Within A Forest Dark

by Mary Ellen Johnson

  Upon his first view of the Auvergne Mountains, Matthew's heart sank. Beyond lay Aquitaine and 140 miles west, Bordeaux. But the mountains, though not so high as many in Cumbria, still looked impossibly forbidding.

  Once in the passes, the cumbersome baggage carts often proved incapable of maneuver. Workhorses, harnessed to the wagons, slid off the narrow, icy trails to smash upon the jagged rocks below.

  Matthew's new squire, Cuthbert, died early on, when his palfrey lost its footing and plunged both himself and his master into a gorge. Nor was Cuthbert the only one. Landslides remained a constant threat, as did the sudden storms that blew up, narrowing vision to nothing and pushing men from proper paths to death.

  There is naught we can do save endure, Matthew thought, as the army edged deeper into the mountains. He knew there would not be any glory on this march. England's glory, he knew now, had perished at Limoges. But they could endure and endure without complaint. That would be something, at least.

  The plenty of Champagne and Burgundy seemed a lifetime away. Matthew's belly was perpetually empty. But so was every other man's, from the Dukes of Lancaster and Brittany to the archers.

  The leaner Matthew grew, the more he turned inward, gaining sustenance from some primitive part of himself. He became like the wolves that also shadowed the army, who howled their hunger to the moon. The wolves grew thinner and thinner, but their patience never slackened, nor did their pace. Hunger drove them to a certain sharpened awareness, even to a certain desperate strength. Matthew admired the wolves, even as he unconsciously emulated them. In some manner, he did not even mind his plight. Life had now been stripped down to its most elemental level. He could handle the concept of survival more easily than the complications of ordinary life with a mistress and a son in a place and time that increasingly seemed as insubstantial as the snows stirred by winds upon distant peaks.

  "We have one thing to accomplish," he said to Harry. "We must reach Bordeaux. We still have our horses, so we can ride instead of walk. When you think about it, what more do we need?"

  "Plenty."

  "We will be out of these mountains in a fortnight. All we must do is see that we do not freeze to death, succumb to a sickness or wander off the trail. 'Tis so simple we cannot fail."

  "I wish I could be like you," Harry said. "'Tis so much easier for you. But this infernal cough is tearing out my lungs, my bad leg pains me, and I am so hungry. I canna think of Bordeaux when my feet are freezing and my belly sticking against my ribs."

  Matthew studied his brother's hollowed countenance, the enormous eyes, the straggling beard, the lines marking themselves across the roughened skin. Sometimes when the snow clung to his visage and his clothes and he complained of aching extremities, Matt was reminded of childhood tales of Jack Frost who killed his victims by covering them in snow or turning them to frost. He'd seen the evidence of the spirit's handiwork in the frozen bodies sprawled along the route and in Harry's face, which looked as ancient as stories claimed Frost to be.

  And my face must be a mirror of my brother's.

  "I had a cough too from the Rheims Campaign," he said aloud. "I survived and so will you."

  "I need food..."

  "We will have all the food we want in Bordeaux. Think about Bordeaux."

  Two days later, Harry's horse died. They had meat that night. To save his brother's poor leg, Matthew gave him his destrier, Gabriel. Gabriel had been sired by Michel, his gift from his father upon being knighted—now approaching twenty years and out to pasture.

  "Gabriel is as stout and strong as his sire," Matt said, while helping Harry mount. "He will reach Bordeaux, even if no one else does. Just keep your seat and Gabriel will do the rest."

  Matthew patted Harry's leg reassuringly, then set out on foot beside him. He was growing increasingly worried about his brother. They slept huddled together at night, and Harry's incessant coughing reverberated through his own chest. Harry had begun spitting up blood. Sometimes his eyes glowed with fever. Other men also had Harry's sickness—and they lay strewn all along Auvergne's route like the discarded shavings of some careless giant. Burial was impossible in the frozen landscape. Dead men, the skeletons of horses picked clean by starving troops, and rusting armor—all marked John of Gaunt's trail.

