1356

begun.
     
    The weapons were stored in the dungeons beneath the keep of Castillon d’Arbizon’s castle. There were five cells there, and one of those was occupied by Pitou, who was waiting for his father to send Thomas’s men back from Montpellier. Two other cells were empty. ‘I put the drunks in those,’ Thomas explained to Keane.
    ‘Jesus, they must be full all the time.’
    ‘Rarely,’ Thomas said, leading the Irishman into the largest cell, which was his makeshift armoury. The two wolfhounds sniffed in the passageway, anxiously watching Keane as he ducked into the cell. ‘They know they can get drunk as much as they like,’ Thomas went on, ‘but not when they’re supposed to be sober.’ He raised the lantern and hung it on a hook embedded in the ceiling, though the flickering candle gave small light. ‘You stay alive by being good,’ he said.
    ‘By being sober?’ Keane sounded amused.
    ‘By being good,’ Thomas said, ‘by practice, by being fast, by being strong enough to pull a bow or carry a heavy sword. Weapons need skills and the man you end up fighting might have been practising those skills for twenty years so you have to be better. If not, you’re dead. And out here? We’re a small garrison surrounded by enemies, so we have to be the best.’
    ‘And if a man’s not good enough?’
    ‘I discharge him. There’s plenty want to serve here. They make money.’
    Keane grinned. ‘
Coredors
with a castle, eh?’
    He had meant it as a jest, but Thomas flinched anyway because there was truth in the jest.
Coredors
were bandits, men and women driven from their land to live wild in the hills and prey on travellers or small communities, and the incessant wars in France meant that there were many
coredors
. The largest highways were patrolled by men-at-arms, but other roads were dangerous except to formidable bands of armed men. The
coredors
were hated, but what were the Hellequin if not
coredors
? Except that they served a lord, in this case William Bohun, Earl of Northampton, who was God knows how many miles away watching the border between Scotland and England, and it was the Earl of Northampton’s wish that Thomas dominated this stretch of France. Did that make it right? Or was Saint Sardos’s church in Castillon d’Arbizon rich in silver and bright with wall paintings because Thomas suspected otherwise? ‘I first met Genevieve in this cell,’ he told Keane.
    ‘Here?’
    ‘They were going to burn her as a heretic,’ Thomas said. ‘They’d already built the fire. They had piles of straw for kindling and they’d stacked the faggots upright because they burn more slowly. That way the pain lasts longer.’
    ‘Jesus,’ Keane said.
    ‘Not pain,’ Thomas corrected himself, ‘but agony. Can you imagine Jesus burning someone alive?’ he asked. ‘Can you imagine him making a fire to burn slowly, then watching someone scream and writhe?’
    Keane was surprised by the pure anger in Thomas’s voice. ‘No,’ he said cautiously.
    ‘I’m a devil’s whelp,’ Thomas said bitterly, ‘a priest’s son. I know the church, but if Christ came back tomorrow he wouldn’t know what the hell the church was.’
    ‘We’re all evil bastards,’ Keane said uncomfortably.
    ‘And you’re not fast enough with a sword,’ Thomas said. ‘Another five years’ practice and you might be swift enough. Here, try this.’
    The weapons in the cell were all captured from enemies. There were swords, axes, crossbows, and spears. Many were useless, their blades just waiting to be melted down and recast, but there was plenty of good weaponry, and Thomas had chosen a poleaxe. ‘Christ, that’s wicked,’ Keane said, hefting the heavy axe.
    ‘The head’s weighted with lead,’ Thomas explained. ‘It doesn’t take a lot of skill, but it needs strength. Mind you, skill helps.’
    ‘To hack?’
    ‘Think of it as a quarterstaff with a blade. You can trip with it, thrust with it or hack with it.’ The poleaxe was short, just five feet long, with a thick wooden haft. The head, forged from steel, had an axe blade and opposite it a hooked spike, while both ends of the haft had short spikes. ‘A sword isn’t much good against an armoured man,’ Thomas said. ‘Mail will stop a cut, and even boiled leather will stop most sword slashes. A sword thrust might work against mail, but that,’ he touched the spike at the tip of the poleaxe, ‘works against all armour.’
    ‘Then why do men carry