Harlequin

‘Yes, Thomas, I do. Some souls are better than others. I must look after them all, but if you have a prize ram in the flock then you do well to guard it.’

Thomas sighed. ‘One day, father, I’ll find the man who stole that goddamn lance and I’ll ram it up his arse until it tickles the hollow of his skull. One day. Will that do?’

Father Hobbe smiled beatifically. ‘It’ll do, Thomas, but for now there’s a small church that could do with an extra man by the door. It’s full of women! Some of them are so beautiful that your heart will break just to gaze at them. You can get drunk afterwards.’

‘Are the women really beautiful?’

‘What do you think, Thomas? Most of them look like bats and smell like goats, but they still need protection.’

So Thomas helped guard a church, and afterwards, when the army was so drunk it could do no more damage, he went back to the widow’s tavern where he drank himself into oblivion. He had taken a town, he had served his lord well and he was content.

Chapter 3 (#u88eac42e-d5ef-5f8b-8f53-e6e6424c966b)

Thomas was woken by a kick. A pause, then a second kick and a cup of cold water in his face. ‘Jesus!’

‘That’s me,’ Will Skeat said. ‘Father Hobbe told me you’d be here.’

‘Oh, Jesus,’ Thomas said again. His head was sore, his belly sour and he felt sick. He blinked feebly at the daylight, then frowned at Skeat. ‘It’s you.’

‘It must be grand to be so clever,’ Skeat said. He grinned at Thomas, who was naked in the straw of the tavern stables that he was sharing with one of the widow’s daughters. ‘You must have been drunk as a lord to sheathe your sword in that,’ Skeat added, looking at the girl who was pulling a blanket over herself.

‘I was drunk,’ Thomas groaned. ‘Still am.’ He staggered to his feet and put on his shirt.

‘The Earl wants to see you,’ Skeat said with amusement.

‘Me?’ Thomas looked alarmed. ‘Why?’

‘Perhaps he wants you to marry his daughter,’ Skeat said. ‘Christ’s bones, Tom, but look at the state of you!’

Thomas pulled on his boots and mail coat, then retrieved his hose from the baggage camp and donned a cloth jacket over his mail. The jacket bore the Earl of Northampton’s badge of three green and red stars being pounced on by a trio of lions. He splashed water on his face, then scraped at his stubble with a sharp knife.

‘Grow a beard, lad,’ Skeat said, ‘it saves trouble.’

‘Why does Billy want to see me?’ Thomas asked, using the Earl’s nickname.

‘After what happened in the town yesterday?’ Skeat suggested thoughtfully. ‘He reckons he’s got to hang someone as an example, so he asked me if I had any useless bastards I wanted to be rid of and I thought of you.’

‘The way I feel,’ Thomas said, ‘he might as well hang me.’ He retched drily, then gulped down some water.

He and Will Skeat went back into the town to find the Earl of Northampton sitting in state. The building where his banner hung was supposed to be a guildhall, though it was probably smaller than the guardroom in the Earl’s own castle, but the Earl was sitting at one end as a succession of petitioners pleaded for justice. They were complaining about being robbed, which was pointless considering they had refused to surrender the town, but the Earl listened politely enough. Then a lawyer, a weasel-snouted fellow called Belas, bowed to the Earl and declaimed a long moan about the treatment offered to the Countess of Armorica. Thomas had been letting the words slide past him, but the insistence in Belas’s voice made him take notice.

‘If your lordship,’ Belas said, smirking at the Earl, ‘had not intervened, then the Countess would have been raped by Sir Simon Jekyll.’

Sir Simon stood to one side of the hall. ‘That is a lie!’ he protested in French.

The Earl sighed. ‘So why were your breeches round your ankles when I came into the house?’

Sir Simon reddened as the men in the hall laughed. Thomas had to translate for Will Skeat, who nodded, for he had already heard the tale.

‘The bastard was about to roger some titled widow,’ he explained to Thomas, ‘when the Earl came in. Heard her scream, see? And he’d seen a coat of arms on the house. The aristocracy look after each other.’

The lawyer now laid a long list of charges against Sir Simon. It seemed he was claiming the widow and her son as prisoners who must be held for ransom. He had also stolen the widow’s two ships, her husband’s armour, his sword and all the Countess’s money. Belas made the complaints indignantly, then bowed to the Earl. ‘You have a reputation as a just man, my lord,’ he said obsequiously, ‘and I place the widow’s fate in your hands.’

