'I took it,' Sir Simon said curtly.
'And stripped it bare, I hear,' the Earl observed icily. 'The Countess claims you stole money from her.'
'She lies.' Sir Simon looked indignant. 'Lies, my lord, lies!'
The Earl doubted it, but he could hardly accuse a gentleman of perjury without provoking a duel and, though William Bohun feared no man except his king, he did not want to fight over so petty a matter. He let it drop. 'However,' he went on, 'I did promise the lady protection against harassment.' He stared at Sir Simon as he spoke, then looked at Will Skeat, and changed to English. 'You'd like to keep your men together, Will?'
'I would, my lord.'
'Then you'll have the widow's house. And she is to be treated honourably, you hear me? Honourably! Tell your men that, Will!'
Skeat nodded. 'I'll cut their ears off if they touch her, my lord.'
'Not their ears, Will. Slice something more suitable away. Sir Simon will show you the house and you, Sir Simon,' the Earl spoke French again, 'will find a bed elsewhere.'
Sir Simon opened his mouth to protest, but one look from the Earl quietened him. Another petitioner came forward, wanting redress for a cellar full of wine that had been stolen, but the Earl diverted him to a clerk who would record the man's complaints on a parchment which the Earl doubted he would ever find time to read.
Then he beckoned to Thomas. 'I have to thank you, Thomas of Hookton.'
Thank me, my lord?'
The Earl smiled. 'You found a way into the town when everything else we'd tried had failed.'
Thomas reddened. 'It was a pleasure, my lord.'
'You can claim a reward of me,' the Earl said. 'It's customary.'
Thomas shrugged. 'I'm happy, my lord.'
'Then you're a lucky man, Thomas. But I shall remember the debt. And thank you, Will.'
Will Skeat grinned. 'If this lump of a daft fool don't want a reward, my lord, I'll take it.'
The Earl liked that. 'My reward to you, Will, is to leave you here. I'm giving you a whole new stretch of countryside to lay waste. God's teeth, you'll soon be richer than me.' He stood. 'Sir Simon will guide you to your quarters.'
Sir Simon might have bridled at the curt order to be a mere guide, but surprisingly he obeyed without showing any resentment, perhaps because he wanted another chance to meet Jeanette. And so, at midday, he led Will Skeat and his men through the streets to the big house beside the river. Sir Simon had put on his new armour and wore it without any surcoat so that the polished plate and gold embossment shone bright in the feeble winter sun. He ducked his helmeted head under the yard's archway and immediately Jeanette came running from the kitchen door, which lay just to the gate's left.
'Get out!' she shouted in French, 'get out!'
Thomas, riding close behind Sir Simon, stared at her. She was indeed the Blackbird and she was as beautiful at close range as she had been when he had glimpsed her on the walls.
'Get out, all of you!' She stood, hands on her hips, bareheaded, shouting.
Sir Simon pushed up the pig-snout visor of the helmet. 'This house is commandeered, my lady,' he said happily. 'The Earl ordered it.'
'The Earl promised I would be left alone!' Jeanette protested hotly.
'Then his lordship has changed his mind,' Sir Simon said.
She spat at him. 'You have already stolen everything else of mine, now you would take the house too?'
'Yes, madame,' Sir Simon said, and he spurred the horse forward so that it crowded her. 'Yes, madame,' he said again, then wrenched the reins so that the horse twisted and thumped into Jeanette, throwing her onto the ground. 'I'll take your house,' Sir Simon said, 'and anything else I want, madame.' The watching archers cheered at the sight of Jeanette's long bare legs. She snatched her skirts down and tried to stand, but Sir Simon edged his horse forward to force her into an undignified scramble across the yard.
'Let the lass up!' Will Skeat shouted angrily.
'She and I are old friends, Master Skeat,' Sir Simon answered, still threatening Jeanette with the horse's heavy hoofs.
'I said let her up and leave her be!' Will snarled.
Sir Simon, offended at being ordered by a commoner and in front of archers, turned angrily, but there was a competence about Will Skeat that gave the knight pause. Skeat was twice Sir Simon's age and all those years had been spent in fighting, and Sir Simon retained just enough sense not to make a confrontation. 'The house is yours, Master Skeat,' he said condescendingly, 'but look after its mistress. I have plans for her.' He backed the horse from Jeanette, who was in tears of shame, then spurred out of the yard.
