The passage of time meant nothing to her by now. They walked by day, and at night they found places to hide and shelter from the weather. When they came to towns, she viewed them with an eye to the strength of the defences. Those with meagre protection were rejected almost immediately. It was only when they reached a town a few miles from Caen that she felt more secure. Caen was huge, she knew.
Alain had been quiet since the death of the man. Whereas in the first days he had been thoughtful and caring, he had grown progressively more withdrawn. She knew that her ferocity that day had struck him dumb.
‘When we get to the city,’ he said now, ‘we should find a good inn.’
He was studying the countryside as he spoke. They had reached the summit of a small hillock, and he stood gazing about him. Some people were walking along the road – a man with a cart laden with goods, two women with baskets slung over their backs, children with fear graven on their faces – but as these passed, there were few enough behind them. Traffic on the roads had thinned out.
‘We can find a cheaper bed at a tavern,’ she said. There was no point in wasting her money. The old woman’s purse was still mostly full, for she had hoarded the coins carefully, but there was no telling how long the money must last. With no father, no Hélène, no family and no means of support, she must eke out her remaining funds.
‘We can afford a good chamber – food, wine, everything. We don’t have to stint,’ he said.
There was a subtle change in his tone as he spoke. She looked at him with a quick suspicion. ‘What do you mean?’
He had not tried to grope her or even steal a kiss. She had been sure that she could trust him, and yet there was a distance between them now.
‘Your money – you have plenty. The man saw it in the tavern when you showed me. That was his problem. He really wanted to have your money as well as taking you. It left him confused.’
‘He wanted to rape me.’
‘Yes, that too.’
There was a coolness in his tone. She looked about, and realised that the last stragglers of the latest column of refugees had passed on and were disappearing behind some trees. They were alone.
She took a step away.
‘I wanted to take the purse as soon as I saw you with all that money,’ he said, facing her again. ‘I had thought I would have money, but when I asked my mother for some, she said that she had nothing. I searched, but she wasn’t lying. The stupid old hag must have forgotten and left her money behind.’
‘So you stabbed her,’ Béatrice said. She stepped away again.
‘How did you know that?’ He frowned, his clear blue eyes reflecting his surprise.
‘She told me.’
‘No, I killed her.’
‘You stabbed her. I took her into a house and eased her passing.’
‘That was kind. I will make sure you don’t suffer.’
‘You will kill me too?’
‘I think you could be jealous. You may want the money back. Wait!’ His frown deepened. ‘You say you helped her: where did you get that money?’
‘She gave it me.’
He laughed. ‘She gave it all to you? And then you walked into me, and I can take it from you. Hah! That is perfect!’
‘If you touch me, I’ll kill you.’
‘You can try, little maid. But I’m better equipped to defend myself than that fool with a beard, and I won’t be distracted by your splendid figure.’
He stepped towards her, and she kept her eyes fixed on him. Curiously, she felt no fear. She had killed two men already in the last week. This man was no stronger or quicker than they were. He was no longer ‘Alain’, her protector: he was only another man seeking to use her, to steal from her and kill her.
No, she had no fear of such a man.
He took another step towards her and she moved back. Another, and she retreated again. ‘Will you walk back to Barfleur?’ he taunted.
‘No.’
He darted forward, his hand under his cloak as he came, and pulled out his knife.
She turned and fled, towards Caen, towards the last people she had seen on the road.
He would know she was bolting in search of protection, just as she had run to him when he first met her. A man like him, a coward who would stab his own mother, would not comprehend a woman who was not terrified of him. He was after her like a greyhound seeing the hare run.
His high-pitched laugh sounded to her like the giggle of a demon, but she didn’t care. He was only a man. She had nothing to fear from him. She had already killed two like him.
She ran on, her feet raising small clouds of dust as she went. The air seared her lungs. She pounded onwards, all the while hearing his panting breath draw nearer and nearer, until she could almost feel his hands about to grab at her clothing.
