Hundred Years War: Fields Of Glory Part 26

'If they're trained, the first men will be killed,' Berenger said.

'So make sure your friends are in the second rank,' Geoff said grimly. 'I don't fear the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.'

Berenger nodded, and then called to the rest of his men.

Behind them was the Welsh contingent, and then two more English vintaines. Roger and his men were there, and he and Berenger agreed a plan. Two vintaines of archers drew up in two formations, like arrow-heads pointing at the village.

'Nock!'

A ripple of movement as the archers brought up their arrows.

'Draw!'

The men bent their backs, their bows creaking under the strain as the clothyard arrows were aimed up into the sky.

'Loose!'

A whirring and whistling, and the arrows rose into the air, and as they went, the archers were already nocking again. This second flight took to the air before the first had plummeted to the ground. A third flight, and even as they soared, Berenger and Geoff and the rest of the vintaine, along with the Welsh, were racing over the road as fast as their legs would bear them.

There was a scream as an English arrow found its mark, and then a figure rose from the side of the road, hesitated, and turned and fled. Three arrows were sent after him, but none found its mark. Another man appeared only a youth, this; an arrow struck him in the groin and he fell down, squirming horribly, a thin shriek of agony cutting through the whistle and thud of arrows striking the ground.

'To me!' Berenger bellowed, pounding across the road.

All sound faded. He could feel the blood thundering in his veins, the metallic taste of blood in his throat, and he was aware of an all-encompa.s.sing desperation to get to the other side before he could be struck down.

Yet there was more than mere desperation. There was a sense of the justness of this. He was a warrior, and this here, now was his duty, his life, his love. He wanted to cross the road safely because this was his vocation: to run, to charge . . . and to kill.

The arrows ceased, and suddenly he could hear noises again: the rasp of breath it was his own the slap of boots and bare feet, the rattle and c.h.i.n.k of mail, shrieks of terror, the solid thwack of bolts striking flesh, screams of pain.

A man sprang from the ground before him, and Berenger swung his sword, wounding his a.s.sailant in the throat. He fell, and Berenger leaped over the ditch, making for the houses where they had seen the men at the windows. An English arrow sped past his shoulder and he saw it continue in through an open window, saw the figure inside stumble; then a bolt loosed down at the ground near Berenger's feet, but he scarcely registered it as he ran at full tilt.

Behind him, the Welshmen were hacking at bodies on the ground, although their leader was looking about him for fresh targets. When he saw Berenger, he pointed, but did not direct his men to join the English. Instead, they held back.

Berenger saw and gritted his teeth. He was being left to be caught and slaughtered. From the room inside the house, he heard a man's voice. He sounded terrified, and Berenger slammed his pommel against the window's shutter twice, hard, shouting: 'Surrender!'

His only answer was a pair of bolts sent flying towards the English. In a sudden rage, he threw himself bodily through the window.

It was a gloomy chamber, but he made out three figures. Two were trying to span their crossbows, while the third handed out bolts from a satchel. The first bowman Berenger caught as he fell in through the window, the point of his sword entering under the fellow's ribcage and opening his gut. He shrieked like a snared rabbit, and fell back, hands moving frantically as he tried to push back the glistening intestines; Berenger tumbled to the floor and rolled, grunting as he clambered back to his feet. The third man was wielding his bolt like a dagger, and he thrust at Berenger's face, but Berenger's sword slashed, and the man's hand fell away, flapping on the ground like an injured bird. A fine spray of blood briefly blinded Berenger. Then the second bowman flung his crossbow at him and raced for the door. Berenger tried to get to him, but the hand-less loader obstructed him. He had to stab the man in the breast to get past, and as he did so, he saw his quarry escape through the open doorway, running for dear life. With brilliant timing, an arrow fell lazily from the clear sky and slammed right into his spine, causing him to drop like a pigeon hit by a slingshot.

Geoff appeared in the doorway, his bow still in his hand, and peered in cautiously.

Berenger had turned to look at the wounded. The hand-less one was only a boy, and the crossbowman not much older. He was struggling with the coils of his belly, all his attention on his opened gut, a boy of perhaps fourteen years, with a thin, long face and blue eyes that streamed tears.

It took just one heavy blow to open his skull and release him from his suffering. Berenger felt exhausted. He walked a short way from the chamber and slumped against the wall, staring out to the north.

When he had launched himself into that room, he had a.s.sumed that there were adult men in there, trying to kill him and the others. It was a fair fight. But then to discover that they were so young shamed him. They should not have been fighting him and his men.

'They were boys, Geoff. Not fully grown! And now they're dead. What in Christ's name were they doing, trying to hold up our army? Were they mad?'

As he spoke, Ed ran up through the doorway, his arms full of arrows.

Berenger stared at him. 'So does your heart good, does it, to see these poor dead French boys, the same age as yourself?'

Ed gazed back at him, and Berenger was surprised to see tears begin to run through the grime of his cheeks. With a sob, the Donkey threw the arrows to the ground and fled from the chamber.

