Hundred Years War: Fields Of Glory Part 3

'That lad Donkey.'

Berenger didn't have to look to know whose voice it was. The sibilance revealed that it came from Geoff. He squatted down near his old comrade and held his hands to the fire. 'What about him?'

'The boy's made enemies of the Welsh already. I saw him fetching water a while back, and a group of knifemen were laughing and making comments. I swear he would have pulled his knife on one who came too close.'

Berenger scowled. 'He tries that again, cuff him round the head. What, did the fool think they were French or something?'

'He knew they were Welsh, but he has no love for them, it seems. The boy's weird, I know, but he'll work out. He just needs a good thras.h.i.+ng every so often, like all lads.'

'That's what Granda.r.s.e said.'

'But you aren't sure?'

'I wish I was.' Berenger picked up a twig and shoved it into the fire. The end of his twig glowed, and he withdrew it, blowing on the ember reflectively.

'You never had a son, did you?' Geoff said.

'No. At least you have your wife and children,' Berenger said. He stared at the fire. 'That's my greatest regret. After this war, I will find a wife. I should give up this life.'

'You think you can?' Geoff chuckled mirthlessly. 'It's easier to be said than to be done. A woman can at least be bought easily enough,' he added. 'There are enough camp followers who would make you a good wife for as long as you want.'

Berenger looked at him, hearing a sharp edge to his voice. Geoff had always spoken with pride of his wife and two sons. Suggesting Berenger might find a 'good wife' from among the camp followers was unsettling. 'Are you all right?'

'Yes. I'm just tired.'

'It's been a long day,' Berenger agreed.

'Don't worry about the boy. I'll look after him,' Geoff said gruffly.

Berenger nodded. With Geoff taking responsibility, he felt rea.s.sured.

'Perhaps Ed is here for some reason we cannot guess at,' Geoff yawned. 'G.o.d has His plans, and we rarely comprehend them.'

Berenger gave a twisted grin. The smell of thousands of men, along with the latrines, let alone the French corpses piled a short distance away, all made him wonder what plans G.o.d might hold for them. Later, when he was preparing for sleep, his head on his bag, he glanced across at Geoff. The fellow was staring up at the black sky still.

'b.u.g.g.e.r it,' Berenger heard him mutter, just before he fell into a deep sleep.

They were a rag-bag of soldiers. Even in her shocked state, Beatrice thought how battered they looked, when they pa.s.sed by her cottage later that night.

Their leader was a tall, well-mannered n.o.bleman with a face marked by pain and fatigue. Grey bruises under his eyes and deep lines at either side of his mouth and at his brow told of the savage beating they had received at the hands of the English invaders.

'Maid, you must leave here,' he said, halting his horse at her gate while his men shuffled past. His head dropped from exhaustion as he surveyed her sadly. 'It is dangerous. The English are come. No man, woman or child is safe. You know what monsters they are.'

She looked up at him dull. The priest's attempted rape of her, and his death, had affected her deeply. She felt washed out, weary almost to death. This n.o.bleman could have no idea of monsters: her father had been slain by the King! But she nodded nonetheless. She would not show her true feelings.

'They landed very near,' the man went on. 'We did all we could, but they slaughtered my men and we few escaped with these injuries. They're only a matter of hours away. I tell you again: you have to leave this place before they get here.'

'I cannot. My mistress has died and I must see to her.'

'Let the priest deal with her, if he will come,' the knight said.

She nodded, feeling as if the priest's body was screaming to him from the bushes at the back of the house.

Not that he or his men could hear anything other than the clamour of arms. It was in their faces: they were mired in horror. They marched slowly, mere tattered remnants. A few rode horses or ponies, but most were on foot, limping and staggering, some helping comrades with arms about their necks as they hobbled along, others using polearms as makes.h.i.+ft staffs.

'Sir, what happened?'

'We arrived too late,' he said. 'I should have been there sooner, but one man cannot guard a coast so vast as Normandy's. When we arrived, there were already enough ash.o.r.e to thwart us. Our bowmen from Genoa had already deserted us, claiming they were owed money, so we had no protection nothing. We did all we could, but this is all that is left of the force I had to defend us all. I must make haste to reach St-L or Caen and warn them. The English rats will infest every part of our county until they can be burned out.'

