Berenger stood and stretched. ‘The sooner we’re on our way, the better.’
‘Aye. And the sooner we are in a real fight, the happier I’ll be,’ Roger said, glancing over at Mark.
Berenger and Roger walked side-by-side behind Grandarse on the way back as the sun fell, the men straggling along behind them.
‘What’s that?’ Grandarse said suddenly, pointing.
Off on their right was a little stand of trees, and in their midst a small cottage.
‘Looks like someone’s been here already,’ Berenger said.
It might once have been thatched, but now the little building’s walls had tumbled, and spars and joists stuck up jagged against the evening sky. There was an air of sadness and decay about it. Soon, many more houses would be laid waste like this, he knew, and he was struck with a sense of gloom.
‘Didn’t see it on the way out,’ Grandarse said. He already had his hand on his sword. ‘It’d be a good place for someone to hide.’
‘Grandarse, it’s a pit. It’s been empty since the days of William the Bastard,’ Berenger said, but he was an old soldier, and knew the importance of reconnaissance as well as any. He hitched up his belt, muttered a curse under his breath, and called to Geoff and Clip. ‘Come on, lads. Let’s get it checked out, eh?’
Their path was a foot-wide trampled passage through grass and scrub. Berenger led the way, scowling at the building as shadows began to dominate the land. It seemed to him as though the slower they walked, the nearer the cottage appeared, as though it was approaching them as well, like a predator stalking its hunter. He felt a slither of unease in his belly.
Closer to the cottage, he saw that where a thick thatch must once have lain, now there was only the stench of burned straw. Some greenish clumps remained on the top of one wall, but the rest had been consumed in the conflagration. It was still warm.
‘Some of our boys been here already?’ Berenger wondered.
‘Must have,’ Geoff said.
‘There’ll be nothing in there to take,’ Clip noted sadly.
Berenger nodded, and they all stepped silently to the gaping hole where the door had once stood. It was there still, but burned and ruined, lying half in, half out. The doorpost had been scorched to a repellent, twisted black shape, like a snake standing and staring at him. It was enough to make Berenger swallow hard and take a second look. In the dark he could have sworn that the thing had eyes and watched him closely as he came closer.
‘What is it, Frip?’ Geoff asked, seeing his stare.
‘Just a . . . I thought I saw something.’
It was stupid to be superstitious. It was only a peasant’s home, one small room, that was all. Yet he was reluctant to enter. He had seen bodies burned to foetal skeletons before now. When he died, he wanted an arrow in the throat, not a burning.
He looked about him warily and then jerked back. ‘Sweet Mother of . . .’ Dangling from a cord bound to a rafter, swinging slightly in the warm air, he saw a dead cat. ‘Shit!’
‘What?’ Geoff hissed.
‘Nothing’, Berenger muttered. He crossed himself hurriedly. A black cat was ominous. Everyone knew that.
Geoff glanced at Clip. The two were either side of the doorway now, and at a nod from Geoff, they raced inside, knives out and ready, low enough to gut anyone foolish enough to try to ambush them.
Berenger entered more slowly, averting his eyes from that unsettling doorpost. One wall, which had supported the end of the beam, had collapsed when the fire had taken hold, and the beam had crashed into the room, smashing everything beneath it. Berenger could see a table, two stools, a couple of pots, even a long scrap of blackened material.
‘Nothing here,’ Geoff said, after wandering about the room. There was nowhere to conceal a body, and he kicked at some rubble, bent and peered under the beam.
Clip stood with his lip curled. ‘You’re right. Whoever got here before us took everything left unburned.’
Berenger let his hand rest on the beam. It was still warm. ‘It was a recent fire,’ he noted.
Wisp had walked in after the men, and stood in the doorway, looking slightly green.
‘You all right, Wisp?’ Berenger asked.
Wisp felt strangely light-headed. Seeing the cat dangling, he had been struck with superstitious terror. He felt as if he was at the top of a tall cliff and peering out to death far below. His head was filled with a curious dizziness, and he sucked in his breath.
‘Wisp? Wisp, what is it?’
