Fields of Glory

by Michael Jecks

  He couldn’t bear to see any more. He turned and fled through the streets, now fitfully lighted by occasional bonfires or by burning houses, away from her accusing eyes. That was how it had felt as she looked at him, as though he was just one more man like those others. He was no better.

  That must be how all the English were viewed, he thought. These people could only see the English through the glass of their own experience. Men and women slaughtered like beasts, their city pulled apart around them, the richest merchants captured and held for ransom while their daughters were despoiled.

  A group of men burst from a building ahead, and he slunk into the darkness, feeling afraid. Somewhere in the city were Berenger, Geoff and Clip, and he should find them. With them he would be safe, but not here. Out here in the streets was no place for a boy like him. Not tonight. Not ever.

  The flickering lights showed him another long alley, and he hurriedly slipped into it, his bare feet slapping through the puddles and ordure, until he came to a broader thoroughfare. He cautiously poked his head around the corner, and gazed up and down. He heard footsteps approaching, and singing. Returning to his little alley, he waited anxiously, until a group of men appeared. There were two archers in the front, English, and he felt the relief flare in his breast. They didn’t seem too drunk or dangerous.

  There was a movement, and he saw a woman at the street opposite, her hair all awry, eyes wild.

  Ed was transfixed. She was a pretty woman, much older than him, but in her fear for her safety he felt she was a kindred soul. In a moment the men would see her, and they would rape and kill her, just as they had the French maid – and just as the French had killed his mother.

  He would not allow it.

  Without further thought, he stepped into the road, jerking his head at her to show she should conceal herself again.

  By the second jerk of his head, she had disappeared, and now he found himself facing the group – and too late he realised that the archers were separate. They were already past him, and now he was confronted by the men behind: the Welsh spearmen.

  ‘Another French pup!’ one cried, and he was soon ringed by them, many speaking out in their uncouth tongue. A few laughed and chattered in English, and he called to them, pointing out that he was English and with the army himself.

  It didn’t help. One of them, Owain, an ill-favoured man with black eyes and brows that formed a single dark line, bared his teeth in a laugh, and pulled out a long dagger. He pointed at Ed, saying something he couldn’t understand, and then a man came and gripped Ed’s arm and pulled him forward.

  ‘Wait! No! Leave me alone,’ he said desperately. ‘I’m English! Remember? You saw me at the tavern at Portsmouth? I bought you ale!’

  One uncoiled a rope and threw it over a beam projecting from a house. He took one end and made a noose, all the while grinning at Ed.

  Erbin appeared from a nearby house and stared at Ed with a smile spreading over his face. He was chewing at a lump of cheese, and in his hand was a short knife. ‘Yes, we remember Portsmouth. But you have been dropping us in the midden, haven’t you, boy? You said we attacked you and robbed you, you lying little shit!’

  As he spoke he came closer, his eyes reflecting the glittering flames from a burning house.

  ‘You did!’ Ed burst out. ‘It was the vintaine who found me after your robbery!’

  ‘Go swyve your mother!’ Erbin sneered. ‘You are a pain in the arse, boy. Owain, kill him!’

  Ed was dragged, shouting in terror, his eyes fixed on that fearful loop, while Erbin strode off into the night. Ed tried to draw his head away as the laughing hangman attempted to slip it around his neck. In the end, a cuff left him so dazed that his knees would have buckled, were it not for the man holding his elbows. They set the noose in place.

  He felt the hemp tighten, and he screamed at them, but then his hands were released, and he tried to scrabble at the cord. He couldn’t grip it. The rope was too tight. He could not touch the ground, and he began kicking and bucking. The rope was fast against his throat, just under his jaw, the knot beneath his left ear, forcing his head to the side, and every kick he gave made it tighter. In his panic, he had no conscious thought of the rope, nor of his little dagger in its sheath; rational thoughts were flown. All he could think of was the breath that hurt like a thousand dagger cuts as he tried to breathe. His throat was closing, and his lungs wouldn’t work. His eyes, wildly staring at his murderers, were full of anguish as he tried to move his belly to bring in just a little air, enough for one breath. One breath could last a lifetime, and he craved a breeze to pass into his nostrils. But his nostrils were burning hot, and there was nothing to cool them.

