The Deadliest Sin Read Online Free Page A

a heavy belly that stuck over his belt like a sack of oats bound at the middle. His face was round and ruddy, with cheeks as red as the apples that made his
favourite drink, cider. A nose like a plum, and jowls like a mastiff’s gave him a pleasing appearance. He looked jolly, a genial, jovial man like a Bacchus come to earth. His eyes were
constantly creased as though in great humour – but when a man looked into them, it was clear that there was nothing there. No kindness, no humility, only an overweening greed and desire.
    When we were within eyesight of the town, he sat back on his mount and breathed deeply, before pointing to it and grinning at me and his own vinteners. ‘There, boys, that’s where
we’ll make our fortunes,’ he said.
    One of his sergeants, a man called Weaver, looked over at the town. Most of us in that army were good at grumbling. We’d fought all the way from the coast down to Paris and, like I say,
been chased away from there all the way to Crécy. There we won our famous victory, it is true, but the cost was high. We lost many friends, good friends, on that march homewards, so we felt
entitled to grumble.
    Anyway, Weaver was there at the front with Henry, and as he looked out over the town and the army, he drew his face into a sneer. ‘The King wants that? I wouldn’t pay a clipped penny
for the whole place.’
    ‘Shows how much you know of things like that,’ Henry said. He sat back in his saddle, gazing ahead of him, that smile on his thick lips, like a glutton presented with a whole roasted
suckling pig. ‘It’s the King’s delight, is Calais, and should be yours, too, Weaver. It’ll be an easy sail home from here. You can almost see England over there.’
    Weaver, he just grunted. All we could see was a greyish mess. Could have been clouds, but more likely it was the thick smoke rising from all about the town. When you have a few thousand
Englishmen in an army, you have a mess. Weaver wasn’t stupid enough to argue. We’d all seen others who’d argued with Henry. They hadn’t done so well.
    Anyway, Weaver, he said nothing. I thought it was because he didn’t want to be beaten, but when I looked at him, I saw why. He was staring down at a figure by the side of the road. A young
woman.
    Like I said, war is a horrible thing for the poor souls who work the land it smothers. That’s what war does, it engulfs whole lands; and the poor people who live there,
they’re like cattle. Captured, milked dry, and killed. Of course, for women and children, it’s worse. They are little better than slaves to an invading army, and any can be taken or
slain on a whim. I saw enough of that kind of casual brutality on the way to Calais. Even English boys who were there to help support the fighters were often beaten for no reason, just because the
soldiers knew they could.
    This girl had been brought up well. She had soft skin on her hands, and her knees were unmarked. She wasn’t a peasant’s child, I could see that from the first. But her clothing was
rough, tattered stuff that would have suited a maid from a plague vill. You know what I mean. We’ve all heard of folk who’ve lost their families since the plague. In France, I’ve
seen worse: girls and boys without their fathers, who’ve had to fend for themselves for months until they starved. All with swollen bellies, their faces pinched and grey. Well, this girl had
the same ragged clothing, but her belly was flat, her face still haughty. It was a wonder she had not learned humility yet, I thought. After all, a girl with that kind of manner appeals to many
men.
    You can imagine how a girl like her would have found life under the English boot. She had been brought up to enjoy all the finer things: good food, wine, servants. Suddenly she was homeless,
wandering with the refugees trying to escape the English. Us.
    Who was she? No one. She had been raised in some town or other – mayhap it was Caen – and was daughter to