Part 11 (1/2)

The two men stopped by the hedge, and Skeat cupped his hands and shouted towards the woods, 'Come on out, you daft b.a.s.t.a.r.d!' Thomas emerged very sheepishly, to be greeted with an ironic cheer from the archers. Skeat regarded him sourly. 'G.o.d's bones, Tom,' he said, 'but the devil did a bad thing when he humped your mother.'

Father Hobbe tutted at Will's blasphemy, then raised a hand in blessing. 'You missed a fine sight, Tom,' he said cheerfully: 'Sir Simon coming home to La Roche, half naked and bleeding like a stuck pig. I'll hear your confession before we go.'

'Don't grin, you stupid b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' Skeat snapped. 'Sweet Christ, Tom, but if you do a job, do it proper. Do it proper! Why did you leave the b.a.s.t.a.r.d alive?'

'I missed.'

'Then you go and kill some poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d squire instead. Sweet Christ, but you're a G.o.dd.a.m.n b.l.o.o.d.y fool.'

'I suppose they want to hang me?' Thomas asked.

'Oh no,' Skeat said in feigned surprise, 'of course not! They want to feast you, hang garlands round your neck and give you a dozen virgins to warm your bed. What the h.e.l.l do you think they want to do with you? Of course they want you dead and I swore on my mother's life I'd bring you back if I found you alive. Does he look alive to you, father?'

Father Hobbe examined Thomas. 'He looks very dead to me, Master Skeat.'

'He b.l.o.o.d.y deserves to be dead, the daft b.a.s.t.a.r.d.'

'Did the Countess get safe home?' Thomas asked.

'She got home, if that's what you mean,' Skeat said, 'but what do you think Sir Simon wanted the moment he'd covered up his shrivelled p.r.i.c.k? To have her house searched, Tom, for some armour and a sword that were legitimately his. He's not such a daft fool; he knows you and she were together.' Thomas cursed and Skeat repeated the blasphemy. 'So they pressed her two servants and they admitted the Countess planned everything.'

'They did what?' Thomas asked.

'They pressed them,' Skeat repeated, which meant that the old couple had been put flat on the ground and had stones piled on their chests. 'The old girl squealed everything at the first stone, so they were hardly hurt,' Skeat went on, 'and now Sir Simon wants to charge her ladys.h.i.+p with murder. And naturally he had her house searched for the sword and armour, but they found nowt because I had them and her hidden well away, but she's still as deep in the s.h.i.+t as you are. You can't just go about sticking crossbow bolts into knights and slaughtering squires, Tom! It upsets the order of things!'

'I'm sorry, Will,' Thomas said.

'So the long and the brief of it,' Skeat said, 'is that the Countess is seeking the protection of her husband's uncle.' He jerked a thumb at the cart. 'She's in that, together with her bairn, two bruised servants, a suit of armour and a sword.'

'Sweet Jesus,' Thomas said, staring at the cart.

'You put her there,' Skeat growled, 'not Him. And I had the devil's own business keeping her hid from Sir Simon. d.i.c.k Totesham suspects I'm up to no good and he don't approve, though he took my word in the end, but I still had to promise to drag you back by the scruff of your miserable neck. But I haven't seen you, Tom.'

'I'm sorry, Will,' Thomas said again.

'You b.l.o.o.d.y well should be sorry,' Skeat said, though he was exuding a quiet satisfaction that he had managed to clean up Thomas's mess so efficiently. Jake and Sam had not been seen by Sir Simon or his surviving man-at-arms, so they were safe, Thomas was a fugitive and Jeanette had been safely smuggled out of La Roche-Derrien before Sir Simon could make her life into utter misery. 'She's travelling to Guingamp,' Skeat went on, 'and I'm sending a dozen men to escort her and G.o.d only knows if the enemy will respect their flag of truce. If I had a lick of b.l.o.o.d.y sense I'd skin you alive and make a bow-cover out of your hide.'

'Yes, Will,' Thomas said meekly.

'Don't b.l.o.o.d.y ”yes, Will” me,' Skeat said. 'What are you going to do with the few days you've got left to live?'

'I don't know.'

Skeat sniffed. 'You could grow up, for a start, though there's probably scant chance of that happening. Right, lad.' He braced himself, taking charge. 'I took your money from the chest, so here it is.' He handed Thomas a leather pouch. 'And I've put three sheaves of arrows in the lady's cart and that'll keep you for a few days. If you've got any sense, which you ain't, then you'd go south or north. You could go to Gascony, but it's a h.e.l.l of a long walk. Flanders is closer and has plenty of English troops who'll probably take you in if they're desperate. That's my advice, lad. Go north and hope Sir Simon never goes to Flanders.'

'Thank you,' Thomas said.

'But how do you get to Flanders?' Skeat asked.

'Walk?' Thomas suggested.

'G.o.d's bones,' Will said, 'but you're a useless worm-eaten piece of lousy meat. Walk dressed like that and carrying a bow, and you might just as well just cut your own throat. It'll be quicker than letting the French do it.'

