1356. Bernard Cornwell

travelling with the other women who followed the Hellequin and who had waited outside Villon as the castle was assaulted. But the young monk noticed her now, noticed her and trembled. He had been haunted all day by the memory of Bertille, but this woman was just as beautiful, though it was a very different kind of beauty. Bertille had been dark, soft and gentle, while this woman was fair, hard and striking. She was tall, almost as tall as le Bâtard, and her pale gold hair seemed to shine in the early winter sun. She had clever eyes, a wide mouth and a long nose, while her slim body was dressed in a coat of mail that had been scrubbed with wire, sand and vinegar so that it appeared to be made of silver. Dear God, the monk thought, but flowers should blossom in her footsteps. The child, a boy who looked to be about seven or eight years old, had her face but hair as black as le Bâtard’s.

      ‘My wife Genevieve,’ le Bâtard introduced the woman, ‘and my son, Hugh. This is Brother …’ He paused, not knowing the monk’s name.

      ‘Brother Michael,’ the monk said, unable to take his eyes from Genevieve.

      ‘He brought me a message,’ le Bâtard said to his wife, and gestured that the monk should give Genevieve the battered fold of parchment on which the earl’s seal was now dried, cracked and chipped.

      ‘Sir Thomas Hookton,’ Genevieve read the name written across the folded parchment.

      ‘I’m le Bâtard,’ Thomas said. He had been christened Thomas and for most of his life had called himself Thomas of Hookton, though he could call himself more if he wished, for the Earl of Northampton had knighted him seven years before and, though bastard born, Thomas had a claim to a county in eastern Gascony. But he preferred to be known as le Bâtard. It put the fear of the devil into enemies, and a frightened enemy was already half beaten. He took the missive from his wife, put a fingernail under the seal, then decided he would wait before reading the letter and so, instead, he tucked it under his sword belt and clapped his hands to get the attention of his men. ‘We’re riding west in a few minutes! Get ready!’ He turned and offered a bow to the abbot. ‘My thanks,’ he said courteously, ‘and the lawyers will doubtless come to talk with you.’

      ‘They shall receive heaven’s assistance,’ the abbot said eagerly.

      ‘And this,’ Thomas added more money, ‘is for my wounded men. You will tend them and, for those who die, bury them and have masses said.’

      ‘Of course, lord.’

      ‘And I shall return to see they were properly treated.’

      ‘I shall anticipate your return with joy, sire,’ the abbot lied.

      The Hellequin mounted and the bad coins were scooped into leather bags that were loaded onto packhorses as Thomas said his farewells to the men in the infirmary. Then, when the sun was still low in the east, they rode west. Brother Michael rode a borrowed horse alongside Sam who, despite his young face, was evidently one of the archers’ leaders. ‘Does le Bâtard often use lawyers?’ the monk asked.

      ‘He hates lawyers,’ Sam said. ‘If he had his way he’d bury every last bloody lawyer in the deepest pit of hell and let the devil shit on them,’

      ‘Yet he uses them?’

      ‘Uses them?’ Sam laughed. ‘He told that to the abbot, didn’t he?’ He jerked his head eastwards. ‘Back there, brother, there’s a half-dozen men following us. They ain’t very clever, ’cos we spotted them, and by now they’ll be talking to the abbot. Then they’ll go back to their master and say they saw us go west and that his fat lordship is to expect a visit from a man of law. Only he won’t get that. He’s going to get these instead.’ He patted the goose feathers of the arrows in his bag. Some of those feathers were speckled with dried blood from the fight at Villon.

      ‘You mean we’re going to fight him?’ Brother Michael said, and did not notice that he had used the word ‘we’, any more than he had thought about why he was still with the Hellequin instead of walking on towards Montpellier.

      ‘Of course we’re bloody going to fight him,’ Sam said scornfully. ‘The bloody count cheated us, didn’t he? So we’ll cut south and east as soon as those dozy bastards have finished chatting with the abbot. ’Cos they won’t follow us to make sure we’ve gone west. They’re the sort of dozy bastards who don’t think beyond their next pot of ale, but Thomas does, Thomas is a two-pot thinker, he is.’

      Thomas heard the compliment and twisted in his saddle. ‘Only two pots, Sam?’

      ‘As many pots as you like,’ Sam said.

      ‘It all depends,’ Thomas let Brother Michael catch up with him, ‘on whether the Count of Labrouillade stays in that castle we gave him. I suspect he won’t. He doesn’t feel safe there, and he’s a man who likes his comfort, so I reckon he’ll head south.’

      ‘And you’ll ride to meet him?’

      ‘Ride to ambush him,’ Thomas said. He glanced back at the sun to judge the time. ‘With God’s help, brother, we’ll bar his road this afternoon.’ He took the parchment from under his belt. ‘You didn’t read this?’

      ‘No!’ Brother Michael insisted, and spoke truly. He watched as le Bâtard cracked the seal apart and unfolded the stiff parchment, then he gazed at Genevieve who rode a grey horse on le Bâtard’s far side. Thomas saw the monk’s yearning gaze and was amused. ‘Didn’t you see last night, brother, what happens to a man who takes another man’s wife?’

      Michael blushed. ‘I …’ he began, but found he had nothing to say.

      ‘And besides,’ Thomas went on, ‘my wife is a heretic. She was excommunicated from the church and consigned to hell. As was I. Doesn’t that worry you?’

      Brother Michael still had nothing to say.

      ‘And why are you still here?’ Thomas asked.

      ‘Here?’ The young monk was confused.

      ‘Aren’t you under orders?’

      ‘I am supposed to go to Montpellier,’ Brother Michael confessed.

      ‘It’s that way, brother,’ Thomas said, pointing south.

      ‘We’re going south,’ Genevieve said drily, ‘and I think Brother Michael would like our company.’

      ‘You would?’ Thomas asked.

      ‘I would be glad of it,’ Brother Michael said, and wondered why he had spoken so eagerly.

      ‘Then welcome,’ Thomas said, ‘to the devil’s lost souls.’

      Who now turned south and east to teach a fat and greedy count a lesson.

      The Count of Labrouillade made slow progress. The horses were tired, the day grew warmer, most of his men were suffering from the wine they had drunk in the captured city, and the carts lumbered awkwardly on the rough road. Yet it did not matter, for shortly after midday the men he had sent to spy on le Bâtard returned with the news Labrouillade wanted.

      The Englishman had ridden west. ‘You’re sure?’ the count snapped.

      ‘We watched him, my lord.’

      ‘You watched him do what?’ the count asked suspiciously.

      ‘He counted the money, lord, his men stripped off their armour, then they rode westwards. All of them. And he told the abbot he would send lawyers to demand payment.’

      ‘Lawyers!’ The count laughed.

      ‘The abbot said so, and he promised your lordship that he would speak for you in any proceedings.’

      ‘Lawyers!’ The count laughed again. ‘Then the quarrel won’t be settled in our lifetime!’ He was safe now and the slowness of his journey did not matter. He stopped in a miserable village and demanded wine, bread and cheese, none of which he paid for, but the peasants’ reward was to be in his presence and that,