Hundred Years War: Fields Of Glory Part 25

The next morning, he found her down behind the table, her throat cut. And the memory returned of their shouting, their fighting, her spitting at him, raking at his face with fingers like claws, kicking and punching at him, her face twisted into a mask of hatred while their little boys watched.

That was why he never joined in the rapes in the towns; that was why he couldn't take Beatrice by force when he had the chance. Not because he didn't want to, but because every time he took a woman, he saw his Sarra's eyes, her dead eyes, looking back at him accusingly.

17 August 'Up! The lot of you: up!'

Berenger was awake at the first shout. Before the second, he was on his feet, sword in hand.

All around him, men were yawning, rubbing their eyes and grumbling in the gloom. This was not their usual routine. Most mornings, it would be Berenger moving about them kicking the occasional figure, beating on a pot or shouting. Today, however, Granda.r.s.e and Sir John's esquire were hurrying about the camp, waking everyone.

'What's the matter?' Berenger demanded.

'We're to break camp,' Richard Bakere said tersely.

'You heard him,' Granda.r.s.e snapped. 'Now! We're leaving the wagon train and anything unnecessary. Bring all the oxen and horses, but the heavy ballocks are to be left behind.'

Berenger felt the words. .h.i.t him in the belly. 'Leave the wagon train? The enemy are that close?'

'The mother-swyving sons of wh.o.r.es have already closed on us. We're told to find ourselves horses or ponies, anything with four legs we can steal to get away from here. I'd cut their throats if we could stop and fight, you lads would shoot 'em so full of arrows they'd look like my lady's pin-cus.h.i.+on, but the fact is, they are a large army, and we are depleted. d.a.m.n their black souls, but I didn't think they'd catch us so speedily!'

Granda.r.s.e was already off again, swearing and shouting at Roger's vintaine, and Berenger walked to a tree and pulled down his hosen, p.i.s.sing long while trying to come to terms with the news.

'Will they catch us, do you think?' Matt asked quietly, taking his post at the tree a moment or two later.

'If they're on the same plain, they may, I suppose. It's ludicrous to think that they'd risk it though,' Berenger said.

'Is that the view of my friend the vintener, or the politics of a commander?' Matt grinned. 'I am a man, Frip. I can take the truth.'

'Very well. If they can, they will fall on us like wolves on a flock. But we still have our King and his advisers. You know what they say: if five Englishmen were attacked by fifteen French it would be an unfair fight, like five wolves attacked by fifteen sheep.'

'Aye, but these sheep have steel fangs and mail for fleece!'

Berenger shrugged. 'I cannot think of the last time the French managed to a.s.sault us and win. Can you?'

Clip overheard them, and called out gleefully, 'Aye, if they get much closer, they'll murder the lot of us. We'll all be slain!'

Matt spat on the gra.s.s at his feet. 'I'll b.l.o.o.d.y murder you myself if they don't manage it first,' he said.

They were soon ready, packed and off.

Berenger watched the horizon closely as he rode his small black and white pony. They had found him in a field as they marched past, and then two decent rounseys at a stable, but Berenger took one look at the rounseys and decided to stick with the pony. It was less distance to fall. Together with the other beasts they had already found, these were enough for half the vintaine to ride. Those without horses padded along on the gra.s.s, for the most part complaining loudly that their legs ached.

Before they had covered a league, Matt had stopped and pulled off his shoe, saying he had a thorn in his foot, and Berenger saw that the shoe had almost no sole. The upper was flapping uselessly. Matt was not the only man to go near-barefoot though, and before long many others would be too.

The path they took was clearly used by villagers moving their cattle, and soon they found themselves in a small town.

It was a quiet little place. Smoke still rose from a hearth in one cottage, but the whole place was deserted. Only one ancient dog barked for a while, until one of the vintaine hit him with an axe handle.

'Is there any drink?' Clip demanded, hurrying into the nearest house.

There was little enough of anything. They moved cautiously, taking cover when a flight of duck flew overhead, jumping when a c.o.c.k crowed, constantly fearing attack. Berenger whispered and hissed his commands, convinced that the French had encircled them by their quick marching and were already here.

Soon Berenger heard a loud noise from behind. A column of their own men was advancing, along with the lumbering wagons of Archibald, the Donkey and Beatrice marching at its side. On a whim, he walked to greet them.

