Chapter Sixteen

It was almost dark when they halted to make camp. Raoul dismounted wearily, patted Hercules on his powerful neck, unfastened the saddle then pulled it and his bed roll down, setting them on a reasonably level stretch of ground. His two companions dismounted, unsaddled their horses and then the three beasts were hobbled nearby to find what they could in the way of grazing. There would be little enough, that was certain.

Once the horses were settled each man then unbuckled his sword-belt, took off his helmet, and removed his shirt of chainmail. Around them many hundreds of soldiers, some mounted like them, many on foot, were doing the same: seeing to their animals first then settling down for the night to find what rest they could. A few lit fires and the soldiers’ dark shapes could be seen crossing in front of or huddled around the bright wisps of flame. There was a low murmur of conversation and the occasional restless whinny from one of the horses.

“Has the foraging party returned yet?” asked one of Raoul’s friends.

“It doesn’t look like it,” Raoul said with a sigh.

He pulled a hunk of stale bread from his pouch, broke it into three and shared it among them. It was almost inedible; they each took a swig of water from the leather bottle which the third man produced from his pack and then squatted on the ground while they ate. All too soon the meagre crust was gone.

Raoul stood up, wrapped himself in a cloak which he retrieved from his pack, then sat down again with a sigh. They had been on the march now for more than three months and the nights were increasingly cold despite the sun’s heat during the day. There would be rain that night or tomorrow, he thought, which would only increase their discomfort. There had been great banks of cloud in the east at sunset and the wind was blowing strongly from that direction.

It had seemed almost incredible to Raoul that after Saint Bernard’s address had inspired Frenchmen in their thousands to take the cross, it had been only in June of this year that the army had finally left Paris. Raoul had filled the time in between as best he could: there had been tournaments and minor skirmishes between barons which offered brief employment for his sword. Once or twice he’d been tempted to take up minstrelsy again or even to return to Félice. But then he heard she had made a prosperous second marriage so that temptation was removed. Eventually, King Louis had issued his final call to arms and they marched out at last, trumpets braying and banners waving. Of the four men-at-arms who had come from Montglane with him, only these two, Pierre Chardin and Gustave de la Tour, had eventually joined the Crusade. René had preferred to stay in France and Jacques had been injured in a tavern brawl three weeks before they set out.

At first there had been a holiday atmosphere on the journey. As they travelled through eastern France, more and more Crusaders joined them: some were rich knights with well-equipped troops; some were little more than poor farmers with leather jerkins and rusty spears. Each was welcome – entitled to wear the Red Cross on his tunic and receive his share of meat and drink from the King’s own commanders. The villagers and peasants cheered them as they marched by, ran from their houses with gifts of cake and ale, or pelted them with flowers.

Even in Bavaria, far from home, they had been treated like heroes, like an army who had already won a war, not one merely setting out to fight it. French King Louis was joining their own King Conrad in his Holy War. They were welcomed, fed, and sent on their way with kisses and blessings.

Now, hundreds of miles further south, as autumn approached and the countryside became ever more rocky and infertile, there were no cheering crowds, and nagging hunger was a constant presence. Their last issue of oatmeal had been three days ago and the little bread they had received that morning had been stale even when it was handed out.

“We can’t go on like this,” Pierre muttered. “Unless King Louis intends to fight the Infidel with an army of skeletons, he’ll have to give more thought to fodder, both for us and the horses.”

Raoul nodded in agreement.

“I don’t understand why he’s following Conrad’s route anyway,” he said. “I’d have thought it was obvious that the Germans would’ve eaten anything worth eating as they passed through. And country like this barely feeds the few miserable folk who live here, never mind two armies in close succession.”

“I don’t think much is obvious to our beloved King,” said Gustave with a snort. “If it was he’d have had the wit to leave the Queen and her ladies safely in France. You’d think it was a week’s hunting trip rather than a war we were engaged in.”

“I don’t think King Louis is the one who decides where the Queen goes,” Raoul said. “And in any case, isn’t she related to some great lord in the Holy Land?”

