1356 (Kindle Special Edition)

by Bernard Cornwell

  ‘My name is Roland de Verrec,’ the man said. He spoke French with a Gascon accent.

  ‘I’ve heard of you,’ Thomas said, which was hardly surprising because Roland de Verrec’s name was spoken with awe throughout Europe. There was no finer tournament fighter. And, of course, there was the legend of his virginity, imposed by a vision of the Virgin Mary. ‘You want to join the Hellequin?’ Thomas asked.

  ‘I have been given a mission by the Count of Labrouillade …’ Roland began.

  ‘The fat bastard will very probably cheat you,’ Thomas interrupted, ‘and if you want to talk to me, Verrec, take that goddamned pot off your head.’

  ‘My lord the count orders me …’ Roland began.

  ‘I said take the goddamned pot off your head,’ Thomas interrupted again. He had climbed on the wagon bed to inspect the arrows, but also because the bed’s height meant he could look down on the mounted man. It was always uncomfortable to confront a horseman on foot, but the discomfort now belonged to Roland. A score of Thomas’s men, made curious by the presence of the strangers, had come from the open castle gate. Genevieve was among them, holding Hugh’s hand.

  ‘You will see my face,’ Roland said, ‘when you accept my challenge.’

  ‘Sam?’ Thomas shouted up to the gatehouse rampart. ‘See this idiot?’ He pointed at Roland. ‘Be ready to put an arrow through his head.’

  Sam grinned, put an arrow on his cord and half drew the bow. Roland, not understanding what had been said, looked up to where Thomas had shouted. He had to crane his head to see the threat through his helmet’s eye-slits.

  ‘That’s an arrow of English ash,’ Thomas said, ‘with a scarfed oak tip at the head and a steel bodkin sharp as a needle. It will slice through that helmet of yours, make a neat hole in your skull and come to rest in the open space where your brain ought to be. So either give Sam some target practice or else take the damned helmet off.’

  The helmet came off. Thomas’s first impression was of an angelic face, calm and blue-eyed, framed by fair hair that had been compressed and shaped by the helmet’s liner so that the crown was tight against his skull like a cap, while the fringes jutted out in stubborn curls. It looked so strange that Thomas could not resist laughing. His men were laughing too. ‘He looks like a juggler I saw at Towcester Fair,’ one said.

  Roland, not understanding why men laughed, frowned. ‘Why do they mock me?’ he asked indignantly.

  ‘They think you’re a juggler,’ Thomas said.

  ‘You know who I am,’ Roland said grandly, ‘and I am here to challenge you.’

  Thomas shook his head. ‘We don’t hold tournaments here,’ he said. ‘When we fight, we fight for real.’

  ‘Trust me,’ Roland said, ‘so do I.’ He kicked his horse closer to the wagon, perhaps hoping he might intimidate Thomas. ‘My lord of Labrouillade demands that you return his wife,’ he said.

  ‘The scriptures teach us that the dog goes back to its vomit,’ Thomas said, ‘so your master’s bitch is free to return to him whenever she wants. She doesn’t need your help.’

  ‘She is a woman,’ Roland said harshly, ‘and has no freedom outside her master’s will.’

  Thomas nodded towards the castle. ‘Who owns that? Me or your master?’

  ‘You, for the moment.’

  ‘Then for the moment, Roland of wherever it is you’re from, the Countess of Labrouillade is free to do what she wishes because she’s inside my castle, not yours.’

  ‘We can decide that,’ Roland said, ‘by fighting. I challenge you!’ He tugged off his gauntlet and threw it onto the wagon.

  Thomas smiled. ‘And what does the fight decide?’

  ‘When I kill you, Thomas of Hookton, I shall take the woman.’

  ‘And if I kill you?’

  Roland smiled. ‘With God’s help I shall kill you.’

  Thomas ignored the gauntlet that had come to rest between two of the barrels. ‘You can tell your fat master, Roland, that if he wants his woman back then he’d better come and fetch her himself, not send his juggler.’

  ‘This juggler,’ Roland retorted, ‘has been charged to perform two deeds. To reclaim my lord’s lawful wife and to punish you for insolence. So, will you fight?’

  ‘Dressed like this?’ Thomas asked. He was in hose and shirt with loose-fitting shoes.

  ‘I will give you time to put on armour,’ Roland said.

