Hundred Years War: Fields Of Glory Part 18

'Do I look like a faithless coward?' Sir John snapped. 'No. I mean that we must look to the defence of our King and Prince. We have many young knights and esquires among us who are less experienced in battle than you or I. We know not to race ahead of our companions because we see a tempting target. Others do not, and are often surrounded and overwhelmed.'

'We rarely lose unless we are taken by surprise,' Berenger noted.

Sir John's flash of anger was already flown. 'True enough, my friend. However, the bridge at Rouen is gone. The French will be fools if they do not seek to destroy other bridges with the aim of preventing our crossing except at the place of King Philippe's choice. When we have the opportunity, a few hotheads may rush over, then find themselves in a trap. It would only take a small force to throw our army into disarray. Think: a force of a thousand archers and men, crossing at a suitable point, and then enclosed and wiped out. All France would see that the English were not invincible, and our men would lose heart. They would feel that their King's star was waning, and mutterings would begin. Many would accuse the King of foolishness in seeking the crown, and some might even desert his cause.'

'So what do you suggest?'

'No more than this: keep an eye on your men. You will serve me directly, and I will bring you to support the Prince. He is our hope and future. We have to protect him at all costs.'

'At all costs,' Berenger repeated softly.

'You understand, don't you? Keep your men on a tight rein. If there is a need for military prowess, we shall form a resolute band. But we cannot afford to risk archers committing themselves like at Caen, or see men like Sir Thomas rushing in w.i.l.l.y nilly.'

'No, sir.'

'I have fought in many battles, Fripper. At Halidon Hill we crippled the Scottish and left the main part of their army dead on the gra.s.s, because we English held our line. We didn't break our ranks, but held together as the Scottish attacked. It was just as they had done to us at Bannockburn, when they held the ground and we charged them, and were destroyed.'

'You were there?'

'It was my first battle, and my worst. But it showed me the importance of discipline.' He threw a stern glance at Berenger. 'At Caen we could have lost everything. The archers rushed ahead and yes, we took the city. But if the French had set traps in the walled town, things could have turned out very differently. If the Welsh had not succeeded in their flanking attack, if the archers were held at the gatehouse, if there had been more barricades that held up our men, if the citizens began to drop more rocks and missiles on our fellows . . . it would have gone ill for us.'

'I was there.'

'I know. And I am saying this because you are not usually foolhardy. Next time, wait until your King has drawn together all his forces before you take such a risk. Otherwise you could be responsible for the destruction of the English, and of your King's ambitions. So, if you see a fool like Sir Thomas rush off to fight, next time, leave him to get on with it.'

'He could have died without our support.'

'Then so be it. It is worth losing one rash fool compared with losing the battle. We need steadiness in the army.'

'Aye, Sir John.' Berenger looked at him with respect mingled with relief. His nagging concerns about the leadership of the army had been quelled.

'Now return and find your men. I will speak with you again very soon.'

'I have bread and wine here, boy. We lack meat, more's the shame, but there is some thick pottage left over from last night, if you want some. We can soon heat it up.'

Archibald bent to the fire again, and Ed saw that he had made small loaves of bread which were sitting on top of a steel disk over the embers. The glorious scent of newly baked bread mingled with the odour of brimstone.

'What is that smell?' Ed asked.

'Don't worry about it. I use this same pan to test my mixtures sometimes. A little of the smell gets into the metal, I suppose,' Archibald said.

Ed nodded, joining him at the fire. 'Is Beatrice here?'

'She's gone off somewhere, boy. Don't worry about her.'

'I do, though. If you'd seen the way that the Welsh treated her . . .'

'I did, remember? But they will think twice about doing anything to her while she's with me.'

'I've heard rumours, rumours that . . .' Ed stammered. He felt foolish even mentioning it.

'That I'm in league with the Devil, I suppose.'

'Yes.'

'I can make magic, of course. You may see that one day.'

'Oh.'

'And I am considered so foul by the Lord G.o.d, that I must be ostracised and excommunicated.'

'I hadn't heard that, but-'

'And my soul is doomed. Oh, and so are those of any who join with me. Like you.'

'I . . .' Ed looked into the fire. In his heart he felt sure that he could see demons deep in the flames, leering at him.

Archibald suddenly gave an explosion of laughter.

'Boy, it's ballocks! I am a man like any other. I am a Christian, and I go to the altar like you every day. There is nothing to fear from me. They say I make magic. What they mean is, they don't understand how I do things without magic.'

