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 sword-smiths 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
