‘Unless they want to be hanged off the nearest tree. I hear Labrouillade wanted to rape my wife?’ Thomas asked and Roland just nodded. ‘Then I owe you thanks, my lord,’ Thomas said, ‘because what you did was brave. So thank you.’
‘But your wife …’
‘She’ll live,’ Thomas said, ‘maybe with only one eye. Brother Michael will do what he can, though I doubt that he can do much. Only I’m not sure I should call him “brother” any more. I’m not certain what he is now. Come, my lord.’
Roland allowed himself to be raised up and led through the trees towards the farm. ‘I didn’t know,’ he said, then faltered.
‘Didn’t know what a bastard Labrouillade is? I told you he was, but so what? We’re all bastards. I’m le Bâtard, remember?’
‘But you don’t let your men rape?’
‘For God’s sake,’ Thomas said, turning on him. ‘You think life is easy? It might be easy in a tournament, my lord. A tournament is artificial. You’re on one side or the other and no one thinks God takes sides in a tournament, and there are marshals to make sure you don’t get carried off dead, but there are no marshals here. It’s just war, war without end, and the best you can do is try not to be on the wrong side. But who in God’s name knows which side is right? It depends where you were born. I was born in England, but if I’d been born in France I’d be fighting for King Jean and reckoning God was on my side. In the meantime I try not to do evil. It might not be much of a rule, but it works, and when I do evil I say prayers and give alms to the church and pretend my conscience is clear.’
‘You do evil?’
‘It’s war,’ Thomas said. ‘Our job is to kill. The scriptures say non occides, but we do. A clever doctor at Oxford told me that the commandment means we shouldn’t commit murder, and that isn’t the same as thou shalt not kill, but when I lift some poor bastard’s visor and slide a sword into his eye socket that isn’t a great comfort to me.’
‘Then why do you do it?’
Thomas gave him an almost hostile look. ‘Because I like it,’ he said, ‘because I’m good at it. Because in the dark of night I can sometimes persuade myself I’m fighting for all those poor folk who can’t fight for themselves.’
‘And are you?’
Thomas did not answer, but instead called to a man standing beside the farm’s door. ‘Father Levonne!’
‘Thomas?’
‘This is the bastard who caused all the trouble. The Sire Roland de Verrec.’
‘My lord,’ the priest said, bowing to Roland.
‘I need to talk to Robbie, father,’ Thomas said, ‘and look after Genevieve. So maybe you can find Sire Roland some boots?’
‘Boots?’ the priest asked, astonished. ‘Here? How?’
‘You’re a priest. Pray, pray, pray.’
Thomas unslung his bow, chiding himself for not having done it earlier. A bow that was left tensioned by the cord too long could become permanently bent; it would have followed the string, as the archers said, and such a bow had less power. He coiled the cord and pushed it into a pouch and went into the farmhouse, which was lit with feeble rush wicks. Robbie was sitting in the cattle’s byre, which was otherwise occupied by only a brindled cow with one horn. ‘He had this bird,’ Robbie said as soon as Thomas came through the heavy door, ‘a hawk. He called it a calade.’
‘I’ve heard the word,’ Thomas said.
‘I thought calades discovered sickness in a person! But he tried to blind her! I killed it. I should have killed him!’
Thomas half smiled. ‘I remember,’ he said, ‘when Genevieve killed the priest who had tortured her. You disapproved of that. Now you’d kill a priest yourself?’
Robbie lowered his head and stared at the rotted straw on the byre’s floor. He was silent for a while, then shrugged. ‘My uncle’s here, in France I mean. He’s not much older than me, but still my uncle. He killed my other uncle, the one I liked.’
‘And you don’t like this uncle?’
Robbie shook his head. ‘He frightens me. The Lord of Douglas. I suppose he’s my clan chief now.’
‘And demands what of you?’
‘That I fight against the English.’
‘Which you vowed not to do,’ Thomas said.
Robbie nodded, then shrugged. ‘And Cardinal Bessières released me from that vow.’
‘Cardinal Bessières is a slimy turd,’ Thomas said.
‘Aye, I know.’
‘Why is your uncle here?’
‘To fight the English, of course.’
‘And expects you to fight alongside him?’
‘He wants that, but I said I couldn’t break the oath. So he sent me to Bessières instead.’ He looked up at Thomas. ‘The Order of the Fisherman.’