“Raymond of Antioch’s her uncle, I believe.”

Beyond where they were seated, over to the right, there was a sudden flurry of activity as a party of horsemen rode into the camp.

“The foragers, thank God!” Pierre exclaimed. “Now perhaps there’ll be meat or meal for porridge at least.”

“I’ll get a fire lit,” said Gustave. “You go and demand our due. Your powers of persuasion are greater than ours – or at least they are where tavern wenches are concerned!”

“I don’t think the same applies with the King’s knights – at least I hope not!” said Pierre, “Or do I?”

“You’d be surprised,” Raoul said with a laugh, recollecting his performances as Cleopatra and Dahut.

“Whatever you get, just don’t eat it all on the way back!”

“Trust me! Have I failed to provide for us yet?”

“Hah!” Gustave snorted. “I remember that time in Rouen even if you’ve forgotten.”

Recalling all too clearly several very hungry days in a rebel baron’s dungeon, Raoul picked up their meal sacks and, in common with everyone else in the camp, hurried towards the newly returned horsemen who had already begun to dole out foodstuffs.

“Not so fast, soldier.”

Raoul’s way was blocked by the imposing bulk of a well-armed knight.

“Whose command are you under?” the man demanded.

Raoul hesitated. He was under no-one’s command, directly. There had been no need. The King and Saint Bernard between them had promised riches on earth and glory in Heaven to anyone willing to march south, whoever they were.

“Come on, come on. Are you deaf or stupid? Whose command are you under, man?”

“God’s, I suppose – isn’t this supposed to be His Holy War?”

“As neither wit nor blasphemy will get you food, I suggest you find a better answer.”

“King Louis’s then.”

“Don’t waste my time, soldier. I can see that you are not wearing the badge of the Royal Household. In fact you don’t seem to be wearing anyone’s badge at all.”

“Are you telling me that rations are only being issued to those under the banner of some knight?”

A crowd of similar soldiers had gathered beside Raoul by now and they muttered angrily at what was being said.

“That’s it. By order of the Duke – he’s in charge of provisioning this army and that’s his decree. If you don’t like it, go and tell him so.”

“Look, we’ve all marched many hundred miles with the wish to fight in the Holy Land. Does King Louis no longer need us?”

There was a growl of agreement from the growing crowd.

“I don’t intend to argue with you – with any of you.” The knight and the group of others behind him drew their swords, ready for the trouble which now seemed inevitable. “You can find your own food or put yourselves under a noble’s command and he’ll give you rations. That’s your choice. There’s not enough for anyone else.”

Raoul turned away. He had no intention of getting involved in a fight. He must consult his friends about their best course of action. While all three of them enjoyed their freedom, the freedom to starve seemed like a dubious privilege.

The following morning at first light, after a miserable night, the three young men rode slowly through the camp in search of the Royal party. As Raoul had expected, not long after midnight there had been a storm, with strong winds and stinging icy rain. Their small fire had been quickly doused and they had merely had to suffer the weather in the open, without comfort, shelter or even full bellies. Their horses, bold enough on the battle field, had been in terror of the lightning which had flickered incessantly over them. It had been hard to soothe the frightened beasts. Elsewhere in the camp, soldiers had been less vigilant. A number of tents had been demolished by a frantic destrier and several horses had bolted. Now, stiff, tired and cold, they had all agreed that they must seek service with the King and thus appease their hunger.

Throughout the camp, men were stirring. Some were starting to pack up their sodden gear. Others attempted to wring water from their cloaks or struggled to light cooking fires with wet wood and damp kindling, coughing in thick clouds of acrid smoke. Some of the nobles slept on in the relative comfort of their tents while wretched squires rescued armour from puddles and started to groom the mud-spattered horses.

