1356 (Special Edition)

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘I still have it,’ Brother Michael said.

  ‘Then why aren’t you wearing it?’

  ‘Because I don’t want to be a monk!’ Brother Michael protested.

  ‘He brought us news.’ Karyl had followed Thomas. ‘He said Genevieve was taken, and you are hunted.’

  ‘They have taken Genevieve,’ Thomas confirmed.

  ‘De Verrec?’

  ‘I assume he’s taking her to Labrouillade.’

  ‘I sent the rest of the men to Castillon,’ Karyl said, ‘and told Sir Henri to send at least forty men towards us. It was his idea.’ He nodded down at Brother Michael.

  Thomas looked at the monk. ‘Your idea?’

  Brother Michael looked about the hilltop anxiously, as if seeking somewhere to hide. ‘It seemed a sensible idea,’ he said finally.

  Thomas was not so certain it was sensible. He had ten men, twelve if you counted the reluctant student and even more reluctant monk, and they would be pursuing Roland de Verrec while the men from Castillon d’Arbizon would be roaming an unfriendly country looking for Thomas. That could lead to disaster if either small group was confronted by a much larger enemy. Yet if they did link up? He nodded approval. ‘It was probably a good idea,’ he said grudgingly. ‘So now you’ll go back to Montpellier?’

  ‘Me? Why?’ Brother Michael asked indignantly.

  ‘To learn how to sniff piss.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘To stay with you.’

  ‘Or with Bertille?’

  Brother Michael coloured. ‘To stay with you, sire.’

  Thomas nodded towards Keane. ‘He doesn’t want to be a priest and you don’t want to be a monk. Now you’re both Hellequin.’

  Brother Michael looked disbelieving. ‘I am?’ he asked excitedly.

  ‘You are,’ Thomas said.

  ‘So all we need now is a pair of ripe young girls who don’t want to be nuns,’ Keane said cheerfully.

  Karyl had not seen Roland de Verrec pass northwards with Genevieve. ‘You told us to stay hidden,’ he said reproachfully, ‘away from the road. So we did.’

  ‘He didn’t come this way,’ Thomas said, ‘he’s on the Gignac road, at least I think he is, and the bastard has a day’s lead on us.’

  ‘We follow?’

  ‘We’ll use the roads through the hills,’ Thomas said. He did not know those roads, but they had to exist because, looking north, he could see villages in the higher ground. He could see a mill on the skyline and smoke rising from a shadowed valley, and where there were people there were roads. They would be slower than the high roads, but with luck, with no thrown horseshoes and no coredors, he might catch up with de Verrec before the virgin knight reached Labrouillade. He dismounted and walked to the southern edge of the small plateau on which the ruined mill stood. He could see Montpellier clearly and also see small bands of horsemen scouring the scorched ground where the houses outside the city walls had been burned to deny an English attack any shelter or cover. There were at least six bands of men, no group larger than seven or eight, all of them exploring the bushes at the edges of the cleared ground. ‘They’re hunting me,’ he told Karyl, who had come to stand beside him.

  Karyl shaded his eyes. ‘Men-at-arms,’ he grunted. Even at this distance it was possible to see that at least two of the bands were in grey mail. The sun glinted off helmets.

  ‘City guards, probably,’ Thomas said.

  ‘Why don’t they make one group?’ Karyl asked.

  ‘And share the reward?’

  ‘There is a reward?’

  ‘A big one.’

  Karyl grinned. ‘How big?’

  ‘Probably enough to buy you a decent farm in, where is it, Bohemia?’

  Karyl nodded. ‘Have you ever been to Bohemia?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Cold winters,’ he said, ‘I think I’ll stay here.’

  ‘They’ll be searching the city,’ Thomas said, ‘but when they find nothing, then a whole lot more of them will come outside.’

  ‘We’ll be gone.’

  ‘And they’ll guess that.’

  ‘And pursue us?’

  ‘I hope so,’ Thomas said. The horses from the city would likely be well fed and rested, while the horses at the mill had fed sparsely, and if he was to travel fast through the hills he would need good horses. He also needed mail and weapons for Keane and Brother Michael.

  He said as much to Karyl, who turned to look at the monk. ‘A weapon would be wasted on him,’ he said scornfully, ‘but the Irishman looks useful.’

