The Deadliest Sin

by The Medieval Murderers

  Pelagia was over at the fireside, and Janyn opened his eyes to watch her. She was entirely unaffected by the presence of the men about her, as if she knew that she was safe with them. Sitting amongst them, she pulled her hair up, away from her neck. She had a fine neck, Janyn thought, like a swan’s. Pale, long, slender, it looked vulnerable. He wanted to kiss it. It was rare for him to be attracted to women, but this one had something, an inner strength like a cord of hemp that kept her together. Even when threatened by Henry, she had shown no fear. Perhaps it had been throttled from her. The tribulations of her last weeks, losing her family, seeing her countrymen slaughtered all about her, maybe that had had the effect of squeezing all her feelings from her, so that now there was nothing left at her core but a savage determination to survive.

  There was something in her eyes that he saw occasionally. A gleam, as if she entertained a thought that gave her solace. Perhaps it was a dream of quiet and rest, a view of an all-but-unattainable peace. For he was sure that there was little peace in her soul usually. Not during her waking hours. While she slept, she looked as though she was calm enough. Sometimes he had seen her lips curl into a gentle smile . . . but other times she gave muffled screams and moans as she thrashed from side to side. And always, as soon as she woke and took in her surroundings, any happiness faded until her eyes took on that distant harshness once more. Hers was not a soul at rest.

  Janyn desired her, yes, but he would not go near her. She was a focus and target of danger. He could feel it about her. She could bring only disaster. Barda was right: they should throw her from the vintaine, send her away to fend for herself.

  Except if Janyn were to do that, he would lose the support of newer recruits like Bill and Walter.

  Barda had walked to her. As Janyn watched, he hunkered down beside her. ‘Maid, do you want food?’

  She said nothing, but Janyn saw her give him a slanted smile and a flash of her eyes. She knew she had him already. Like a spider watching a fly willingly land on her web.

  It was a thought that made Janyn shiver with sudden trepidation.

  It was in April that things grew more troubling for the English. Janyn could remember it with such clarity: the mud, the constant dampness, the grey faces of the troops forced to endure.

  All that winter the weather had been foul and, in March, when their spirits were at their lowest, came the news that they had all feared: the French King had taken up the great crimson banner of France, the Oriflamme of St Denis. With this flag in the hands of the French, they could not be defeated, some said in hushed whispers – but they had borne it with them at Crécy, and there it had served them no useful purpose, as others said. These loud denials, however, could not change the increased tension that affected the English with the news of the gathering French host.

  But after March, there was nothing for weeks. Snippets of information came to say that Flemings and French were fighting on their borders, and occasionally there were tales of sea battles, of English convoys being savaged by the damned Genoese, but more often the news was of victories by the English. Even when French fleets tried to force the blockade and bring food to the starving population of Calais, they failed. At last, in late April, the English captured the last piece of land encircling the town: the Rysbank. With this narrow spit of sand taken, the English could control the whole harbour with cannon and other artillery. It was the beginning of the end for Calais. The English had their mailed fist on the throat of the town, and they were slowly strangling it.

  A few weeks later, the French made a last attempt to rescue their town. A fleet of fifty or more ships set sail – cogs and barges laden with provisions – all guarded by galleys full of fighting men, but before they could approach the stricken town they were met with a larger English force that sank or put to flight the whole convoy. Not a single ship reached the garrison of Calais.

  For the people of the town it was dismal news. The commander, Jean de Vienne, wrote to his king to say that there was no more food left in the town, and that they must resort to the horrible expedience of human flesh or die. A terrible, grim letter, it was, as the English soon learned.

  It was entrusted to a Genoese, who tried to slip from the town at night in a small boat to make his way to Paris, but before he could pass by the English lines, he was seen. English ships were launched in pursuit, and he was captured, although not before he had bound the letter to a hatchet and hurled it into the sea. But at low tide the message was discovered, still tied to its weight, protected by its oil-cloth wrapping, and the letter was read by King Edward. He resealed the letter, placing the mark of his own seal on it, and had the letter dispatched to King Philippe. It was a flagrant challenge, and the King of France took it up.

