1356

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘King Edward,’ d’Audrehem said calmly, ‘recaptured Berwick, the war is over, the English won. The truce is reinstated.’

  ‘God damn Edward,’ Douglas said.

  ‘And you think the archers can be beaten by men on foot?’ d’Audrehem asked.

  ‘On foot,’ the Lord of Douglas said. ‘You can throw some mounted men at the bastards, but put good armour on their horses. It isn’t the archers, it’s the horses! Those damned arrows don’t pierce armour, not good armour, but they play hell with horses. They drive the beasts mad. So you have knights being thrown, being trampled, their horses running wild with pain, and all because the archers aim at the horses. Arrows turn a cavalry charge into a charnel house, so don’t give them horses to kill.’ That had been a long speech from the usually taciturn Lord of Douglas.

  ‘What you say makes sense,’ d’Audrehem admitted. ‘I was not at Crécy, but I hear the horses suffered.’

  ‘But men on foot can carry shields,’ Douglas said, ‘or wear heavy armour. They can get close to the bastards and kill them. That’s how it’s done.’

  ‘Is that how your king fought at, where was it? Durham?’

  ‘He chose the wrong ground to fight on,’ Douglas said, ‘so now the poor bastard’s a prisoner in London, and we can’t pay the ransom.’

  ‘Which is why you want the Prince of Wales?’

  ‘I want the damned boy on his knees, pissing himself with fear, licking the horse shit off my boots and begging me to be kind.’ Douglas gave a snort of laughter that echoed in the great abbey. ‘And when I have him, I’ll exchange him for my king.’

  ‘He has a reputation,’ d’Audrehem said mildly.

  ‘For what? Gambling? Women? Luxury? For Christ’s sake, he’s a puppy.’

  ‘Twenty-six? A puppy?’

  ‘A puppy,’ Douglas insisted, ‘and we can cage him.’

  ‘Or Lancaster.’

  ‘Bugger Lancaster!’ Douglas spat. Henry, Duke of Lancaster, had led an English army out of Brittany that was ravaging Maine and Anjou. King Jean had considered leading an army against him, leaving his eldest son to harry the Prince of Wales in the south, and that was what Douglas feared. Lancaster was no fool. Faced with a large army he would likely retreat to the great fortresses of Brittany, but Prince Edward of Wales was young and headstrong. He had survived the previous summer, leading his destructive army all the way to the Mediterranean and back to Gascony without meeting real opposition, and that surely had emboldened him for the campaign that had just begun. The prince, Douglas was sure, would march too far from his secure bases in Gascony, and so could be trapped and thrashed. The English prince was too irresponsible, too fond of his whores and of his gold, too addicted to the luxuries of privilege. And his ransom would be huge. ‘We should be going south,’ Douglas said, ‘not farting about with fishermen nonsense.’

  ‘If you want to go south,’ d’Audrehem said, ‘then give every help you can to the Order of the Fisherman. The king doesn’t listen to us! But he listens to the cardinal. The cardinal can persuade him, and the cardinal wants to go south. So do whatever the cardinal wants.’

  ‘I did! I let him take Sculley. For Christ’s sake, Sculley isn’t a man, he’s an animal. He’s got the strength of a bull, the claws of a bear, the teeth of a wolf, and the loins of a goat. He terrifies me, so God knows what he’ll do to the English. But what in God’s name does Bessières want of him?’

  ‘Some relic, I’m told,’ d’Audrehem said, ‘and he believes the relic will give him the papacy, and the papacy will give him power. And if he does become Pope, my friend, then better to have him on your side than against you.’

  ‘But making Sculley a knight, good Christ Almighty!’ Douglas laughed.

  Yet Sculley was there, at the steps of the high altar, kneeling between Robbie and a knight called Guiscard de Chauvigny, a man whose lands had been lost to the English in Brittany. De Chauvigny, like the other men, was famous for his exploits in tourneys across Europe. Only Roland de Verrec was missing, and Father Marchant had sent men far across France to find him. These were the best fighters the cardinal could recruit, the greatest warriors, men who struck fear into their opponents. Now they would kill for Christ, or at least for Cardinal Bessières. The last sunlight drained from the sky to leave the stained glass dark. Candles glowed and flickered on the many altars about the abbey where priests muttered prayers for the dead.

  ‘You have been chosen,’ Father Marchant said to the men who knelt in their armour before the altar. ‘You have been chosen to be Saint Peter’s warriors, the Knights of the Fisherman. Your task is great and your reward will be heavenly. Your sins are forgiven, you are freed from all earthly oaths, and you are granted the power of the angels to defeat your enemies. You will go forth from here as new men, bound to each other by loyalty and sealed to God by your sacred oath. You are His chosen and you will do His will and one day be received by Him in paradise.’