  ‘Jeanette!’ Thomas called to one of the girls at the well. ‘Drop your bucket down the well, chérie, fill it, then haul it up!’

  ‘Now?’ she asked.

  ‘Right now,’ Thomas said, then stooped to pick up the gauntlet, which was made of fine leather and plated with scales of steel. He handed it to Roland. ‘If you’re not out of this town by the time Jeanette hauls that bucket out of the well, I’ll let my archers hunt you down. Now go and tell your fat master to come and take his woman for himself.’

  Roland looked at Jeanette, who was hauling her bucket’s rope with two hands. ‘You have no honour, Englishman,’ he said proudly, ‘and I will kill you for that.’

  ‘Go and dunk your head in a latrine pit,’ Thomas said.

  ‘I shall …’ Roland began.

  ‘Sam!’ Thomas interrupted him. ‘Don’t kill his horse. I’ll keep that!’

  He had shouted in French and Roland at last seemed to take the threat seriously because he turned his destrier and, followed by his standard bearer, spurred downhill towards the town’s southern gate.

  Thomas tossed a coin to Jeanette, then walked up to the castle. ‘What did he want?’ Genevieve asked.

  ‘To fight me. He’s Labrouillade’s new champion.’

  ‘He would fight to get Bertille back?’

  ‘That’s why he was sent, yes.’

  Brother Michael came running across the courtyard. ‘Did he come for the countess?’ he asked Thomas.

  ‘What’s it to you, brother?’

  The young monk looked confused. ‘I was worried,’ he said limply.

  ‘Well, you can stop worrying,’ Thomas said, ‘because tomorrow I’m taking you away.’

  ‘Away?’

  ‘You’re meant to go to Montpellier, aren’t you? So at dawn tomorrow we leave. Pack your things, if you have any.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Thomas said, ‘at dawn.’

  Because Montpellier had a university, and Thomas needed a learned man.

  The Lord of Douglas was angry. He had brought two hundred of Scotland’s best warriors to France, and instead of launching them against the English, the King of France was holding a tournament.

  A bloody tournament! The English were burning towns beyond the frontiers of Gascony and besieging castles in Normandy, yet Jean of France wanted to play at soldiers. So the Lord of Douglas would play as well, and when the French suggested a melee, fifteen of King Jean’s finest knights against fifteen Scotsmen, Douglas took one of his warriors aside. ‘Put them down fast,’ Douglas growled.

  The man, gaunt and hollow-cheeked, just nodded. His name was Sculley. He alone among the Lord of Douglas’s men-at-arms was not wearing a helmet, and his dark hair, streaked with grey, was worn long and twisted into pigtails into which he had inserted numerous small bones, and it was rumoured that each bone came from the finger of an Englishman he had killed, though no one ever dared ask Sculley the truth of that statement. The bones could just as easily have come from fellow Scotsmen.

  ‘Put them down and keep them down,’ Douglas said.

  Sculley smiled, all teeth, no humour. ‘Kill them?’

  ‘Christ, no, you bloody fool! It’s a goddamned tournament! Just put them down hard, man, hard and fast.’

  Money was changing hands as bets were made, and most of the cash was placed on the French, for they were superbly mounted, beautifully armoured, and each of the fifteen was a renowned tournament fighter. They paraded themselves, trotting their destriers up and down in front of the tiered seats where the king and his court watched, and they
glanced patronisingly at the Scots, whose horses were smaller and whose armour was old-fashioned. The French had great helms, padded and plumed, while the Scots wore bascinets, mere skull caps with a tail to protect the neck, and Sculley wore no helmet at all. He kept his great falchion sheathed, preferring a mace.

  ‘Any knight who cries for quarter will be given it,’ a herald was reading the rules, which every man knew so no one listened. ‘Lances will be blunted. Sword points may not be used. Horses are not to be maimed.’ He droned on as the king offered a purse to a servant who hurried off to place the money on the superb French contingent. The Lord of Douglas put all he had on his own men. He had decided against fighting, not because he feared the melee, but because he had nothing to prove, and now he watched his nephew, Sir Robbie, and wondered if the youngster had been softened by his time at the French court. But at least Robbie Douglas could fight, and he was one of the fifteen, his shield, like all the Scotsmen’s shields, showing the red heart of Douglas. One of the French knights evidently knew Robbie, for he had ridden to where the Scotsmen readied themselves and the two were deep in conversation.

