Fields of Glory

by Michael Jecks

  Ed went forward to him, and as the body turned, he jumped up and grabbed Gil’s legs, using his own weight to try to snap his neck, or at least hasten his end. His eyes screwed tight shut, Ed clung there, as his tears fell.

  It was the only means he had of repaying the debt.

  18 August

  Ed slept fitfully and only woke fully when most of the camp had already risen. He had passed the night beneath the wagon of the gynour, and felt worn out. His eyes were sore from weeping, and he had a feeling of guilt that would not pass. Every time he closed his eyes during the night, he saw Gil’s body as it slowly revolved, dangling above him.

  He sat up, rubbing his eyes. When he woke in the night, Béatrice had been beside him, but she was gone now. He rolled up the thick sheepskin that had softened the ground, and slid himself into the cold, dark, pre-dawn light.

  ‘Oh, so you’re awake then?’ Archibald demanded. The gynour was sitting near a fire at a safe distance from the wagon, his eyes twinkling in the light. For an instant, when a flame rose, his eyes glowed red, and Ed felt a superstitious dread at the sight. He almost recoiled.

  ‘God’s blood!’ he gasped.

  ‘Calm down, boy. I’m not the Devil! And you should not take the Lord’s name in vain.’

  ‘I don’t think He’s going to care what happens to me now’, Ed said miserably. The memories of the previous day came flooding back. The destruction and killing – and Gil dying to save Ed’s life. ‘He must hate me.’

  ‘You think the Lord would desert you when you need His help most? He will care, if you behave. But, not if you behave as you did yesterday though.’

  Ed scowled as the old man eyed him seriously. ‘I wasn’t there to loot and kill,’ he explained. ‘It was just difficult to get away when all those men started. I didn’t want to be there.’

  ‘That, boy, is the excuse of the felon through the years. “It wasn’t me, I didn’t want to do it, they made me.” If that is the best you can say, perhaps you should keep your excuses to yourself.’

  It was true – and Ed was unpleasantly aware of his guilt. The double guilt of having joined in at the destruction of the abbey and then, having been convicted, allowing another man to take his place at the gallows.

  Gil: why had he done that? Pulled Ed from the queue of death, and put himself forward instead? It made no sense. As far as Ed was aware, Gil had never shown him too much in the way of kindness. It was incomprehensible.

  ‘What do we do today?’ he asked, keen to change the subject.

  ‘What do we do?’ Archibald stared at him with a smile. ‘Why, boy, we ride, or walk, to where the King tells us. Our life is very simple, after all. We march when we are told, and at some time in the near future, we shall stop. And then we shall fight.’

  They were up and moving before the dawn, to Berenger’s relief. The men of the vintaine were sullen, and he could sense a simmering resentment.

  ‘What’s the matter with the whoresons today, Fripper?’ Grandarse asked as he jogged along uncomfortably on his pony. ‘From the expressions on their faces anyone would think they’d been told all the wine was drunk.’

  ‘It’s something to do with the death of Gil yesterday.’

  ‘Tell them he was a fool and shouldn’t have gone plundering on his own account, then,’ Grandarse said unsympathetically and rode on.

  But it wasn’t only that, Berenger knew. As he rode, he caught little glances from the men, meaningful looks at the wagons behind them, and muttering.

  Geoff and Jack were a short distance in front, and he saw them talking. However, the pair were very quiet in their speech, and when Geoff noticed Berenger watching them, he hissed something, and spurred his little beast away.

  Berenger kicked his pony to a shambling trot, and soon caught up with Jack. ‘Come on, tell me what’s going on, he said.’

  ‘It’s nothing, Frip. Just talk.’

  ‘Good. If it’s nothing, you won’t mind telling me.’

  Jack had known Berenger for many years now, and was not afraid to say, ‘You think I’m a child to be forced to speak?’

  ‘I think you’re man enough to understand that your vintener needs to know if there’s something boiling in the minds of the men.’

  Jack lifted an eyebrow at that. ‘This isn’t to do with you, Frip.’

  ‘It’s to do with my vintaine. That means it is to do with me,’ Berenger snapped.