'The little sod's spent so much time telling me how the only good Frenchman is a dead one, and I've had enough of it,' Berenger ranted, forgetting that Ed's view had changed over the past weeks. 'Look at these poor devils. Not one is old enough to wear a beard, in Christ's name! Does the country have no men to fight us? Must France depend upon children?' He was enraged.

'I don't give a clipped penny for them,' Geoff said thinly. 'They killed Matt. He's dead, too.'

Berenger went with Geoff and the others to Matt's body, Ed trailing in their wake.

Matt's face registered only surprise. There was no horror or shock in his eyes, as if he had died instantly as the bolt struck him.

'He was a good fellow,' Geoff said quietly.

'He was a randy old git,' Jack muttered, but he wiped at his eye as though rubbing away some grit.

'He was our randy old git though,' Geoff amended.

'A sound judgement,' Eliot said. Then: 'In the meantime, my friends, there are more men up there.'

's.h.i.+t!' Geoff said. 'These b.a.s.t.a.r.d French seem to have discovered their courage at last.'

'What did I tell ye? Ye'll all be slaughtered afore long,' Clip waited.

'Shut up, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' Geoff and Jack said in unison.

'Makes you think about Wisp,' Eliot said slowly. 'I mean, he said it as soon as he saw that body, didn't he? How we'd all get killed. How none of us would go home.'

'That's not what he said,' Berenger snapped. 'He was just alarmed, that was all.'

'It was that cat hanging. He said it was a witch's pet, that's what he said,' Geoff said.

'Aye, and we all heard him say that we were doomed, and the French would find us and destroy us,' Jon Furrier said glumly.

'It's all that woman,' Geoff said. 'We should tell Granda.r.s.e about her.'

'Tell him what?' Berenger said. 'That she retaliated when a Welshman tried to rape her? That she was saved when they tried to attack her again? That she was nearly raped by one of our own?'

'Even if she isn't a witch, she's bringing bad luck on the whole army,' Geoff said. 'She should be-'

'No!' The Donkey pushed his way to the front. 'That's wrong! Beatrice is gentle and kind. She wouldn't do anything to cause us hards.h.i.+p.'

'Maybe she would, and maybe she wouldn't. But having a witch in our company puts the whole army at risk,' Geoff looked around at the other men standing nearby and said earnestly: 'G.o.d will not allow an army to prevail when it keeps such people in the ranks.'

'Leave her alone!' Ed declared wildly.

'Silence, boy,' Geoff said with irritation. 'This is a matter for men.'

'No, it isn't. It's for G.o.d, just as He will see the validity of the King's claim to the throne and support him,' Berenger said.

'If she stays in the army, the French will crush us,' Geoff stated. 'We all know how large is the host raised against us. If G.o.d wills it, we could fight with His strength and win. Were His support to weaken, His resolve would also falter. Keeping a woman like her with us that would stop Him wanting to aid us. He would withdraw, and then the French must win. With so many men at their command, we cannot succeed.'

'Well, they haven't done too well so far,' Berenger commented, pulling at his hosen. 'Now cut the ballocks and let's get back to work. Geoff, you take the left, Jack, you're on the right. Eliot, you stay with me. The rest of you, spread out along the line and we'll go and get these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. Don't forget to leave a good gap between each of you.'

There was grumbling, especially from Clip, but then the men gradually formed their line and began to stride forward, past the houses and beyond.

Berenger could not help but stare back at the house where he had killed the boys. It would be many long nights before he forgot them. This chevauchee was turning into a nightmare. Only a few weeks ago, the men had been cheerful, enthusiastic. Now he could see in their faces only a weary determination to slog on somehow.

They all felt the same rising despair. It was hard to believe that they would return home triumphant or return at all.

Berenger asked Geoff and Jack to pick up Matt's body and put it in the cart.

'No! I'll take him!'

Berenger was surprised to see Clip barging the other two out of his way. Tears ran down Clip's face as he stood a moment over Matt, and then he bent and gathered up the body. He carried his comrade to the cart and gently laid him in it, standing a while with his hand resting on Matt's breast.

'I want a priest for him,' he said.

'We'll find him a priest later,' Berenger said.

'I want him seen to properly, mind.'

Geoff put a hand on his back. 'We will, Clip. We'll make sure he has a good burial.'

Clip nodded, and walked away to sit on a fallen log, his head bowed.

Berenger exchanged a look with Geoff. Neither had thought that Clip was so attached to Matt.

While the injured had their wounds seen to, Sir John de Sully's esquire came riding up.

'Sir John needs your help, Vintener,' he said. 'There's fighting at the next town.'

'We're already in the middle of a fight, Richard,' Berenger said sharply.

'The King's orders are that no one should delay. The whole army is moving slowly because of the vanguard, and now some of the Prince's men are attacking a town even though they've been ordered to leave it. Sir John asks that you join him, so that you can help persuade these fools to leave their plunder, and come away. If the army is halted, the French will overtake us and that will mean the death of us all!'

