Hundred Years War: Fields Of Glory Part 6

'Why are we here?' Geoff muttered. 'There's nothing for us to do.'

He spoke for them all. They had been sent to scout for potential threats from an enemy who was nowhere to be seen.

They had guessed that the town would have been attacked, but this was far worse than any of them had antic.i.p.ated. As they wandered the streets, they came across women raped and discarded with a sword in the belly, men butchered, babies kicked or stamped to death. Blood seeped into the cobbles on all sides.

It was natural that the first men to disembark were sent to scout the lands all around. This was one of the first towns the English had reached, and their arrival had been as unexpected as it was savage. The proof lay all around.

'Come on, boys,' Berenger said. He took the lead and walked warily, the point of an arrowhead of men. Hearing a scurrying, he turned quickly, but it was only a pair of startled crows rising from a body near a chapel.

The whole town seemed to crackle and tick as burned timbers glowed and cob or brick walls cooled in the late-morning air. As he pa.s.sed one ruined building, the heat from the brick walls licked at Berenger's cheek. It was so hot he thought his hair must blacken and curl.

Wisp was at his side, but he didn't meet anyone's eye. Since the day he had seen the cat in the cottage, he had withdrawn into a world of personal terror. The others were beginning to shun him.

'The Devil's been here,' he said. 'This is his work.'

'Shut up, Wisp,' Berenger snapped, nerves on edge.

At first, when they saw Wisp's fear, the others had been supportive even Clip had gone to speak with him but the aura of unremitting gloom that now surrounded Wisp had repelled all their efforts. It was affecting the morale and cohesion of the vintaine, and Berenger didn't know how to combat it. Perhaps he should bellow and curse them out of this tension? Granda.r.s.e would have done so. If they could loot a barrel of wine, that might help.

He was no leader of men, he thought bitterly. When all went well, he was fine, but given a problem like Wisp, he was lost. A man used to dealing with disobedience would have been more competent: a father, a beadle or sergeant. Berenger was just a solitary soul. No woman, no children, only a life spent serving the interests of others.

'There's no one here. No one alive, anyway,' Geoff said, interrupting his thoughts.

'No, but we carry on,' Berenger said.

'Aye. Get your a.r.s.es up the road,' Granda.r.s.e said. 'We have our orders.'

'Yes, there may be something,' Mark Tyler said.

Berenger and Roger exchanged a look. Tyler was too keen, whether on death or plunder, it was impossible to know; they would continue to watch him.

'Is there any sign of who could have been responsible?' Northampton asked. He had set the point of his dagger on his forefinger and was balancing it there.

'My Lord, the men say that there was no indication who the guilty men were.'

'It is fortunate,' Woodstock said. 'I would not want to have to tell my father that a particular vintaine had run amok. He would be displeased to learn that his own men could seek to ruin his plan.'

'My Lord?' Sir John said.

'Come, Sir John. You must know that the King has planned this in great detail.'

'Your Royal-' Warwick began in a warning growl.

'Peace, Sir Thomas! If I cannot trust a knight with Sir John's experience, whom may I trust? Sir John, I know that my father gave it out that he was keen to launch his war from Guyenne, but that was never in his mind. He always intended to begin in the lands from which William the b.a.s.t.a.r.d attacked our sh.o.r.es all those years ago: Normandy. There is a poetic justice in landing in the same territory from which William embarked. My father has only one aim: to bring the false French King to battle and destroy him. Philippe is reluctant to fight, but we will make him.'

'He has a mighty army.'

'The French are bloated. They are so convinced that their horse will defeat any army, that they fail to study how others fight. Look at us! We innovate, we test new systems, new weapons, and when did we last lose a battle? You know Sir Thomas Dagworth?'

'Of course.'

'Did you hear of Brest last month? He stumbled across the army of Charles de Blois with thousands of battle-hardened Bretons. Dagworth had eighty men-at-arms and a hundred archers. Think of that! It was obviously pointless to fight, so Dagworth offered to surrender for ransom, but de Blois wanted his head. You can imagine it, eh? Dagworth's men hardly had time to put their trust in G.o.d.'

'This was over a month ago,' Warwick said. He dipped his fingers in a large bowl brought by an esquire, wiping his hands clean and standing.

'And Dagworth won!' Woodstock said gleefully. 'They held their positions they were cut about dreadfully, of course but when it came to nightfall, he and his men had fought the Bretons to a standstill and it was they who withdrew to lick their b.l.o.o.d.y wounds. Think of it! Sir Thomas and his men fought off an army twenty or thirty times their number, and lived to tell the tale! It's more impressive even than Thermopylae.'

'Wonderful,' Sir John nodded.

'Ah, well, you're so much older, Sir John, you will have seen even more marvellous battles, I am sure,' Edward said happily. 'Were you at Thermopylae yourself? You're old enough!' He laughed boyishly.

'Your Highness, that is well, but now the French must come and attack us. This chevauchee will attract a strong response.'

The Prince's eyes hardened. 'You are right, Sir John. But we are not here to terrorise peasants. We are here to take the crown. Philippe knows we can do it. We will force him to meet us, and we will wrest the crown from his head.'