  He mustered an army, at least five-and-twenty thousand strong, and marched to meet the English.

  It was a few days later that the call came for the English in Janyn’s vintaine to gather their weapons. There were rumours of an army marching to meet them, and while it was scarcely to be thought that it could equal the size of the army they had destroyed at Crécy, still, a host of French knights was a force to be reckoned with.

  ‘They’re coming up the road there,’ Janyn was told.

  He and the other vinteners and centeners from the force with Sir John de Sully were gathered together in a wide space behind a wagon-park. Men were standing on wagons and carts to listen as Sir John, tall, hawkish and lean, told them of the danger approaching.

  ‘They are coming slowly, we believe. I doubt me not that after Crécy they will be keen to show us that our success there was a mere chance. They will have as many knights and men-at-arms as they can gather together in so short a space. It will not be easy for them, for we slaughtered their army. There can be few fighting men in the whole of the French King’s northern lands.’

  Next to Janyn, Barda grimaced, then muttered, ‘The French King’s son had an army. He was bringing that up here in a hurry. What if this is his army? Battle-hardened and powerful.’

  Janyn said nothing. Barda was his most trusted companion from the vintaine, but there were times when his grumbling and complaining were annoying.

  Sir John was continuing: ‘So we have to hurry and meet them. We have to assess their speed of march, gauge their size and abilities. If need be, we shall have to make them pause on their march. The siege is essential, and nothing can be allowed to prevent us from taking Calais. No matter what this army may be. But we do need to know all we can about it so we can find the best way to deter it. Are there any questions?’

  The usual few hands rose, with queries about the food and provisions for the march, but all issues were soon resolved and a basic plan agreed.

  ‘So, off we go again.’ Barda grunted. ‘Always us at the foreground. The army likes us to be the bleeding spearpoint, doesn’t it? And when we’re blunted, other bastards can claim the sodding glory.’

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ Janyn said as they made their way back to their men.

  ‘You know what I think? I reckon the King knows he can replace any number of men over here. So many English would be glad to come and join in the sack of Calais that he will never lack for men. And after Calais, well, it’ll be easier to launch an attack with a town already colonised, won’t it? He doesn’t care about you and me, Jan. He thinks he’s got the country by the short hairs as it is.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘No “perhaps” about it, old son. Take my oath on it. We are the dispensable vanguard. He can lose any or all of us. Right now, we’re the most experienced of his soldiers, but he’ll throw us at the enemy, like a lure to the French hawk. We can be discarded – just so long as we hold them back for a little while, until the King’s host is ready to receive them.’

  ‘You’re too cynical,’ Janyn said.

  ‘You think so? You’re too trusting, man. You’re gambling, but you’re gambling with your life,’ Barda said harshly. ‘And ours, too.’

  It was a thought that would return to haunt Ja
nyn later.

  The vintaine was packed and ready in short order. Janyn looked about him and assessed their strength, studying each man and his weapons.

  Although they had marched hundreds of miles to get here, and then endured the winter over the long months, they did not have the appearance of men worn out by their journeys and privations. Still, there was the usual grumbling and complaining. Will of Whitchurch, a scrawny, ill-favoured malcontent with the look and sound of a whining cur, muttered loudly as he packed about: ‘These gits. Why don’t they send in the Welshies, eh? Just about done, me. Nay, but they’ll send us all in until we’re all jiggered. They can’t risk the Prince’s little darlings, can they, oh, no. But us, they can throw us into every battle.’

  ‘You should be honoured, Will,’ Janyn said.

  ‘Honoured, Jan? Just why should I be that?’

  ‘You’ve done so much, they think you can win the battle all on your own, man. We’re only here to guard you so you can fight and hold them all back.’