Jeanette did not understand English, but she recognized that Will Skeat had intervened on her behalf and so she stood and appealed to him. 'He has stolen everything from me!' she said, pointing at the retreating horseman. 'Everything!'
'You know what the lass is saying, Tom?' Skeat asked.
'She doesn't like Sir Simon,' Thomas said laconically. He was leaning on his saddle pommel, watching Jeanette.
'Calm the girl down, for Christ's sake,' Skeat pleaded, then turned in his saddle. 'Jake? Make sure there's water and hay for horses. Peter, kill two of them heifers so we can sup before the light goes. Rest of you? Stop gawping at the lass and get yourselves settled!'
'Thief!' Jeanette called after Sir Simon, then turned on Thomas. 'Who are you?'
'My name is Thomas, madame.' He slid out of the saddle and threw his reins to Sam. 'The Earl has ordered us to live here,' Thomas went on, 'and to protect you.'
'Protect me!' Jeanette blazed at him. 'You are all thieves! How can you protect me? There is a place in hell for thieves like you and it is just like England. You are thieves, every one of you! Now, go! Go!'
'We're not going,' Thomas said flatly.
'How can you stay here?' Jeanette demanded. 'I am a widow! It is not proper to have you here.'
'We're here, madame,' Thomas said, 'and you and us will have to make the best of it. We'll not encroach. Just show me where your private rooms are and I'll make sure no man trespasses.'
'You? Make sure? Ha!' Jeanette turned away, then immediately turned back. 'You want me to show you my rooms, yes? So you know where my valuable properties are? Is that it? You want me to show you where you can thieve from me? Why don't I just give you everything?'
Thomas smiled. 'I thought you said Sir Simon had already stolen everything?'
'He has taken everything, everything! He is no gentleman. He is a pig. He is,' Jeanette paused, wanting to contrive a crushing insult, 'he is English!' Jeanette spat at Thomas's feet and pulled open the kitchen door. 'You see this door, Englishman? Everything beyond this door is private. Everything!' She went inside, slammed the door, then immediately opened it again. 'And the Duke is coming. The proper Duke, not your snivelling puppet child, so you will all die. Good!' The door slammed again.
Will Skeat chuckled. 'She don't like you either, Tom. What was the lass saying?'
'That we're all going to die.'
'Aye, that's true enough. But in our beds, by God's grace.'
'And she says we're not to go past that door.'
'Plenty of room out here,' Skeat said placidly, watching as one of his men swung an axe to kill a heifer. The blood flowed over the yard, attracting a rush of dogs to lap at it while two archers began butchering the still twitching animal.
'Listen!' Skeat had climbed a mounting block beside the stables and now shouted at all his men. 'The Earl has given orders that the lass who was spitting at Tom is not to be molested. You understand that, you whoresons? You keep your britches laced up when she's around, and if you don't, I'll geld you! You treat her proper, and you don't go through that door. You've had your frolic, so now you can knuckle down to a proper bit of soldiering.'
—«»—«»—«»—
The Earl of Northampton left after a week, taking most of his army back to the fortresses in Finisterre, which was the heartland of Duke John's supporters. He left Richard Totesham as commander of t
he new garrison, but he also left Sir Simon Jekyll as Totesham's deputy.
'The Earl doesn't want the bastard,' Will Skeat told Thomas, 'so he's foisted him on us.'
As Skeat and Totesham were both independent captains, there could have been jealousy between them, but the two men respected each other and, while Totesham and his men stayed in La Roche-Derrien and strengthened its defences, Skeat rode out into the country to punish the folk who paid their rents and owed their allegiance to Duke Charles. The hellequin were thus released to be a curse on northern Brittany.
It was a simple business to ruin a land. The houses and barns might be made of stone, but their roofs would burn. The livestock was captured and, if there were too many beasts to herd home, then the animals were slaughtered and their carcasses tipped down wells to poison the water. Skeat's men burned what would burn, broke what would break and stole what could be sold. They killed, raped and plundered. Fear of them drove men away from their farms, leaving the land desolate. They were the devil's horsemen, and they did King Edward's will by harrowing his enemy's land.