  Several rivers—the Loire, Allier, Dordogne, and Garonne—tumbled across the treacherous range before broadening out on the plains below. Some were totally frozen, some still flowing and treacherous, but the Duke of Lancaster's army crossed every one. Ice water clung to chilled feet and legs, penetrating worn boots. Frostbite increased; soldiers perished now by the hundreds—earls and yeomen, inexperienced squires and battle seasoned knights.

  Matthew's boots had worn clear through. His toes pushed out of the leather; his soles were as thin as gold leaf. Nevertheless, when he removed a pair of boots and hose from a dead archer sprawled along the trail, Harry recoiled in distaste.

  "Is that not bad luck, Matt? Do you not think 'tis uncivilized?"

  Matthew gazed up to his brother astride Gabriel, then down to his boots. Because Harry had ridden during much of the campaign, his shoes were in far better shape. "I can live with being a barbarian. I canna live with frozen feet."

  Halfway across their mountainous route, Gabriel died. All the horses had gone a week without food and one morning, Gabriel could do no more than lift his head. Matthew stared at him, uncomprehending. His senses were so dulled, it took him such a long time to realize that this assumption also, that Gabriel was invincible, had been proven false. But that couldn't be...

  Grabbing the stallion's halter Matt attempted to raise him while Harry pushed at his hindquarters. Though he struggled valiantly, Gabriel could only rise upon his forelegs before sinking back upon the snow.

  The rest of the army had already begun to move out. Matthew knew they could not dawdle or they would be picked off by the French.

  "What are we going to do?" Harry cried. "I canna walk. My leg... I can scarce stand on it."

  Matt looked into Gabriel's large liquid eyes, now filled with pain and fear. He knew Gabriel was too weak to be cajoled into anything. He also knew that he would have to kill Gabriel, and yet looking down at that great grey head he thought of Michel, enjoying his last years in Cumbria. Michel, symbol of his passage from boy to man.

  And now I am supposed to kill Michel's offspring?

  "You must rise, Gabriel," he whispered. "Please!"

  Gabriel's head settled upon the snow. His neck was stretched taut, a dirty patch of color against the white.

  "What are we going to do?" Harry repeated. He staggered away from Gabriel's haunches and swayed as he looked from the prostrate animal to his brother. Clad in little better than rags, Jack Frost come to life, a spectre come to life, seeking assurance from someone who was incapable of providing that or anything else.

  Matthew shook his head and leaned down. He ran one hand along the rough winter coat, sliding upward to the jugular and removed his dagger from beneath his mantle. He thought he heard Harry say something, but mayhap it was simply the wind which had picked up its speed, making whistling noises and causing snow crystals to glitter and dance and pebble their faces.

  Matthew tightened his grip upon the handle of his dagger until his hand quit shaking.

  I do not want to do this, he thought as he extended the blade toward Gabriel's outstretched neck. Ah, but you know well how to bleed something out, don't you?

  That he did.

  "Forgive me," he thought he whispered before plunging in the blade.

  * * *

  Well before darkness, the army pitched camp in some bleak nameless area. The terrain was identical to every preceding area—every area to come. Storm clouds stirred above them, creeping across the mountain peaks and downward, steadily darkening. A hush fell over Auvergne. The wind no longer blew, and the temperature warmed slightly, signaling a blizzard. The troops erected shelter as best they could or dug snow caves, then settled in to ride out the worst.


  That morning Matthew had stripped a mantle from a corpse. This time Harry had not questioned his decision, but had eagerly shared the extra warmth. As they huddled together, Matthew tried to order himself to sleep.

  Harry, however, shifted continually. When he was not in the throes of his illness, his mind was forever whirling, so that sleep was a rarity. "Matt? Are you awake?"

  He grunted.

  "Do you think sometimes on England, and Margery and Serill?"

  Matthew opened his eyes. "I try not to think beyond this moment."

  "Do you always succeed?"

  Truth to tell, all day his thoughts had begun drifting to his father. Matt kept remembering William on the day they had ridden to Lake Winandermere, when he had held out his hands and said, "Every man has his day. My day is past." Matthew assured himself the memory was not an omen of trouble, but he could not shake the feeling of foreboding.

