'Your name?' the Prince demanded curtly.
Sir Simon opened his mouth, but no words would come.
'His name,' Jeanette said vengefully, 'is Sir Simon Jekyll. He tried to strip me naked, sire, and then he would have raped me if I had not been rescued. He stole my money, my armour, my horses, my ships and he would have taken my honour with as much delicacy as a wolf stealing a lamb.'
'Is it true?' the Prince demanded.
Sir Simon still could not speak, but the Earl of Northampton intervened. 'The ships, armour and horses, sire, were spoils of war. I granted them to him.'
'And the rest, Bohun?'
'The rest, sire?' The Earl shrugged. 'The rest Sir Simon must explain for himself.'
'But it seems he is speechless,' the Prince said. 'Have you lost your tongue, Jekyll?'
Sir Simon raised his head and caught Jeanette's gaze, and it was so triumphant that he dropped his head again. He knew he should say something, anything, but his tongue seemed too big for his mouth and he feared he would merely stammer nonsense, so he kept silent.
'You tried to smirch a lady's honour,' the Prince accused Sir Simon. Edward of Woodstock had high ideas of chivalry, for his tutors had ever read to him from the romances. He understood that war was not as gentle as the hand-written books liked to suggest, but he believed that those who were in places of honour should display it, whatever the common man might do. The Prince was also in love, another ideal encouraged by the romances. Jeanette had captivated him, and he was determined that her honour would be upheld. He spoke again, but his words were drowned by the sound of a tube gun firing. Everyone turned to stare at the castle, but the stone ball merely shattered against the gate tower, doing no damage.
'Would you fight me for the lady's honour?' the Prince demanded of Sir Simon.
Sir Simon would have been happy to fight the Prince so long as he could have been assured that his victory would bring no reprisals. He knew the boy had a reputation as a warrior, yet the Prince was not full grown and nowhere near as strong or experienced as Sir Simon, but only a fool fought against a prince and expected to win. The King, it was true, entered tournaments, but he did so disguised in plain armour, without a surcoat, so that his opponents had no idea of his identity, but if Sir Simon fought the Prince then he would not dare use his full strength, for any injury done would be repaid a thousandfold by the prince's supporters, and indeed, even as Sir Simon hesitated, the grim men behind the Prince spurred their horses forward as if offering themselves as champions for the fight. Sir Simon, overwhelmed by reality, shook his head.
'If you will not fight,' the Prince said in his high, clear voice, 'then we must assume your guilt and demand recompense. You owe the lady armour and a sword.'
'The armour was fairly taken, sire,' the Earl of Northampton pointed out.
'No man can take armour and weapons from a mere woman fairly,' the Prince snapped. 'Where is the armour now, Jekyll?'
'Lost, sir,' Sir Simon spoke for the first time. He wanted to tell the Prince the whole story, how Jeanette had arranged an ambush, but that tale ended with his own humiliation and he had the sense to keep quiet.
'Then that mail coat will have to suffice,' the Prince declared. 'Take it off. And the sword too.'
Sir Simon gaped at the Prince, but saw he was serious. He unbuckled the sword belt and let it drop, then hauled the mail coat over his head so that he was left in his shirt and breeches.
'What is in the pouch?' the Prince demanded, pointing at the heavy leather bag suspended about Sir Simon's neck.
Sir Simon sought an answer and found none but the truth, which was that the pouch was the heavy money bag he had taken from Thomas. 'It is money, sire.'
'Then give it to her ladyship.'
Sir Simon lifted the bag over his head and held it out to Jeanette, who smiled sweetly. 'Thank you, Sir Simon,' she said.
'Your horse is forfeit too,' the Prince decreed, 'and you will leave this encampment by midday for you are not welcome in our company. You may go home, Jekyll, but in England you will not have our favour.'
Sir Simon looked into the Prince's eyes for the first time. You damned miserable little pup, he thought, with your mother's milk still sour on your unshaven lips, then he shook as he was struck by the coldness of the Prince's eyes. He bowed, knowing he was being banished, and he knew it was unfair, but there was nothing he could do except appeal to the King, yet the King owed him no favours and no great men of the realm would speak for him, and so he was effectively an outcast. He could go home to England, but there men would soon learn he had incurred royal disfavour and his life would be endless misery. He bowed, he turned and he walked away in his dirty shirt as silent men opened a path for him.
