The poisoned chalice

pushed her aside, stared out then stepped back, his face pale. Benjamin eased by him and I reluctantly followed. The path down to the lych gate was packed with armed men, soldiers in conical steel helmets and tough, leather jerkins. Some wore breastplates, greaves and other pieces of armour, all carried swords and daggers, with shields slung round their necks. They also carried arbalests, huge wicked-looking cross bows, the type used by Genoese; at our appearance they fanned out into a semicircle. Beyond the lych gate I could see their horses milling about, raising small clouds of yellow dust. 'What is the matter?' Benjamin demanded.
    'A Goddamn!' one of them replied in a thick, Scottish accent. I peered closer and my stomach curdled. These did not look French and, despite the royal livery of France some of them sported, they were not regular troops. Most were red-haired with thick beards and moustaches. They had the cruel faces of born killers. I stared around. Some carried standards, chevrons, gules and badges. I glimpsed one displaying the Red Lion rampart of Scotland as well as the fleur de lys of France. 'Le Garde Ecossais!’ Benjamin voiced my thoughts.
    I took a step back. These soldiers were the most cruel and professional in the French army, Scottish exiles who served the French crown because of their hatred for England.
    (Did you know that whenever the English went to war with France, our soldiers immediately hanged any of these Scottish mercenaries they captured? Indeed, Henry V used to burn them alive. And if any of them captured an Englishman, God help him! I have heard stories of such men taking days to die. These mercenaries were particularly concerned about the skill and accuracy of English archers. The first thing they'd do if they captured one would be to hack off the two forefingers of each hand, the very ones our archers used to pull a long bow. Consequently, our lads, whenever they wished to express their contempt for the French, would show them two fingers. I thought you might find this little aside interesting. My chaplain does. It's a gesture I often use with him when I'm too drunk to argue.)
    On that sun-drenched day at Maubisson I kept my fingers well hidden, smiled politely and quietly prayed that these wolves in human flesh were seeking other quarry apart from us. Suddenly the groups divided and a most extraordinary sight sauntered down the path. He was their leader, a soldier, but dressed like a popinjay in multi-coloured hose, a billowing tabard of blue and silver jagged at the edge, a lace-ruffed collar, lambskin gloves and high-heeled Spanish riding boots festooned with bells which tinkled at every step he took. He wore a sort of bonnet on his jet black hair, apparently dyed, and four great eagle feathers were clasped to this. A jewelled necklace round his throat glittered in the sun as did the pearl earrings which hung from fleshy lobes on chains of pure silver. His face was equally extraordinary, pale and soft, smooth like a young girl's, with pursed, prim lips and above them a slightly crooked nose. The eyes were deep-set and shadowed. Is this a woman? I thought, catching a strong whiff of perfume. You see, the fellow didn't walk, he had this strange mincing walk, hips slightly swaying. He was unarmed except for a dagger with a mother-of-pearl handle pushed through an ornately embroidered belt. I stared at that face and something stirred in my memory. Had I seen him before? Yet, surely I would remember such an apparition?
    The fellow stopped, one leg pushed slightly forward in a pose which, in other circumstances, I would have found laughable. He peeled one glove off and beckoned like a woman. Ricard stumbled forward.
    'Not you!' The voice was soft, well modulated, the command of English perfect.
    I had heard that voice before in an alleyway in London. The apparition waved soft, white fingers.
    'Go away, you dirty little priest, and close the door behind you!'
    Ricard vanished and I wished I could follow him. The apparition smiled lazily at us and beckoned once again.
    'Stay where you are!' Benjamin hissed, grabbing my arm.
    He didn't have to tell me a second time. I was rooted in terror to the spot. I don't like soldiers and I particularly hate those who dress like women and smile a lot. Again the apparition smiled. 'Preparez-vous!’
    The command was tossed languidly over his shoulder and immediately loaded crossbows were brought up and aimed at our chests.
    'On second thoughts,'