Hundred Years War: Fields Of Glory Part 21

'Master Fripper, we are to march again today,' Sir John said, and he looked over the vintaine. 'I would be glad to have you and your men at my side.'

Granda.r.s.e drew himself up to his full height. 'If it pleases you, Sir John, I'm sure that I can afford to lose one vintaine from my complement,' he said. 'But when it comes to a fight, I'll need 'em back. What do you plan? A scout?'

'No. We have a new battle formation today,' Sir John said. 'We march together, and your men will not be far from you, but if there is a need of defence up at the river's edge, I would have some men with me.'

'Oh, at the river?' Granda.r.s.e said, and Berenger could have chuckled at his crestfallen expression. He had thought Berenger and his men were to run further away to scout the land again. As it was, if they were to remain near the river, they would be hanging back from most of the army.

'Yes. Look!'

The archers peered over their shoulders at a strange sight.

Red banners had been raised by King Edward's heralds and esquires. The flags must be waved gently to show them clearly, for the wind was non-existent, but they were in full view of the French who stood at the northern bank of the river.

Berenger felt a spark of warmth deep in his belly. 'So, we march, sir?'

'As soon as the order comes. And then we wait and hope, eh?'

'Yes, sir.'

At the wagon, Ed and Beatrice had no idea what the banners signified.

'What do they mean? Are we to surrender?' Ed asked anxiously.

'Surrender?' Archibald laughed heartily. 'No, boy! They mean we're ready and waiting. They say we expect to fight: here, today! If the French don't come to find us, we'll call them cowards, and not worth the country they claim as their own!'

Sir John stood in the broad s.p.a.ce before the King's great pavilion along with all the n.o.bles and barons of the army. He had been called to a Council of War.

The King marched from the entrance to his pavilion with his armour gleaming, his son Edward of Woodstock behind him. A dais had been erected from some boards placed over barrels, and the two stood on this.

For a man who had been thwarted in his every attempt to cross the river and come to blows with the French, the King showed little sign of frustration. Instead, he looked about his men with a smile. Some he acknowledged with a tilt of his head and a wink, and when he caught sight of Sir John, his smile broadened.

'Sir John, are you still with us? A man of your age should be enjoying a life of comfort with your grandchildren at your feet, not coming out on escapades such as this!'

'I would be happy, my Lord, to rest my weary bones, were my King content. But since he chooses to seek justice, I must burnish my armour and sharpen my swords. My wife will speak with you later, I doubt me not, about the importance of allowing your knights to rest!'

'When you are ready, old friend, let me know and I shall personally purchase you your corrody!'

Sir John grinned. He would not be ready to take a pension for many years.

'My Lords, Barons, good knights, we find ourselves at an impa.s.se. We are here, south of the Seine, while our good cousin, the King of France, tarries at the other side. He remains quaking in his tent!

'We have given him every opportunity to meet us on the field of battle. We are ready today, should he desire it! But he has more pressing engagements. Perhaps he must haggle over some more Genoese galleys to replace the s.h.i.+ps we burned at Sluys, or he wishes to buy some more crossbowmen to supplement his meagre army?

'For his army is meagre. It looks vast, a prodigious number of men and beasts. You can see them, if you wis.h.!.+ They are all there on the other side of the river. Yet it must be composed of men too feeble to fight us! We have raised the red banners of war to offer him battle. Look! They are all about us even now!

'More, we have marched only two leagues today, and for good reason. We are now in-between two bridges, those of Mantes and Poissy, of course. The good King prefers us not to cross to his side, and bars the bridges to us. Those he cannot, he tears down in his frenzy of destruction. He prefers to ravage his land to save it from us! With the red banners aloft, we have given him time to cross the river after us. Yet he has chosen not to do so.'

The King paused and looked about the faces before him once more. Then his head lowered on his shoulders and his eyes narrowed.

'He blocks us, he believes, by taking down his bridges and denying us the crossing. I say, G.o.d is with us, and with His help, we shall cross this river.'

His face cleared. 'There are still feats of arms to cheer us. Only a few days ago, Sir Robert Ferrers crossed the river in a rowing-boat and so vigorously did he a.s.sault the castle at La Roche Guyon that he persuaded the castellan there that the whole of the English army was upon him. The castle was surrendered to him! If that is what a small force of Englishmen in a rowing-boat can achieve, think what prodigious feats of arms we can achieve as an army!'

That raised a belly-laugh. The fact was, every man there was confident in his training and experience.

'The King of France has received bad news,' the King continued in a low growl. 'He has learned that another English army threatens his a.r.s.e, advancing from Flanders. That is another reason why he is nervous to meet us here, because he doesn't know what is happening behind him. And while he leaves us to our own devices, I intend to increase the shame heaped upon his head. We shall leave such a swathe of devastation behind us that even the coward who rules this land realises he can no longer with honour evade battle. The territory we are entering is the King's favourite. He will learn that it is better to confront an enemy than leave him to rampage. And then, if he still persists in avoiding us, we shall a.s.sault Paris itself!'

