Bernard Cornwell - 1356 (Special Edition)

‘Oh God, you and Brother Michael?’

‘That monk? I thought he was with you, but no one would believe me. He didn’t look frightened enough when you had that knife at his throat.’

‘What’s your name?’ Thomas asked.

‘Éamonn Óg Ó Keane,’ Keane said, ‘but take no notice of the Óg.’

‘Why not?’

‘Just don’t. It means I’m younger than my father, but we all are, aren’t we? It’ll be a strange day in paradise when we’re older than our fathers.’

‘Well, Éamonn Óg Ó Keane,’ Thomas said, ‘you are now one of my men-at-arms.’

‘And thank the good Christ for that,’ Keane said, lowering the pitchfork to the cobbles. ‘No more of that little turd Roger de Beaufort. How can he believe a wee baby is doomed to hell? But he does! The cretinous little slug will end up as Pope, you mark my words.’

Thomas waved the Irishman to silence. Where was Genevieve? Wherever she was the only thing Thomas could be sure about was that he needed to get out of this city. ‘Your first duty,’ he told the Irishman, ‘is to get us through the gates.’

‘That’ll be difficult. They’re offering a rare reward for your capture.’

‘They?’

‘The city consuls.’

‘So get me out of the city,’ Thomas said.

‘Shit,’ Keane said after a brief pause.

‘Shit?’

‘Shit-carts, turd-wagons really,’ the Irishman said. ‘They collect the stuff and cart it out of the city, at least they do from the rich folks’ homes. The poor folk just wade in the muck, but there’s enough rich people to keep the dung-carts rolling. There’s usually a couple of wagons waiting to leave the city when the gates open, and,’ he paused to look earnestly at Thomas, ‘you can trust my word on this opinion, the city guards don’t take a real close look at the carts. They sort of step back, hold their noses, wave them through and wish them God speed.’

‘But first,’ Thomas said, ‘go to the tavern by Saint Pierre’s church and …’

‘The Blind Tits, you mean?’

‘The tavern by Saint Pierre’s …’

‘The Blind Tits,’ Keane said, ‘that’s what it’s called in town on account that the sign shows Saint Lucia with no eyes and a ripe pair …’

‘Just go there,’ Thomas said, ‘and find Brother Michael.’ The reluctant monk had been lodging at the tavern, and Thomas hoped he would have reliable news about Genevieve’s fate.

‘I’ll be waking the tavern,’ Keane said dubiously.

‘Then wake it.’ Thomas dared not go himself because he was certain the tavern was being watched. He took a coin from his pouch. ‘Buy some wine, loosen their tongues. Look for that monk, Brother Michael. See if he knows what happened to Genevieve.’

‘She’s your wife, yes?’ Keane asked, then frowned. ‘Can you believe Saint Lucia dug her own eyes out? Jesus! And all because a man complimented her eyes? Thank Christ he didn’t like her tits! Still, she’d have made a good wife.’

Thomas gaped at the young Irishman. ‘A good wife?’

‘My father always says that the best marriage is between a blind woman and a deaf man. So where will I find you after I’ve loosened the tongues?’

Thomas pointed at an alleyway beside the convent. ‘I’ll wait there.’

‘And then we become shit-haulers. Jesus, I love being a man-at-arms. Do you want this Brother Michael to join us?’

‘Christ, no. Tell him his duty is to learn medicine.’

‘Poor fellow. He’s going to be a piss-taster?’

‘Go,’ Thomas said. Keane went.

Thomas hid in the alley, sheltered by shadows black as a monk’s cowl. He heard the rats scuttling though the rubbish, a man snoring behind a shuttered window, a baby crying. A pair of watchmen carrying lanterns strolled past the convent, but neither looked down the alley where Thomas closed his eyes and prayed for Genevieve. If Roland de Verrec handed her to the church then she would be condemned again. But surely, he thought, the virgin knight would hold her for ransom, the ransom being Bertille, Countess of Labrouillade, and that meant de Verrec would keep her safe till the exchange was done. The sword of Saint Peter could wait; Thomas would settle with the virgin knight first.

It was almost dawn when Keane returned. ‘Your monk wasn’t there,’ he said, ‘but there was an ostler with a flapping tongue. And you’re in trouble because the city guard are told to look for a man with a mangled left hand. Was that a battle?’

‘A Dominican torturer.’

Keane flinched as he looked at the hand. ‘Jesus. What did he do?’

‘A screw-press.’

‘Ah, they’re not allowed to draw blood, are they, because God doesn’t like it, but those fellows can still wake you out of a deep sleep.’

‘Brother Michael wasn’t at the tavern?’

‘He was not, and my fellow hadn’t seen him and didn’t even seem to know who I was talking about.’

‘Good, he’s gone to learn medicine.’

‘A lifetime of sipping piss,’ Keane said, ‘but the ostler did tell me your other fellow left the city yesterday.’

‘Roland de Verrec?’

‘That’s the man. He took your wife and bairn westwards.’

‘Westwards?’ Thomas asked, puzzled.

‘He was sure of that.’

So de Verrec was going towards Toulouse? What was at Toulouse? Questions seethed and provoked no answers; all Thomas could be sure of was that Roland had left Montpellier and that suggested the virgin knight was no longer interested in Thomas. He possessed Genevieve and must have known he could exchange her for Bertille, while Thomas, Roland would assume, would be captured by the city guard of Montpellier. ‘Where are these shit-wagons?’

Keane led him westwards. The first house doors were opening. Women carried pails to the city wells, and a stout girl was selling goat’s milk beside a stone crucifix. Thomas kept his wounded hand hidden beneath his cloak as Keane led him through alleys and small streets, and past yards where cattle bellowed. The city’s church bells were ringing, summoning the faithful to early prayers. Thomas followed the Irishman downhill to where the streets were uncobbled and the mud stained with blood. This was where cattle were butchered, where the city’s poor lived, and where the stench of sewage led them to a small square in which three carts were parked. Each cart had a pair of oxen in harness, and their beds were filled with big-bellied barrels. ‘Jesus, but rich people’s shit stinks,’ Keane said.

‘Where are the carters?’

‘They drink in the Widow,’ Keane pointed to a small tavern, ‘and the widow is a tough old biddy who also owns the wagons, and the wine is part of their wages. They’re supposed to leave when the gates open, but they tend to linger over their wine, which is a surprise.’

‘A surprise?’

‘The wine is just horrible. Tastes like cow piss.’

‘How would you know?’

‘That’s a question worthy of Doctor Lucius. Are you sure you want to do this?’

‘How the hell else do I get out of the city?’

‘The trick of it,’ Keane said, ‘is to wriggle between two of the barrels. Just worm your way in to the centre of the cart and no one will ever know you’re there. I’ll let you know when it’s safe to wriggle out.’

‘You’re not hiding with me?’

‘They’re not looking for me!’ the Irishman said. ‘You’re the fellow they want to hang.’

‘Hang me?’

‘Jesus, you’re an Englishman! Thomas of Hookton! Leader of the Hellequin! Sure they want to hang you! There’ll be a bigger crowd than Whore Sunday!’

‘What’s Whore Sunday?’

‘Nearest Sunday to the Feast of Saint Nicholas. The girls are supposed to give it away that day, but I’ve not seen it happen. And you’ve not a lot of time.’ He stopped as an upstairs shutter opened across the small square. A man looked out, yawned, then vanished. Cockerels were crowing all through the town. A pile of rags stirred in a corner of the square and Thomas realised it was a beggar sleeping. ‘Not a lot of time at all,’ Keane went on. ‘The gates are open so the wagons will be rolling soon enough.’