‘What in God’s name is that?’
‘Eleven knights, well, there were eleven before tonight, sworn to discover …’ He stopped suddenly.
‘La Malice,’ Thomas said.
‘You know,’ Robbie said flatly, ‘the cardinal said you knew. He hates you.’
‘I dislike him too,’ Thomas said mildly.
‘It’s a sword,’ Robbie said, ‘supposedly a magic sword.’
‘I don’t believe in magic.’
‘But other folk do,’ Robbie said, ‘and if he gets the sword he’ll have power, won’t he?’
‘Power to become Pope,’ Thomas said.
‘I suppose that’s not really a good thing?’ Robbie suggested.
‘You’d make a better Pope. Hell, I would. That cow would.’
Robbie half smiled, but said nothing.
‘So what do you do now?’ Thomas asked, and again Robbie said nothing. ‘You saved Genevieve,’ Thomas said, ‘so I release you from your oath. You’re free, Robbie.’
‘Free?’ Robbie grimaced and looked up at Thomas. ‘Free?’
‘I release you. All your oaths to me, they’re gone. You’re free to fight the English, do what you will. Te absolvo.’
Robbie smiled at the priestly Latin. ‘You absolve me,’ he said tiredly, ‘to be free and poor.’
‘You’re still gambling?’
Robbie nodded. ‘And losing.’
‘Well, you’re free. And thank you.’
‘Thank you?’
‘For what you did tonight. Now I need to see Genny.’
Robbie watched Thomas walk to the door. ‘So what do I do?’ he blurted out.
‘It’s your choice, Robbie. You’re free. No oaths any more.’ Thomas paused at the door, saw that Robbie was not going to answer and so walked out. The cow lifted her tail and filled the byre with stench.
Sculley pushed the door wide. ‘They’re bloody English,’ he protested.
‘Yes.
‘Still, that was a good fight,’ Sculley said, then laughed. ‘I had a son of a whore try to axe my feet away and I jumped over the bastard’s swing and put my sword in his mouth and he just stared at me and I gave him a moment to think about it, then pushed. Bloody Christ, the noise he made! I think he was calling for his mama, but that’s no bloody use when you’ve a Douglas sword down your gullet.’ He laughed again. ‘Aye, a rare good fight, but for the English?’
‘We were fighting for Genevieve,’ Robbie said, ‘and she’s French.’
‘The thin bitch? Pretty enough, but I like them with more meat. So what do we do? What happened to the bloody fisherman?’
Robbie smiled wanly. ‘I don’t think Father Marchant will want us back.’
‘It was a waste of time anyway. Pissing about for a daft priest with a magic bird.’ Sculley stooped and picked up a handful of straw and scrubbed at his sword blade. The bones woven into his hair rattled as he bent over the weapon. ‘So we leave?’ he asked.
‘Leave?’
‘Jesus! To join the lord, of course!’
He meant the Lord of Douglas, Robbie’s uncle. ‘Is that what you want?’ Robbie asked, his voice dull.
‘What else? We came here to do a bloody job, not piss about with bloody fisher
men.’
‘I’ll talk to Thomas,’ Robbie said, ‘and I’m sure he’ll give you a horse. Money too.’
‘The lord will want you back.’
‘I took an oath,’ Robbie said, then remembered that Thomas had just freed him of all his commitments. He could choose his own fate now. ‘I’m staying, Sculley,’ he said.
‘Staying?’
‘You can go to my uncle, but I’m staying here.’
Sculley frowned. ‘If you stay with this fellow,’ he gestured towards the other part of the house where he assumed Thomas had gone, ‘then the next time I see you I’ll have to kill you.’
‘Yes, you will.’
Sculley gobbed towards the cow. ‘I’ll make it quick. No hard feelings. You’ll talk to the man about a horse?’
‘I will, and I’ll ask him to give you coins for the journey.’
Sculley nodded. ‘That sounds fair,’ he said, ‘you stay, I go, and then I’ll kill you.’
‘Yes,’ Robbie said.
He was free.
Father Levonne, to his own astonishment, discovered a pair of boots in a chest that stood in a small upstairs room of the farm. ‘The farmer fled,’ he said, watching as Roland tried the boots on, ‘but we shall leave him money. Do they fit?’