  ‘They both need to look like men-at-arms,’ Thomas said, ‘even if they’re not. And we need spare horses too. We’ll be riding hard.’

  ‘Ambush,’ Karyl said with relish.

  ‘Ambush,’ Thomas agreed, ‘and we need to make it quick, brutal and effective.’ Now that he was with his men he was feeling vengeful. Genevieve’s plight tortured him, even though he assumed she was merely a bargaining piece for Bertille, and Bertille was safe in Castillon d’Arbizon and he doubted that Sir Henri would release her without Thomas’s permission. All the same he wanted to avenge Genevieve, and the anger overflowed when, just before midday, they sprang the ambush.

  It was simplicity itself. Keane and Brother Michael, the two men without mail or helmets, simply showed themselves in an olive grove that was visible to one of the bands searching the countryside. Those men whooped and hollered, put spurs to horses, drew swords and galloped. Keane and Brother Michael ran, vanishing from their pursuers into a small valley where Thomas’s men waited.

  And the anger was spewed into sword-strokes. Six men were in the hunt and they were racing one another to catch the fugitives. The first two were mounted on small fast horses, and they outstripped their companions to gallop over the crest and down into the valley. Their horses were splashing through a tiny stream before they realised that they were in trouble. Thomas’s men closed from both sides as the remaining four hunters thundered over the skyline, saw the melee below, and desperately tried to curb and turn their horses.

  Thomas kicked his horse up the slope. A man wearing the livery of Montpellier was trying to turn away, then changed his mind and swung his sword back at Thomas, who leaned left in the saddle, let the blade slide past his face, then brought his own sword in a savage blow that struck the back of the man’s neck just beneath the helmet rim. He did not bother to see what happened, he knew the man was out of the fight, just drove his horse higher up the slope and rammed the blade at a second man, as Arnaldus, one of the Gascons in the Hellequin, backswung a battleaxe into the man’s face. Karyl had hauled a man out of the saddle, now turned and stabbed down with his sword, and Thomas saw blood spurt higher than Karyl’s battered helmet. Keane was holding one of the first horsemen under the water, drowning him as the two hounds savaged a flailing arm.

  Six men down in fewer seconds and not one of the Hellequin was injured. ‘Keane! Get the horses!’ Thomas shouted.

  A second band of men had seen the first group spur northwards and they were now following, but the sight of mail-clad horsemen waiting at the top of the olive grove dissuaded them. They turned away.

  ‘You,’ Thomas pointed at Brother Michael, ‘find a coat of mail that fits you. Find a helmet, find a sword. Get a horse.’

  They rode north.

  Roland de Verrec ordered the horses tied in the ruined nave, then climbed the steep, narrow steps of the bell tower. There was no bell any more, just an open space. Each of the four walls was pierced by a wide arch, the roof was rotted rafters from which most of the tiles had fallen, while the floor creaked dangerously under the weight of his men. ‘The arrows will fly through the arches,’ Genevieve told him.

  ‘Be silent,’ he said and then, because he always tried to be courteous, added ‘please’. He was nervous. The horses stamped in the nave, someone called from the village, but otherwise the world seemed silent. Darkness was falling fast and throwing lumpy shadows across the
graveyard next to the church. The graves had no markers. This village must have been struck hard by the terrible plague that had carried away so many souls, and the bodies lay in their shallow pits. Roland remembered seeing the wild dogs dig up plague victims. He had been a boy, and he had wept for the pity of seeing the dogs tear the rotting flesh of his mother’s tenants. His father had died, as had his only brother. His mother had said that the sickness was sent as a punishment for sin. ‘The English and the plague,’ she had said, ‘both are works of the devil.’

  ‘They say the English have the plague too,’ Roland had pointed out.

  ‘God is good,’ the widow had said.

  ‘But why did Father die?’ Roland had asked.