  Robbie Douglas felt a surge of pure joy. For so long he had looked for a cause. He thought he had found it in the company of women, or in the friendship of other warriors, yet he knew he was a sinner, and that knowledge gave him misery. He gambled; he betrayed his promises. He was a feared fighter in the tournaments of Europe, yet felt himself to be weak. He knew his uncle despised him, but now, before the glittering altar and under the stern voice of Father Marchant, he sensed he had found his salvation. He was a Knight of the Fisherman, given a task by the church and promised a reward in heaven. He felt his soul lift to the moment’s solemnity, and he swore to himself that he would serve this company of men with all his heart and strength.

  ‘Stay and pray,’ Father Marchant told the men, ‘for tomorrow we set forth on our mission.’

  ‘God be thanked,’ Robbie said.

  And Sculley farted. A noise that echoed off the abbey’s walls and seemed to linger.

  ‘Jesus,’ Sculley said, ‘that was a wet one.’

  The Order of the Fisherman was consecrated and would go to war.

  ‘The secret,’ Thomas said, ‘is to put a bolt in the groove.’

  ‘A bolt?’

  ‘A quarrel. An arrow?’

  ‘Ah!’ the woman said. ‘I knew I’d forgotten something. That happens when you get ancient. You forget things. My husband did show me how to use one of these things,’ she put the crossbow on a small wooden bench that stood between two orange trees, ‘but I never did shoot one. I was tempted to shoot him, though. Are you running away?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’re getting wet. Come inside.’ The woman was old and bent, a tiny thing, hardly reaching Thomas’s waist. Her face was shrewd, wrinkled and dark. She wore a nun’s habit, but over it was a rich cloak of crimson wool trimmed with miniver.

  ‘Where am I?’ Thomas asked.

  ‘You jumped into a convent. Saint Dorcas’s convent. I suppose I should welcome you, so welcome.’

  ‘Saint Dorcas?’

  ‘She was full of good works, they tell me, so I’m sure she was a terrible bore.’ The old woman went through a low doorway and Thomas, following her, picked up the crossbow. It was a beautiful weapon with a dark walnut stock inlaid with silver. ‘It belonged to my husband,’ the woman told him, ‘and I have so little of his that I keep it so I can remember him. Not that I really wish to remember him. He was a peculiarly nasty man, rather like his son.’

  ‘His son?’ Thomas asked, putting the crossbow on a table.

  ‘My son, too. The Count of Malbuisson. I am the dowager countess of the same county.’

  ‘My lady,’ Thomas said, and bowed to her.

  ‘Goodness me! Manners are not dead!’ the countess said happily, then sat in a well-cushioned chair and patted her lap. For a heartbeat Thomas thought she wanted him to sit there, but then, to his relief, a grey cat came from behind a chest and leaped onto her knees. She waved as if suggesting Thomas could sit anywhere, though he remained standing. The room was small, just four or five paces in each direction, yet filled with fu
rniture that seemed to belong to a great hall. There was a table draped with a tapestry, two big chests, a bench, and three chairs. Four massive silver candlesticks stood on the table with some bowls, plates, and an ornate chess set, while on the limewashed walls hung a crucifix and three leather panels, one painted with a hunting scene, another with a ploughman, and the third showing a shepherd and his flock. A tapestry depicting two unicorns in a grove of roses hung over a small arch, presumably hiding the countess’s bedchamber. ‘And you are?’ the countess asked.

  ‘My name is Thomas.

  ‘Thomas! Is that English? Or Norman? You sound English, I think.’

  ‘I’m English, though my father was French.’

  ‘I always liked mongrels,’ the countess said. ‘Why are you running away?’

  ‘It’s a very long story.’

  ‘I like long stories. I have been shut away here, because otherwise I would be spending money that my daughter-in-law would prefer to squander, so here I am with nothing but nuns to keep me company. They’re dear women,’ she paused, ‘on the whole, but quite tedious. You will find some wine on the table. It isn’t very good wine, but better than no wine. I like mine mixed with water, which is in the Spanish jug. So who is chasing you?’

  ‘Everyone.’

  ‘You must be a very wicked man! How splendid! What did you do?’

  ‘I’m accused of heresy,’ Thomas said, ‘and of abducting another man’s wife.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ the countess said. ‘Would you be very charming and give me that blanket? The dark one? It’s rarely cold here, but today is distinctly chilly. Are you a heretic?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Someone must think you are! What did you do? Deny the Trinity?’

