Fields of Glory

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Yes, my Lord. He was there even though he had been injured before.’

  ‘Then I know him. He is a good fighter, and bold, too. I would make more use of him, Your Highness. Put him in the front line where he can show his mettle.’

  ‘Very well. But I shall not be so lenient in future,’ the Prince declared. And then he broke into a broad smile again. ‘Tomorrow we start to search for Philippe, my friends! It’s marvellous, isn’t it?’

  3 August

  It was the end of a weary day’s marching when Sir John de Sully next saw the centaine.

  He rode forward to meet them. Nodding to Grandarse, he said, ‘How are your men?’

  All about them, soldiers could be heard bickering and grumbling. The old man looked up at him from beneath his bushy eyebrows.

  ‘They’ll serve,’ he replied.

  ‘What of the boy with Fripper’s men?’

  ‘He’s well enough: he fetches and carries when ordered.’

  Sir John dismounted. He could see Clip returning from a foraging expedition with a cockerel and a hen. He grinned to himself: Fripper’s vintaine was experienced in all the arts of war.

  Patting his rounsey’s shoulder, he noticed the woman leading the old nag at the cart.

  ‘Who is she?’ he demanded.

  ‘Just a French slut. In Caen, our boy suffered from the Welsh. They nearly killed him.’

  ‘So I heard.’

  ‘This wench saw him and drew us to him. Without her, the boy would be dead.’

  ‘So she is wife to the vintaine.’ Sir John smiled. He knew how ‘wives’ could be adopted. Half the female followers in the army had chosen to be wives for the course of the campaign.

  ‘Rather, she is the sister,’ Grandarse said reprovingly. ‘Aye, the lads decided that she had saved our mascot and it’d be bad fortune to harm her after that. So they adopted her and took her as their ward. I doubt any of ’em would think to touch her. Besides, she can cook and sew better than Eliot or Matt, and she makes a good pottage.’

  Sir John eyed the girl. She was a sullen-looking mare, he thought, with her down-drawn mouth and dark eyes, but if she kept the vintaine happy, he was content. ‘Very well – but make sure she doesn’t cause any arguments. We both know how women can sow dissent.’ As he spoke, he caught a glimpse of Geoff’s expression. The fellow was watching the woman with a mistrustful expression.

  ‘I wouldn’t have any of that, Sir John,’ Grandarse said. ‘I’d take her as my own marching wife before I let the men turn to fighting over her.’

  His words distracted Sir John. ‘You? By Christ’s pain, man, you’d crush the poor maid,’ the elderly knight chuckled. ‘Your belly is vast as a tun of wine, man. That would be a cruel way to kill her!’

  Grandarse was grinning widely and about to respond when there came a cry from the sentries.

  Sir John rose to his feet and watched as Berenger darted over to the sentries. They pointed, and Berenger peered into the distance with fierce concentration.

  ‘What is it, Fripper?’ Grandarse called.

  He wanted to say, ‘How the fuck can I tell?’ but it was best not to remind Sir John that his eyes could see little further than half a bow-shot. He muttered to the guards before responding: ‘Two men. They could be priests from their clothing. Riding at speed.’

  ‘Frip, send four of your archers to meet them,’ Grandarse called. There was no need for more men than that. If the two riders were alone, they could be little danger to the English.

  Sir John made his way to join Berenger and the sentries. ‘They look well-enough fed to be priests,’ he said thoughtfully as the men approached.

  Berenger nodded without speaking. He was still studying the roads, the trees and grasses for any sign of enemies.

  The two were cardinals, from their dress. Berenger noticed Archibald glaring at the two with deep distrust. It made him wonder again about Archibald’s background. Still, there was no time to speculate now.

  ‘Good Sir Knight,’ the first said as he reached the line of sentries and archers, but looking directly at Sir John.

  He was at least fifty years old, with a weather-bronzed face and cunning little blue eyes that flitted hither and thither as if counting how many soldiers were in the army. ‘I am Cardinal Pietro of Piacenza, and this is my companion, Cardinal Roger. We are here to see your King. I expect safe passage to his presence.’