  "I wonder what Father is doing at this very moment." His voice was soft, reluctant. He did not want to stir the past too roughly.

  "Father? I'll wager he is enjoying spiced malmsey before a roaring fire and ruminating comfortably on past glories. He is a lucky man. Everyone is lucky," Harry finished glumly, "save us."

  Matthew's gaze swept the clusters of men, huddled blots of color against the white of the landscape. The occasional baggage cart and skeletal horse were all that remained of John of Gaunt's great army. The duke himself had, as always, pitched camp in the center of his troops. His presence was a quiet reminder that he suffered as greatly as anyone. When they went hungry, so did John. When they slept out in the open, he did also. Matthew believed the duke was probably suffering more than anyone, for 'twas his men who were dying, his men who had followed his orders.

  "I think we are luckier than some," said Matthew.

  Harry's lament was interrupted by a sudden spasm of coughing. Afterward he wiped away the trickle of blood from his mouth, and pressed closer to Matt. "Hell could be no worse than what those miserable French have put us through."

  "Do not forget, Du Guesclin and his troops are out in this weather the same as us. They feel the cold just as we do. Nor in a blizzard will they find any more food. The knowledge of their suffering sweetens my own."

  "But this is their land. Their people will care for them. Who will care for us?"

  Matt watched the first snowflakes begin to fall. Each flake was near as long as his little finger. "We will care for ourselves."

  "I wish we were home. I wish I was with Desire and Ralphie. I do miss them and I think about all the things I want to do with Ralphie, all the things I would teach him... Do you not think about that with Serill?"

  "Of course I do," Matt said shortly. But images of Serill had a way of blending into other, much more troubling images. The lone positive of their current situation was that when Matthew did sleep, he no longer dreamed.

  "'Twould be much nicer to be a child," Harry said. "I liked that better, when we were children. When our problems seemed so big, but were always so manageable." He combed his fingers distractedly through his bushy beard. "Even being a priest would have been preferable to this."

  Matt turned on him in surprise. "By the cross! A priest? How could you think such a thing?"

  "If I were a priest or a monk I would be in some warm quiet monastery now, illuminating manuscripts. Where every day is the same and there are no surprises. Where we're fed at the same time and never must go beyond the monastery walls and everything is taken care of for us. I always rather fancied the religious life, though when we were children you used to turn green every time Father threatened me with the possibility."

  "Aye. 'Tis not a fit fate—"

  "I used to talk about it but you didna like to hear it." He paused, and Matthew heard the smile in his voice. "Sometimes you did not listen so well."

  Matthew did not remember any of that; surely Harry was re-writing history. "Come along now. Monks cannot drink to excess, or play the horses or bed women. You know you would have been miserable. Think of all you would have missed."

  Harry was silent for a long moment. The flakes were coming down more steadily. Looking so harmless when the snow would pile upon itself layer after layer until they would be smothered in a freezing winding sheet. "I would not be out here dying," he said softly. "I would not have so many sins on my soul."

  "In the first place you are not dying." Matthew paused. "And they are not your sins, brother, but mine."

  * * *

  The blizzard lasted two days. Afterward, Lancaster ordered the frozen bodies left buried in the snow and the army continued on its way. The terrain grew gradually less treacherous; the trail began to level out.

  "Soon we'll be in Aquitaine," Matthew said. "Soon 'twill all be over." He matched his pace to Harry's, but periodically tried to speed him up. The French were becoming increasingly bold. At dusk of the previous day, du Guesclin's men had separated a score of stragglers from the main body and slaughtered them.

  Harry scarcely knew where he was or even that his brother marched beside him. His bad leg made every step agony. Mathew had fashioned him a makeshift crutch but it helped little. Finally, he sank to his knees along the side of the trail. Other men stumbled past, eyes fixed immediately before them, not even wasting a glance. The sight of another dying soldier was too commonplace.

  "Please. I've not had so much as a bite of bread in six days. I canna go on. I have no more strength."

  Harry had performed similar scenes countless times. Matthew's mind had long ago passed the point of sharpness; he was incapable of coherent argument or persuasion. Instead he held out his hand for Harry to grasp.

