Blood of the Innocents

by Michael Jecks

  Clip sneered and threw his stick away. ‘It’s not fair on us. The knights get all the rewards, and we just get to slog our way through the mud and get gutted on a field.’

  ‘You haven’t yet,’ Gilles said, smiling. He looked like a twenty-year-old, always cheerful and happy as though this was just a great adventure he was embarked on. ‘You told me you have been fighting for most of your life, and look at you! Not even a scratch.’

  ‘He has scratches, but only where the women fought him off,’ Dogbreath muttered.

  ‘Fought me off? They wouldn’t want to. Not when they see the size of my oak,’ Clip said.

  Felix leaned forward and picked up Clip’s discarded stick. ‘You dropped your oak,’ he said mildly. His father guffawed with laughter, soon joined by Gilles and Nick.

  ‘Swyve a goat!’ Clip swore, scowling at them all. He turned to Felix. ‘You haven’t any tarse to speak of. When you’ve proved yourself in a battle, then you can take the piss. Until then, remember who’s the most experienced fighter in this vintaine.’

  Gilles chuckled. ‘You mean Robin?’

  Robin smiled to himself.

  Clip shook his head. His voice, usually so whining, took on a self-satisfied tone. ‘You think you’re so clever, but I warn you, you’ll all get killed. The knights won’t give a shit for any of you. They’ll trample you into the dirt, just like the French did to their men at Crécy. They rode them down and killed them because they couldn’t fight our arrow-storm, and when it suits our lot, they’ll do the same.’

  ‘You talk nonsense, Clip,’ Robin said.

  ‘Oh yeah? How many battles have you fought in, then?’

  ‘I couldn’t count.’

  ‘I can, though, and I’ve been in more than all this lot put together!’ Clip sat back, contentedly, snorting his derision.

  ‘I fought at Espagnols-sur-Mer,’ Robin said reflectively. ‘And I was at the siege of Calais, and I fought in many of the chevauchées in the early years of the war. So I have some experience. More than that, I can use a bow, so I think I am superior to you.’

  ‘You reckon you can beat me in a trial with bows and arrows?’ Clip said.

  ‘Any day.’

  Imbert eyed him. ‘That would be a trial worth watching.’

  Robin met his look but before he could comment, Dogbreath nodded his head towards Grandarse. ‘What did the man tell the centener?’

  They had captured several peasants and merchants in the last few days, but none who had the inbuilt arrogance of the man limping along behind Hawkwood’s vintaine. His name, they soon learned, was Thomas de Ladit, but that told none of them much. However, Grandarse had refused to let them hurt him. There was something about his demeanour that spoke of wealth and position, and to Grandarse that meant he could be worth money.

  ‘Nothing. Only that he was travelling to Bordeaux.’

  ‘I think I ought to speak to him,’ Dogbreath said.

  ‘He is not to be hurt. Grandarse thinks he could be useful.’

  ‘I wouldn’t hurt him. Just let him think he could be hurt,’ Dogbreath said.

  It was at best twenty miles to the abbey, heading both west and north, but that was as the raven flew. In reality the road climbed and turned, taking them over small ridges and hills between the trees, and at each high point Berenger stopped and gazed back the way they had come, fearing to see a cloud of dust that might indicate pursuit. When darkness fell, they encamped in woods near a river and munched on some bread and cold meats before settling for the night. At dawn, they continued west and north.

  Denisot watched the men with a feeling of distinct nervousness. The men were quiet, and for the most part their journey was silent but for the clattering of hoofs on stones, yet Denisot was anxious. These were clearly trained mercenaries, and any Frenchman would be fearful of them. These were the very men who slit the throats of Frenchmen and women, and who threw children onto fires. They had ravaged all the way from Burgundy across the south of France, and up to the north. They were fearful of no man, and many believed that they were the personification of evil, and worshipped the Devil.

