Hundred Years War: Fields Of Glory Part 22

As the order to move came, he shrugged his pack over his back and joined the rest of the men. All the while his eyes were not on the road, but on the small force of men-at-arms on the opposite sh.o.r.e. Their mail gleamed merrily in the sunshine and their tunics were bright, clean and colourful, as they ambled gently along the northern bank of the river, matching the pace of the English. Soon, they stopped and began to break their fast, and Berenger watched them jealously. He could do with some decent food inside him, too.

They entered a small wood, and Berenger heard a large animal blundering through the undergrowth some yards away. There was a narrow trail cut through, and he watched it warily. Long ago, he had seen an esquire stab a boar with his spear, but the d.a.m.ned brute ran on and on, driving the spear through his body and then continuing up the shaft until he reached the esquire and gored him horribly. The man had killed his boar, but he died in the attempt.

Berenger carried on through the forest, until they at last reached the further edge, and stood looking down on the town of Poissy.

It was a town of ghosts.

Poissy was deserted.

Berenger waved a hand at Geoff, who nodded and ran ahead with Clip and Eliot. They stopped at a low wall, peering over into what appeared to be the main street, arrows nocked and ready. Berenger followed them, with Luke and Gil behind him. Granda.r.s.e and Matt and Oliver were over on the left, while the rest spread out in a line behind them.

There was a clatter, and instantly sixteen bows bent, the arrows pointing at Ed, who paled and shook his head, bleating as he grabbed the sheaves of arrows he had dropped when he tripped.

Berenger grunted his relief, and gazed ahead. A broad street led towards the river, and he and the others clambered over the wall and made their way along it, edgily staring along their arrows at empty windows and doorways.

He had never known such utter desolation. There was nothing: not the sound of a baby crying, not the creak of a wagon's wheel, not the chatter of women washing nothing but an occasional exclamation as a crow or rook rose, complaining at their interruption of the peace. Clip, startled stupid by a sudden explosion of sound at his feet, let fly and spitted a pigeon. It fell, the arrow clattering loudly on the stony roadway.

'You stupid b.u.g.g.e.r,' Granda.r.s.e called out. 'Next time, fall on your own f.u.c.king arrow and save us the b.l.o.o.d.y trouble!'

Clip pulled a face and tugged his arrow free. It was gory, and he wiped it on his sleeve before pensively picking up the bird and stuffing it inside his shirt.

They gradually made their way through the town until, at last, they approached the river.

Berenger saw the piles where the bridge had once stood and felt his heart sink. A man from Roger's vintaine cried, 'Another failure, by Christ's pain! Look at it!'

It was the first time Berenger had seen Geoff lost for words, but now he wiped a hand over his brow and sighed deeply. 'Perhaps there's another bridge near, Frip?'

Berenger pointed at the far bank. A group of French soldiery stood there, jeering; two dropped their hosen and braies to display their a.r.s.es. 'You think they'd bother to wait if they thought we could force our way over somewhere else?'

Clip, offended by their antics, loosed an experimental arrow, and struck a man in the groin. He fell, shrieking like a stuck pig, and Clip received several buffets of congratulation about the head in return. Grinning, he muttered modestly that it was nothing.

Meanwhile, Jack had been studying the shattered bridge. Many of the timbers from the bridge still bobbed in the water, caught against the piles. 'Frip, look!' he cried. 'The piles are pretty intact. We could have planks set on them, then a light man could run across on those timbers.'

Berenger looked. 'Do you know what? He's right. Clip, you're the lightest do you want to try it?'

'Swyve your mother and your sister, Frip. You show me how, and I'll be pleased to, but if you think you'll get me to test that with my own life, you can call on the Devil first!'

Berenger grinned. 'Ed, go and find Archibald and bring him here quickly.'

'What is it, Fripper?' Granda.r.s.e demanded.

