Harlequin. Bernard Cornwell

helmets and had mail shirts over leather-backed hacquetons, they carried swords, axes or spears, and they were released to plunder. Most were veterans of Sir Guillaume’s other raids and knew just what to do. Kick in the flimsy doors and start killing the men. Let the women scream, but kill the men, for it was the men who would fight back hardest. Some women ran, but the Genoese crossbowmen were there to stop them. Once the men were dead the plundering could begin, and that took time for peasants everywhere hid whatever was valuable and the hiding places had to be ferreted out. Thatch had to be pulled down, wells explored, floors probed, but plenty of things were not hidden. There were hams waiting for the first meal after Lent, racks of smoked or dried fish, piles of nets, good cooking pots, distaffs and spindles, eggs, butter churns, casks of salt–all humble enough things, but sufficiently valuable to take back to Normandy. Some houses yielded small hoards of coins, and one house, the priest’s, was a treasure-trove of silver plate, candlesticks and jugs. There were even some good bolts of woollen cloth in the priest’s house, and a great carved bed, and a decent horse in the stable. Sir Guillaume looked at the seventeen books, but decided they were worthless and so, having wrenched the bronze locks from the leather covers, he left them to burn when the houses were fired.

      He had to kill the priest’s housekeeper. He regretted that death. Sir Guillaume was not squeamish about killing women, but their deaths brought no honour and so he discouraged such slaughter unless the woman caused trouble, and the priest’s housekeeper wanted to fight. She slashed at Sir Guillaume’s men-at-arms with a roasting spit, called them sons of whores and devils’ grubs, and in the end Sir Guillaume cut her down with his sword because she would not accept her fate.

      ‘Stupid bitch,’ Sir Guillaume said, stepping over her body to peer into the hearth. Two fine hams were being smoked in the chimney. ‘Pull them down,’ he ordered one of his men, then left them to search the house while he went to the church.

      Father Ralph, woken by the screams of his parishioners, had pulled on a cassock and run to the church. Sir Guillaume’s men had left him alone out of respect, but once inside the little church the priest had begun to hit the invaders until the Harlequin arrived and snarled at the men-at-arms to hold the priest. They seized his arms and held him in front of the altar with its white Easter frontal.

      The Harlequin, his sword in his hand, bowed to Father Ralph. ‘My lord Count,’ he said.

      Father Ralph closed his eyes, perhaps in prayer, though it looked more like exasperation. He opened them and gazed into the Harlequin’s handsome face. ‘You are my brother’s son,’ he said, and did not sound mad at all, merely full of regret.

      ‘True.’

      ‘How is your father?’

      ‘Dead,’ the Harlequin said, ‘as is his father and yours.’

      ‘God rest their souls,’ Father Ralph said piously.

      ‘And when you are dead, old man, I shall be the Count and our family will rise again.’

      Father Ralph half smiled, then just shook his head and looked up at the lance. ‘It will do you no good,’ he said, ‘for its power is reserved for virtuous men. It will not work for evil filth like you.’ Then Father Ralph gave a curious mewing noise as the breath rushed from him and he stared down to where his nephew had run the sword into his belly. He struggled to speak, but no words came, then he collapsed as the men-at-arms released him and he slumped by the altar with blood puddling in his lap.

      The Harlequin wiped his sword on the wine-stained altar cloth, then ordered one of Sir Guillaume’s men to find a ladder.

      ‘A ladder?’ the man-at-arms asked in confusion.

      ‘They thatch their roofs, don’t they? So they have a ladder. Find it.’ The Harlequin sheathed his sword, then stared up at the lance of St George.

      ‘I have put a curse on it.’ Father Ralph spoke faintly. He was pale-faced, dying, but sounded oddly calm.

      ‘Your curse, my lord, worries me as much as a tavern maid’s fart.’ The Harlequin tossed the pewter candlesticks to a man-at-arms, then scooped the wafers from the clay bowl and crammed them into his mouth. He picked up the bowl, peered at its darkened surface and reckoned it was a thing of no value so left it on the altar. ‘Where’s the wine?’ he asked Father Ralph.

      Father Ralph shook his head. ‘Calix meus inebrians,’ he said, and the Harlequin just laughed. Father Ralph closed his eyes as the pain griped his belly. ‘Oh God,’ he moaned.

      The Harlequin crouched by his uncle’s side. ‘Does it hurt?’

      ‘Like fire,’ Father Ralph said.

      ‘You will burn in hell, my lord,’ the Harlequin said, and he saw how Father Ralph was clutching his wounded belly to staunch the flow of blood and so he pulled the priest’s hands away and then, standing, kicked him hard in the stomach. Father Ralph gasped with pain and curled his body. ‘A gift from your family,’ the Harlequin said, then turned away as a ladder was brought into the church.

      The village was filled with screams, for most of the women and children were still alive and their ordeal had scarcely begun. All the younger women were briskly raped by Sir Guillaume’s men and the prettiest of them, including Jane from the alehouse, were taken to the boats so they could be carried back to Normandy to become the whores or wives of Sir Guillaume’s soldiers. One of the women screamed because her baby was still in her house, but the soldiers did not understand her and they struck her to silence then pushed her into the hands of the sailors, who lay her on the shingle and lifted her skirts. She wept inconsolably as her house burned. Geese, pigs, goats, six cows and the priest’s good horse were herded towards the boats while the white gulls rode the sky, crying.

      The sun had scarcely risen above the eastern hills and the village had already yielded more than Sir Guillaume had dared hope for.

      ‘We could go inland,’ the captain of his Genoese crossbowmen suggested.

      ‘We have what we came for,’ the black-dressed Harlequin intervened. He had placed the unwieldy lance of St George on the graveyard grass, and now stared at the ancient weapon as though he was trying to understand its power.

      ‘What is it?’ the Genoese crossbowman asked.

      ‘Nothing that is of use to you.’

      Sir Guillaume grinned. ‘Strike a blow with that,’ he said, ‘and it’ll shatter like ivory.’

      The Harlequin shrugged. He had found what he wanted, and Sir Guillaume’s opinion was of no interest.

      ‘Go inland,’ the Genoese captain suggested again.

      ‘A few miles, maybe,’ Sir Guillaume said. He knew that the dreaded English archers would eventually come to Hookton, but probably not till midday, and he wondered if there was another village close by that would be worth plundering. He watched a terrified girl, maybe eleven years old, being carried towards the beach by a soldier. ‘How many dead?’ he asked.

      ‘Ours?’ The Genoese captain seemed surprised by the question. ‘None.’

      ‘Not ours, theirs.’

      ‘Thirty men? Forty? A few women?’

      ‘And we haven’t taken a scratch!’ Sir Guillaume exulted. ‘Pity to stop now.’ He looked at his employer, but the man in black did not seem to care what they did, while the Genoese captain just grunted, which surprised Sir Guillaume for he thought the man was eager to extend the raid, but then he saw that the man’s sullen grunt was not caused by any lack of enthusiasm, but by a white-feathered arrow that had buried itself in his breast. The arrow had slit through the mail shirt and padded hacqueton like a bodkin sliding through linen, killing the crossbowman almost instantly.

      Sir Guillaume dropped flat and a heartbeat later another arrow whipped above him to thump into the turf. The Harlequin snatched up the lance and was running towards the beach while Sir Guillaume scrambled into the shelter of the church porch. ‘Crossbows!’ he shouted. ‘Crossbows!’

      Because