Two horses were dying, their bodies forcing the other riders to swerve, and still the arrows came at them. A lance tumbled, skidding along the ground. A dead man, three arrows in his chest, rode a frightened horse that veered across the line of the charge, throwing it into further confusion. Thomas shot again, using a broad-head now to cut down a horse at the rear of the group. One of Genevieve’s arrows flew high. She was grinning, her eyes wide. Sam cursed as his cord broke, then stepped back to find another and string it to his bow. The big black horse had slowed to a walk and Thomas put another bodkin into its flank, burying the arrow just ahead of the rider’s left knee.
“Horses!” Sir Guillaume called to his men and Thomas knew the Norman reckoned the enemy would never reach his barrier and so had decided to charge them. Where was Robbie? Some of the enemy were turning away, going back to the river and Thomas sped four fast broad-heads at those faint hearts, then loosed a bodkin at the black horse’s rider. The arrow glanced off the man’s breastplate, then his horse stumbled and went down to its knees. A squire, the man holding the flag of Berat, came to help the rider and Thomas slammed a bodkin into the squire’s neck, then two more arrows hit the man who bent backwards over his saddle’s cantle and stayed there, dead with three arrows jutting skywards and his flag fallen.
Sir Guillaume’s men were hauling themselves into their saddles, drawing swords, taking their places knee to knee, and just then Robbie’s force came from the north. The charge was timed well, hitting the enemy at their most chaotic, and Robbie had the sense to charge close to the river, thus cutting off their retreat. “Bows down!” Thomas called. “Bows down!” He did not want his arrows cutting into Robbie’s men. He laid his bow by the hedge and drew his sword. It was time to overwhelm the enemy with pure savagery.
Robbie’s men hammered into Berat’s horsemen with terrible force. They rode properly, knee to knee, and the shock of the men-at-arms threw three enemy horses down. Swords chopped hard down, then each of Robbie’s men picked an opponent. Robbie, shouting his war cry, kicked his horse towards Joscelyn.
“Douglas! Douglas!” Robbie was shouting, and Joscelyn was trying to stay in the saddle of a horse that was dying, that was down on its fore knees, and he heard the cry behind him and swept his sword wildly back, but Robbie met the blow on his shield and kept thrusting so that the shield, with its device of the Douglas red heart, struck a huge blow on Joscelyn’s helm. Joscelyn had not strapped the helm down, knowing that in a tournament it often helped to take the big steel pot off at the end of a fight to see a half-beaten opponent better, so now it turned on his shoulders, the cross-shaped eye slits vanished and he was in darkness. He flailed his sword into empty air, felt his balance going and then his whole world was a huge ringing blow of steel on steel and he could not see, could not hear, as Robbie thumped his helmet again with his sword.
Berat’s men-at-arms were yielding, throwing down swords and offering gauntlets to their opponents. The archers were among them now, hauling men out of their saddles, and then Sir Guillaume’s horsemen thundered past to pursue the handful of enemy trying to gallop out of trouble through the ford. Sir Guillaume backswung his sword as he overtook a laggard and the blow ripped the man’s helmet clean off his head. The man following Sir Guillaume swept his sword forward and there was a burst of misting blood and the dead man’s head went bouncing into the river as the headless body kept riding.
“I yield, I yield!” Joscelyn screamed in pure terror. “I can be ransomed!” Those were the words that saved rich men’s lives on battlefields and he shouted them again more urgently. “I can be ransomed!” His right leg was trapped under his horse, he was still blinded by his skewed helmet and all he could hear were thumping hooves, shouts and the screams of wounded men being killed by archers. Then, suddenly, he was dazzled by light as his dented helmet was pulled off and a man stood over him with a sword. “I yield,” Joscelyn said hurriedly, then remembered his rank. “Are you noble?”
“I’m a Douglas of the house of Douglas,” the man said in bad French, “and as well born as any in Scotland.”