That was when she stopped, her legs bending like spanned bows, and she straightened and whipped round, the knife already in her hand.
He ran into her, and didn’t feel her blade at first. Only when she grabbed his own knife-hand and twisted her little blade under his breast did he understand.
For a long moment the two stood, she breathing deeply, her eyes fixed on his face, while he stared back, panting. Then there was a sob in his breath, and he tottered towards her. She shoved with her knife, sawing the blade downwards, feeling it rasp against his flesh, and suddenly he collapsed.
She pulled the knife free, stepped away, and watched as he squirmed and started to wail as the pain in his belly grew.
22 July
The next morning, Archibald woke with a grunt.
The hammering and clattering had carried on ceaselessly through the night while the engineers worked on the bridge, curses flying regularly as tools or nails were dropped into the River Vire, but that wouldn’t normally keep him awake. Archibald had learned early on, while training as a monk, that sleep should be snatched whenever possible. A monk’s life was harsh enough without exhaustion to torment the soul.
He prepared himself as the rest of the King’s host lumbered to their feet, swearing and bickering lethargically.
It was good to see how the vintaine with Berenger Fripper immediately set to making a fire and toasting their little cakes, he thought. Most men would break their fast later in the day, but these men saw to it that they had eaten before risking battle. That, to Archibald, was the sign of seasoned campaigners.
For him, a hunk of bread and the remains of the pottage from the night before were sufficient. Then, with a stretch and yawn that would have befitted a bear, he made his way to the river. He was thirsty, and he wanted to get there before the majority of the army. Too many pissed into the waters.
At the bank, he saw Welshmen and others filling their skins and pots. He went a short way upstream and slipped down the bank behind a little stand of trees, filling his pottle-pot. It held two quarts, and the mouth was small, so he must hold the barrel-shaped container under the water for a while to fill it. While he was there, he heard voices.
‘You should be careful,’ he heard a man say.
The voice was familiar, but he thought nothing of that. Right now he was concentrating on his water.
‘Who are you to tell me to be careful?’
This second was a strange voice, but the accent was recognisable to any man in the King’s army: it was a Welshman speaking. Idly, Archibald listened to their conversation.
‘The boy said you attacked him. You know the one, the boy with the archers? He said you assaulted him and robbed him just before the ship set sail.’
‘Him? We didn’t hurt him. We only made fun of him. He wanted to join us in the army, and tried to bribe us to bring him. As if we would have a halfling like him with us in the midst in a battle!’
‘Well, he says you assaulted him, and he’s told other people that you did.’
Archibald frowned as he suddenly recognised the voice as Tyler’s. Leaning closer, he listened more attentively, but it was too late. The voices moved on, the men walking aw
ay from him.
Archibald filled his pottle-pot and thrust the cork home with a slap of his palm.
That was interesting. He wondered who the boy was, and why Tyler had chosen to accuse him of spreading tales. Not that it was any of his concern. As something of an outcast himself, Archibald was less inclined to tell tales.
However, he disliked Mark Tyler. The man was up to something.
Grandarse roared and waved his hat to egg them on as the main body of infantry hurried past them over the bridge.
Sir John de Sully was one of the first men to cross it. He nodded to Grandarse, but gave a quick frown to see Jack Fletcher leading Berenger’s vintaine. Later he would have to go and check on the vintener, to see how he fared from his wound, he reminded himself, before trotting towards the main gates. There he sat, resting his forearms on the crupper of his saddle, and studying the main walls with interest. ‘Over here,’ he called, waving to Grandarse and his men.
When they reached him, he pointed to the town.
‘These walls are a mess. They have only recently been repaired – and that in a slapdash manner. You can see where they have expended their main efforts. There, there and there.’ He pointed at the three cracks in the walls where rocks had been thrust into crevices in an effort to strengthen them. ‘We should attack from here.’
‘Yes, sir,’ his esquire said.