  ‘Berenger, bring two men,’ Sir John said.

  With Jack and Will, Berenger was soon marching, while Sir John ambled along beside the cardinals on his rounsey. Berenger watched the countryside as he strode along. All knew that Popes tended to support the French and had done ever since the Popes moved to Avignon from Rome. He listened as Sir John spoke with them, ears straining unashamedly for a clue about their visit.

  ‘You have proposals for the King?’ Sir John asked.

  ‘What we have is for his ears only. The Pope is alarmed at the rancour that your army is causing here in France. It is not to be borne that royal cousins should fight in such a manner,’ Pietro said. He had a tone of resentful disdain, as though it was far beneath his dignity to discuss such affairs with a mere knight.

  ‘Perhaps the Pope would be better advised to support the wronged party,’ Sir John said, making Berenger grin.

  ‘It is not the French King who has invaded his cousin’s lands,’ the Cardinal spat. ‘The wrong is upon one side.’

  ‘When we took Caen, there were many interesting records,’ Sir John said. He spurred his mount until he was alongside the Cardinal. ‘You know what was in there? Plans for Philippe, who calls himself King, to invade England. All written up and sealed and signed. If we had not come here to prevent him, our lands would be laid waste just as we do now. This is a war of self-defence.’

  ‘A war of self-defence in which the people are being slaughtered,’ the Cardinal declared icily.

  ‘God is with us. The Crown belongs to Edward,’ Sir John said comfortably.

  Berenger smiled grimly to himself. It was true. King Edward was the son of Isabella of France who had married Edward II. When her brothers died without issue, the crown should have passed to her son, but the French nobility barred him by creating a new law so that the crown could not pass through the female line. Edward III was disinherited. All England knew that. Their King had been robbed.

  Not that it mattered to Berenger. All he knew was, he was happy to be serving his King.

  It was not an easy journey. The English army marched on a broad front, and now it was some fourteen miles across. The King was a good league from where the vintaine had stopped, and Berenger was relieved when they came to a group of Welsh spearmen. He recognised their leader.

  Sir John rode to him. ‘Erbin, I place these Cardinals in your care. You are charged to take them to the King as swiftly as you may, and to treat them with all courtesy while they bide with you. They are messengers from the Pope.’

  ‘We will look after them as we would our own kin,’ Erbin said, staring at Berenger.

  As Berenger turned to go back with Sir John and the archers, all the while he thought he could feel Erbin’s eyes aiming at his back, like spanned crossbows.

  Tyler saw the Donkey as he walked to fetch water. The boy had grown since Mark first saw him. Then, he’d been a confused, anxious little fellow, easy to strike in the dark and rob.

  Tyler had thought, when he first saw Ed here in the army, that he would be denounced, proved to be a thief and punished. That would be bad here, under the rigours of martial law. The army knew few punishments: there was only execution and flogging. That was why he had been forced to invent the stories.

  He had told the Welsh contingent about Ed, suggesting that the boy had been spreading malicious rumours about them, and when that didn’t immediately succeed, he began embellishing his tales. It was a shame that the Welsh hadn’t managed to hang him properly in the city, but there was still time.

  For himself, Tyler was content. He had managed to coll
ect a considerable amount of plunder in the last towns and cities, and his pack was growing heavy; and while he was still nervous that the lad might remember his face from that fight in the alleyway, still he reckoned that the Welsh would do his bidding. And meantime, no one suspected him of having anything to do with it.

  Yes, life was good.

  Le Neubourg, 6 August

  Many of the knights and men-at-arms joined the King that morning for Mass, and Sir John was impressed by the sight of the noblemen. It was the first time he had seen all of them gathered together in one place, and as he stood in the middle of the church’s nave, he was almost awed.

  However in one corner he caught a flash of red, and when he peered, he saw the two Cardinals. Both bent their heads and prayed and participated in the service as a good priest should, but Sir John saw the poisonous glances that both directed towards the King. This gave him cause for concern. He would not like to see the King alone with them, for even Cardinals had been known to commit murder.

