Friday 22 July

Berenger turned in his saddle and peered back.

This morning they had set off as soon as Will had allowed the gates to be opened, although Will had insisted on their breaking their fast first. ‘It is only fair,’ he said when Berenger demurred. ‘Eat before a journey. You always used to insist on that yourself.’

It was true. He had forgotten that in the last wandering years. It was hard to remember all he had once known. This morning he had a headache. He had woken with a cup still in his hand, the wine tipped over his lap and the floor. After Alazaïs had gone to her bed he had been unsettled enough to want more to drink, and had sated his thirst over the hours, forgetting to rouse Loys and Saul to take over the guard duty. If one of his own sentinels had behaved like that, the man would have been flogged for such dereliction. Saul walked in and saw him, but wisely chose to say nothing, and Berenger had sat silently as they chewed through a hard farmer’s loaf and grey cheese.

Will had not objected to Alazaïs and the children going to the church to pray before they set off. ‘Be sure to confess to all your incontinent behaviour and thoughts of lascivious couplings with me and my men!’ Will had laughed. Alazaïs had reddened in embarrassment and fury, and Berenger had walked with her to the church as though protecting her from further shame. However, he would not enter. She must walk inside with her boys, leaving Berenger at the door.

Now she looked up at him. ‘Why did you not come into the church to pray with me?’

‘What? Oh, I have no faith.’

‘You are a heretic?’ she exclaimed.

‘That is a lie put about by our enemies. Just because I’m English does not make me a bad Christian,’ he said.

‘But you say you have no faith?’

‘You weren’t there when the plague struck,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe God could have served us with that disaster without malice. He must hate us. He hates me.’

She made a hurried Sign of the Cross. ‘You think you are cursed?’

‘I know I am cursed. I think I am hated by God. How could he take everything from me unless he detests me?’

‘He took so much?’

Berenger wasn’t paying attention. ‘It is this land, I think. It is so drenched and beslubbered in blood, it is a miracle that anything can grow. All man’s vices and lusts are concentrated here. No matter whether it’s the greed of the nobles or the avarice of the merchants or the lusts of the common folk, it is all here on display and accepted. Look at Uzerche, your town. It holds so much wealth that it attracted men like . . .’

‘Men like you,’ Alazaïs said.

‘Yes. But I didn’t plan to destroy. I was hoping we might take the town and live there for a while,’ Berenger said. His head was hurting, and the brightness of the sun was no assistance. ‘I thought we could live with the town, like a nobleman in a castle, and all might benefit.’

‘How would the free townsfolk benefit from you ordering their lives and stealing their money?’

Berenger pulled a grimace and looked away. ‘I didn’t want the men to go raping for no purpose. I didn’t want men and women to be killed out of hand every day. Only a few at first so that the populace would come to accept the new rule of law. But the men were unused to living in a town at peace. That was the trouble.’

‘The town’s men were slaughtered because they tried to defend their women and children! You call that “the trouble”!’

‘You don’t understand. That is the point of an attack. The first assault is violent, so that all will bow to the new order. After that, we could grow more beneficent and help people. But only when they grew to trust us.’

‘I think if you have men who are used to plunder and murder, they would find it difficult to become used to the idea of living in peace with the people they have subdued.’

‘Perhaps,’ Berenger said. He pulled out a wineskin and began to drink. It soothed the acid in his stomach, but did nothing for the acid eating at his soul.

After sending Suzette to fetch bread, Gaillarde wept. Denisot had not come home last night. He had said he would, but he hadn’t. Again. He was staying there in the town, enjoying himself with harlots and drinking himself to oblivion.

She wanted her husband back; she wanted her life back. Once, ten years before, they had been happy. As bayle, Denisot was tax collector, adjudicator, peace-maker and thief-taker. They always had enough money, and the birth of their two children had left them fulfilled. Gaillarde had been so full of love, she had thought her heart must break when she looked at her children and husband. Denisot had been gentle, kindly, loving. Or so it had seemed. He had the duty of keeping the town peaceful and making sure that even the loudest disputes between man and wife were kept quiet. Yet now he could not even make peace in his own house. She wished he could. She was lonely, so lonely.

