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great comfort to me.’
    ‘Then why do you do it?’
    Thomas gave him an almost hostile look. ‘Because I like it,’ he said, ‘because I’m good at it. Because in the dark of night I can sometimes persuade myself I’m fighting for all those poor folk who can’t fight for themselves.’
    ‘And are you?’
    Thomas did not answer, but instead called to a man standing beside the farm’s door. ‘Father Levonne!’
    ‘Thomas?’
    ‘This is the bastard who caused all the trouble. The Sire Roland de Verrec.’
    ‘My lord,’ the priest said, bowing to Roland.
    ‘I need to talk to Robbie, father,’ Thomas said, ‘and look after Genevieve. So maybe you can find Sire Roland some boots?’
    ‘Boots?’ the priest asked, astonished. ‘Here? How?’
    ‘You’re a priest. Pray, pray, pray.’
    Thomas unslung his bow, chiding himself for not having done it earlier. A bow that was left tensioned by the cord too long could become permanently bent; it would have followed the string, as the archers said, and such a bow had less power. He coiled the cord and pushed it into a pouch and went into the farmhouse, which was lit with feeble rush wicks. Robbie was sitting in the cattle’s byre, which was otherwise occupied by only a brindled cow with one horn. ‘He had this bird,’ Robbie said as soon as Thomas came through the heavy door, ‘a hawk. He called it a
calade
.’
    ‘I’ve heard the word,’ Thomas said.
    ‘I thought
calades
discovered sickness in a person! But he tried to blind her! I killed it. I should have killed him!’
    Thomas half smiled. ‘I remember,’ he said, ‘when Genevieve killed the priest who had tortured her. You disapproved of that. Now you’d kill a priest yourself?’
    Robbie lowered his head and stared at the rotted straw on the byre’s floor. He was silent for a while, then shrugged. ‘My uncle’s here, in France I mean. He’s not much older than me, but still my uncle. He killed my other uncle, the one I liked.’
    ‘And you don’t like this uncle?’
    Robbie shook his head. ‘He frightens me. The Lord of Douglas. I suppose he’s my clan chief now.’
    ‘And demands what of you?’
    ‘That I fight against the English.’
    ‘Which you vowed not to do,’ Thomas said.
    Robbie nodded, then shrugged. ‘And Cardinal Bessières released me from that vow.’
    ‘Cardinal Bessières is a slimy turd,’ Thomas said.
    ‘Aye, I know.’
    ‘Why is your uncle here?’
    ‘To fight the English, of course.’
    ‘And expects you to fight alongside him?’
    ‘He wants that, but I said I couldn’t break the oath. So he sent me to Bessières instead.’ He looked up at Thomas. ‘The Order of the Fisherman.’
    ‘What in God’s name is that?’
    ‘Eleven knights, well, there were eleven before tonight, sworn to discover …’ He stopped suddenly.
    ‘
La Malice
,’ Thomas said.
    ‘You know,’ Robbie said flatly, ‘the cardinal said you knew. He hates you.’
    ‘I dislike him too,’ Thomas said mildly.
    ‘It’s a sword,’ Robbie said, ‘supposedly a magic sword.’
    ‘I don’t believe in magic.’
    ‘But other folk do,’ Robbie said, ‘and if he gets the sword he’ll have power, won’t he?’
    ‘Power to become Pope,’ Thomas said.
    ‘I suppose that’s not really a good thing?’ Robbie suggested.
    ‘You’d make a better Pope. Hell, I would. That cow would.’
    Robbie half smiled, but said nothing.
    ‘So what do you do now?’ Thomas asked, and again Robbie said nothing. ‘You saved Genevieve,’ Thomas said, ‘so I release you from your oath. You’re free, Robbie.’
    ‘Free?’ Robbie grimaced and looked up at Thomas. ‘Free?’
    ‘I release you. All your oaths to me, they’re gone. You’re free to fight the English, do what you will.
Te absolvo
.’
    Robbie smiled at the priestly Latin. ‘You absolve me,’ he said tiredly, ‘to be free and poor.’
    ‘You’re still gambling?’
    Robbie nodded. ‘And losing.’
    ‘Well, you’re free. And thank you.’
    ‘Thank you?’
    ‘For what you did tonight. Now I need to see Genny.’
    Robbie watched Thomas walk to the door. ‘So what do I do?’ he blurted out.
    ‘It’s your choice, Robbie. You’re free. No oaths any more.’ Thomas paused at the door, saw that Robbie was not going to answer and so walked out. The cow lifted her tail and filled the byre with stench.
    Sculley pushed the door wide. ‘They’re bloody English,’ he protested.
    ‘Yes.
    ‘Still, that was a good fight,’