Hundred Years War: Fields Of Glory Part 2

Ed and Clip rejoined the vintaine as the men were wiping their weapons clean of enemy blood. Berenger watched them approach and snarled, 'You took your time.'

'Scared we'd leave you, Frip?' Clip grinned. 'Wouldn't do that to him, would we, boy? You know you can trust me.'

For a moment Berenger was gripped by the urge to grab Clip by the throat and punch him but it pa.s.sed. It was the reaction. He hated slaying the injured. Some were so badly hurt that they barely moved as his knife sliced across their throats, or into their hearts or brains but there had been two today who had looked up with eyes like puppies' as he delivered them from their pain.

It reminded him of helping the warrener when he was a boy: catching rabbits and killing them swiftly, releasing them from pain. Except here, the men were surrounded by the odours of battle: the metallic smell of blood, the midden-smell of opened bowels. Having to step through and kneel in the stinking puddles where men had p.i.s.sed and shat themselves, getting filth on his fists and legs . . . he hated that part of a battle: the final butchery.

And Clip hadn't deserted them. He had come back if slowly.

Clip's levity faded as he cast a look behind Berenger and understood. 'Sorry, Frip. We were as fast as possible.'

'Next time, get a move on. If you don't, I'll throw you to the enemy myself.' The vintener looked over them. 'Where are the weapons?'

'Right there,' Clip said, pointing with his chin. On the hillock where they had been standing, Berenger could see a low handcart with a stack of bowstaves and arrows on it.

'Good. Light the fire.'

Clip smiled thinly. 'Maybe Ed would be better? He's quick with his tinder.'

'Do as you're told,' Berenger snapped.

Clip shrugged and went on, his usual whine forgotten: 'Ed here makes a good sumpter. He brought most of them. He was in a hurry to get here and see the bodies.'

Berenger cast an eye over the boy as he wiped blood from his hand. 'Why, lad? Haven't you seen enough dead men already?'

No one could get to the age of twelve without seeing a dead man: a grandparent, a friend, a felon death was all too common. But Ed wasn't listening. His gaze moved intently over the figures.

'You all right there, Ed?' Berenger said.

Ed wore an expression of such savagery that Berenger was shocked. He had never before seen a look like that in one so young. He shot a glance over at Granda.r.s.e, but the centener was bellowing at Geoff and two others to get their fingers out and didn't notice.

'Ed what is it?' Berenger said more forcefully.

'Nothing,' Ed replied with a little sigh. He turned and strode away, but now he was no anxious young boy with a head permanently bowed in submission. He looked more like a man.

A killer.

It was dark already when Beatrice Pouillet shut the door to the henhouse behind the cottage. The foolish creatures were making a din as they bickered on their perches. She could imagine them pushing at each other, the lowest in the pecking order forced against the walls, the matronly leader waggling her tail feathers and making herself comfortable.

Once, only a short time ago, Beatrice would have grinned at the thought, but not now. There was no place for humour in her life any more. Not since her father's arrest and execution.

Execution: a word that struck the heart with terror. Beatrice knew how men who had incurred the King's displeasure were made to suffer the most savage punishments before death. It was appalling to think that her own father could have endured such horrors. Friends had betrayed him. A respected specialist, valued by all who knew him and his work, and yet his life had been snuffed out like a candle so that no memory remained except in her.

Afterwards she had fled to her uncle's house at Barfleur, some two days' journey north. There she had hoped to be safe, but in the little port, stories about her father's crime were soon bruited about, and all too many a.s.sumed the worst. Even her uncle, a decent, law-abiding merchant, was accused of being a spy or murderer. Leaving the house one morning, she was set upon by a gang of urchins, who taunted her and pelted her with stones and ordure. b.l.o.o.d.y and bruised, she was left to crawl away.

For her own safety, her uncle had sent her here. The woman, Helene, was the widow of a former servant of his. She lived on a small pension provided by Beatrice's uncle, but for the last few days she had been unwell. Beatrice was fearful that she too was going to die, and once more she would be all alone; here, further than ever from home. It was no good dwelling on her family she had no idea where her mother was.

At least the local priest was kind. He had offered to come and help her with the old woman.

At that moment, there was a snap of twigs, footsteps, and she went to peer round the side of the cottage.

'I am glad to see you, Father,' she said now as she saw the priest walking slowly up the path to the door.

'And I to see you, child.'

He was a young man for the job. Only three- or four-and-twenty, short, dark-skinned and with large, liquid brown eyes that smiled all the while as though he could see a joke that was hidden to others. He smiled now, his eyes taking in her clothing. 'You look tired, maid.'