“Then I yield to you,” Joscelyn said despairingly, and he could have wept for all his dreams had been broken in one brief passage of arrows, terror and butchery.
“Who are you?” Robbie asked.
“I am the Lord of Béziers,” Joscelyn said, “and heir to Be-rat.”
And Robbie whooped for joy.
Because he was rich.
THE COUNT OF BERAT wondered if he should have ordered three or four of the men-at-arms to stay behind. It was not because he thought he needed protection, but rather it was his due to have an entourage and the departure of Joscelyn, Father Roubert and all the horsemen left him only his squire, one other servant and the serfs who were scrabbling at the earth to clear the mysterious wall which seemed, the Count thought, to be hiding a cave beneath the place where the chapel’s altar had once stood.
He sneezed again, then felt light-headed so sat on a fallen block of stone.
“Come by the fire, my lord,” his squire suggested. The squire was the son of a tenant from the northern part of the county and was a stolid, unimaginative seventeen-year-old who had shown no inclination to ride with Joscelyn to glory.
“Fire?” The Count blinked up at the boy who was called Michel.
“We made a fire, lord,” Michel said, pointing to the far end of the vault where a small fire had been conjured from the splintered lids of the coffins.
“Fire,” the Count said, for some reason finding it hard to think straight. He sneezed and gasped for breath afterwards.
“It’s a cold day, lord,” the boy explained, “and the fire will make you feel better.”
“A fire,” the Count said, confused, then he discovered an unexpected reserve of energy. “Of course! A fire! Well done, Michel. Make a torch and bring it.”
Michel went to the fire and found a long piece of elmwood that was burning at one end and gingerly extracted it from the flames. He took it to the wall where the Count was feverishly pushing the serfs aside. At the very top of the wall; which was made from dressed stones, there was a small gap, no bigger than a sparrow would need, and the hole, through which the Count had peered excitedly but uselessly, seemed to lead into a cavern behind. The Count turned as Michel brought the torch. “Give it here, give it here,” he said impatiently, then snatched the burning wood and fanned it to and fro to make it flare up. When the elm was burning fiercely, he thrust it into the hole and, to his delight, the wood slipped right through, confirming that there was a space behind; he pushed it inside until it dropped and then he stooped and put his right eye to the gap and stared.
The flames were already becoming feeble in the cavern’s stale air, but they threw just enough light to reveal what lay beyond the wall. The Count stared and drew in a breath. “Michel!” he said. “Michel! I can see…” Just then the flame guttered out.
And the Count collapsed.
He slid down the ramp of earth, his face white and mouth open, and for a moment Michel thought his master had died, but then the Count gave a sigh. But he stayed unconscious. The serfs gaped at the squire who stared at the Count, then Michel gathered his few wits and ordered the men to carry the Count out of the vault. That was hard, for they had to maneuver his weight up the ladder, but once it was done a handcart was fetched from the village and they pushed the Count north to Saint Sever’s monastery. The journey took almost an hour and the Count groaned once or twice and seemed to shiver, but he was still alive when the monks carried him into the infirmary where they placed him in a small whitewashed room equipped with a hearth in which a big fire was lit.
Brother Ramon, a Spaniard who was the monastery’s physician, brought a report to the abbot. “The Count has a fever,” he said, “and a surplus of bile.”
“Will he die?” Planchard asked.
“Only if God wills it,” Brother Ramon said, which is what he always said when asked that question. “We shall leech him and then attempt
to sweat the fever away.”
“And you will pray for him,” Planchard reminded Ramon, then he went back to Michel and learned that the Count’s men-at-arms had ridden to attack the English in the valley of the River Gers. “You will meet them on their return,” the abbot ordered Michel, “and tell them their lord is struck down. Remind the Lord Joscelyn that a message must be sent to Berat.”
“Yes, lord.” Michel looked worried by this responsibility.
