Three Great English Victories: A 3-book Collection of Harlequin, 1356 and Azincourt. Bernard Cornwell
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the man was nobly born for he had the arrogance of rank and the confidence of privilege. He was certainly not a Norman noble, for Sir Guillaume knew all those men, and Sir Guillaume doubted the young man came from nearby Alençon or Maine, for he had ridden with those forces often enough, but the sallow cast of the stranger’s skin suggested he came from one of the Mediterranean provinces, from Languedoc perhaps, or Dauphine, and they were all mad down there. Mad as dogs. Sir Guillaume did not even know the man’s name.
‘Some men call me the Harlequin,’ the stranger had answered when Sir Guillaume had asked.
‘Harlequin?’ Sir Guillaume had repeated the name, then made the sign of the cross for such a name was hardly a boast. ‘You mean like the hellequin?’
‘Hellequin in France,’ the man had allowed, ‘but in Italy they say harlequin. It is all the same.’ The man had smiled, and something about that smile had suggested Sir Guillaume had best curb his curiosity if he wanted to receive the remaining nine hundred livres.
The man who called himself the Harlequin now stared at the misty shore where a stumpy church tower, a huddle of vague roofs and a smear of smoke from the smouldering fires of the saltpans just showed. ‘Is that Hookton?’ he asked.
‘So he says,’ Sir Guillaume answered, jerking his head at the shipmaster.
‘Then God have mercy on it,’ the man said. He drew his sword, even though the four boats were still a half-mile from shore. The Genoese crossbowmen, hired for the voyage, made the sign of the cross, then began winding their cords as Sir Guillaume ordered his banner raised to the masthead. It was a blue flag decorated with three stooping yellow hawks that had outspread wings and claws hooked ready to savage their prey. Sir Guillaume could smell the salt fires and hear the cockerels crowing ashore.
The cockerels were still crowing as the bows of his four ships ran onto the shingle.
Sir Guillaume and the Harlequin were the first ashore, but after them came a score of Genoese crossbowmen, who were professional soldiers and knew their business. Their leader took them up the beach and through the village to block the valley beyond, where they would stop any of the villagers escaping with their valuables. Sir Guillaume’s remaining men would ransack the houses while the sailors stayed on the beach to guard their ships.
It had been a long, cold and anxious night at sea, but now came the reward. Forty men-at-arms invaded Hookton. They wore close-fitting helmets and had mail shirts over leather-backed hacquetons, they carried swords, axes or spears, and they were released to plunder. Most were veterans of Sir Guillaume’s other raids and knew just what to do. Kick in the flimsy doors and start killing the men. Let the women scream, but kill the men, for it was the men who would fight back hardest. Some women ran, but the Genoese crossbowmen were there to stop them. Once the men were dead the plundering could begin, and that took time for peasants everywhere hid whatever was valuable and the hiding places had to be ferreted out. Thatch had to be pulled down, wells explored, floors probed, but plenty of things were not hidden. There were hams waiting for the first meal after Lent, racks of smoked or dried fish, piles of nets, good cooking pots, distaffs and spindles, eggs, butter churns, casks of salt – all humble enough things, but sufficiently valuable to take back to Normandy. Some houses yielded small hoards of coins, and one house, the priest’s, was a treasure-trove of silver plate, candlesticks and jugs. There were even some good bolts of woollen cloth in the priest’s house, and a great carved bed, and a decent horse in the stable. Sir Guillaume looked at the seventeen books, but decided they were worthless and so, having wrenched the bronze locks from the leather covers, he left them to burn when the houses were fired.
He had to kill the priest’s housekeeper. He regretted that death. Sir Guillaume was not squeamish about killing women, but their deaths brought no honour and so he discouraged such slaughter unless the woman caused trouble, and the priest’s housekeeper wanted to fight. She slashed at Sir Guillaume’s men-at-arms with a roasting spit, called them sons of whores and devils’ grubs, and in the end Sir Guillaume cut her down with his sword because she would not accept her fate.
‘Stupid bitch,’ Sir Guillaume said, stepping over her body to peer into the hearth. Two fine hams were being smoked in the chimney. ‘Pull them down,’ he ordered one of his men, then left them to search the house while he went to the church.
Father Ralph, woken by the screams of his parishioners, had pulled on a cassock and run to the church. Sir Guillaume’s men had left him alone out of respect, but once inside the little church the priest had begun to hit the invaders until the Harlequin arrived and snarled at the men-at-arms to hold the priest. They seized his arms and held him in front of the altar with its white Easter frontal.
The Harlequin, his sword in his hand, bowed to Father Ralph. ‘My lord Count,’ he said.
Father Ralph closed his eyes, perhaps in prayer, though it looked more like exasperation. He opened them and gazed into the Harlequin’s handsome face. ‘You are my brother’s son,’ he said, and did not sound mad at all, merely full of regret.
‘True.’
‘How is your father?’
‘Dead,’ the Harlequin said, ‘as is his father and yours.’
‘God rest their souls,’ Father Ralph said piously.
‘And when you are dead, old man, I shall be the Count and our family will rise again.’
Father Ralph half smiled, then just shook his head and looked up at the lance. ‘It will do you no good,’ he said, ‘for its power is reserved for virtuous men. It will not work for evil filth like you.’ Then Father Ralph gave a curious mewing noise as the breath rushed from him and he stared down to where his nephew had run the sword into his belly. He struggled to speak, but no words came, then he collapsed as the men-at-arms released him and he slumped by the altar with blood puddling in his lap.
The Harlequin wiped his sword on the wine-stained altar cloth, then ordered one of Sir Guillaume’s men to find a ladder.
‘A ladder?’ the man-at-arms asked in confusion.
‘They thatch their roofs, don’t they? So they have a ladder. Find it.’ The Harlequin sheathed his sword, then stared up at the lance of St George.
‘I have put a curse on it.’ Father Ralph spoke faintly. He was pale-faced, dying, but sounded oddly calm.
‘Your curse, my lord, worries me as much as a tavern maid’s fart.’ The Harlequin tossed the pewter candlesticks to a man-at-arms, then scooped the wafers from the clay bowl and crammed them into his mouth. He picked up the bowl, peered at its darkened surface and reckoned it was a thing of no value so left it on the altar. ‘Where’s the wine?’ he asked Father Ralph.
Father Ralph shook his head. ‘Calix meus inebrians,’ he said, and the Harlequin just laughed. Father Ralph closed his eyes as the pain griped his belly. ‘Oh God,’ he moaned.
The Harlequin crouched by his uncle’s side. ‘Does it hurt?’
‘Like fire,’ Father Ralph said.
‘You will burn in hell, my lord,’ the Harlequin said, and he saw how Father Ralph was clutching his wounded belly to staunch the flow of blood and so he pulled the priest’s hands away and then, standing, kicked him hard in the stomach. Father Ralph gasped with pain and curled his body. ‘A gift from your family,’ the Harlequin said, then turned away as a ladder was brought into the church.
The village was filled with screams, for most of the women and children were still alive and their ordeal had scarcely begun. All the younger women were briskly raped by Sir Guillaume’s men and the prettiest of them, including Jane from the alehouse, were taken to the boats so they could be carried back to Normandy to become the whores or wives of Sir Guillaume’s soldiers. One of the women screamed because her baby was still in her house, but the soldiers did not understand her and they struck her to silence then pushed her into the hands of the sailors, who lay her on the shingle and lifted her skirts. She wept inconsolably as her house burned. Geese, pigs, goats, six cows and the priest’s good horse were herded towards