The cannon fired on. They fired four times that day and eight the next, and at the end of the two days there was a splintered rent in the castle gate that might have given entrance to a starved sparrow. The guns had done nothing except hurt the gunners' ears and shatter stone balls against the castle's ramparts. Not a Frenchman had died, though one gunner and an archer had been killed when one of the brass guns exploded into a myriad red-hot scraps of metal. The King, realizing that the attempt was ridiculous, ordered the guns taken away and the siege of the castle abandoned.
And the next day the whole army left Caen. They marched eastwards, going towards Paris, and after them crawled their wagons and their camp followers and their herds of beef cattle, and for a long time afterwards the eastern sky showed white where the dust of their marching hazed the air. But at last the dust settled and the city, ravaged and sacked, was left alone. The folk who had succeeded in escaping from the island crept back to their homes. The splintered door of the castle was pushed open and its garrison came down to see what was left of Caen. For a week the priests carried an image of St Jean about the littered streets and sprinkled holy water to get rid of the lingering stink of the enemy. They said Masses for the souls of the dead, and prayed fervently that the wretched English would meet the King of France and have their own ruin visited on them.
But at least the English were gone, and the violated city, ruined, could stir again.
—«»—«»—«»—
Light came first. A hazy light, smeared, in which Thomas thought he could see a wide window, but a shadow moved against the window and the light went. He heard voices, then they faded. In pascuis herbarum adclinavit me. The words were in his head. He makes me lie down in leafy pastures. A psalm, the same psalm from which his father had quoted his dying words. Calix meus inebrians. My cup makes me drunk. Only he was not drunk. Breathing hurt, and his chest felt as though he was being pressed by the torture of the stones. Then there was blessed darkness and oblivion once more.
The light came again. It wavered. The shadow was there, the shadow moved towards him and a cool hand was laid on his forehead.
'I do believe you are going to live,' a man's voice said in a tone of surprise.
Thomas tried to speak, but only managed a strangled, grating sound.
'It astonishes me,' the voice went on, 'what young men can endure. Babies too. Life is marvellously strong. Such a pity we waste it.'
'It's plentiful enough,' another man said.
'The voice of the privileged,' the first man, whose hand was still on Thomas's forehead, answered. 'You take life,' he said, 'so value it as a thief values his victims.'
'And you are a victim?'
'Of course. A learned victim, a wise victim, even a valuable victim, but still a victim. And this young man, what is he?'
'An English archer,' the second voice said sourly, 'and if we had any sense we'd kill him here and now.'
'I think we shall try and feed him instead. Help me raise him.'
Hands pushed Thomas upright in the bed, and a spoonful of warm soup was put into his mouth, but he could not swallow and so spat the soup onto the blankets. Pain seared through him and the darkness came again.
The light came a third time or perhaps a fourth, he could not tell.
Perhaps he dreamed it, but this time an old man stood outlined against the bright window. The man had a long black robe, but he was not a priest or monk, for the robe was not gathered at the waist and he wore a small square black hat over his long white hair.
'God,' Thomas tried to say, though the word came out as a guttural grunt.
The old man turned. He had a long, forked beard and was holding a jordan jar. It had a narrow neck and a round belly, and the bottle was filled with a pale yellow liquid that the man held up to the light. He peered at the liquid, then swilled it about before sniffing the jar's mouth.
'Are you awake?'
'Yes.'
'And you can speak! What a doctor I am! My brilliance astonishes me; if only it would persuade my patients to pay me. But most believe I should be grateful that they don't spit at me. Would you say this urine is clear?'
Thomas nodded and wished he had not for the pain jarred through his neck and down his spine.
'You do not consider it turgid? Not dark? No, indeed not. It smells and tastes healthy too. A good flask of clear yellow urine, and there is no better sign of good health. Alas, it is not yours.' The doctor pushed open the window and poured the urine away. 'Swallow,' he instructed Thomas.
Thomas's mouth was dry, but he obediently tried to swallow and immediately gasped with pain.