“What was the Count doing when he fainted?” Planchard asked, and so heard about the strange wall beneath the castle chapel.
“Perhaps I should go back,” Michel suggested nervously, “and find out what’s behind the wall?”
“You will leave that to me, Michel,” Planchard said sternly. “Your only duty is to your master and his nephew. Now go and find Lord Joscelyn.”
Michel rode to intercept Joscelyn’s return and Planchard went in search of the serfs who had brought the Count to the monastery. They were waiting by the gate, expecting some reward, and they fell to their knees as Planchard approached. The abbot spoke first to the oldest man. “Veric, how is your wife?”
“She suffers, sir, she suffers.”
“Tell her she is in my prayers,” Planchard said truthfully. “Listen, all of you, and listen well.” He waited until they were all looking at him. “What you will do now,” he told them sternly, “is return to the castle and cover up the wall. Put the earth back. Seal it! Do not dig further. Veric, you know what an encantada is?”
“Of course, lord,” Veric said, crossing himself.
The abbot bent close to the serf. “If you do not cover the wall, Veric, then a plague of encantadas will come from the castle bowels and they will take your children, all of your children,” he looked along the line of kneeling men, “they will rise up from the earth, snatch your children and dance them down to hell. So cover the wall. And when it is done, come back to me and I shall reward you.” The monastery’s poor box contained a few coins and Planchard would give them to the serfs. “I trust you, Veric!” he finished. “Dig no further, just cover up the wall.”
The serfs hurried to obey. Planchard watched them go and said a small prayer asking God to forgive him for telling an untruth. Planchard did not believe that enchanted demons lived under Astarac’s old chapel, but he did know that whatever the Count had discovered should be hidden and the threat of the encantadas should suffice to make certain the work was properly done.
Then, that small crisis resolved, Planchard went back to his room. When the Count had come to the monastery and caused a sudden excitement, the abbot had been reading a letter brought by a messenger just an hour before. The letter had come from a Cistercian house in Lombardy and now Planchard read it again and wondered whether he should tell the brethren about its dreadful contents. He decided not, then he dropped to his knees in prayer.
He lived, he thought, in an evil world.
And God’s scourge had come to bring punishment. That was the message of the letter and Planchard could do little except pray. “‘Fiat voluntas Ma,’” he said over and over again. “They will be done.” And the terrible thing, Planchard thought, was that God’s will was being done.
THE FIRST THING was to recover as many arrows as possible. Arrows were scarce as hens’ teeth in Gascony. In England, or in England’s territory in France, there were always spare arrows. They were made in the shires, bundled into sheaves of twenty-four, and sent wherever archers fought, but here, far from any other English garrison, Thomas’s men needed to hoard their missiles and so they went from corpse to corpse collecting the precious arrows. Most of the broad-heads were sunk deep in horseflesh and those heads were mostly lost, but the arrow shafts pulled out cleanly enough and all archers carried spare heads in their pouches. Some men cut into the corpses to retrieve the broad-heads. Other arrows had missed and just lay on the turf and the archers laughed about those. “One of your points here, Sam!” Jake called. “Missed by a bloody mile!”
“That’s not mine. Must be Genny’s.”
“Tom!” Jake had seen the two pigs across the river. “Can I get supper?”
“Arrows first, Jake,” Thomas said, “supper afterwards.” He bent to a dead horse and cut into the flesh in an attempt to retrieve a broad-head. Sir Guillaume was scavenging pieces of armor, unbuckling greaves and espaliers and chausses from dead men. Another man-at-arms hauled a mail coat from a corpse. Archers were carrying armfuls of swords. Ten enemy horses were either unwounded or so lightly injured as to be worth keeping. The others were dead or else in such pain that Sam dispatched them with a battle-axe blow to the forehead.
It was as complete a victory as Thomas could have wished and, better still, Robbie had captured the man Thomas took to be the enemy leader. He was a tall man with a round, angry face that was shining with sweat. “He’s the heir to Berat,” Robbie called as Thomas approached, “and his uncle wasn’t here.”
