‘If I were the French King, I would hold the river with small forces and bring the rest of my army over to this side, and block our route to Paris. Meanwhile, his army under Duke John would hasten towards us and increase his forces.’
‘So the French will wait for us?’
‘Yes,’ the Earl said. Then he grinned. ‘You think he would launch an attack on us? He’s never tried to fight an offensive war. That is the English way, but the French always defend, or hit quickly and run away, like their attacks at Plymouth, Southampton and Portsmouth in recent years. No, he will draw his troops up on a strong battlefield and wait for us. Depend upon it.’
‘I shall,’ Sir John said. ‘And hope that we find a bridge open so that we may retake the initiative as soon as possible.’
12 August
Marching and burning. Days of pointless destruction, of savage encounters with Frenchmen bravely trying to hold back an army that was insatiable in its hunger. Like a glutton, it trampled over the land and engulfed all, leaving behind a burning waste where nothing moved but cinders and ashes sluggishly stirred by the wind.
And then, one day at noon, on a hillside, Berenger found Clip standing, leaning on his unstrung bow and staring ahead. ‘What is it?’
‘Frip! There it is! We’re bloody here! It’s bloody Paris!’
Berenger forgot his sore feet and blisters as he stared through the misty air. There, beyond the bends in the river, he could see towers and walls, the glitter of glass and gilded statues. It stood like a city of the imagination, as though floating in the air, insubstantial as a wisp of smoke, and yet as Berenger stared, he could feel its awesome power and strength. Paris was the centre of chivalry for Christendom, the centre of beauty and authority, a pearl sitting in the lush countryside, the whitened mass of the Louvre standing over the western edge of the walls, a vast abbey before them, the towers of Notre-Dame rising to the skies behind.
‘Grandarse? Look here,’ he called.
There were suburbs on the English side, protected by a high wall, but the true wealth lay north, defended by the French army. It was safe while the English could not cross the Seine, but the Parisians were not to know that. This was a catastrophe. They had no experience of an English host appearing to threaten their city and their existence. Within those walls the populace would be terrified.
The rest of their vintaine, and Roger’s, came and gathered with them, all staring in astonishment at the city.
Grandarse scratched his cods. ‘That’s it? Bugger, but we could take that in an afternoon, us. Ye’ll have to walk a bit faster to get to it before night though. Must be twenty mile if it’s a league.’
‘Come, we can get to it tomorrow. There’s no hurry,’ Clip said.
Jack was still staring hungrily. ‘They say that there’s gold in the streets there. When we’re inside, any man among us could take enough to live like a lord for the rest of his life. Think of that.’
Wat was standing with a wistful expression on his face. ‘I’ll make my wife proud of me again with the money I’ll bring back to her.’
‘Is that right?’ Clip said sarcastically. ‘Look over there, at the north of the river. Isn’t that an army? So before you count your profits, man, just bear in mind that you’ll probably die in the attack. Aye, ye’ll all be slaughtered.’
‘To take a place like that, even if you die trying, that would be good enough,’ Jon Furrier said wistfully. ‘What a victory that would be, eh?’
‘What about you, Ed?’ Clip said. ‘Can you see the advantage of our war now?’
‘I – I don’t know. My family’s dead. All the gold in the world won’t replace them.’
Geoff shook his head. ‘No – and this time I won’t have you risking your life in the streets, remember, Donkey.’
‘Very true!’ Archibald called from his wagon. ‘I need you fit and healthy to carry my loads, boy.’
‘I know,’ Ed said, and was silent.
Berenger noticed that the boy was staring at Béatrice.
She herself was gazing at the city – with a look of such hatred that it made the vintener’s spine tingle.
When they settled for the night, Geoff sat beside Berenger with a large skin of wine, which he passed to him. ‘You look like you could do with a drink,’ he said.
Berenger allowed a good mouthful to pour into his mouth. ‘Good wine,’ he acknowledged.
‘Only the best for the abbot, eh?’ Geoff said, smacking his lips. ‘Good enough for me, anyway.’