'If he will fight,' Northampton said grimly. He had his dagger balanced perfectly, and he flicked it into the air now and caught it neatly. 'He has slunk away from battle before. He thinks to wait until we have run out of food, and then force us back to our s.h.i.+ps, keeping his own knights in check.'

'He will have to fight,' Woodstock said. He took a silver-chased goblet from an esquire and drank deeply.

Warwick glanced at Northampton. 'But we will not have those wis.h.i.+ng to enter the King's protection thinking they will be slaughtered if they do.'

'No,' Woodstock agreed, a little of his beaming joy falling away. 'Those who wish to enter the King's Peace must be aided, not robbed and killed.'

'Yes, Your Royal Highness,' Sir John said.

'See to it that your men are well-behaved at all times, then,' Woodstock said. 'I will have all obey the King's proclamation. Especially my Welshmen. I would not have any of my own men become known for disobedience.'

Archibald the Gynour sat with his back to the wagon and scratched his head through his scorched and stained coif, running through the list of items he had stored.

It had taken time for the sailors to help him offload his equipment. One huge barrel, linen bags full of stones and pieces of iron, and the barrels of coa.r.s.e black powder. This was to be a new war, he knew. A war of destruction; a war of terror.

He had set all his toys in the bed of this wagon, balancing everything fore and aft as well as side to side. With the weight involved, it would take only a slight misdistribution to break the axle or wheels even of this great wagon.

There was a fire a short distance away, and he cast a jealous eye to it, but he didn't bother to go and speak with the men there. He knew how he would likely be received. A Serpentine one expert in the use of black powder was more often than not viewed with alarm and distrust by ordinary soldiers.

It meant that most of his life was spent alone. Other men tended to shun him. He had no companion, no youthful apprentice or servant. His work was his own. He must do all his own preparations, his own cooking.

The fact was, a man who could control a vast gonne like his, a fellow who smelled of rancid grease and brimstone, was not thought to be good company.

Brimstone was the smell of the Devil, after all.

Berenger and his men had wandered back through Barfleur without speaking. There was nothing to be said.

'It will reflect on us, to our shame, this vile carnage,' Wisp muttered.

'Shut up, Wisp. It's not helping,' Berenger snapped. 'Geoff, take Clip and Matt to the church and see if anyone's hiding up there. Jack, take Eliot and Walt towards the harbour. See what you can find there. The rest of you, come with me.'

The vintener was relieved to see that the Donkey's eyes were wide with shock as he walked amongst the dead. He did not appear to revel in the sights, which was a relief. Perhaps there was something in the boy's heart that might be salvaged.

Suddenly there was a cry. Berenger crouched, his hand in the air already clutching an arrow. The men went quiet and he slowly lowered his arm, nocking the arrow to the string, every sense straining. He held the arrow in place with his forefinger and slowly continued forward, step by cautious step, fingers on the bowstring.

He paused in a doorway, searching for the source of the sounds. There were screams now, although they were diminis.h.i.+ng in intensity.

Darting from his cover, he trotted onwards, and was amazed at what he found.

Outside a great building, there was a crowd, perhaps a hundred all told, with thirty armed men holding them back. A trio stood before them, wearing tunics and hosen of brown and green. Two held a man against a board that had been set against a wall, las.h.i.+ng his wrists to the top, his ankles to staples at the bottom. Finished, they stood back and the third man took up a lance, stropping it thoughtfully before holding it to his victim's belly.

At either side Berenger saw more bodies. All had been stabbed many times.

Berenger swore and stood up from his crouch, beckoning his men. 'What is this?' he roared.

The man with the lance stopped and turned to face him. It was Erbin the Welshman.

'You came to join us?' he said.

Berenger motioned to the bound man. 'Who is he?'

'A merchant who's trying to thwart the Prince.'

'He doesn't look dangerous.'

'He has concealed his money and won't tell us where it is,' Erbin said. He rested the tip of the lance on the man's breast and one of his men reached forward and tore his cotte open. Beneath it the man had only a pale, cream chemise, and the Welshman ripped it wide. Erbin allowed the point of the lance to fall to the man's breast. It gleamed wickedly.

'This is looting.'

'No, this is the recovery of the Prince's gold. We've won the town, and the treasure within belongs to our Prince. If a man conceals his wealth, he is setting himself in opposition to our Prince.'

The lance began a slow meander down the man's body. It slid to his left breast, seemingly gently, but the blade was like a razor. A thin trickle of blood appeared from his throat to his nipple. And then Erbin moved and the lance was sent to the other breast.

From the merchant's mouth came a thin, high keening. His eyes were wide, gazing up, away from the hideous weapon, and his head slammed from side to side as though he was trying to knock himself out. In the crowd, women screamed and wailed, and would not stop even when the men holding them back beat at them with the b.u.t.ts of their lances. One man pulled a cudgel from his belt and brought it down on the head of a grieving woman who instantly collapsed and fell silent.

Berenger turned and bellowed to his men. As they rushed forward, he once more faced Erbin, but now he drew his bow. 'Release him!'

Erbin snapped a command and three men turned their lances to Berenger. 'You'll be dead before your arrow's left the bow. Don't be foolish, Englishman. Leave us to do the Prince's work.'