He could hear Berenger’s voice, but it felt like Frip was a long way away. Wisp’s heart was thundering like a horse in full gallop, and he had to grasp a timber to keep from toppling.
‘I’m fine,’ he managed. ‘Just a gut-rot.’
Roger’s voice came to them from outside. ‘Hoy, Fripper, best take a look at this.’
Berenger gave Wisp a clap on the shoulder, then turned and left.
Wisp remained, staring at the cat.
‘Cut that thing down,’ he gulped.
‘What, the cat?’
Wisp nodded.
‘You do it,’ Clip said. ‘You think I’m your esquire?’
‘Just cut the bastard thing down,’ Wisp said with a sudden venom. He wanted to throw up. ‘You see what it is?’
‘Yeah – a dead cat. So what?’
‘It’s a sign that a witch lived here. They killed her cat, because it was her link to the Devil. Christ save us!’
Wisp stumbled from the sad little house and, once outside the door, he fell to his knees and puked.
Berenger had walked out to Grandarse and Roger, who stood near a little spring with the rest of the men. ‘What?’
‘Looks like someone wasn’t too popular,’ Roger said with a grin, pointing. On the ground at his feet lay a man in a foetal curve, arms clutched to his belly.
‘A priest? Who did it – one of our scouts after the landing?’ Berenger said, prodding the body with his foot.The skin was foul already and had dark veins showing.
‘Who’d bother to kill a priest?’ Roger wondered. ‘They don’t carry money.’
Grandarse spat. ‘Aye, well, priest or sinner, there’ll be plenty more like him before long.’
They returned to the camp late in the evening, and Berenger was glad to be able to sit down and warm his hands at a fire.
All the way back they had seen fires in the distance, and now smoke was rising like scars on the sky to south and west. Berenger knew what was happening. English and Welsh opportunists were slaughtering cattle, sheep and people, before the stores of food and fields of wheat were burned. That was why they were here: for wholesale destruction.
But he wasn’t thinking about the fires. On the way back, they had passed a group of Welsh knifemen, and one of them called out: ‘Glad to see someone took on the brat. Hey, boy, thanks for the ale!’
Berenger turned. The speaker was a thin-featured Welshman with a scar over his left cheek that left a white mark in his sideburn. The top of his ear had been removed with the same slash.
Ed lifted his head, and at the sight of the Welshmen, he seemed to shrink into himself, as though he was petrified. His hand rested on his knife’s hilt.
‘You know our Donkey? He’s a good worker. You should have used him yourself,’ Berenger said.
There was some ribald laughter at this, which seemed to hold an edge of contempt.
‘What is your name?’ he asked.
‘I am called Erbin. I am leader of these men,’ the man said.
‘Know that I am called Berenger. I am in charge of this vintaine under Sir John de Sully.’
‘We are under the command of the Prince of Wales,’ Erbin said sneeringly. ‘That beats a poxed knight.’
Berenger held up his hand when he saw Geoff and Eliot bristling. ‘Leave them, lads. You, Erbin, had best watch your tongue. You have the ear of the Prince. I have the ear of his father, so go swyve a goat!’
‘You offering me your mother?’ Erbin called back.
Berenger felt his jaw tighten. ‘If you want, we can test which of us is the stronger.’
‘Maybe we should put that to the trial!’
‘Carry on,’ Grandarse said. ‘Enough of this ballocks! Welshman, keep a civil tongue or the Prince will hear of it. Come on, Frip, and the rest of you!’
They carried on, ignoring the mocking laughter behind them, but Berenger threw a curious glance at the Donkey, wondering what was going on in his mind. ‘Boy, do you know them?’
‘Yes. What of it?’ the lad snapped. ‘They don’t scare me!’ But his eyes held an unmistakable fear.
Berenger decided he would find out more when he could. Just now he had other things to think about. Wisp looked as though a carthorse had kicked him in the cods. It was unnerving to see a usually reliable member of their vintaine in such a strange taking.
Jack was standing nearby, whittling a stick into a sharp spike. Berenger called to him.
‘Jack, speak to Wisp. Something’s upset him. Find out what’s wrong, eh? It’s not like him.’