'I am weary,' she admitted.

'How is Helene?'

'She grows weaker, Father. I have fed her on warm pottage and an egg, but it does her no good.'

'Let us pray for her.'

Beatrice made to go inside, but he stopped her. 'No, we can honour G.o.d out here in the world He made.'

'I'd rather go inside, Father. I don't like to leave her alone for long.'

'Come here, maid. Hold my hands.'

She did as she was asked. What else should a woman do when commanded by a priest? But he had different ideas. He took her hands and gently put them on his waist, pulling her nearer. 'Hold me, maid, and we can pray together.'

Beatrice tried to pull away. His voice was grown harsh and hoa.r.s.e, and when he thrust his groin at her, she felt his ta.r.s.e poking at her through his habit. She froze. It felt as though her heart stopped beating. 'Father, let me go!'

'Child, do not disobey your priest! I am not evil. Just lie with me, and let me show you how-'

'No, Father!' she blurted, and s.n.a.t.c.hed her hands away.

His voice took on a sly tone. 'You will do everything I say, because if you don't, I will accuse you of being a witch. Would you like that? People already mutter about you here. They say you have a black cat, that you are killing the old woman here in the cottage. They will believe me rather than you. What are you, after all, but a s.l.u.t who came here because your father was a despised traitor.'

'He wasn't! Leave! Go away,' she whispered. No one could think she was a witch, surely? She felt suddenly weak, as if she was about to faint. And she thought she might vomit.

His tone changed again, became wheedling. 'I love you, can't you see that? Let me have you, Beatrice. I burn for you!'

'Get away from me! We'll both burn if you force me!'

The young man lost patience. 'You are no better than your father. He was a traitor, but you are a witch. You give the appearance of holiness, Beatrice, but you despise priests like me. Devil's wh.o.r.e!'

She recoiled from him and from his words. 'Please have pity on me,' she begged.

'If you don't do as I ask, I will denounce you, witch. It is said you are privy to secrets no woman should know.'

'Go away!'

Afterwards, there was no memory. She saw him at that moment, his hands reaching for her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, a look of pure l.u.s.t and devilry in his eyes, and then . . . then she was back inside the cottage and kneeling at Helene's bedside. As she bathed the old woman's forehead to cool her, she was surprised to see the water in the bowl turn red as she put her hands in it.

Later, Helene died, very peacefully and when Beatrice went out to throw away the dirty water, she stumbled over the priest's body.

She screamed with shock. She vaguely remembered slapping at him with her hands, but she hadn't realised that she had been holding her little knife.

'Well?' Granda.r.s.e was sitting with his back to a tree close by the wood from which the attack had been launched. Flames from the fire were flickering over his bearded features, giving them a devilish tint.

Berenger chuckled. 'I thought your eyes were shut?'

'Aye, even when they are, I'm alert,' Granda.r.s.e said smugly.

Berenger grinned as he reported to his centener about the men, his sentries, how he had stored their provisions.

'The men know what they're doing,' Granda.r.s.e noted. 'Most have campaigned with the King before, and any man grows easier in spirit, the more there are with him. No man likes to be at the foremost point of a King's spear, to be the first man landed on a hostile sh.o.r.e, but when he is one of hundreds or thousands, his courage is rekindled.'

'True enough,' Berenger agreed.

'You still think he's no good, eh?' Granda.r.s.e said shrewdly. 'That boy?'

Berenger squatted beside the fire. 'He's too young to stand in the line; he can't draw a bow he's a wasted mouth. What will you pay him?'

'Pay? I get a shilling a day, like an esquire; you get sixpence; the men get thruppence; a Welshman tuppence. He's worth a penny, I suppose, if he can carry our stores. He can forage, and he can fetch supplies in battle, can't he? He'll earn it. You saw him today. Was there any sign he would break?'

'No,' Berenger admitted. 'He obeyed orders.'

'He didn't puke at the sight of bodies, did he?'

'No.'

'Then stop worrying! He'll work his way until he's a man. Same as some of us did. Like I did.'

'Yes,' Berenger nodded, staring into the fire. Granda.r.s.e rarely tired of telling how he had joined the King's host when he was an orphan scarcely eleven, and had never looked back.

Granda.r.s.e hawked and spat, eyeing him keenly. 'Well, Frip? What is it?'