'I must remain to bury my mistress,' Beatrice said, glancing back at the cottage.

'We can carry her to the church, if it will help you,' the knight said.

'I must collect my things. Some money . . .'

'Then be quick!' he snapped, keen to be off. 'We can help you to the church, but after that you must make your own way to safety if you can find it anywhere in our unhappy kingdom.'

'I thank you,' she said. She ran back into the cottage and gathered a few belongings, and then, as the men brought out the old woman's body, she threw Helene's pallia.s.se onto the fire. Smoke rose from the hay inside, and she turned and strode from the place.

Outside, the old cat rubbed against her legs, giving a loud purr that seemed almost demented. She stroked his head as she watched the flames through the doorway. The roof gave off a thick, greenish-yellow smoke as the thatch caught. A flash of heat made the animal leap from her.

She called to the cat, but he had hidden himself away. Unbeknownst to her, it was the last time she would see him, for soon, locals would come to accuse her of witchcraft, and they would hang him, in the casually brutal way of superst.i.tious peasants. If she had known, she would have taken him with her.

'Why fire the place?' the knight demanded.

She looked at him and forgot the cat.

'I'll not have her belongings looted by the English,' she said, adding silently to herself, 'nor by the locals.'

13 July Berenger rose as the first horns blared through the early morning. 'On your feet!' he shouted to his men, making a dishonest display of enthusiasm for leaders.h.i.+p. In truth, he would have much preferred a cup of warm, spiced ale and another hour under his cloak.

It was still dark, yet all around him men were stirring and grumbling, many searching for a bush or tree to p.i.s.s against, while others packed belongings and adjusted their coats against the chill. Out at sea, s.h.i.+ps waited, and more were being beached and unloaded.

'Aye, there'll be a fight before we see home again,' Jack Fletcher said in his heavy Ousham accent, hoicking up his hosen. Berenger had known him longest, and Jack was the man he relied on to give him the mood of the men. 'Those sailor boys have an easy time of it, eh? b.u.g.g.e.ring off back to port, guzzling the best wine and ale while we march the soles of our boots thin all the way to b.l.o.o.d.y Paris. The b.u.g.g.e.rs.'

Berenger grinned.

'How do you think the men are doing?' he asked.

Jack shrugged. 'Clip's whining wors'n ever; Wisp's worried, as usual, but he's keeping it quiet. You know what he's like.'

Berenger knew all too well. Will the Wisp was lanky and clumsy and always fretting: would they win a good reward for their effort, would his bag hold for their campaign, would the rains come on and ruin his boots? In Wisp's life there were so many things to worry about.

'The others?' he asked.

'Oliver has toothache; Eliot's upset because his harrier b.i.t.c.h was kicked by a packhorse and she's limping; Matt's on about needing a wh.o.r.e; Gil wants an ale; Jon is hungry; Walt didn't sleep. It's the usual moaning and griping, but they're fine. It's when they stop bleating you need to worry. That's when they're plotting mutiny!'

Berenger pulled the straps tight on his pack. He wanted to ask about the boy, but there was no point. Of all the men under Berenger, Jack was the most loyal. He would protect any man from the vintaine, especially a youngster, to the utmost limit of his strength. 'What of Geoff?'

'He's just missing his wife and boys, as usual.'

Berenger nodded. Geoff was always sombre at the beginning of a campaign. Berenger had seen it before. His protectiveness towards Ed was just his paternal nature coming to the fore.

Clip had relit the fire, and now the men were heating flat stones. Most men did not bother with an early meal, but Berenger insisted that, when possible, each man should have something inside them to sustain them for the day's march. Each had mixed oats with flour and water, some with honey, to make little cakes. It was a trick they had learned from the Scots.

However, during this campaign there was no telling where they would find supplies. Berenger decided he would keep a store. That way, if the French laid waste the farms before them on their march, they would always have some food.

While their cakes cooked, Berenger wandered amongst the other members of his vintaine, stopping and talking to each.

There were too few. Granda.r.s.e had been right on that. Berenger was the leader of sixteen men, where there should have been twenty, fifteen excluding Ed he couldn't add Ed to the complement. Not yet. Not until they'd seen how he would behave in a fight.