The King’s encampment was obvious enough as the Oriflamme fluttered limply above a collection of large, brightly decorated pavilions. There was little sign that any of the nobility had left their beds but the squires and pages bustled about their many tasks. Clothes-lines had even been set up on which to dry the ladies’ rain-soaked gowns and head-veils. Several fires had been lit and Raoul’s mouth watered at the cooking smells which wafted from the pots which hung above them. Raoul dismounted and hailed a nearby squire.

“My companions and I wish to attach ourselves to the King’s guard,” Raoul said firmly. “Please tell us where we can find the captain.”

The squire laughed.

“You haven’t a chance, soldier. I’ll fetch the Count but he’s trying to get rid of troops, not acquire more. Food’s scarce, in case you hadn’t realised. But stay here and I’ll see what I can do.”

A few minutes later the squire returned followed by richly dressed man in early middle age. He looked as if he had just stepped out of a luxurious bed-chamber rather than having endured a stormy night in a flimsy shelter.

“Lord Antoine de Bar sur Aube, captain of the King’s guard,” the young man announced. He bowed deeply then stood back and gave them an impudent grin before returning to his duties.

“Well,” the Count said impatiently, “what do you want?”

“To join the King’s guard, my lord.”

“Hah! And what makes you suppose you could do that?”

“My friend here,” Raoul gestured to Pierre, who stood holding the reins of their three horses, “is an expert horseman, unrivalled with the lance. My other friend,” he indicated to Gustave, who drew himself up into a strong, proud pose, “is an excellent swordsman who was declared supreme champion at the Royal tournament last Christmas at Poitiers. Indeed he defeated the Count of Blois himself in single combat.”

“And you, young man?”

“I’m even better than they are, with battle-axe, sword or lance.”

“Well, you don’t want for boldness, that’s clear,” said the Count with an amused grin. “Squire, bring these men fresh bread and bowls of pottage.”

With a certain reluctance, the boy obeyed him but as the Count still lingered nearby, he could hardly refuse to carry out his orders. His scowl showed all too clearly that he thought food was wasted on badly dressed ruffians like these.

“Does this mean we are now under your command, my lord?” Raoul asked tentatively after he had mopped out his bowl with the last morsel of bread.

“I’m sorry to say it does not,” the Count told him. “We’ve more use for ladies’ maids than for men-at-arms in this camp. Where are you from, soldiers?”

“Montglane,” said Pierre and Gustave.

“Brittany,” said Raoul simultaneously.

“Make up your minds, lads! Your only chance is to seek out a Lord from your own region, wherever that may be, and make your allegiance to him – say that you owe him service. Let me see now, the Count of Blois is in command of the men from the Loire – your friend here knows him, you said. And the Count of Tréguier leads the Breton men – he’s over there, I think.” The Count waved towards the northern edge of the camp. “But I don’t suppose either is looking for vassals just at present. There are too many hungry men in this camp already.” He lowered his voice. “You’d make a thousand friends if you offered to escort the Queen and her ladies back to France, I can tell you. But that’s as unlikely as the Turks turning Christian. Still, good luck to you. You’re bold enough to succeed if any can.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Raoul said. “We will do as you suggest. We appreciate your kindness.”

“I’m not going near the Count of Blois,” Gustave muttered to Raoul as they walked away. “Not after what happened at Christmas. He’d rather feed me to his dogs than welcome me to his command. Stupid old fool! Why doesn’t he admit he’s fat and old rather than trying to be a fearless warrior? I didn’t know he’d come on Crusade – but I should’ve guessed he would.”

“Ah well, at least you got us breakfast, Raoul,” Pierre said. “I feel better for that, I don’t mind admitting.”

“What about the Breton Count, Tréguier? Do you know him, Raoul?”

They led their horses towards the far edge of the camp. The sun had broken through the clouds now and the ground steamed in its heat.

“I’ve heard of him but I don’t know if I’ve seen him. Is that his banner over there?”

“Must be,” said Pierre. “That’s the only other sizable troop.”