'I think,' the doctor said, 'that we had best try a thin gruel. Very thin, with some oil, I believe, or better still, butter. That thing tied about your neck is a strip of cloth which has been soaked in holy water. It was not my doing, but I did not forbid it. You Christians believe in magic — indeed you could have no faith without a trust in magic — so I must indulge your beliefs. Is that a dog's paw about your neck? Don't tell me, I'm sure I don't want to know. However, when you recover, I trust you will understand that it was neither dog paws nor wet cloths that healed you, but my skill. I have bled you, I have applied poultices of dung, moss and clove, and I have sweated you. Eleanor, though, will insist it was her prayers and that tawdry strip of wet cloth that revived you.'
'Eleanor?'
'She cut you down, dear boy. You were half dead. By the time I arrived you were more dead than alive and I advised her to let you expire in peace. I told her you were halfway in what you insist is hell and that I was too old and too tired to enter into a tugging contest with the devil, but Eleanor insisted and I have ever found it difficult to resist her entreaties. Gruel with rancid butter, I think. You are weak, dear boy, very weak. Do you have a name?'
'Thomas.'
'Mine is Mordecai, though you may call me Doctor. You won't, of course. You'll call me a damned Jew, a Christ murderer, a secret worshipper of pigs and a kidnapper of Christian children.' This was all said cheerfully. 'How absurd! Who would want to kidnap children, Christian or otherwise? Vile things. The only mercy of children is that they grow up, as my son has but then, tragically, they beget more children. We do not learn life's lessons.'
'Doctor?' Thomas croaked.
'Thomas?'
'Thank you.'
'An Englishman with manners! The world's wonders never cease. Wait there, Thomas, and do not have the bad manners to die while I'm gone. I shall fetch gruel.'
'Doctor?'
'I am still here.'
'Where am I?'
'In the house of my friend, and quite safe.'
'Your friend?'
'Sir Guillaume d'Evecque, knight of the sea and of the land, and as great a fool as any I know, but a good-hearted fool. He does at least pay me.'
Thomas closed his eyes. He did not really understand what the doctor had said, or perhaps he did not believe it. His head was aching. There was pain all through his body, from his aching head down to his throbbing toes. He thought of his mother, because that was comforting, then he remembered being hauled up the tree and he shivered. He wished he could sleep again, for in sleep there was no pain, but then he was made to sit up and the doctor forced a pungent, oily gruel into his mouth and he managed not to spit it out or throw it up. There must have been mushrooms in the gruel, or else it had been infused with the hemp-like leaves that the Hook-ton villagers had called angel salad, for after he had eaten he had vivid dreams, but less pain. When he awoke it was dark and he was alone, but he managed to sit up and even stand, though he tottered and had to sit again.
Next morning, when the birds were calling from the oak branches where he had so nearly died, a tall man came into the room. The man was on crutches and his left thigh was swathed in bandages. He turned to look at Thomas and showed a face that was horribly scarred. A blade had cut him from the forehead to the jaw, taking the man's left eye in its savage chop. He had long yellow hair, very shaggy and full, and Thomas guessed the man had been handsome once, though now he looked like a thing of nightmare.
'Mordecai,' the man growled, 'tells me you will live.'
'With God's help,' Thomas said.
'I doubt God's interested in you,' the man said sourly. He looked to be in his thirties and had the bowed legs of a horseman and the deep chest of a man who practises hard with weapons. He swung on the crutches to the window, where he sat on the sill. His beard was streaked with white where the blade had chopped into his jaw and his voice was uncommonly deep and harsh. 'But you might live with Mordecai's help. There isn't a physician to touch him in all Normandy, though Christ alone knows how he does it. He's been squinting at my piss for a week now. I'm crippled, you Jewish halfwit, I tell him, not wounded in the bladder, but he just tells me to shut my mouth and squeeze out more drops. He'll start on you soon.' The man, who wore nothing except a long white shirt, contemplated Thomas moodily. 'I have a notion,' he growled, 'that you are the godforsaken bastard who put an arrow into my thigh. I remember seeing a son of a whore with long hair like yours, then I was hit.'