'The piles are all there, all of them. We could rebuild the bridge if the King had a mind,' Berenger said. And for the first time in days he felt the return of excitement.

The vintaine camped there at Poissy while other vintaines and centaines were sprawled as far as St-Germain, only three leagues from Paris. Berenger stood with Archibald at the water's edge.

'What do you think?'

'My expertise lies more in the destruction of bridges,' Archibald said, but he frowned thoughtfully at the timbers. 'The piles are all solid enough, aren't they?'

'They look it,' Berenger agreed.

'What do you want me to do?' Archibald asked.

'You must know the best carpenters and joiners. Who should we ask to look at this? The King's own man?'

'He's a good fellow,' Archibald smiled, 'but he's more used to being given the best timbers and a perfect site to construct his efforts. This needs a good bodger.'

'A what?'

'Someone who'll take what he's given and make something worthwhile. I know just the man. Miserable devil, but he's talented. He makes the talaria, the trestles the gonnes rest on.'

It took only a short time to track down the man, a squat, ugly Cornishman with a perpetual scowl, who glared at the piles as though they had personally offended him.

'There's sod-all to work on here,' he said with exasperation. 'What idiot thought up this idea, eh? Was it you, Archibald? How are we expected to fix this? Look at it! It's just a mess of bits and pieces of trash. It'll be like building a bridge from b.l.o.o.d.y hedge-tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs and twigs! A complete waste of time.'

'So you can't do it,' Archibald said, his voice carrying just a hint of contempt.

'Did I say that? Did I b.l.o.o.d.y say that? Did I? Did I?' the engineer demanded truculently. 'You hear me say that, did you? No! So shut your gob and let me think!'

He stood, hands on his hips for a long time, staring at the river. At last, he pursed his lips firmly and turned away from the water.

'Right! Pinch and Hon, go and chop down the biggest bleeding tree you can find. You lot, come here. I need all the joiners I can lay my hands on. We can work on the planks that are already there for now, and then peg a tree to firm it up, before we can lay the new bed in place. Got me?'

Berenger and Archibald sat down to watch. Clip had recently come across a hastily abandoned house that still had loaves left in the bread oven, and he had liberated them for the vintaine. Jack in turn had located a cellar full of wine, and the vintaine was in cheery mood as they gathered to observe the engineers' labours. Several times the carpenters cast sour looks at them as they laughed whenever a man failed to fix his plank to the bridge securely. When one man fell into the water, their delight was so uproarious that Matt began to choke on a crust of bread and had to be pounded on the back. Luckily the joiner in question was soon hauled from the water.

A shout went up as the tree appeared, and the Cornishman ran off to supervise its working. A pit had been found in a joiner's yard, and the tree was manhandled to it, while a team of workmen set to sawing the trunk into planks. It took them from noon until Vespers, but by then Berenger was surprised to see cut and shaped planks being carried to the river. There were enough to span the remaining distance from the bridge to the far bank.

'Come on, then, you idle gits. Think you can sit about all sodding day while we do all the hard work?' the engineer demanded.

'We don't have orders to cross,' Clip said.

'Ballocks to that, you little drop of p.i.s.s! You think the King will be happy to learn that we builded him a bridge and some lazy bunch of s.h.i.ts couldn't be bothered to get off their flabby a.r.s.es to defend the bridgehead? Now f.u.c.k off over there and keep your eyes open!'

Berenger could see the logic of his words, but he grumbled as much as the others as he made his way reluctantly to the bridge.

'Be careful, Master Fripper!' Archibald called.

Berenger nodded. 'Aye. Bows ready, lads,' he said, stringing his own. He grabbed an arrow and nocked it, taking a deep breath.

The first part was firm enough, where the original bridge had survived, and each plank was firmly set in place. After this, for about fifty feet or so, the engineers had constructed a pair of rails, one riding each set of piles. Berenger carefully ascended the leftmost runner, and gently tested the set of the timber. It was firmly fixed.