Several hundred men were camped on the last stretch of flattish ground. Some still lay wrapped in their cloaks, trying to catch up on sleep after a wakeful night. Others cooked or played dice, huddled round smouldering camp-fires. Further off a line of horses and pack animals were tethered. Beyond were the steep wooded hills they had descended the evening before. Several tents had been erected but they were small and drab compared with those in the King’s camp.

“I’m looking for the Count of Tréguier or the captain of his forces,” Raoul told the group of slovenly looking men squatting round the nearest fire.

“Fetch his lordship, Paul,” one called to a slight youth who was polishing a helmet beside the entrance to a mud-stained tent. The soldier spat into the fire and looked up at the three newcomers. “Want to join us, do you?” He laughed and continued in Breton. “Not if we can help it.”

Raoul smiled as if the man had made a pleasantry.

Wiping his mouth on a linen napkin, the Count emerged and looked from his men to Raoul and his companions.

“More layabouts trying to get a share of our fodder, my lord,” the man by the fire announced in Breton, getting slowly to his feet. His friends, perhaps eight or nine in number, did the same.

“Is that right?” the Count asked.

“I’m sorry, my lord, I’m afraid I didn’t catch what your man said.” He was aware that various foul looks were being cast their way and that one or two had actually drawn their daggers. “I understand you are in command of the Breton troops, my lord. My father’s family comes from Léon; I lived for some years near Vannes and although my childhood was spent in Normandy, my friends and I claim the right to offer you our swords and our service.”

Pierre and Gustave exchanged glances. Raoul had told them nothing of his origins. In the tournament circuit there had been no need to do so.

Tréguier belched.

“And why should I want you?”

“Occupying, as I see you do, the vulnerable rear position in the army, I expect your lordship would like to have the very best troops about you – to protect your person, and to win you glory – not to mention a good share of the booty...”

“Well?” The Count’s eyes narrowed.

“My friends and I would be useful additions.”

“Additions? Hah.” He shrugged his thickset shoulders and turned back towards the entrance to the tent. “With these lazy ne’er-do-wells I’ve more than enough mouths to gobble up my supplies without needing ADDITIONS!”

There were several muttered comments from the men and a ribald laugh.

“Or perhaps, my lord, we might make useful replacements for some of your present soldiers?”

“What are you suggesting?”

Tréguier looked round again, with sudden interest.

“Don’t listen to this girlish-faced trickster, my lord,” said the Breton speaker. “This is some ruse to cheat us out of our due.”

“I suggest that you nominate your three best soldiers and that my friends and I undertake to beat them in single combat, using whatever weapon you choose. If we win, we take their places. If we lose, we will leave you secure in the knowledge that your men are the best.”

“If you lose, we’ll have your horses and your gear.”

“Agreed,” Raoul said without hesitation.

“Very well.” Tréguier rubbed his hands in pleasurable anticipation. “Bertrand won’t return with the scouting party for a while yet and even then the Royal ladies won’t be ready, I’ll warrant. Yes, I agree. It will make good sport. Fetch me a seat, Paul, and you men, stamp out what’s left of that fire. D’you need food before you fight?”

“No, my lord.” Raoul’s look was humble. “We’ll fight as we are. When we win, you may give us whatever ration we deserve.”

“Right. Good lad. That seems fair. Paul, put three lots of meal, bread and bacon into the sacks there. They’re the winners’ shares. Now, let’s see. Le Nain, you take the fair lad – what’s your name, soldier?”

“Pierre Chardin, my lord.”

“And Vignon, you take the other one. Who are you, lad?”

“Gustave de la Tour, my lord.”

“From all you’ve said I assume you’ll want to pit yourself against their leader – that right, Bilcot?”

The Breton speaker nodded enthusiastic agreement.

“I’ll teach him to come in here with his fancy talk!” he growled, speaking still in his native tongue. “You’ll see, my lord. Tear him limb from limb, I will.”

Raoul smiled pleasantly at him.

“Grinning fool. What an imbecile he looks!”

“What’s your name, boy?” the Count asked. “You speak like a noble but if you were knighted you wouldn’t be looking for service now.”