‘They do,’ Roland said, ‘but we can’t steal them.’
‘We’ll leave more money than they’re worth,’ Father Levonne said. ‘Trust me, he’s a French farmer, he’d rather have gold than shoes.’
‘I have no money,’ Roland said, ‘or rather the money I have is in the castle.’
‘Thomas will pay,’ Father Levonne said.
‘He will?’
‘Of course. He always pays.’
‘Always?’ Roland sounded surprised.
‘Le Bâtard,’ Father Levonne explained patiently, ‘lives on the edge of English Gascony. To eat he needs grain and cheese and meat and fish, he needs wine and hay, and if he steals those things then the country folk won’t like him. They’ll betray him to Berat or Labrouillade, or to any of the other lords who’d like to hang Thomas’s skull in their hall, so Thomas makes sure they appreciate him. He pays. Most lords don’t pay, so who do you think is more popular?’
‘But …’ Roland began, then faltered.
‘But?’
‘Le Bâtard,’ Roland said in puzzlement, ‘the Hellequin?’
‘Ah, you think they’re the devil’s creatures?’ Father Levonne laughed. ‘Thomas is a Christian, and even, I dare say, a good one. He’s not sure of that, but he does try.’
‘But he was excommunicated,’ Roland pointed out.
‘For doing what you did, saving Genevieve’s life. Maybe you’ll be excommunicated next?’ Father Levonne saw the horror on Roland’s face and tried to alleviate it. ‘There are two churches, sire,’ he said, ‘and I doubt God takes any notice of an excommunication from one of them.’
‘Two? There’s only one church,’ Roland said. He gazed at the priest as though Father Levonne was a heretic himself. ‘Credo unam, sanctam, catholicam et apostolicam Ecclesiam,’ he said sternly.
‘Another soldier who speaks Latin! You and Thomas! And I too believe in one holy, catholic and apostolic church, my son, but that church is Janus-faced. One church, two faces. You were serving Father Marchant?’
‘Yes,’ Roland said in some embarrassment.
‘And whom does he serve? Cardinal Bessières. Cardinal Louis Bessières, Archbishop of Livorno and Papal Legate to the court of France. What do you know of Bessières?’
‘He’s a cardinal,’ Roland said, but plainly knew no more.
‘His father was a tallow merchant in the Limousin,’ Father Levonne said, ‘and young Louis was a clever boy and his father had enough cash to see that he was educated, but what chance does a tallow merchant’s son have in this world? He can’t become a lord, he wasn’t born, as you were, to privilege and rank, but there is always the church. A man can rise far in the holy, catholic and apostolic church. It matters not if he was born in a gutter, so long as he has a good brain, and a tallow merchant’s son can become a prince of the church, and so the church draws in all those clever boys, and some of them, like Louis Bessières, are also ambitious, cruel, greedy and ruthless. So
one face of the church, sire, is our present Pope. A good man, a little dull, a little too attached to canon law, but a man who tries to do Christ’s will in this wicked world. And the second face is Louis Bessières, an evil man, who wants, above everything, to be Pope.’
‘Which is why he seeks la Malice,’ Roland said quietly.
‘Of course.’
‘And I told Father Marchant where to find it!’ Roland went on.
‘You did?’
‘Or perhaps where he can find it. I don’t know. It might not be there.’
‘I think you must talk to Thomas,’ Father Levonne said gently.
‘You can tell him,’ Roland said.
‘Me? Why me?’
Roland shrugged. ‘I must ride on, father.’
‘To where?’
‘A arrière-ban has been pronounced. I must obey.’
Father Levonne frowned. ‘You’ll join the army of the King of France?’
‘Of course.’
‘And how many enemies will you have there? Labrouillade? Marchant? The cardinal?’
‘I can explain to Father Marchant,’ Roland said hesitantly.
‘You think he’s amenable to reason?’
‘I took an oath,’ Roland said.
‘Then take it back!’
Roland shook his head. ‘I can’t do that.’ He saw the priest was about to interrupt so hurried on, ‘I know things are not black and white, father, and perhaps Bessières is evil, and I know Labrouillade is a vile creature, but is his wife any better? She is an adulteress! A fornicator!’
‘Half Christendom is guilty of that sin, and most of the other half wish they were too.’
‘If I stay here,’ Roland said, ‘then I condone her sin.’
