1356

The man held by le Bâtard’s two soldiers reluctantly looked up at his enemy. He was a young man, handsome as a hawk, and, till an hour before, he had been ruler of this place, lord of its lands and owner of its peasants, but now he was nothing. He was in mail, with a breastplate and leg plates, and a smear of blood in his dark hair showed that he had fought the besiegers, but now he was in their grasp and he was forced to watch as the fat count fumbled to drag up the skirt of his chain mail. No one in the hall moved or spoke, they just watched as the count wrenched leather and steel aside and then, with a smile on his face, pissed on the merlin torn from his wife’s dress. He had the bladder of an ox and the urine splashed for a long time. Somewhere in the castle a man screamed and the scream went on and on, until at last, blessedly, it stopped.

The count finished at the same time, then held out a hand to his squire, who gave him a small knife with a wickedly curved blade. ‘See this, Villon?’ The count held the knife up so its blade caught the light. ‘Know what it is?’

Villon, held by the two men-at-arms, said nothing.

‘It’s for you,’ the count said. ‘She,’ he pointed the knife at his wife, ‘will go back to Labrouillade, and so will you, but only after we’ve cut you.’

The men in green and white livery grinned, anticipating the pain and pleasure to come. The knife, its blade rusted and its handle a worn sliver of wood, was a castrator’s knife, used to geld rams or calves or the small boys destined for the choirs of great churches. ‘Strip him,’ the count ordered his men.

‘Oh, God,’ Brother Michael murmured.

‘No stomach for it, brother?’ Sam asked.

‘He fought well,’ a new voice intervened, and the monk saw that le Bâtard had stepped to the edge of the dais. ‘He fought bravely and he deserves to die like a man.’

Some of the count’s men put their hands on their sword hilts, but the bishop waved them down. ‘He has offended the laws of man and God,’ the bishop told le Bâtard, ‘and placed himself beyond the boundaries of chivalry.’

‘The quarrel is mine,’ the count snarled at le Bâtard, ‘not yours.’

‘He is my prisoner,’ le Bâtard said.

‘When we hired you,’ the bishop said, ‘it was agreed that all prisoners would belong to the count and myself, regardless of who captured them. Do you deny that?’

Le Bâtard hesitated, but it was clear the bishop had spoken the truth. The tall, black-armoured man glanced about the room, but his men were far outnumbered by the forces of the bishop and count. ‘Then I appeal to you,’ he said to the bishop, ‘to let him go to his God like a man.’

‘He is a fornicator and sinner,’ the bishop said, ‘and so I give him to the count to do with as he wishes. And I would remind you that your fee is contingent on obeying all our reasonable commands.’

‘This is not reasonable,’ le Bâtard insisted.

‘The command for you to step aside is reasonable,’ the bishop said, ‘and I give it to you.’

The count’s men-at-arms thumped their shields on the floor to show their agreement, and le Bâtard, knowing himself outnumbered and out-argued, shrugged and stepped away. Brother Michael saw a man-at-arms take the castrating knife and, unable to bear what was about to happen, he pushed his way out to the steps of the tower where he breathed the smoky night air. He wanted to get farther away, but some of the count’s men had found an ox in the castle’s stable and were torturing the beast, prodding it with spears and swords, skipping away when it lumbered around to face them, and he did not dare try to thread his way through the vicious game. Then the screaming began in the hall behind.

A hand touched his shoulder and he turned, raising the heavy staff, only to see it was a priest, an older man, who offered the monk a skin of wine. ‘It seems,’ the older man said, ‘that you do not approve of what the count does?’

‘You do?’

The priest shrugged. ‘Villon took the count’s wife, so what does he expect? And our church gave its blessing to the count’s revenge, and with reason. Villon is a despicable man.’

‘And the count is not?’ Brother Michael decided he hated the fat count, with his greasy hair and heavy jowls.

‘I am his chaplain and confessor,’ the older priest said, ‘so I know what he is.’ He sounded bleak. ‘And you,’ he asked the monk, ‘what brings you to this place?’

‘I bring a message for le Bâtard,’ Brother Michael said.

‘What message?’

The English monk shook his head. ‘I’ve not read it.’

‘You should always read messages,’ the older man said with a smile.

‘It’s sealed.’

‘A hot knife will solve that.’