“No, my lord, I’m not a knight. My name is Raoul de Metz.”

“De Metz – of Radenoc?”

“I have connections with that household, sir.”

Tréguier gave a lewd chuckle. “I’ll bet you do! Armand’s populated half of Léon! Right, here’s the lad with my stool. No mail-shirts, no weapons – just a simple wrestling bout. Clear a space, there. We’ll have all three contests at once in case we’re interrupted. Right. Disarm and get on with it.”

Once his master was seated Paul, the squire, tethered the newcomers’ horses and offered to guard their weapons and equipment. News of the contest had spread rapidly through the camp and many gathered round to watch the unexpected entertainment. The six men stripped off their outer clothing – they would fight in merely their under-drawers to minimise the available holds. Raoul nodded good luck to his friends, spat on his palms and stood waiting for Bilcot. The Breton was exchanging jocular comments with the onlookers, some of whom seemed to be laying bets on the outcome of the fights; unsurprisingly, no-one was backing the strangers. While Raoul knew that all three of them would rather have fought with weapons, he was confident that each of his friends could easily beat his opponent. Pierre was strong and quick-witted and Gustave relished combat of any sort, whether it had rules or not. As far as Bilcot was concerned, Raoul knew he must be careful – everything about the man spoke of cunning and deceit.

“That’s enough time wasting!” Tréguier interrupted the talk and laughter amongst his men. “You two take the patch yonder,” he gestured to Pierre and the thickset soldier who was to fight him. “And you lads fight over there.” He sent Gustave and a tall youth off in the opposite direction to a stretch of sloping ground. Spectators clustered round each of the pairs. “Bilcot, you and de Metz can use this space here so I’ve a clear view. Now then, let’s see what you’re made of!”

At first Raoul and his opponent circled each other warily, each eyeing up the other’s strengths and weaknesses. The Breton soldier was short and wiry, as were many of his countrymen, and his upper body was thickly matted with black hair. Where he differed was in the solid strength of his shoulders and the way his round, close-shaven head seemed to grow straight out of his torso with little in the way of neck in between. His dark eyes gleamed in anticipation of their fight and he constantly muttered abuse and threats under his breath.

Now twenty-three years old, Raoul might lack the brute force of his opponent but he was lithe and well-muscled. He had lost a little of the suppleness of his days with the Mummers but constant weapons practice had toughened his arms and increased his stamina. He knew he was a match for most men, provided he kept his wits. With luck Bilcot might underestimate him, assuming that his slender build and smooth skin meant lack of strength.

The Breton made the first move. With a sudden lunge, he caught hold of Raoul round the waist, lifted him, twisted sideways and attempted to fling him to the ground. As he began to fall, Raoul grabbed Bilcot’s head, pulling him beneath him as he somersaulted, pinning him down with his knees. But he couldn’t hold him. Eel-like, the Breton wriggled free and Raoul threw himself aside just as Bilcot dived for his legs. They paused, each panting for breath, then Bilcot lunged again, seizing Raoul’s head and shoulders, squeezing the younger man in a vicious grip. With an upward thrust from his elbow and a swift ducking movement, Raoul broke free and turned to face his opponent once more.

As the bout continued, each man seized the other in a variety of holds but neither could make an end of it. The Breton’s methods were ruthless – he would pull Raoul’s longer hair, gouge with his fingers, kick and bite rather than simply try to throw him. He also sweated so freely that Raoul found it impossible to lock him into a conclusive grip. Beyond him, Raoul sensed that the other fights had ceased, but he daren’t let his attention waver for an instant. Bilcot’s renewed abuse and redoubled fury seemed to suggest that his fellows had been worsted but that he was determined to win, in whatever way he could. Just as Raoul was starting to believe that he really had met his match, Bilcot flung himself violently at Raoul, slipped on a patch of damp ground and momentarily lost his footing. With a combination of luck and skill, Raoul managed to grab the Breton soldier in a vicious arm-lock which this time he seemed unable to break.