  ‘Oh, ah. Yes, I can see that. I’ll bloody have to, because we’re all going to die, but I’ll tell you this: you’ll go before me, man! I’m not getting my throat cut by a Genoese quarrel-chucker! Not me!’

  ‘I doubt you will,’ Janyn said, and meant it. There was something about the wiry little fellow that inspired confidence in his ability to survive any number of disasters. They had already come through a series of battles on the way here, and not many of the original team were still alive.

  It was only when the men were mostly packed and had already begun to wander off to the muster that Janyn realised Pelagia was standing silent. She looked like a statue. Her hands were balled at her side, and she held her body tense, unbending. Her face was stiff, and Janyn thought her jaw looked like a clenched fist, the muscles were so taut. He was about to go to her when he saw Bill and Walter. Bill wandered to her, his head low, glaring at the world from surly eyes.

  ‘Maid, what will you do?’ he asked.

  She looked at him, then gave a long, slow stare about the rest of the English camp. ‘If I stay here, how long can I survive?’

  Janyn made a quick decision and crossed to them.

  ‘We can introduce you to some of the other men,’ he said. He could take her to some of the other marching wives, let them help her. It would take no time for her to find a new ‘husband’. But the brothers stared at him. They both knew what would happen to her there. They didn’t – she didn’t – want that, and neither did he. He remembered the day he had given her half his loaf. He had admired her even then. With Janyn’s vintaine she had not been forced to pay the marriage debt. She had made no vows to bind her to any of them, and her time with the men had been one of armed neutrality. She held no feelings for Janyn or the others, and while he had no need to protect her, yet he felt some affection for her. To discard her would be like throwing a chicken in the midst of a pack of dogs. They would squabble and bicker over her until the strongest consumed her.

  Bill’s head dropped, and Janyn could see the man’s despair. They all knew what would happen if they left her. But marching to a battle was a matter of hard effort. They had no time to concern themselves over the woman. And in a fight, Janyn didn’t want his men worrying about the woman left behind with the camp. He had seen that all too often before: men fighting while half their minds were fixed on a woman. All too often it led to the man being killed.

  ‘Vintener, we can’t leave her,’ Walter said firmly.

  Horns were blowing to signal the march. Janyn made a quick decision. ‘If you bring her, she’s your responsibility,’ he said.

  ‘Aye,’ Bill said quickly.

  Janyn could see how Bill’s mind was working. The thought of leaving her here filled him with horror. If she was left to the mercies of the English army, she would be ravished and probably dead inside a day. It had taken Bill and his brother to rescue her from three drunken men before now. She could do nothing to protect herself if she were left alone.

  Janyn could almost see these thoughts chase themselves across his face.

  ‘Will you come with us, then?’ Bill demanded gruffly.

  ‘What else can I do?’ she said.

  They did not journey far. They marched on horseback with full packs and the spare arrows and bowstaves packed carefully on their carts, one to each vintaine, and the few women and children trudged along behind.

  Looking back along the lines of troops and women, Janyn was hit by a feeling of happiness.

  ‘Glad to be rid of the place for a while?’ Barda asked, riding at his side.

  ‘It’s the stench of the latrines – I never could abide that,’ Janyn said, but it wasn’t only that. It was the feeling of grim, relentless misery that encompassed the area about the town, and more than anything else, the unremitting boredom of daily duty in the army.

  ‘Aye,’ Barda said, breathing deeply. ‘It’s good to be on a horse again, and to be riding, even if we will be riding into danger.’

  Behind them, kneeling on the bed of the cart, he could see her: Pelagia. Beside her, as though guarding her on the way to her wedding, were Bill and Walter, flanking her on their ponies. Janyn was quite tempted to bellow at them to leave her and join the main column that straggled its way along the road, but there was no point.

  He could see why they kept near her. She looked lovely.

  ‘What?’ Barda asked, seeing the direction of his gaze.

  ‘Should I do something about them? Look at them: drooling over her like a pair of dogs after a bitch,’ Janyn said.

