Hundred Years War: Fields Of Glory Part 13

He saw Clip loose again, saw Will aiming and then Will turned and saw the Donkey. He span, arms wide in warning, and Berenger was sure he heard Will's voice . . . and then three bolts struck Will, one after the other, in his b.u.t.tock, his kidney, and one in his neck, and Will toppled to the ground, blood gushing from his mouth and nose.

Berenger stared, appalled. Will had been his friend for years. Berenger couldn't believe he was dead, killed by a Genoese s.h.i.t of a mercenary. A mist of raw fury came down over him, and Berenger began to run, heedless of the bolts and stones flung at him. He clambered up the rampart and at the top he fought with a concentrated rage that brooked no impediment. A man before him cut at Berenger with frantic despair, but Berenger caught his blade on his sword's cross, dragged it down, punched him with his left fist, and shoved quickly with the blade. It sliced deep into the man's thigh, and he fell; another man was before him, and he held his sword like a man holding a snake, but Berenger's cut took off his hand and wrist; another man was behind him, and this one flew at him with a flurry of cuts like a whirling dancer but a Welsh spearman behind Berenger stabbed at him, and the man fell with the blood pumping from his throat.

Berenger was over the rampart now, and killing, killing all the way. He kicked and punched, parried and cut, and when he reached a Genoese bowman, he took the man's head off in one sweep of his sword. All the way, he heard the wails and cries of terror as the English pursued the French through the streets. None had thought the English would reach this far, and there were no more barricades, no defences of any kind. Utterly lost, the defenders ran hither and thither, chased by laughing men brandishing spears, swords, long knives or even clubs. The slaughter continued long into the evening.

It was then, when Berenger found himself slumping against the wall of a church in the city again, that the black reaction came over him.

Looking about him, he saw bodies everywhere. Two men lay at his feet, both with gaping wounds. Nearby lay other men without arms, without heads, with their hamstrings cut, their corpses discarded like so much rubbish. The whole street reeked of death.

It was a scene of h.e.l.l.

'Dear Christ, what have we done?' he groaned.

He wanted to weep.

Sir John left the fighting tired but content. While he had not taken much in the way of loot, he was still alive and whole, which was all to the good. The only pain he acknowledged was a soreness in his shoulder and neck from wielding his sword. It had been hard work in that press, but they had won the day.

Dear G.o.d! he prayed, gazing back at the city. You have granted us a marvellous success. To have conquered a city so strong as that in an afternoon! It was truly a miraculous achievement.

He nodded to the guards outside the King's pavilion and entered to find King Edward stalking about it in a towering rage.

'Who do they think they are to thwart me?' he began, his pale blue eyes flashing with anger. 'They wanted to hold their gates against me me! Only a few remain, shuttered up in the castle. Well, we can take our time over that. How many of our men are lost?'

Clerics scribbled urgently in ledgers. The Earl of Warwick stood looking over their shoulders with Sir G.o.dfrey de Harcourt nearby. Three other knights stood huddled together as though in defence against the King's mood.

'I fear it is some hundreds,' Warwick said. 'Genoese archers did some harm, but the fighting was fierce especially when we came to the bridge. The Welshmen were brave indeed to wade across the river and outflank the militia, but still, many archers were killed.'

'How many of my archers?'

'Three, perhaps four hundred, Your Majesty.'

'So many?'

The King's face went white. At first Sir John thought it was merely shock, but then he realised that this was pure, white-hot wrath. King Edward III had come to power with a sword in his fist, capturing his mother and her adulterous lover, Roger Mortimer. His choleric temper was forged in vengeance. Those who thwarted his ambition learned to their cost that a King's right should not be questioned.

'Three or four hundred of my archers are dead because of these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds? We need those archers, my Lord! They are the strength of our army, in Christ's name!'

'We can make up the numbers, Your Majesty,' the Earl said calmly. He had been eating a hunk of bread, and now he tossed the crust to two hounds lying on a rug. The two bickered over it, and then one snapped at the other's throat and pinned him to the ground until he yelped. The winner took his prize, swallowing it in a quick gulp.

The King watched the two as Warwick continued.

'Send messages to your sheriffs and ask for more archers. They will understand the urgency. Besides, there were some who were late to the muster. Perhaps they will have arrived by now. It is not only these men today whom we have lost: there were others on the way. Now would be a good time to replenish your army with men as well as provisions.'

'Yes. You are right,' the King said, but his mind seemed elsewhere. He pointed to his hounds. 'See them? The fastest and boldest wins the treat. The greater overwhelms the lazier, more indolent brute just as we shall defeat Philippe. We shall win the land and I shall take the crown. We have swallowed this town today. A swift attack, and our men proved their valour. In the same way we can take the whole of France, if the coward Philippe will ever dare to meet us.'