The Earl of Northampton looked surprised to be told his reputation for fairness. ‘What is it you want?’ he asked.

Belas preened. ‘The return of the stolen items, my lord, and the protection of the King of England for a widow and her noble son.’

The Earl drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair, then frowned at Sir Simon. ‘You can’t ransom a three-year-old,’ he said.

‘He’s a count!’ Sir Simon protested. ‘A boy of rank!’

The Earl sighed. Sir Simon, he had come to realize, had a mind as simple as a bullock seeking food. He could see no point of view but his own and was single-minded about pursuing his appetites. That, perhaps, was why he was such a formidable soldier, but he was still a fool. ‘We do not hold three-year-old children to ransom,’ the Earl said firmly, ‘and we don’t hold women as prisoners, not unless there is an advantage which outweighs the courtesy, and I see no advantage here.’ The Earl turned to the clerks behind his chair. ‘Who did Armorica support?’

‘Charles of Blois, my lord,’ one of the clerks, a tall Breton cleric, answered.

‘Is it a rich fief?’

‘Very small, my lord,’ the clerk, whose nose was running, spoke from memory. ‘There is a holding in Finisterre which is already in our hands, some houses in Guingamp, I believe, but nothing else.’

‘There,’ the Earl said, turning back to Sir Simon. ‘What advantages will we make from a penniless three-year-old?’

‘Not penniless,’ Sir Simon protested. ‘I took a rich armour there.’

‘Which the boy’s father doubtless took in battle!’

‘And the house is wealthy.’ Sir Simon was getting angry. ‘There are ships, storehouses, stables.’

‘The house,’ the clerk sounded bored, ‘belonged to the Count’s father-in-law. A dealer in wine, I believe.’

The Earl raised a quizzical eyebrow at Sir Simon, who was shaking his head at the clerk’s obstinacy. ‘The boy, my lord,’ Sir Simon responded with an elaborate courtesy which bordered on insolence, ‘is kin to Charles of Blois.’

‘But being penniless,’ the Earl said, ‘I doubt he provokes fondness. More of a burden, wouldn’t you think? Besides, what would you have me do? Make the child give fealty to the real Duke of Brittany? The real Duke, Sir Simon, is a five-year-old child in London. It’ll be a nursery farce! A three-year-old bobbing down to a five-year-old! Do their wet nurses attend them? Shall we feast on milk and penny-cakes after? Or maybe we can enjoy a game of hunt the slipper when the ceremony is over?’

‘The Countess fought us from the walls!’ Sir Simon attempted a last protest.

‘Do not dispute me!’ the Earl shouted, thumping the arm of his chair. ‘You forget that I am the King’s deputy and have his powers.’ The Earl leaned back, taut with anger, and Sir Simon swallowed his own fury, but could not resist muttering that the Countess had used a crossbow against the English.

‘Is she the Blackbird?’ Thomas asked Skeat.

‘The Countess? Aye, that’s what they say.’

‘She’s a beauty.’

‘After what I found you prodding this morning,’ Skeat said, ‘how can you tell?’

The Earl gave an irritated glance at Skeat and Thomas, then looked back to Sir Simon. ‘If the Countess did fight us from the walls,’ he said, ‘then I admire her spirit. As for the other matters…’ He paused and sighed. Belas looked expectant and Sir Simon wary. ‘The two ships,’ the Earl decreed, ‘are prizes and they will be sold in England or else taken into royal service, and you, Sir Simon, will be awarded one-third of their value.’ That ruling was according to the law. The King would take a third, the Earl another and the last portion went to the man who had captured the prize. ‘As to the sword and armour…’ The Earl paused again. He had rescued Jeanette from rape and he had liked her, and he had seen the anguish on her face and listened to her impassioned plea that she owned nothing that had belonged to her husband except the precious armour and the beautiful sword, but such things, by their very nature, were the legitimate plunder of war. ‘The armour and weapons and horses are yours, Sir Simon,’ the Earl said, regretting the judgement but knowing it was fair. ‘As to the child, I decree he is under the protection of the Crown of England and when he is of age he can decide his own fealty.’ He glanced at the clerks to make sure they were noting down his decisions. ‘You tell me you wish to billet yourself in the widow’s house?’ he asked Sir Simon.

‘I took it,’ Sir Simon said curtly.