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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 parchment.
    ‘I’m
le Bâtard
,’ Thomas said. He had been christened Thomas and for most of his life had called himself Thomas of Hookton, though he could call himself more if he wished, for the Earl of Northampton had knighted him seven years before and, though bastard born, Thomas had a claim to a county in eastern Gascony. But he preferred to be known as
le Bâtard
. It put the fear of the devil into enemies, and a frightened enemy was already half beaten. He took the missive from his wife, put a fingernail under the seal, then decided he would wait before reading the letter and so, instead, he tucked it under his sword belt and clapped his hands to get the attention of his men. ‘We’re riding west in a few minutes! Get ready!’ He turned and offered a bow to the abbot. ‘My thanks,’ he said courteously, ‘and the lawyers will doubtless come to talk with you.’
    ‘They shall receive heaven’s assistance,’ the abbot said eagerly.
    ‘And this,’ Thomas added more money, ‘is for my wounded men. You will tend them and, for those who die, bury them and have masses said.’
    ‘Of course, lord.’
    ‘And I shall return to see they were properly treated.’
    ‘I shall anticipate your return with joy, sire,’ the abbot lied.
    The Hellequin mounted and the bad coins were scooped into leather bags that were loaded onto packhorses as Thomas said his farewells to the men in the infirmary. Then, when the sun was still low in the east, they rode west. Brother Michael rode a borrowed horse alongside Sam who, despite his young face, was evidently one of the archers’ leaders. ‘Does
le Bâtard
often use lawyers?’ the monk asked.
    ‘He hates lawyers,’ Sam said. ‘If he had his way he’d bury every last bloody lawyer in the deepest pit of hell and let the devil shit on them,’
    ‘Yet he uses them?’
    ‘Uses them?’ Sam laughed. ‘He told that to the abbot, didn’t he?’ He jerked his head eastwards. ‘Back there, brother, there’s a half-dozen men following us. They ain’t very clever, ’cos we spotted them, and by now they’ll be talking to the abbot. Then they’ll go back to their master and say they saw us go west and that his fat lordship is to expect a visit from a man of law. Only he won’t get that. He’s going to get these instead.’ He patted the goose feathers of the arrows in his bag. Some of those feathers were speckled with dried blood from the fight at Villon.
    ‘You mean we’re going to fight him?’ Brother Michael said, and did not notice that he had used the word ‘we’, any more than he had thought about why he was still with the Hellequin instead of walking on