But the life they had enjoyed was gone. It had been snatched from them when God took Pons and Fabrisse. The memory of her children was as hard and cold as a dagger to the heart.

When the pestilence arrived here nine years ago, it ravaged the land. Men and women lost parents, children and spouses, in a sudden attack that scarred all those left alive. In one village six miles to the east, Gaillarde had heard that only one child survived of the whole population, while in the priory itself more than half the monks died. Those remaining could scarcely cope with the services and their other duties. And those left behind were not necessarily the better men, she knew. It sometimes seemed to her that all the kinder, good men were killed. Perhaps, as some said, the disease came to take away the best and sweetest, leaving the Devil’s for whenever he would come to take them.

But no, she could not believe that. There were too many good men who had lived, while quite a few whom she would be surprised to be allowed even to approach the gates of Heaven had been taken away. It was, as the priest said afterwards, as he sat on the wall outside the church with tears streaming down both cheeks, utterly inexplicable. God’s will was not to be denied, but men could not expect to understand his every whim. That priest had disappeared a few months after the last of the dead had been buried. She thought his mind had been broken as well as his heart.

No man should have to live through that. The priest had been in despair after having to bury so many, but they were only people. They weren’t his own flesh, his own blood. Gaillarde had lost everything. Her little children were taken from her, and for that she bore a terrible hatred. She knew the new priest was right to defend God, standing before the congregation and explaining that it was the evil of men and women that had caused the visitation of this terror on the people, but Gaillarde could not believe that. Why would He take away her boy and tiny girl from her?

She knew God was forgiving. She knew He was kindness and love. So their children could not have been taken from her by Him. Gaillarde had come to the conclusion that it was not Him, but Denisot who was to blame.

At first, when her children had died, she had blamed herself. So many did. It was natural for a parent to accept all responsibility. She had not done enough. Somehow, she should have been able to protect them from the foul miasma that physicians said brought the pestilence. She was like all other parents: they needed to have someone to blame.

Gaillarde was no philosopher, but for her it was natural to seek the guilty. It was unsatisfying to accuse a foul air that moved from one to another as if on the whim of some Devil. There was no body to punch, no form to detest. But then, when she spoke to the new, young priest, and he advised her to consider her own life, and how God might have been punishing her, Gaillarde could not understand. She could not escape the fact that her own life had been filled with piety and honour, and she had not been guilty of any offence against God, not that she knew of. And that confused her for a long time.

But then, when after four years she could not fall pregnant again, she began to look at Denisot askance. She reviewed his life, and found many aspects wanting. Perhaps he was having affairs; perhaps he was frequenting the whores when he went to Limoges and elsewhere; perhaps he was stealing taxes from the people. Tax collectors were always said to be thieves with their fingers in the cash boxes. Perhaps it was nothing she had done; what if Denisot himself was guilty of crimes.

That would mean he had killed their children, that he had made her womb dry and shrivel.

She allowed him into their bed, but when he approached her, she froze at his touch. She could not help it.

He was a lonely man, yes. He had lost his children. But his crimes had made him. And his offences meant that his wife was being punished too.

And now? Now she hated him.

The road was long and winding, and Denisot grew warm in the hot sun. He fanned himself, and wished he had brought more water, but a short while later he found a small stream at the side of the road and dismounted to refill his leather flask. His horse was keen too, and Denisot let him drink his fill before they continued.

