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you because the English are marching?’
    ‘He’s been summoned to Bourges, and he wants to take at least sixty men to war. He needs the men who went with you.’ Philippe watched as a servant struck steel and flint to light a twist of straw. ‘Did you find
le Bâtard
?’
    ‘He’s in Montpellier, a prisoner, I hope.’ Roland was still feeling weak, astonished by the fear that had driven him to his knees. ‘He’s in Montpellier,’ he said again, ‘but I have his wife.’
    ‘The boys will enjoy that,’ Philippe said.
    ‘She is under my protection,’ Roland said stiffly. ‘I propose exchanging her for the countess.’
    ‘The boys will enjoy that even more,’ Philippe said.
    ‘Because justice will have been served.’
    ‘Damn justice, they’ll enjoy watching the bitch being punished. Oh, and some fellows have come to Labrouillade. They want you.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘A churchman,’ Philippe said vaguely.
    ‘How did you know where to find me?’ Roland asked, still surprised at the relief he was feeling.
    ‘We weren’t looking for you,’ Philippe said curtly. ‘It’s Jacques and his men we want, but we knew you’d gone to Montpellier. We have a man in Castillon d’Arbizon. He owns a tavern, listens to the talk, and sends us messages. He told us
le Bâtard
had gone to Montpellier, which means you’d have followed him. Your churchman wants him as well.’
    ‘My churchman?’
    ‘The one who’s looking for you. Bastard might even be following us. Very eager he is.’ Philippe stopped abruptly, watching Genevieve as she came down the steps into the light of the small fire, which was now blazing with straw and rotted wood. ‘Oh, that’s nice,’ he said.
    ‘I told you,’ Roland said, ‘she is under my protection.’
    ‘Won’t count for much if her husband doesn’t give us the countess, will it? And he’s in Montpellier, you say. Anyway, the count wants his men-at-arms back. The English bastards are burning, plundering, raping, killing. We’ve got a proper war to fight.’
    ‘There’ll be a battle?’ Roland asked, suddenly aware of taking part in a fight where there were no rules.
    ‘God knows,’ Philippe said. ‘Some say the king’s bringing an army south, some say he’s not, and the truth is no one knows. We’re all ordered to Bourges, and they want us there as fast as possible.’
    ‘I won a tournament at Bourges,’ Roland said.
    ‘You’ll find war a bit different,’ Philippe said. ‘No marshals to stop the killing, for a start. Though God knows if it will come to a fight. For now our job is just to keep an eye on the bastards.’
    ‘And mine is to return the countess to her husband,’ Roland said firmly.
    ‘He’ll be glad of that,’ Philippe said, then grinned, ‘as will the rest of us.’ He clapped his hands to draw the men’s attention. ‘We’re leaving at dawn! Get some rest! Horses stay here; if you want to kick some bastards out of bed in the village, do it. Jean, other Jean, François, you’re on guard duty.’
    ‘My prisoner will sleep in the tower,’ Roland said, ‘and I shall guard her.’
    ‘Good, good,’ Philippe said absently.
    Roland hardly slept that night. He sat on the church tower’s stone stairs and thought how the world was crumbling. To Roland’s mind there was a proper order of things. A king ruled, advised by his nobles and by the wise men of the church, and together they made justice and prosperity. The people should be grateful for that governance and show their gratitude in deference. There were enemies, of course, but a wise king dealt with those enemies with courtesy, and God would decide the outcome of any disagreement by the workings of destiny. That was the proper order, but instead the world was infested with men like Jacques and Philippe, hard men, men who showed no respect, men who robbed and cheated and were proud of it. If the English were marching then that was regrettable and plainly against the will of God, but the King of France, with his bishops and lords, would bring the banner of Saint Denis to destroy them. That was a holy duty, a lamentable duty, but to Roland’s disgust, Philippe positively relished the thought of warfare. ‘It’s a chance to make money,’ he had told Roland over the sparse evening meal. ‘Take a rich prisoner? That’s the best thing.’
    ‘Or get into the enemy’s baggage train,’ Jacques had said wolfishly.
    ‘There’s usually nothing but wounded men and servants with the