When you are sixteen, such jibes seem to have real meaning, real intent to harm. In fact, with that mad bastard, I suspect he did intend harm, but I was too on edge.
I sat on a stool and sent the boy for a piece of tow and some oil.
Sir John ordered a pitcher of wine, a joint of beef and some bread and gravy. Two women, as hard in their way as the bread was in its way, came to serve our table. The Gascons fondled them — they appeared to appreciate the rough wooing with equal enthusiasm, which is to say none at all.
I felt uncomfortable.
They were all good men-at-arms, but I felt I was with criminals, not men of birth who sought glory and honour. I knew these men. I knew the Prince and his men.
I was no fool, messieurs. Sir John Chandos had the luxury of being courteous because he had manors and peasants to maintain him, and royal favour, and Sir John Hawkwood had his sword. It made them different men. But I aspired then, as I aspire now, to the status of knighthood, like de Charny.
Sir John waited until I’d eaten — I confess I ate a great deal — then leaned across the table. ‘Your health, my young friend.’
I drank with him, then I proposed the healths of other men. The Bourc sat up.
‘But why am I last?’ he asked. His eyes, as I say, glittered.
I’d had enough of his shit, even if he was the top sword in Gascony. ‘Last?’ I asked him.
‘You propose the healths of other men before me,’ he said.
‘You lie,’ I insisted. ‘I had no intention of toasting your health at all.’
Every head turned.
And Seguin de Badefol, who was a great lord and no one’s bastard, roared a great laugh, kicked his longsword from under the table with his left leg and slapped me on the back.
The Bourc was on his feet
Seguin shook his head. ‘No, Bertucat. I forbid it. He’s a boy, and a brave boy, and you only got what you had coming.’ He looked at me. ‘So, what of it, messieur? Will you come with us to Normandy?’
I intended to go with them. What did I have to hold me in Bordeaux? Poverty? The Prince? He scarcely knew my name.
‘What will we do in Normandy? Will we take service with a lord?’ I asked.
The four of them looked at each other, as wolves look around their circle when they discuss dismembering a flock of sheep, I imagine.
‘We will serve the King of England, of course,’ Seguin said. He twirled his moustache, which tapered to needle points. ‘But we will be the lords. We will be companions, and sign articles to form a Company of Adventure, as they do in Italy and Greece. We will take ransoms and share the profits; we will take castles and sell them to the King of England.’
‘And if he doesn’t want them, we will sell them back to the owners!’ said Albret — the younger one.
Sir John nodded. ‘A little scouting to find the weak lords and weak holdings, and then, in two or three weeks of work, we storm a dozen of them, sell the ransoms, put the screws to the peasants for protection, then sell the castle and move on.’ He reached out and took the lace point that tied my somewhat threadbare jupon. It had once been gilt bronze and the replacement was waxed leather. ‘A man can make a hundred Venetian ducats a month.’
‘Easily,’ Seguin de Badefol said.
‘A virgin like this won’t make a fart,’ Camus said. ‘Listen, cook’s boy. The fastest way to make silver is to take convents of nuns. Rape them all with your soldiers — rape a girl ten times and she’s a willing whore. You know why nuns make better whores, boy? Because they won’t kill themselves. They believe in God.’ Camus stared at me.
‘You speak like a horse shits, Gascon. God will punish you for suggesting such a course — no man would actually do as you suggest.’ My hand was on my sword, and my blade was four inches clear of the scabbard.
He laughed. ‘God is a lie, boy. There is only Satan, and I am his disciple.’
‘Shut up, Bertucat. You’re drunk.’ Sir John sounded merely weary, not disgusted.
‘I don’t like the little cook and I want him to stay here,’ said the Bourc. ‘But I need someone to rape the little choirboys. There’s men who will pay for that, too.’
Sir John put his hand on my arm. I had started to rise from my chair.
Camus leaned back and his eyes rested on mine. He was tall — taller than me — with black eyes. He was handsome, with high cheekbones. He had a bone in one ear instead of an earring — the bone of a woman, everyone said, but no one said which bone or whose it was.
‘Stop staring at me, catamite. I do not like your eyes.’ His, which were deceptively gentle, bored into mine.
‘No man tells me where I may look or not look. Much less a man who advocates the raping of nuns.’ I was on my feet.
‘I’ll kill you when Seguin is not here to stop me, little cook’s boy,’ he said. ‘I break things I do not like. I do not like you.’
I looked at him. My hands were shaking, but his mad gaze was no madder than my uncle’s. In fact, there was something similar about them, and my hate boiled over.
‘Let’s go,’ I said.
Sir John grabbed my hand. ‘Not like this, boy. He’ll gut you. Let him go, Bertucat.’
‘Fuck that,’ I said with all the bravado of my sixteen years. I got to my feet and walked outside into the yard, turned and drew my sword.
The Bourc emerged from the inn, grinned and drew.
Sir John was behind him. It was dark in the courtyard, but there were torches.
He came at me while I was still thinking we might abuse each other with words, and I just managed to turn his first strike, which was as fast as an adder’s tongue and as strong as a smith’s hammer stroke. I fell back a pace and he cut at me again — one, two, to either side of my head.
I raised my sword to parry the two head cuts — each block took my hands higher. With a snort of pure contempt, he punched with his left hand at the pommel of my sword, flinging my arms over my head. I lost my balance, and he kicked me between the legs. I fell forward on the ground, puking from the pain.
Sir John roared, ‘No!’
Camus laughed and he kicked me again, in the back, so I fell forward in the mud. Then he stabbed his sword deep into my arse — once, and twice.
‘Butt Boy,’ he mocked.
I wished he’d killed me.
I tried to get to my feet. I was weeping, and rage, fear and humiliation warred for possession of my soul. Blood trickled down the backs of my thighs.
He laughed. ‘I’ll have your sword, Butt Boy,’ he said.
I wasn’t going to give it to him. I don’t know what he expected, but he clearly thought the fight was over and he grabbed at the sword.
I flicked it at him, one handed, a weak, false-edge rising cut fuelled only by fear and hate.
I caught the base of his left hand and cut off a finger.
He dropped his sword. ‘Merde!’ he roared in Gascon French.
I raised my sword to kill him. I was absolutely going to kill him, unarmed.
Sir John Hawkwood saved my life and my career. He had already picked up a piece of firewood, intending, he told me later, to stop Bertucat Camus from killing me. Instead, he hit me on the head from behind.
I fell to the ground unconscious.
When I came to, I was in the Three Foxes, in a room paid for by Sir John. And my two little whores were waiting on me hand and foot.
Over the next month or so, Richard Musard and I became fast friends, and we took over the running of the Three Foxes. It proved, after the fact, that the Gascons had ‘protected’ the place until they left it, charging the landlord protection money and running a string of prostitutes under the eaves. It’s good for an innkeeper to have a good sword on his payroll — a soldier can often talk other soldiers out of doing damage or fighting, and a really good sword discourages violence.
I lay in bed for three days, and Richard visited twice. The two girls — named Marie and Anne, in the best tradition of Gascony — worked the inn, and no one stopped them, of course, because the inn’s strong arm had just ridden north to Normandy.