  After the service, he became aware of the Earl of Warwick standing at the doorway and beckoning him. Sir John crossed the floor, pushing past other noblemen who huddled, chatting, laughing and gambling. ‘My Lord?’

  ‘Come with me. The King wishes for your company.’

  The King had taken a large hall not far from the church, and when Sir John entered after the Earl, King Edward was shrugging off his cloak.

  Now in his thirty-fifth year, the King was tall and powerful. Training in the saddle and with weapons had lent him a muscular frame. Long fair hair and his thick moustache and beard framed handsome features. His air of grave concentration gave him an aura of authority.

  Sir John cast a look about the room as the King seated himself and took a goblet of wine from his page. The King’s pages were ranged at the walls, ready to satisfy his every whim, and to the left stood several men-at-arms as bodyguards.

  ‘Sir John, come here, I pray,’ the King said quietly. His voice was calm, but there was an underlying tension.

  ‘Sire?’

  ‘Some days ago, two Cardinals arrived here. They are emissaries from the Pope, come here to try to negotiate a truce between me and Philippe. I hear that they saw you?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord, I escorted them.’

  ‘Did you bring them to me?’

  ‘No, my Lord. When we reached the Welsh, we left the Cardinals in their care.’

  ‘I see.’

  Sir John was confused. He glanced to the Earl, but the latter was keeping his face as carefully blank as a child’s accused of filching a biscuit. Sir John dared not ask the meaning of the King’s words.

  ‘Bring them in!’ the King called after a moment. He waved Sir John and the Earl away, and they walked back to the wall.

  After a few moments the two Cardinals were led into the hall through the main entrance from the screens.

  Pietro paused in the doorway, either to take stock of the men in the chamber, or to emphasise his importance before walking in; Sir John wasn’t sure which. Then the two Cardinals strode forward until they were just before the King.

  ‘Your Majesty, we have been waiting three days to see you,’ Pietro said. His face was rigid with control, but it was clear that his mood was not as calm as his outward appearance might seem to a casual witness. He was filled with a rage that was almost overwhelming him.

  ‘I have been busy, my Lord,’ the King said as he studied the men before him. ‘You have messages for me?’

  ‘We rode here in great haste to communicate the Pope’s alarm at your continued harassment of your cousin the King Philippe.’

  ‘My harassment?’ King Edward repeated.

  ‘How many of his subjects have you slain already? You persecute the people of this country, and when—’

  ‘I would remind you, Cardinal, that for many years the French King has attempted to prise from me my possessions in France. First he invaded Guyenne, and demanded the whole of Aquitaine. He has threatened invasions and—’

  ‘This is nonsensical! Invade England? Philippe has no such intention.’ The men’s eyes shot to Sir John as he spoke.

  Edward snapped his fingers and an esquire stepped forward, passing him a sealed roll. The King unrolled it. ‘Plans for the invasion of England, with the enthusiastic support of Norman shipmasters, including how to despoil England and bring back her treasure. These plans are dated eight years ago. And you tell me he has no such intention?’

  ‘It must be in retaliation for your numerous assaults against him and his Kingdom. You realise that he is already, even now, bringing together all his vassals to destroy you?’

  ‘We await him.’

  ‘You think this ragtag army will be adequate to stop his advance? You have no idea of your danger! The greatest army in Christendom gathers outside Rouen. King Philippe has proclaimed the arrière-ban. You know what that means? Every fighting man of military age hastens to meet him. You have what – ten, perhaps fifteen thousand men? The King of France can demand five times that paltry number! You have some hundreds of knights, but he has thousands. When battle commences, you will be overwhelmed. He will destroy your forces utterly. Who then will protect your people? Who will save your towns and cities, when the French army takes its revenge for all that your men have done here in Normandy?’

  ‘And your suggestion?’

  ‘The Holy Father wishes you to cease this violent chevauchée. There can be no purpose served by continuing this terrible war.’

  ‘I have a crown to claim.’