Brother Michael frowned. ‘I was told not to read it.’

‘By whom?’

‘By the Earl of Northampton. He said it was urgent and private.’

‘Urgent?’

Brother Michael crossed himself. ‘It’s said that the Prince of Wales is gathering another army. I think le Bâtard is ordered to join it.’ He shrugged. ‘That would make sense, anyway.’

‘It would.’

The conversation had distracted Brother Michael from the terrible screams that sounded inside the hall. Those screams slowly subsided, became a pathetic whimpering, and only then did the count’s chaplain lead the monk back to the flamelight in the pillared chamber. Brother Michael did not look at the naked thing on the bloody floor. He stayed at the back of the hall, hidden from the gelded man by the crowd of mailed soldiers.

‘We are done,’ the Count of Labrouillade said to le Bâtard.

‘We are done, my lord,’ le Bâtard agreed, ‘except you owe us the money for capturing this place swiftly.’

‘I owe you the money,’ the count agreed, ‘and it waits for you at Paville.’

‘Then we shall go to Paville, my lord.’ Le Bâtard offered the count a bow, then clapped his hands to get his men’s attention. ‘You know what to do! Do it!’

Le Bâtard’s men had to collect their own wounded, pick up their dead, and retrieve the arrows shot in the fight, because English arrows were hard to find in Burgundy, Toulouse and Provence. It was dawn before le Bâtard’s men filed out of the city’s ravaged gate, crossed the bridge in the valley and turned eastwards. The wounded were carried in carts, but every other man rode, and Brother Michael, who had snatched a few hours’ sleep, could at last count le Bâtard’s company. He had learned that some of the Hellequin were still guarding the castle at Castillon that was their refuge, but le Bâtard still led a formidable force. There were just over sixty archers, all of them English or Welsh, and thirty-two men-at-arms, mostly from Gascony, but some from the Italian states, a handful from Burgundy, a dozen from England, and some from further away, all of them adventurers who sought money and had found it with le Bâtard. With their servants and squires, they formed a war band that could be hired by any lord who had the resources to afford the best, though any lord who wished to fight against the English or their Gascon allies had to look elsewhere because le Bâtard would not help. He liked to say that he helped England’s enemies kill one another, and those enemies paid him for that help. They were mercenaries and they called themselves the Hellequin, the devil’s beloved, and they boasted that they could not be defeated because their souls had already been sent to hell.

And Brother Michael, after witnessing his first fight, believed them.

Two

The Count of Labrouillade was eager to leave Villon and gain the safety of his own fortress, which, because it possessed a moat and drawbridge, was safe from le Bâtard’s method of opening gates with gunpowder, and the count needed to be safe because le Bâtard, he was certain, would soon have a quarrel with him. And so he had left the bishop’s men to hold the newly captured castle at Villon while he and his force, sixty men-at-arms and forty-three crossbowmen, hurried home to Labrouillade.

His journey, though, was slowed by his captives. He had contemplated beating Bertille in Villon, and had even ordered one of his servants to bring a whip from the castle stables, but then had delayed the punishment to hasten his return home. Yet he wanted to humiliate her, and to that end he had brought a cart from Labrouillade. The cart had been in the stables for as long as he could remember, and on its bed was a cage big enough to hold a dancing bear or a fighting bull, and that was probably why it had been made. Or perhaps one of his ancestors had used the cart for prisoners, or for transporting the savage mastiffs used to hunt boars, but whatever its original function, the heavy cart was now a cage for his wife. The Count of Villon, bloody and weak, was being transported in another cart. If the man lived the count planned to chain him naked in his courtyard as an object for men’s laughter and as a pissing post for dogs, and that prospect cheered the count as he lumbered slowly southwards.

He had sent a dozen lightly armed horsemen eastwards. Their job was to trail le Bâtard’s mercenaries and return with a report if the Englishman pursued him. Yet that now seemed unlikely, for the count’s chaplain had good news. ‘I suspect he has been summoned by his liege, sire,’ the chaplain told the count.

‘Who is his liege?’

‘The Earl of Northampton, sire.’

‘In England?’

‘The monk had travelled from there, sire,’ the chaplain said, ‘and reckoned le Bâtard is ordered to join the Prince of Wales. He said the message was urgent.’

‘I hope you are right.’