Harlequin. Bernard Cornwell
coins. He pushed a third of the pile towards Thomas. ‘You want his wife?’ Jake offered generously.
‘Christ, no! She’s cross-eyed like you.’
‘Is she?’
Thomas left Jake and Sam to their games and went to find a tavern where there would be food, drink and warmth. He reckoned any girl worth pursuing had been caught already, so he unstrung his bow, pushed past a group of men tearing the contents from a parked wagon and found an inn where a motherly widow had sensibly protected both her property and her daughters by welcoming the first men-at-arms, showering them with free food and ale, then scolding them for dirtying her floor with their muddy feet. She was shouting at them now, though few understood what she said, and one of the men growled at Thomas that she and her daughters were to be left alone.
Thomas held up his hands to show he meant no harm, then took a plate of bread, eggs and cheese. ‘Now pay her,’ one of the men-at-arms growled, and Thomas dutifully put the tanner’s few coins on the counter.
‘He’s a good-looking one,’ the widow said to her daughters, who giggled.
Thomas turned and pretended to inspect the daughters. ‘They are the most beautiful girls in Brittany,’ he said to the widow in French, ‘because they take after you, madame.’
That compliment, though patently untrue, raised squeals of laughter. Beyond the tavern were screams and tears, but inside it was warm and friendly. Thomas ate the food hungrily, then tried to hide himself in a window bay when Father Hobbe came bustling in from the street. The priest saw Thomas anyway.
‘I’m still looking for men to guard the churches, Thomas.’
‘I’m going to get drunk, father,’ Thomas said happily. ‘So goddamn drunk that one of those two girls will look attractive.’ He jerked his head at the widow’s daughters.
Father Hobbe inspected them critically, then sighed. ‘You’ll kill yourself if you drink that much, Thomas.’ He sat at the table, waved at the girls and pointed at Thomas’s pot. ‘I’ll have a drink with you,’ the priest said.
‘What about the churches?’
‘Everyone will be drunk soon enough,’ Father Hobbe said, ‘and the horror will end. It always does. Ale and wine, God knows, are great causes of sin but they make it short-lived. God’s bones, but it’s cold out there.’ He smiled at Thomas. ‘So how’s your black soul, Tom?’
Thomas contemplated the priest. He liked Father Hobbe, who was small and wiry, with a mass of untamed black hair about a cheerful face that was thick-scarred from a childhood pox. He was low born, the son of a Sussex wheelwright, and like any country lad he could draw a bow with the best of them. He sometimes accompanied Skeat’s men on their forays into Duke Charles’s country and he willingly joined the archers when they dismounted to form a battleline. Church law forbade a priest from wielding an edged weapon, but Father Hobbe always claimed he used blunt arrows, though they seemed to pierce enemy mail as efficiently as any other. Father Hobbe, in short, was a good man whose only fault was an excessive interest in Thomas’s soul.
‘My soul,’ Thomas said, ‘is soluble in ale.’
‘Now there’s a good word,’ Father Hobbe said. ‘Soluble, eh?’ He picked up the big black bow and prodded the silver badge with a dirty finger. ‘You’ve discovered anything about that?’
‘No.’
‘Or who stole the lance?’
‘No.’
‘Do you not care any more?’
Thomas leaned back in the chair and stretched his long legs. ‘I’m doing a good job of work, father. We’re winning this war, and this time next year? Who knows? We might be giving the King of France a bloody nose.’
Father Hobbe nodded agreement, though his face suggested Thomas’s words were irrelevant. He traced his finger through a puddle of ale on the table top. ‘You made a promise to your father, Thomas, and you made it in a church. Isn’t that what you told me? A solemn promise, Thomas? That you would retrieve the lance? God listens to such vows.’
Thomas smiled. ‘Outside this tavern, father, there’s so much rape and murder and theft going on that all the quills in heaven can’t keep up with the list of sins. And you worry about me?’
‘Yes, Thomas, I do. Some souls are better than others. I must look after them all, but if you have a prize ram in the flock then you do well to guard it.’
Thomas sighed. ‘One day, father, I’ll find the man who stole that goddamn lance and I’ll ram it up his arse until it tickles the hollow of his skull. One day. Will that do?’
Father Hobbe smiled beatifically. ‘It’ll do, Thomas, but for now there’s a small church that could do with an extra man by the door. It’s full of women! Some of them are so beautiful that your heart will break just to gaze at them. You can get drunk afterwards.’
‘Are the women really beautiful?’
‘What do you think, Thomas? Most of them look like bats and smell like goats, but they still need protection.’
So Thomas helped guard a church, and afterwards, when the army was so drunk it could do no more damage, he went back to the widow’s tavern where he drank himself into oblivion. He had taken a town, he had served his lord well and he was content.
Thomas was woken by a kick. A pause, then a second kick and a cup of cold water in his face. ‘Jesus!’
‘That’s me,’ Will Skeat said. ‘Father Hobbe told me you’d be here.’
‘Oh, Jesus,’ Thomas said again. His head was sore, his belly sour and he felt sick. He blinked feebly at the daylight, then frowned at Skeat. ‘It’s you.’
‘It must be grand to be so clever,’ Skeat said. He grinned at Thomas, who was naked in the straw of the tavern stables that he was sharing with one of the widow’s daughters. ‘You must have been drunk as a lord to sheathe your sword in that,’ Skeat added, looking at the girl who was pulling a blanket over herself.
‘I was drunk,’ Thomas groaned. ‘Still am.’ He staggered to his feet and put on his shirt.
‘The Earl wants to see you,’ Skeat said with amusement.
‘Me?’ Thomas looked alarmed. ‘Why?’
‘Perhaps he wants you to marry his daughter,’ Skeat said. ‘Christ’s bones, Tom, but look at the state of you!’
Thomas pulled on his boots and mail coat, then retrieved his hose from the baggage camp and donned a cloth jacket over his mail. The jacket bore the Earl of Northampton’s badge of three green and red stars being pounced on by a trio of lions. He splashed water on his face, then scraped at his stubble with a sharp knife.
‘Grow a beard, lad,’ Skeat said, ‘it saves trouble.’
‘Why does Billy want to see me?’ Thomas asked, using the Earl’s nickname.
‘After what happened in the town yesterday?’ Skeat suggested thoughtfully. ‘He reckons he’s got to hang someone as an example, so he asked me if I had any useless bastards I wanted to be rid of and I thought of you.’
‘The way I feel,’ Thomas said, ‘he might as well hang me.’ He retched drily, then gulped down some water.
He and Will Skeat went back into the town to find the Earl of Northampton sitting in state. The building where his banner hung was supposed to be a guildhall, though it was probably smaller than the guardroom in the Earl’s own castle, but the Earl was sitting at one end as a succession of petitioners pleaded for justice. They were complaining about being robbed, which was pointless considering