  Beneath him, Owain was laughing, he saw. Laughing.

  Béatrice saw the boy grabbed, and it was enough to make her flee. She ran swiftly, ignoring the pebbles and shards of broken pottery that flayed her feet.

  The boy had saved her. He had given her the chance of life.

  All this long day she had been trying to find somewhere safe in the madness of the city. Her hiding place had been secure, until a man had thrown a burning torch into the house and she was forced into the open again. The hopes she had nurtured on the long walk here, of escaping English brutality, had turned to ashes. She was no better off here than she would have been in the fields and woods. In fact, she was less safe. In the countryside she could run away, as she had from Alain before slaying him.

  Here she was enclosed by walls and rivers. It was an unnatural place, a city of death. Even that poor boy would soon be dead. She wished there was something she could do to save him.

  Pelting along, she turned a corner and found herself confronted by fifteen men. Their bows and clothing declared them to be English, and she stopped, staring and gaping. And then an idea formed in her mind. She might still be able to save the boy.

  ‘Vite! Vite!’ she pleaded, and turned to race back to the boy.

  Ed glimpsed movement, but he was beyond caring. He swung gently, spinning slowly as the hempen cord creaked.

  Two men were striding forward, then running. More came behind them. One Welshman was thrust aside, hurled into a second, and both were slammed to the ground; Owain turned suddenly, and his body was run through with a steel blade that appeared through his back, waving and moving as the swordsman wriggled and jerked it. It was Berenger, Ed saw, Berenger with a snarl of fury fixed to his face, who booted the man away. And then Ed found he was falling, blessedly, to the ground, and the rope loosened, and he could gasp with his almost-crushed throat burning like a chimney over a hot fire.

  ‘I . . .’ He was caught between coughing and vomiting.

  ‘Quiet, boy,’ Geoff said kindly. ‘You’re safe now. We won’t let them do anything else to you.’

  Ed looked about him as Geoff rubbed gently at his bruised neck. Clip stood with his sword at the breast of the nearest Welshman, as if sorely tempted to slip it into him. Jack had hold of another, his dagger at the man’s shoulder, ready to thrust down into his heart. Berenger stood beside Owain’s body, his sword bloody. ‘Are you all right, Donkey? Did these shites do anything else to you?’

  Ed tried to stand, but he couldn’t. His legs wouldn’t support his weight. ‘I . . . I thought I . . .’

  ‘It’s all right, lad,’ Geoff said, his curious, hissing voice sounding malevolent and dangerous as he glanced about him at the Welshmen. ‘They’ll never try this again, I swear.’

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘She saved you, boy. Without her, you’d be dead,’ Berenger said, pointing. The Welsh, he saw, were listening, but he disregarded them. If he had taken a little more care, he would have saved Béatrice a great deal of grief in the coming days.

  Gil was saying harshly, ‘And if you were dead, Donkey, we’d have destroyed all of these Welsh cunts too.’

  Ed stared at Béatrice and tried to smile. When he swallowed, however, it felt as though he still had the rope about his neck.

  A moment later,
he was being picked up and carried away, while the vintaine gathered together behind him, and he clung to Geoff like a child as he was borne away, back to their lodgings.

  Archibald was at his wagon when the vintaine returned, Berenger and the other men looking weary, Geoff carrying the boy.

  ‘What happened to him?’ Archibald asked.

  Berenger turned to him a face full of pain. He looked at the gynour searchingly, then glanced down at the pot on his little fire.

  ‘Master Fripper, be seated,’ Archibald said with gruff understanding. ‘I should be glad to share some little of my pottage with you.’

  ‘No. I’m fine,’ Berenger said.

  Archibald sighed. It was often the way of other men that they would avoid the Serpentine: gynours who spent their lives working with the strange black powder.

  ‘Master, you are alive,’ Archibald said. ‘Remember that, my friend.’