'We shall make such a din of war in all his land that he will be forced to meet us,' the Earl said comfortably.

Sir John was surprised to see the Earl so calm. He had expected Warwick to display more anger. After all, many of the archers thrown into that hectic fight had been his own va.s.sals.

'We shall do that,' the King declared, and then he frowned. 'So many of my archers gone that is a great shame. Not all were killed by the Genoese b.a.s.t.a.r.ds?'

'No. When our fellows broke into the city, the citizens took to their roofs and hurled stones and other missiles down upon them. Those, along with the barricades and the militia fighting street-to-street, caused most of the injuries.'

'So the people of the city are guilty of all these murderous acts?' The King's voice grew cold again. 'You will give orders, my Lord. In punishment for their intolerable revolt against my honour, the people of this city shall pay a heavy price. The army may take what they want tonight: loot, women anything and be free of censure. And then I shall burn the city to the ground.

'Your Majesty, it shall be done.'

'Wait a moment, please, my Lord?'

Sir John saw that G.o.dfrey de Harcourt had interrupted before the Earl could put his orders into force. He was a shortish knight, with the dark hair and eyes of a Norman, a strong, square jaw, and heavy brows. Sir John knew him by sight: he was a wealthy landowner, but because he had declared his loyalty to Edward, he had been exiled from France. Sir John was wary about Normans, for he considered them prey to divided loyalties, and apt to change with the wind at a moment's notice, but this man seemed reliable enough. He had been enormously useful, Sir John had heard, in choosing the site of the English force's landing, and then deciding on which route the King should take. Now Sir G.o.dfrey was pale.

'You wish to add something?'

'Your Highness, I beg that you curb your wrath. You brought me with you to advise you. Let me give you my opinion. I know these people. They are my people. You can destroy this city. It is yours, and if you wish to bring it down, you can do so. But I urge that you reconsider. It has already been sacked. There are no families which have not suffered the full brunt of your attack. They have seen their property taken, their animals slaughtered, their women raped, their treasure stolen. Many have lost their menfolk. They have suffered. But if you go further, sire, if you burn the place as well, you will have shown that you are utterly merciless. All the cities and towns between here and Paris will rise up and fight you. Why would they not? Where is the virtue in surrender, when the result is the same? At least if they fight, they will die with honour. So they will contest every town, every village, every hamlet, every street. You will never win another quick victory like that which you have won today. And that will cost you more time, and men! You say it is your urgent wish to a.s.sault Philippe? Then you have a need for haste. Delay here, and it will not aid your cause. If you have to fight every step on the way to Paris your army will be depleted, so that when you do meet Philippe, he will prove too strong. He may win the day, or you can choose to retreat from him, and that would not gain you respect.'

'Then what do you recommend?'

'This: your army has already made free with the city, so show them mercy, and others will submit to you. They will bring you food and wine. They will aid you. You own the city already. It is a poor thing, to destroy that which hundreds gave their lives to win.'

The King nodded slowly, but reluctantly, Sir John thought. He was not inclined to mercy. This was not a campaign to win over the loyalty of the Normans by showing clemency; it was a campaign of conquest.

The Earl of Warwick snorted and peered down at his torn surcoat. Blood adorned the bright red of his shield, and the yellow stripe that pa.s.sed between the six crosses was ripped where swords had thrust at him.

'There is another aspect, Your Highness,' he said, clearing his throat. 'This is a good port. We may hope to win another, but for now, Caen could be used to resupply ourselves with men and provisions.'

'Which other do we hope to win?' Sir John asked, and for the first time in that meeting, he saw a smile break out over the King's face.

'Those b.a.s.t.a.r.d French at Calais protect pirates,' Edward said. 'I have long felt that, if we could, we should take Calais. Even if the French King refuses to fight me in France, he will change his mind when we lay siege to Calais. He cannot allow that city to fall without fighting.'

The town that night was a scene of riotous pleasure as the English and Welsh moved from one house to another, liberating them of wine and cider, furs, pewter and silver.

Ed wandered through it all in a daze, looking for the vintaine. He had lost them as they continued into the town, and now he gazed about with a growing sense of unreality. He was used to ribald singing and occasional fights from sailors in his home town of Portsmouth, but to see the army let off the leash in this way was like gaining a view of the inner circles of h.e.l.l. He saw men bending a shrieking woman over a table as they took her in turns. A man was on the floor, and Ed a.s.sumed it was the woman's husband. A thick pool of blood lay all about him from a terrible gash in his forehead.

