Hundred Years War: Fields Of Glory Part 7

It was enough to calm her. For the first time since her father's death she slept easy that night.

The box of communal flour was raided again. There was little enough food for the men when they returned to their camp from Barfleur, and now they were all watching their small oat cakes sizzling by the fire, chatting desultorily. Only Wisp was silent, his eyes filled with a terrible conviction.

Berenger walked over to the Donkey. 'You did well today,' he said as he crouched beside the lad.

'I didn't break down, you mean?'

'You coped with the sights, is what I meant.'

Donkey did not reply but sat staring hungrily at the flames, seemingly entranced by the sparks and glimmers.

'Tell me about it, boy,' Berenger said quietly.

'What?'

'Those Welshmen. What happened to you in Portsmouth before we found you?'

He watched the lad closely. He needed to learn more about him, find out what was concealed in his breast. It was vital that he knew he could trust him. There was no room in his vintaine for someone unreliable.

'What happened to you in Portsmouth?' he repeated.

Ed sighed. 'I heard of the men mustering. I had some coin saved, and I slipped from home and made my way to town. It was scary. There were strangers all about, but no matter who I spoke to, n.o.body wanted to take me on. Until I met Erbin's men.'

'How so?'

'I was in an alley. They came past me, and I followed them into a tavern.'

'They spoke to you?'

'I asked if I could join them, and they laughed. But I had my purse with me, and I showed them my money. That was when Erbin said if I was to buy them ale, they'd think about it. He said the drinks would seal our pact. So I did, and then, when they were about to go, I asked him about joining them, and he spat at me and said it was a joke; they never meant to have me in their party. I wasn't strong enough to hold a sword in battle, he said, so I could whistle for a position in the army. He didn't even mention my money or my purse.'

'And then?'

'I demanded my money back, and they beat me up and left me there, lying in the kennel, where you found me.'

Berenger had watched him all through his speech. His fingers wound themselves about the loose threads of his tunic, and his eyes were occasionally at Berenger's face, at times playing about the land all about them. His feet fidgeted, his toes tapping at the ground.

'The money is gone, boy. And they probably threw away your purse. Try to forget them. They'll forget you soon enough.'

'How can I?'

'Easily. As you get older, you'll realise that it's not worth holding a grudge. Those Welshmen didn't try to insult you personally. They were in a tavern, you had money, so they took what they wanted. It is what men will do.'

He wasn't explaining himself well, he knew. He had another go. 'When I was younger, I used to want to keep holding grudges. I nursed them well so that they grew strong. And then, one day, I was given a pardon from the man I least expected to forgive me. Since then, I've tried to be worthy of it.'

'A pardon?' Ed looked at him with a frown. 'For what?'

'Helping a good man,' Berenger said shortly. 'So if I can do that, and be forgiven by his son, you can forgive a trick.'

No, the boy wasn't lying. It explained much about the att.i.tude of the Welshmen to the Donkey, their sneering and contempt. It also explained the boy's own helpless anger in the face of their taunts.

But it wasn't the whole story. Berenger was convinced of that.

16 July Sir John de Sully was in his tent when his esquire scratched at the canvas. 'What is it, Richard?' he called.

'Sir John, Berenger Fripper is here.' Richard Bakere gave a meaningful look down at Sir John's hands. The knight was honing his sword's blade, rasping the soft stone along the edges with that familiar swishing hiss.

'Good. Bring him inside.'

It was not Bakere's fault, Sir John thought, but he did a.s.sume that his knight was too superior and elevated to sink to cleaning his own weapons. d.a.m.n that! Sir John had cleaned and sharpened and oiled and polished his own weapons for more than thirty years now. When he was too old to see to his own equipment, he would cease riding to war. For him, it was an essential part of a knight's duty, to take care of his weaponry. His life depended on all being in perfect working order.

If he didn't like it, his esquire could d.a.m.n well seek a new master.

'Fripper, come, take a cup of wine with me,' he said.

'You asked to see me, Sir John?'

'Yes,' Sir John said. While Bakere poured them both wine, Sir John studied the fellow. He saw that Berenger's face was haggard. That was natural. They were all tired, after marching or riding all over the countryside without a proper bed. Although they had not been forced to endure the worst of the weather, marching in the heat was itself exhausting. A man trudged on, thinking wistfully of ale and wine, while the sweat soaked his hat and clothing. Soon, straps for knapsacks would wear away a man's shoulder, and blood would begin to ooze. Necks would be rubbed raw, feet would develop blisters, and a man's temper would fray. It was all too common, and no one was immune.

Still, there was something about this man that was familiar. He recalled that feeling from before, when he had visited Granda.r.s.e's centaine.

'I know you, don't I?' he said.

'You and I walked together some years ago,' Berenger said. 'We crossed the sea and made our way on foot to Avignon.'

Sir John was still for a moment, then, 'You were with me then?'

'I was one of the party with the Welshman.'

'In G.o.d's name, that was a long time ago,' Sir John breathed.

'Sixteen years, I think.'

'The years have not been kind to you.'

Berenger gave a grin. 'Sir John, do you have a mirror?'

The knight gave a chuckle. 'Aye. Every white hair has been earned.'

They were quiet for a while, both remembering: a long journey, walking to visit the Pope and deliver their charge into his care.

'Do you ever hear from him?' Berenger asked.

Sir John peered into his wine. 'There was never anyone to hear from. The man didn't exist, did he?' he said quietly.

