Harlequin

‘Who has an axe?’ he asked his men.

One of the men-at-arms stepped forward and Sir Simon indicated the heavy gate. The house had windows on the ground floor, but they were covered by heavy iron bars, which seemed a good sign. Sir Simon stepped back to let his man start work on the gate.

The axeman knew his business. He chopped a hole where he guessed the locking bar was, and when he had broken through he put a hand inside and pushed the bar up and out of its brackets so that Sir Simon and his archers could heave the gates open. Sir Simon left two men to guard the gate, ordering them to keep every other plunderer out of the property, then led the rest into the yard. The first things he saw were two boats tied at the river’s quay. They were not large ships, but all hulls were valuable and he ordered four of his archers to go aboard.

‘Tell anyone who comes that they’re mine, you understand? Mine!’

He had a choice now: storerooms or house? And a stable? He told two men-at-arms to find the stable and stand guard on whatever horses were there, then he kicked in the house door and led his six remaining men into the kitchen. Two women screamed. He ignored them; they were old, ugly servants and he was after richer things. A door led from the back of the kitchen and he pointed one of his archers towards it, then, holding his sword ahead of him, he went through a small dark hall into a front room. A tapestry showing Bacchus, the god of wine, hung on one wall and Sir Simon had an idea that valuables were sometimes hidden behind such wall-coverings so he hacked at it with his blade, then hauled it down from its hooks, but there was only a plaster wall behind. He kicked the chairs, then saw a chest that had a huge dark padlock.

‘Get it open,’ he ordered two of his archers, ‘and whatever’s inside is mine.’ Then, ignoring two books which were of no use to man or beast, he went back into the hall and ran up a flight of dark wooden stairs.

Sir Simon found a door leading to a room at the front of the house. It was bolted and a woman screamed from the other side when he tried to force the door. He stood back and used the heel of his boot, smashing the bolt on the far side and slamming the door back on its hinges. Then he stalked inside, his old sword glittering in the dawn’s wan light, and he saw a black-haired woman.

Sir Simon considered himself a practical man. His father, quite sensibly, had not wanted his son to waste time on education, though Sir Simon had learned to read and could, at a pinch, write a letter. He liked useful things–hounds and weapons, horses and armour–and he despised the fashionable cult of gentility. His mother was a great one for troubadours, and was forever listening to songs of knights so gentle that Sir Simon reckoned they would not have lasted two minutes in a tourney’s mêlée. The songs and poems celebrated love as though it was some rare thing that gave a life enchantment, but Sir Simon did not need poets to define love, which to him was tumbling a peasant girl in a harvest field or thrusting at some ale-reeking whore in a tavern, but when he saw the black-haired woman he suddenly understood what the troubadours had been celebrating.

It did not matter that the woman was shaking with fear or that her hair was wildly awry or that her face was streaked with tears. Sir Simon recognized beauty and it struck him like an arrow. It took his breath away. So this, then, was love! It was the realization that he could never be happy until this woman was his–and that was convenient, for she was an enemy, the town was being sacked and Sir Simon, clad in mail and fury, had found her first.

‘Get out!’ he snarled at the servants in the room. ‘Get out!’

The servants fled in tears and Sir Simon booted the broken door shut, then advanced on the woman, who crouched beside her son’s bed with the boy in her arms.

‘Who are you?’ Sir Simon asked in French.

The woman tried to sound brave. ‘I am the Countess of Armorica,’ she said. ‘And you, monsieur?’

Sir Simon was tempted to award himself a peerage to impress Jeanette, but he was too slow-witted and so heard himself uttering his proper name. He was slowly becoming aware that the room betrayed wealth. The bed hangings were thickly embroidered, the candlesticks were of heavy silver and the walls either side of the stone hearth were expensively panelled in beautifully carved wood. He pushed the smaller bed against the door, reckoning that should ensure some privacy, then went to warm himself at the fire. He tipped more sea-coal onto the small flames and held his chilled gloves close to the heat.

‘This is your house, madame?’

