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towards Montpellier.
    ‘Of course we’re bloody going to fight him,’ Sam said scornfully. ‘The bloody count cheated us, didn’t he? So we’ll cut south and east as soon as those dozy bastards have finished chatting with the abbot. ’Cos they won’t follow us to make sure we’ve gone west. They’re the sort of dozy bastards who don’t think beyond their next pot of ale, but Thomas does, Thomas is a two-pot thinker, he is.’
    Thomas heard the compliment and twisted in his saddle. ‘Only two pots, Sam?’
    ‘As many pots as you like,’ Sam said.
    ‘It all depends,’ Thomas let Brother Michael catch up with him, ‘on whether the Count of Labrouillade stays in that castle we gave him. I suspect he won’t. He doesn’t feel safe there, and he’s a man who likes his comfort, so I reckon he’ll head south.’
    ‘And you’ll ride to meet him?’
    ‘Ride to ambush him,’ Thomas said. He glanced back at the sun to judge the time. ‘With God’s help, brother, we’ll bar his road this afternoon.’ He took the parchment from under his belt. ‘You didn’t read this?’
    ‘No!’ Brother Michael insisted, and spoke truly. He watched as
le Bâtard
cracked the seal apart and unfolded the stiff parchment, then he gazed at Genevieve who rode a grey horse on
le Bâtard
’s far side. Thomas saw the monk’s yearning gaze and was amused. ‘Didn’t you see last night, brother, what happens to a man who takes another man’s wife?’
    Michael blushed. ‘I …’ he began, but found he had nothing to say.
    ‘And besides,’ Thomas went on, ‘my wife is a heretic. She was excommunicated from the church and consigned to hell. As was I. Doesn’t that worry you?’
    Brother Michael still had nothing to say.
    ‘And why are you still here?’ Thomas asked.
    ‘Here?’ The young monk was confused.
    ‘Aren’t you under orders?’
    ‘I am supposed to go to Montpellier,’ Brother Michael confessed.
    ‘It’s that way, brother,’ Thomas said, pointing south.
    ‘We’re going south,’ Genevieve said drily, ‘and I think Brother Michael would like our company.’
    ‘You would?’ Thomas asked.
    ‘I would be glad of it,’ Brother Michael said, and wondered why he had spoken so eagerly.
    ‘Then welcome,’ Thomas said, ‘to the devil’s lost souls.’
    Who now turned south and east to teach a fat and greedy count a lesson.
     
    The Count of Labrouillade made slow progress. The horses were tired, the day grew warmer, most of his men were suffering from the wine they had drunk in the captured city, and the carts lumbered awkwardly on the rough road. Yet it did not matter, for shortly after midday the men he had sent to spy on
le Bâtard
returned with the news Labrouillade wanted.
    The Englishman had ridden west. ‘You’re sure?’ the count snapped.
    ‘We watched him, my lord.’
    ‘You watched him do what?’ the count asked suspiciously.
    ‘He counted the money, lord, his men stripped off their armour, then they rode westwards. All of them. And he told the abbot he would send lawyers to demand payment.’
    ‘Lawyers!’ The count laughed.
    ‘The abbot said so, and he promised your lordship that he would speak for you in any proceedings.’
    ‘Lawyers!’ The count laughed again. ‘Then the quarrel won’t be settled in our lifetime!’ He was safe now and the slowness of his journey did not matter. He stopped in a miserable village and demanded wine, bread and cheese, none of which he paid for, but the peasants’ reward was to be in his presence and that, he sincerely believed, was recompense enough. After the meal he rattled the gelding knife on the bars of his wife’s cage. ‘You want it as a keepsake, Bertille?’ he asked.
    Bertille said nothing. Her throat was raw from sobbing; her eyes were red and fixed on the rusted blade.
    ‘I shall shave your hair off, madame,’ the count promised her, ‘and make you go on your knees to the altar to beg for forgiveness. And God may forgive you, madame, but I shall not, and you’ll go to a convent when I’ve done with you. You will scrub their floors, madame, and wash their habits until your sins have been cleansed, and then you can live in regret for the rest of your miserable days.’
    She still said nothing, and the count, bored that he could not provoke her to protest, called for his men to heave him into the saddle. He had discarded his armour now and was wearing a light surcoat blazoned with his badge, while his men’s armour was