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He looked at Alain and added, “I even spoke to the town and got the same answer I did from the count. So much for democracy.”

Alain, as an echevin, could understand the town’s reply. Under Charlemagne the counties had been jointly governed by a bishop and a count. But Liege had received a charter from the king and was governed by merchants. The Church had long ago come to terms with this arrangement, but few bishops liked it. Still, he refused to be drawn into the argument.

Mandeville had no such qualms. He almost purred, “But didn’t Aquinas say that the state is a kind of pact between the king and the people?”

The bishop snorted. “In De Regimine Principii Thomas declared that monarchy is the best government. The body has one head, not many.”

When Mandeville replied with a quotation from the Summa Theologica Alain’s attention wandered. He wondered that Mandeville could deal with so many men, all on their own level. He himself had profited from Mandeville’s knowledge of trade, from how and where to get the best wool from England to where and how to find buyers in Italy. The only statement Alain knew from Aquinas, he had learned from Mandeville: Man does not sin in using moderate gains acquired in trade for the support of his household. Since he had a broad understanding of what was meant by support of his household, Alain felt no guilt as his wealth increased.

This was, to Alain’s surprise, one time when Mandeville was not disposed to debate at length. He had got the permission he wanted. Now he thanked the bishop and took Alain back into the dark, narrow streets of Liege to seek a few brave men to help them attack the coven.

Three hours later they had found no recruits. Everyone wanted the witches caught. No one wanted to catch them.

“There is no help in the town,” Mandeville said, “so let us turn to the castle.”

Alain was glad to do so.

As they left the city wall behind them and rode toward the castle, Alain’s thoughts were all on the count’s daughter. He had hoped for an excuse to see her again. None had presented itself until now. He felt lightheaded. His heart palpitated in a strange manner. He felt as if life could give him no greater gift than to see and perhaps speak with Louise de Broux.

Approaching the castle they passed two knights slowly riding their mounts around the exercise ground. They saluted them and entered. The gate leading to the lists was narrow and Mandeville preceded Alain. In this manner they crossed the drawbridge and entered the castle. In its bailey, beyond the stables and smithy, was the count’s chapel. The Count de Broux, his wife, daughter, and seneschal came out of the chapel before Mandeville and Alain reached the castle’s inner wall. The count hailed them. His marshal called several stable boys to tend their horses and the count invited his guests into the palace.

Alain, however, was claimed by Louise. The rat killer must help them, she said. Rats were threatening their stores of grain. She had her way, as she apparently usually did.

So, while Mandeville and the count went into the palace to talk, Alain, led by Louise and accompanied by the countess, the seneschal, the marshal, and several servants, set out to protect the castle food supply.

Across the bailey from the chapel was their bakehouse. This, Louise said, was the area infested by rats. The seneschal, a grizzled knight in his fifties, ordered the door thrown open. Two servants obeyed him and they all saw three rats scurrying about inside.

The marshal, oblivious to everyone around him, grabbed a club and charged in after the rats. With him rushing about in the bakehouse, Alain could not throw at the rats. The seneschal called to the marshal to get out of the way, but the marshal, a little man who scampered about like a dog chasing a rabbit in an open field, ignored the words. He seemed to be a person who could keep only one thing on his mind at a time, and killing rats was his fixed idea.

The seneschal laughed. “Georges Delfose is a wild man,” he said. “He’ll kill one of those pests if it takes him all day.” It seemed as if it might. The man was so comical that everyone laughed. He heard the laughter and his fury increased. None of his blows came within a foot of any of the rats but the rodents were as frantic as he was. Their raucous squeals mixed with his curses and the thunder of the club pounding the earthen floor.

A fourth rat crept from somewhere to see what was going on and quickly disappeared again. The marshal was nimble, strong, indefatigable, and thoroughly inaccurate. One final two-handed blow shattered his club. The seneschal ran in and grabbed the frustrated marshal. “That’s the third club you’ve broken in two weeks,” he said, “and you’ve never killed a rat yet. You stay with trapping them. Now go outside and let Mr. Schram get at them.” He half led and half dragged him out.

Alain walked into the bakehouse. Dust filled the air. The rats were quiet, but Alain could see two of them. One had been running between the oven and a large baking tray in the corner. It was by the oven now in plain sight, waiting to dodge another blow. Alain’s wrist came forward and his dagger accounted for one rat.

Behind him there were cheers. A small crowd of knights, squires, peasants, and servants had gathered to watch the marshal’s antics. Now they applauded the first kill. Louise was so excited that she lost all sense of being a young woman and became the girl he had first seen kicking at the rat which attacked her.

With the first sign of success, several servants volunteered to beat on the side of the bakehouse to scare rats into the open. A rousing hour and a half followed. At the end, seven rats had been killed and no more could be found.

There seemed little point to intruding on the count and Mandeville, so Alain waited out in the bailey, talking with Louise and the countess and the seneschal.

Louise showed him the stables where the knights’ steeds were being groomed. Most of the stalls were empty. “There are only six knights serving the count now,” the seneschal said. “Once there were half a hundred.”

The smithy was equally spacious. One smith and two assistants were at work. The count’s retainers formed a small community now. As the town had grown, the castle and its villages had become less important. But for Alain the castle held one thing the town could not match, Louise de Broux.

When the count and Mandeville returned, Louise changed again. Her artless chattering became witty. Her careless gestures became graceful. Her frank admiration of Alain’s skill with the dagger became warm appreciation as she told her father what had been going on.

The count was gracious in his thanks. As Alain and Mandeville prepared to leave, the count ordered his seneschal to give each a purse of money. “No guest ever leaves without a gift,” he said.

As they rode toward Liege, Alain noted the small farms they passed. “The count’s wealth comes from these serfs, peasants, and freemen,” he commented to Mandeville, “and they live in huts without windows and at most a table and chair or two within. I feel I should return the count’s gift to them.”

“Which ones?”

“That is the problem. I would probably cause jealousy and stir up trouble if I tried.”

“And the count would be mortally insulted. You are wealthier than he is anyway. Would you give your own money to them?”

“I see what you mean. Still, I don’t feel right about it. How did your talk with the count go?”

“He and his knights want nothing to do with witches. They’ll fight against the King of England or the Emperor of Germany, but they want no part of the Prince of Darkness.”