  Surely it was men such as these who were the murderers of the poor child crucified in the woods? The girl with the wide eyes and supposedly empty brain called ‘Alicia’ who had been seen in Chamberet. These fellows were capable of any crime. Perhaps they would kill Denisot before they even reached the abbey? But that was not likely. Of them all, only Fulk appeared to be fit and well. The others were all nursing injuries of a greater or lesser form. Besides, while it was plain enough that these men were trained and expert killers, from the result of the little battle he had seen on the road, he did not get the impression that they were indiscriminate. And the anger came from their apparent betrayal by another man, and the murder of the woman and her children. They seemed unlikely murderers and rapists of a little girl.

  There was another reason why he felt safer with them. He had saved their lives once already, and they did not know the way to the abbey.

  They needed him.

  It was late when Abbot Andry was, much to his surprise, called to the gates. The porter was usually more than capable of issuing such support as was necessary when travellers knocked on his doors, and it was with a degree of curiosity that the Abbot left his chamber and crossed the court to the main gates.

  ‘He says he is scared by the sight of them,’ the lay-brother sent to fetch him hissed as they went.

  ‘Scared, hmm?’ the Abbot repeated. ‘And why should that be, eh?’

  At three-and-sixty, Abbot Andry had survived the trials of the last decade and more without obvious suffering. He was stooped, it was true, but his eyesight was still clear enough in full daylight, and although he looked thin and ill-fed, that was the result of his habit of eating sparingly. His knees bore the calluses of the religious life, and his joints ached more during Matins through the long winter nights than once they had, but he was hearty enough, which was more than could be said of so many of his friends.

  The men at his gate were clearly men of war. There was one fellow at the front who looked like any other, but the others were all clearly soldiers, from the range of weapons they bore to their toughened leather braces and mail.

  ‘God give you peace,’ he said. ‘You are welcome here, my friends. Can we offer you any – hmm – assistance?’

  ‘If you would allow us inside, my Lord Abbot, we would be grateful for an evening under a roof. My name is Berenger Fripper, and we travel across to our folk in Guyenne, if we can. We are injured. An ambush by felons.’

  ‘You intend to travel without harming any of my compatriots? I wouldn’t wish to heal your injuries and make you whole again, if you then wish to go and kill my people,’ the Abbot said.

  ‘I swear on the Gospels that we have no intention to do harm to any on our way,’ Berenger said. ‘There are some who may intend harm to us, but if we fight them it will be more in defence.’

  The Abbot studied him for a long moment, considering. He nodded to himself, shot a look towards his porter, and beckoned.

  ‘Give me the key. See, Master Fripper? I trust you to the extent of opening the gate myself, so that if you harm any, you will harm me first, eh? There! It is done. Enter, my sons, and peace be with you while you remain in my protection.’

  ‘I am grateful,’ Berenger said. As he reached the Abbot, he bent his knee and kissed the Abbot’s ring. ‘I have no wish to harm you or any of your folk, I swear.’

  Rising again, he grunted with the pain of his back. The Abbot peered closer and saw the stain of blood. ‘My friend, you have a grievous injury. What is this?’

  ‘We were waylaid,’ Berenger said. ‘Like I said, felons assailed us on our way here.’

  ‘Was this an attack in response to your own assault, I wonder, hmm?’ the Abbot said. He gazed searchingly at Berenger as though seeking an answer in the lines of his face. ‘But it matters not. My abbey is fortunate to have an Infirmarer who is as keen to help the English as h
e is our own folk. I hope you will find healing here.’

  ‘I am truly grateful,’ Berenger said with a careful bow.

  ‘You are unwell, my son,’ the Abbot noted. It was hard not to see how the man suffered. He shook like a poplar in a wind, and his face was a yellowish-grey. There was an unwholesome sheen to it, as though he was sweating.

  ‘I feel the pain of my wounds, but I am also very thirsty.’

  ‘I see.’ The Abbot turned and began to walk back to his chamber, beckoning the lay-brother. ‘You will go to the infirmary and inform Brother Nicholas that he has patients. Tell him to come and fetch them as soon as he may, and then run to the vintner and ask for wine for our guests. Swiftly, now! Run as fast as the wind itself!’

  ‘Abbot, again, I am grateful,’ Berenger called. ‘God bring you joy and peace.’