‘It is.’

‘Not your husband’s?’

‘I am a widow,’ Jeanette said.

A wealthy widow! Sir Simon almost crossed himself out of gratitude. The widows he had met in England had been rouged hags, but this one…! This one was different. This one was a woman worthy of a tournament’s champion and seemed rich enough to save him from the ignominy of losing his estate and knightly rank. She might even have enough cash to buy a baronage. Maybe an earldom?

He turned from the fire and smiled at her. ‘Are those your boats at the quay?’

‘Yes, monsieur.’

‘By the rules of war, madame, they are now mine. Everything here is mine.’

Jeanette frowned at that. ‘What rules?’

‘The law of the sword, madame, but I think you are fortunate. I shall offer you my protection.’

Jeanette sat on the edge of her curtained bed, clutching Charles. ‘The rules of chivalry, my lord,’ she said, ‘ensure my protection.’ She flinched as a woman screamed in a nearby house.

‘Chivalry?’ Sir Simon asked. ‘Chivalry? I have heard it mentioned in songs, madame, but this is a war. Our task is to punish the followers of Charles of Blois for rebelling against their lawful lord. Punishment and chivalry do not mix.’ He frowned at her. ‘You’re the Blackbird!’ he said, suddenly recognizing her in the light of the revived fire.

‘The blackbird?’ Jeanette did not understand.

‘You fought us from the walls! You scratched my arm!’ Sir Simon did not sound angry, but astonished. He had expected to be furious when he met the Blackbird, but her reality was too overpowering for rage. He grinned. ‘You closed your eyes when you shot the crossbow, that’s why you missed.’

‘I did not miss!’ Jeanette said indignantly.

‘A scratch,’ Sir Simon said, showing her the rent in his mail sleeve. ‘But why, madame, do you fight for the false duke?’

‘My husband,’ she said stiffly, ‘was nephew to Duke Charles.’

Sweet God, Sir Simon thought, sweet God! A prize indeed. He bowed to her. ‘So your son,’ he said, nodding at Charles, who was peering anxiously from his mother’s arms, ‘is the present Count?’

‘He is,’ Jeanette confirmed,

‘A fine boy.’ Sir Simon forced himself to the flattery. In truth he thought Charles was a pudding-faced nuisance whose presence inhibited him from a natural urge to thrust the Blackbird onto her back and thus show her the realities of war, but he was acutely aware that this widow was an aristocrat, a beauty, and related to Charles of Blois, who was nephew to the King of France. This woman meant riches and Sir Simon’s present necessity was to make her see that her best interest lay in sharing his ambitions. ‘A fine boy, madame,’ he went on, ‘who needs a father.’

Jeanette just stared at him. Sir Simon had a blunt face. It was bulbous-nosed, firm-chinned, and showed not the slightest sign of intelligence or wit. He had confidence, though, enough to have persuaded himself that she would marry him. Did he really mean that? She gaped, then gave a startled cry as angry shouting erupted beneath her window. Some archers were trying to get past the men guarding the gate. Sir Simon pushed open the window. ‘This place is mine,’ he snarled in English. ‘Go find your own chickens to pluck.’ He turned back to Jeanette. ‘You see, madame, how I protect you?’

‘So there is chivalry in war?’

‘There is opportunity in war, madame. You are wealthy, you are a widow, you need a man.’

She gazed at him with disturbingly large eyes, hardly daring to believe his temerity. ‘Why?’ she asked simply.

‘Why?’ Sir Simon was astonished by the question. He gestured at the window. ‘Listen to the screams, woman! What do you think happens to women when a town falls?’

‘But you said you would protect me,’ she pointed out.

‘So I will.’ He was getting lost in this conversation. The woman, he thought, though beautiful, was remarkably stupid. ‘I will protect you,’ he said, ‘and you will look after me.’

‘How?’

Sir Simon sighed. ‘You have money?’

Jeanette shrugged. ‘There is a little downstairs, my lord, hidden in the kitchen.’