‘Good God,’ Father Levonne said in astonishment.
‘Is it so bad to wish for purity?’ Roland asked, almost pleadingly.
‘No, my son, but you’re not making sense. You accept that you made oaths to evil men, but now you won’t break them. How pure is that?’
‘Then maybe I break the oaths,’ Roland allowed, ‘if my conscience tells me to, but why break an oath to support a man who fights against my country and who shelters an adulteress?’
‘I thought you were a Gascon. The English rule Gascony, and no one disputes their right.’
‘Some Gascons do,’ Roland said, ‘and if I fight I will fight for what I think is right.’
Father Levonne shrugged. ‘You can do no more than that,’ he agreed, ‘but at the very least you can say farewell to Thomas.’ He glanced out of the casement and saw that dawn was greying the world’s edge. ‘Come, he’ll want to thank you.’
He led Roland downstairs into the big kitchen. Genevieve was there, a bandage across her left eye, and Hugh was sleeping in the corner while Thomas sat beside his wife with an arm about her shoulder. ‘Father,’ he greeted Levonne.
‘The Sire Roland wishes to leave,’ Father Levonne said. ‘I tried to persuade him to stay, but he insists he will go to King Jean.’ He turned and gestured for Roland to say whatever he wished, but Roland said nothing. He was staring, entranced, at the third person sitting at the table. He seemed incapable of speech or, indeed, of motion. He just stared, and through his head were running all the lines of poetry that the troubadours had sung in his mother’s castle, lines about lips that looked like crushed rose petals, about cheeks as white as doves’ wings, about eyes that could light the darkest sky, and about hair that was the colour of ravens’ wings. He tried to speak again, but nothing came, and she was gazing back at him with eyes just as wide.
‘You haven’t met the Countess of Labrouillade,’ Thomas said. ‘My lady, this is the Sire Roland de Verrec …’ He paused, then added pointedly, ‘who swore
an oath to return you to your husband.’
But it seemed Bertille did not hear Thomas’s words any more than Roland heard them, because she was just gazing at Roland. They each stared at the other and for both the world had ceased to exist. Time had stopped, heaven was holding its breath, and the virgin knight was in love.
PART THREE
Poitiers
Ten
The two dice rolled across the table.
It was a very fine table, made from dark walnut and inlaid with a pattern of unicorns made from silver and ivory, but it was now covered with a cloth of darkest blue velvet fringed with golden tassels. The velvet muffled the sound of the dice, which were being watched by five men.
‘God’s bowels,’ the youngest one said when the dice stopped.
‘Have emptied upon you, sire,’ another man said as he stooped over the table, ‘thrice!’ He needed to stoop because the dice, though made of the finest and whitest ivory, were marked with gold, which made them hard to read, and the difficulty was compounded by the strange light inside the vast tent, which was sewn from canvas dyed in red and yellow stripes. Not that there was much light to be coloured by the canvas for, although it was mid-morning, the sky was thick with dense cloud. The man looked quizzically at the prince, seeking permission to scoop up the dice. The prince nodded. ‘A two and a one,’ the man said, grinning, ‘which I believe, sire, make three, and increases your debt to me by three hundred.’
‘Your enjoyment is unseemly,’ the prince said, though without any anger.
‘It is indeed, sire, but it is enjoyment all the same.’
‘Oh God, no.’ The prince looked up because the tent was suddenly loud with the sound of a hard rain falling. It had been pattering on the canvas all morning, but now drummed, then cascaded so fast that the men needed to raise their voices to be heard. ‘God doesn’t love me today!’
‘He adores you, sire, but loves my purse more.’
The prince was twenty-six years old, a fine-looking man with thick fair hair darkened by the tent’s peculiar light. His face was bony with deep-set eyes as dark as the jet buttons that decorated the high collar of his tunic, which was fashionably short, tight-waisted, and dyed royal blue. The skirt was stiffened with bone and tailored into points that were edged with pearls, lined with yellow silk and finished with tassels woven from cloth of gold. His sword belt was made from the same cloth, though embroidered with his badge of three feathers made from ivory-coloured silk. The scabbarded sword itself was leaning against a chair that stood at the tent’s entrance, and the prince crossed to it so he could peer up at the rain-drenched sky. ‘Good God, will it never stop?’