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Not as delicate as the ortolan, he thought, and so he let the woodcock fall and thrust a tenth ortolan into his mouth.
    He was still sucking on the little carcass as Genevieve and her son were brought into the small hall where he had chosen to eat. The great hall was filled with his men-at-arms, who were drinking his wine and eating his food, though he had made sure they were not served venison, ortolans or woodcock. The count crunched the bones of the songbird, swallowed, and pointed to a space close enough to the table for the big candles to illuminate Genevieve. ‘Put her there,’ he said, ‘and why did you bring the boy?’
    ‘She insisted, my lord,’ one of the men-at-arms said.
    ‘Insisted? It’s not her place to insist. Skinny bitch, isn’t she? Turn around, woman.’ Genevieve stayed still. ‘I said turn around, all the way around, slowly,’ the count said. ‘If she doesn’t obey, Luc, you can hit her.’
    Luc, the man-at-arms who had held Genevieve’s arm to bring her into the hall, drew back his hand, but had no need to strike. Genevieve turned around, then looked defiantly into the count’s eyes. He dabbed at his mouth and chins with a napkin, then drank wine. ‘Strip her,’ he said.
    ‘No,’ Genevieve protested.
    ‘I said strip her,’ the count said, looking at Luc.
    Before Luc could obey, the door of the chamber opened and Jacques, now the count’s senior captain, stood there. ‘They’ve sent two messengers, my lord,’ he said, ‘offering to exchange the woman for the countess.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘They have the countess here, my lord,’ Jacques said.
    ‘Here?’
    ‘So he says.’
    The count stood and limped around the table. The arrow wound in his leg throbbed, though it was healing well enough. It still hurt to put his considerable weight on that leg, and he flinched as he stepped off the dais to confront Genevieve. ‘Your husband, madame,’ he growled, ‘defied me.’ He waited for her to respond, but she stayed silent. ‘Tell their messengers to come back in the morning,’ the count ordered, not taking his eyes off Genevieve, ‘we’ll exchange her at dawn.’
    ‘Yes, my lord.’
    ‘But I have another use for the bitch first,’ he said, and with those words a terrible anger overwhelmed the count. He had been humiliated, first by his wife and then by
le Bâtard
. He suspected his own men mocked him behind his back, which is why he preferred to eat in a separate hall. Indeed, he knew that all France laughed at him. He had been insulted, he had been crowned with the cuckold’s horns, and he was a proud man, and the wound to his honour went deep so that the rage was suddenly red in him, and he roared in what sounded like pain as he reached out, took hold of Genevieve’s linen dress and ripped it open.
    Genevieve screamed.
    The scream only enraged the count further. All the hurt of the last weeks was seething in him, and all he could think of was to wreak revenge on the men who had belittled him, and how better than to take the horns from his own head and put them on
le Bâtard
? He tore the dress down as Genevieve screamed a second time and staggered backwards. Her son was crying and the count cuffed him hard around the head, then tugged at Genevieve’s dress again. She clutched the torn linen to her throat. ‘You foul bitch!’ the count shouted. ‘Show me your tits, you skinny bitch!’ He struck her a stinging blow, and just then half a dozen men came through the chamber door.
    ‘Stop!’ It was Roland de Verrec who shouted. ‘Stop!’ he called again. ‘She is my hostage.’
    Still more men came through the door. Robbie Douglas was there, gaping at Genevieve, who was now crouching on the flagstones and trying to pull the ripped fragments of her dress up to her neck. Sculley was grinning. The count’s men-at-arms were looking from the furious Labrouillade to the calm Roland, while Father Marchant took stock and stepped between them. ‘The girl,’ he told the count, ‘is the captive of the Order, my lord.’
    That statement puzzled Roland who thought she was his hostage, but he took the words as a statement of support and so made no protest.
    The count was breathing heavily. He was a cornered boar. For a heartbeat it seemed that prudence might govern his rage, but then, like a wave breaking inside him, the rage overwhelmed him again. ‘Get out,’ he snarled at the newcomers.
    ‘My lord …’ Father Marchant started emolliently.
    ‘Get out!’ the count