‘Yeah.’
They were silent for a moment, and then Berenger sighed and grunted, ‘Come on, then. What’s on your mind?’
‘I’m worried,’ Geoff confessed. ‘We need to cross that damned river, but ever since we reached it, things have gone from bad to worse. I don’t like it.’
Berenger gave a snort of derision. ‘Bad to worse? Our vintaine’s still strong. We only lost Will and James, and the way things are, we’ll come to the gates of Paris with all our men, God willing.’
‘You think so? That city’s like London, Frip. You think you could storm London with an army like this? If Londoners wanted you, you could enter, but if they barred all the gates, what then? We can’t sit outside for a long siege, can we? We don’t have miners to bring the towers down, nor the siege train to batter the walls. The French army is larger already, and grows daily. Philippe intends to crush us.’
‘What of it? We intend to crush him too. One side will win: our fate is in the hands of God.’
‘So long as we don’t carry the seed of our failure in amongst us.’
‘What does that mean?’ Berenger demanded.
‘The woman,’ he said flatly. ‘I heard Erbin just as you did. He said that she was a witch, and the more I watch her, the more I think he’s right. I wish we’d left her with the Welsh.’
‘You’re talking shite. That’s villeiny-saying, that is. Drink some more.’
‘Did you see her expression when she saw Paris? If she was staring at the murderer of her own child, she could not look more filled with loathing.’
‘So what? Maybe she caught sight of your face!’
‘You know the Welsh. They are said to have more feeling for evil than we English.’
‘They’re said to be superstitious gits, more like.’
‘You can scoff, but you get Matt and Eliot on a dark night and tell them there’s a vampire nearby and see how they cower!’
Berenger didn’t laugh. In his heart he knew that there were such things as witches and evil spirits. No man could doubt that, not when the priests were so full of stories of the harm such unnatural creatures could do. He found it difficult to believe that Béatrice was a witch, but the look on her face when she saw Paris in the distance, the lack of sympathy for those who were her countrymen, while the English slaughtered so many, that was legitimate cause for reflection.
‘All those bridges, and we cannot win a single one,’ he muttered. ‘There must be one soon.’
‘What if there isn’t? Maybe it’s all because of her.’
‘You think she has cursed us? Why?’
‘How should I know?’
‘Geoff, she’s happy with us. You saved her from the Welsh at the camp, and we saved her in the city. Look at her: she hardly looks like a woman who is driven by hatred of us, does she? She’s driven by hatred of the French. In any case, it’s resolved now. Archibald is looking after her.’
‘Perhaps that’s it. God is disgusted by her because she has nothing to do with her own people,’ Geoff said. ‘She’s brought us nothing but bad luck. Before her, we went through French towns like a dagger through water. Since she came, we’ve failed in all we’ve attempted.’
‘So far as I’m concerned,’ Berenger said with finality, ‘she’s been a breath of fresh air. I like her.’
‘I know,’ Geoff said, his quiet response more worrying than his earlier bluster. ‘Many do, Frip. That’s how witches snare their victims.’
13 August
<
br /> Berenger slept badly that night. It seemed as though every time he snoozed, he saw Béatrice. Once he dreamed she was standing at his head with a dagger in her hands, ready to plunge it into his throat, and he rolled over and woke up in a panic. A guard cast a suspicious look at him from the far side of the camp.
They rose before dawn as usual, and Berenger found himself peering about in a search for her. Geoff’s words had unsettled him. In the end he spotted her at the far side of Archibald’s wagon. At least she was some distance away, he thought, recalling the dream with a shudder.
Today their orders were to march straight on. The town of Poissy lay some three miles distant; there had been a bridge there, although whether it still existed was a question that few dared ask.
An air of grim resolution hung over them. Those who had set out filled with the thrill of battle and glory had gradually been ground down by their long march. All knew that the King had intended crossing the Seine many miles before this, and the continued slog south and east had eroded the optimism of even the youngest. There were irritable words between men who only a few days before had been firm friends. The journey was bringing all low.
