The Rose Of Lorraine Part 34

A squadron of paired squires knelt on the battered gra.s.s in front of the carts. Between each pair were makeshift stretchers. Behind them a rude collection of physicians and healers chatted in low voices, making plans for handling what injuries were to come.

Every man, youth and boy had specific duties to attend. Guilamu had only one charge--keeping track of Bella. Every step she had taken since communion had been shadowed by the Arab. He followed her as she paced around the disorderly jumble of baggage carts edging the forest.

Again, she strained her eyes following the line of beautiful pines that made up the woods.

There was no one at the Maye, though several men strolled leisurely out from the trees, returning to the ranks after making a nature call in the verdant forest.

Bella could use a trip behind the bushes herself, but with Guilamu d.o.g.g.i.ng her heels, she kept putting that call off.

Of a sudden four riders crested the distant hill, knights in full armor mounted on horses draped in colorful silk trappings. They galloped down the narrow road, fanning out, taking full scope of the way King Edward had laid out his army. The English remained seated on the ground at ease. Not even the foremost line of Welsh archers moved to their feet to knock an arrow in their bows.

The four riders circled down the slope, crisscrossing each other, then whirled about and galloped back up the ridge, disappearing from sight. From Bella's vantage on the hill, she could see the first oriflamme streaming in the wind.

She searched again for Geoffrey, but it was impossible to find one small boy lost in ten thousand men.

"My Lady Chandos," Guilamu interrupted her search. "It is time you retired to the rear."

"I will," Bella told him for the fourth time. "When Geoffrey returns."

"My lady, I must insist."

"You can insist all you like, but I'm not moving from here until Geoffrey comes back," Bella declared. "If you're so concerned for my welfare, go down and look for the boy for me?"

"Milady, my orders are to see that you remain here. Young Geoffrey must have been given another task to do, else he would be here."

That was obvious. However, Bella didn't like it one bit. As tempted as she was to march down the field and find Geoffrey, herself, she had only to think of the possible consequences that action might cause. The last thing she wanted to do was to give King Edward or Chandos more reasons to behead her on the spot. Their last words after ma.s.s and communion regarding Henri's actual whereabouts had not been pleasant.

Bella had enough guilt hanging over her head without adding Henri's circ.u.mstances to her worries at the moment. She didn't believe for a minute that Geoffrey had been born four months after the date written in Chandos' Bible. It just wasn't possible. She didn't want it to be possible either. She didn't want to dwell on it. She would rather find Geoffrey.

The Black Prince restlessly paced his charger at the rear of the first division, doing an excellent job of fuelling the escalating tension on the field.

In the gap between the forested hills and Chandos' hastily felled barricades and earthworks on the far side of the valley, Philip of Valois's vanguard squeezed into the valley and spilled onto the rutted road in no clear or recognizable formation at all.

The enemy swarmed down the opposite hill like fire ants. Bella didn't want to see this. She glared at Prince Edward, recognizable from her great distance by his coat of gleaming black armor. Only one other knight stood out in the sea of humanity as starkly as Edward did. Chandos.

His armor also glistened black, ominous, deadly and threatening, as he broke clear of the ranks and trotted forward. A crimson silk plume on the crest of his helmet ruffled in his wake, keeping Bella's eyes focused on him when she did not want to know that he was moving to the very front of the lines.

Vengeance reared and pranced into position.

As a unit the battalion at Chandos' back stood to attention. Two thousand archers knocked arrows against bowstrings, posed and ready.

A boy toting an empty bucket ran around the right flank of King Edward's reserves, his short legs pumping madly. Geoffrey! Bella clasped her hands at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, exhaling, closing her eyes in relief. Guilamu whispered audible thanks to Allah. Bella hurried forward to meet the boy.

"Maman," he said. "It's begun. The Valois are here."

Bella wrapped her arm around Geoffrey's shoulders, embracing him. "So they are. Come. Guilamu has ragged me for an hour because I have insisted upon waiting here for you."

"There were a lot of men who were very thirsty," he presented Bella a sweaty, dirty face and looked as if he could use a cool drink. Content now, Bella hurried past the kneeling squires and between the tilted carts, vowing not to look back for any reason whatsoever.

In the farthermost section, a temporary camp had been erected. There cooks slaved over vats of simmering stew that wouldn't be done until evening. The pen holding all the surplus horses was well downwind of the shady clearing the cooks occupied.

Prince Lionel and John and the balance of the young pages made up ten boys in all. Most of the others were sons of earls. Bella was the only woman present. She counted four priests, perhaps a half-dozen clerks, and only three animal handlers like old Gunnie who would tend any injured horses returned from the field.

