1356

against the battlements. ‘Gunpowder,’ Sam explained laconically.
    ‘Gunpowder?’
    ‘He’s a clever bastard, our bastard,’ Sam said. ‘Knocks down gates fast, don’t it? Mind you, it’s expensive. The wifeless pig had to pay double if he wanted us to use powder. He must want the bitch bad to pay that much! I hope she’s bloody worth it.’
    Brother Michael saw small flames flickering in the archway’s thick smoke. He understood now why the town’s entrance looked as though it had been torn, blackened and wrenched apart by the devil’s fist.
Le Bâtard
had forced his way into the town with gunpowder, and he had repeated the trick to blow down the castle’s great wooden gates. Now he led his twenty men-at-arms towards the wreckage.
    ‘Archers!’ another man called, and the bowmen, including Sam, followed the men-at-arms towards the gate. They advanced in silence, and that too was terrifying. These men in their black and white livery, Brother Michael thought, had learned to live calmly and fight ruthlessly in the dark valley of death. None of them appeared to be drunk. They were disciplined, efficient and frightening.
    Le Bâtard
vanished in the smoke. There were shouts from the castle, but the monk could not see what was happening there, though it was plain the attackers were inside, for the archers were now streaming through the smoking gate-arch. More men were following, men wearing the badges of the bishop and the count, going to seek more plunder in the doomed fortress.
    ‘It could be dangerous,’ Sam warned the young monk.
    ‘God is with us,’ Brother Michael said, and wondered at the fierce excitement he felt, so fierce that he hefted the pilgrim’s staff as though it were a weapon.
    The castle had looked big from the alleyway, but as he jostled through the scorched gate Brother Michael saw it was much smaller than it had appeared. It had no bailey and no great keep, but merely the gatehouse and one tall tower, which were separated by a small courtyard where a dozen crossbowmen in the red and gold livery lay dying. One man had been eviscerated by the explosion at the gate and, though his intestines had spilt across the yard’s stones, he still lived and moaned. The monk paused to offer the man some help, then sprang back as Sam, with an ease that was as casual as it seemed heartless, cut his throat. ‘You killed him!’ Brother Michael said in horror.
    ‘Of course I bloody killed him,’ Sam said cheerfully. ‘What did you expect me to do? Kiss him? I hope someone does the same for me if I’m in that state.’ He wiped the blood from his short knife. A defender screamed as he fell from the gatehouse parapet, while another man staggered down the tower steps to collapse at the foot.
    There was a door at the top of the steps, but it had not been defended, or else the defenders’ courage had evaporated when the main gate exploded inwards, and so
le Bâtard
’s men were streaming into the tower. Brother Michael followed, then turned as a trumpet sounded. A cavalcade of horsemen, all in green and white, were forcing their way through the castle gate where they used swords to drive their own men from their path. At the centre of the horsemen, where he was protected by their weapons, was a monstrously fat man clad in mail and plate and mounted on a huge horse. The cavalcade stopped at the foot of the steps and it took four men to ease the fat one out of his saddle and steady him on his feet. ‘His piggy lordship,’ Sam said sardonically.
    ‘The Count of Labrouillade?’
    ‘One of our employers,’ Sam said, ‘and here’s the other one.’ The bishop and his men had followed the count through the gate, and Sam and Michael went onto their knees as the two leaders mounted the steps and went into the tower.
    Sam and Brother Michael followed the bishop’s men into the entrance chamber, up a flight of shallow stairs and into a great hall that was a high, pillared space lit by a dozen smoking torches and hung with tapestries showing the golden merlin on its red background. There were at least sixty men already in the hall and they now shuffled to the edges, allowing the Count of Labrouillade and the Bishop of Lavence to walk slowly towards the dais where two of
le Bâtard
’s men were holding the defeated lord on his knees. Behind them, tall and black in his armour, was
le Bâtard
himself, his face expressionless, while beside him, unrestrained, was a young woman in a red dress.