  ‘Aye, well,’ Jack said easily.

  The two rode along for a while in silence, and then Jack gave a sigh of submission. ‘Look, as usual, it’s the woman. Geoff is still convinced that since she appeared, we’ve had a run of bad luck. And we can all see that for ourselves, can’t we? When we first arrived here, we enjoyed success no matter where we went, but soon after we took her in, things went downhill. The long march to Paris, the wait down there, hoping to meet the French King in battle, and then the return all the way up here. Ever since she appeared, we’ve been harried by the French. And look at us now! Riding away from them at the double. I don’t get it.’

  ‘Our King knows his work,’ Berenger said sternly. ‘He is picking the best time and place. What, would you prefer he sat back and waited for the French to dictate to us? Or that we charged them when they had a good defensive position? Don’t be moon-struck!’

  ‘It’s not moon-struck to notice that since that woman turned up, we’ve been afflicted – and now Matt and Gil are dead too. Explain that away, if you can, Frip. The men don’t like it, and they don’t like her.’

  ‘But what can they do about it?’

  ‘If someone were to denounce her as a witch, perhaps our problems would fade away,’ Jack said.

  Berenger gave a gasp of disgust. ‘So you’d see the girl taken and burned at the stake just to satisfy the—’

  ‘No. Not to satisfy the baser wishes of the mob,’ Jack interrupted. ‘If it meant that the vintaine and the army grew more easy, I’d kill her myself, Frip, and so should you.’

  He was deadly serious. His dark eyes held Berenger’s for a moment, and then he looked away, studying the land ahead of them.

  ‘I don’t like the thought of killing a woman any more than the next man, course I don’t, but I’ve had to do it in the past – when told to, when the silly bitches have tried to attack us. It was self-defence – kill or be killed. And this is no different. She’s a threat to us, to the army. Frip, you need to get a grip. You seem to be unworried by her. Well, I tell you now: she worries the rest of us.’

  Berenger heard him out then said, ‘I’d think it was more to do with Geoff than her. Béatrice seems a bit strange, certainly, but I’d wager that she is no threat to the army, nor to the vintaine. If I thought she was dangerous, like you say, I’d kill her myself.’

  It was true. He could not risk the coherence of his vintaine to protect some French wench just because she had a pretty smile.

  He allowed his pony to fall behind, aware now of a gnawing doubt.

  What if the men were right?

  ‘Fripper, there are reports that some damned Frenchmen are trying to delay us,’ Sir John said. ‘Take your lads up there, to the woods, and have a good look around, eh? The others aren’t so experienced in looking for trouble as your fellows.’

  It had sounded so innocuous when Sir John put it like that: ‘Some damned Frenchmen’ – a handful of men somewhere up ahead. Berenger remembered those words later, as he stood amid the shambles of their fight.

  He had been pleased that the vintaine would be occupied and prevented from brooding. It was also good to have them away from the Prince and his men. Berenger was nervous around the King’s son. He always felt that an ill-considered comment could result in a hanging, and while he was comfortable with holding his own counsel in the presence of barons and lords, he knew that some of his men were less than guarded in their speech. Clip, for instance, never cared who heard his moaning and whining, and Jack positively revelled in insulting nobles. He had a knack for finding those who were too
dim to realise he was making fools of them, but one day, no doubt, he would trip up – and then Berenger and the vintaine would be down another man.

  Today in particular, Geoff was in a rebellious mood and Berenger knew that he would have to persuade Geoff to hold his tongue or risk disorder.

  At least being at the front of the army would keep the men out of sight and sound of the nobles.

  He led the way through the press. It wasn’t easy. The army here was restricted by woods on one side, and the archers on their horses were singing and laughing, oblivious to Berenger’s vintaine. The noise of raucous men-at-arms shouting over the rattles and rumbles of the heavy wagons, the cookpots and chests banging and crashing, the light clinking of mail and chains of harnesses, the squeaks and groans of leatherwork – all added to the colossal din of an army on the move.

  In the end, Berenger chose the simple expedient of blowing a good blast on his horn, and gesturing wildly when surprised faces were turned to him.