No one was just allowed to sit around and wait for the battle to begin or to finish. Each boy had a task a.s.signed him. Geoffrey was sent with Lionel to fetch wood for the cooks.

Bella was not given any task to do. All these men, including Guilamu, expected her to park under the shade of the king's pavilion and fan her moist throat until sundown.

She figured the likelihood of being stark raving mad by the time the sun went down was very good if she did as she was expected.

The constant beat of war drums, the skirl of pipes and trumpets and the screams and grunts of humans and animals coming from the field was going to drive her insane.

Without consulting anyone, Bella concluded she had three options. She could join the medics and tend the wounded. She could sweat the afternoon chopping, pealing and stirring with the cooks. Or she could join Gunnie Douglas, handling the aggitated horses.

Considering her past experiences, Bella opted for helping Gunnie deal with terrified and injured horses. She knew she wouldn't be able to stomach the sight of men and boys bleeding. Horses might be just as badly wounded, but they weren't human beings with wives and children, families depending on them.

Gunnie had his hands full when Bella came to the corral. It didn't matter that most of the war-horses had armor just as the knights did, close fired arrows pierced most plate armor, lances ripped through boiled leather and quilted padding. The animals took crippling blows with maces, battle axes, swords and multi-pointed halberds.

The old Scot looked up at Bella the minute she came into view and barked, "I've no use of a woman underfoot, lady. Get yer squeamish hide out of me sight."

"Good," Bella retorted evenly. "I haven't fainted once in my whole life. As to being squeamish, I don't know the meaning of the word."

Squires had the duty of bringing up the wounded beasts, exchanging saddles and armor to a fresh animal and taking it back to the battlefield where their knight needed remounting.

Bella soon proved she was worthy of any task when Gunnie had more injured animals than three men could handle. The worst, of course, never made it out of the carnage on the field. The animal handlers saw their share of arrow wounds and split haunches needing quick st.i.tching.

Bella had the right touch and the right voice for soothing frightened animals. As quick as Gunnie could get to them, pull the arrows and draw a thread through their hide, they patched and cleaned and soothed the wounded beasts.

It wasn't long before Bella noticed a drastic change. Squires lead four and five stumbling, wounded horses each. They weren't English horses. They were French. The tide of the battle was changing. She had no idea how bad it was in the valley below, and flat wouldn't go look and see. She knew. Philip of Valois would be d.a.m.ned lucky to escape with his life.

Bella held her own, staying very, very busy with the animals, getting as filthy, tired and sweaty as every other living soul on the field at Crecy...until Geoffrey came into the corral leading Vengeance. Squires had already stripped the war-horse of its shaffron that protected its great head, the fifty pound saddle and metal peytral encasing its chest, put it into a halter and gave the beast to Geoffrey to take to Gunnie. It hopped on three legs, its right front hoof curled up against it's deep chest.

"Ach," Gunnie straightened, his fingers blistered from drawing needles through flesh. "Wot happened here?" he asked Geoffrey. Bella remained beside the horse they were working on, stroking its sweaty neck.

"Rodney says his leg may be broke. Father couldn't bring himself to put Vengeance out of his misery. Said you'd do it." Huge tears hovered on the rims of Geoffrey's eyes, threatening to fall. Vengeance turned his head and bit the crest of unruly hair sticking straight up from Geoffrey's crown.

Gunnie wiped his b.l.o.o.d.y hands on his leather ap.r.o.n and told the boy, "Tie 'im there. I'll get to 'im by and by."

Bella watched Geoffrey tie the lead to the post. He crooned a soft word to the great beast, hugging his lathered neck, then turned away, ferrying more animals in and out of the makeshift pens. Bella tried to refocus her attention on the horse they were treating. He had a gash down his belly and part of his bowels protruded, protected by a thin membrane of whitish sclera, but Gunnie thought the animal could be saved since none of the intestine had actually been cut and the herniated gash was not too long in length.

The big chestnut shuddered as Gunnie bent back to his task, pulling flesh together and sewing it with horse tail thread. He tied the last knot and poured his equivalent of antiseptic on the closed wound. The liquid had the look and smell of 90 proof whiskey to Bella. The big test with a wound like this came when the horse tried to get back on its feet. If the st.i.tches held, the first hurdle back from injury was cleared.

Bella led the upright animal to a makeshift stall and after she'd removed the halter rope spent a few moments dispensing TLC with soft words and the stroke of her hand across the horse's velvety nose. As fierce as each of these oversized animals were in normal circ.u.mstances, badly injured they were strangely docile.