  ‘You have no claim. Your father proved he was vassal to the King of France, and you also.’

  ‘My claim to the throne is stronger than that of the Valois!’ Edward roared. He stood, towering over the Cardinal, who took a pace back in the face of his anger. ‘You say that I should retreat, that I should bow to the King of France? A true king would have fought me when I landed before. He has never sought to meet me in battle or protect his people. He is no king!’

  ‘You should have returned to negotiate with the Pope.’

  ‘The Pope demands that I accept the same territory as my father held. This illegitimate King has stolen my lands! I will not accept merely the return of stolen goods. I demand more! I will take this kingdom at the point of my sword. It is mine, and I am here, in the sight of God, to reclaim it.’

  ‘The Pope demands that you let us negotiate with the French King on your behalf. We require that you agree, that you remain here, and cease your appalling depredations.’

  ‘Cease my depredations? This Philippe has sponsored the Scottish to harry the whole of the north of my kingdom, and has already taken my territories in Guyenne, and you tell me to cease? By God, I shall not!’

  ‘We shall ensure that you have all your lands returned to you. Ponthieu, the Dukedom of Aquitaine, all the lands you seek.’

  ‘To be held free of the French crown? My own to command?’ Edward challenged.

  Pietro’s eyes narrowed warily. ‘To be returned to you as your father held them, naturally.’

  ‘As fiefs of the French King, therefore. You think I came here with the largest army England has fielded to become vassal to a king whose right to the throne I dispute? Do I look like a fool?’

  The other Cardinal broke in. ‘The Pope would seek to have you and France ally yourselves in a crusade – do you not see that your squabble here prevents Christendom from regaining Holy Jerusalem? We could take back the City from the heathen. Your grandsire was a strong, powerful knight, and he aided the Christians of Outremer with his crusade . . .’

  ‘You seek a crusade? I say this, Cardinal: I will be happy to consider a crusade – once the matter of my inheritance and my crown is resolved.’

  ‘I demand, in the name of the Pope, that you cease this strife!’ Pietro snapped. ‘You will see your forces hacked to pieces if you dare continue. God Himself abhors this appalling strife. You must desist.’

  ‘You “demand”?’ King Edward stared at him, his head lowered, for a long m
oment. Then he held out his hand. ‘Where are your papers?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You will have letters of authority to demand action of me. Where are they?’

  Pietro exchanged a glance with his companion, and then met the King’s gaze with resolution. ‘We have no need of papers. You recognise our rank and position. You will obey us as Princes of the Church.’

  ‘You have no papers. I do not recognise your authority.’

  ‘Your Majesty, I—’

  ‘The interview is concluded, Cardinal. You may leave us. Do not be tempted to argue further. I will brook no more discussion. You have no place here.’

  ‘Then before I depart I must ask for the loan of a horse.’

  ‘A horse?’

  ‘Your men stole our beasts when we arrived here,’ Pietro stated, holding his temper in check with difficulty. ‘The uncouth devils with spears.’

  ‘I will have a mount provided for each of you. Now, begone! I have much to deal with.’

  The Cardinals nodded, glanced at each other, and then turned and made their way from the room.

  King Edward beckoned an esquire and muttered to him. The man hurried off after the two prelates. When they were alone again, the King sat once more and stared at the floor. Then, slamming his fist on the arm of his chair, he said in a furious hiss, ‘How dare they! How dare those piss-pots come here and command me when they have not even a letter of authority between them? Be damned to them!’

  ‘What now, my liege?’ the Earl asked.

  ‘Now? In God’s name, my Lord, we find the French King and bring him to battle! Tomorrow we advance to Rouen.’

  7 August

  Berenger’s shoulder was much improved. The soreness was faded, and when he caught sight of the old leech, there was a grudging respect in his eyes. Never before had he known a man so competent at curing wounds.

  This morning they had risen as usual before dawn, the camp grumbling awake in the cool greyness, while the sergeants and vinteners walked about bellowing their orders, counting their men, kicking the recalcitrant awake, and generally making themselves annoying.