The innkeeper wanted to charge a high fee for their drinks and beds for the night, but Saul spoke to him. Later Saul would only say that he ‘haggled’ with the fellow, but from that moment on, whenever the innkeeper appeared in the chamber, he was careful to avoid approaching within two yards of Saul.
At the back of the inn was a door to a room used as a kitchen, while beyond there was a large communal room for travellers with a huge palliasse. It smelled of fresh herbs, and there was meadowsweet strewn over the blankets, but Berenger was unpleasantly convinced that he would wake itching and irritable after ten minutes’ dozing on it. Loys and Saul bedded down in one corner of the sleeping chamber, with Alazaïs and her children at the farther side of the palliasse. Berenger had insisted on the men taking watches through the night, and himself stood the first, standing at the inn’s entrance and watching as the sky darkened.
In the town all was quiet. Berenger stood guard in his fashion, leaning on a polearm while staring up at the sky. Occasionally clouds drifted past, as silent and apparently insubstantial as ghosts on the wind, but he knew that they must be dense and heavy, for when they passed over the moon they enshadowed the whole of the town. It was as though a man had set a shield before a candle. Berenger was not particularly afflicted with superstition, but he could remember when he was younger, he had seen a cloud pass over the moon and become convinced that the end of the world was to come. Ever since, he felt a vague frisson of unease when he saw the view dimmed in this way.
He had intended to show this to his sons, but he had never had the chance.
Struck with a sudden melancholy, he felt a sob forming in his breast and it was all he could do to swallow it back. He struck angrily at the moisture in his eyes, wiping it away. His boy was dead, and his wife and her son too. His old life was gone, and there was nothing he could do to bring it back.
He heard the door behind him open. Saul and Loys had demanded that they should share the guard duty with Berenger, and he assumed one of them was entering, mistrusting him and thinking that he allowed them to oversleep without calling them to their duty. If it were not for the dampness still in his eyes, he would have turned and told them to return to their beds a while longer, but then he smelled her fragrance, a mixture of rose water and musk. It was a scent he had snuffed many times in the last few days, one that had twisted the knife in his heart. There were memories attached to that perfume.
‘I couldn’t sleep. Can I join you here?’
She spoke quietly, so as not to wake the household, and he was grateful that she showed due concern for others. After all, she was the widow of a wealthy man, and as such she was used to giving commands and not considering the effect on other people. A waft of her perfume reached his nostrils and he was assailed by a desire to hold her. Nothing more, just to hold her and bury his nostrils in her hair and breathe her in, as though he could inhale enough purity to wipe away his memories of the last ten years. Except he couldn’t. Those memories were lodged in his brain as firmly as the nails in a church door.
In truth, he was unsure of his feelings for her. He felt anxious in her presence, but it wasn’t the fear of a youth for appearing foolish, it was as though she held the key to a door he dare not open. Or reopen.
God’s cods, he needed a pot of wine!
‘I don’t want to be distracted,’ he said. Peering at her now, in the dark, her face was a mask of shadows. She could be smiling at him, laughing at his absurdly childish behaviour, or glaring, readying a knife to gut him.
‘You really think he could attack us here? He said we could leave.’
There was no humour or contempt in her tone. He could only hear fretfulness. ‘He’s a lying son of a whore,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t trust him further than I could piss, and that’s not far.’
‘He stopped that man from harming my son,’ she said softly, her voice almost a sigh.
‘Aye. But I’m not sure he would want all the company to see one of his men killing a boy just to irritate me. If he had, some more would have rallied to my side, and that could have precipitated a confrontation. As it is, this way he removes me, he gets to steal all you own, and keeps most of my wealth as well. His only fear is that I might return to take back what is mine and yours.’
‘That is why you keep a watch all night?’
‘That is why.’
‘You saved me and my boys. I am grateful.’
She said nothing more. With a quiet susurration of linen, she quietly moved back to the room where her boys slept.
Berenger stared out at the shadowed street. No movement, no glint of steel nor spark from a flint. Perhaps she was right to question his insistence on keeping watch: perhaps Will had no further interest in Berenger or the woman; he had won all he wanted.
But while Berenger wanted to believe that, there was a strong conviction that Will would not want to leave a potential rival leader in place, especially since he had already tried to assassinate him. Will would not understand that a man could willingly forget an insult like that. In truth, Berenger wasn’t sure he could. Yet now, in the cold and dark of a Limousin night, he was happy to forgive both assaults and leave Uzerche with his life and soul intact.
Grandarse rode gloomily on his pony while his men trudged along in the rain that sheeted down. His men looked and sounded even less happy. The moans and complaints continued all through the day.
Clip’s whine rose over the other voices.
‘Why are we sent off so soon? Everyone else has warm, dry beds this night. Us? We’re going to be walking on until we have to stop or drown!’
‘We’ll be allowed to stop soon,’ a voice called back. Grandarse thought it might be the new man called Gilles. He sounded less cheery now.