A man-at-arms stared at the walls with dismay. ‘You want to scale the wall here?’
‘We have two choices: we can wait while the engineers construct trebuchets and other siege weaponry, all the while allowing King Philippe to prepare for us, or we can take it quickly. Do the men on the walls look like trained men-at-arms? No. If I am any judge, I would say that they are townsfolk. Specifically, townsfolk who are petrified of us, and with good reason. Richard, see to it that ladders are brought here.’
‘Yes, sir,’ his esquire said, and trotted back towards the bridge.
‘We do not have the men or matériel to sit and become embroiled in a lengthy siege. Sometimes it is necessary to grasp the nettle,’ Sir John said. Seeing a boy nearby, he whistled. ‘You: come here!’
‘Sir?’ Ed had been unashamedly listening, eyeing the huge destrier with fascination and not a little fear. He had never been this close to such a massive beast before.
‘Hold Aeton for me.’
Ed quailed, but held the reins as Sir John dismounted. The knight pulled on his bascinet, and soon his esquire was back, leading several men bearing ladders.
‘Set them there,’ Sir John instructed. ‘Archers? Keep the men from the walls.’
Grandarse directed the fire of the centaine. One man at the battlements fell with a shriek, toppling back inside the town, and all the others at the walls immediately hid themselves.
‘UP!’ Sir John shouted, and as the first ladder clattered against the wall, he was already at it. Arrows flew over his head as he clambered up. The wall was tall, and he could feel the sweat soaking into his padded coif before he was halfway to the top.
His mail rattled, and inside his armour he was thoroughly uncomfortable. It added an edge to his excitement. He was at the battlements now. A man leaned through the embrasure to see what was happening, and the knight butted him with his helmet, then grabbed the man’s collar and yanked at him. He fell, screaming, to the ground, as Sir John climbed in through the embrasure. In a moment he was on the walkway. A man was before him, a heavy sword gripped in his hands, but his mail shirt was ancient, and the rings stopped at his upper arm. He tried to stab with his blade, but Sir John cut once. It took his hand off above the wrist, and while the man wailed, waving his stump in horror, Sir John booted him in the belly. He fell from the wall, and then the knight was at the next man.
This fellow at least was more experienced. He had sharp eyes in a square face, and he held his sword like an old friend. The blade wavered close to Sir John’s belly, but his own sword was already in the true gardant, and as soon as the man thrust, Sir John parried and stabbed. He was in no hurry. All he need do was hold the wall while the rest of the army climbed after him.
Richard was soon at his side, and the two stood abreast, holding back the guards while more English fighters joined them. Soon there were twenty or more, and then Sir John gave the order to advance.
The French were unwilling to give way, but the English pushed forward, hacking and cutting. A crossbow was aimed at them, and Sir John saw one of his men clutch at a bolt in his skull before falling. A quarrel passed through another man’s belly and threw him against the man behind him, who shrieked as the missile ended in his spine. Both slumped against the wall, but they were the last victims. The English held the whole of the upper wall, and while the defenders retreated to a tower at the corner, more ladders were brought and set down inside the town behind the wall. Soon forty or more were in the lane and running for the gates. Sir John gave one last push at the men before him, before going down a ladder himself.
‘Open the gates!’ he bellowed, standing in the main roadway. The men before him were reluctant to throw themselves into the fray. Barricades had been erected to hold back the English, but they were ineffective.
The gates were opened.
‘My Lord,’ he said as the Prince of Wales entered on his horse. ‘Saint-Lô is ours.’
In the plain before the walls, Ed had delivered Aeton to the grooms, and since then had been running back and forth with sheaves of arrows, delivering them to the vintaine as the men kept up a relentless assault on the walls. Every time a man poked his head around a castellation, three or four arrows went whistling towards him.
When the vintaine began to run for the gate, Ed was with them. A swirl of smoke wafted before him, blinding him momentarily and concealing the street ahead, but it didn’t matter. Not now. The town was theirs. No one could stop them.
