1356

when do I deliver this message?’ Keane asked.
    ‘Now,’ Thomas said. ‘There’s enough moonlight for them to see you’re not armed.’
    ‘Enough to aim a crossbow too.’
    ‘That too,’ Thomas agreed.
    He found the countess in the farm’s enormous kitchen, a room crossed by heavy beams from which hung drying herbs. Father Levonne, the priest from Castillon d’Arbizon, was there, and Pitt was guarding her. Pitt, he owned to no other name, was a tall, lean and taciturn man with a gaunt face, lank hair tied with a frayed bowstring, and deep-set eyes. He was English, from Cheshire, but he had joined the Hellequin in Gascony, riding out of a forest as though he belonged to them and then just falling into line and saying nothing. He was black-humoured, morose, and Thomas suspected he had deserted from some other company, but he was also a superb archer and knew how to lead men in battle. ‘Glad you’re back,’ he growled when he saw Thomas.
    ‘Thomas,’ Father Levonne said in relief, and stood up from the chair beside Bertille.
    Thomas waved the priest down. Bertille sat at the big table where two candles burned smokily. A maid, provided by Genevieve from among the girls at Castillon d’Arbizon, knelt beside her. The countess’s eyes were red from crying. She looked up at Thomas. ‘You’re going to give me back, aren’t you?’
    ‘Yes, my lady.’
    ‘Thomas …’ Father Levonne started.
    ‘Yes,’ Thomas said harshly, cutting off whatever protest the priest was about to make.
    Bertille lowered her head and began crying again. ‘Do you know what he’ll do to me?’
    ‘He has my wife and son,’ Thomas said.
    She sobbed quietly.
    ‘Jesus,’ Keane hissed beside Thomas.
    Thomas ignored the Irishman. ‘I’m sorry, my lady,’ he said.
    ‘When?’ she asked.
    ‘Tonight, I hope.’
    ‘I’d rather be dead,’ she said.
    ‘Thomas,’ Father Levonne said, ‘let me go and talk to the count.’
    ‘What the hell good do you think that will do?’ Thomas asked more curtly than he had intended.
    ‘Just let me talk to him.’
    Thomas shook his head. ‘The Count of Labrouillade,’ he said, ‘is an evil bastard, a fat malevolent angry bastard, and by this time of night he’ll probably be half drunk, and if I let you go into his castle you probably won’t come out.’
    ‘Then I stay there. I’m a priest. I go where I’m needed.’ Father Levonne paused. ‘Let me talk to him.’
    Thomas thought for a moment. ‘From outside the castle, maybe.’
    Levonne hesitated, then nodded. ‘That will do.’
    Thomas plucked Keane’s elbow and took him into the farm’s yard. ‘Don’t let Father Levonne go into the castle. They’ll likely make him another hostage.’
    The Irishman, for once, seemed lost for words, but finally found his tongue. ‘God’s blood,’ he said wistfully, ‘but she’s a beautiful creature.’
    ‘She belongs to Labrouillade,’ Thomas said harshly.
    ‘She could dim the stars,’ Keane said, ‘and turn a man’s mind to smoke.’
    ‘She’s married.’
    ‘A creature so lovely,’ Keane said wonderingly, ‘it just makes you believe that God must really love us.’
    ‘Now find a fresh horse,’ Thomas said, ‘and you and Father Levonne take that message to Labrouillade.’ He turned to the priest who had followed them into the moonlight. ‘You can say your words, father, but unless you can persuade the count to let Genevieve go, then I’m exchanging the countess.’
    ‘Yes,’ Father Levonne said unenthusiastically.
    ‘I want this finished,’ Thomas said harshly, ‘because tomorrow we’re riding north.’
    Riding north. To join a prince, or to find
la Malice
.
     
    Roland de Verrec felt his soul soar like a bird in a clear sky, a bird that could pierce the clouds of doubt and rise to the heights of glory, a bird with wings of faith, a white bird, white as the swans that swam in the moat of the Count of Labrouillade’s castle, where now he knelt in the candle-lit chapel. He was conscious of his heart beating, not just beating, but drumming hollowly in his chest as if it kept time with the beating wings of his rising soul. Roland de Verrec was in ecstasy.
    That evening he had learned about the Order of the Fisherman. He had listened to Father Marchant tell him of the Order’s purpose and of the quest to retrieve
la Malice
. ‘But I know about
la Malice
,’ Roland had said.
    Father Marchant had been taken aback, but recovered. ‘You know?’ he had asked.