'Is he treating you well?' he asked of the boy.

'He's very kind,' Ed replied. But his face was thinner, and his eyes looked larger than ever.

'Have you eaten?' Berenger asked, shooting a suspicious look at the rotund Archibald.

'Eaten, Master Fripper?' the gynour replied. 'd.a.m.n me if he has. Why should he eat?'

'I didn't supply you with a slave to be starved!' Berenger snarled, and would have leaped onto the wagon to grab the man, but the Donkey put out a hand to prevent him.

'No, Master, he hasn't eaten either. No one has brought us any food.'

'Is that true?'

'It's often the way,' the gynour shrugged. Then he looked very directly at Berenger, and jerked his head towards Beatrice.

'It's normal, Vintener. The others don't like men like me. They think that since I smell of the Devil, the Devil can look to my meals! Eh? So, if you have a crust or two of bread, I'd be glad of it. Failing that, a half-ox would meet my own needs, washed down with a tun of good French wine!'

Berenger looked at Beatrice and back to Archibald again. It was clear that this was an invention to protect her feelings. Archibald and his little cavalcade had no food because too many of the soldiers feared her. Rumours that she could be a witch were widespread. Berenger grinned. 'I don't have much, but you can share in our fortunes. Would you ride with us in the front?'

'I don't know about that,' Archibald said. 'I've heard it's dangerous to be at the point of the spear. But if you mean to tell me that there is more food to be had there, I'll gladly chance my safety.'

Before Berenger could respond, a sly voice intruded. 'Be careful of him, Master Gynour. That vintener is dangerous to know. People die around him.'

He turned to see that a party of Welshmen had caught up with them. Ed shrank away, and Beatrice moved until her back was at the wagon's side. She fumbled at her belt, feeling for her knife.

'Stop that, child, or you'll cause more disturbance than you would wish,' Archibald said firmly. He eyed the Welsh with contained belligerence.

The Welshman sneered at him and moved on past, their long ragged cloaks trailing.

Archibald watched them disappear, saying, 'If I were to get myself in a tight spot, I shouldn't like to have to rely on them. We had more trouble from them last night.'

'What happened?'

'That t.u.r.d Erbin offered to purchase young Beatrice for the sum of one loaf and a bowl of pottage. When I told them where to go, they took away their food and we were left hungry.'

'They didn't try to attack you again?'

Archibald gave a cold smile. 'I think they have learned that it's not a good idea to try to surprise folks with experience of black powder.'

After that, Berenger kept close to Archibald's wagon. If there were to be an ambush, it could become a stronghold for the men when arrows began to fly.

There was no sign of the French army as yet. Lulled by the sounds of squeaking harnesses, the rattle of pans and chains, the steady tramping of many feet, he began to lose the sense of urgency, and instead listened to the men talking.

'We're not to halt, they say. But if we don't, how can we forage?' Matt was saying.

Geoff contributed, 'It's bad enough that the food has run out. We are starving when the villages all about here have food in plenty.'

'Aye, how can a man fight on an empty stomach?' Eliot said sadly.

'Does it matter? You're all going to die soon, anyway,' Clip said. Then: 'Ouch!'

Matt spoke with an innocent voice. 'What, did you hurt yourself?'

'You hit my pate!'

'You viciously b.u.t.ted my elbow with your head, Clip, I think you'll find.'

'Aye, well, we'll see who's left laughing when the French are done with you,' Clip muttered in his nasal whine.

'Will you shut up saying that!'

Berenger could tell that these were not the usual gripes and grumbles: the men were beginning to feel anxious.

Beckoning Matt, he pulled him to one side. 'The men. What's their temper?'

'You can hear what they're saying, Frip. They aren't happy. Nor am I, for that matter. For one thing, they're hungry.'

'They've been on short rations before.'

'It ain't just that. They're worried about the French, too. Come on, Frip, you know what they're like: they had an easy march of it from the landing to Paris, and they reckoned the whole thing would be a piece of cake. Now they see there'll be a serious fight.'

'The King told us as much when we embarked. They knew he meant to catch the French.'