  ‘I upset a cardinal.’

  ‘That’s not very wise of you. Which one?’

  ‘Bessières.’

  ‘Oh, that man is quite horrid! A pig! But a dangerous pig.’ She paused, thinking. There were voices beyond the inner door, women’s voices, but faint. ‘We hear things in the convent,’ the countess went on, ‘news from the world. Didn’t I hear that Bessières was looking for the Holy Grail?’

  ‘He was. He didn’t find it.’

  ‘Oh, my dear, of course he didn’t. I doubt it exists!’

  ‘Probably not,’ Thomas said, lying. He knew it existed because he had found it, and having found it he had thrown it into the ocean where it could do no harm. And the sword he sought? Was he to hide that too?

  ‘So whose wife did you steal?’ the countess asked.

  ‘The Count of Labrouillade’s.’

  The countess clapped her thin hands. ‘Oh, I like you more and more! Well done! Well done! Labrouillade is a vile creature! I always felt sorry for that girl, Bertille. A pretty little thing, too! I can’t imagine her marriage bed, or rather I can! How horrible. It would be like being rutted by a grunting sack of rancid lard. Didn’t she run off with young Villon?’

  ‘Yes. I got her back, then took her away again.’

  ‘You make it sound very complicated, so you’ll have to begin at the beginning.’ The countess suddenly paused, bent forward in her chair and hissed between her teeth. The hiss ended in a moan.

  ‘You’re unwell,’ Thomas said.

  ‘I’m dying,’ she said. ‘You would think that all the doctors in this city could do something, but they can’t. Well, one of them wants to cut me open, but I’m not allowing that! So they smell my water and then say I should pray. Pray! Well, I do.’

  ‘There’s no medicine?’

  ‘Not for living eighty-two years, my dear, that is incurable.’ She was rocking backwards and forwards in her chair, clutching the blanket to her breasts. She took deep breaths and slowly seemed to feel less pain. ‘There’s some mandrake wine in a green bottle, there, on the table. The nuns of the infirmary boil it up for me, they’re very kind. It does relieve the pain, though it makes my mind very wobbly. Would you pour me a cup? No water with it, my dear, and then you can tell me your tale.’

  Thomas gave her the medicine and then told her some of his tale, how he had been hired to defeat Villon and how Labrouillade had tried to cheat him. ‘So Bertille is in your fortress?’ the countess asked. ‘Because your wife likes her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does she have children?’

  ‘Bertille? None.’

  ‘That’s a blessing. If she had children, that wretched Labrouillade would use them to lure her back. Instead you can just kill Labrouillade and make her a widow! That’s an excellent solution. Widows have so many more choices.’

  ‘Is that why you’re here?’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s a refuge, I suppose? My son doesn’t like me, his wife hates me, and I was too old to find a new husband. So here I am, just me and Nicholas.’ She stroked the cat. ‘So Labrouillade wants you dead, but he’s not here in Montpellier, is he? So who was chasing you?’

  ‘Labrouillade sent a man to fight me. He started the chase and the students all joined in.’

  ‘Who did Labrouillade send?’

  ‘He’s called Roland de Verrec.’

  ‘Oh, my dear!’ The countess seemed amused. ‘Young Roland? I knew his grandmother very well, poor soul. I hear he’s a wonderful fighter, but oh dear, no brain.’

  ‘No brain?’

  ‘It’s been rotted by romances, my dear. He reads all those ridiculous stories of knightly valour and, being brainless, believes them. I blame his mother; she’s a forceful creature, all prayers and spite, and he, poor thing, believes everything she says. She tells him chivalry exists, which I suppose it does, but never in her husband, who was a goat. Not like his son! The virgin knight!’ she chuckled. ‘How silly can a young man be? And he’s very silly. You heard how the Virgin Mary appeared to him?’

  ‘Everyone’s heard that.’

  ‘He was just a silly boy and I suppose his mother made him drunk! I’m sure the Virgin Mary has better things to do than spoil a young man’s life. Dear me, poor boy! Now young Roland dreams of being a knight at your King Arthur’s round table. I’m afraid you’ll have to kill him.’

  ‘I will?’

  ‘You’d better! Or else he’ll regard you as a quest and pursue you to the ends of the earth.’

  ‘He pursued me here,’ Thomas said ruefully.

  ‘But what on earth are you doing in Montpellier?’

  ‘I wanted to consult a scholar.’