Jack came after him, and as Berenger reached the middle of the first span between piles, stepping with the caution of a man desperate to keep his balance, Jack jumped up and down, making Berenger turn and glare. 'You do that again and I'll personally cut out your liver!' he snarled as the tremors moved in waves through the soles of his feet. Jack merely grinned.

Far below he could see the murky waters of the Seine. The more he looked at it, the further away the water seemed, until he could almost persuade himself that the bridge was rising, and that to fall would be to die, instantly.

He turned his eyes from the view beneath and stared ahead, walking faster. There was a rushing in his ears, and he wasn't sure whether it was the sound of the river below or the blood in his veins. Certainly he felt lightheaded and slightly dizzy as he hurried over the last few feet. With his feet on solid ground once more, he took a long, shivering breath, and wiped a hand over a forehead that had grown unaccountably clammy.

Jack joined him, laughing. 'That was fun! I want to go again!'

'Shut up!' Berenger snapped. The vintaine was soon with them, and more men were arriving by the minute. On the bridge, men hammered pegs into planks, fitting a stronger path. Granda.r.s.e shouted and pointed, and Berenger nodded. The land rose from here. They must keep a lookout.

'Geoff, Jack go and take a look from up there,' he said.

He watched the two hurry up the sandy bank and turned his attention to the rest of the men. 'All of you must go and . . .' he began, but he got no further, because then he heard Geoff blowing the alarm on his horn '. . . support Geoff,' he bellowed, and ran at the bank himself, roaring over his shoulder: 'Donkey, bring arrows!'

At the top of the bank, Geoff was already drawing, aiming and loosing his arrows.

'Sweet Mother Mary,' Berenger said with shock. There, on the plain before them, was a party of Frenchmen.

'There's at least a thousand men on horse, and double that on foot, Vintener. What shall we do?' Geoff panted. He drew again, aimed, loosed, and the arrow plunged into one of the leading hors.e.m.e.n.

'By the Son of G.o.d, I don't know,' Berenger spat. He had nocked his own first arrow, and it flew straight and true into the breast of a horse. The beast collapsed, ploughing into the soil, throwing the man-at-arms from its back and forcing horses behind to swerve. Two crashed together, and another knight was knocked out of his saddle.

'Donkey, where are you?' Berenger roared, and loosed again. When he dared cast a glance behind him, he saw no sign of Ed, but there was better news.

Sir John and the Earl of Northampton were already crossing the bridge with two dozen knights. They were soon over the river, and Berenger could feel the solid drumbeat of their hooves as they took the bank at a canter, paused at the top, and then, with spears ready, plunged on towards the French.

Sir John blew out his cheeks at the sight of the French. A thousand men on horseback a force capable of smashing the tiny English defence and trampling the archers into the ground. Already there were cries of defiance to rally the French, and the dust was rising from their hooves as they began to charge.

Foolish, his brain told him as he lowered the visor on his bascinet. His new conical helmet clung closely to his skull at both cheeks. It was laced with thongs to his mail coif, and with the visor in place, he felt impregnable. He had his eyes fixed on the enemy approaching, and already he could see that there were a few hotheads racing out in front.

It was a big mistake, he knew. He had been present in enough battles to know the importance of riding at the side of one's neighbour, so that the ponderous weight of the horses and men should slam into their opponents simultaneously. Begin the gallop too early, and many horses would compete with each other, a few throwing caution to the winds and racing onwards to ride into the enemy's ranks one at a time, losing the impetus that was the strength of the cavalry attack. No, better to wait and, at the perfect moment, launch a united a.s.sault.

They were already trotting forward, each man eyeing his neighbour and keeping his mount in check, while the French hammered towards them. Closer, closer . . . and the Earl gave a bellow. The knights began to canter, and then, with the French only a matter of yards away, the gallop started.

