Hundred Years War: Fields Of Glory Part 5

'All's well enough,' Granda.r.s.e replied, levering his ma.s.sive bulk onto a log. 'The King's men are at the next town away over there Morsalleen or somesuch. Suppose they'll all be sleeping in warm cots the night.'

'Knights and n.o.bles always get the better lodgings,' Berenger said.

'Aye. Not that I have to like it though.' Granda.r.s.e scowled resentfully up at the trees. 'Did you check for widow-makers?'

'There are no limbs about to fall from this tree,' Berenger said.

'Aye,' Granda.r.s.e continued. 'I could just do with a warm bed, a fire roaring on the hearth, and a saucy little French maid to liven my evening.' He sighed hopefully. 'Not that we won't be able to win such soon, with luck.'

'Any news of the French?'

'No sign to east or south. There are Welsh fighters searching, and the King's already in a rage with them.'

'Why?'

In answer, Granda.r.s.e jerked a thumb towards the columns of smoke. 'Look! The King made a proclamation: all would be safe if they came into his peace does it look like the French can trust his word, do you reckon? We're supposed to wage dampnum against those who reject our King, but if he offers protection to those who accept his rule and the Welsh still go ahead and slaughter them, the French will support Philippe. The King isn't best pleased.'

The Donkey returned with two water pails and squatted nearby. At Granda.r.s.e's words, he stirred. 'The French need to be ruled with an iron fist. They are a wicked people.'

'Oh, aye?' Granda.r.s.e threw him a glance of amused interest. 'What, like the English, are they?'

'The English only defend what is theirs.'

'You think we are any better than them?' Geoff put in harshly.

Granda.r.s.e ignored him. 'He's right, eh, Frip? Ballocks, boy!' he said, giving a broad smile. His hands behind his head, closing his eyes, he muttered dreamily, 'You ought to be back in England if you want to defend things. We're here to take what we want, and I'm going to make the most of it. And then get home and make a wife of the naughtiest little wriggle-a.r.s.ed wench I can find. Ah! That'll be the life. Ale whenever I want it, a good house, and a bad little wife who'll adore me in my bed each night.'

'So you'll want her blind as well, then?' Berenger asked mildly.

Granda.r.s.e opened a bright blue eye and grinned wickedly. 'Wouldn't hurt, Frip. Wouldn't hurt.'

'Why do they call you Fripper?' the Donkey said.

Berenger cast him a look. 'What is a Fripper, boy?'

'A man who sells second-hand clothes.'

'Aye, boy,' Granda.r.s.e said, and suddenly opened both eyes, glaring. 'And this dangerous man is known for stripping the dead and selling their clothes after a battle, see? It's not every man's job, but it keeps him in ale.'

Ed stared at him, then at Berenger, who sighed.

'My friends here reckon my clothing is old and worn, Donkey. Listen to Granda.r.s.e about fighting and warfare, but not about women, the characters of other men, or the ways of the world.'

'That's what I want: to learn how to fight the French.'

'Aye, well, you've come to the right place to learn,' Granda.r.s.e said. He stretched and broke wind flamboyantly, an expression of pained concentration twisting his features. 'Aye, that's better,' he grunted. 'And for now, boy, you can b.u.g.g.e.r off and fetch us some wine. You see, that's how you support your King: you look after his men, eh?'

Jack beckoned Berenger as Granda.r.s.e began to snore. Jack's expression didn't bode well.

'What have you found out?' Berenger asked quietly.

Jack's grey eyes were serious. 'Wisp's convinced himself we're heading for disaster. He reckons the cat was an omen.'

Berenger looked past Jack's shoulder at Wisp, who sat wretchedly plucking at tufts of gra.s.s. 'I'll have a word,' he said, and got up and walked over to Wisp, dropping to sit beside him. 'So?'

'I told Jack already. I may as well tell you.'

'Tell me what?'

'This whole enterprise is going to fail. We'll not make it home again. None of us.'

Berenger said gently, 'Look, you're taking this cat business for too seriously, my friend.'

Wisp looked up and met his eyes. 'I've never felt like that before, but I did at that cottage when I saw that witch's cat hanging. The folks about there knew the woman who'd been inside. They saw that she was evil. It wasn't done by someone who dislikes cats, Frip. It was done by people who hate witches.'

'You don't know any of this for sure, Wisp. You saw a cat.'

'And the dead priest outside?'

'He could have been killed by our scouts. It wasn't magic killed him, I know that much.'

'This chevauchee is going to fail, Frip. We should get away while we can.'

'No one's going to run away from the King's host, lad. You know the penalty for desertion.'

'I know we'll all die. I can see it just as if it's already happened. I'm dead. We all are. I won't see home again, just as you won't.'

Wisp gave a sob. 'The chevauchee is doomed. And so are we.'

When Sir John de Sully arrived, just before dawn, the men were already standing-to with their weapons.