Gunnie had the touch for soothing even the wildest creature. Bella watched him untie Vengeance and lead the stallion between the narrow uprights of his triage stall. The horse tried to put weight on that injured front leg and couldn't, balking with a scream of pain. The old Scot crooned to the beast, stroking the arc of its ma.s.sive sweaty jaw.

"Milady, here," Gunnie held out the halter rope to Bella. "See if ya can keep his mind off his troubles while I take a feel of that leg. Keep his head turned and mind now, this one's a biter."

"I know that," Bella said emphatically. The four or five times she'd come up against the cantankerous beast he'd made every effort to take a hunk out of her hide. She took firm hold of the halter, drawing Vengence's head down. He rudely b.u.t.ted her belly.

Gunnie was quick to feel the bones of the injured leg and straightened, rea.s.suringly patting the animal's flank. "Ach, ma dhoune, thas a bad one, 'tis."

"Is it broken?" Bella asked.

"Afeard so, snapped clean in two, blast the bastid that struck him."

"Could you splint it?"

"Splint a horse? When Queen d.i.c.k takes the throne. Nah, la.s.sie, I willna splint it. 'Twould be a waste of time. We're on a march ag'in today, tomorrow or the day after. I best do it now, than agonize o'er doing deed overlong in me head."

Bella had a hazy memory of the wonders of modern medicine. Horses' legs could be splinted and broken bones could heal just like human's legs healed...if given the right care...and support by traction. She kept her mouth shut, knowing Gunnie was right. Better to do it now than linger over the decision, agonizing on it.

Bella smoothed Vengence's forelock, petting him. His huge dark eyes stared back at her, locked in pain. He didn't seem so fierce and terrible now. She relinquished the lead to Gunnie, wiping sweat and dirt from her face on her sleeve and refused to think of what might have become of the horse's master when the trusty animal had gone down.

"I've got to take a potty break," Bella announced.

"Mind how deep ya go inside the woods," Gunnie cautioned. "They'll be full of deserters by now."

That was a daunting thought. Bella strode out of the horse pens. The temporary camp was now jammed with more wounded men than injured horses. Halfway across she picked up her shadow, Guilamu. He didn't say a word as he fell into step beside her, nor did Bella offer any explanation for her purposeful stride toward the forest.

At the treeline, Guilamu had drawn that wicked looking curved blade of his and raised his hand in a silent gesture, telling Bella to wait while he made certain it was safe. A minute later he came back and motioned to her to come ahead, and led the way to a nicely private stretch of cool, shady forest. He'd found her running water as well--a small babbling stream, runoff from the day's harsh rain.

Bella said thank you, watched him leave and quickly took care of business. She washed her face and hands in the stream of water, but knew better than to take a drink of unboiled water. She took the kerchief holding her hair at the nape and dipped it in the water.

Emerging from the woods, she blotted the wet cloth on her throat, letting the cool water trickled down between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Hours ago she'd shed Robin's heavy cotte hardie, loosened the heavy cotton shirt from the waistband of her borrowed trews and tied the undershirt in a knot at her waist. Not for glamor or to be appealing in any way, just to be able to survive the oppressive, steamy heat of the summer day.

The shadows had grown very long, but the clang of iron and steel continued as hotly as it had begun. No English reserves remained in the back. All three battalions merged into one ma.s.sive line extending clear across the mid-ridge of the valley.

Bella saw no signs of the English sallying forward to drive wedges in the French attack. She winced, seeing spots where the English line gave way and the French flooded through, mistakenly thinking they were leading a rally. It was a sucker's game.

Almost as soon as the English line was broken, it closed again, trapping French knights and foot soldiers behind English lines. She turned away, unable to watch the slaughter.

She was suddenly very, very tired, sick at her stomach and knew she couldn't go on much longer before she simply collapsed where she stood. Guilamu guided her to the trestles and benches in the clearing behind the cooks boiling cauldrons of stew.

He brought her a crust of bread, a spoon and a wooden bowl full of the steamy stew. Bella made an awful face for the greasy, meaty concoction, but as she had not eaten anything all day, she soaked the crust in the thick gravy and chewed mechanically.

Under the shade of the king's pavillion exhausted knights did the same as she, eating by rote because their bodies required it. They were b.l.o.o.d.y and covered with filth, but not one had removed his armor. By singletons and pairs they staggered to their feet, calling their squires for fresh mounts, hauled themselves back in the saddle and rode back to the battle.