Sir Simon frowned angrily. Did she think he was a fool? That he would take that bait and go downstairs, leaving her to climb out of the window? ‘I know one thing about money, madame,’ he said, ‘and that is that you never hide it where the servants can find it. You hide it in the private rooms. In a bedchamber.’ He pulled open a chest and emptied its linens onto the floor, but there was nothing hidden there, and then, on an inspiration, he began rapping the wooden panelling. He had heard that such panels often concealed a hiding place and he was rewarded almost instantly by a satisfyingly hollow sound.

‘No, monsieur!’ Jeanette said.

Sir Simon ignored her, drawing his sword and hacking at the limewood panels that splintered and pulled away from their beams. He sheathed the blade and tugged with his gloved hands at the shattered wood.

‘No!’ Jeanette wailed.

Sir Simon stared. Money was concealed behind the panelling, a whole barrel of coins, but that was not the prize. The prize was a suit of armour and a set of weapons such as Sir Simon had only ever dreamed of. A shining suit of plate armour, each piece chased with subtle engravings and inlaid with gold. Italian work? And the sword! When he drew it from the scabbard it was like holding Excalibur itself. There was a blue sheen to the blade, which was not nearly as heavy as his own sword but felt miraculously balanced. A blade from the famous swordsmiths of Poitiers, perhaps, or, even better, Spanish?

‘They belonged to my husband,’ Jeanette appealed to him, ‘and it is all I have of his. They must go to Charles.’

Sir Simon ignored her. He traced his gloved finger down the gold inlay on the breastplate. That piece alone was worth an estate!

‘They are all he has of his father’s,’ Jeanette pleaded.

Sir Simon unbuckled his sword belt and let the old weapon drop to the floor, then fastened the Count of Armorica’s sword about his waist. He turned and stared at Jeanette, marvelling at her smooth unscarred face. These were the spoils of war that he had dreamed about and had begun to fear would never come his way: a barrel of cash, a suit of armour fit for a king, a blade made for a champion and a woman that would be the envy of England. ‘The armour is mine,’ he said, ‘as is the sword.’

‘No, monsieur, please.’

‘What will you do? Buy them from me?’

‘If I must,’ Jeanette said, nodding at the barrel.

‘That too is mine, madame,’ Sir Simon said, and to prove it he strode to the door, unblocked it and shouted for two of his archers to come up the stairs. He gestured at the barrel and the suit of armour. ‘Take them down,’ he said, ‘and keep them safe. And don’t think I haven’t counted the cash, because I have. Now go!’

Jeanette watched the theft. She wanted to weep for pity, but forced herself to stay calm. ‘If you steal everything I own,’ she said to Sir Simon, ‘how can I buy the armour back?’

Sir Simon shoved the boy’s bed against the door again, then favoured her with a smile. ‘There is something you can use to buy the armour, my dear,’ he said winningly. ‘You have what all women have. You can use that.’

Jeanette closed her eyes for a few heartbeats. ‘Are all the gentlemen of England like you?’ she asked.

‘Few are so skilled in arms,’ Sir Simon said proudly.

He was about to tell her of his tournament triumphs, sure that she would be impressed, but she interrupted him. ‘I meant,’ she said icily, ‘to discover whether the knights of England are all thieves, poltroons and bullies.’

Sir Simon was genuinely puzzled by the insult. The woman simply did not seem to appreciate her good fortune, a failing he could only ascribe to innate stupidity. ‘You forget, madame,’ he explained, ‘that the winners of war get the prizes.’

‘I am your prize?’

She was worse than stupid. Sir Simon thought, but who wanted cleverness in a woman? ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘I am your protector. If I leave you, if I take away my protection, then there will be a line of men on the stairs waiting to plough you. Now do you understand?’

‘I think,’ she said coldly, ‘that the Earl of Northampton will offer me better protection.’