  The Abbot turned to face him. There was a steely glitter in his eyes. ‘I will pray for you all, because that is my duty, but I will take no pleasure in it. I would have all of you healthy and well again, hmm, but only so that you are soon well enough to continue on your way. I know what sort of men you are. Do you think your kind bring joy? No, you may keep your gratitude and your money. I would have neither. My fear is that you will bring harm to our community here.’

  ‘If harm follows us, it was not brought by us,’ Berenger said. He swallowed and tottered until Denisot went to his side and held his arm. ‘We have been attacked and those with us were slain. A woman and her sons. All killed for no reason.’

  ‘No reason? Perhaps they were killed in order to make a point, a point only you could understand. In any case, it is not my concern. We will do all we can to help cure you and to make your recovery as swift as we know how.’

  There was a tiny crackle. Robin heard it, but didn’t move. He remained rolled up in his blanket as though asleep, but his ears were suddenly attuned. It was the sort of quiet noise made by a man trying to move with extreme caution so as not to be heard. It was the sound of an assassin.

  He had expected this. Ever since that first night, when he had heard Imbert rise and try to make his way off, he had known that Imbert would come for him. It was plain enough in Imbert’s face whenever the man looked at him. He had been ready and waiting for the last few days, but the fact was that even a man fearful of attack must sleep. Robin had been on edge, prepared, sleeping only fitfully, every night since he had hit Imbert, but now exhaustion had caught up with him. There was no reserve on which he could call.

  There was an instant’s panic, but he knew that it was already too late to protect himself. In that fleeting moment he reviewed rolling away, somehow pulling his knife from its sheath, grabbing a rock, a tree-limb, anything, to defend himself. But all the while his brain was telling him that he couldn’t move in time. He had time to open an eye, to turn his head, but his arms and legs were sluggish from sleep, and the chance of escape was remote.

  ‘Do it, you prick!’ he muttered, levering himself up on hands and knees, and then he heard the thud and he was slammed against the ground with a vast weight on his back.

  ‘You all right?’ he heard Dogbreath say.

  With some effort, Robin fought his way from beneath the comatose figure. It was Imbert, who lay with his mouth slackly open. For the second time in a few weeks he had been knocked cold.

  ‘I saw you the other night,’ Clip said. He was standing at Dogbreath’s side.

  ‘God preserve you, Clip,’ Robin managed. He eased himself upward. As he glanced about him, he saw that Pierre and Felix were both awake. He wondered if they would have tried to help him. Nick, beside them, looked more than half-asleep still.

  ‘Couldn’t see the new vintener murdered, could we?’ Clip said with that horrible smile of his that was so like a leer. ‘Can you imagine what Grandarse’d do if that happened? He might make me vintener. I don’t want that.’ He cast a glance at Imbert, who was stirring, and gave him a vicious kick in the stomach. ‘He’d have had us all digging the shit out of the latrines just so he could order us to fill them in again, too. I don’t like digging the shit out. I’ve done that before when he was pissed with me.’

  ‘Tie him up,’ Robin said. ‘He’ll be flogged in the morning.’

  ‘Flogged? It’s not enough,’ Dogbreath said. ‘If I see him try something like that again, I’ll skin the fucker myself and nail his hide to a church door.’ He kicked Imbert again. ‘Clip and me’ll keep an eye on him for you, Vintener. He won’t try it again, ‘less he wants to learn what real pain is.’

  Sunday 24 July

  Dogbreath woke before the dawn. He had always woken early, and today was just another day, so far as he was concerned.

  He was glad that he’d seen Imbert and saved Robin from injury. In Dogbreath’s experience, when a vintener or sergeant was killed in his sleep, other men in the vintaine were likely to be punished, whether or not they had anything to do with the attack. Besides, he was growing to like Robin. The man had a quiet confidence about him that inspired trust, and there were not that many people whom Dogbreath had met who had similarly made him feel a kind of loyalty to them. Mostly he found that he was treated with contempt bordering on loathing, and he reciprocated. It was rare for him to feel anything other than hatred, but Robin made him feel wanted, and he wanted to reciprocate.