They wrecked village after village — Kervec and Lanvellec, St Laurent and Les Sept Saints, Tonquedec and Berhet, and a score of other places whose names they never learned. It was Christmas time, and back home the yule logs were being dragged across frost-hardened fields to high-beamed halls where troubadours sang of Arthur and his knights, of chivalrous warriors who allied pity to strength, but in Brittany the hellequin fought the real war. Soldiers were not paragons; they were scarred, vicious men who took delight in destruction. They hurled burning torches onto thatch and tore down what had taken generations to build. Places too small to have names died, and only the farms in the wide peninsula between the two rivers north of La Roche-Derrien were spared because they were needed to feed the garrison. Some of the serfs who were torn from their land were put to work heightening La Roche-Derrien's walls, clearing a wider killing ground in front of the ramparts and making new barriers at the river's edge. It was a winter of utter misery for the Bretons. Cold rains whipped from the wild Atlantic and the English scoured the farmlands.
Once in a while there would be some resistance. A brave man would shoot a crossbow from a wood's edge, but Skeat's men were experts in trapping and killing such enemies. A dozen archers would dismount and stalk the enemy from the front while a score of others galloped about his rear, and in a short while there would be a scream and another crossbow was added to the plunder. The crossbow's owner would be stripped, mutilated and hanged from a tree as a warning to other men to leave the hellequin alone, and the lessons worked, for such ambushes became fewer. It was the wrecking time and Skeat's men became rich. There were days of misery, days of slogging through cold rain with chapped hands and wet clothes, and Thomas always hated it when his men fetched the duty of leading the spare horses and then driving the captured livestock home. Geese were easy — their necks were wrung and the dead birds hung from the saddles — but cows were slow, goats wayward, sheep stupid and pigs obstinate. There were, however, enough farm-bred boys in the ranks to ensure that the animals reached La Roche-Derrien safely. Once there they were taken to a small square that had become a slaughteryard and stank of blood. Will Skeat also sent cartloads of plunder back to the town and most of that was shipped home to England. It was usually humble stuff: pots, knives, plough-blades, harrow-spikes, stools, pails, spindles, anything that could be sold, until it was said that there was not a house in southern England which did not possess at least one object plundered from Brittany.
In England they sang of Arthur and Lancelot, of Gawain and Perceval, but in Brittany the hellequin were loose.
And Thomas was a happy man.
—«»—«»—«»—
Jeanette was loath to admit it, but the presence of Will Skeat's men was an advantage to her. So long as they were in the courtyard she felt safe in the house and she began to dread the long periods they spent away from the town, for it was then that Sir Simon Jekyll would haunt her. She had begun to think of him as the devil, a stupid devil to be sure, but still a remorseless, unfeeling lout who had convinced himself Jeanette must wish nothing so much as to be his wife. At times he would force himself to a clumsy courtesy, though usually he was bumptious and crude and always he stared at her like a dog gazing at a haunch of beef. He took Mass in the church of St Renan so he could woo her, and it seemed to Jeanette she could not walk in the town without meeting him. Once, encountering Jeanette in the alley beside the church of the Virgin, he crowded her against the wall and slid his strong fingers up to her breasts.
'I think, madame, you and I are suited,' he told her in all earnestness.
'You need a wife with money,' she told him, for she had learned from others in the town the state of Sir Simon's finances.
'I have your money,' he pointed out, 'and that has settled half my debts, and the prize money from the ships will pay much of the rest. But it is not your money I want, sweet one, but you.' Jeanette tried to wrench away, but he had her trapped against the wall. 'You need a protector, my dear,' he said, and kissed her tenderly on the forehead. He had a curiously full mouth, big-lipped and always wet as though his tongue was too large, and the kiss was wet and stank of stale wine. He pushed a hand down her belly and she struggled harder, but he just pressed his body against hers and took hold of her hair beneath her cap. 'You would like Berkshire, my dear.'
'I would rather live in hell.'