“Miserable little bastard, I’m not finished yet,” Bilcot snarled.

Raoul tightened his grip, forcing the man’s arm further up his back and grinding his head, twisted sideways, into the muddy ground.

“I rather think you are,” he murmured, using, for the first time, the Breton language.

The man’s eyes narrowed.

“Lying, sneaking little bastard! Thought you had me fooled, did you?”

With a sudden mighty heave, Bilcot flung Raoul aside and sprang at him. It was the glint of the sun on the dagger rather than Gustave’s cry of warning which alerted him. Raoul dived at him, bringing him crashing to the ground, then seizing his right hand, he fought with all his strength to make the weapon drop. But the Breton’s arm seemed to be made of steel. Purple-faced and snarling, Bilcot inched the razor-sharp blade nearer to Raoul’s face.

“I’ll – spoil – that – pretty – smooth – girlish – face of yours,” he panted through clenched teeth, forcing the blade closer with each word he uttered.

It was the sudden needle-prick of pain that goaded Raoul into a final frenzied effort. Had the dagger been at his throat, he would have been helpless. As it was, a desperate sideways lunge ripped his cheek across the weapon’s point but took him clear. It then took less than a second to stamp on Bilcot’s wrist, twist the dagger from his loosened grip and turn the point against its owner’s throat. The man’s eyes widened in fear. Clearly, he had expected Raoul to do anything rather than jeopardise his handsome face.

“Finish him, de Metz,” the Count called. “The cowardly wretch doesn’t deserve to live.”

“I don’t want him on my conscience, sir,” Raoul said, getting to his feet. “We’re meant to be killing Infidels, not Christians, aren’t we?”

“Hmm. I don’t know that I’d call Bilcot a Christian. Here, give his weapon to me and we’ll get something to clean that wound. He’s spoiled your looks, lad, that’s for sure – but you’ve earned your place in the troop. Get your gear, Bilcot, and then you and the others get out! You were eager enough to agree to their terms a while ago.”

The defeated man got up slowly, grabbed his pile of clothing and stumbled away, muttering curses under his breath.

“You were very impressive, all three of you,” the Count continued. “If you can fight like this when you’re hungry, Heaven help the Turks when your bellies are full.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Raoul said, gingerly touching his wound which had been bleeding steadily. “We’ll do our best not to disappoint you.”

“Paul, bring the lad’s clothes then fetch some water!”

“That squire appears to do all the work around here,” said Pierre, crossing to Raoul. “D’you think he’s the only one they’ve got?”

“There’s a scouting party out,” said Raoul, pulling on his shirt and hose. “Didn’t you hear Tréguier mention it?”

“Aye, that’s right,” Gustave agreed. He had joined his companions. “And judging by our audience, most of the knights are in it. Here, boy, give me the basin and that cloth. We’re used to looking after him.”

“Damned liar!” Raoul muttered. “Isn’t the boot rather on the other foot?”

“Be quiet and hold still!”

Gustave dipped the rag, which looked reasonably clean into the water, then dabbed at Raoul’s face.

“I thought the miserable little turd had you beaten there for a minute, Raoul,” he said.

Raoul grinned then winced at the smarting pain.

“I thought so too,” he admitted. “Am I still bleeding?”

“You are now! You’ll have to give your smile a rest for a day or two.” He cleaned the blood off Raoul’s cheek, wrung the cloth out again then wiped gently along the length of the cut. “It’s not that deep but it’ll leave a scar. Is there any of that salve left?”

“It’s in my pack,” Pierre said. “I’ll get it.”

“Christ! It stings like the very devil.” Raoul gritted his teeth. “How did you two fare? Any injuries?”

“Not to us,” Gustave said with a laugh. “My lad looked sick as a horse when I’d done with him and Pierre broke the other fellow’s arm!”

“And you’ve got our food?”

“Too right – and we filched some bread and cheese while everyone was watching you and our hairy friend. Not a bad morning’s work, I’d say.” He paused for a moment. “Was that true, Raoul, about Armand of Radenoc? I don’t mean to pry, it’s just you never mentioned it...all right, forget I spoke.”