Berenger glanced at the others. Geoff shrugged, while Jack stood and shouldered his weapons, saying philosophically, 'Aye, well, we won't get anywhere by sitting on our a.r.s.es.'

Clip spat into the dirt at his feet with a display of petulance. 'Why us again, eh? Why do they keep on sending us whenever there's another battle? Haven't we already done enough? Matt's hardly cold, and they want us to go risk our lives again?'

The esquire was about to comment, but Berenger gave him a warning shake of the head.

Clip rose to his feet, muttering all the while, 'Aye, well, we'll all get ourselves slaughtered. You do know that? We'll all be murdered by the b.a.s.t.a.r.d French.'

'Not you, Clip,' Berenger said, as he pulled his sword loose and examined the blade. 'You're the one they count on to single-handedly ruin the army's morale.'

'Aye, it's a knack I have.'

They mounted their ponies, and soon were rattling along behind the esquire towards the next town, Vessencourt.

It was obvious that they were too late. Smoke was gathered and balled by the gusting winds, looking like thick clumps of fleece, dirty and grey, before being whisked away. All about, they could smell the charring and scorched grounds, while amidst that were other odours: the tang of sweet, burned meat, the foulness of feathers and fur, a disgusting concoction that a.s.sailed the nostrils like a noisome poison.

Across the plain, they could see the devastation as they approached. Sir John stood in the midst of the ruin staring about him with a gleaming fury in his eyes. Berenger had never seen him so angry.

'You see this? All this? They came here at the middle of the day to rob and pillage, as though we have all the time in the world to enjoy taking women! It was hardly a town worth the name, but the fools came here to plunder, and for that they were prepared to risk their lives and our entire enterprise. d.a.m.n their souls! G.o.d rot them!'

'Where are they now?' Berenger said.

'G.o.d in His heaven must know, but I'll be d.a.m.ned if I do!' Sir John shouted, infuriated. He calmed himself with an effort. 'We will have to follow their trail. Richard, do you return to my Lord Warwick and ask that we have more men to curtail this meandering, and then hurry back with them. We shall have to try to find these fools and pull them back to the army. However, Richard, make it clear that the army must continue. Let my Lord the Prince know that another few men must be set to scout ahead, until we are returned.'

'I shall, Sir John.'

'Then ride, man, ride! What are you hanging about for? Be fleet! Master Fripper, I depend upon you and your men. Come!'

The trail was not hard to follow. The men who had burned Vessencourt had left a broad path of devastation in their wake. A road of mud and dirt over ten yards wide stretched away into the distance before them. They set their ponies' heads to the north and cantered on.

Occasional farmsteads and hamlets were sprinkled over the flat landscape. Most were ablaze, the thatch sending up thick, greenish yellow fumes that caught in a man's throat and made him choke. Worse was the ever present odour of burned pork. It had nothing to do with pigs: this was the smell of roasting human flesh.

'How many men are missing?' Berenger asked Sir John.

'Maybe four centuries. Enough to make all this d.a.m.ned mess. But the fools will be slaughtered if they try to take a town. Especially since they'll be roaring drunk by now.'

There was no need to explain his words. Every few yards as they rode, they pa.s.sed little jugs or barrels that had been discarded. Clearly the men had stolen all the drink from the houses they had plundered.

It was a league or more further on when they came across the first stragglers.

'Hoi!' Sir John bellowed, and clapped spurs to his rounsey. There ahead were four or five men staggering along under a weight of goods. Berenger kicked his pony into a trot to catch up with him.

'What are you men doing up here?' Sir John bawled as he reined in before the men.

To Berenger they had the appearance of peasants who had been called to muster for the first time. One man he recognised: a tall fellow with a sullen expression who carried a strung bow, while the others were happily drunk and oblivious.

'My Lord?' one asked, hiccuping. A friend of his was giggling beside him, and he slapped away his proffered cask of wine. 'We are following our comrades.'

The man whose cask had been rejected gave a long, loud belch. 'There's good pickings up here. We'll all be rich men.'

'You will be rich and dead,' Sir John declared flatly. 'You are guilty of abandoning the King's host without permission, and engaging yourselves on a wild hunt for plunder on your own account. For that the penalty is death.'

While the other men appeared to sober swiftly, the taller, sullen man spoke. 'Why should we take your word for that, Sir Knight? You come here and tell us we're in the wrong but it's what we're here for, isn't it? To ravage the land just as the King has so far. We're doing his job for him. He should be grateful.'

'Your King has ordered you to make all haste to beat the French to the Somme, and you and your companions are putting us all in jeopardy by delaying him. You are giving the French a chance to catch us.'

'Then we can go on to the next bridge,' the man said truculently.

'Like we did on the way to Paris, you mean?' Sir John said his tone mildly.

Berenger remembered the fellow now: Mark Tyler was his name. G.o.d, the day he and Roger had sat and discussed their new recruits seemed an age ago. He eyed the man warily.