  ‘Aye.’

  Berenger walked away, and Archibald watched him go. Gradually he became aware of a young woman watching him.

  ‘Yes?’

  She too stared at him, then at his pottage.

  He shrugged. ‘If you want some, you can have some, maid.’

  She approached him warily.

  Béatrice had followed the vintaine as they made their way back to the camp. There was nothing in the town to tempt her to remain.

  This gynour appeared amiable enough. A great bear of a man, and with the marks and stains of powder burns on his arms. His clothes were pocked and burned, as was his old coif, but he smiled and she felt he was no threat. She sat opposite him at his fire, and although she sipped some of his soup, she didn’t get within arm’s reach.

  ‘Don’t be scared of me, maid. I’m not going to hurt you,’ Archibald said.

  ‘What makes you think I fear you?’ she asked.

  ‘Most do, when they see my clothes,’ Archibald said. ‘It makes men and women think I’m a sorcerer.’

  She nodded. There were many who had felt the same about her father. Perhaps that was why someone had sought to condemn him: fear of his skill with powder? She cleaned her bowl. The pottage was weak fare, but her belly was so empty after the last week that it was welcome and sufficient. When she was done, she rose and walked backwards, keeping her eyes on him.

  ‘Fare well, maid,’ he called, but then he was out of her sight and she was in the midst of the English army camp.

  The army was bewildering in its enormity. All about her, men were working. Bakers kneaded dough and bellowed at boys commanded to light ovens, while butchers slaughtered and skinned and jointed, and wagons and carts brought ale and wine from the plundered stores of the city. It could have been a market, were it not for the occasional screams and sobs of the wounded as leeches did their best and the butcher-surgeons removed limbs from their traumatised owners.

  She felt a thousand eyes upon her, but no one made any attempt to seduce her. The men were all too busy.

  ‘Hello. Who’re you?’

  Béatrice turned to find herself being studied by a short, slim woman with fair hair and a narrow, elfin face. She spoke with a heavy accent.

  ‘I am called Béatrice.’

  ‘Are you a marching wife?’

  ‘Certainly not!’

  ‘No need to take that attitude, maid. It’s not a bad life for us.’

  Béatrice shook her head.

  ‘Do you have a man? I can find you one, if you want,’ the woman went on. ‘It’s just while the army’s here. And it’s better than being really married. I tried that.’

  ‘You give yourself to any man?’ Béatrice said. For her, it was little better than whoring.

  ‘What do you take me for?’ the woman asked indignantly. ‘No, I’ve my man, and you can have yours. We give them comfort, that’s all. What’s wrong with that?’

  Béatrice eyed her doubtfully. ‘No. I cannot do that.’ The thought of having a man pawing at her, slobbering over her, filled her with revulsion. Visions of the peasant who had tried to rob her and Alain sprang into her mind.

  ‘It comes natural enough,’ the woman said with a little smirk.

  ‘Leave her,’ Archibald said. He walked between the two, and the blonde stalked off, tossing her head. Turning to Béatrice, Archibald told her. ‘If you want to stay with me, I can give you food, and I won’t want anything in return.’

  She stepped away.

  ‘Maid,’ he continued, ‘this is an army. You aren’t safe here with men getting drunk and foolish. I have reason to stay sober.’

  ‘Because of your powder.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed, surprised. ‘You know of such things?’

  She gave him a thin smile. ‘My father was a powder-maker.’

  28 July

  Two days later, Ed was up early.

  The horror of his hanging had marked him. He kept his eyes lowered, terrified lest a man might take offence. He had learned quickly that grown men could behave like demons. Although the vintaine had saved him, they were still warriors. The blood staining their clothes was proof of their ferocity when roused, and that knowledge stayed with him as he fetched water, wandered the plain searching for arrows, or helped stir the pot for their pottage. All the while, his throat was sore, inside and out. He could scarcely speak without pain.

  When he returned to their camp with water, he found the vintaine huddled together at the back of their cart. Even Grandarse was there, watching approvingly.