  It took a while, but at last he was alongside Geoff.

  ‘I want you to take the left when we get to the front,’ he said.

  ‘All right, Frip.’ His tone was flat; undemonstrative. Berenger sighed. ‘Look, Geoff, I know what you think of her, and I can understand it. I felt like that myself, eh?’

  ‘You were right. Everyone who has anything to do with her dies, Frip. Before long, I’ll die too, and then you’ll have to do something about her – before she kills you too. Even our leech won’t mend you then.’

  ‘When I was unwell, she nursed me,’ Berenger pointed out. ‘I’ll not see her killed because of superstition.’

  ‘There was a time when you’d have taken my word and not called it superstition,’ Geoff said.

  ‘There was a time when you’d have been more careful about how you labelled people,’ Berenger said grimly.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘So you won’t shut up about her?’

  ‘No. The rest of the vintaine agrees with me. When we stop tonight, we’ll denounce her to Grandarse. We won’t see the rest of the army’s march endangered by her. She is either in league with the Devil or she’s His unwitting helper. Either way, she’s lethal.’

  ‘You can’t really believe that!’

  Geoff turned very deliberately and studied his face. ‘What is it, Frip? Are you after her for yourself? I wouldn’t touch her, not with your tarse, if that’s what you’re worried about. You can have her, if you really want her.’

  ‘I don’t want her.’

  ‘I know what it’s like to want a woman, after all.’

  ‘You have a woman at home. You have no need of a wench like Béatrice,’ Berenger said, baffled.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You did? What does that mean?’ Berenger suddenly realised. ‘What – do you mean she’s dead? You never said anything.’

  Geoff took a deep breath. ‘Frip . . .’ he began, but then there was a shout from in front, and their eyes moved to the source.

  From the woods to their left, a mass of French foot-soldiers had suddenly burst out. A flurry of bolts and arrows whirred and hissed through the air, and the men in the van were tumbled to the ground. The air was immediately full of the screams of those shocked by the sudden violent assault, and the harsh battle-cries of their attackers.

  ‘Shit on a stick!’ Geoff cried.

  ‘Wait! Geoff, with me!’ Berenger said.

  As the men bunched together, a path opened to their left, and Berenger shouted at the rest of the vintaine until all had acknowledged him, and then led the way through the gap. It took only a short time to canter clumsily through the low undergrowth. They were beyond the French assault here, and Berenger lifted his hand. Throwing himself from the saddle, he immediately bent his bow. He had only a few arrows, and he must make his mark.

  While the others dismounted and strung their weapons, he pulled out an arrow, nocking it and eyeing the French ambush. Men still poured from the woods, but there were not so many as he had thought. This was not the army he had feared, but a small party determined to slow the English advance. Or was it a retreat? he wondered. He glanced from side to side, then found a target – a burly man armed with a heavy axe. He drew his bow and aimed. Already the men were ranged on either side of him, most with their bows bent.

  ‘Ready?’ he called, and there was a grunt from his vintaine as all concentrated on their targets.

  ‘Loose!’ he roared, and their arrows sped forward.

  They were so close that the arrows flew for only a moment. Then, like a man clapping his hands, they struck the leather jerkins of the Frenchmen. Some were hurled back by the impact; others reeled, their hands going to their flanks, while more stared dumbly. The axeman darted forward a moment before Berenger released his missile, and his arrow took another man in the head. The arrow passed almost entirely through his skull, and the fellow dropped like a rabbit hit by a slingshot’s bullet. And then the axeman saw Berenger and the others.

  Berenger drew a second arrow, but as he nocked it, he realised that the axeman had drawn the attention of French crossbowmen to his vintaine. Bolts were being aimed even as he drew, and he had to pause, shouting, ‘ ’Ware archers in the woods! Crossbowmen in the trees!’ before seeing a Genoese man with a heavy crossbow lifting it to his cheek. Berenger quickly adjusted for the range and loosed, and had the satisfaction of seeing him collapse.

  There was the din of battle all about them: shouts and screams, horses whinnying in fear. More than one had been hit by the bolts that missed the vintaine. Men were ducking as the steel-tipped nightmares whisked past, hissing like geese in angry flight.

