‘Where is your money?’
His manner was brusque, and Béatrice didn’t understand why – and then she reflected that the poor man must have had hundreds no, thousands, beating at his door.
‘I only want to sit at your fire a moment and warm myself,’ she said. ‘I am very tired. I’ve been walking since—’
‘You want food, you have to pay; drink, you pay; a seat at my fire, you pay. Your money – where is it?’
‘I have some here,’ she said, gesturing at her hip. The purse was tied to the rope about her waist, under her cloak.
A second man had joined the doorman. He had blue eyes and a shock of dark curls. ‘Let her in, my host,’ he urged. She is hardly going to cause trouble, is she?’ he said as she patted the coins, making them rattle. ‘She can speak when she is inside.’
The innkeeper stood aside, and she entered nervously. A woman on her own was always at risk of rape or worse in a rural tavern.
Inside, the smoke rose lazily, choking the throat. There was no chimney, only a fire burning on a tiled hearth in the middle of the hall. Fresh rushes had been set about the floor, but the air reeked of rancid wine, woodsmoke and sweat from all the men and women inside.
Their faces were pale and haunted in the dimness. Some shielded children against their stomachs, standing or sitting in postures of feebleness and exhaustion. There were a few benches, and a couple of trestle tables had been put out, but for the most part it felt like a prison. The people in there were like prisoners in a dungeon of their own making. That thought made her shudder.
‘Come, maid, I have a space over here,’ the curly-haired man said. He led her to a corner. ‘You should keep your money hidden,’ he advised. ‘It’s dangerous in places like this or on the road, if people get to know that you are carrying lots of money.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Perhaps I should walk with you and protect you?’
‘I should be glad of your help,’ she gratefully said. ‘An old woman gave me her purse. Her son stabbed her and left her for dead, and she gave it to me to save it from the English.’
‘Really? How much did she give you?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t count it.’
‘All the more reason for you to need a guard,’ he said, and when he smiled, his eyes twinkled. ‘I shall be your knight, maid. I will protect you.’
At the sight of that smile, she felt as though all her troubles were almost ended. It was the smile of an angel.
The nearest town, Barfleur, was a scant two leagues hence. It took them until the sun was a quarter of the way to midday, marching steadily but without urgency. They were in no hurry to reach it. They knew what to expect.
Then Berenger heard a sound – a low moaning. It needed to be investigated – although it might be a trap. He sent Geoff to the right, Clip to the left, and the bulk of his men spread between them. He kept only Jack with him, while Donkey he placed behind the rest. There was no point in seeing the boy hurt before he had learned which end of a sword was safest.
They were approaching a low wall, and the men crouched behind it. To their left, a pair of buildings had been burned, and even now the heat was like a dragon’s exhalation. The wall appeared to be the boundary of a small pound, while on their right was a huddle of cottages. A vegetable garden nearby was devastated, with boot-prints visible amongst the flattened salads and beans. A boy’s body lay among the remains.
The moaning started again as they reached him. His throat had been cut and the wound gaped. Berenger thought that he could see cartilage inside, but then it moved, and he realised it was flies, gorging themselves. Jack ended the boy’s misery with his dagger.
Then, peering over the wall, Berenger was confronted with a scene that would remain with him for a long time.
‘Your Royal Highness, my Lords,’ Sir John said as he entered the Prince’s large tent and bowed.
It was a simple construction a short way inland from the beach. Inside was only the most basic decoration: this was the working tent of a knight, not a gaudy display for a tournament. There was a pair of trestles: one covered with pages weighted with leather-covered stones, two clerks murmuring to each other as they worked through correspondence; the other held meats and cheeses set out on plundered silver plates, and wine in great jugs. Beyond that, the room contained all the essentials for a knight: spare armour, spare weapons and surcoats.
He had heard of foreign potentates who insisted upon their subjects treating them with a fawning reverence more suited to God than a mortal. They dared not gaze at their masters directly for fear of giving insult. Not, thank God, in England. Here, if a man were to avoid his eyes, a monarch would rightly be suspicious.
‘Sir John. I am glad to see you,’ the Prince said.
Edward of Woodstock, Prince of Wales, was a handsome young man of sixteen. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the neck of a fighting knight, he had trained from an early age with a heavy war helm in jousts and tournaments. His fair hair was long, and he had a thin moustache trimmed back from his mouth. His blue eyes were clear and confident.
Sir John thought much of his confidence was due to his father, but a large part came from the men in the pavilion with him.
Sitting on a stool and chewing on a honeyed lark, Thomas de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, was a heavy-set, dark-haired man in his early thirties. Already a war leader of great fame, having led the King’s armies against the Scots, he was the Marshal of England, known for his intelligence, his devotion to his King – and his utter ruthlessness.
Behind him, resting against a trestle and toying with a long misericord dagger, was the Earl of Northampton, William de Bohun, a man as famous for his cunning as for his ferocity in battle. He had marched with King Edward from the first, being one of the King’s most devoted comrades in the recent battles at Sluys and Morlaix.
‘Your Royal Highness,’ Sir John began, ‘my men have returned from Barfleur. It is as we feared. The town is destroyed.’
Warwick took a bone from his mouth and sucked it noisily. ‘None living?’
‘No.’
‘Then there will be no ships from there to harry the fleet, which is good.’
The young Prince glanced at Sir John. ‘What do you say?’
Sir John cast an eye at the two magnates. The Prince had the same direct manner as his father. Against his better judgement, he found himself thinking that perhaps he could like this new Edward.
‘Your father did not want men and women attacked if they had accepted the King’s Peace.’
Warwick shrugged. ‘I’m happy if there are no pirates attacking our army from the sea or cutting off our supplies.’
‘So you would ignore my father’s orders?’ Edward said quietly.
There was no answer. After a moment, the Prince faced Sir John again. ‘You say it is destroyed?’
‘My men said that it was a scene of utter carnage.’
Carnage was right. Berenger thought the sights would sicken the Devil himself.
It was one thing to participate in the capture of a town, to rush at the walls of a fortress and clamber up the scaling ladders, expecting at any moment to be slain, knowing that the man beside you had fallen with a shriek, that the man before you had been punched in the chest by an arrow, and to expect that your own life was about to end. Then, when your entire mind was filled with the red mist and bloodlust – the primeval desire to slay all who stood before you and survive – then it was natural to use a sword, lance, axe, mace, club, anything, and lash out at those who dared defy you.
But it was different to walk into a town in cold blood and slaughter all the innocents there.
The place reeked of blood and death. Bodies littered the streets. Near Berenger a woman lay gutted on the threshold of a house, a baby sprawled pathetically beside her, its head crushed. Three men and a boy lay in the road, all beheaded, and opposite were smoking ruins where once had been houses. There was little standing that wasn’t blackened by soot.
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 anticipated. 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 passed 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? Grandarse 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 arses up the road,’ Grandarse 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 Bastard attacked our shores 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 God.’
‘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 bloody 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 chevauchée 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 ships, 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 wishing 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 coarse 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.
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 diminishing 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, lashing 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.’
Fields of Glory Page 7