'You're Sir Guillaume?'
'I am.'
'I meant to kill you,' Thomas said.
'So why shouldn't I kill you?' Sir Guillaume asked. 'You lie in my bed, drink my gruel and breathe my air. English bastard. Worse, you're a Vexille.'
Thomas turned his head to stare at the forbidding Sir Guillaume. He said nothing, for the last three words had mystified him.
'But I choose not to kill you,' Sir Guillaume said, 'because you saved my daughter from rape.'
'Your daughter?'
'Eleanor, you fool. She's a bastard daughter, of course,' Sir Guillaume said. 'Her mother was a servant to my father, but Eleanor is all I've got left and I'm fond of her. She says you were kind to her, which is why she cut you down and why you're lying in my bed. She always was overly sentimental.' He frowned. 'But I still have a mind to slice your damned throat.'
'For four years,' Thomas said, 'I have dreamed of slitting yours.'
Sir Guillaume's one eye gazed at him balefully. 'Of course you have. You're a Vexille.'
'I've never heard of the Vexilles,' Thomas said. 'My name is Thomas of Hookton.'
Thomas half expected Sir Guillaume to frown as he tried to remember Hookton, but his recognition of the name was instant.
'Hookton,' he said, 'Hookton. Good sweet Christ, Hookton.' He was silent for a few heartbeats. 'And of course you're a damned Vexille. You have their badge on your bow.'
'My bow?'
'You gave it to Eleanor to carry! She kept it.'
Thomas closed his eyes. There was pain in his neck and down his back and in his head. 'I think it was my father's badge,' he said, 'but I don't really know because he would never talk of his family. I know he hated his own father. I wasn't very fond of my own, but your men killed him and I swore to avenge him.'
Sir Guillaume turned to gaze out of the window. 'You have truly never heard of the Vexilles?'
'Never.'
'Then you are fortunate.' He stood. 'They are the devil's offspring, and you, I suspect, are one of their pups. I would kill you, boy, with as little conscience as if I stamped on a spider, but you were kind to my bastard daughter and for that I thank you.' He limped from the room.
Leav
ing Thomas in pain and utterly confused.
—«»—«»—«»—
Thomas recovered in Sir Guillaume's garden, shaded from the sun by two quince trees under which he waited anxiously for Dr Mordecai's daily verdict on the colour, consistency, taste and smell of his urine. It did not seem to matter to the doctor that Thomas's grotesquely swollen neck was subsiding, nor that he could swallow bread and meat again. All that mattered was the state of his urine. There was, the doctor declared, no finer method of diagnosis. 'The urine betrays all. If it smells rank, or if it is dark, if it tastes of vinegar or should it be cloudy then it is time for vigorous doctoring. But good, pale, sweet-smelling urine like this is the worst news of all.'
'The worst?' Thomas asked, alarmed.
'It means fewer fees for a physician, dear boy.'
The doctor had survived the sack of Caen by hiding in a neighbour's pig shed. 'They slaughtered the pigs, but missed the Jew. Mind you, they broke all my instruments, scattered my medicines, shattered all but three of my bottles and burned my house. Which is why I am forced to live here.' He shuddered, as though living in Sir Guillaume's mansion was a hardship. He smelled Thomas's urine and then, uncertain of his diagnosis, spilled a drop onto a finger and tasted it. 'Very fine,' he said, 'lamentably fine.' He poured the jar's contents onto a bed of lavender where bees were at work. 'So I lost everything,' he said, 'and this after we were assured by our great lords that the city would be safe!' Originally, the doctor had told Thomas, the leaders of the garrison had insisted on defending only the walled city and the castle, but they needed the help of the townsfolk to man the walls and those townsfolk had insisted that the Ile St Jean be defended, for that was where the city's wealth lay, and so, at the very last minute, the garrison had streamed across the bridge to disaster. 'Fools,' Mordecai said scornfully, 'fools in steel and glory. Fools.'
Thomas and Mordecai were sharing the house while Sir Guillaume visited his estate in Evecque, some thirty miles south of Caen, where he had gone to raise more men. 'He will fight on,' the doctor said, 'wounded leg or not.'
Harlequin Page 24