  And then he saw the man with the axe again. He was running straight at him, the axe gripped high, screaming shrilly like an enraged boar, all thought of personal danger cast aside in his maddened desire to kill the Englishman.

  Berenger aimed another arrow at the man, but as it flew, the fellow took a springing leap to the side to avoid a large rock in his path. The arrow passed through his flank, but he sped on, hardly noticing its passage. His black eyes were fixed on Berenger with a terrible purpose, his teeth bared like a man insane with rage.

  Then he was on Berenger, his axe swooping down. Berenger only just had time to lift his bow to defend himself. With an explosion like a thunderclap, the bow snapped in two, and the broken spring threw Berenger’s arms wide. In an instant, the axe was back and hurtling towards his bared breast, and Berenger’s only defence this time was to throw himself backwards, away from that wicked blade. He stumbled on a tussock of grass and landed on his back, winded, trying to roll away as the axe was raised again.

  And then a lance speared the axe-man perfectly in the centre of his breast, and he was driven back as Sir John’s massive charger continued on. His body was deposited on the ground, jerking in its death-throes and a thick gout of blood came from his mouth as a second horse trampled him on its way to the ambush.

  The battle for now was over for Berenger, who let his head sink back to the grasses and closed his eyes, so exhausted for the moment that he might as well have been dead. Before him, he could hear the sudden screams and cries as a mass of cavalry joined together to charge into the French flank, and then there were only cheers as the English celebrated their victory, strolling amongst the fallen Frenchmen and ensuring they were all dead before looting them.

  Berenger could have kept his eyes shut and slept for a week, he thought. And then there was a whining voice near to his ear. ‘Aye, well, the old bastard’s survived, then.’

  ‘Me, you mean?’

  ‘Who else, Frip?’ Jack rumbled, but there was an odd note in his voice.

  Berenger opened his eyes to find Jack and Clip at his side, while Eliot and Jon went systematically from one Frenchman to another, gathering up their purses and bringing them back to the vintaine. Walt and Luke stood a little way away, bows ready with arrows nocked, in case more men should appear from within the woods.

  It was then that he caught sight of Geoff.
He was sitting with his back to a tree, a bolt in his upper left breast. He gave a twisted grin as Berenger caught his eye, before leaning his head back against the tree, his face contorted with pain.

  Geoff regained consciousness with a scream. There was a red-hot sensation in his left shoulder and breast; as soon as he moved, pain shot through his entire left side, making the breath shudder in his throat. It felt as though someone had thrust a heated brand thrust into his flesh and was twisting it.

  ‘Keep still, you dog’s turd,’ he heard a man hiss, and he looked around to see Jack at his side, gripping his arms and holding him in place. Berenger was at his feet, sitting on his ankles, and above him was a figure with a cloth.

  ‘Keep her away from me!’ he panted, but then saw her reach down to his face. He jerked his head away, and wept as the movement made his injury complain again. ‘Keep her away, damn your soul, Jack Fletcher, or I’ll kill you!’

  ‘Shut up, fool,’ Berenger called. ‘She has already nursed you all the way here, when we thought you would die. You would indeed be dead, were it not for her.’

  ‘I don’t want her help,’ Geoff declared, but they paid no heed to his complaints. ‘She’s a witch. She has to be brought before the priests! She should be burned!’

  Jack gripped his arms more tightly, until his fingers were as painful as vices slowly squeezing. ‘Shut up, Geoff. Didn’t you hear him? It’s Béatrice who’s kept you alive.’

  Looking about, Geoff saw that it was full night, and the flames from a nearby fire licked Berenger’s face with an orange-red tint and made him look demonic. The same lurid light cast a glow over Béatrice’s features, but as he stared at her, he saw the lines of pain and worry at her brow. She looked less evil than Berenger, he thought to himself, and then he wondered how he must look himself. In the light of the fire, he knew he must look just like Berenger, and his life justified it: he was evil.

  She washed his wound, then smeared some liquid over it, before placing a thick lump of cloth over it. Geoff had to grit his teeth as she pressed.