The only beam of hope was the possibility of the capture of Paris, Berenger reckoned. The men were speaking openly about the wealth inside the city; having enriched themselves at St-Lô and Caen, they spoke of the fabled treasures of Paris with a greed that rivalled that of any Pope.
Berenger did not share their excitement. He had an old soldier’s respect for his enemy. No matter how good the land, how skilled the troops with their weapons, it was still the case that a momentary failing on the part of the war-leaders could throw all into disarray and disaster. Today, as he looked over to the opposite bank, he was aware only of the strength of the French position. A small force was all that would be needed to defend the far banks against English troops trying to wade across, even if a ford were to be found. A few hundred men could hold off the English for a long, long time.
He shook himself. A pox on that! This army would cross somehow, and they would fight their way back home. And if the French army tried to cut them to pieces, so be it.
As the order to move came, he shrugged his pack over his back and joined the rest of the men. All the while his eyes were not on the road, but on the small force of men-at-arms on the opposite shore. Their mail gleamed merrily in the sunshine and their tunics were bright, clean and colourful, as they ambled gently along the northern bank of the river, matching the pace of the English. Soon, they stopped and began to break their fast, and Berenger watched them jealously. He could do with some decent food inside him, too.
They entered a small wood, and Berenger heard a large animal blundering through the undergrowth some yards away. There was a narrow trail cut through, and he watched it warily. Long ago, he had seen an esquire stab a boar with his spear, but the damned brute ran on and on, driving the spear through his body and then continuing up the shaft until he reached the esquire and gored him horribly. The man had killed his boar, but he died in the attempt.
Berenger carried on through the forest, until they at last reached the further edge, and stood looking down on the town of Poissy.
It was a town of ghosts.
Poissy was deserted.
Berenger waved a hand at Geoff, who nodded and ran ahead with Clip and Eliot. They stopped at a low wall, peering over into what appeared to be the main street, arrows nocked and ready. Berenger followed them, with Luke and Gil behind him. Grandarse and Matt and Oliver were over on the left, while the rest spread out in a line behind them.
There was a clatter, and instantly sixteen bows bent, the arrows pointing at Ed, who paled and shook his head, bleating as he grabbed the sheaves of arrows he had dropped when he tripped.
Berenger grunted his relief, and gazed ahead. A broad street led towards the river, and he and the others clambered over the wall and made their way along it, edgily staring along their arrows at empty windows and doorways.
He had never known such utter desolation. There was nothing: not the sound of a baby crying, not the creak of a wagon’s wheel, not the chatter of women washing – nothing but an occasional exclamation as a crow or rook rose, complaining at their interruption of the peace. Clip, startled stupid by a sudden explosion of sound at his feet, let fly and spitted a pigeon. It fell, the arrow clattering loudly on the stony roadway.
‘You stupid bugger,’ Grandarse called out. ‘Next time, fall on your own fucking arrow and save us the bloody trouble!’
Clip pulled a face and tugged his arrow free. It was gory, and he wiped it on his sleeve before pensively picking up the bird and stuffing it inside his shirt.
They gradually made their way through the town until, at last, they approached the river.
Berenger saw the piles where the bridge had once stood and felt his heart sink. A man from Roger’s vintaine cried, ‘Another failure, by Christ’s pain! Look at it!’
It was the first time Berenger had seen Geoff lost for words, but now he wiped a hand over his brow and sighed deeply. ‘Perhaps there’s another bridge near, Frip?’
Berenger pointed at the far bank. A group of French soldiery stood there, jeering; two dropped their hosen and braies to display their arses. ‘You think they’d bother to wait if they thought we could force our way over somewhere else?’
Clip, offended by their antics, loosed an experimental arrow, and struck a man in the groin. He fell, shrieking like a stuck pig, and Clip received several buffets of congratulation about the head in return. Grinning, he muttered modestly that it was nothing.