  ‘There are plenty of those here,’ she said dismissively, ‘and a very motley band they are too. They spend their time fighting each other over the silliest things, but maybe that’s what scholars do. Can I ask why you wanted to consult one?’

  ‘I’m looking for a saint.’

  ‘Those are in very short supply! What kind of saint?’

  ‘It was a painting I saw,’ Thomas said, and described the monk kneeling in the grass around which the snow had fallen thick. ‘It tells a story,’ he said, ‘but no one seems to know it, and no one can tell me who he is.’

  ‘A frozen saint, by the sound of it, but why do you need to know?’

  Thomas hesitated. ‘My liege lord,’ he finally said, ‘has charged me with finding a relic, and I think that saint has something to do with it.’

  ‘You’re as bad as Roland! On a quest indeed!’ she chuckled. ‘There’s a book somewhere on that table, my dear. Bring it to me.’

  Before Thomas could find the book there were women’s voices sounding close outside, and then a timorous knock on the door. ‘Madame? My lady?’ someone called.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Are you alone, my lady?’

  ‘I have a man in here,’ the countess called, ‘a young man, and very virile. You were right, Sister Véronique, God does answer prayers.’

  The door was pushed, but the countess had bolted it. ‘Madame?’ Sister Véronique called again.

  ‘Don’t be silly, sister,’ the countess said, ‘I mumble aloud, nothing more.’

  ‘Very good, madame.’

  �
��Bring me the book,’ the countess said, lowering her voice slightly. It was a small volume, hardly bigger than Thomas’s hand. The countess untied the laces and unwrapped the soft leather cover. ‘It belonged to my mother-in law,’ she said, ‘and she was a dear woman! Lord knows how she gave birth to a monster like Henri. I suppose the stars were badly aligned when she conceived him, or else Saturn was in the ascendancy. No child conceived when Saturn is rising will come to any good. Men never care about details like that, but they really should. It’s rather pretty, isn’t it?’ She handed Thomas the book.

  It was a psalter. Thomas’s father had owned one, though not as richly decorated as this book, which interspersed the words of the seven penitential psalms with beautifully painted illustrations touched with bright gold leaf. The letters were very large so that only a few words could be written on any one page. ‘My mother-in-law didn’t see well,’ the countess explained when Thomas remarked on the size of the words, ‘so the monks made the letters big. That was kind of them.’

  Most of the pictures, Thomas saw, were of saints. There was Radegonde with her crown, pictured amidst a pile of masonry while, behind her, a great church was being built. He turned the stiff page to see an horrific depiction of Saint Leodeger being blinded, a soldier piercing the bishop’s eye with an awl. ‘Isn’t that horrid?’ The countess was leaning forward to see the pictures. ‘They tore his tongue out too. Henri always threatened to tear mine out, but he never did. I suppose I should be grateful. That’s Clémentin.’

  ‘Being martyred?’

  ‘Oh indeed, disembowelment is a certain path to sainthood, poor man.’ Then there was Saint Remigius baptising a naked man in a great cauldron. ‘That was Clovis being baptised,’ the countess explained, ‘and wasn’t he the first King of France?’

  ‘I think so,’ Thomas said.

  ‘I suppose we should be grateful that he became a Christian then,’ the countess said, then leaned forward to turn a page and so reveal Saint Christophe carrying the infant Jesus. The slaughter of the innocents was painted in the background, but the bearded saint had safely taken the baby Christ away from the field littered with dozens of blood-spattered dead and dying children. ‘Saint Christophe looks as if he’s going to drop the baby, doesn’t he? I always think Jesus must have just wet him, or something. Men are quite hopeless with babies. Oh, poor girl.’ This last comment was because Saint Apolline was shown being sawn in two by a pair of soldiers. Her belly was ripped open, blood spilling down the page, while she looked prayerfully towards angels peeping from behind a cloud. ‘I always wonder why the angels don’t come down and save her!’ the countess said. ‘It must be very unpleasant, being sawn in half, but they just hover in the clouds doing nothing! That’s not very angelic. And that man’s a fool!’ Thomas had turned a page to show a depiction of Saint Maurice kneeling amidst the remnants of his legion. Maurice had encouraged his men to be martyred rather than assault a Christian town, and his fellow Romans had obliged his pious wish, and the painter showed a swathe of broken, bloodied bodies scattered across a field while the killers advanced on the kneeling saint. ‘Why didn’t he fight?’ the countess asked. ‘They say he had six thousand soldiers, yet he just encourages them to be slaughtered like lambs. Sometimes I think you must be extremely stupid to become a saint.’