Berenger saw a messenger pick his way across to Granda.r.s.e. The old man nodded and looked across at Berenger meaningfully. Picking up his hot oatcake, Berenger blew on it, saying, 'Hurry up and eat, boys. It looks like we'll be working for our money today.'

Beatrice walked slowly amidst the throng that day. A solitary young woman, with dank and matted hair beneath a tatty wimple, she attracted little attention. It was how she liked it. For the first time in days she almost felt safe.

She had left the weary men at the little chapel, where they deposited Helene's body for her. Since then, she had been trailing along with columns of refugees.

Here, the rutted road was a mess of mud, human ordure and abandoned belongings. Men and women trudged along wearily, carrying their possessions on their backs, under their arms, or on small carts. She saw a man with a tottering pile of tightly-bound bales of clothing crammed into an unwieldy barrow suddenly stop as the topmost ones fell into the mud. He stood, distraught, staring at them, as though that was the ruin of his life, while the endless line of people pa.s.sed by him without comment. No one could spare even a word of sympathy. Not now. Everyone was too scared: too exhausted.

A child of perhaps eight years was darting from one adult to another, snot running from her nose, crying and calling for her mother. One bent old woman, grey of face and hair, meandered from the road and through a collection of nettles, and then slumped to the ground like one who had given up. Beatrice knew she would die there. And n.o.body would help.

Beatrice herself was too weary.

The whole world seemed on the move: everybody's faces taut with fear, all so sunk in despair that they had no thoughts for others. Ahead, Beatrice saw a priest with his servants, striding with the careful haste of a c.o.c.kerel sensing a fox in pursuit, avoiding glances to either side in case he might see someone who needed his help. Here, surely, he should have paused, prayed, offered some kind of a.s.sistance to these suffering people. It was his job, his G.o.d-given duty.

Her experience at Helene's cottage had utterly destroyed her faith in the priesthood. They were hypocrites, she thought bitterly, demanding that others should help their fellow men, but then averting their own gaze from those in need. Unless they could pay, of course. Like the priest who had offered to help her but only if she would become his wh.o.r.e.

But today, the priests themselves were fearful. Peasants, burghers, even the rich were scared and who could blame them? All were terrified of the English.

The enemy would soon be upon them, and then the terror would start. Everyone knew what it was like to have an army arrive. The countryside would be devastated, fields and pasture would be ravaged, local stores emptied, and the people . . . well, the people would be lucky if they lived. Stories of the depredations of the English were rife, and everyone had heard tell of their behaviour in previous raids. They would ride over a wide front and slay all who stood in their path. If a town or city refused to let them in, they would have to suffer the torments of siege and starvation, and if the place fell, their reward would be wholesale slaughter: men and boys murdered, women raped by whole companies of men, their children spitted on lances for the amus.e.m.e.nt of the troops.

So Beatrice walked unmolested among the people fleeing the rumour of invasion. Even here, in the lanes near Carentan, no one was interested in one young woman. There were too many others maids who had fled their masters' houses, women from the farms who had been sent away by tearful parents, those without homes who had nothing to tie them to a town all were on the road now.

No one hindered her, but no one aided her. She stumbled as she went, but she could survive.

She would survive. Her thirst for vengeance would keep her alive.

Sir John returned with Granda.r.s.e. The knight wanted to see how the vintaine was shaping up. Long ago, he had served under two commanders, and both had taught him much about handling men: the first by his utter disregard for them and their feelings, the second by his commitment to his archers and men-at-arms. Men, any men, deserved respect. The alternative was mutiny.

'I give you a good day,' he said to the men as they bickered about their fires.

They were an interesting group, he thought. He knew their leader, of course. Granda.r.s.e was a cantankerous, foul-mannered and still more foul-spoken, unrepentant old sinner. Sir John had known him for many years. Berenger, too, was someone he recognised. The man's face was familiar, although he couldn't immediately recall where they had met before. No matter. It would come to him.

'All right, you daft churls, listen!' Granda.r.s.e said. 'Will, that means you too. We are to march south and west from here, and check the country for more Frenchies. Hoy! Clip, are you listening? I know your brain's in your a.r.s.e, but this could be important! We are to scout, and if we find strong forces we're not to engage them, but come straight back. Do you understand?'