'Yes. But now it looks like it's us who'll be caught. We could be engaged in the open on the plains before we can even form our battles. If the French get us, before we're good and ready, we'll be b.u.g.g.e.red. You want that? I know I don't.'

'Distract the men. Occupy them with thoughts of women and wine at the next town.'

'Which is that?'

'I don't know,' Berenger admitted.

'I'll do what I can.'

'And get them to speed up. The King has ordered that we should all hurry.'

'Has he?' Jack looked at him sharply. 'The French must be very close, then.'

'Why else would we have left the wagons behind?'

'Yeah, but if the King's worried we're-'

'No one's worried. It's just the way things are. We have to reach the river as soon as possible before we get cut off. Once we cross the Somme, we'll be home and dry it's country the King knows well.'

'Aye, well, I'll try to buck them up,' Matt said, rising.

'Do that. We don't want the daft sods getting themselves panicked.'

'Panicked?' Matt repeated with a sidelong grin. 'We're in a foreign land, without food or supplies, and the biggest army in the whole of Christendom is heading for us, hoping to beat us b.l.o.o.d.y and break our pates, but, there's nothing to worry about.' His smile disappeared, like water soaking into sand. 'I'll do my best, Frip, but I can't perform sodding miracles.'

That afternoon, it all went to pot.

For once, Berenger and the others were not in the lead as the army rumbled, squeaked and thumped its way north and west. Other scouts were sent to spy out ahead, and more men on horseback clattered by, throwing clods of soil in all directions as they pa.s.sed, carrying messages to the King or from him to his son. Every so often, a white-faced archer or esquire would hurtle back from the front with news. Whether it was of sightings of the French army or not, Berenger could not tell.

But the fighting he knew when that started.

There were three vintaines of Granda.r.s.e's century up ahead of them when it kicked off. At first there was a series of shouts and orders, then the blast of dozens of horns.

'Frip!' Geoff cried.

'Archers, string your bows!' Berenger roared. 'Clip! Fetch arrows: now! Donkey, help him!'

Ed the Donkey stared mulishly, but a kick from Archibald almost sent him sprawling. 'You think this is a holiday? You want to argue whether you work for him or not? Get moving and make sure there's an army to fight with!'

Berenger gave him a quick grin, then hared off to see what had happened. There came the pounding of hooves, and a whey-faced youth rode back from the front, reining in late when Berenger held up his hands.

'Hold! What is the alarm?'

'Ambus.h.!.+ Those French c.u.n.ts are slaughtering us!' There were perhaps four dozen of them, he told Berenger and Geoff, nestled together in the ruins of a little cottage, with some crossbowmen lying further up in a deep ditch at the side of the road. As the first of the English had ridden down the lane towards the village, a sudden shock of arrows had slammed into the front rank. Six men were downed and two horses, and then, as the English began to edge forward, more bolts flew, and three more men were impaled.

'We'll have to get around them,' the rider declared, his voice shaking. 'I'm to fetch help.'

Berenger let him go. The lad was petrified, and would be no help in a fight. Better to let him take his terror with him, lest he infect the rest of the men.

'Come on!' he said, and his vintaine pressed forward in his wake.

There was not much cover here: on their left, a large shaw of mixed trees and bushes, on their right, a pasture spreading out towards a stream. Cattle and some sheep were grazing, warily eyeing the intruders. Occasional bushes and trees stood between them and the houses ahead.

The ambush was set in a hamlet; there was a chapel and five cottages, with the grey line of the roadway pa.s.sing on between all.

'Where are they?' Geoff muttered as the two crouched low. Matt joined them on Berenger's right, kneeling and peering ahead with narrowed eyes.

'Can you see anything?' Berenger asked, his own eyes fixed.

'There's something at that window,' Geoff breathed, pointing to the second house on their left. 'And I think I saw someone in the ditch at the side of the road. But it could have been a flower moving in the wind.'

'Wind, my a.r.s.e,' Berenger said. There was not a breath of air. Even the dust from the roadway hung in the air behind them to show their path.

'Are they trained, or local militia?' Matt said.

'They have a good position,' Geoff considered.

'That may be because they live here and don't want to give up without a fight,' Berenger said.

'I say, lay down a strong a.s.sault with our arrows, and run in on 'em,' Jack said. 'We can do it if we're fast.'