Bella thought she could do the same, return to duty, leaving her emptied bowl and spoon on the trestle. There were fewer horses being doctored now, or else the converse: there were more horses dying in the field.

No sooner did she reach the corral than Geoffrey came running at a breakneck speed, screaming at Gunnie Douglas. "Gunnie! Gunnie! Sir James is dying! Gunnie, come!"

BOOK FOUR.

"THE LAMPS ARE GOING OUT ALL OVER EUROPE; WE SHALL NOT.

SEE THEM LIT AGAIN IN OUR LIFETIME.".

LORD EDWARD GREY OF FALLODEN.

"In the case of news, we should always wait for confirmation."

VOLTAIRE.

-32.

Gunni bolted to his feet and ran. The mare whose rump had been pickled by arrows would have to wait. The old Scotsman chased Geoffrey through the carts and wagons into what had become an open-air field hospital.

Bella picked up Gunni's needle and took up st.i.tching where he left off. Her hands shook badly. James Graham was dying? She couldn't imagine anyone more able to withstand the punishment of this day than that Viking get.

Grim-faced, Bella bent to the task of st.i.tching up the mare, wishing her own ears would go deaf. Then she wouldn't hear the screaming, the shouting, the horrible grunts and clashes of men making war. She wished her nose and mouth would grow immune to the smell and taste of blood, sweat and fear. How much more of this she could take, she didn't know.

When that horse was led away, Bella said, "That's all. No more horses."

She told Gunni's squires to wash their hands and tend to the men. Numb, she wound her way through the baggage blockade. The stew rose dangerously in her throat when she saw how many, many men lay on the trampled ground beyond the tilted wagons, waiting to be tended by someone, anyone. Even young John Gault had been pressed into service. He leaned all his slight weight over an old knight's leg, trying to staunch the flow of blood from a spurting artery.

Gunni and Geoffrey knelt beside a stretcher further down the slope. The ever-present cadre of loyal squires flanked Sir James. His ma.s.sive broadsword protruded from the trampled earth above his bare head, a blood-stained gold and steel cross headstone.

Bella knew better than to offer her services to James Graham. He'd only curse and rail at her. She joined John Gault, trying to a.s.sist him in aiding the dying man. Nothing could be done. The physicians' skills were limited. Open wounds were cauterized and the stench of seared flesh hung close to the ground in the heavy air.

Bella showed John how to wind a pressure bandage and sent him to bring more rolls of linen. While the boy was doing as she asked, she called to Father Thomas. The knight said he needed to confess himself.

Bella had no real medical experience. She had common sense and a fair understanding of basic first aid. She did the best she could, comforting, consoling, reciting prayers with him as she held the knight's trembling hand until the last gasp of breath left his body.

She hardly noticed the call to vespers rung on a hand held bell. Around the open air infirmary, the physicians were making progress. Fewer wounded were being brought to be treated. Exhausted men built rings of stone every fifty yards, piled newly cut logs into pyres that torch bearers set alight.

On the ridge where she'd last seen King Edward's entire army spread out in a thin line, there were now fires burning against twilight's increasing darkness.

Geoffrey sat with his narrow back propped against Sir James' upright sword. The big man's head rested in his lap. Geoffrey's dirty little fingers stroked blood encrusted hair back from the knight's temples. Five squires stood like sentinels, grim and unmoving. Gunni remained on his knees at Sir James' side.

Bella swallowed hard and gathered her nerve, crossing the rows till she came to where Geoffrey knelt at James' Graham's head. The knight's eyes winced shut against terrible pain. Gunnie had cut his clothes away, exposing his chest and the piercing wound some lucky devil's lance had made. A horrible burn cauterized the deep gash shut.

"All right then laddies, we can move him now," Gunnie announced. His old knees cracked as he got to his feet. The squires took the ends of the stretcher in hand and lifted. Geoffrey stood aside as Rodney of Hainault reverently removed Sir James' sword from the ground and followed the others to the shelter of the king's pavilion. Bella watched the procession move to that destination.

"Maman." Geoffrey spoke to her at last. Since she'd arrived last night, he had avoided her completely. Now he looked straight at her, his face contorted in pain. "Is Sir James going to die?"

"Geoffrey, how could I know the answer to that?"

"You told Papa only one Englishman would die. Do you know how many Scots?"

What could Bella possibly say? I don't know, Froissart hadn't recorded that? "I hope Sir James won't die, Geoffrey. Maybe his wound looks worse than it is. He was breathing easily. I don't think his lung was punctured, but I'm not a doctor. What of your father and Robin? How did they fare?"