Bernard Cornwell - 1356 (Special Edition)

‘Rules?’

‘They can get drunk as much as they like, but only when I tell them. And no rape.’

‘No …’ Roland began.

‘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.