'You might find this useful,' Father Hobbe intervened, and offered Thomas a black cloth bundle which, on unrolling, proved to be the robe of a Dominican friar. 'You speak Latin, Tom,' the priest said, 'so you could pa.s.s for a wandering preacher. If anyone challenges you, say you're travelling from Avignon to Aachen.'

Thomas thanked him. 'Do many Dominicans travel with a bow?' he asked.

'Lad,' Father Hobbe said sadly, 'I can unb.u.t.ton your breeches and I can point you down wind, but even with the Good Lord's help I can't p.i.s.s for you.'

'In other words,' Skeat said, 'work it out for yourself. You got yourself in this b.l.o.o.d.y mess, Tom, so you get yourself out. I enjoyed your company, lad. Thought you'd be useless when I first saw you and you weren't, but you are now. But be lucky, boy.' He held out his hand and Thomas shook it. 'You might as well go to Guingamp with the Countess,' Skeat finished, 'and then find your own way, but Father Hobbe wants to save your soul first. G.o.d knows why.'

Father Hobbe dismounted and led Thomas into the roofless church where gra.s.s and weeds now grew between the flagstones. He insisted on hearing a confession and Thomas was feeling abject enough to sound contrite.

Father Hobbe sighed when it was done. 'You killed a man, Tom,' he said heavily, 'and it is a great sin.'

'Father-' Thomas began.

'No, no, Tom, no excuses. The Church says that to kill in battle is a duty a man owes to his lord, but you killed outside the law. That poor squire, what offence did he give you? And he had a mother, Tom; think of her. No, you've sinned grievously and I must give you a grievous penance.'

Thomas, on his knees, looked up to see a buzzard sliding between the thinning clouds above the church's scorched walls. Then Father Hobbe stepped closer, looming above him. 'I'll not have you muttering paternosters, Tom,' the priest said, 'but something hard. Something very hard.' He put his hand on Thomas's hair. 'Your penance is to keep the promise you made to your father.' He paused to hear Thomas's response, but the young man was silent. 'You hear me?' Father Hobbe demanded fiercely.

'Yes, father.'

'You will find the lance of St George, Thomas, and return it to England. That is your penance. And now,' he changed into execrable Latin, 'in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, I absolve you.' He made the sign of the cross. 'Don't waste your life, Tom.'

'I think I already have, father.'

'You're just young. It seems like that when you're young. Life's nothing but joy or misery when you're young.' He helped Thomas up from his knees. 'You're not hanging from a gibbet, are you? You're alive, Tom, and there's a deal of life in you yet.' He smiled. 'I have a feeling we shall meet again.'

Thomas made his farewells, then watched as Will Skeat collected Sir Simon Jekyll's horse and led the h.e.l.lequin eastwards, leaving the wagon and its small escort in the ruined village.

The leader of the escort was called Hugh Boltby, one of Skeat's better men-at-arms, and he reckoned they would likely meet the enemy the next day somewhere close to Guingamp. He would hand the Countess over, then ride back to join Skeat. 'And you'd best not be dressed as an archer, Tom,' he added.

Thomas walked beside the wagon that was driven by Pierre, the old man who had been pressed by Sir Simon. Jeanette did not invite Thomas inside, indeed she pretended he did not exist* though next morning, after they had camped in an abandoned farm, she laughed at the sight of him dressed in the friar's robe.

'I'm sorry about what happened,' Thomas said to her.

Jeanette shrugged. 'It may be for the best. I probably should have gone to Duke Charles last winter.'

'Why didn't you, my lady?'

'He hasn't always been kind to me,' she said wistfully, 'but I think that might have changed by now.' She had persuaded herself that the Duke's att.i.tude might have altered because of the letters she had sent to him, letters that would help him when he led his troops against the garrison at La Roche-Derrien. She also needed to believe the Duke would welcome her, for she desperately needed a safe home for her son, Charles, who was enjoying the adventure of riding in a swaying, creaking wagon. Together they would both start a new life in Guingamp and Jeanette had woken with optimism about that new life. She had been forced to leave La Roche-Derrien in a frantic hurry, putting into the cart just the retrieved armour, the sword and some clothes, though she had some money that Thomas suspected Will had given to her, but her real hopes were pinned on Duke Charles who, she told Thomas, would surely find her a house and lend her money in advance of the missing rents from Plabennec. 'He is sure to like Charles, don't you think?' she asked Thomas.

'I'm sure,' Thomas said, glancing at Jeanette's son, who was shaking the wagon's reins and clicking his tongue in a vain effort to make the horse go quicker.

'But what will you do?' Jeanette asked.

'I'll survive,' Thomas said, unwilling to admit that he did not know what he would do. Go to Flanders, probably, if he could ever reach there. Join another troop of archers and pray nightly that Sir Simon Jekyll never came his way again. As for his penance, the lance, he had no idea how he was to find it or, having found it, retrieve it.