Godfrey de Claville was no coward but when Blackstone had lifted the surgeon’s feet off the ground and tossed him aside as if he were nothing more than a bundle of cloth, he had pressed himself against the wall. ‘Sir Thomas, there is no monastery or convent less than several hours from here, but we have a priest who will make sure your friend is shriven before he dies.’

‘Merciful Christ,’ said Blackstone. ‘This man’s life is precious to me. Find me someone to help him and I swear to you I will give you whatever you wish – if it is within my power.’

Godfrey de Claville saw the pagan symbol around Blackstone’s neck. ‘You were an archer, Sir Thomas. I see you wear the Silver Wheel Goddess. Arianrhod protects English bowmen who kill good Frenchmen, but you wear a crucifix as well.’

‘Good Frenchmen mutilate archers when they are seized. They need all the protection they can get. The crucifix is my wife’s.’

‘And which power holds sway over your soul? The pagan goddess or the symbol of everlasting life?’

‘I make my own destiny. And I will pray to whoever I damned well please. I made you an offer.’

De Claville saw no reason to antagonize Blackstone further. ‘There is a man. They captured him in the baggage train with Jean de Grailly’s retinue. But if you are fearful of a Christian God or your man here fears for his soul, then I will not bring him.’

‘Speak in plain words, man. Who is it? You bring a sorcerer? If he can help, fetch him. A friend who lives is better than one dead and his soul and mine have long since been ransomed to the devil.’

De Claville turned to the guard outside the door. ‘Fetch the Jew!’

CHAPTER TWELVE

Godfrey de Claville’s guards ushered in a man older in years than anyone else in the room, who wore a robe that reached below his knees, covered by a hooded dark tan cloak held by a brooch. He seemed to be someone of importance as his shirt was silk and his shoes, although scuffed, were of a quality leather. His cloak and clothing were, however, grubby: witness to his incarceration although there was no sign that he had been injured. Flecks of grey sprinkled his beard, and he was slightly built, his hands as slender as a woman’s. He carried a leather satchel and a rolled-up oilskin. He glanced at Blackstone, settled his baggage on the long table and gazed down at the injured man. He did not touch the wound or examine the patient they had summoned him to attend. Satisfied with what he saw, he raised his eyes to Blackstone.

‘I am Halif ben Josef. I served Lord Jean de Grailly at the behest of my lord, Charles of Navarre. I am a Jew.’

Blackstone looked him up and down. ‘You wear no mark.’