  ‘What, are you jealous? Jan, get a grip!’ Barda chuckled to himself. ‘You met her, you allowed her into our vintaine, and you stopped the arsehole Henry from raping her – what more do you want? Are you jealous of the lads?’

  ‘Of course I’m not.’

  ‘But she does look beautiful, doesn’t she?’ Barda said. ‘She gives the brothers something to fight for. No Frenchman will get to her without knocking them down first.’

  ‘I’m worried about Bill. She never gives him a look, but I’ll bet he’s never stopped thinking about her.’

  ‘I think Walter is smitten as badly, and yet she gives them no affection, no sign of any desire to be with them, only a cold, distant demeanour.’

  ‘I don’t think Walter hoped for anything from her. When she first came to the camp, he just sought to protect her from the other men.’

  ‘Is this all about them – or is it you, Jan?’ Barda asked.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘When Henry came to us, it wasn’t Bill or Walter who stood before him, it was you. Is that the problem?’

  ‘No!’

  It wasn’t because he wanted her. If he’d wanted a woman, he could have found himself one. Any of the Winchester Geese who followed the army would be good for a quick release. They were able, willing, and quick, generally, just like the whores of the Bishop of Winchester’s stews from whom they took their name.

  Pelagia was not like them. She was a mystery. Other women demanded attention and craved companionship, but Pelagia just seemed to exist. She desired nothing from any of the men in the vintaine, and only showed a calculated disdain when any tried to get too close to her. The rest of the time, she remained with their group as though she was sister to their whole unit. There was no offer of sex or even friendship, only a firm independence.

  She was not like other women. He didn’t get the sense that there would be any pleasure in pursuing her like a sensualist determined to gain another notch on his bedpost. Other men talked of the thrill of the chase of a fresh woman, but Janyn had never been interested in that kind of exercise. He was content to concentrate on his work. One day, perhaps, he would go to England and seek a wife, but not here, not in this godforsaken land of burned crops and slaughtered animals. This was no place to think of settling, it was only a country to be tamed, and that profitably.

  Sometimes he thought he saw something in her face. Perhaps a flash of sadness, or a look of quick despair, but it was
so fleeting, he could not swear to it. Perhaps it was just his mind trying to make sense of her, of her feelings and of what drove her on.

  He didn’t care, anyway. Whatever it was that she wanted, he wanted none of it.

  ‘How was the battle?’ Laurence asked. The other pilgrims were hushed by the tale as Janyn paused and topped up his drink from a jug.

  ‘The French did not have enough men. Nothing like enough. By that time, I suppose our King had some thirty thousand men under arms. It certainly looked it, with men all about the town itself, and more arriving every day. But the French had gathered together a scant twenty thousand.’

  He nodded to himself pensively. ‘Even if they could synchronise their attack with a sortie from the men in the town, they wouldn’t have had enough. Their army was demoralised before they saw the English. Who wouldn’t have been, after the shattering defeat of Crécy? And while they may have hoped for a diversion from Calais itself, the people in the town were already enfeebled by the siege. Hunger and despair tore at them, and those who still had strength enough to wield a sword would still never have reached the lines of archers ringing the town.

  ‘So I say it again, they didn’t have enough. But from where we were, it looked like they had enough to trample us into the mud.’

  The French King had to make a display, if only for his honour’s sake. So he marched his men up the road to the town. And the only thing stopping him at that moment was Sir John de Sully’s little force.

  The old warrior was then in his sixties or so. His scarred and worn face displayed no fear that Janyn could see, only a boyish excitement. ‘We’ll stop them there,’ he said, pointing to a narrowing in the roadway.

  The road leading to the higher ground outside the town had to pass through a wood before passing a small quarry. Beyond the quarry a hamlet had stood, but now the single stone building, the church, was the only one remaining. All the others had been burned, and even the church itself stood blackened and ravaged, like a sole surviving tree after a forest fire. The tower remained, but the building itself was a husk.