‘You think so?’ Clip complained. ‘You don’t know much about soldiering, do you? They’ll march us all the way to this town, then turn us round to march back. We’ll get no rest. And when we think it can’t get any worse, they’ll throw us all into a battle that will kill off half of us. That’s how we fight in this army. By walking wherever we’re told, and then by dying there. They’ll see us all killed. You mark my words!’
Grandarse smiled but he was not happy. He had held that short conversation with Archibald ten or more days ago, which had left him disgruntled and irritable. Archibald had suggested he should seek Berenger to help with the new recruits.
‘Yes, just go and find Frip,’ he muttered to himself now. ‘That’ll be easy, with a country the size of France. I’ll only have to stop at the next village and ask and they’ll be sure to know. A miserable-looking old git with scars and a frowning eye. Easy.’
But there was a thought in the back of his mind: if Fripper was still alive, and there was no certainty of the fact, then it was at least very likely that he wouldn’t be too far away. These were hard days, and a man would avoid the main centres of French authority. He would not approach near to Paris on his own, nor would he try to travel to the south since the Prince’s rampage all the way from Bordeaux to Narbonne last year. That would be suicidal, for the French there would have all-too-clear memories of the atrocities caused by the English.
Which left him with the question, where would Berenger have gone, if he was still alive? He was not in Calais, and surely if he was in the English territories of Guyenne or Aquitaine, he would have offered himself to the Prince when he heard there was to be a fresh campaign? Unless he was already engaged to fight for another knight or baron, of course. Or had joined another band.
It was of no interest just now. Grandarse snorted to himself. He had gone to find Robin and told him the news that Robin was to be the vintener of his band.
‘You must be desperate.’
‘I am.’
‘I will take on the men, if you are sure, but I’ll want the pay of a vintener.’
‘You will have it, of course.’
‘I will,’ Robin said, staring at him in that unsettling way of his, head thrust forward, slightly tilted, so that it was his l
eft eye that focused on Grandarse.
‘You will have Imbert and the others, and . . .’
‘You do realise three have tried to escape already?’
‘Eh? What?’
‘Imbert and the father and son from Bordeaux have all tried to escape. First time was on the very night you brought ’em in.’
‘You stopped them?’
‘I gave Imbert a tap on the ’ead and the other two seemed to realise that any enemy out there was much less scary than me. Then the two tried again the night after. I had to hit Pierre quite hard to make him understand I was serious.’
‘Why?’
Robin looked away. Part of him wanted to explain: that he was once a reputable man-at-arms and archer, a man who had been respected and valued by his master, Sir Reynald, until that master had died in the pitched battle off the coast of Flanders at the place they called Sluys. Robin had been there, but could do nothing to rescue his master when he fell into the water, the blood bubbling and seething all about him as Robin saw his face disappear from sight. The weight of his chain mail and steel bascinet were enough to drag him down.
Lady Marjorie had never forgiven him. Robin was banned from the house. His belongings, such as they were, were thrown after him as he left the manor that last time. It was the beginning of his wanderings. He had become an outcast.
And then there was the disaster. The fight in an ale house, both men drunk, both keen to eradicate the assumed insult, both swinging fists and then knives, the wash of blood over his face, the shock as he realised what he had done. Then the headlong rush to the church, grasping the altar-cloth and waiting until the coroner arrived and permitted him to abjure the realm. There was nothing else for him. So he came here, and was given a chance to redeem himself.
This, he felt, was his chance to establish himself again, to become accepted. At first he had been reluctant, but when he saw Imbert trying to escape on that first night, he had felt a sudden rage that anyone could think to flee while his companions were still there, and had struck the man down. Only later did he realise that he could have escaped himself. And by then it was too late. He was committed to the vintaine.
‘I wish I fuckin’ knew,’ he said.
Friday 22 July
Berenger turned in his saddle and peered back.
This morning they had set off as soon as Will had allowed the gates to be opened, although Will had insisted on their breaking their fast first. ‘It is only fair,’ he said when Berenger demurred. ‘Eat before a journey. You always used to insist on that yourself.’
It was true. He had forgotten that in the last wandering years. It was hard to remember all he had once known. This morning he had a headache. He had woken with a cup still in his hand, the wine tipped over his lap and the floor. After Alazaïs had gone to her bed he had been unsettled enough to want more to drink, and had sated his thirst over the hours, forgetting to rouse Loys and Saul to take over the guard duty. If one of his own sentinels had behaved like that, the man would have been flogged for such dereliction. Saul walked in and saw him, but wisely chose to say nothing, and Berenger had sat silently as they chewed through a hard farmer’s loaf and grey cheese.
Will had not objected to Alazaïs and the children going to the church to pray before they set off. ‘Be sure to confess to all your incontinent behaviour and thoughts of lascivious couplings with me and my men!’ Will had laughed. Alazaïs had reddened in embarrassment and fury, and Berenger had walked with her to the church as though protecting her from further shame. However, he would not enter. She must walk inside with her boys, leaving Berenger at the door.
Now she looked up at him. ‘Why did you not come into the church to pray with me?’
‘What? Oh, I have no faith.’
‘You are a heretic?’ she exclaimed.
‘That is a lie put about by our enemies. Just because I’m English does not make me a bad Christian,’ he said.