Jack nodded and ambled over to Wisp as Berenger returned to his seat at the tree. He had hardly settled when Grandarse came back from reporting their findings to Sir John de Sully.
‘Well?’ Berenger said, looking up.
‘All’s well enough,’ Grandarse replied, levering his massive bulk onto a log. ‘The King’s men are at the next town away over there – Morsalleen or somesuch. Suppose they’ll all be sleeping in warm cots the night.’
‘Knights and nobles always get the better lodgings,’ Berenger said.
‘Aye. Not that I have to like it though.’ Grandarse scowled resentfully up at the trees. ‘Did you check for widow-makers?’
‘There are no limbs about to fall from this tree,’ Berenger said.
‘Aye,’ Grandarse continued. ‘I could just do with a warm bed, a fire roaring on the hearth, and a saucy little French maid to liven my evening.’ He sighed hopefully. ‘Not that we won’t be able to win such soon, with luck.’
‘Any news of the French?’
‘No sign to east or south. There are Welsh fighters searching, and the King’s already in a rage with them.’
‘Why?’
In answer, Grandarse jerked a thumb towards the columns of smoke. ‘Look! The King made a proclamation: all would be safe if they came into his peace – does it look like the French can trust his word, do you reckon? We’re supposed to wage dampnum against those who reject our King, but if he offers protection to those who accept his rule and the Welsh still go ahead and slaughter them, the French will support Philippe. The King isn’t best pleased.’
The Donkey returned with two water pails and squatted nearby. At Grandarse’s words, he stirred. ‘The French need to be ruled with an iron fist. They are a wicked people.’
‘Oh, aye?’ Grandarse threw him a glance of amused interest. ‘What, like the English, are they?’
‘The English only defend what is theirs.’
‘You think we are any better than them?’ Geoff put in harshly.
Grandarse ignored him. ‘He’s right, eh, Frip? Ballocks, boy!’ he said, giving a broad smile. His hands behind his head, closing his eyes, he muttered dreamily, ‘You ought to be back in England if you want to defend things. We’re here to take what we want, and I’m going to make the most of it. And then get home and make a wife of the naughtiest little wriggle-arsed wench I can find. Ah! That’ll be the life. Ale whenever I want it, a good house, and a bad little wife who’ll adore me in my bed each night.’
‘So you’ll want her blind as well, then?’ Berenger asked mildly.
Grandarse opened a bright blue eye and grinned wickedly. ‘Wouldn’t hurt, Frip. Wouldn’t hurt.’
‘Why do they call you Fripper?’ the Donkey said.
Berenger cast him a look. ‘What is a Fripper, boy?’
‘A man who sells second-hand clothes.’
‘Aye, boy,’ Grandarse said, and suddenly opened both eyes, glaring. ‘And this dangerous man is known for stripping the dead and selling their clothes after a battle, see? It’s not every man’s job, but it keeps him in ale.’
Ed stared at him, then at Berenger, who sighed.
‘My friends here reckon my clothing is old and worn, Donkey. Listen to Grandarse about fighting and warfare, but not about women, the characters of other men, or the ways of the world.’
‘That’s what I want: to learn how to fight the French.’
‘Aye, well, you’ve come to the right place to learn,’ Grandarse said. He stretched and broke wind flamboyantly, an expression of pained concentration twisting his features. ‘Aye, that’s better,’ he grunted. ‘And for now, boy, you can bugger off and fetch us some wine. You see, that’s how you support your King: you look after his men, eh?’
Jack beckoned Berenger as Grandarse began to snore. Jack’s expression didn’t bode well.
‘What have you found out?’ Berenger asked quietly.
Jack’s grey eyes were serious. ‘Wisp’s convinced himself we’re heading for disaster. He reckons the cat was an omen.’
Berenger looked past Jack’s shoulder at Wisp, who sat wretchedly plucking at tufts of grass. ‘I’ll have a word,’ he said, and got up and walked over to Wisp, dropping to sit beside him. ‘So?’
‘I told Jack already. I may as well tell you.’
‘Tell me what?’
