Warlord(145)

‘These men are prisoners of war,’ I said. ‘They are knights who have surrendered and given their word that they will not escape, and who will be ransomed by their families in the fullness of time.’

‘We know who they are … Sir Knight,’ said the man by the brazier, leering at me. I noticed that the lump of charcoal held in the iron pincers in his fist had been extinguished. He saw where I was looking, dropped the black lump into the brazier and selected another, this one glowing the colour of a ripe cherry. He moved towards Roland and I was transported back nearly a decade to a stinking cell in Winchester where an enemy of mine had threatened me with a similar torment.

‘No, wait,’ I said. ‘I forbid you. You cannot do this!’

‘And why not, Sir Knight?’ said a cold voice, chilling as the grave, that came from behind my right shoulder.

I turned to look upon Mercadier. His scar was a furrow of black that cut across his swarthy face; his eyes stagnant pools of malice.

‘Why can I not do this?’ he repeated.

‘It is inhuman – it is immoral. It runs against all the laws of God and chivalry.’

‘Chivalry?’ said Mercadier. ‘There is no true chivalry in war, that is a mere fancy, invented by milk-sop poets such as yourself for the amusement of bored ladies. There is only victory or defeat; the living or the dead; friend or foe.’

‘These men are prisoners; they have surrendered and so must be treated honourably. They can do us no harm.’

‘They are the enemy,’ he said in his quiet, stone-like tone. ‘Too often we have taken men in battle, accepted their surrender, handed over their living bodies for silver and then had to fight them again the next year. That will not happen with these knights. We will ransom them, yes. But they will never fight again against King Richard.’

‘Does the King know about this … this outrage?’ I was beginning to feel desperate.

Now Mercadier laughed, a slow, evil grating sound. ‘Do you think the King does not know what I do for him?’ he said. ‘Everything I do, Sir Knight, I do with his royal blessing.’

The man with the hot coal moved forward towards Roland. My cousin closed his eyes, and lay there, his brow beaded with sweat but immobile, accepting his fate.

‘Stop,’ I shouted. ‘Stop, right now. I will buy this man from you – unharmed! I will ransom him from you. Name your price, Mercadier.’

‘You, Sir Knight? You will ransom this Frenchman?’ For the first time, Mercadier showed emotion, if greed can be called an emotion. ‘Now that is an interesting idea: what price shall I name then?’

I said nothing. Roland had opened his eyes and was looking at me. I kept my gaze fixed on him, willing him to take courage, silently promising him that I would not let him suffer this awful mutilation.

‘You can have him for a hundred pounds in silver,’ said Mercadier blandly.

‘What!’ I was genuinely astounded by the price. ‘A hundred pounds? You are jesting. He is a young knight, not a duke. His ransom should be no more than ten.’



I was not haggling for the sake of it; ten pounds was a year’s revenue from Westbury, and the most I could raise in Normandy, even if I went to the Jews of Rouen.

‘You refuse? Very well, Jean, carry on – blind him.’

‘Wait,’ I shouted, ‘wait!’ I thought about the King’s offer of a dowry of a hundred pounds – it was a huge sum of money, and if I promised it to Mercadier, it would mean that I might never be able to rebuild Clermont or buy another, better fief.

‘I will pay it,’ I said. ‘Release the prisoner.’

‘You want him very badly, it seems. But I think a man who will pay a hundred pounds for one enemy knight will willingly pay two hundred. The new price is two hundred.’

For a fleeting moment, I thought about drawing my sword and slicing my blade into his ugly face; but I knew I would not live to boast of my actions: Mercadier had thirty men there, I was alone. But I honestly could not pay the sum he asked. I did not have two hundred pounds and I had no way of raising it. I looked at Roland, and my despair must have been apparent. But he was smiling at me ruefully, and shaking his head. ‘I thank you for your efforts, Sir Alan,’ he murmured. ‘But apparently it is God’s will that I must suffer this.’

‘I cannot pay it; I truly cannot!’ I said, speaking to the friend, the cousin whose sight I could not afford to save.

‘But I can,’ said a voice, a strong, commanding voice, the voice of an outlaw, or an earl. ‘I shall pay this trifling ransom. You have made an offer of two hundred pounds, and I accept it. There will be no further negotiations. Cut the Frenchman free.’