‘Get it open,’ he ordered two of his archers, ‘and whatever’s inside is mine.’ Then, ignoring two books which were of no use to man or beast, he went back into the hall and ran up a flight of dark wooden stairs.
Sir Simon found a door leading to a room at the front of the house. It was bolted and a woman screamed from the other side when he tried to force the door. He stood back and used the heel of his boot, smashing the bolt on the far side and slamming the door back on its hinges. Then he stalked inside, his old sword glittering in the dawn’s wan light, and he saw a black-haired woman.
Sir Simon considered himself a practical man. His father, quite sensibly, had not wanted his son to waste time on education, though Sir Simon had learned to read and could, at a pinch, write a letter. He liked useful things–hounds and weapons, horses and armour–and he despised the fashionable cult of gentility. His mother was a great one for troubadours, and was forever listening to songs of knights so gentle that Sir Simon reckoned they would not have lasted two minutes in a tourney’s mêlée. The songs and poems celebrated love as though it was some rare thing that gave a life enchantment, but Sir Simon did not need poets to define love, which to him was tumbling a peasant girl in a harvest field or thrusting at some ale-reeking whore in a tavern, but when he saw the black-haired woman he suddenly understood what the troubadours had been celebrating.
It did not matter that the woman was shaking with fear or that her hair was wildly awry or that her face was streaked with tears. Sir Simon recognized beauty and it struck him like an arrow. It took his breath away. So this, then, was love! It was the realization that he could never be happy until this woman was his–and that was convenient, for she was an enemy, the town was being sacked and Sir Simon, clad in mail and fury, had found her first.
‘Get out!’ he snarled at the servants in the room. ‘Get out!’
The servants fled in tears and Sir Simon booted the broken door shut, then advanced on the woman, who crouched beside her son’s bed with the boy in her arms.
‘Who are you?’ Sir Simon asked in French.
The woman tried to sound brave. ‘I am the Countess of Armorica,’ she said. ‘And you, monsieur?’
Sir Simon was tempted to award himself a peerage to impress Jeanette, but he was too slow-witted and so heard himself uttering his proper name. He was slowly becoming aware that the room betrayed wealth. The bed hangings were thickly embroidered, the candlesticks were of heavy silver and the walls either side of the stone hearth were expensively panelled in beautifully carved wood. He pushed the smaller bed against the door, reckoning that should ensure some privacy, then went to warm himself at the fire. He tipped more sea-coal onto the small flames and held his chilled gloves close to the heat.
‘This is your house, madame?’
‘It is.’
‘Not your husband’s?’
‘I am a widow,’ Jeanette said.
A wealthy widow! Sir Simon almost crossed himself out of gratitude. The widows he had met in England had been rouged hags, but this one…! This one was different. This one was a woman worthy of a tournament’s champion and seemed rich enough to save him from the ignominy of losing his estate and knightly rank. She might even have enough cash to buy a baronage. Maybe an earldom?
He turned from the fire and smiled at her. ‘Are those your boats at the quay?’
‘Yes, monsieur.’
‘By the rules of war, madame, they are now mine. Everything here is mine.’
Jeanette frowned at that. ‘What rules?’
‘The law of the sword, madame, but I think you are fortunate. I shall offer you my protection.’
Jeanette sat on the edge of her curtained bed, clutching Charles. ‘The rules of chivalry, my lord,’ she said, ‘ensure my protection.’ She flinched as a woman screamed in a nearby house.
‘Chivalry?’ Sir Simon asked. ‘Chivalry? I have heard it mentioned in songs, madame, but this is a war. Our task is to punish the followers of Charles of Blois for rebelling against their lawful lord. Punishment and chivalry do not mix.’ He frowned at her. ‘You’re the Blackbird!’ he said, suddenly recognizing her in the light of the revived fire.
‘The blackbird?’ Jeanette did not understand.
‘You fought us from the walls! You scratched my arm!’ Sir Simon did not sound angry, but astonished. He had expected to be furious when he met the Blackbird, but her reality was too overpowering for rage. He grinned. ‘You closed your eyes when you shot the crossbow, that’s why you missed.’
‘I did not miss!’ Jeanette said indignantly.
‘A scratch,’ Sir Simon said, showing her the rent in his mail sleeve. ‘But why, madame, do you fight for the false duke?’
‘My husband,’ she said stiffly, ‘was nephew to Duke Charles.’
Sweet God, Sir Simon thought, sweet God! A prize indeed. He bowed to her. ‘So your son,’ he said, nodding at Charles, who was peering anxiously from his mother’s arms, ‘is the present Count?’
‘He is,’ Jeanette confirmed,
‘A fine boy.’ Sir Simon forced himself to the flattery. In truth he thought Charles was a pudding-faced nuisance whose presence inhibited him from a natural urge to thrust the Blackbird onto her back and thus show her the realities of war, but he was acutely aware that this widow was an aristocrat, a beauty, and related to Charles of Blois, who was nephew to the King of France. This woman meant riches and Sir Simon’s present necessity was to make her see that her best interest lay in sharing his ambitions. ‘A fine boy, madame,’ he went on, ‘who needs a father.’
Jeanette just stared at him. Sir Simon had a blunt face. It was bulbous-nosed, firm-chinned, and showed not the slightest sign of intelligence or wit. He had confidence, though, enough to have persuaded himself that she would marry him. Did he really mean that? She gaped, then gave a startled cry as angry shouting erupted beneath her window. Some archers were trying to get past the men guarding the gate. Sir Simon pushed open the window. ‘This place is mine,’ he snarled in English. ‘Go find your own chickens to pluck.’ He turned back to Jeanette. ‘You see, madame, how I protect you?’
‘So there is chivalry in war?’
‘There is opportunity in war, madame. You are wealthy, you are a widow, you need a man.’
She gazed at him with disturbingly large eyes, hardly daring to believe his temerity. ‘Why?’ she asked simply.
‘Why?’ Sir Simon was astonished by the question. He gestured at the window. ‘Listen to the screams, woman! What do you think happens to women when a town falls?’
‘But you said you would protect me,’ she pointed out.
‘So I will.’ He was getting lost in this conversation. The woman, he thought, though beautiful, was remarkably stupid. ‘I will protect you,’ he said, ‘and you will look after me.’
‘How?’
Sir Simon sighed. ‘You have money?’
Jeanette shrugged. ‘There is a little downstairs, my lord, hidden in the kitchen.’
Sir Simon frowned angrily. Did she think he was a fool? That he would take that bait and go downstairs, leaving her to climb out of the window? ‘I know one thing about money, madame,’ he said, ‘and that is that you never hide it where the servants can find it. You hide it in the private rooms.