  A fat cardinal, who had been paying court to the king all day, sidled between the padded seats to take the empty space beside Douglas. Most men avoided the hard-faced, dark-faced, grim-faced Scot, but the cardinal smiled a welcome. ‘We have not met,’ he introduced himself genially. ‘My name is Bessières, Cardinal Archbishop of Livorno, Papal Legate to King Jean of France, whom God preserves. Do you like almonds?’

  ‘I’ve a taste for them,’ the Lord of Douglas said grudgingly.

  The cardinal held out a plump hand to offer the bowl of almonds. ‘Take as many as you wish, my lord. They come from my own estates. I am told you have placed money on your own side?’

  ‘What else would I do?’

  ‘You might have a care of your money,’ the cardinal said happily, ‘and I suspect you do. So tell me, my lord, what you know and I do not.’

  ‘I know fighting,’ Douglas said.

  ‘Then let me try another question,’ the cardinal said. ‘If I were to offer you one-third of my winnings, and I was to place a large sum of money on the fight, would you advise me to back the Scots?’

  ‘You’d be a fool not to.’

  ‘No one, I think, has ever accused me of foolishness,’ Bessières said. The cardinal summoned a servant and gave the man a heavy bag of coin. ‘Upon the Scots,’ he instructed, then waited for the servant to go. ‘You are not content, my lord,’ he said to Douglas, ‘and today is supposed to be a day of rejoicing.’

  Douglas scowled at the cardinal. ‘Rejoicing for what?’

  ‘The sunshine, God’s blessings, good wine.’

  ‘With the English running loose in Normandy and Gascony?’

  ‘Ah, the English.’ Bessières leaned back in the chair, resting the dish of almonds on his protruding stomach. ‘The Holy Father urges us to make a peace. An everlasting peace.’ He spoke sarcastically. There had been a time, and not so long ago, when Louis Bessières had thought himself certain to become Pope. All it would have needed was for him to produce the Holy Grail, the most desired relic of Christendom, and to ensure that he could produce it he had gone to immense and expensive pains to have the false Grail made, but the cup had been dashed from his hands, and, on the old Pope’s death, the crown had gone to another man. Yet Bessières had not given up hope. By the grace of God the Pope was sick and could die any time.

  Douglas caught the cardinal’s tone and was surprised. ‘You do not want peace?’

  ‘Of course I want peace,’ the cardinal said, ‘indeed I am charged by the Holy Father to negotiate that peace with the English. Would you like another handful of almonds?’

  ‘I thought the Pope wanted the English defeated,’ Douglas said.

  ‘He does.’

  ‘But he urges peace?’

  ‘The Pope cannot encourage war,’ Bessières said, ‘so he preaches peace and sends me to negotiate.’

  ‘And you?’ Douglas asked, letting the question hang.

  ‘I negotiate,’ Bessières said airily, ‘and I shall give France the peace that the Holy Father wants, but even he knows that the only way to give France peace is by defeating the English. So yes, my lord, the road to peace lies through war. More almonds?’

  A trumpet sounded, calling the two groups of knights to go to the ends of the tilting ground. Marshals were inspecting lances, making certain they were tipped with wooden blocks so they could not pierce shields or armour.

  ‘There will be war,’ Douglas said, ‘yet here we are playing games.’

  ‘His Majesty is nervous of England,’ Bessières said frankly. ‘He fears their archers.’

  ‘Archers can be beaten,’ Douglas said vehemently.

  ‘They can?’

  ‘They can. There is a way.’

  ‘No one has found it,’ the cardinal observed.

  ‘Because they’re fools. Because they think that playing on horseback is the only way to make war. My father was at the Bannock burn; you know of that battle?’

  ‘Alas, no,’ the cardinal said.

  ‘We crushed the English bastards, tore them to pieces, archers and all. It can be done. It has been done. It must be done.’

  The cardinal watched the French knights form a line of ten men. The remaining five would charge a few paces behind to take advantage of the chaos created by the impact of the ten. ‘The one to fear,’ Bessières said, gesturing with an almond, ‘is the brute with the gaudy shield.’ He pointed to a big man on a big horse, a man arrayed in shining plate armour and holding a shield that displayed a clenched red fist against a field of orange and white stripes. ‘His name is Joscelyn of Berat,’ the cardinal said, ‘and he is a fool, but a great fighter. He is undefeated these last five years except, of course, by Roland de Verrec, and he, alas, is not here.’