Joscelyn glanced at Thomas and, seeing his bloody hands and the bow and arrow bag, reckoned him a man of no worth and so looked at Sir Guillaume instead. “Do you lead here?” he demanded.
Sir Guillaume gestured at Thomas. “He does.”
Joscelyn seemed bereft of words. He watched, appalled, as his wounded men-at-arms were plundered. At least his own two men, Villesisle and his companion, were both alive, but neither had been able to fight with their accustomed ferocity for the arrows had killed their horses. One of Joscelyn’s uncle’s men had lost his right hand, another was dying from an arrow in his belly. Joscelyn tried to count the living and dead and reckoned that only six or seven of his men had managed to escape across the ford.
The beghard was plundering with the rest. Joscelyn spat when he realized who she was, then made the sign of the cross, but he went on staring at Genevieve in her silver mail. She was, he thought, as beautiful a creature as he had ever seen.
“She’s spoken for,” Sir Guillaume said drily, seeing where Joscelyn was looking.
“So what are you worth?” Thomas asked Joscelyn.
“My uncle will pay a great deal,” Joscelyn answered stiffly, still not sure that Thomas really was the enemy commander. He was even less sure that his uncle would pay a ransom, but he did not want to suggest that to his captors, nor tell them that his lordship of Béziers would be fortunate to scrape up more than a handful of ecus. Béziers was a dirt-poor collection of shacks in Picardy and would be lucky to ransom a captured goat. He looked back at Genevieve, marvelling at her long legs and bright hair. “You had the devil’s help in beating us,” he said bitterly.
“In battle,” Thomas said, “it’s good to have powerful friends.” He turned to where the ground was horrid with bodies. “Hurry up!” he called to his men. “We want to be home before midnight!”
The men were in a fine mood. They would all have a share of Joscelyn’s ransom, even though Robbie would take the greater part, and some of the lesser prisoners would yield a few coins. In addition they had taken helmets, weapons, shields, swords and horses, and only two men-at-arms had received so much as a scratch. It was a good afternoon’s work, and they laughed as they retrieved their horses, loaded the captured beasts with plunder, and readied to leave.
And just then a single horseman came across the ford.
Sir Guillaume saw him first and called to Thomas who turned and saw it was a priest who approached. The man had black and white robes, suggesting he was a Dominican. “Don’t shoot!” Thomas called to his men. “Bows down! Down!” He walked towards the priest who was mounted on a small mare. Genevieve was already in her saddle, but now she jumped down and hurried to catch up with Thomas.
“His name,” Genevieve said softly, “is Father Roubert.” Her face was white and her tone bitter.
“The man who tortured you?” Thomas asked.
“The bastard,” she said, and Thomas suspected she was fighting back tears; he knew how she was feeling for he had known the same humiliation at the hands of a torturer. He remembered pleading with his t
orturer and the shame of being so utterly abased to another person. He remembered the gratitude when the pain stopped.
Father Roubert curbed his horse some twenty paces from Thomas and looked at the scattered dead. “Have they been shriven?” he asked.
“No,” Thomas said, “but if you want to shrive them, priest, then do it. And afterwards go back to Berat and tell the Count we have his nephew and will negotiate a ransom.” He had nothing else to say to the Dominican so he took Genevieve’s elbow and turned away.
“Are you Thomas of Hookton?” Father Roubert asked.
Thomas turned back. “What is it to you?”
“You have cheated hell of a soul,” the priest said, “and if you do not yield it then I shall demand yours as well.”
Genevieve took the bow from her shoulder. “You’ll be in hell before me,” she called to Roubert.
The friar ignored her, speaking to Thomas instead. “She is the devil’s creature, Englishman, and she has bewitched you.” His mare twitched and he slapped her neck irritably. “The Church has made its decision and you must submit.”