Bernard Cornwell - 1356 (Special Edition)

Father Marchant had invented the interest of the Pope and the king, but it was an inspired invention, sufficient to cool Labrouillade’s fury. ‘I am right?’ the count demanded.

‘Entirely, and if any of us has impeded you, my lord, if any of us has challenged your undoubted authority, then you have our humblest apology.’

‘But the Pope and the king have an interest here?’

‘Astonishing though that may seem, my lord, yes. It is why I am here, sent by Cardinal Bessières. My lord, if you would earn a reputation as a man who has fought valiantly for the kingdom of heaven here upon earth then I would beg you to allow me some time with this creature.’

‘And when you’re done with her?’

‘As I said, my lord, this is your castle.’

‘And your men would do well to remember that,’ the count snarled.

‘Indeed, my lord.’

‘Then take her,’ the count said magnanimously.

‘The church will be for ever in your debt, my lord,’ Father Marchant said, and beckoned to Sculley and Robbie to take Genevieve out. He pointed at Hugh. ‘Take him too.’

And Robbie breathed a sigh of relief.

Thomas knelt at the wood’s edge. ‘What did he say?’ he asked for the tenth time.

‘To go back at first light.’ Keane said.

And between now, the night’s heart, and first light, what would happen to Genevieve? This was the question that tortured Thomas, and to which imagination provided a foul answer, and for which intelligence offered no solution. He could not rescue her. He could not cross a moat, climb a wall, and fight his way inside. For that he would need an army and time. ‘You should get some sleep,’ he said to his men, and that was true, but the archers had chosen to keep their vigil with Thomas. None wanted to sleep. ‘How many men inside?’ Thomas wondered aloud.

‘The bastard had about a hundred men when we fought at Villon,’ Sam offered.

‘They can’t all be inside,’ Thomas said, though that was hope speaking.

‘It’s a big enough place,’ Keane said.

‘And we have thirty-four archers here,’ Thomas said.

‘And we have men-at-arms,’ Karyl added.

‘He had about forty crossbows,’ Sam said, ‘maybe more?’

‘He didn’t say he’d exchange her?’ Thomas asked, for the tenth time.

‘He just said to come back,’ Keane said. ‘I’d have asked the fellow a few questions if I could, but they dropped a hint with a crossbow that Father Levonne and I weren’t exactly welcome.’

If Genevieve was hurt, Thomas thought, he would forget la Malice , he would forget the Prince of Wales, he would forget everything until he had tied the Count of Labrouillade down onto a table and cut him as the count had cut Villon. And that was a futile hope in this moonlit night. There were times when all a man could do was wait and fortify himself with dreams against despair.

‘At dawn,’ Thomas said, ‘I want every archer, every man-at-arms. We’ll show ourselves. We’ll be ready to fight, but stay just out of crossbow range.’ It was a gesture, he knew, nothing more, but right now he was reduced to gestures.

‘We’re ready now,’ Sam said. Like all the archers he had his bow, though in the expectation of dew he had taken the cord from the stave and stored it in his hat. ‘And it’ll be an early dawn.’

‘You should sleep,’ Thomas said, ‘all of you who aren’t sentries, you should sleep.’

‘Aye, we should,’ Sam said.

And no one moved.

Father Marchant laid a gentle hand on Roland’s arm. ‘You did right, my son. She is your prisoner and you had to defend her, but you must use caution.’

‘Caution?’

‘This is the count’s demesne. He rules here.’ He smiled. ‘But that is past. Now you must give the prisoner to us.’

‘Prisoner?’ Roland asked. ‘She is a hostage, father.’

Father Marchant hesitated, ‘What do you know of her?’ he asked.

Roland frowned. ‘She is base-born and married to le Bâtard , but beyond that nothing of consequence.’

‘You like her?’

Roland hesitated, then remembered his duty to the truth. ‘I didn’t like her at first, father, but I’ve come to admire her. She has spirit. She has a quick mind. Yes, I like her.’

‘She has bewitched you,’ Father Marchant said sternly, ‘and for that you are not to blame. But you should know she is excommunicated, condemned by Holy Mother Church. She was to be burned for heresy, but le Bâtard rescued her, and then, to compound her evil, she killed a pious Dominican who had discovered her heresy. In all conscience, my son, I cannot let her go now, I cannot permit her to spread her loathsome doctrines. She is condemned.’

‘I swore to protect her,’ Roland said uneasily.

‘I release you from that oath.’

‘But she seems such a good woman!’

‘The devil masks his work, my son,’ Father Marchant said, ‘he cloaks the vile in raiments of light and sweetens their foulness with honeyed words. She looks fair, but she is the devil’s creature, as is her husband. They are both excommunicated, both heretics.’ He turned as his servant approached down the shadowed corridor. ‘Thank you,’ he said, taking the hawk from the man. He had pulled on a leather glove and now wrapped the bird’s jesses around his wrist before stroking the hood that covered the bird’s eyes. ‘Do you know,’ he enquired of Roland, ‘why the heretics went to Montpellier?’

‘She told me they went to escort an English monk who would enrol at the university, father.’

Father Marchant smiled sadly. ‘She lied about that, my son.’

‘She did?’

‘Her husband seeks la Malice .’

‘No!’ Roland said, not in protest, but in astonishment.

‘It’s my surmise that he heard the weapon might be there.’

Roland shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t think so,’ he said confidently.

It was Father Marchant’s turn to be astonished. ‘You wouldn’t …’ he said weakly, then stopped.

‘Well, of course I don’t know,’ Roland said, ‘and perhaps you have news of la Malice that I haven’t heard?’

‘We heard it was at a place called Mouthoumet, but it was gone when we arrived.’

‘It’s possible it was taken to Montpellier,’ Roland said dubiously, ‘but a man who cares for la Malice would surely return it to its proper place.’

‘There is a proper place?’ the priest asked cautiously. He was stroking the bird’s hooded head, his finger gentle against the soft leather.

Roland smiled modestly. ‘My mother, God bless her, is descended from the ancient Counts of Cambrai. They were great warriors, but one of them defied his father and gave up the profession of arms to become a monk. Junien, he was called, and family tradition says that the blessed Saint Peter appeared to him in a dream and gave him the sword. Saint Peter told Junien that only a man who was both a saint and a warrior was fit to protect the blade.’

‘Saint Junien?’

‘He’s not well known,’ Roland admitted sadly, ‘indeed, if he’s famous at all it’s for sleeping through a snowstorm that should have killed him, but he was protected by the grace of God …’ He paused because Father Marchant had gripped his arm so tightly that it hurt. ‘Father?’ he asked.

‘Does this Junien have a shrine?’

‘The Benedictines at Nouaillé keep his earthly remains, father.’

‘At Nouaillé?’

‘It’s in Poitou, father.’

‘God bless you, my son,’ Father Marchant said.

Roland heard the relief in the priest’s voice. ‘I don’t know that la Malice is there, father,’ he warned cautiously.

‘But she may be, she may be,’ Father Marchant said, then paused as a servant carried a chamber pot down the passageway that was lit by what small glow leaked from the candle-lit hall. ‘I don’t know,’ he finally admitted when the servant had passed. ‘I don’t know,’ he repeated, sounding weary. ‘It could be anywhere! I don’t know where else to look, but perhaps le Bâtard knows?’ He stroked the hawk that was stirring restlessly on his wrist. ‘So we must discover just what he knows and why he went to Montpellier.’ He lifted his arm on which the hawk was perched. ‘Soon, my dear one,’ he spoke to the hawk, ‘we shall unhood you very soon.’