Sir John wanted to sing. His blood was hot, and a tingle of exultation tickled the base of his spine as he leaned down, his spear pointing at the man charging at him. There was a clash as that man collided with his neighbour, and suddenly there was another man before him. The French onslaught was hampered: with so few enemies to fight, they were riding on a line that was constricting, as the knights to left and right unsuccessfully tried to find a target.

Closer, closer, closer . . . the thunder of the hooves was beating a tattoo in Sir John's helmet, and then the clash and his spear was shivered to pieces as the man before him disappeared in a welter of blood.

He dropped the b.u.t.t of the lance and drew his sword, whirling Aeton round and aiming for three Frenchmen who had encircled the Earl.

'Saint Boniface!' he bawled, and rode in amongst them. A man turned to face him, and Sir John thrust. He felt his sword crunch through the man's mouth, through teeth and bone, and then the point snagged. He jerked it free and the man fell with a gurgling scream that was cut off as a horse trampled his head.

A second man appeared to his left, and Sir John rode at him, Aeton taking the man's horse with his breast, tumbling man and steed to the ground. Sir John wheeled and rode at the gallop to a pair of French men-at-arms who were approaching warily. One charged, and his sword hacked, catching Sir John's left arm. He instantly lost all sensation in his fingers, but before he could try to bring the man to battle, he was on the second, and he saw an opening beneath the man's armpit where there was no mail. Their swords clashed, and the blow sent a tremor up his arm into his shoulder, but already his point was down and he shoved forward, feeling his tip cleave through flesh, tearing and slicing. The man's head fell back, and his eyes opened wide as his horse trotted away, carrying its master's corpse.

Sir John turned to meet his first opponent, and saw that he too was riding away. However, there were four Frenchmen cl.u.s.tering about a desperate esquire, who whirled his sword and slammed it into the head or body of any man who came too close. Sir John swung his sword at the back of the neck of the nearest one, who slumped in agony; Sir John swung again, backhanded, and caught another man beneath the chin. His chainmail protected him, but he choked, and Sir John's blow threw him from his horse.

Another man was fighting with the esquire, and Sir John spurred towards him. He caught him unawares, his sword smashing into his forearm. The blow broke his arm beneath the mail, and he dropped his own sword. Between them, Sir John and the esquire beat at him until he fell, his face b.l.o.o.d.y and ruined.

And then it was over. Sir John turned to stare at the French force, but all he could see was bodies in the gra.s.s. Those who had been on horseback were either dead or riding away at speed. More English hors.e.m.e.n were chasing after the infantry, and many already lay twitching.

'Sir John,' the Earl said, lifting his own visor. 'I call that an excellent defence of our bridgehead. I thank you for your aid.'

'My Lord, I am glad I was here to a.s.sist,' Sir John said. He eyed the bodies on the ground. 'We need as many of our men as possible to hold this bank. I shall stay and ensure that we do so.'

The Earl expressed his grat.i.tude and rode off back the way they had come, while Sir John stared about him.

'Berenger? I would be grateful if you would ask your men to see to all these bodies. Count them and despoil them, but most of all, make sure they are all dead.'

14 August The bridge was completed. All through the night engineers had struggled and lifted, sawed, hammered and cursed, and the result was a bridge that could take the weight of the entire army, as well as the wagons and carts.

For his part, Berenger was bone tired. He hadn't slept well, expecting a counter-attack at any moment. The news that he and the rest of Granda.r.s.e's men were to hold the north bank he greeted with something near relief. Others would go to burn the towns and manors all about, but Berenger and his vintaine could rest and keep watch from the bridgehead.

As the first men began to ride out, Sir John de Sully was at their head. Behind him straggled a party of fifty, archers and men-at-arms. He paused as he pa.s.sed Berenger.

'Master Fripper, your men fought well last evening. I congratulate you.'

'We saw you kill several,' Berenger replied.

'There were enough for all of us, eh? And there will be plenty more. That's why I'm riding north, to see how far from us the French are, and what they are doing.'