A scream from further up the lane caught his attention, and he turned in time to see a woman running from a house, two men chasing after her with cups of wine spilling. She turned at a locked door, and as the men approached her, she drew a little eating-knife from her belt and, weeping, shouted something at them. Ed didn't understand her words, but it sounded like a plea. One of the men, laughing, went to her, but cursed when he felt the p.r.i.c.k of her blade. He drew a long dagger and began to slash at her, long, raking cuts that sliced into her and opened her belly, her breast, and then her throat. She fell, wailing, and Ed watched helplessly as the man kicked her slowly moving body, hurling vile abuse, until his friend called him away.

Ed could not drag his eyes from her. She was only about twenty, if that, and her long dark hair was unbraided, falling from beneath her coif to lie in disarray over her shoulders. As he watched her, he saw her eyes rise to his. There was no expression in her face, only a dumb acceptance, as though he was like all the others, the men who had raped her and killed her. He was no better, because he was a man. She swallowed and he thought he saw a tear run down her cheek, but then she sighed, and her entire body sagged, as though her soul had been sucked from her in that moment.

He couldn't bear to see any more. He turned and fled through the streets, now fitfully lighted by occasional bonfires or by burning houses, away from her accusing eyes. That was how it had felt as she looked at him, as though he was just one more man like those others. He was no better.

That must be how all the English were viewed, he thought. These people could only see the English through the gla.s.s of their own experience. Men and women slaughtered like beasts, their city pulled apart around them, the richest merchants captured and held for ransom while their daughters were despoiled.

A group of men burst from a building ahead, and he slunk into the darkness, feeling afraid. Somewhere in the city were Berenger, Geoff and Clip, and he should find them. With them he would be safe, but not here. Out here in the streets was no place for a boy like him. Not tonight. Not ever.

The flickering lights showed him another long alley, and he hurriedly slipped into it, his bare feet slapping through the puddles and ordure, until he came to a broader thoroughfare. He cautiously poked his head around the corner, and gazed up and down. He heard footsteps approaching, and singing. Returning to his little alley, he waited anxiously, until a group of men appeared. There were two archers in the front, English, and he felt the relief flare in his breast. They didn't seem too drunk or dangerous.

There was a movement, and he saw a woman at the street opposite, her hair all awry, eyes wild.

Ed was transfixed. She was a pretty woman, much older than him, but in her fear for her safety he felt she was a kindred soul. In a moment the men would see her, and they would rape and kill her, just as they had the French maid and just as the French had killed his mother.

He would not allow it.

Without further thought, he stepped into the road, jerking his head at her to show she should conceal herself again.

By the second jerk of his head, she had disappeared, and now he found himself facing the group and too late he realised that the archers were separate. They were already past him, and now he was confronted by the men behind: the Welsh spearmen.

'Another French pup!' one cried, and he was soon ringed by them, many speaking out in their uncouth tongue. A few laughed and chattered in English, and he called to them, pointing out that he was English and with the army himself.

It didn't help. One of them, Owain, an ill-favoured man with black eyes and brows that formed a single dark line, bared his teeth in a laugh, and pulled out a long dagger. He pointed at Ed, saying something he couldn't understand, and then a man came and gripped Ed's arm and pulled him forward.

'Wait! No! Leave me alone,' he said desperately. 'I'm English! Remember? You saw me at the tavern at Portsmouth? I bought you ale!'

One uncoiled a rope and threw it over a beam projecting from a house. He took one end and made a noose, all the while grinning at Ed.

Erbin appeared from a nearby house and stared at Ed with a smile spreading over his face. He was chewing at a lump of cheese, and in his hand was a short knife. 'Yes, we remember Portsmouth. But you have been dropping us in the midden, haven't you, boy? You said we attacked you and robbed you, you lying little s.h.i.t!'

As he spoke he came closer, his eyes reflecting the glittering flames from a burning house.

'You did!' Ed burst out. 'It was the vintaine who found me after your robbery!'

'Go swyve your mother!' Erbin sneered. 'You are a pain in the a.r.s.e, boy. Owain, kill him!'

Ed was dragged, shouting in terror, his eyes fixed on that fearful loop, while Erbin strode off into the night. Ed tried to draw his head away as the laughing hangman attempted to slip it around his neck. In the end, a cuff left him so dazed that his knees would have buckled, were it not for the man holding his elbows. They set the noose in place.

He felt the hemp tighten, and he screamed at them, but then his hands were released, and he tried to scrabble at the cord. He couldn't grip it. The rope was too tight. He could not touch the ground, and he began kicking and bucking. The rope was fast against his throat, just under his jaw, the knot beneath his left ear, forcing his head to the side, and every kick he gave made it tighter. In his panic, he had no conscious thought of the rope, nor of his little dagger in its sheath; rational thoughts were flown. All he could think of was the breath that hurt like a thousand dagger cuts as he tried to breathe. His throat was closing, and his lungs wouldn't work. His eyes, wildly staring at his murderers, were full of anguish as he tried to move his belly to bring in just a little air, enough for one breath. One breath could last a lifetime, and he craved a breeze to pa.s.s into his nostrils. But his nostrils were burning hot, and there was nothing to cool them.