'No.' Berenger knew that their mission that year had been secret. No one could know of their companion, because he was officially dead. To talk of him had, for years, carried the threat of execution.

'But now, I think he is dead. You have heard that our King's son has been created Prince of Wales, like the King's father?'

'The King never took the t.i.tle for himself, did he?' Berenger said.

'His father never relinquished it,' Sir John said.

Berenger nodded. Edward II had kept the Welsh t.i.tle for his own. He had always been inordinately proud of his Princ.i.p.ality, and the people who remained loyal to him even at the last, when the rest of his realm crumbled and submitted to his adulterous wife and her lover.

Sir John took a deep breath and held up his drink. 'To the health of a man who was already dead when he walked with us to Avignon,' he said. The two toasted the memory, and then Sir John frowned. 'Talking of Welshmen, there are rumours of disharmony between them and your men.'

'Sir?'

'The Welsh say that you've started a feud with them. It will not do.'

'That is untrue.'

'Have you not come to blows with them?'

'You want an answer?'

Sir John eyed him. 'Not really, no. But be wary of them, Fripper. They are dangerous enemies to have. Stronger men have been ruined by them.'

Berenger's face went hard for a moment as he remembered the woman murmuring, 'Merci,' to him in the town's square. 'Yes, sir. I'll try to remember that.'

'Are your men bearing up?'

'Yes. Well enough.'

'We'll see their mettle when we have a real fight.'

'Yes, Sir John.'

'Good. And keep away from the Welsh, if you can.'

'We will try to.'

'That will help. You must remember that the Prince has himself only recently been elevated to Prince of Wales. Like his grandfather, he is proud of his Princ.i.p.ality and its people.'

'I understand,' Berenger said. Then he added: 'There is one among them, Erbin, who delights in trouble. At Barfleur he burned the town, killing many.'

'So it is true about the feud, then.'

'Not on my part, Sir John, no. But he may have taken it into his head to cause friction whenever he sees me and my men, no matter what we do or say.'

Sir John considered. 'Avoid him, and all will be well.'

'Yes, sir. And do you have any idea when we are likely to find the French?'

Sir John smiled. 'They will try to stop us very soon before we can turn towards Paris.'

'Paris?' Berenger repeated, shocked. That was a vast city, from all he had heard. It would take more than a few score knights and ten thousand archers to breach her great defences.

'We aren't here on a reconnaissance, Fripper. We're here to establish the King's rights. For that, we need Paris. Or at least, to make a demonstration of our power that will so shock the French and Parisians, that they surrender to us.'

'Yes, Sir John,' Berenger said, but his mind was reeling. Paris! He had faith in his men, his army and his King, but to take Paris would be like trying to seize Jerusalem again! It was an appalling idea!

Sir John watched him go, grinning at Berenger's reaction. They could not take Paris, of course. That would need many more men he knew that perfectly well. But the French didn't, and if the English made a strong enough demonstration in the direction of the capital, they might so raise the fever of terror in Paris that the citizenry would hand over the keys without a fight. If all went well.

Aye. If all went well.

17 July They were marching at last.

'Christ Jesus, it's a relief to be moving,' Geoff declared.

Wisp just grunted.

They had made their way down to the south of St Vaast-la-Hogue, and now the vintaine was descending a hill on a road that had been built for a peasant's donkeys, rather than wagons.

'You're quiet,' Jack said to Wisp.

Wisp peered up at the sky. How could he explain his despair? The sight of the hanged cat was an evil omen, no matter how a man looked at it. He was sure his premonition of doom was correct. 'I am well enough,' he said.

'Glad I am to hear it,' Jack said. 'These French will ma.s.s enough men to trample us into the mire if they can. We need all the fellows we have. Even you.'

'Him?' Clip called from behind them. 'Wisp'd blow away in a breeze, he would. Look at him: hardly enough muscle on him to hold a knife, let alone a bleeding sword.'

'He has fist enough to give you a thump,' Geoff grunted. He was scouting ahead to their left, searching every tree, every bush, for ambush.

'Him? His fists wouldn't pa.s.s through a fog on the Avon!'

'Perhaps we'll put wagers on you two, then, eh?' Jack chuckled. 'You can fight when we camp this evening.'

'I'd not want to hurt him,' Clip said righteously. ''Sides, the King wants all of us fit and hearty for the real fight to come.'

'When we find the French at last, you mean,' Jack called.

'When we find the French, aye,' Geoff said.

Clip shook his head, hawked and spat. 'It doesn't matter. We'll all soon be dead. They'll murder us, the French.'

'Yes,' Wisp said quietly. Jack heard, and shot him a look, but made no comment. Instead he allowed his pace to slow a little, so that he dropped back behind Wisp.

'Still bad, is he?' Berenger asked, seeing his face.

'As bad as a man can be. By G.o.d's blood, I don't want him near me in a battle. He's already convinced himself he'll die, d.a.m.n his soul!'

'He'll snap out of it.'

'If he doesn't, I'll snap his neck for him,' Jack said bluntly.

Berenger nodded. A comrade who was convinced that failure lurked around every corner was a dangerous companion. If a man could not trust his neighbour in a shield wall or a.s.sault, confidence in the whole army was lost. It took only a brief loss of trust during a battle, a momentary loss of commitment, for an army to fail. Just now, Wisp was the worst threat to their vintaine.