rescued you, madame, is that true?’
‘Yes,’ Jeanette said. She frowned, unable to see who was questioning her.
‘Tell us who you are,’ the unseen man demanded.
‘I am Jeanette, dowager Countess of Armorica.’
‘Your husband was who?’ The voice suggested a young man, but a very confident young man.
Jeanette bridled at the tone of the question, but answered it. ‘Henri Chenier, Comte d’Armorique.
‘And why are you here, madame?’
‘Because Charles of Blois has kidnapped my child!’ Jeanette answered angrily. ‘A child who was placed under the protection of the King of England.’
The young man said nothing for a while. Some in the crowd were edging nervously away from the liveried men-at-arms who surrounded him, and Scoresby was looking apprehensive. ‘Who placed him under that protection?’ he eventually asked.
‘William Bohun,’ Jeanette said, ‘Earl of Northampton.’
‘I believe her,’ the voice said, and the men-at-arms stepped aside so that Thomas and Jeanette could see the speaker, who proved to be scarce more than a boy. Indeed, Thomas doubted he had even begun to shave, though he was surely full grown for he was tall – taller even than Thomas – and had only stayed hidden because his men-at-arms had been wearing green and white plumes in their helmets. The young man was fair-haired, had a face slightly burned by the sun, was dressed in a green cloak, plain breeches and a linen shirt, and nothing except his height explained why men were suddenly kneeling on the grass. ‘Down,’ Scoresby hissed at Thomas who, perplexed, went on one knee. Now only Jeanette, the boy and his escort of eight tall men-at-arms were standing.
The boy looked at Thomas. ‘Did you really walk here from Brittany?’ he asked in English, though, like many noblemen, his English was touched with a French accent.
‘We both did, sire,’ Thomas said in French.
‘Why?’ he demanded harshly.
‘To seek the protection of the King of England,’ Thomas said, ‘who is the guardian of my lady’s son, who has been treacherously taken prisoner by England’s enemies.’
The boy looked at Jeanette with much the same wolfish appreciation that Scoresby had shown. He might not shave, but he knew a beautiful woman when he saw one. He smiled. ‘You are most welcome, madame,’ he said. ‘I knew of your husband’s reputation, I admired him, and I regret that I will never have a chance to meet him in combat.’ He bowed to Jeanette, then untied his cloak and walked to her. He placed the green cape over her shoulders to cover the torn dress. ‘I shall ensure, madame,’ he said, ‘that you are treated with the courtesy your rank demands and will vow to keep whatever promises England made on your son’s behalf.’ He bowed again.
Jeanette, astonished and pleased by the young man’s manner, put the question that Thomas had been wanting answered. ‘Who are you, my lord?’ she asked, offering a curtsy.
‘I am Edward of Woodstock, madame,’ he said, offering her his arm.
It meant nothing to Jeanette, but it astonished Thomas. ‘He is the King’s eldest son,’ he whispered to her.
She dropped to one knee, but the smooth-cheeked boy raised her and walked her towards the priory. He was Edward of Woodstock, Earl of Chester, Duke of Cornwall and Prince of Wales. And the wheel of fate had once again spun Jeanette high.
The wheel seemed indifferent towards Thomas. He was left alone, abandoned. Jeanette walked away on the Prince’s arm and did not so much as glance back at Thomas. He heard her laugh. He watched her. He had nursed her, fed her, carried her and loved her, and now, without a thought, she had discarded him. No one else was interested in him. Scoresby and his men, cheated of a hanging, had gone to the village, and Thomas wondered just what he was supposed to do.
‘Goddamn,’ he said aloud. He felt conspicuously foolish in his tattered robe. ‘Goddamn,’ he said again. Anger, thick as the black humour that could make a man sick, rose in him, but what he could do? He was a fool in a ragged robe and the Prince was the son of a king.
The Prince had taken Jeanette to the low grassy ridge where the big tents stood in a colourful row. Each tent had a flagpole, and the tallest flew the quartered banner of the Prince of Wales, which showed the golden lions of England on the two red quarters and golden fleur-de-lis on the two blue. The fleur-de-lis were there to show the King’s claim to the French throne while the whole flag, which was that of England’s king, was crossed with a white-toothed bar to show that this was the banner of the King’s eldest son. Thomas was tempted to follow Jeanette, to demand the Prince’s help, but then one of the lower banners, the one furthest away from him, caught the small warm wind and sluggishly lifted its folds. He stared at it.
The banner had a blue field and was slashed diagonally with a white band. Three rampant yellow lions were emblazoned on either side of the bar, which was decorated with three red stars that had green centres. It was a flag Thomas knew well, but he scarcely dared believe that he was seeing it here in Normandy, for the arms were those of William Bohun, Earl of Northampton. Northampton was the King’s deputy in Brittany, yet his flag was unmistakable and Thomas walked towards it, fearing that the wind-rippled flag would turn out to be a different coat of arms, similar to the Earl’s, but not the same.
But it was the Earl’s banner, and the Earl’s tent, in contrast to the other stately pavilions on the low ridge, was still the grubby shelter made from two worn-out sails. A half-dozen men-at-arms wearing the Earl’s livery barred Thomas’s way as he neared the tent. ‘Have you come to hear his lordship’s confession or put an arrow in his belly?’ one asked.
‘I would speak to his lordship,’ Thomas said, barely suppressing the anger provoked by Jeanette’s abandonment of him.
‘But will he talk to you?’ the man asked, amused at the ragged archer’s pretensions.
‘He will,’ Thomas said with a confidence he did not entirely feel. ‘Tell him the man who gave him La Roche-Derrien is here,’ he added.
The man-at-arms looked startled. He frowned, but just then the tent flap was thrown back and the Earl himself appeared, stripped to the waist to reveal a muscled chest covered in tight red curls. He was chewing on a goose-bone and peered up at the sky as though fearing rain. The man-at-arms turned to him, indicated Thomas, then shrugged as if to say he was not responsible for a madman showing up unannounced.
The Earl stared at Thomas. ‘Good God,’ he said after a while, ‘have you taken orders?’
‘No, my lord.’
The Earl stripped a piece of flesh from the bone with his teeth. ‘Thomas, ain’t that right?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Never forget a face,’ the Earl said, ‘and I have cause to remember yours, though I hardly expected you to fetch up here. Did you walk?’
Thomas nodded. ‘I did, my lord.’ Something about the Earl’s demeanour was puzzling, almost as though he was not really surprised to see Thomas in Normandy.
‘Will told me about you,’ the Earl said, ‘told me all about you. So Thomas, my modest hero from La Roche-Derrien, is a murderer, eh?’