  ‘He was a sinner,’ his mother had said, though she had still turned her house into a shrine for her husband and for her eldest son, a shrine with candles and crucifixes, black hangings and a chantry priest who was paid to say masses for the father and heir who had died vomiting and bleeding. Then the English had come, and the widow was turned out of her land and had fled to the Count of Armagnac who was a distant cousin, and the count had raised Roland to be a warrior, but a warrior who knew that the world was a battlefield between God and the devil, between light and darkness, between good and evil. Now he watched the darkness darken as the shadows crept across the plague-humped land. The devil was out there, he thought, sliding through the dusk-blackened trees, a serpent coiling about the ruined church.

  ‘Perhaps they didn’t follow us,’ he said almost in a whisper.

  ‘Perhaps the first bows are being drawn now,’ Genevieve said, ‘or perhaps they’ll light a fire beneath us.’

  ‘Be quiet,’ he said, and his tone now was pleading, not commanding.

  The first bats were flying. A dog barked in the village and was hushed. The dry branches of pine trees rattled in a small wind, and Roland closed his eyes and prayed to Saint Basil and Saint Denis, his two patron saints. He gripped his scabbarded sword, Durandal, and touched his forehead to the big pommel. ‘Let not evil come to me in this darkness,’ he prayed. ‘Make me good,’ he prayed as his mother had taught him.

  A hoof sounded in the trees. He heard the creak of saddle leather and the chink of a bridle. A horse whinnied and there were more footsteps. ‘Jacques!’ a voice called from the dark. ‘Jacques! Are you there?’

  Roland lifted his head. The first stars were glinting above the hilltops. Saint Basil’s mother had been a widow. ‘Let not my mother lose her only son,’ he prayed.

  ‘Jacques, you bastard!’ the voice shouted again. The men-at-arms sheltering in the tower looked at Roland, but he was still praying.

  ‘I’m here!’ Jacques Sollière called into the dark, ‘is that you, Philippe?’

  ‘I’m the Holy Ghost, you idiot,’ the man called Philippe shouted back.

  ‘Philippe!’ The men-at-arms in the tower were on their feet now, shouting a welcome.

  ‘They’re friends,’ Jacques told Roland, ‘the count’s men.’

  ‘Oh God,’ Roland breathed. He could not believe the relief that flooded through him, so much relief that he felt weak. He was no coward. No man who had faced Walter of Siegenthaler in the lists could be called a coward. The German had killed and maimed men in a score of tournaments, always claiming the carnage was an accident, but Roland had fought the man four times and humiliated him in every bout. He was no coward, but he had been terrified in this creeping dusk. War, he was realising, had no rules, and all the skill in the world might not be enough to help him survive.

  Philippe appeared as a shadow beneath the tower. ‘The count sent us,’ he called up.

  ‘Labrouillade?’ Roland asked, though the question was unnecessary. The count’s men-at-arms had greeted their comrades familiarly.

  ‘The English are marching,’ Philippe explained. ‘Are you the Sire de Verrec?’

  ‘Yes. Where are the English?’

  ‘Somewhere north,’ Philippe said vaguely, ‘but that’s why we’re here. The count wants all his men-at-arms.’ More soldiers were coming from the dark, leading their horses into the ruined nave. ‘Can we light a fire?’

  ‘Of course.’ Roland hurried down the steps. ‘The count sent you because the English are marching?’

  ‘He’s been summoned to Bourges, and he wants to take at least sixty men to war. He needs the men who went with you.’ Philippe watched as a servant struck steel and flint to light a twist of straw. ‘Did you find le Bâtard?’

  ‘He’s in Montpellier, a prisoner, I hope.’ Roland was still feeling weak, astonished by the fear that had driven him to his knees. ‘He’s in Montpellier,’ he said again, ‘but I have his wife.’

  ‘The boys will enjoy that,’ Philippe said.

  ‘She is under my protection,’ Roland said stiffly. ‘I propose exchanging her for the countess.’

  ‘The boys will enjoy that even more,’ Philippe said.

  ‘Because justice will have been served.’

  ‘Damn justice, they’ll enjoy watching the bitch being punished. Oh, and some fellows have come to Labrouillade. They want you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A churchman,’ Philippe said vaguely.

  ‘How did you know where to find me?’ Roland asked, still surprised at the relief he was feeling.

  ‘We weren’t looking for you,’ Philippe said curtly. ‘It’s Jacques and his men we want, but we knew you’d gone to Montpellier. We have a man in Castillon d’Arbizon. He owns a tavern, listens to the talk, and sends us messages. He told us le Bâtard had gone to Montpellier, which means you’d have followed him. Your churchman wants him as well.’