'Prince's work be d.a.m.ned. You're looting! Release him, said!'

'If you insist,' Erbin said. He withdrew his lance, turning and facing Berenger. Then, as Berenger let his arrow-point fall, the bow's tension slackening, Erbin turned and thrust. The lance struck the man below the ribs, and he gasped, his entire body convulsing, eyes popping. 'There, English, I've set his soul free.'

Berenger's bow was already rising when two lance-tips touched his belly. He hesitated, the bow partly bent, the arrow ready.

Jack and Geoff were with him now. Geoff took one lance and hauled it aside, while Geoff slammed his bow down on the other, knocking it down and kicking it away, but it was too late.

The merchant was panting like an injured dog, the weight of the pole dragging at his body. He wasn't dead, but the terrible knowledge of his doom was in his eyes as he stared at the weapon, at the blood running down the shaft and pooling on the cobbles.

At last the crowd was silent. The sight held all spellbound in horror.

Berenger handed his bow to Geoff. There were more Welshmen than their vintaine, and to fight them would have been pointless. They were all too close. A man with a lance has a long reach.

'You do not fear the Prince?' Berenger said, approaching Erbin.

'He had nothing, but he attacked us,' Erbin said.

'You are like a boy who enjoys tying a burning bush to a cat's tail, or beating a dog with sticks,' Berenger snarled, and his fist caught Erbin's jaw as he spoke, lunging forward with all the weight of his body behind it. There was a loud click as Erbin's teeth connected, and then he stumbled backwards, spitting blood. Berenger followed him and kicked him in the belly, then punched him as hard as he could, his fist meeting Erbin's skull just over his ear. The man reeled.

Berenger went over to the dying man, pulled the lance free and cast it aside, and as soon as he did, the wound gushed. It smelled rank in that town square.

The man sobbed quietly, staring at the blood pouring so thickly, and then cast him a despairing look.

Berenger drew his dagger and, before the man could speak, plunged it into his heart, both hands gripping the hilt, holding it there while the merchant's mouth stretched wide in a gasp of surprise. He sagged, like a man going to sleep after a long day's hard work, and Berenger saw a spark of grat.i.tude flare before his eyes dimmed forever.

Berenger turned to see Erbin slowly climbing to all fours, where he remained, coughing and shaking his head. When he looked around, there was silence on all sides. The other Welshmen watched him sullenly, impa.s.sive although two fingered their weapons. Berenger's sudden attack had stunned them all into immobility. 'Take that piece of dung away from here,' Berenger grated, pointing at Erbin.

Geoff and Jack began to draw their bows, and the nearer Welshmen stood aside. The people held inside the cordon started to move away, nervously glancing from side to side as they went. Children sheltered from the gaze of the soldiers as their mothers pulled cloaks about them.

Berenger removed his dagger from the dead man's breast. The woman who had been clubbed by the guard had managed to get to her feet. He saw that she was about one or two and thirty, with brown hair that held only a few grey strands. She stood with tears streaming down her face, her hand at her mouth to stifle her despair. Then, slowly, she fell to her knees in the merchant's blood.

As two Welshmen helped Erbin to his feet. Berenger went to him. He grabbed Erbin's s.h.i.+rt and methodically wiped the blood from his blade, staring into Erbin's eyes all the time. While he did so, the woman rose and walked to his side. She took his hand.

'Merci, Monsieur,' she said in a low voice, and then turned to Erbin and studied him a moment before spitting in his face.

Beatrice was glad to have met this man in the inn. For the first time in months, she felt safe again, with someone to protect her.

His name, he said, was Alain. He came from a little hamlet not far from Barfleur, and had fled when the first news of the invasion came. Luckily he had no family, so he didn't have to chivvy a wife or children; he could merely pack and leave at once.

'The sights well, you know. You saw the same,' he said, turning his magnificent blue eyes upon her.

'It was terrifying,' she agreed. 'I spent my time in fear.'

A man walking nearby caught a glimpse of her and made a lewd comment. She pulled her shawl tighter about her, drawing her legs up beneath her.

Alain stood up and smiled at the man. 'You like the lady?' he asked smoothly.

'Yes. She's a pretty wench. I'd like to cuddle with her tonight,' the man said. He was built like a bear, with thick arms and legs, and a belly that would have suited a bishop. Greying hair framed narrow-set eyes.

'I'm afraid that will be impossible,' Alain told him. 'You see, she is with me.'

'What, are you married to that?' the fellow sneered and took a pace forward as if to reach for her.

Alain suddenly whipped a knife from his belt and stood with it touching the other's throat. 'I say she and I are friends. I won't see her hurt. So, unless you want to be leeched of all your blood, I would move away.'

A drop of blood like a tear-drop ruby appeared on the man's skin.

'All right, I get it she's all yours,' the man said, and returned to his own seat with many a black look over his shoulder. Alain, however, appeared to care nothing for his new enemy. He chattered easily and calmly.

'You will need be wary of him,' Beatrice said quietly a while later.

'Not I,' Alain shrugged. 'We shall leave early in the morning, before the drunken sot awakes.'