Sweet Christ, Sir Simon thought, but the bitch was obtuse. It was pointless trying to reason with her for she was too dull to understand, so he must force the breach. He crossed the room fast, snatched Charles from her arms and threw the boy onto the smaller bed. Jeanette cried out and tried to hit him, but Sir Simon caught her arm and slapped her face with his gloved hand and, when she went immobile with pain and astonishment, he tore her cloak’s cords apart and then, with his big hands, ripped the shift down the front of her body. She screamed and tried to clutch her hands over her nakedness, but Sir Simon forced her arms apart and stared in astonishment. Flawless!

‘No!’ Jeanette wept.

Sir Simon shoved her hard back onto the bed. ‘You want your son to inherit your traitorous husband’s armour?’ he asked. ‘Or his sword? Then, madame, you had better be kind to their new owner. I am prepared to be kind to you.’ He unbuckled the sword, dropped it on the floor, then hitched up his mail coat and fumbled with the strings of his hose.

‘No!’ Jeanette wailed, and tried to scramble off the bed, but Sir Simon caught hold of her shift and yanked the linen so that it came down to her waist. The boy was screaming and Sir Simon was fumbling with his rusted gauntlets and Jeanette felt the devil had come into her house. She tried to cover her nakedness, but the Englishman slapped her face again, then once more hauled up his mail coat. Outside the window the cracked bell of the Virgin’s church was at last silent, for the English had come, Jeanette had a suitor and the town wept.

Thomas’s first thought after opening the gate was not plunder, but somewhere to wash the river muck off his legs, which he did with a barrel of ale in the first tavern he encountered. The tavern-keeper was a big bald man who stupidly attacked the English archers with a club, so Jake tripped him with his bowstave, then slit his belly.

‘Silly bastard,’ Jake said. ‘I wasn’t going to hurt him. Much.’

The dead man’s boots fitted Thomas, which was a welcome surprise, for very few did, and once they had found his cache of coins they went in search of other amusement. The Earl of Northampton was spurring his horse up and down the main street, shouting at wild-eyed men not to set the town alight. He wanted to keep La Roche-Derrien as a fortress, and it was less useful to him as a heap of ashes.

Not everyone plundered. Some of the older men, even a few of the younger, were disgusted by the whole business and attempted to curb the wilder excesses, but they were wildly outnumbered by men who saw nothing but opportunity in the fallen town. Father Hobbe, an English priest who had a fondness for Will Skeat’s men, tried to persuade Thomas and his group to guard a church, but they had other pleasures in mind. ‘Don’t spoil your soul, Tom,’ Father Hobbe said in a reminder that Thomas, like all the men, had said Mass the day before, but Thomas reckoned his soul was going to be spoiled anyway so it might as well happen sooner than later. He was looking for a girl, any girl really, for most of Will’s men had a woman in camp. Thomas had been living with a sweet little Breton, but she had caught a fever just before the beginning of the winter campaign and Father Hobbe had said a funeral Mass for her. Thomas had watched as the girl’s unshrouded body had thumped into the shallow grave and he had thought of the graves at Hookton and of the promise he had made to his dying father, but then he had pushed the promise away. He was young and had no appetite for burdens on his conscience.

La Roche-Derrien now crouched under the English fury. Men tore down thatch and wrecked furniture in their search for money. Any townsman who tried to protect his women was killed, while any woman who tried to protect herself was beaten into submission. Some folk had escaped the sack by crossing the bridge, but the small garrison of the barbican fled from the inevitable attack and now the Earl’s men-at-arms manned the small tower and that meant La Roche-Derrien was sealed to its fate. Some women took refuge in the churches and the lucky ones found protectors there, but most were not lucky.

Thomas, Jake and Sam finally discovered an unplundered house that belonged to a tanner, a stinking fellow with an ugly wife and three small children. Sam, whose innocent face made strangers trust him on sight, held his knife at the throat of the youngest child and the tanner suddenly remembered where he had hidden his cash. Thomas had watched Sam, fearing he really would slit the boy’s throat, for Sam, despite his ruddy cheeks and cheerful eyes, was as evil as any man in Will Skeat’s band. Jake was not much better, though Thomas counted both as friends.