Berenger had not seen Sir John above a handful of times since landing. The knight had been too busy seeing to the disposition of the archers and men-at-arms under the Prince of Wales. Like the other men, a thick stubble was already forming over his jaw. At his chin it was grey, the colour of old, unpolished pewter, like his hair. His eyes were firm and steady, as befitted a senior warrior of five-and-sixty years who had taken part in every battle his King had fought since Edward II's first wars against Scotland, three-and-thirty years ago.

Granda.r.s.e called Roger Bakere and Berenger to join them.

'The King's unhappy,' Sir John said. 'Men are ignoring his proclamation to spare towns and people who wish to come under his protection. You are to look for French militia, but also to search for any plunderers.'

'And what um do we do with them if we find them?' Roger asked. He had a lazy drawl that made him sound foolish on occasion, like an inbred peasant with scrambled brains. But there was a shrewd gleam in his eyes. At his side, the man he had spoken of, Mark Tyler, or Mark of London, showed a quick interest.

'Use your imagination,' Granda.r.s.e snapped. 'I don't like it any more than you do, but those are our orders, so get used to it.'

It took the men only a short time to grab hot bread from their morning fires to eat on the march and soon they were away. Berenger looked at Mark Tyler thoughtfully. The fellow was too keen by half about the idea of fighting. That was why Roger kept him close, no doubt. Always best to have the least-trusted men to hand where they could be watched; in a fight it was best to keep your friends close, and your enemies closer still.

Beatrice was glad to reach the little inn.

The old woman was dead. She had not lasted the night, and Beatrice wept over her corpse with a feeling of genuine bereavement. Both had suffered much in the last few days, and to lose a friend, even one of such brief duration, was a further blow to Beatrice.

That morning, she took the old woman's shawl and her purse, and set her hands crossed over her breast. There was no guilt at taking her money or belongings. Those items could not help their owner now, but they might serve to help Beatrice.

Setting out, she joined the thinning column of refugees. She had already marched many leagues, trying to put distance between herself and the English, but no matter how far they tramped, the news of murder, slaughter of animals, senseless ruin and rape increased. Riders from the coast with pale faces told of b.e.s.t.i.a.l acts by the enemy that were enough to chill the blood of any Frenchman. One shivered so with horror that he could not speak, and merely mouthed his shock when questioned.

The people slogged on, none too certain of their destination, hoping, all of them, that they might reach some sort of refuge. The King must arrive soon, they said, and throw these English swine from the land. But others disagreed: all too many had heard that Philippe had resisted the urge to do battle before. Some doubted that, even now, he would come to protect his people. The reflection did little to raise the spirits of the weary travellers.

This place, therefore, was a welcome sight: a large inn by the side of the road, already packed with people, but not turning any away. It made Beatrice feel a surge of joy, seeing that some people could still offer kindness to strangers, even one weary, dispossessed and desperate.

'What do you want?' The man at the door was short, but broad as the doorway itself. He eyed her truculently.

'I seek a chance to sit by a fire,' she said meekly.

'Where is your money?'

His manner was brusque, and Beatrice didn't understand why and then she reflected that the poor man must have had hundreds no, thousands, beating at his door.

'I only want to sit at your fire a moment and warm myself,' she said. 'I am very tired. I've been walking since-'

'You want food, you have to pay; drink, you pay; a seat at my fire, you pay. Your money where is it?'

'I have some here,' she said, gesturing at her hip. The purse was tied to the rope about her waist, under her cloak.

A second man had joined the doorman. He had blue eyes and a shock of dark curls. 'Let her in, my host,' he urged. She is hardly going to cause trouble, is she?' he said as she patted the coins, making them rattle. 'She can speak when she is inside.'

The innkeeper stood aside, and she entered nervously. A woman on her own was always at risk of rape or worse in a rural tavern.

Inside, the smoke rose lazily, choking the throat. There was no chimney, only a fire burning on a tiled hearth in the middle of the hall. Fresh rushes had been set about the floor, but the air reeked of rancid wine, woodsmoke and sweat from all the men and women inside.

Their faces were pale and haunted in the dimness. Some shielded children against their stomachs, standing or sitting in postures of feebleness and exhaustion. There were a few benches, and a couple of trestle tables had been put out, but for the most part it felt like a prison. The people in there were like prisoners in a dungeon of their own making. That thought made her shudder.

'Come, maid, I have a s.p.a.ce over here,' the curly-haired man said. He led her to a corner. 'You should keep your money hidden,' he advised. 'It's dangerous in places like this or on the road, if people get to know that you are carrying lots of money.'

'Thank you.'

'Perhaps I should walk with you and protect you?'

'I should be glad of your help,' she gratefully said. 'An old woman gave me her purse. Her son stabbed her and left her for dead, and she gave it to me to save it from the English.'

'Really? How much did she give you?'

'I don't know. I didn't count it.'