Beneath him, Owain was laughing, he saw. Laughing.

Beatrice saw the boy grabbed, and it was enough to make her flee. She ran swiftly, ignoring the pebbles and shards of broken pottery that flayed her feet.

The boy had saved her. He had given her the chance of life.

All this long day she had been trying to find somewhere safe in the madness of the city. Her hiding place had been secure, until a man had thrown a burning torch into the house and she was forced into the open again. The hopes she had nurtured on the long walk here, of escaping English brutality, had turned to ashes. She was no better off here than she would have been in the fields and woods. In fact, she was less safe. In the countryside she could run away, as she had from Alain before slaying him.

Here she was enclosed by walls and rivers. It was an unnatural place, a city of death. Even that poor boy would soon be dead. She wished there was something she could do to save him.

Pelting along, she turned a corner and found herself confronted by fifteen men. Their bows and clothing declared them to be English, and she stopped, staring and gaping. And then an idea formed in her mind. She might still be able to save the boy.

'Vite! Vite!' she pleaded, and turned to race back to the boy.

Ed glimpsed movement, but he was beyond caring. He swung gently, spinning slowly as the hempen cord creaked.

Two men were striding forward, then running. More came behind them. One Welshman was thrust aside, hurled into a second, and both were slammed to the ground; Owain turned suddenly, and his body was run through with a steel blade that appeared through his back, waving and moving as the swordsman wriggled and jerked it. It was Berenger, Ed saw, Berenger with a snarl of fury fixed to his face, who booted the man away. And then Ed found he was falling, blessedly, to the ground, and the rope loosened, and he could gasp with his almost-crushed throat burning like a chimney over a hot fire.

'I . . .' He was caught between coughing and vomiting.

'Quiet, boy,' Geoff said kindly. 'You're safe now. We won't let them do anything else to you.'

Ed looked about him as Geoff rubbed gently at his bruised neck. Clip stood with his sword at the breast of the nearest Welshman, as if sorely tempted to slip it into him. Jack had hold of another, his dagger at the man's shoulder, ready to thrust down into his heart. Berenger stood beside Owain's body, his sword b.l.o.o.d.y. 'Are you all right, Donkey? Did these s.h.i.tes do anything else to you?'

Ed tried to stand, but he couldn't. His legs wouldn't support his weight. 'I . . . I thought I . . .'

'It's all right, lad,' Geoff said, his curious, hissing voice sounding malevolent and dangerous as he glanced about him at the Welshmen. 'They'll never try this again, I swear.'

'How did you find me?'

'She saved you, boy. Without her, you'd be dead,' Berenger said, pointing. The Welsh, he saw, were listening, but he disregarded them. If he had taken a little more care, he would have saved Beatrice a great deal of grief in the coming days.

Gil was saying harshly, 'And if you were dead, Donkey, we'd have destroyed all of these Welsh c.u.n.ts too.'

Ed stared at Beatrice and tried to smile. When he swallowed, however, it felt as though he still had the rope about his neck.

A moment later, he was being picked up and carried away, while the vintaine gathered together behind him, and he clung to Geoff like a child as he was borne away, back to their lodgings.

Archibald was at his wagon when the vintaine returned, Berenger and the other men looking weary, Geoff carrying the boy.

'What happened to him?' Archibald asked.

Berenger turned to him a face full of pain. He looked at the gynour searchingly, then glanced down at the pot on his little fire.

'Master Fripper, be seated,' Archibald said with gruff understanding. 'I should be glad to share some little of my pottage with you.'

'No. I'm fine,' Berenger said.

Archibald sighed. It was often the way of other men that they would avoid the Serpentine: gynours who spent their lives working with the strange black powder.

'Master, you are alive,' Archibald said. 'Remember that, my friend.'

'Aye.'

Berenger walked away, and Archibald watched him go. Gradually he became aware of a young woman watching him.

'Yes?'

She too stared at him, then at his pottage.

He shrugged. 'If you want some, you can have some, maid.'

She approached him warily.

Beatrice had followed the vintaine as they made their way back to the camp. There was nothing in the town to tempt her to remain.

This gynour appeared amiable enough. A great bear of a man, and with the marks and stains of powder burns on his arms. His clothes were pocked and burned, as was his old coif, but he smiled and she felt he was no threat. She sat opposite him at his fire, and although she sipped some of his soup, she didn't get within arm's reach.

'Don't be scared of me, maid. I'm not going to hurt you,' Archibald said.

'What makes you think I fear you?' she asked.

'Most do, when they see my clothes,' Archibald said. 'It makes men and women think I'm a sorcerer.'