Bernard Cornwell - 1356 (Special Edition)

‘We’d have taken down every last man if it hadn’t been for Hugh,’ Sam went on. ‘Bastard had a knife at his throat. We killed a couple though.’

‘But Genevieve’s inside?’

Sam nodded. ‘She and Hugh.’

Thomas stared at the castle from the edge of the trees. No chance, he thought. The sun reddened the curtain wall, glimmered the moat scarlet, and reflected a wink of lurid light from the helmet of a sentinel. With a cannon, he thought, he could shatter the drawbridge in a day, but how would he cross the moat?

‘I brought your bow,’ Sam said.

‘You were expecting me?’ Thomas asked. ‘Or planning to use it yourself?’

Sam looked confused for a moment, then changed the subject. ‘And we fetched the countess as well,’ he said.

‘Fetched her?’

Sam jerked his head southwards. ‘She’s in a farm back there. Pitt’s making sure the silly bitch doesn’t run off.’

‘Why the hell did you bring her?’

‘In case you want to exchange her,’ Sam said. ‘It was Father Levonne’s idea. He’s here too.’

‘Father Levonne? Why?’

‘He wanted to come. He’s not sure you should exchange her, but …’ Sam’s voice died away.

‘It would be a simple solution,’ Thomas said. He was thinking that he should not be wasting time here. There was la Malice to discover and, more importantly, the news that the Prince of Wales was marching an army somewhere through France. Archers and men-at-arms were ravaging a swathe of countryside, wrecking estates, burning towns and spreading panic, all in hope of luring a French army into range of the long war bows and their goose-feathered arrows. Thomas knew his place was with that army, but instead he was trapped here because Genevieve and Hugh were prisoners, and the simple solution was indeed to offer Bertille, Countess of Labrouillade, back to her vengeful husband, but if he did that Thomas would face Genevieve’s wrath. Well, he thought, let her be angry. Better to be enraged and free than imprisoned and helpless.

‘You have sentinels?’ he asked Sam.

‘All along the wood’s edge. Couple more on the road east, dozen around the farm.’

‘You did well,’ Thomas said again. The moon was rising as the last daylight drained from the west. Thomas gestured for Keane to join him as he walked towards the farm where Bertille was held. ‘I want you to ride within hailing distance of the castle,’ he told the Irishman. ‘No weapons. Hold your hands out wide to show you’re unarmed.’

‘And will I be unarmed?’

‘You will.’

‘Jesus,’ the Irishman said. ‘So how far can a crossbow shoot?’

‘Much farther than you can shout.’

‘You want me dead, then?’

‘If I went,’ Thomas said, ‘I think they might shoot, but they don’t know you, and you have a brisk tongue.’

‘You noticed that, did you?’

‘They won’t shoot,’ Thomas said reassuringly, hoping it was true, ‘because they’ll want to hear what you have to say.’

Keane snapped his fingers and the two wolfhounds came to his heels. ‘And what do I have to say?’

‘Tell them I’ll exchange the countess for Genevieve and my son. There are to be no more than three men as escorts on either side, and the exchange will happen halfway between the wood and the castle.’

‘Is that what all this fuss is about?’ Keane asked. ‘The countess?’

‘Labrouillade wants her back.’

‘Ah, that’s touching. The man must love her.’

Thomas preferred not to think why the count wanted Bertille back because he knew that by exchanging her he was condemning her to misery and possibly death, but Genevieve and Hugh were infinitely more important to him. It was a pity, he thought. It was unavoidable.

‘And just when do I deliver this message?’ Keane asked.

‘Now,’ Thomas said. ‘There’s enough moonlight for them to see you’re not armed.’

‘Enough to aim a crossbow too.’

‘That too,’ Thomas agreed.

He found the countess in the farm’s enormous kitchen, a room crossed by heavy beams from which hung drying herbs. Father Levonne, the priest from Castillon d’Arbizon, was there, and Pitt was guarding her. Pitt, he owned to no other name, was a tall, lean and taciturn man with a gaunt face, lank hair tied with a frayed bowstring, and deep-set eyes. He was English, from Cheshire, but he had joined the Hellequin in Gascony, riding out of a forest as though he belonged to them and then just falling into line and saying nothing. He was black-humoured, morose, and Thomas suspected he had deserted from some other company, but he was also a superb archer and knew how to lead men in battle. ‘Glad you’re back,’ he growled when he saw Thomas.

‘Thomas,’ Father Levonne said in relief, and stood up from the chair beside Bertille.

Thomas waved the priest down. Bertille sat at the big table where two candles burned smokily. A maid, provided by Genevieve from among the girls at Castillon d’Arbizon, knelt beside her. The countess’s eyes were red from crying. She looked up at Thomas. ‘You’re going to give me back, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, my lady.’

‘Thomas …’ Father Levonne started.

‘Yes,’ Thomas said harshly, cutting off whatever protest the priest was about to make.

Bertille lowered her head and began crying again. ‘Do you know what he’ll do to me?’

‘He has my wife and son,’ Thomas said.

She sobbed quietly.

‘Jesus,’ Keane hissed beside Thomas.

Thomas ignored the Irishman. ‘I’m sorry, my lady,’ he said.

‘When?’ she asked.

‘Tonight, I hope.’

‘I’d rather be dead,’ she said.

‘Thomas,’ Father Levonne said, ‘let me go and talk to the count.’

‘What the hell good do you think that will do?’ Thomas asked more curtly than he had intended.

‘Just let me talk to him.’

Thomas shook his head. ‘The Count of Labrouillade,’ he said, ‘is an evil bastard, a fat malevolent angry bastard, and by this time of night he’ll probably be half drunk, and if I let you go into his castle you probably won’t come out.’

‘Then I stay there. I’m a priest. I go where I’m needed.’ Father Levonne paused. ‘Let me talk to him.’

Thomas thought for a moment. ‘From outside the castle, maybe.’

Levonne hesitated, then nodded. ‘That will do.’

Thomas plucked Keane’s elbow and took him into the farm’s yard. ‘Don’t let Father Levonne go into the castle. They’ll likely make him another hostage.’

The Irishman, for once, seemed lost for words, but finally found his tongue. ‘God’s blood,’ he said wistfully, ‘but she’s a beautiful creature.’

‘She belongs to Labrouillade,’ Thomas said harshly.

‘She could dim the stars,’ Keane said, ‘and turn a man’s mind to smoke.’

‘She’s married.’

‘A creature so lovely,’ Keane said wonderingly, ‘it just makes you believe that God must really love us.’

‘Now find a fresh horse,’ Thomas said, ‘and you and Father Levonne take that message to Labrouillade.’ He turned to the priest who had followed them into the moonlight. ‘You can say your words, father, but unless you can persuade the count to let Genevieve go, then I’m exchanging the countess.’

‘Yes,’ Father Levonne said unenthusiastically.

‘I want this finished,’ Thomas said harshly, ‘because tomorrow we’re riding north.’

Riding north. To join a prince, or to find la Malice .

Roland de Verrec felt his soul soar like a bird in a clear sky, a bird that could pierce the clouds of doubt and rise to the heights of glory, a bird with wings of faith, a white bird, white as the swans that swam in the moat of the Count of Labrouillade’s castle, where now he knelt in the candle-lit chapel. He was conscious of his heart beating, not just beating, but drumming hollowly in his chest as if it kept time with the beating wings of his rising soul. Roland de Verrec was in ecstasy.