'What of the south?'

'The King has ordered everything to be burned south of Paris, especially the manor of Montjoye. That was King Philippe's favourite, apparently.' He turned and pointed to a billowing cloud of smoke. 'That was it, I think, there.'

Berenger felt a shiver of antic.i.p.ation. 'The French have plenty of reason to want to fight us.'

'Aye. They have that. Which is why I'd ask you to keep your eyes on the horizon for me and my esquire Bakere here. If you see us riding back in haste, nock your arrows!'

'We shall, my Lord. G.o.dspeed!'

The knight nodded and held his hand aloft. With his hand a blade, he pointed forward and the party trotted off to the north. Somewhere out there lay the ma.s.s of the French army, and it was crucial to know whether they would attack from the north, or would circle round Paris to come at the English from the south.

Setting sentries, Berenger sent Clip to forage for food, while Geoff made the fire.

'We've no sticks,' Geoff said. 'I'll fetch some more.'

'Good,' Berenger said flatly. His brain felt leaden, and he sat down with his back to the cart's wheel, letting his head rest against the spokes with relief.

He could not help but think that their enterprise was teetering on a knife's edge. On the one side lay disaster, on the other, perhaps more disaster. Geoff was still convinced it was down to that Frenchwoman, Beatrice. Placing her with Archibald had not cured Geoff's suspicions. He did not trust her, and the Welshman's words were constantly p.r.i.c.king at him, he said. Perhaps Berenger should trust Geoff's judgement and warn others. Tell Granda.r.s.e or perhaps say something to Sir John? There were enough priests, from that ferocious fighter, the Bishop of Durham, down to vicars from London and the Scottish Marches. Any number of them would listen with sympathy to a man's honest concerns about the woman.

'Be careful Geoff. Don't stray too far and make sure to keep away from that woman,' he mumbled and yawned profoundly. His eyes were already shut, and as his mouth closed, his breathing became shallow and noisy.

'Sleep well, Vintener,' Geoff murmured as he turned and began to make his way up the slope of the bank. There was a copse over on the left, a scant half-mile away, which should provide him with firewood.

In the midst of the little wood, Geoff saw a small building.

Others would have been about here already, he knew scouts, pillagers and idlers trying to avoid hard work at the bridge, but nevertheless there was no point taking risks. He set his hand to his sword and drew it slowly from the scabbard, holding it low, ready to cut upwards at the first sign of danger. Stepping cautiously, avoiding the twigs and bits of broken timber that lay all about, he made his way to the door.

It was no farm building or storehouse, he discovered: it was a little chapel. The cross over the gable was crooked, as though the priest had set it up himself with scant knowledge of carpentry, but it was a tidy little building. As he approached, there was a cry, and glancing up, he saw a black bird, a raven or crow, sitting on the cross and staring down at him with its beady eye. It was unsettling.

At the door, Geoff pushed gently. There was a slight sc.r.a.ping as the timbers scratched their way over the threshold, but the hinges had been well smeared with grease, and made no sound. Geoff entered warily, his sword higher, his left hand flat near his belly, ready to knock away an a.s.sailant's weapon.

A scrabbling sound made him turn. There, near the altar, there was a little, low doorway, and he stared, listening intently. A quiet step, then another, and he scowled. There was someone in there, he was sure. He walked on tip-toes along the nave's flags, and when he reached the door, he peered inside.

'Maid, what are you doing here?' he said when he saw Beatrice. She was kneeling before a crucifix with her hands clasped, the picture of piety. From his vantage point, he could see the nape of her neck, and was struck by the beauty of her soft, pale skin. He added gruffly, 'You should be careful in places like this. I thought you might be a French spy.'

Startled, she rose, staring at him, her eyes wild with fear. Her head was bared, her hair awry, and to him she looked like a creature of the forest, a spirit of nature. It made him feel nervous, as though she was more dangerous than he could see.