‘The man’s as poor as we are,’ Jake said in wonderment as he raked through the tanner’s coins. He pushed a third of the pile towards Thomas. ‘You want his wife?’ Jake offered generously.

‘Christ, no! She’s cross-eyed like you.’

‘Is she?’

Thomas left Jake and Sam to their games and went to find a tavern where there would be food, drink and warmth. He reckoned any girl worth pursuing had been caught already, so he unstrung his bow, pushed past a group of men tearing the contents from a parked wagon and found an inn where a motherly widow had sensibly protected both her property and her daughters by welcoming the first men-at-arms, showering them with free food and ale, then scolding them for dirtying her floor with their muddy feet. She was shouting at them now, though few understood what she said, and one of the men growled at Thomas that she and her daughters were to be left alone.

Thomas held up his hands to show he meant no harm, then took a plate of bread, eggs and cheese. ‘Now pay her,’ one of the men-at-arms growled, and Thomas dutifully put the tanner’s few coins on the counter.

‘He’s a good-looking one,’ the widow said to her daughters, who giggled.

Thomas turned and pretended to inspect the daughters. ‘They are the most beautiful girls in Brittany,’ he said to the widow in French, ‘because they take after you, madame.’

That compliment, though patently untrue, raised squeals of laughter. Beyond the tavern were screams and tears, but inside it was warm and friendly. Thomas ate the food hungrily, then tried to hide himself in a window bay when Father Hobbe came bustling in from the street. The priest saw Thomas anyway.

‘I’m still looking for men to guard the churches, Thomas.’

‘I’m going to get drunk, father,’ Thomas said happily. ‘So goddamn drunk that one of those two girls will look attractive.’ He jerked his head at the widow’s daughters.

Father Hobbe inspected them critically, then sighed. ‘You’ll kill yourself if you drink that much, Thomas.’ He sat at the table, waved at the girls and pointed at Thomas’s pot. ‘I’ll have a drink with you,’ the priest said.

‘What about the churches?’

‘Everyone will be drunk soon enough,’ Father Hobbe said, ‘and the horror will end. It always does. Ale and wine, God knows, are great causes of sin but they make it short-lived. God’s bones, but it’s cold out there.’ He smiled at Thomas. ‘So how’s your black soul, Tom?’

Thomas contemplated the priest. He liked Father Hobbe, who was small and wiry, with a mass of untamed black hair about a cheerful face that was thick-scarred from a childhood pox. He was low born, the son of a Sussex wheelwright, and like any country lad he could draw a bow with the best of them. He sometimes accompanied Skeat’s men on their forays into Duke Charles’s country and he willingly joined the archers when they dismounted to form a battleline. Church law forbade a priest from wielding an edged weapon, but Father Hobbe always claimed he used blunt arrows, though they seemed to pierce enemy mail as efficiently as any other. Father Hobbe, in short, was a good man whose only fault was an excessive interest in Thomas’s soul.

‘My soul,’ Thomas said, ‘is soluble in ale.’

‘Now there’s a good word,’ Father Hobbe said. ‘Soluble, eh?’ He picked up the big black bow and prodded the silver badge with a dirty finger. ‘You’ve discovered anything about that?’

‘No.’

‘Or who stole the lance?’

‘No.’

‘Do you not care any more?’

Thomas leaned back in the chair and stretched his long legs. ‘I’m doing a good job of work, father. We’re winning this war, and this time next year? Who knows? We might be giving the King of France a bloody nose.’

Father Hobbe nodded agreement, though his face suggested Thomas’s words were irrelevant. He traced his finger through a puddle of ale on the table top. ‘You made a promise to your father, Thomas, and you made it in a church. Isn’t that what you told me? A solemn promise, Thomas? That you would retrieve the lance? God listens to such vows.’

Thomas smiled. ‘Outside this tavern, father, there’s so much rape and murder and theft going on that all the quills in heaven can’t keep up with the list of sins. And you worry about me?’

‘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

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.