Raoul swallowed the anger which had risen at Gustave’s question. He forced himself to unclench his fists and to speak as calmly as he could.

“Armand de Metz is not my father and I’m not a bastard. But as I said, I have connections there.”

“It’s obviously a sore point – sorry!”

“If there had been any other way to claim Breton blood I’d have done it, believe me.”

“I said forget it,” said Gustave. “It doesn’t worry me who you’re related to.”

“The scouts are back,” Pierre hailed them cheerfully, blithely unaware of the tension between his friends. He hurried over and handed the pot of salve to Gustave who smeared a generous dollop onto Raoul’s face. “Let’s hope this lot will be a bit more welcoming than the others.”

Sure enough, into the camp rode a party of about fifteen horsemen. Judging by their youth, perhaps half a dozen of them were squires. They were all well-armed and rode powerful war-horses.

“This looks more like it,” Gustave muttered. “Quite a good turn-out – and someone’s got a brain too.”

Across the saddle-bows of three of the horses were the carcases of good-sized deer.

Raoul and his companions crossed to their horses and began to re-arm themselves.

“Prepare to move out directly, men,” said the leading knight as he drew rein in the clearing in front of the Count’s quarters. “Get these tents down and your gear stowed. Have you all been sleeping?”

Soldiers who had lingered for a chat with Tréguier’s guard once the fight was over, returned now to their own parts of the Breton camp. Some started to dismantle the canvas shelters while others harnessed the pack-mules. Sullenly, the fellows nearby started to gather their possessions together.

“My lord, where are you?” The knight dismounted with obvious impatience and flung his reins to his squire. “What’s been happening here?”

The Count emerged from his tent, fully armed now, a silk tunic bearing the Red Cross over his mail-coat.

“Don’t fret, son. What’s your hurry?”

The younger man gave a derisive snort of laughter.

“The morning’s half done, the army’s half starved, winter’s coming on apace and you ask what the hurry is? Last Easter the King should have sent the Duke south with five hundred hand-picked knights – they’d have recaptured Edessa, Aleppo and the rest of Zengi’s kingdom by now!”

“Well, you needn’t blame me,” the Count said crossly. “I haven’t been wasting my time – these men are replacements for Vignon, Le Nain and Bilcot – and damn good fighters they are too. If their wrestling’s anything to go by, they’ll see off a few heathens, I can tell you.”

“Hmm. It might have been wiser to have kept them with us. But still, I suppose decent soldiers are always welcome.” He raised a hand to Raoul and his friends in greeting. “Mount up, gentlemen, and for the love of God let’s get moving.”

“Take your helmet off for a few minutes, Bertrand. Come over here and meet them properly!” The knight followed the older man reluctantly but left his helmet on. “Now, let me see – this young man is Pierre de la Tour – no, that’s not right! It’s Gustave de la Tour and Pierre...”

“Chardin, my lord.”

“Chardin, good. But, this’ll make you laugh – the lad with the cut face – oh, you can’t see it so well as he’s put his helmet on! He’s one of Armand’s – de Metz, you know! It’s... René, is it, lad?”

“Raoul, my lord,” he replied tersely. There was no point in trying to argue – father, grandfather, what did it matter? To hear it said, and laughed about, sickened him.

“Steady,” Gustave murmured, touching Raoul’s arm.

“This is ...”

“We’re ready, my lord!” The Count broke off as Paul, the squire, led the Count’s destrier forward. The great beast snorted and reared.

“Bertrand, I insist you make this young man’s acquaintance. He fights extremely well.”

“Later, Father.” The knight gave a tired smile.

Raoul mounted Hercules and prepared to move away.

With Paul’s help the Count hauled himself into the saddle. The horse plunged forward and Tréguier called cheerfully back over his shoulder. “He’s my girl Louise’s husband, you know. The finest knight in Christendom! My son-in-law, Bertrand de Courcy.”