with the knowledge that Eleanor would be safe in the city and tonight, when the battle was won, they could make up their quarrel. Then, he supposed, they would marry. He was not sure he really wanted to marry, it seemed too early in his life to have a wife even if it was Eleanor, whom he was sure he loved, but he was equally sure she would want him to abandon the yew bow and settle in a house and that was the very last thing Thomas wanted. What he wanted was to be a leader of archers, to be a man like Will Skeat. He wanted to have his own band of bowmen that he could hire out to great lords. There was no shortage of opportunity. Rumour said that the Italian states would pay a fortune for English archers and Thomas wanted a part of it, but Eleanor must be looked after and he did not want their child to be a bastard. There were enough bastards in the world without adding another.
The English lords talked for a while. There were a dozen of them and they glanced constantly at the enemy and Thomas was close enough to see the anxiety on their faces. Was it worry that the enemy was too many? Or that the Scots were refusing battle and, in the next morning’s mist, might vanish northwards?
Brother Michael came and rested his old bones on the herring barrel that had served Lord Outhwaite as a seat. ‘They’ll send you archers forward. That’s what I’d do. Send you archers forward to provoke the bastards. Either that or drive them off, but you don’t drive Scotsmen off that easily. They’re brave bastards.’
‘Brave? Then why aren’t they attacking?’
‘Because they’re not fools. They can see these.’ Brother Michael touched the black stave of Thomas’s bow. ‘They’ve learned what archers can do. You’ve heard of Halidon Hill?’ He raised his eyebrows in surprise when Thomas shook his head. ‘Of course, you’re from the south. Christ could come again in the north and you southerners would never hear about it, or believe it if you did. But it was thirteen years ago now and they attacked us by Berwick and we cut them down in droves. Or our archers did, and they won’t be enthusiastic about suffering the same fate here.’ Brother Michael frowned as a small click sounded. ‘What was that?’
Something had touched Thomas’s helmet and he turned to see the Scarecrow, Sir Geoffrey Carr, who had cracked his whip, just glancing the metal claw at its tip off the crest of Thomas’s sallet. Sir Geoffrey coiled his whip as he jeered at Thomas. ‘Sheltering behind monks’ skirts, are we?’
Brother Michael restrained Thomas. ‘Go, Sir Geoffrey,’ the monk ordered, ‘before I call down a curse onto your black soul.’
Sir Geoffrey put a finger into a nostril and pulled out something slimy that he flicked towards the monk. ‘You think you frighten me, you one-eyed bastard? You who lost your balls when your hand was chopped off?’ He laughed, then looked back to Thomas. ‘You picked a fight with me, boy, and you didn’t give me a chance to finish it.’
‘Not now!’ Brother Michael snapped.
Sir Geoffrey ignored the monk. ‘Fighting your betters, boy? You can hang for that. No’ – he shuddered, then pointed a long bony finger at Thomas – ‘you will hang for that! You hear me? You will hang for it.’ He spat at Thomas, then turned his roan horse and spurred it back down the line.
‘How come you know the Scarecrow?’ Brother Michael asked.
‘We just met.’
‘An evil creature,’ Brother Michael said, making the sign of the cross, ‘born under a waning moon when a storm was blowing.’ He was still watching the Scarecrow. ‘Men say that Sir Geoffrey owes money to the devil himself. He had to pay a ransom to Douglas of Liddesdale and he borrowed deep from the bankers to do it. His manor, his fields, everything he owns is in danger if he can’t pay, and even if he makes a fortune today he’ll just throw it away at dice. The Scarecrow’s a fool, but a dangerous one.’ He turned his one eye on Thomas. ‘Did you really pick a fight with him?’
‘He wanted to rape my woman.’
‘Aye, that’s our Scarecrow. So be careful, young man, because he doesn’t forget slights and he never forgives them.’
The English lords must have come to some agreement for they reached out their mailed fists and touched metal knuckle on metal knuckle, then Lord Outhwaite turned his horse back towards his men. ‘John! John!’ he called to the captain of his archers. ‘We’ll not wait for them to make up their minds,’ he said as he dismounted, ‘but be provocative.’ It seemed Brother Michael’s prognostication was right; the archers would be sent forward to annoy the Scots. The plan was to enrage them with arrows and so spur them into a hasty attack.
A squire rode Lord Outhwaite’s horse back to the walled pasture as the Archbishop of York rode his destrier out in front of the army. ‘God will help you!’ he called to the men of the central division that he commanded. ‘The Scots fear us!’ he shouted. ‘They know that with God’s help we will make many children fatherless in their blighted land! They stand and watch us because they fear us. So we must go to them.’ That sentiment brought a cheer. The Archbishop raised a hand to silence his men. ‘I want the archers to go forward,’ he called, ‘only the archers! Sting them! Kill them! And God bless you all. God bless you mightily!’
So the archers would begin the battle. The Scots were stubbornly refusing to move in hope that the English would make the attack, for it was much easier to defend ground than assault a formed enemy, but now the English archers would go forward to goad, sting and harass the enemy until they either ran away or, more likely, advanced to take revenge.
Thomas had already selected his best arrow. It was new, so new that the green-tinted glue that was pasted about the thread holding the feathers in place was still tacky, but it had a breasted shaft, one that was slightly wider behind the head and then tapered away towards the feathers. Such a shaft would hit hard and it was a lovely straight piece of ash, a third as long again as Thomas’s arm, and Thomas would not waste it even though his opening shot would be at very long range.
It would be a long shot for the Scottish King was at the rear of the big central sheltron of his army, but it would not be an impossible shot for the black bow was huge and Thomas was young, strong and accurate.
‘God be with you,’ Brother Michael said.
‘Aim true!’ Lord Outhwaite called.
‘God speed your arrows!’ the Archbishop of York shouted.
The drummers beat louder, the Scots jeered and the archers of England advanced.
Bernard de Taillebourg already knew much of what the old monk told him, but now that the story was flowing he did not interrupt. It was the tale of a family that had been lords of an obscure county in southern France. The county was called Astarac and it lay close to the Cathar lands and, in time, became infected with the heresy. ‘The false teaching spread,’ Brother Collimore had said, ‘like a murrain. From the inland sea to the ocean, and northwards into Burgundy.’ Father de Taillebourg knew all this, but he had said nothing, just let the old man go on describing how, when the Cathars were burned out of the land and the fires of their deaths had sent the smoke pouring to heaven to tell God and His angels that the true religion had been restored to the lands between France and Aragon, the Vexilles, among the last of the nobility to be contaminated by the Cathar evil, had fled to the farthest corners of Christendom. ‘But before they left,’ Brother Collimore said, gazing up at the white painted arch of the ceiling, ‘they took the treasures of the heretics for safekeeping.’
‘And the Grail was among them?’
‘So they said, but who knows?’ Brother Collimore turned his head and frowned at the Dominican. ‘If
