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never enough taxes. Be stupid enough
to pay once and you can be sure we’ll be back to squeeze you again.’
    ‘And the count sent you on your own to do the squeezing?’
    ‘He’s not that foolish. I have seven men-at-arms here, but the town knows just why we came.’
    Thomas looked at the tavern. ‘And the town has been generous with wine?’ he guessed.
    ‘With wine and with whores,’ Baillaud said.
    ‘So,’ Thomas said, and let the word hang in the hot midday air.
    ‘So squeeze the bastards for me and you can take ten per cent back to Berat.’
    ‘The count would like that,’ Thomas said.
    ‘That butcher is the town treasurer,’ Baillaud said. ‘He has the tax list but claims to have lost it. You might start by helping him find it?’
    Thomas nodded. ‘Let me talk to my men,’ he said, and kicked his horse towards the tavern. Once out of Baillaud’s earshot he beckoned for Keane. ‘There are eight horses in the tavern stables,’ he said, ‘and we’re taking all of them. You and Brother Michael, get around the back and make sure they’re bridled. Karyl!’
    The German had finished buying supplies and was pushing food into saddlebags. ‘You want more?’ he called.
    Thomas beckoned him close. ‘There are seven men whoring in the tavern. We’ll take their mail and weapons.’
    ‘Kill them?’
    ‘Only if they cause trouble.’
    Karyl strode towards the tavern as Baillaud caught up with Thomas. ‘They’ll do it?’
    ‘Willingly,’ Thomas said.
    ‘I didn’t hear your name,’ Baillaud said.
    ‘Thomas,’ Thomas said, and reached down to shake Baillaud’s hand, then realised there was nothing to shake.
    ‘You sound Norman,’ Baillaud said.
    ‘That’s what folk tell me. Is that where the English are going? You said they were going north.’
    ‘Christ knows,’ Baillaud said. ‘They marched out of Gascony and the last I heard they were at Périgueux.’
    ‘They could be coming this way,’ Thomas said.
    ‘More plunder northwards,’ Baillaud said. ‘The English princeling stripped everything to the south last year.’ He scowled. ‘It’s a goddamned scandal,’ he said angrily.
    ‘Scandal?’
    ‘Edward of Wales! He’s a nothing! A spoiled, privileged puppy! Women and gambling are all he cares about, and he’s running riot around France because King Jean is scared of arrows. We should catch the bastard, take his hose down and spank him like a seven-year-old.’ Baillaud suddenly turned and stared at the inn. He could hear shouting. ‘What?’ he began, then stopped abruptly as a naked man was hurled backwards through an upstairs window. The man landed heavily on his back and lay there, stirring slightly. ‘That’s …’ Baillaud said.
    ‘One of your men,’ Thomas said. ‘They must have very tough whores in this town.’
    ‘God’s blood,’ Baillaud protested, and started towards the prostrate man, then stopped because a second naked man had come out of the tavern door. He was backing away frantically, pursued by two of Thomas’s men.
    ‘I surrender!’ the man shouted. ‘Enough! Enough!’
    ‘Let him be!’ Thomas said.
    ‘Bastard threw a full piss-pot at me,’ Arnaldus snarled.
    ‘It’ll dry,’ Thomas said.
    ‘It wasn’t filled with piss,’ the Gascon said, and kicked the naked man hard between the legs. ‘Now I’ll let him be.’
    ‘What are you …’ Baillaud began
    Thomas smiled down from the saddle. ‘Men call me
le Bâtard
,’ he said, ‘and we’re the Hellequin.’ He touched the hilt of the sword just to remind Baillaud that it existed. ‘We’re taking your horses and weapons,’ he went on, then turned his horse and kicked it towards the townsfolk who were still gathered around the church steps. ‘Pay your taxes!’ he shouted. ‘Make your lords rich, so that when we capture them they can afford to pay us a large ransom. You’ll be poor, but we shall be rich! You have our gratitude.’ They just gaped at him.
    Thomas now had more spare horses, more weapons, more mail. If there was any pursuit from Montpellier it was left far behind, but no such pursuit worried him. Genevieve worried him.
    So they rode on northwards.
     
    The arrow struck Philippe full in the chest. The crunching sound reminded Roland of a butcher’s axe driving into a carcass. Philippe was thrown back by the force of the blow. The arrow had pierced his mail coat, broken a rib, and punctured a lung. He tried to speak, but instead bubbled blood at his lips, then