  When he had been younger, his parents owned and ran an alehouse near Chepe Street in London, but when some drinkers became rowdy one night, his father was killed in the ensuing brawl. Dogbreath and his mother kept the place going, but as money grew tighter and tighter, gradually the customers came to see his mother as an additional resource. At last, when Dogbreath was fourteen, he was taunted by children in the street calling out that his mother was a whore and he was a bastard. When he returned, angry and bitter, he found his mother drunk in the main chamber, while two men watched a companion serving her. It was enough. He took up his pack with his spare shirt, a bowl and a spoon, and left the alehouse. His mother didn’t even notice as he walked from the door.

  He had never returned. Instead, he had gone to the port where he found a ship willing to take him on as a cabin boy. That had been a hard upbringing, and he had learned to loathe sailors and the sea before long, but it had given him a core of determination and self-confidence the first time he drew his knife on another man and forced him away. Few had tried to molest him at night after they saw the old sailor’s injury. Dogbreath had nearly taken his eye that night. It was the first time he had lost his temper, and the power and energy it gave him had excited and terrified him in equal measure. Not now, though. Now he relished the loss of all control as he threw himself into battle. Without that release, he sometimes thought he must explode, like one of Archibald’s gonnes when the spark caught the vent.

  What he would do were there no more battles to fight, he did not know. He walked to fetch water, and on his way back from the stream, he caught sight of Thomas de Ladit, who sat huddled at a tree’s base, bound hand and foot.

  The prisoner had been interrogated when they caught him, but he had refused to answer many of their questions. He was clearly nervous, but he appeared keen to be taken to their captain. All the men knew that rich men were anxious to be caught and keen to be taken to a commander who could accept a ransom and protect their hostage. This fellow looked like a man of that kind, and more than one of the men was growing restless. After all, although Hawkwood had claimed the right to hold Thomas under his protection, and said he wanted the man undamaged when they returned to the main column, many of the men would be happy to tickle him up a bit if they could win even a small ransom. They weren’t here to enjoy the views; most wanted money.

  Dogbreath himself felt sure that Thomas had money or information that could be useful. He squatted in front of Thomas and nudged his foot with his dagger’s blade. ‘Wake!’

  Thomas came to blearily. He had walked far yesterday before these murderous club-men caught him, and afterwards they had made him continue with them, no matter how much he complained about his
poor feet. He fell once. Afterwards he was warned in no uncertain terms that if he were to fall again, they would not stop, but would drag him on with them. He had kept on his feet. Waking was no pleasure.

  ‘What?’ he said as he recognised one of his persecutors from the day before. His eyes moved to the dagger held negligently in Dogbreath’s hand. ‘What will you do with me?’

  ‘I don’t want to do anything to you,’ Dogbreath smiled. He balanced his weapon in his hand. ‘I do want to hear all you can tell me about the places you’ve come from, the money you’ve seen, the money buried for safety . . .’

  ‘I can’t tell you anything!’

  ‘What of your own money?’

  ‘I have nothing. My master is arrested,’ Thomas said without thinking.

  ‘So you have no value to us.’ Dogbreath shook his head in mock sadness, and then flicked his blade up. It span and he caught it by the tip as though about to hurl it at Thomas, who cringed at the sight.

  ‘Don’t!’

  ‘What can you tell me? Do you have money? Did you see any on your travels?’

  ‘No, they took it all. The soldiers.’

  Dogbreath shrugged. ‘Did you meet with many soldiers? There were no French soldiers on the roads or in the towns as you passed?’

  ‘Only a few, and only in the towns,’ Thomas said. He was desperate to show himself keen to help now, his eyes fixed fearfully on the knife. ‘They were trying to reinforce the walls at Périgueux, and at Thiviers they were training the apprentices and peasants in how to fight. But there were no soldiers in the countryside. I saw no sign of an army or of any muster.’

  Dogbreath nodded. ‘They have heard of our approach, then?’

  Thomas allowed a little asperity to enter his voice. ‘Yes, since your army is already so close.’

  ‘We’re still many miles from the towns.’

  ‘Yes, but the men who took Uzerche have already terrorised the countryside. I left because I am not French. I am servant to the King of Navarre, as I said yesterday, and your ally, so . . .’