He had come to learn all he could about the dead girl, and to see for himself what the risks were from the English devils at Uzerche, but there was no sign of pillaging about here. The farms stood in their fields, the peasants worked as labourers will anywhere, and Denisot found himself submitting to the soporific effect of the sun and his plodding pony. He had been led to believe that if there was a threat of Englishmen, the land for miles would be laid waste. The English devils tended to ride on a broad front, so that they could wage war over the widest area. Only when they had need of haste would they resort to riding in a narrow column. Fields would be burned, houses too, and bodies would lie strewn about, men, women and children, lying in a mess of blood. The savagery of the English was shocking. They were like ravening wolves launching themselves on an unsuspecting world.

Yet here all was calm, all was secure and peaceful. He found his eyes were closing as he nodded with the horse’s movement.

He came to with a jerk. There were three riders ahead of him, and they were approaching at speed, throwing up a cloud of dust from the dry surface. Denisot caught his breath and stared about him. Fool! He had been idly dreaming while the road had taken him to a dreadful place at which to meet brigands. Although a short way ahead there was a wood that came down to the road, where he sat now there was no escape. The way here was passing through a cutting where a hill had been carved away for the road. On his left a rocky cliff loomed fifteen feet overhead, while on his right the ground fell away into a river valley. There was no way of escape, other than to turn and ride back the way he had come and hope that he might outride these men.

But even as he had the thought, he saw that the riders were reining in and dismounting. Two of them hurried up in among the trees, while one took their mounts away, up the hill behind the trees. Surely that was a boy, Denisot thought. The other two appeared to be carrying crossbows and full quivers, he thought, and as he watched they merged in amidst the ferns and undergrowth. Soon there was no sign that anyone had been there. The dust on the air drifted away, and all was as peaceful and calm as it had been moments before.

Denisot sat anxiously on his horse, unsure how to proceed. If he continued, the men with the crossbows might attack him. He had no defence against crossbows. He had a sword in his scabbard, but while it was a good weapon that had once been his father’s, it was less than useless against men such as these – for he had no doubt that these must be English murderers set on robbing the next merchant to pass.

He was coming to the conclusion that his best option would be to return and fetch help in the form of officers, when he saw more dust on the air. It looked like a small party of men riding towards him. Two, no, three of them. And with them were others on foot, all advancing towards the men who had taken up positions in the trees beside the road.

Denisot felt the breath thicken in his lungs. Time seemed to slow, and he stared in horror as the men in the trees knelt with their bows spanned and ready. He saw a man bend and fix a bolt into the channel before resting the stock over his shoulder and taking aim. The travellers would be killed.

They had stopped. Perhaps they had seen the men lying in wait. A stray sound had betrayed the men, maybe? One of the riders dismounted, and his place was taken by another. They were so far away that they were mere figures in the distance, but Denisot could make out the fact that two of the walkers were smaller than the others. He thought they could be children.

He could think of nothing to do that would save them. He had no choice: surely he must flee. He could at least save himself and make his way back to Domps, and there he could alert the town. He could . . .

A voice came to him, clear on the warm air. It was the voice of a young boy. For just a moment he thought it was Pons, his Pons. In his mind’s eye at that moment he saw his own dear son in the road.

He would not run. He had only the one honourable option.

Without further consideration, he slapped his mount with his hand, then again, and raked his spurs down the brute’s flanks. The beast began to edge forward, and then when he jabbed his heels again, the horse began to canter and then gallop. Denisot tore off his hat and waved it urgently, whooping as loudly as he could. He passed around a bend, where the bowmen were hidden, and then he was riding straight at them, and to his horror he saw the nearer man turn and take deliberate aim. He saw the bolt fly, and his eyes widened in horror at the thought of the iron-tipped quarrel striking him, and ducked hurriedly. Feeling the change in his position, the horse pulled away to the right, and the missile flew past safely.

The man was hauling the bowstring up to the nut again, and Denisot felt a quickening terror. He was so close now, he could not see how he could escape a second bolt, but then he realised that there were not only the two men he had seen on the road: at least seven were in among the trees, all with bows, and all glaring now at him.

He was level with the trees now, and heard another quarrel hiss past his head, and then he was past them, and tearing on down the road towards the little group he had seen.