'I don't know. There's something about him that doesn't feel right. I've had boys join before, you know that, and they start out nervous and fretful. But when they have fought some battles and killed a few men, they begin to grow. Soon they're men. But when they see their first fight, see the bodies strewn about, they have a sympathy for them. They realise that these were only men. This lad's different. He was pathetically worried before, but when he saw the bodies of the French, he had a sort of feral enthusiasm for them. There was no pity or concern, only . . . excitement.'

'We've seen enough men like that before,' Granda.r.s.e observed slowly, prodding at the fire with a stick. He paused. 'D'you think he's bad luck?'

'I don't know,' Berenger said shortly.

'Keep your eyes on him, then.'

'I will.'

Ed felt a part of the vintaine already.

As he sat, nursing a wooden bowl filled with meaty soup and a handful of leaves gathered from the fields, he felt as close to these men as he had to any. It was just like having a family at last, and he relished the sense of belonging.

A man pa.s.sed by and a hand ruffled his hair, and although he s.n.a.t.c.hed his head away automatically, scowling, he treasured the rough affection.

He averted his eyes when he saw Geoff watching him. Ed felt sure the man meant him no harm, but he was another like Fripper, who seemed to be able to read his thoughts. They both made him nervous.

The others were all kindly though: Jack, who held a senior position along with Geoff; Oliver, who had a horrible squint that made him seem to be leering the whole time; Matt, the square-faced, black-haired man who was proud of his reputation as a womaniser; Walter, the one over at the far side of the fire, with the bright blue eyes and fair hair, who had a thin, sensitive face and puckered lips; Gil with the gingerish hair and the perpetual scowl sitting next to Luke, the man with the round face and air of affable confusion, no matter what he did.

Luke was addressing Ed now.

'So, master, you belong to our vintaine now. The only remaining question is, what shall we call you?'

'My name is Ed.'

'No, master, that will not do,' Luke sat back and belched gently. 'I think you are more of a packhorse. You lumber as you go. Perhaps we should call you "Sumpter".'

'Too long,' Oliver commented. ' "Pack" would be better.'

'Whoever heard of a man called "Pack"?' Luke protested. 'Every time we left a camp, the poor boy would think we were calling him as the orders flew around his head. No, we couldn't call him that.'

'How about "Goat"? He smells like one,' Walter said disdainfully.

'Now, Walt, there's no need to be offensive.' Luke stretched and yawned. 'I think my idea was best.'

'What's wrong with my real name?' Ed demanded, colouring.

'It's too cheeky, for one thing. What if we call to you, and the King is nearby and thinks we are insulting him or his son? It is a most common name, after all. No, it won't do. Perhaps "Cart"? We shall be using you to carry all our belongings.'

'Call him "Pony" and be done,' was Matt's contribution. 'I just wish we could go to a town. This sand is getting everywhere. I swear it's in my cods already.'

'Then it's lucky there are no women for you to sheath your dagger of love, matey,' Gil said with a chuckle. 'No wench would want you near her with a rough edge like that!'

Matt muttered a foul rejoinder, but Luke wouldn't let it drop. 'The boy must have a name,' he insisted. 'Come, shall we have a vote for the most popular?'

'Call him "Boy"!' Gil called out.

'"Mule?"' Jack offered. 'He has the temperament of one.'

'p.i.s.s on you, Matt!' Eliot called. He was a short man with greying hair and a ready smile. 'The lad's still new. Give him a week, and he'll be standing us a round of ales in a tavern.'

Ed knew that they were all mocking him, but he didn't care. He felt as though he was being accepted.

'I know,' Luke said into the general mirth. 'He will fetch and carry, and he isn't a Pony, while Mule is potentially offensive. Boy, from here on, you will be known as "Donkey".'

'Why?'

'Because it suits you, but more, because it suits me,' Luke said comfortably. He settled back, pulling his dirty old felt cap over his eyes. 'You will learn, Donkey, as you grow older (if you do) that there is more to life than a Christian name. Sometimes the name our comrades give us is much more important.'

'So why are you keeping to your given name?'

Luke opened a bright, beady eye like a blackbird's, and peered at him. 'I was named Martin, Donkey.'

It was late when Berenger finally slumped to the ground near Geoff. The others had already rolled themselves in their blankets and cloaks, and there was a muted snoring from Clip, a whiffling wheezing from an older man nearer the fire. Two members of the vintaine sat murmuring at a farther fire, one of them slowly and methodically stroking a stone over his sword's blade like a harvester sharpening his scythe.

Berenger had walked the outer line of the sentries, and wandered out beyond the light from the fires. There he had stealthily crept from one tree to another, his ears alert for any sounds, but he returned rea.s.sured. The French were nowhere about. Not yet.