  Berenger held a blanket, which he spread over the ground. He took an inordinate amount of time to smooth it so that there were no ripples and folds, and set stones at each corner to hold it in place.

  ‘What is it?’ Ed croaked to Geoff.

  ‘Hush, Donkey! Watch and learn.’

  Ed stacked his sheaves with the others beside the cart. It was still empty, and while he watched, he saw Berenger open a large pack and spread all the items within about the blanket.

  ‘That’s Will’s stuff,’ Ed managed, frowning.

  ‘Aye. Now shut up.’

  Not a word was spoken as Berenger took up Will’s dagger in its sheath, his short sword, his bow with its distinctive pattern of grain, and set them down on the blanket.

  Grandarse was the first to move. He lumbered over and stood peering down at the items. Finally, he reached down and picked up a little eating-knife. He weighed it in his hand, his mouth drawn down at the corners as he fiddled, pulling at the blade, testing its fit in the handle, before taking his own little knife from his belt and placing it on the blanket. ‘Mine is getting old,’ he muttered.

  Berenger nodded towards Geoff, who glanced at Ed and walked forward. There was a little cross on a leather thong, which he took up. ‘He used to wear this all day,’ he said, and removed his own, placing it on the cloth before pulling the thong over his head.

  Ed watched as each man went to the blanket, one after the other. Matt took a wooden cup and dropped his own cracked one in its place; Jack chose a dagger and nodded grimly to himself, placing his own in the spot whence it came; the long knife went to Eliot, who exchanged it silently with his own; a cloak went to Jon Furrier, who grunted that his was thread-bare, although Ed could see nothing different in the two; a brooch was picked up by Oliver; Luke took Will’s shoes; the bent knife-blade which Will had used to carve bowls and cups was taken by Walt. Before long, Ed had witnessed almost everything that Will had possessed being taken by the others.

  Geoff prodded Ed in the back. ‘Go on, Donkey. You take something.’

  ‘I don’t want to!’ Ed said hoarsely. He felt a slight superstitious alarm, as though the ghost of Will the Wisp might come back to haunt him for stealing his belongings. ‘I’ll take what I need from the French.’

  Berenger explained, ‘Donkey, we aren’t stealing anything. All this stuff will go. Better to take something worthwhile.’

  ‘I don’t need anything.’

  ‘Your purse?’

  Ed shook his head, but as Berenger stared at him, he reluctantly fumbled w
ith the cords binding his old purse to his belt. He dropped it on the blanket and snatched up Will’s old purse. There were only three pennies in it, but that didn’t matter. Ed tied the thongs to his belt, eyeing Berenger defiantly, then turned and strode away.

  ‘You think they were behaving as thieves, don’t you?’

  Ed turned at the sound of Archibald’s voice. The gynour was sitting at the bank of the little stream that passed by the village. Béatrice smiled at Ed shyly as he took his seat near them and began to hurl stones into the water.

  ‘It was horrible,’ he said. ‘They just stole whatever they wanted.’

  ‘You really believe that?’ Archibald said.

  Béatrice gave a chuckle. It was a breathy little sound, and she gazed at the water for a moment before reaching into her tunic. On a cord there hung a simple wooden cross from a leather thong. It was much like the one Will had worn, and which Geoff had taken. ‘See this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It was my father’s. Now it is all that I have that remains of him.’

  ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘He was arrested by the King’s men. They thought he was a traitor. He had said he wasn’t sure that it would be worse to be ruled by an efficient English King than a foolhardy French one, or something like that, and he was reported for his words. They came for him and took him away. I gave him my cross so he could pray to Jesus, and took this. But it is all I have of him or my family now. All else was taken from me, and destroyed.’

  ‘What of it?’ Ed still didn’t understand.

  Archibald looked at him. ‘William the Wisp was their friend, can you not see that? They were all fond of him.’

  Ed threw another stone. It was true that there was no theft, for all the items they removed from the blanket were exchanged with their own. The blanket was as full after they had taken the goods as it had been beforehand.