He pulled out a platter of wood, and slid the bread onto it. 'Go on, boy, eat. You see, what I do is make use of modern arts. I learned from a clever religious man many years ago how to make the black powder. It is a marvellous powder, full of energy and excitement. It makes flashes and flames, it lights the sky, if you want it to. In years to come, it will be seen as the means of giving princes power. Because no matter how highborn, no matter how wealthy, a man with a bag of powder at his side will be your equal.'

'How can you say that? Powder?'

'Watch and learn, boy!'

The gynour rose and walked over to the wagon. He took up a leather satchel, inside which was a waxed bag like a small wineskin. Bringing this back to the fireside, he pulled out the cork and poured a small amount into his hand. Thick black flakes of powder appeared, and Ed peered at them closely.

'It looks like the dust from the roadside after the rains have panned the mud and wagons have crushed it,' he said.

'Aye. And I make it in much the same way, very carefully mingling the three elements clean charcoal, brimstone and saltpetre. I have made it from other ingredients, but those three, mixed in the correct proportion, give you the real powder. After that, I wet the mixture into a thick pottage, and then leave to dry on wooden racks in the sun. Never by a fire! Later, I crumble it gently, very gently in a large mortar, and finally, I am left with this glorious, G.o.d-given residue: black powder. Look!'

The gynour threw the powder into the fire. There was a sizzling flash, and a roiling cloud of blue-black smoke rose from the fire like a small thundercloud.

Ed did not see it. He had leaped away, yelping: 'Christ Jesus, save me!'

Archibald laughed at his shock, setting his little flask on the ground beside him.

'Don't panic! It is quite safe,' Beatrice said, walking up to them and sitting near the fire. 'It is only the powder he uses in his guns.'

'I know. It was a gun like that which killed my father,' Ed said brokenly.

Soon they had reached the outer limits of the camp. At first, the sentries on duty were suspicious of the little cavalcade, but before long Berenger was back with Granda.r.s.e and the men, squatting at the fireside and dunking pieces of rough, unleavened bread in a watery pottage.

'How was it?' Geoff asked.

'Not bad. They have a lot of men up there,' Berenger said, looking at Granda.r.s.e.

The latter pulled a face. 'Aye, the b.u.g.g.e.rs are likely thinking they can roll us up like a tapestry and throw us into the sea.'

'If they can gather together well enough, that would be likely. You wouldn't believe how many there were.'

Jack grunted. 'What of it? We're worth any number of French churls.'

'They won't get through us,' Matt agreed.

'We'll all get slaughtered,' Clip said gloomily. Then: 'What? Why're ye all looking at me like that?'

'Shut up, Clip,' Berenger said.

Granda.r.s.e heaved his bulk up, scratching his cods. 'Aye, well, there may be many of them, but there are enough ugly b.a.s.t.a.r.ds here with us, too. Ach, I need a p.i.s.s.'

Berenger dipped bread into his pottage. 'I hope you're right.'

At a tree, Granda.r.s.e lifted his chemise and pulled down his braies to water the gra.s.s. Over his shoulder he called, 'Listen to you, man. You've lost your senses! You think we can't beat a bunch of Frenchies? Most will be local levies without training or weapons to protect themselves, let alone hurt us. There'll be some mercenaries, maybe some Genoese look how useful they were at Caen! And knights. Well, if we take our own position and hold it, we'll keep them away, too.'

Berenger was about to make a comment when there was a sudden scream. He sprang up, his bowl of pottage falling into the fire and spattering and hissing. Ramming the last of his bread into his mouth, he set hand to sword and ran towards the scream, while Granda.r.s.e roared and swore, slapping at his damp thigh and trying to pull his braies up as he lumbered after his vintener.

Beatrice had not lost her instinctive distrust of men. Archibald she could tolerate, in the way that a child could put up with the annoying attentions of a generous uncle. The gynour, she felt sure, was unlikely to rape her. His genial manner appeared genuine. Ed, too, was no danger. But that was not the case with other men in the English camp. She could feel their lascivious gazes on her.

'Come, maid, food,' Archibald said. He held a large bowl aloft.

She took it slowly, and began to eat. Once, a year or more ago, she had found a stray dog, and although it was ravenous and wanted the tidbits she held out, it was afraid to approach too close. She felt like that wild brute herself now. Distrustful, hungry, ready to bite.

After their meal, Archibald toyed with the leather flask.

'What is this powder?' Ed asked.

'It is called the Serpentine,' Archibald said. 'You let the fire get to my wagon here, and have one of the barrels there get scorched, and you'll level this forest!'

Ed's lip was curled. 'I know that smell,' he muttered.

'Few don't. You are used to the powder?' Archibald enquired of Beatrice.

She nodded. 'I told you. My father was a merchant of powders. He made it, and I learned how to make it from him.'

'Maid, I think you are my perfect woman,' Archibald smiled.