He raised his arms and now he roared: 'We fight to prove who is the lawful King of this land! With you, my friends and comrades, I can prove to the world that my cause is just!'

While the a.s.sembled men cheered, drawing swords and waving them with jubilation, Sir John c.o.c.ked an eye at the Earl of Warwick. The Earl glanced back at him with a dry smile on his face.

'Well?' Sir John asked as they fell into step walking from the meeting.

The Earl said, 'He has waited too many years to fight this war.'

'And now he can feel the prize within his grasp.'

'He has felt it before,' the Earl said, 'but the French refused to fight.'

'I was there. I recall it clearly.'

'His policy this time is to try to meet the army coming down from Flanders.'

'So we must cross the river.'

'Yes. And the French most certainly do not want that, so they keep us on the southern side and demolish all the bridges ahead of us.'

'A holding action. But how long will he wish to keep us at bay?'

The Earl shrugged, his face growing serious. 'Until he can call up all his fighting men. He has warriors besieging Aiguillon under Duke John of Normandy. If they were brought back to Paris, even the French King must think himself strong enough to attack us.'

'You think that's what he will do?'

'If I were the French King, I would hold the river with small forces and bring the rest of my army over to this side, and block our route to Paris. Meanwhile, his army under Duke John would hasten towards us and increase his forces.'

'So the French will wait for us?'

'Yes,' the Earl said. Then he grinned. 'You think he would launch an attack on us? He's never tried to fight an offensive war. That is the English way, but the French always defend, or hit quickly and run away, like their attacks at Plymouth, Southampton and Portsmouth in recent years. No, he will draw his troops up on a strong battlefield and wait for us. Depend upon it.'

'I shall,' Sir John said. 'And hope that we find a bridge open so that we may retake the initiative as soon as possible.'

12 August Marching and burning. Days of pointless destruction, of savage encounters with Frenchmen bravely trying to hold back an army that was insatiable in its hunger. Like a glutton, it trampled over the land and engulfed all, leaving behind a burning waste where nothing moved but cinders and ashes sluggishly stirred by the wind.

And then, one day at noon, on a hillside, Berenger found Clip standing, leaning on his unstrung bow and staring ahead. 'What is it?'

'Frip! There it is! We're b.l.o.o.d.y here! It's b.l.o.o.d.y Paris!'

Berenger forgot his sore feet and blisters as he stared through the misty air. There, beyond the bends in the river, he could see towers and walls, the glitter of gla.s.s and gilded statues. It stood like a city of the imagination, as though floating in the air, insubstantial as a wisp of smoke, and yet as Berenger stared, he could feel its awesome power and strength. Paris was the centre of chivalry for Christendom, the centre of beauty and authority, a pearl sitting in the lush countryside, the whitened ma.s.s of the Louvre standing over the western edge of the walls, a vast abbey before them, the towers of Notre-Dame rising to the skies behind.

'Granda.r.s.e? Look here,' he called.

There were suburbs on the English side, protected by a high wall, but the true wealth lay north, defended by the French army. It was safe while the English could not cross the Seine, but the Parisians were not to know that. This was a catastrophe. They had no experience of an English host appearing to threaten their city and their existence. Within those walls the populace would be terrified.

The rest of their vintaine, and Roger's, came and gathered with them, all staring in astonishment at the city.

Granda.r.s.e scratched his cods. 'That's it? b.u.g.g.e.r, but we could take that in an afternoon, us. Ye'll have to walk a bit faster to get to it before night though. Must be twenty mile if it's a league.'

'Come, we can get to it tomorrow. There's no hurry,' Clip said.

Jack was still staring hungrily. 'They say that there's gold in the streets there. When we're inside, any man among us could take enough to live like a lord for the rest of his life. Think of that.'

Wat was standing with a wistful expression on his face. 'I'll make my wife proud of me again with the money I'll bring back to her.'

'Is that right?' Clip said sarcastically. 'Look over there, at the north of the river. Isn't that an army? So before you count your profits, man, just bear in mind that you'll probably die in the attack. Aye, ye'll all be slaughtered.'

'To take a place like that, even if you die trying, that would be good enough,' Jon Furrier said wistfully. 'What a victory that would be, eh?'

'What about you, Ed?' Clip said. 'Can you see the advantage of our war now?'

'I I don't know. My family's dead. All the gold in the world won't replace them.'

Geoff shook his head. 'No and this time I won't have you risking your life in the streets, remember, Donkey.'

'Very true!' Archibald called from his wagon. 'I need you fit and healthy to carry my loads, boy.'

'I know,' Ed said, and was silent.

Berenger noticed that the boy was staring at Beatrice.

She herself was gazing at the city with a look of such hatred that it made the vintener's spine tingle.

When they settled for the night, Geoff sat beside Berenger with a large skin of wine, which he pa.s.sed to him. 'You look like you could do with a drink,' he said.