Sir John eyed the vintaine. They knew their jobs. They must ensure that no French forces could surprise the English while the s.h.i.+ps continued to be unloaded.

'Hoy! I said: do you understand, you thieving s.c.r.o.t.es?'

There was a weak chorus of, 'Yes, we heard you,' and, 'Aye, we did.' Jack snorted and pulled out his sword, studying the blade. Others were similarly undemonstrative.

Sir John took a step forward and waited until he had their attention. These were experienced professionals who had fought together for years. They were confident, if undemonstrative. They had nothing to prove. Sir John was aware he could rely on them.

'I am glad you are here with us,' he said clearly. 'The King is determined to bring the French to battle, but to do that will be difficult. We need to fight on ground of our choosing, and not see our men frittered away in silly fights. That is why I've picked you, since you are the most reliable vintaine. Do you have any questions?'

'Do we march soon?' Will asked.

Sir John gave a grin that, to Berenger, made him look like a Lyme pirate. 'As soon as the s.h.i.+ps are empty, the King will move. You have been on chevauchee with him before. You will all have rich pickings. Other men have made so much money from taking hostages and winning gold that they have been able to build their own manors and live like lords. You can too!' He cleared his throat. 'The King intends this war to bring the French to their knees and accept him as their rightful ruler. To celebrate his arrival, he has knighted his son and many other n.o.bles. Before the end of the campaign, he will give the same honours to others who serve him faithfully, be they ever so young,' he added, looking straight at Ed. 'So serve your King honourably and well, all of you, and you will be richly rewarded!'

He waved a hand, encompa.s.sing the landscape.

'Look at this land! It's so verdant and rich, even the peasants have money. Well, we're going to ruin their lives. Our orders are to wage dampnum. You all know what that means.'

He looked about and saw the older men nodding grimly. Newer recruits, and the boy, looked baffled.

Berenger summed it up. 'Dampnum means terror: we wage war through the people. Wherever we go, we'll take their food, their money, their silver and plate. Everything else, we burn.'

Sir John nodded approvingly. 'Aye. It means creating such misery that the folk demand that their masters come and protect them, or they will surrender. It means that we shall make this a land of ghosts.'

Granda.r.s.e nodded, then thundered to his men: 'And now, you idle b.u.g.g.e.rs, get your fingers out of your a.r.s.es! We have work to do.'

Beatrice was pa.s.sing a little tumbledown home when she saw the huddle of old rags. It was already past noon, and at first she scarcely paid it any attention. But her gown was tattered and frayed, her shoes worn, and, struck with hope that there might be a good cloak to keep the night's cold at bay, or shoes, she hurried over to the bundle before someone else in the struggling column could spy them.

It was an old woman.

The old dear lay on her back with her pale eyes staring up at the sky, and Beatrice felt the breath catch in her throat at the sight. Long white hair spread from her head all about her like a halo. She was no rich burgher's wife, with her face lined and sunburned like that.

Her clothing was russet and green, but at her flank the material was stained with blood. Beatrice thought she must be dead. There was no point being sentimental. She moved closer, thinking to take the cloak but, as she did so, the old woman's eyes turned to her. Aware, but dulled.

Beatrice swallowed. 'Who did this?'

'A fool who thought I was rich,' the woman croaked bitterly. Her lip trembled. 'He gained little by his treachery.'

Beatrice moved to her side and knelt in the damp gra.s.s. A twig stuck in her knee, but she scarcely felt it as she studied the b.l.o.o.d.y cloth. There was no hissing from the wound, which she knew was fortunate, but it had bled a great deal. The cloth was sodden.

'Can you rise?'

'What do you think?' the woman said, but she allowed the girl to help her to a sitting posture, the breath sobbing in her throat.

'We must get you out of the roadway for the night,' Beatrice said, looking at the hovel. There was s.p.a.ce in there for them both to sleep in the dry.

'Move me in there and I'll die. If I am to die anyway, what is the point?' the old woman grumbled.

'At least I can stay dry while I nurse you in there.'

'That's the trouble with the young. Always thinking of their own comforts,' the woman said tartly, but her eye held a glint of amus.e.m.e.nt that shone through her pain.

'Come!'