Bâtard is ordered to join the Prince of Wales. He said the message was urgent.’
‘I hope you are right.’
‘It is the best explanation, sire.’
‘And if you are right then le Bâtard will be gone to Bordeaux, eh? Gone!’
‘Though he might return, sire,’ Father Vincent warned the count.
‘In time, maybe, in time,’ Labrouillade said carelessly. He was unconcerned, for if le Bâtard did go to Gascony then the count would have time to raise more men and strengthen his fortress. He slowed his horse, letting the carts catch up so he could stare down at his naked and bloody enemy. The count was pleased. Villon was in agony, and Bertille could expect an adulteress’s punishment. Life, he decided, was good.
His wife wept. The sun rose higher, warming the day. Peasants knelt as the count passed. The road climbed into the hills that separated the lands of Villon and Labrouillade, and, though there had been death in the first, there would be rejoicing in the second because the count was revenged.
Paville was only two hours’ ride west of the fallen castle. It had once been a prosperous town, famed for its monastery and for the excellence of its wine, but now there were only thirty-two monks left, and fewer than two hundred folk lived in the small town. The pestilence had come, and half the townsfolk were buried in the fields beside the river. The town walls were crumbling, and the monastery’s vineyards choked with weeds.
The Hellequin gathered in the marketplace outside the monastery where they carried their wounded into the infirmary. Tired horses were walked and arrows repaired. Brother Michael wanted to find something to eat, but le Bâtard approached him. ‘Six of my men are dying in there,’ he jerked his head at the monastery, ‘and another four might not live. Sam tells me you worked in an infirmary?’
‘I did,’ the monk said, ‘but I also have a written message for you.’
‘From whom?’
‘The Earl of Northampton, lord.’
‘Don’t call me that. What does Billy want?’ Le Bâtard waited for an answer, then scowled when none came. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t read the letter! What does he want?’
‘I didn’t read it!’ Brother Michael protested.
‘An honest monk? The world sees a miracle.’ Le Bâtard ignored the proffered message. ‘Go and tend to my wounded men. I’ll read the letter later.’
Brother Michael worked for an hour, helping two other monks wash and bind wounds, and when he had finished he went back to the sunlight to see two men counting a vast pile of shoddy-looking coins. ‘The agreement,’ le Bâtard was saying to the abbot, ‘was that the payment should be in genoins.’
The abbot looked worried. ‘The count insisted on replacing the coins,’ he said.
‘And you permitted that?’ le Bâtard asked. The abbot shrugged. ‘He cheated us,’ le Bâtard said, ‘and you allowed it to happen!’
‘He sent men-at-arms, lord,’ the abbot said unhappily. Labrouillade had agreed to pay le Bâtard’s fee in genoins, which were good golden coins, trusted everywhere, but since le Bâtard’s men had first checked the payment the count had sent men to take away the genoins and replace them with a mixture of obols, écus, agnos, florins, deniers and sacks of pence, none of them gold and most of them debased or clipped, and, though the face value of the coins was for the agreed amount, their worth was less than half. ‘His men assured me the value is the same, lord,’ the abbot added.
‘And you believed them?’ le Bâtard asked sourly.
‘I protested,’ the abbot declared, concerned that he would not receive the customary fee for holding the cash.
‘I’m sure you did,’ le Bâtard said in a tone suggesting the opposite. He was still in his black armour, but had taken off his bascinet to reveal black hair cut short. ‘Labrouillade’s a fool, isn’t he?’
‘A greedy fool,’ the abbot agreed eagerly. ‘His father was worse. The fief of Labrouillade once encompassed all the land from here to the sea, but his father gambled away most of the southern part. The son is more careful with his money. He’s rich, of course, very rich, but not a generous man.’ The abbot’s voice trailed away as he gazed at the piles of shoddy, misshapen and bent coins. ‘What will you do?’ he asked nervously.
‘Do?’ Le Bâtard seemed to think about it, then shrugged. ‘I have the money,’ he finally said, ‘such as it is.’ He paused. ‘It is a matter for lawyers,’ he finally decided.
‘For lawyers, yes.’ The abbot, worried that he would be blamed for the substitution of the coins, could not hide his relief.
‘But not in the count’s own courts,’ le Bâtard said.
‘It might be argued in the bishop’s court?’ the abbot suggested.
Le Bâtard nodded, then scowled at the abbot. ‘I shall depend on your testimony.’
‘Of course, lord.’
‘And pay well for it,’le Bâtard added.
‘You may depend on my support,’ the abbot said.
Le Bâtard tossed one of the coins up and down in a hand that was misshapen, as though the fingers had been mangled by a great weight. ‘So we shall leave it to the lawyers,’ he announced, then ordered his men to pay the abbot with whatever good coin they could find among the dross. ‘I have no quarrel with you,’ he added to the relieved churchman, and turned to Brother Michael, who had taken the parchment from his pouch and was trying to deliver it. ‘In a moment, brother,’ le Bâtard said.
A woman and child were approaching. Brother Michael had not noticed them till this moment, for they had been travelling with the other women who followed the Hellequin and who had waited outside Villon as the castle was assaulted. But the young monk noticed her now, noticed her and trembled. He had been haunted all day by the memory of Bertille, but this woman was just as beautiful, though it was a very different kind of beauty. Bertille had been dark, soft and gentle, while this woman was fair, hard and striking. She was tall, almost as tall as le Bâtard, and her pale gold hair seemed to shine in the early winter sun. She had clever eyes, a wide mouth and a long nose, while her slim body was dressed in a coat of mail that had been scrubbed with wire, sand and vinegar so that it appeared to be made of silver. Dear God, the monk thought, but flowers should blossom in her footsteps. The child, a boy who looked to be about seven or eight years old, had her face but hair as black as le Bâtard’s.
‘My wife Genevieve,’ le Bâtard introduced the woman, ‘and my son, Hugh. This is Brother …’ He paused, not knowing the monk’s name.
‘Brother Michael,’ the monk said, unable to take his eyes from Genevieve.
‘He brought me a message,’ le Bâtard said to his wife, and gestured that the monk should give Genevieve the battered fold of parchment on which the earl’s seal was now dried, cracked and chipped.
‘Sir Thomas Hookton,’ Genevieve read the name written across the folded