Meanwhile, Jack had been studying the shattered bridge. Many of the timbers from the bridge still bobbed in the water, caught against the piles. ‘Frip, look!’ he cried. ‘The piles are pretty intact. We could have planks set on them, then a light man could run across on those timbers.’
Berenger looked. ‘Do you know what? He’s right. Clip, you’re the lightest – do you want to try it?’
‘Swyve your mother and your sister, Frip. You show me how, and I’ll be pleased to, but if you think you’ll get me to test that with my own life, you can call on the Devil first!’
Berenger grinned. ‘Ed, go and find Archibald and bring him here – quickly.’
‘What is it, Fripper?’ Grandarse demanded.
‘The piles are all there, all of them. We could rebuild the bridge – if the King had a mind,’ Berenger said. And for the first time in days he felt the return of excitement.
The vintaine camped there at Poissy while other vintaines and centaines were sprawled as far as St-Germain, only three leagues from Paris. Berenger stood with Archibald at the water’s edge.
‘What do you think?’
‘My expertise lies more in the destruction of bridges,’ Archibald said, but he frowned thoughtfully at the timbers. ‘The piles are all solid enough, aren’t they?’
‘They look it,’ Berenger agreed.
‘What do you want me to do?’ Archibald asked.
‘You must know the best carpenters and joiners. Who should we ask to look at this? The King’s own man?’
‘He’s a good fellow,’ Archibald smiled, ‘but he’s more used to being given the best timbers and a perfect site to construct his efforts. This needs a good bodger.’
‘A what?’
‘Someone who’ll take what he’s given and make something worthwhile. I know just the man. Miserable devil, but he’s talented. He makes the talaria, the trestles the gonnes rest on.’
It took only a short time to track down the man, a squat, ugly Cornishman with a perpetual scowl, who glared at the piles as though they had personally offended him.
‘There’s sod-all to work on here,’ he said with exasperation. ‘What idiot thought up this idea, eh? Was it you, Archibald? How are we expected to fix this? Look at it! It’s just a mess of bits and pieces of trash. It’ll be like building a bridge from bloody hedge-trimmings and twigs! A complete waste of time.’
‘So you can�
�t do it,’ Archibald said, his voice carrying just a hint of contempt.
‘Did I say that? Did I bloody say that? Did I? Did I?’ the engineer demanded truculently. ‘You hear me say that, did you? No! So shut your gob and let me think!’
He stood, hands on his hips for a long time, staring at the river. At last, he pursed his lips firmly and turned away from the water.
‘Right! Pinch and Hon, go and chop down the biggest bleeding tree you can find. You lot, come here. I need all the joiners I can lay my hands on. We can work on the planks that are already there for now, and then peg a tree to firm it up, before we can lay the new bed in place. Got me?’
Berenger and Archibald sat down to watch. Clip had recently come across a hastily abandoned house that still had loaves left in the bread oven, and he had liberated them for the vintaine. Jack in turn had located a cellar full of wine, and the vintaine was in cheery mood as they gathered to observe the engineers’ labours. Several times the carpenters cast sour looks at them as they laughed whenever a man failed to fix his plank to the bridge securely. When one man fell into the water, their delight was so uproarious that Matt began to choke on a crust of bread and had to be pounded on the back. Luckily the joiner in question was soon hauled from the water.
A shout went up as the tree appeared, and the Cornishman ran off to supervise its working. A pit had been found in a joiner’s yard, and the tree was manhandled to it, while a team of workmen set to sawing the trunk into planks. It took them from noon until Vespers, but by then Berenger was surprised to see cut and shaped planks being carried to the river. There were enough to span the remaining distance from the bridge to the far bank.
‘Come on, then, you idle gits. Think you can sit about all sodding day while we do all the hard work?’ the engineer demanded.
‘We don’t have orders to cross,’ Clip said.
‘Ballocks to that, you little drop of piss! You think the King will be happy to learn that we builded him a bridge and some lazy bunch of shits couldn’t be bothered to get off their flabby arses to defend the bridgehead? Now fuck off over there – and keep your eyes open!’
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