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the trees, and there Roland fell to his knees. ‘Dear God,’ he said aloud, ‘thank you.’ He was panting, shaking, and still held Hugh’s hand.
    ‘Sir?’ Hugh asked nervously.
    ‘You’re safe,’ Roland told him, and then someone came and scooped the boy up, carrying him away to leave Roland alone.
    ‘Sam!’ a harsh voice shouted. ‘Keep a dozen men on the tree line. Bows strung! The rest of you! Back to the farm. Brother Michael! Where are you? Come here!’
    Roland saw men crowding around Genevieve. He was still on his knees. The night was filled with excited English voices, and Roland had rarely felt so solitary. He glanced around to see that the long moonlit meadow between the wood and the castle was empty. If the Count of Labrouillade or Father Marchant were planning a pursuit it had not yet started. Roland thought how he had only been trying to be honourable, and yet it had turned his life upside down. Then Michel tapped his shoulder. ‘I lost your boots, sire.’ Roland did not answer, and Michel crouched. ‘Sire?’
    ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Roland said.
    ‘I lost the boots and the horses, sire.’
    ‘It doesn’t matter!’ Roland said more sharply than he had intended. What was he to do now? He had thought he was employed on two quests, one of them of high sanctity, yet they had led to this lonely despair. He closed his eyes in prayer, begging for guidance, then became aware that someone was breathing in his face. He shuddered, then felt a wet lick and opened his startled eyes to see a pair of wolfhounds standing over him.
    ‘They like you!’ a cheerful voice said, but as the man spoke in English Roland had no idea what was said. ‘Now come away, you two,’ the man went on, ‘not everyone wants to be christened by a pair of bloody hounds.’
    The dogs romped away and Thomas of Hookton took their place. ‘My lord?’ he said, though there was no respect in the voice. ‘Should I kill you or thank you?’
    Roland stared up at
le Bâtard
. The virgin knight was still shaking and did not know what to say, so he turned and stared at the castle again. ‘Will they attack?’ he asked.
    ‘Of course not,’ Thomas said.
    ‘Of course not?’
    ‘They were half asleep or half drunk. Maybe they’ll be ready for a sortie by dawn? Though I doubt it. That’s why my men have two rules, my lord.’
    ‘Rules?’
    ‘They can get drunk as much as they like, but only when I tell them. And no rape.’
    ‘No …’ Roland began.
    ‘Unless they want to be hanged off the nearest tree. I hear Labrouillade wanted to rape my wife?’ Thomas asked and Roland just nodded. ‘Then I owe you thanks, my lord,’ Thomas said, ‘because what you did was brave. So thank you.’
    ‘But your wife …’
    ‘She’ll live,’ Thomas said, ‘maybe with only one eye. Brother Michael will do what he can, though I doubt that he can do much. Only I’m not sure I should call him “brother” any more. I’m not certain what he is now. Come, my lord.’
    Roland allowed himself to be raised up and led through the trees towards the farm. ‘I didn’t know,’ he said, then faltered.
    ‘Didn’t know what a bastard Labrouillade is? I told you he was, but so what? We’re all bastards. I’m
le Bâtard
, remember?’
    ‘But you don’t let your men rape?’
    ‘For God’s sake,’ Thomas said, turning on him. ‘You think life is easy? It might be easy in a tournament, my lord. A tournament is artificial. You’re on one side or the other and no one thinks God takes sides in a tournament, and there are marshals to make sure you don’t get carried off dead, but there are no marshals here. It’s just war, war without end, and the best you can do is try not to be on the wrong side. But who in God’s name knows which side is right? It depends where you were born. I was born in England, but if I’d been born in France I’d be fighting for King Jean and reckoning God was on my side. In the meantime I try not to do evil. It might not be much of a rule, but it works, and when I do evil I say prayers and give alms to the church and pretend my conscience is clear.’
    ‘You do evil?’
    ‘It’s war,’ Thomas said. ‘Our job is to kill. The scriptures say
non occides
, but we do. A clever doctor at Oxford told me that the commandment means we shouldn’t commit murder, and that isn’t the same as thou shalt not kill, but when I lift some poor bastard’s visor and slide a sword into his eye socket that isn’t a