He fumbled at the laces of her bodice and Jeanette vainly tried to push him away, but she was only saved when a troop of men rode into the alley and their leader called a greeting to Sir Simon, who had to turn away to respond and that allowed Jeanette to wrench herself free. She left her cap in his grasp as she ran home, where she barred the doors, then sat weeping and angry and helpless. She hated him.
She hated all the English, yet as the weeks passed she watched the townsfolk come to approve of their occupiers, who spent good money in La Roche-Derrien. English silver was dependable, unlike the French, which was debased with lead or tin. The presence of the English had cut the town off from its usual trade with Rennes and Guingamp, but the shipowners were now free to trade with both Gascony and England and so their profits rose. Local ships were chartered to import arrows for the English troops, and some of the shipmasters brought back bales of English wool that they resold in other Breton ports that were still loyal to Duke Charles. Few folk were willing to travel far from La Roche-Derrien by land, for they needed to secure a pass from Richard Totesham, the commander of the garrison, and though the scrap of parchment protected them from the hellequin it was no defence against the outlaws who lived in the farms emptied by Skeat's men. But boats from La Roche-Derrien and Tréguier could still sail east to Paimpol or west to Lannion and so trade with England's enemies. That was how letters were sent out of La Roche-Derrien, and Jeanette wrote almost weekly to Duke Charles with news of the changes the English were making to the town's defences. She never received a reply, but she persuaded herself that her letters were useful.
La Roche-Derrien prospered, but Jeanette suffered. Her father's business still existed, but the profits mysteriously vanished. The larger ships had always sailed from the quays of Tréguier, which lay an hour upriver, and though Jeanette sent them to Gascony to fetch wine for the English market, they never returned. They had either been taken by French ships or, more likely, their captains had gone into business for themselves. The family farms lay south of La Roche-Derrien, in the countryside laid waste by Will Skeat's men, and so those rents disappeared. Plabennec, her husband's estate, was in English-held Finisterre and Jeanette had not seen a penny from that land in three years, so by the early weeks of 1346 she was desperate and thus summoned the lawyer Belas to the house.
Belas took a perverse pleasure in telling her how she had ignored his advice, and how she should never have equipped the two boats for war. Jeanette suffered his pomposity, then asked him to draw up a petition of redress which she could send to the English court. The pe
tition begged for the rents of Plabennec, which the invaders had been taking for themselves. It irked Jeanette that she must plead for money from King Edward III of England, but what choice did she have? Sir Simon Jekyll had impoverished her.
Belas sat at her table and made notes on a scrap of parchment. 'How many mills at Plabennec?' he asked.
'There were two.'
'Two,' he said, noting the figure. 'You do know,' he added cautiously, 'that the Duke has made a claim for those rents?'
'The Duke?' Jeanette asked in astonishment. 'For Plabennec?'
'Duke Charles claims it is his fief,' Belas said.
'It might be, but my son is the Count.'
'The Duke considers himself the boy's guardian,' Belas observed.
'How do you know these things?' Jeanette asked.
Belas shrugged. 'I have had correspondence from the Duke's men of business in Paris.'
'What correspondence?' Jeanette demanded sharply.
'About another matter,' Belas said dismissively, 'another matter entirely. Plabennec's rents were collected quarterly, I assume?'
Jeanette watched the lawyer suspiciously. 'Why would the Duke's men of business mention Plabennec to you?'
'They asked if I knew the family. Naturally I revealed nothing.'
He was lying, Jeanette thought. She owed Belas money, indeed she was in debt to half of La Roche-Derrien's tradesmen. Doubtless Belas thought his bill was unlikely to be paid by her and so he was looking to Duke Charles for eventual settlement. 'Monsieur Belas,' she said coldly, 'you will tell me exactly what you have been telling the Duke, and why.'
Belas shrugged. 'I have nothing to tell!'
'How is your wife?' Jeanette asked sweetly.
'Her aches are passing as winter ends, thank God. She is well, madame.'
'Then she will not be well,' Jeanette said tartly, 'when she learns what you do with your clerk's daughter? How old is she, Belas? Twelve?'
Harlequin Page 9