Shortly afterwards he settled, his hat over his eyes, his back against a tree. Beatrice took herself a short distance from him, almost under the wagon. Ed went to join her, and she covered them in a cloak, snuggling up tightly.

It was late when she heard the footsteps. In the gloom she could see nothing. Then there were figures, flitting softly from tree to tree. She thought them wraiths, but then one went to the side of Archibald, and she heard a thud as that person struck him on the pate. Instantly his breathing changed to a shallow snore.

'Ed, vite! Flee!' she hissed. 'The Welsh, they are here!'

He goggled momentarily, and then she saw an awful comprehension in his eyes. As though she could read his mind, she guessed he was thinking of the women in Caen, the wives and daughters littering the roadside. She saw him clench his jaw and frown.

There was no time to argue with him. He was prepared to fight and die in the attempt to protect her.

As he rose, Beatrice s.n.a.t.c.hed up a stone and brought it down against his skull. It was for his own sake. She pushed him under the cart, and while there, she came across Archibald's little powder flask. She quickly dropped it beneath her tunic, and was straightening when Erbin and two men grabbed her legs and pulled her out. She tried to s.n.a.t.c.h at her knife, but they had gripped her firmly, a hand clapped over her mouth.

'Not a sound, witch, or you'll suffer more pain than you knew could exist in this world or the next!' Erbin breathed in her ear.

Gritting her teeth, she thought how, with her knife, she would have stabbed and slashed at them until no flesh remained, until she had smothered the gra.s.s all about in their blood and gore. But when she glanced back and saw Ed's body, she felt relief that, once again, she had saved him. She hadn't stopped her father's death, but she had saved Ed from dying: she had submitted to her own capture in order to protect him.

And then, suddenly, she felt a lurch in her belly. For the first time since killing the priest, she felt defenceless and was overcome by a blind, unreasoning terror as Erbin and the men pulled her away from the safety of the wagon and deep into the darker recesses of the forest.

Berenger and the others soon reached the little copse in which Archibald parked his wagon. Ed was leaning against the wagon's wheel, a hand to his brow. It was his scream they had heard. 'They took her, they took her!' he moaned.

'Who took her?'

'The Welshmen! They came and took Beatrice!'

's.h.i.t!' Heedless of Granda.r.s.e's shouts for him to slow down, and despite Sir John's recent talk about the need to act prudently, Berenger pelted through the undergrowth to where the Welshmen had made their camp.

The Welsh had taken a large yard area near a farm. They had a series of fires on the go, with rabbits and a lamb spitted and roasting. The men were drinking and laughing, some holding valuable mazers with chased silver rims, some chewing on pieces of meat.

Berenger did not pause to think. He strode into their midst, anger sending ripples down his spine. Clenching his fists, he demanded, 'Where is your captain? Where is he?'

'Why?' asked Erbin. 'Oh, it's you: the murderer. What do you want?'

'Your men have taken a woman of ours.'

'A wh.o.r.e?'

'She is our woman,' Berenger said. 'Your men were seen taking her.'

'Who saw them?'

'The boy.'

'Oh, him.' Erbin shrugged contemptuously. 'He would say anything to insult the Welsh. Look at the stories he's made up about us already. Perhaps it was a screech-owl that scared the brat. There are many about here.'

Berenger was tempted to grab his sword and hold it to the man's throat. He was maddeningly smug. 'Don't try my patience, Erbin. Where is she?'

'I couldn't say. If you have lost your goose, you should go and search for her.' The man squatted insolently by the fire. 'Perhaps she is back in your bed already?'

Two men strolled towards Berenger. One was grinning inanely, and toying with the hilt of a short sword; the other wore a scowl of hatred.

Berenger suddenly felt foolish. How stupid of him, to have rushed here without anyone to back him up. He was at the mercy of the Welsh. If they were to kill him, they would be perfectly within their rights, defending themselves against a crazed attacker.

Erbin stood now and smiled. 'What, Englishman, do you mean to remain here and drink our wine?' he jeered. 'Have some and be merry! But you care little for your wench if you leave her to her fate while you enjoy yourself here.'

Berenger took a pace back, but as he did so he became aware of more steps behind him and he froze with the certainty that a Welshman was blocking his escape. Then he recognised Geoff's voice, saying, 'What now, Frip?'

'I don't know,' Berenger admitted.

'I'm b.l.o.o.d.y soaked, me,' Granda.r.s.e grumbled. 'When that scream came, I was nearly bes.h.i.tten. Taking a p.i.s.s, and hearing that sort of row, it's a wonder I didn't cut off me ta.r.s.e I was in such a hurry to tie me braies!'