  ‘My churchman?’

  ‘The one who’s looking for you. Bastard might even be following us. Very eager he is.’ Philippe stopped abruptly, watching Genevieve as she came down the steps into the light of the small fire, which was now blazing with straw and rotted wood. ‘Oh, that’s nice,’ he said.

  ‘I told you,’ Roland said, ‘she is under my protection.’

  ‘Won’t count for much if her husband doesn’t give us the countess, will it? And he’s in Montpellier, you say. Anyway, the count wants his men-at-arms back. The English bastards are burning, plundering, raping, killing. We’ve got a proper war to fight.’

  ‘There’ll be a battle?’ Roland asked, suddenly aware of taking part in a fight where there were no rules.

  ‘God knows,’ Philippe said. ‘Some say the king’s bringing an army south, some say he’s not, and the truth is no one knows. We’re all ordered to Bourges, and they want us there as fast as possible.’

  ‘I won a tournament at Bourges,’ Roland said.

  ‘You’ll find war a bit different,’ Philippe said. ‘No marshals to stop the killing, for a start. Though God knows if it will come to a fight. For now our job is just to keep an eye on the bastards.’

  ‘And mine is to return the countess to her husband,’ Roland said firmly.

  ‘He’ll be glad of that,’ Philippe said, then grinned, ‘as will the rest of us.’ He clapped his hands to draw the men’s attention. ‘We’re leaving at dawn! Get some rest! Horses stay here; if you want to kick some bastards out of bed in the village, do it. Jean, other Jean, François, you’re on guard duty.’

  ‘My prisoner will sleep in the tower,’ Roland said, ‘and I shall guard her.’

  ‘Good, good,’ Philippe said absently.

  Roland hardly slept that night. He sat on the church tower’s stone stairs and thought how the world was crumbling. To Roland’s mind there was a proper order of things. A king ruled, advised by his nobles and by the wise men of the church, and together they made justice and prosperity. The people should be grateful for that governance and show their gratitude in deference. There were enemies, of course, but a wise king dealt with those enemies with courtesy, and God would decide the outcome of any disagreement by the workings of destiny. That was the proper order, but instead the world was infested with men like Jacques and Philippe, hard men, men who showed no re
spect, men who robbed and cheated and were proud of it. If the English were marching then that was regrettable and plainly against the will of God, but the King of France, with his bishops and lords, would bring the banner of Saint Denis to destroy them. That was a holy duty, a lamentable duty, but to Roland’s disgust, Philippe positively relished the thought of warfare. ‘It’s a chance to make money,’ he had told Roland over the sparse evening meal. ‘Take a rich prisoner? That’s the best thing.’

  ‘Or get into the enemy’s baggage train,’ Jacques had said wolfishly.

  ‘There’s usually nothing but wounded men and servants with the baggage,’ Philippe had explained to Roland, ‘so you just cut the bastards down and help yourself.’

  ‘And the women,’ Jacques had said.

  ‘Oh Jesus, the women. Remember that fight at … where was it?’ Philippe had frowned, trying to remember. ‘Place with the broken bridge?’

  ‘I never knew the name. South of Reims, wasn’t it?’

  Philippe had laughed at the memory. ‘The English were one side of the river and their women on the other. I had four of them tied to my horse’s tail, all of them naked. Jesus, that was a good month.’

  ‘He was hiring them out,’ Jacques had told Roland.

  ‘Except to the count, of course,’ Philippe had said, ‘he got it for nothing on account of being the count.’

  ‘Lords have privileges,’ Jacques had said.

  ‘The privilege not to fight too,’ Philippe had added, sounding resentful.

  ‘He’s too fat,’ Jacques had defended the Count of Labrouillade, ‘but when he does fight he’s a devil! I’ve seen him crush a man’s head, skull, helmet and everything, with one swipe of that morningstar. There was brains everywhere!’

  ‘The fight was already over,’ Philippe had said scornfully. ‘He only joined in when it was safe.’ He had shaken his head at the memory, then looked at Roland. ‘So you’ll be joining us, sire?’

  ‘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.