ Father Marchant said, ‘to tell the truth.’ He leaned forward and unlaced the hood, slipping it off the hawk’s head. ‘This is a calade,’ he told her, ‘a bird that can tell whether you speak true or false.’ Genevieve looked up into hawk’s eyes and shuddered. Father Marchant stepped back. ‘Now tell me, sinner,’ he said, ‘why you went to Montpellier?’

  ‘I told you, to escort a monk.’

  Her scream echoed through all the castle.

  Nine

  Roland was startled awake by the scream.

  The count had not thought to provide beds. The castle was crammed with men waiting to march to Bourges, and they slept where they could. Many were still drinking in the great hall, while some had bedded down in the courtyard where the horses that had no room in the stables were sleeping, but Roland’s squire, Michel, had cleverly found a chest filled with banners that he spread on a stone bench in the antechamber to the chapel. Roland had just fallen asleep on that makeshift bed when the scream echoed down the passageways. He woke confused, thinking he was back home with his mother. ‘What was that?’ he asked.

  Michel was staring down the long passage. The boy said nothing. Then a bellow of anger echoed down the corridor, and that brought Roland to full wakefulness. He rolled off the bench and snatched up his sword. ‘Your boots, sire?’ Michel said, offering them, but Roland was running. A man at the passage’s far end was looking alarmed, but no one else seemed to have been disturbed by the scream and the shout. Roland pushed open the door of the wine store and gaped.

  The room was almost totally dark because the candles had been knocked over, but in the dim light Roland saw Genevieve sitting on the table with one hand clasped to an eye. Her torn dress had fallen around her waist. Father Marchant was sprawling on his back with bloody lips, a beheaded hawk was twitching on the floor, while Sculley was grinning. Robbie Douglas was standing with a drawn sword over the priest, and, as Roland took in the scene, the Scotsman used the sword’s hilt to hit Marchant again. ‘You bastard!’