'All the more reason for you to need a guard,' he said, and when he smiled, his eyes twinkled. 'I shall be your knight, maid. I will protect you.'

At the sight of that smile, she felt as though all her troubles were almost ended. It was the smile of an angel.

The nearest town, Barfleur, was a scant two leagues hence. It took them until the sun was a quarter of the way to midday, marching steadily but without urgency. They were in no hurry to reach it. They knew what to expect.

Then Berenger heard a sound a low moaning. It needed to be investigated although it might be a trap. He sent Geoff to the right, Clip to the left, and the bulk of his men spread between them. He kept only Jack with him, while Donkey he placed behind the rest. There was no point in seeing the boy hurt before he had learned which end of a sword was safest.

They were approaching a low wall, and the men crouched behind it. To their left, a pair of buildings had been burned, and even now the heat was like a dragon's exhalation. The wall appeared to be the boundary of a small pound, while on their right was a huddle of cottages. A vegetable garden nearby was devastated, with boot-prints visible amongst the flattened salads and beans. A boy's body lay among the remains.

The moaning started again as they reached him. His throat had been cut and the wound gaped. Berenger thought that he could see cartilage inside, but then it moved, and he realised it was flies, gorging themselves. Jack ended the boy's misery with his dagger.

Then, peering over the wall, Berenger was confronted with a scene that would remain with him for a long time.

'Your Royal Highness, my Lords,' Sir John said as he entered the Prince's large tent and bowed.

It was a simple construction a short way inland from the beach. Inside was only the most basic decoration: this was the working tent of a knight, not a gaudy display for a tournament. There was a pair of trestles: one covered with pages weighted with leather-covered stones, two clerks murmuring to each other as they worked through correspondence; the other held meats and cheeses set out on plundered silver plates, and wine in great jugs. Beyond that, the room contained all the essentials for a knight: spare armour, spare weapons and surcoats.

He had heard of foreign potentates who insisted upon their subjects treating them with a fawning reverence more suited to G.o.d than a mortal. They dared not gaze at their masters directly for fear of giving insult. Not, thank G.o.d, in England. Here, if a man were to avoid his eyes, a monarch would rightly be suspicious.

'Sir John. I am glad to see you,' the Prince said.

Edward of Woodstock, Prince of Wales, was a handsome young man of sixteen. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the neck of a fighting knight, he had trained from an early age with a heavy war helm in jousts and tournaments. His fair hair was long, and he had a thin moustache trimmed back from his mouth. His blue eyes were clear and confident.

Sir John thought much of his confidence was due to his father, but a large part came from the men in the pavilion with him.

Sitting on a stool and chewing on a honeyed lark, Thomas de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, was a heavy-set, dark-haired man in his early thirties. Already a war leader of great fame, having led the King's armies against the Scots, he was the Marshal of England, known for his intelligence, his devotion to his King and his utter ruthlessness.

Behind him, resting against a trestle and toying with a long misericord dagger, was the Earl of Northampton, William de Bohun, a man as famous for his cunning as for his ferocity in battle. He had marched with King Edward from the first, being one of the King's most devoted comrades in the recent battles at Sluys and Morlaix.

'Your Royal Highness,' Sir John began, 'my men have returned from Barfleur. It is as we feared. The town is destroyed.'

Warwick took a bone from his mouth and sucked it noisily. 'None living?'

'No.'

'Then there will be no ships from there to harry the fleet, which is good.'

The young Prince glanced at Sir John. 'What do you say?'

Sir John cast an eye at the two magnates. The Prince had the same direct manner as his father. Against his better judgement, he found himself thinking that perhaps he could like this new Edward.

'Your father did not want men and women attacked if they had accepted the King's Peace.'

Warwick shrugged. 'I'm happy if there are no pirates attacking our army from the sea or cutting off our supplies.'

'So you would ignore my father's orders?' Edward said quietly.

There was no answer. After a moment, the Prince faced Sir John again. 'You say it is destroyed?'

'My men said that it was a scene of utter carnage.'

Carnage was right. Berenger thought the sights would sicken the Devil himself.

It was one thing to partic.i.p.ate in the capture of a town, to rush at the walls of a fortress and clamber up the scaling ladders, expecting at any moment to be slain, knowing that the man beside you had fallen with a shriek, that the man before you had been punched in the chest by an arrow, and to expect that your own life was about to end. Then, when your entire mind was filled with the red mist and bloodl.u.s.t the primeval desire to slay all who stood before you and survive then it was natural to use a sword, lance, axe, mace, club, anything, and lash out at those who dared defy you.

But it was different to walk into a town in cold blood and slaughter all the innocents there.

The place reeked of blood and death. Bodies littered the streets. Near Berenger a woman lay gutted on the threshold of a house, a baby sprawled pathetically beside her, its head crushed. Three men and a boy lay in the road, all beheaded, and opposite were smoking ruins where once had been houses. There was little standing that wasn't blackened by soot.