  Harry merely moaned and turned aside his head. "I am too tired. My leg hurts so, and my chest and my head."

  Matthew blinked and swallowed, probing the dullness for the right words to encourage Harry, to keep him going. "The duke says we will reach the plains by the morrow. Aquitaine. 'Tis our country. Food."

  "We will never reach the plains. Never." Harry raised his bony arms, clad in tatters, to his face. "'Tis over," he said, and he made odd hacking sounds, which must be crying. "I cannot go on. And I do not care."

  "You must care. I canna care enough for both of us."

  "Let me rest, let me lie down. Let me die."

  From somewhere inside, enough strength remained to work Matthew into a rage. Grabbing Harry by the shoulders, he shook him. "Just shut up, do you hear? You cannot die. What would I tell Mother or Ralph? Think you I could look Father in the eye if I said I let you die within sight of Bordeaux?"

  Harry didn't answer. His eyes had begun to glitter, signaling the onset of another bout with delirium. Matthew gazed down at his brother. Underneath his wild mane of hair, Harry was no more than skin stretched across a pile of bones. A thousand who had looked no worse remained forever behind, smothered in the embrace of Auvergne.

  "Do you not hear them, brother, the voices of all we killed? They've followed us from the very first and I cannot shake them. They taunt me even in my sleep."

  "Tis just the wind," Matthew countered, too tired to feel anything at a sentiment that would once have caused him to cross himself. Squatting down, he positioned his back to his brother. "Wrap your arms around me. I will carry you."

  "Would you, Matt?" Gratitude suffused Harry's face. "You've always been so much stronger."

  He did not feel stronger. With Harry upon his back he staggered to his feet, struggling to regain his balance. Harry was an impossible weight, digging into his very bones. Sweat broke out on Matthew's forehead. He shifted his grip, striving unsuccessfully for a more comfortable position. Gritting his teeth, Matthew willed himself to take one step, then another and another. He searched his mind, seeking the blackness of Limoges, the blackness that allowed him to act but not to think or feel. Finally he found it. He fell back into line and continued along the sloping trail toward Aquitaine.

  * * *

  The Dordogne River, cutting along the plains below Auvergne, ran all the way to Bo
rdeaux. Behind lay the mountain range. Wispy clouds caught in the bases and drifted upward, toward snow-covered peaks. A beautiful cemetery. But the Duke of Lancaster's army, or at least a portion of it, had survived Auvergne's worst.

  Easing himself down upon the sandy soil along the Dordogne Matthew turned his face toward the sun. A real sun, unblocked by clouds. He spread his fingers and dug into the ground, free of snow and warm to the touch.

  "'Tis past," he murmured to Harry, who had already stretched out beside him. "We cannot fail now."

  "The French have not disappeared, have they? And none of the baggage carts survived, did they? And Bordeaux yet remains over a hundred miles away."

  "We have travelled near a thousand. I myself could throw a stone a hundred miles."

  Harry's lips curved in the ghost of a smile. "Aye, brother. I believe you could."

  Matthew caught three fair-sized fish for supper. The foraging expedition, equipped with the few remaining horses, weapons and armor, returned with a handful of sheep and enough bread to provide at least a slice for everyone.

  Though Matthew longed to wolf down every morsel of food, he took only one fish, leaving two for Harry. His brother sat close to the fire with his legs drawn up against his chest. His breathing was alarmingly shallow, his color grey.

  Crumbling a portion of flesh from the spine of a fish, Matt handed it to him. "Ten more days and we will be in Bordeaux. Anyone can last ten days."

  Harry stared unseeing into the fire. His fish remained cupped in his hand. "I do so miss—"

  "I will see that you last ten more days." Matthew raised Harry's hand to his mouth. "Now eat."

  Aquitaine proved little more bountiful than Auvergne. The French followed them so relentlessly that Lancaster's army could scarce break formation long enough to scavenge for food.

  The Gascons, more fearful of French retaliation than a rabble of starving Englishmen, refused them food. The occasional towns they passed were closed against them.