  Joscelyn of Berat was the man Robbie Douglas had been talking with before the knights withdrew to the ends of the field. ‘Where’s Berat?’ Douglas asked.

  ‘South,’ Bessières said vaguely.

  ‘How would my nephew know him?’

  Bessières shrugged. ‘I cannot tell you, my lord.’

  ‘My nephew was in the south,’ Douglas said, ‘before the pestilence arrived. He travelled with an Englishman.’ He spat. ‘Some damn archer,’ he added.

  The cardinal shuddered. He knew the tale, knew it only too well. The damn archer was Thomas of Hookton whom Bessières blamed for the loss of both the Grail and of Saint Peter’s throne. The cardinal also knew of Robbie Douglas, indeed that was why he had come to the tourney. ‘Your nephew is here?’ he asked.

  ‘Piebald horse,’ Douglas said, nodding towards the Scots who looked so ill armed compared to their rivals.

  ‘I would like to talk with him,’ the cardinal said. ‘Would you be so kind as to send him to me?’ But before the Lord of Douglas could answer, the king waved, a herald lowered his banner, and the horsemen dug in their spurs.

  Bessières immediately regretted his wager. The Scots’ horses looked so scrawny compared to the magnificent destriers that the French rode, and the French rode tight, knee to knee, as knights should, while the Scotsmen, slower off the mark, spread out instantly to leave gaps through which their opponents could ride. They had chosen to ride in a single wide line, all fifteen abreast, but they also rode faster, increasing their disarray, while the French came slowly, keeping station, only spurring into the canter when the two groups were about fifty paces apart. The cardinal glanced at the Lord of Douglas to see if the Scotsman shared his apprehensions, but Douglas was smiling sardonically as though he knew what was coming.

  The hoofbeats were loud, but drowned by the shouts of the crowd. The king, who was exceptionally fond of jousting, leaned forward expectantly in his chair, and the cardinal looked back to see the leading Frenchmen raise their shields and couch their lances, bracing for the impact, and the crowd went suddenly quiet, as if it held its breath, waiting for the crash of armoured me
n and horses.

  The cardinal never quite understood what happened next, or rather he did not understand until it was explained to him at the feast where cruets were used to represent the horsemen, but when he was watching, when the crash came, he did not understand it at all.

  The Scots had seemed so ragged, yet at the last second they suddenly swerved inwards to make a column of horsemen, three riders in the front rank, and that column hammered through the French line like a nail driven through a sheet of vellum. Scottish lances crashed into shields, Frenchmen were thrown back onto their saddles’ high cantles, and the column sliced through the line to strike hard against the second smaller group of French riders, who, not expecting to be involved in the fight’s opening, were not ready for the impact. A lance caught a Frenchman at the base of his helmet and, though blunted, it cracked the helmet and threw the man back over his cantle. A horse screamed. The Scots in the following ranks had discarded their lances and drawn swords or else carried brutal lead-weighted maces, and they now moved outwards. Most were now behind their opponents who were blind to their attacks. Another Frenchman went down, dragged by his stirrup-trapped boot out of the melee.

  So far as the cardinal could see it was sheer chaos, but it was clear the Scots were winning. Two more Frenchmen fell, and Sculley, conspicuous because he wore no helmet, was hammering his mace down on a magnificently plumed helm, hammering again and again, grimacing as he stood in his stirrups, and the horseman, plainly stunned, slid down to the turf as Sculley turned on another man, this time swinging the mace so that it slammed straight into the helmet’s eye-slits. That man went, felled in an instant, and the Scotsmen were now seeking new enemies, getting in each other’s way in their eagerness to finish off the French knights. Joscelyn of Berat was backing his horse, fighting off Robbie Douglas and another man. Joscelyn’s swordplay was fast and dangerous, but Sculley came behind him and slammed the mace into the small of his back, and Joscelyn, knowing he could not fight off three men, shouted that he yielded, and Robbie Douglas had to drive his horse between Joscelyn and Sculley to stop the mace coming again in a blow that threatened to snap the Frenchman’s spine.