His blood thrilled with the thought of killing a Frenchman. Any memory of the miserable plight of the ambushing militia man, and his inability to end his suffering, was banished as Ed pulled his dagger from its sheath and set off after the others.
‘Not you, Donkey,’ Geoff said, a spade-like hand planted on his breast. ‘This is man’s work, boy.’
‘But I want—’
‘I don’t give a shit what you want, Donkey. I won’t have you in here,’ Geoff told him.
Ed was suddenly scared of him. The man who had been the most genial and protective of the whole vintaine was now threatening, his eyes black with anger, before he turned and was gone, hastening with the others into the town. Already Clip was further along the road, running with that strange, loping gait of his, and Jack was close behind – and then a fresh breeze filled the road with smoke and Ed was blinded once more.
Struck with indecision, Ed was buffeted by others running past, but then he set his jaw. He was a soldier, with as much right to be here as any.
The gateway held three skulls on spikes. A grim reminder that here the law held sway: malefactors would be punished. Their faces were blackened, strips of tanned leather clinging to the bone beneath, and the eyeless sockets were horrible. They seemed to be looking down at him, as though mocking him.
Lifting his chin in defiance, Ed strode beneath the gatehouse and into the streets of St-Lô.
Near the gate there was a tavern, and a pair of Englishmen issued from it, clutching small barrels. One was singing in a hoarse croak, while the other was giggling like a lunatic. It gave Ed the feeling that he was walking in a dream, hearing that mad laughter.
Along the lane, he saw two men kicking and beating a figure rolling on the ground. Ed could hear the man’s cries. Time seemed to slow. Each step took an age, as though he was walking through heavy water, like the day he landed at the beach. He saw a woman, gripped by her elbows by one man while a second man ripped away her chemise and tunic, then grabbed her and began to thrust.
Bodies lay in clumps all about. Ed saw boys and a girl tangled together in a mess of death, tossed aside carelessly. Dogs and cats lay in their o
wn blood – lots of dogs – near a little girl cowering behind a dead woman, watching the men passing by with eyes like pits of horror.
There was a metallic crack from the wall by his head, and he saw a crossbow bolt pinwheel away with the sound of a pigeon taking off, a chip of stone flying where it had hit.
That was when he suddenly seemed to lurch back to reality. The first barricades in the streets were being attacked by the vintaine, with Grandarse bellowing and roaring incomprehensibly; Geoff heaving at a great baulk of timber and hurling it aside; Clip darting up and around, loosing an arrow whenever he saw a face appear; other men swinging swords and axes with gusto. He saw a man’s head lifted clean off his shoulders, to rise up into the air as though driven by the gush of blood that followed it in a fountain of death . . . Ed fell back stumbling into the wall, the acid hot in his throat at the nightmarish sights and sounds. He opened his mouth to sob, and an acrid vomit fell from his lips, the stench overpowering.
That was when he turned and fled. He ran and ran, away from the town, out to the bridge, and fell, and picked himself up, and fell again, sprawling, and only then did he begin to sob.
Because here, seeing the French people of that town as they died, he could not help himself. He didn’t hate them – he mourned for them, too.
Sitting on a piece of timber with a pad of cloth held to his shoulder, Berenger felt helpless. A carter, ambling over, said, ‘Shame you’re missing it all, friend. There’ll be good loot in there.’
‘Yes,’ Berenger said. ‘The town was a rich one.’
‘Not for much longer,’ the carter chuckled and walked on.
Berenger was still weak. He had tried to sleep, but his wound kept him awake. Every time he moved, the pain woke him. In the end he rose and walked about the camp, swearing to himself about the foolishness of standing by the bridge when he had known that crossbowmen were about.
By morning his temper was not improved. The sharp throbbing was unremitting now, and Berenger had to grit his teeth against it. He would have gone into the town with his men, but for the realisation that he couldn’t fight. With this wound he would simply be a liability.
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