‘This whole enterprise is going to fail. We’ll not make it home again. None of us.’
Berenger said gently, ‘Look, you’re taking this cat business for too seriously, my friend.’
Wisp looked up and met his eyes. ‘I’ve never felt like that before, but I did at that cottage – when I saw that witch’s cat hanging. The folks about there knew the woman who’d been inside. They saw that she was evil. It wasn’t done by someone who dislikes cats, Frip. It was done by people who hate witches.’
‘You don’t know any of this for sure, Wisp. You saw a cat.’
‘And the dead priest outside?’
‘He could have been killed by our scouts. It wasn’t magic killed him, I know that much.’
‘This chevauchée is going to fail, Frip. We should get away while we can.’
‘No one’s going to run away from the King’s host, lad. You know the penalty for desertion.’
‘I know we’ll all die. I can see it just as if it’s already happened. I’m dead. We all are. I won’t see home again, just as you won’t.’
Wisp gave a sob. ‘The chevauchée is doomed. And so are we.’
When Sir John de Sully arrived, just before dawn, the men were already standing-to with their weapons.
Berenger had not seen Sir John above a handful of times since landing. The knight had been too busy seeing to the disposition of the archers and men-at-arms under the Prince of Wales. Like the other men, a thick stubble was already forming over his jaw. At his chin it was grey, the colour of old, unpolished pewter, like his hair. His eyes were firm and steady, as befitted a senior warrior of five-and-sixty years who had taken part in every battle his King had fought since Edward II’s first wars against Scotland, three-and-thirty years ago.
Grandarse called Roger Bakere and Berenger to join them.
‘The King’s unhappy,’ Sir John said. ‘Men are ignoring his proclamation to spare towns and people who wish to come under his protection. You are to look for French militia, but also to search for any plunderers.’
‘And what – um – do we do with them if we find them?’ Roger asked. He had a lazy drawl that made him sound foolish on occasion, like an inbred peasant with scrambled brains. But there was a shrewd gleam in his eyes. At his side, the man he had spoken of, Mark Tyler, or Mark of London, showed a quick interest.
‘Use your imagination,’ Grandarse snapped. ‘I don’t like it any more than you do, but those are our orders, so get used to it.’
It took the men only a short time to grab hot bread from their morning fires to eat on the march and soon they were away. Berenger
looked at Mark Tyler thoughtfully. The fellow was too keen by half about the idea of fighting. That was why Roger kept him close, no doubt. Always best to have the least-trusted men to hand where they could be watched; in a fight it was best to keep your friends close, and your enemies closer still.
Béatrice was glad to reach the little inn.
The old woman was dead. She had not lasted the night, and Béatrice wept over her corpse with a feeling of genuine bereavement. Both had suffered much in the last few days, and to lose a friend, even one of such brief duration, was a further blow to Béatrice.
That morning, she took the old woman’s shawl and her purse, and set her hands crossed over her breast. There was no guilt at taking her money or belongings. Those items could not help their owner now, but they might serve to help Béatrice.
Setting out, she joined the thinning column of refugees. She had already marched many leagues, trying to put distance between herself and the English, but no matter how far they tramped, the news of murder, slaughter of animals, senseless ruin and rape increased. Riders from the coast with pale faces told of bestial acts by the enemy that were enough to chill the blood of any Frenchman. One shivered so with horror that he could not speak, and merely mouthed his shock when questioned.
The people slogged on, none too certain of their destination, hoping, all of them, that they might reach some sort of refuge. The King must arrive soon, they said, and throw these English swine from the land. But others disagreed: all too many had heard that Philippe had resisted the urge to do battle before. Some doubted that, even now, he would come to protect his people. The reflection did little to raise the spirits of the weary travellers.
This place, therefore, was a welcome sight: a large inn by the side of the road, already packed with people, but not turning any away. It made Béatrice feel a surge of joy, seeing that some people could still offer kindness to strangers, even one weary, dispossessed and desperate.
‘What do you want?’ The man at the door was short, but broad as the doorway itself. He eyed her truculently.
‘I seek a chance to sit by a fire,’ she said meekly.
Fields of Glory Page 6