the woods above the church. He was shaken, nervous and frightened, for what had seemed like a game had twisted his life into darkness. Not a few hours before he had been an archer in England’s army and, though his future might not have appealed to the young men with whom he had rioted in Oxford, Thomas had been certain he would at least rise as high as Will Skeat. He had imagined himself leading a band of soldiers, becoming wealthy, following his black bow to fortune and even rank, but now he was a hunted man. He was in such panic that he began to doubt Will Skeat’s reaction, fearing that Skeat would be so disgusted at the failure of the ambush that he would arrest Thomas and lead him back to a rope-dancing end in La Roche-Derrien’s marketplace. He worried that Jeanette would have been caught going back to the town. Would they charge her with murder too? He shivered as night fell. He was twenty-two years old, he had failed utterly, he was alone and he was lost.
He woke in a cold, drizzling dawn. Hares raced across the pasture where Sir Simon Jekyll’s destrier cropped the grass. Thomas opened the purse he kept under his mail coat and counted his coins. There was the gold from Sir Simon’s saddle pouch and his own few coins, so he was not poor, but like most of the hellequin he left the bulk of his money in Will Skeat’s keeping; even when they were out raiding, there were always some men left in La Roche-Derrien to keep an eye on the hoard. What would he do? He had a bow and some arrows, and perhaps he could walk to Gascony, though he had no idea how far that was, but at least he knew there were English garrisons there who would surely welcome another trained archer. Or perhaps he could find a way to cross the Channel? Go home, find another name, start again – except he had no home. What he must never do was find himself within a hanging rope’s distance of Sir Simon Jekyll.
The hellequin arrived shortly after midday. The archers rode into the village first, followed by the men-at-arms, who were escorting a one-horse wagon that had wooden hoops supporting a flapping cover of brown cloth. Father Hobbe and Will Skeat rode beside the wagon, which puzzled Thomas, for he had never known the hellequin use such a vehicle before. But then Skeat and the priest broke away from the men-at-arms and spurred their horses towards the field where the stallion grazed.
The two men stopped by the hedge, and Skeat cupped his hands and shouted towards the woods, ‘Come on out, you daft bastard!’ Thomas emerged very sheepishly, to be greeted with an ironic cheer from the archers. Skeat regarded him sourly. ‘God’s bones, Tom,’ he said, ‘but the devil did a bad thing when he humped your mother.’
Father Hobbe tutted at Will’s blasphemy, then raised a hand in blessing. ‘You missed a fine sight, Tom,’ he said cheerfully: ‘Sir Simon coming home to La Roche, half naked and bleeding like a stuck pig. I’ll hear your confession before we go.’
‘Don’t grin, you stupid bastard,’ Skeat snapped. ‘Sweet Christ, Tom, but if you do a job, do it proper. Do it proper! Why did you leave the bastard alive?’
‘I missed.’
‘Then you go and kill some poor bastard squire instead. Sweet Christ, but you’re a goddamn bloody fool.’
‘I suppose they want to hang me?’ Thomas asked.
‘Oh no,’ Skeat said in feigned surprise, ‘of course not! They want to feast you, hang garlands round your neck and give you a dozen virgins to warm your bed. What the hell do you think they want to do with you? Of course they want you dead and I swore on my mother’s life I’d bring you back if I found you alive. Does he look alive to you, father?’
Father Hobbe examined Thomas. ‘He looks very dead to me, Master Skeat.’
‘He bloody deserves to be dead, the daft bastard.’
‘Did the Countess get safe home?’ Thomas asked.
‘She got home, if that’s what you mean,’ Skeat said, ‘but what do you think Sir Simon wanted the moment he’d covered up his shrivelled prick? To have her house searched, Tom, for some armour and a sword that were legitimately his. He’s not such a daft fool; he knows you and she were together.’ Thomas cursed and Skeat repeated the blasphemy. ‘So they pressed her two servants and they admitted the Countess planned everything.’
‘They did what?’ Thomas asked.
‘They pressed them,’ Skeat repeated, which meant that the old couple had been put flat on the ground and had stones piled on their chests. ‘The old girl squealed everything at the first stone, so they were hardly hurt,’ Skeat went on, ‘and now Sir Simon wants to charge her ladyship with murder. And naturally he had her house searched for the sword and armour, but they found nowt because I had them and her hidden well away, but she’s still as deep in the shit as you are. You can’t just go about sticking crossbow bolts into knights and slaughtering squires, Tom! It upsets the order of things!’
‘I’m sorry, Will,’ Thomas said.
‘So the long and the brief of it,’ Skeat said, ‘is that the Countess is seeking the protection of her husband’s uncle.’ He jerked a thumb at the cart. ‘She’s in that, together with her bairn, two bruised servants, a suit of armour and a sword.’
‘Sweet Jesus,’ Thomas said, staring at the cart.
‘You put her there,’ Skeat growled, ‘not Him. And I had the devil’s own business keeping her hid from Sir Simon. Dick Totesham suspects I’m up to no good and he don’t approve, though he took my word in the end, but I still had to promise to drag you back by the scruff of your miserable neck. But I haven’t seen you, Tom.’
‘I’m sorry, Will,’ Thomas said again.
‘You bloody well should be sorry,’ Skeat said, though he was exuding a quiet satisfaction that he had managed to clean up Thomas’s mess so efficiently. Jake and Sam had not been seen by Sir Simon or his surviving man-at-arms, so they were safe, Thomas was a fugitive and Jeanette had been safely smuggled out of La Roche-Derrien before Sir Simon could make her life into utter misery. ‘She’s travelling to Guingamp,’ Skeat went on, ‘and I’m sending a dozen men to escort her and God only knows if the enemy will respect their flag of truce. If I had a lick of bloody sense I’d skin you alive and make a bow-cover out of your hide.’
‘Yes, Will,’ Thomas said meekly.
‘Don’t bloody ‘‘yes, Will’’ me,’ Skeat said. ‘What are you going to do with the few days you’ve got left to live?’
‘I don’t know.’
Skeat sniffed. ‘You could grow up, for a start, though there’s probably scant chance of that happening. Right, lad.’ He braced himself, taking charge. ‘I took your money from the chest, so here it is.’ He handed Thomas a leather pouch. ‘And I’ve put three sheaves of arrows in the lady’s cart and that’ll keep you for a few days. If you’ve got any sense, which you ain’t, then you’d go south or north. You could go to Gascony, but it’s a hell of a long walk. Flanders is closer and has plenty of English troops who’ll probably take you in if they’re desperate. That’s my advice, lad. Go north and hope Sir Simon never goes to Flanders.’
‘Thank you,’ Thomas said.
‘But how do you get to Flanders?’ Skeat asked.
‘Walk?’ Thomas suggested.
‘God’s bones,’ Will said, ‘but you’re a useless worm-eaten piece of lousy meat. Walk dressed like that and carrying a bow, and you might just as well just cut your own throat. It’ll be quicker than letting the French do it.’
‘You