‘But you say you have no faith?’
‘You weren’t there when the plague struck,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe God could have served us with that disaster without malice. He must hate us. He hates me.’
She made a hurried Sign of the Cross. ‘You think you are cursed?’
‘I know I am cursed. I think I am hated by God. How could he take everything from me unless he detests me?’
‘He took so much?’
Berenger wasn’t paying attention. ‘It is this land, I think. It is so drenched and beslubbered in blood, it is a miracle that anything can grow. All man’s vices and lusts are concentrated here. No matter whether it’s the greed of the nobles or the avarice of the merchants or the lusts of the common folk, it is all here on display and accepted. Look at Uzerche, your town. It holds so much wealth that it attracted men like . . .’
‘Men like you,’ Alazaïs said.
‘Yes. But I didn’t plan to destroy. I was hoping we might take the town and live there for a while,’ Berenger said. His head was hurting, and the brightness of the sun was no assistance. ‘I thought we could live with the town, like a nobleman in a castle, and all might benefit.’
‘How would the free townsfolk benefit from you ordering their lives and stealing their money?’
Berenger pulled a grimace and looked away. ‘I didn’t want the men to go raping for no purpose. I didn’t want men and women to be killed out of hand every day. Only a few at first so that the populace would come to accept the new rule of law. But the men were unused to living in a town at peace. That was the trouble.’
‘The town’s men were slaughtered because they tried to defend their women and children! You call that “the trouble”!’
‘You don’t understand. That is the point of an attack. The first assault is violent, so that all will bow to the new order. After that, we could grow more beneficent and help people. But only when they grew to trust us.’
‘I think if you have men who are used to plunder and murder, they would find it difficult to become used to the idea of living in peace with the people they have subdued.’
‘Perhaps,’ Berenger said. He pulled out a wineskin and began to drink. It soothed the acid in his stomach, but did nothing for the acid eating at his soul.
After sending Suzette to fetch bread, Gaillarde wept. Denisot had not come home last night. He had said he would, but he hadn’t. Again. He was staying there in the town, enjoying himself with harlots and drinking himself to oblivion.
She wanted her husband back; she wanted her life back. Once, ten years before, they had been happy. As bayle, Denisot was tax collector, adjudicator, peace-maker and thief-taker. They always had enough money, and the birth of their two children had left them fulfilled. Gaillarde had been so full of love, she had thought her heart must break when she looked at her children and husband. Denisot had been gentle, kindly, loving. Or so it had seemed. He had the duty of keeping the town peaceful and making sure that even the loudest disputes between man and wife were kept quiet. Yet now he could not even make peace in his own house. She wished he could. She was lonely, so lonely.
But the life they had enjoyed was gone. It had been snatched from them when God took Pons and Fabrisse. The memory of her children was as hard and cold as a dagger to the heart.
When the pestilence arrived here nine years ago, it ravaged the land. Men and women lost parents, children and spouses, in a sudden attack that scarred all those left alive. In one village six miles to the east, Gaillarde had heard that only one child survived of the whole population, while in the priory itself more than half the monks died. Those remaining could scarcely cope with the services and their other duties. And those left behind were not necessarily the better men, she knew. It sometimes seemed to her that all the kinder, good men were killed. Perhaps, as some said, the disease came to take away the best and sweetest, leaving the Devil’s for whenever he would come to take them.
But no, she could not believe that. There were too many good men who had lived, while quite a few whom she would be surpri
sed to be allowed even to approach the gates of Heaven had been taken away. It was, as the priest said afterwards, as he sat on the wall outside the church with tears streaming down both cheeks, utterly inexplicable. God’s will was not to be denied, but men could not expect to understand his every whim. That priest had disappeared a few months after the last of the dead had been buried. She thought his mind had been broken as well as his heart.
No man should have to live through that. The priest had been in despair after having to bury so many, but they were only people. They weren’t his own flesh, his own blood. Gaillarde had lost everything. Her little children were taken from her, and for that she bore a terrible hatred. She knew the new priest was right to defend God, standing before the congregation and explaining that it was the evil of men and women that had caused the visitation of this terror on the people, but Gaillarde could not believe that. Why would He take away her boy and tiny girl from her?
She knew God was forgiving. She knew He was kindness and love. So their children could not have been taken from her by Him. Gaillarde had come to the conclusion that it was not Him, but Denisot who was to blame.
At first, when her children had died, she had blamed herself. So many did. It was natural for a parent to accept all responsibility. She had not done enough. Somehow, she should have been able to protect them from the foul miasma that physicians said brought the pestilence. She was like all other parents: they needed to have someone to blame.
Gaillarde was no philosopher, but for her it was natural to seek the guilty. It was unsatisfying to accuse a foul air that moved from one to another as if on the whim of some Devil. There was no body to punch, no form to detest. But then, when she spoke to the new, young priest, and he advised her to consider her own life, and how God might have been punishing her, Gaillarde could not understand. She could not escape the fact that her own life had been filled with piety and honour, and she had not been guilty of any offence against God, not that she knew of. And that confused her for a long time.
Blood of the Innocents Page 10