Berenger allowed a good mouthful to pour into his mouth. 'Good wine,' he acknowledged.

'Only the best for the abbot, eh?' Geoff said, smacking his lips. 'Good enough for me, anyway.'

'Yeah.'

They were silent for a moment, and then Berenger sighed and grunted, 'Come on, then. What's on your mind?'

'I'm worried,' Geoff confessed. 'We need to cross that d.a.m.ned river, but ever since we reached it, things have gone from bad to worse. I don't like it.'

Berenger gave a snort of derision. 'Bad to worse? Our vintaine's still strong. We only lost Will and James, and the way things are, we'll come to the gates of Paris with all our men, G.o.d willing.'

'You think so? That city's like London, Frip. You think you could storm London with an army like this? If Londoners wanted you, you could enter, but if they barred all the gates, what then? We can't sit outside for a long siege, can we? We don't have miners to bring the towers down, nor the siege train to batter the walls. The French army is larger already, and grows daily. Philippe intends to crush us.'

'What of it? We intend to crush him too. One side will win: our fate is in the hands of G.o.d.'

'So long as we don't carry the seed of our failure in amongst us.'

'What does that mean?' Berenger demanded.

'The woman,' he said flatly. 'I heard Erbin just as you did. He said that she was a witch, and the more I watch her, the more I think he's right. I wish we'd left her with the Welsh.'

'You're talking s.h.i.+te. That's villeiny-saying, that is. Drink some more.'

'Did you see her expression when she saw Paris? If she was staring at the murderer of her own child, she could not look more filled with loathing.'

'So what? Maybe she caught sight of your face!'

'You know the Welsh. They are said to have more feeling for evil than we English.'

'They're said to be superst.i.tious gits, more like.'

'You can scoff, but you get Matt and Eliot on a dark night and tell them there's a vampire nearby and see how they cower!'

Berenger didn't laugh. In his heart he knew that there were such things as witches and evil spirits. No man could doubt that, not when the priests were so full of stories of the harm such unnatural creatures could do. He found it difficult to believe that Beatrice was a witch, but the look on her face when she saw Paris in the distance, the lack of sympathy for those who were her countrymen, while the English slaughtered so many, that was legitimate cause for reflection.

'All those bridges, and we cannot win a single one,' he muttered. 'There must be one soon.'

'What if there isn't? Maybe it's all because of her.'

'You think she has cursed us? Why?'

'How should I know?'

'Geoff, she's happy with us. You saved her from the Welsh at the camp, and we saved her in the city. Look at her: she hardly looks like a woman who is driven by hatred of us, does she? She's driven by hatred of the French. In any case, it's resolved now. Archibald is looking after her.'

'Perhaps that's it. G.o.d is disgusted by her because she has nothing to do with her own people,' Geoff said. 'She's brought us nothing but bad luck. Before her, we went through French towns like a dagger through water. Since she came, we've failed in all we've attempted.'

'So far as I'm concerned,' Berenger said with finality, 'she's been a breath of fresh air. I like her.'

'I know,' Geoff said, his quiet response more worrying than his earlier bl.u.s.ter. 'Many do, Frip. That's how witches snare their victims.'

13 August Berenger slept badly that night. It seemed as though every time he snoozed, he saw Beatrice. Once he dreamed she was standing at his head with a dagger in her hands, ready to plunge it into his throat, and he rolled over and woke up in a panic. A guard cast a suspicious look at him from the far side of the camp.

They rose before dawn as usual, and Berenger found himself peering about in a search for her. Geoff's words had unsettled him. In the end he spotted her at the far side of Archibald's wagon. At least she was some distance away, he thought, recalling the dream with a shudder.

Today their orders were to march straight on. The town of Poissy lay some three miles distant; there had been a bridge there, although whether it still existed was a question that few dared ask.

An air of grim resolution hung over them. Those who had set out filled with the thrill of battle and glory had gradually been ground down by their long march. All knew that the King had intended crossing the Seine many miles before this, and the continued slog south and east had eroded the optimism of even the youngest. There were irritable words between men who only a few days before had been firm friends. The journey was bringing all low.

The only beam of hope was the possibility of the capture of Paris, Berenger reckoned. The men were speaking openly about the wealth inside the city; having enriched themselves at St-L and Caen, they spoke of the fabled treasures of Paris with a greed that rivalled that of any Pope.

Berenger did not share their excitement. He had an old soldier's respect for his enemy. No matter how good the land, how skilled the troops with their weapons, it was still the case that a momentary failing on the part of the war-leaders could throw all into disarray and disaster. Today, as he looked over to the opposite bank, he was aware only of the strength of the French position. A small force was all that would be needed to defend the far banks against English troops trying to wade across, even if a ford were to be found. A few hundred men could hold off the English for a long, long time.

He shook himself. A pox on that! This army would cross somehow, and they would fight their way back home. And if the French army tried to cut them to pieces, so be it.