The Centener turned to his men. ‘Hawkwood, take yours down there into the trees, dismount, and keep them aiming up here towards the roadway. We don’t have men the other side of the road, so any target is yours. Understand? Have the men string their bows, and be quick, but wait for my command. If there’s any trouble, take the rearmost first. Understand? Good. The rest of you, with me! Clip and Dogbreath, you too.’
In a few moments, the road was empty. Grandarse and the other men remained on their horses, while Hawkwood’s men crouched or stood behind trees, arrows nocked and ready. They did not have long to wait.
There was an arrogance about the men riding towards them, as though they owned these woods, this road, and the whole of the land all about. It was enough to make Grandarse grimace. If any of his men were to behave so foolishly, they would deserve to be captured or slain. He lifted his hand. Hawkwood was staring at him, his own hand raised. As the first of the horsemen passed Hawkwood, Grandarse studied them carefully. There was no emblem on the men’s surcoats, no flag or banner to declare their allegiance. These fellows were outlaws, or he was an earl. He felt his belly clenching with the promise of battle and gripped his reins more tightly in his left hand, readying himself. Then, when the foremost riders were level with him, he dropped his hand.
There was a slew of arrows, a hissing terror that slammed into the horsemen from their flank, and he roared to his men as he slammed his spurs into the horse’s flanks, feeling the jolt as the brute was startled from his temporary torpor, muscles hurling Grandarse forward.
Shrieks, cries, bellows of defiance and alarm, and the column of men was thrown into confusion, but even as Grandarse burst from the woods he saw that they were recovering. There were some fools at the back who tried to ride to safety, but they were swiftly picked off by Robin and Imbert. Grandarse could see the commander of the little party, a sandy-haired man who bellowed at his men like a drunken ale-wife, trying to rally them. Older heads than his were already dropping from their mounts and attempting to string their bows; a few saw Grandarse and his companions and drew swords or grabbed lances to defend themselves, but Grandarse ignored them.
Bellowing, ‘Hold!’ at the top of his voice, Grandarse rode straight for the sandy-haired man. The fellow turned and saw his danger too late. He tried to spur away, but Grandarse’s horse rode hard into his flank, the stallion raised his head a moment before slamming into the other with his breast, and there was an audible crack. Rider and horse were thrown to the ground, both sliding on the gravel, the man’s leg beneath the horse, trapping him.
‘Put down your weapons!’ Grandarse roared. ‘All of you! Any man who clings to his sword will have his arm cut from his body! If you try to attack me or my men, you will be killed immediately!’
‘Who are you?’ a man called suspiciously.
Grandarse smiled evilly. ‘I’m the man who’s going to be your centener as soon as you join the army of the Prince of Wales.’
‘Prince of Wales?’ More than one of the men took on anxious expressions, as men will who realise that their past might be about to catch up with them. Some looked warily back the way they had come, as though estimating the distance to safety. The sight of the bodies of those who had already tried to flee was a sobering sight.
‘Any man who doesn’t want to serve his Prince can explain to him why that is,’ Grandarse said comfortably. ‘Who are you, and where are you from?’
The man whom he had barged to the ground remained there, yelping as his rounsey jerked and rolled upright, clambering to its feet. The fellow maintained his grip on the reins and tried to haul himself up, but gave a loud groan and collapsed as his leg gave way. He sat gaping at his twisted leg in disbelief.
‘You! What’s your name?’ Grandarse demanded. He had to repeat the question three times before the man seemed to hear.
‘Simon of Shoreditch,’ he managed. His face was pale, and now was growing green. ‘I am the captain. Shit, my leg, I—’
‘You’ll need a man to set it,’ Grandarse said dismissively as Simon’s eyes rolled up into his head and he toppled sideways. ‘Perhaps now would be a good idea.’
‘I had been told that you were healing, but I am pleased to see you so much improved.’
Berenger stopped and turned to face the Abbot. He had been walking in the orchard, enjoying the tranquillity. All was warm and clean here, with only the humid odour of soil and grass heating in the sun. The orchard felt as comforting as a secure room with a hot fire and a hound basking in the warmth. He almost expected to feel a rumble of contentment through his feet, as if the land itself was enjoying it.
‘I am glad to see you, my Lord Abbot.’
‘And I you.’ The Abbot fell into step beside Berenger, and the two walked in companionable silence for a space.
‘I used to think all smells had a sharpness to them,’ Berenger said at last, quietly.
‘Yes?’
‘I have fought too many battles. I thought everything smelled of blood and steel and burned houses, but here I am learning that there are still pleasant experiences – the world can continue without death.’
‘You have been a warrior for long?’
‘I started when I was a boy, fighting in Scotland. When the King came to France, it was natural that I should join him.’
‘But you have suffered much, eh?’
‘I have been injured. I’ve been struck by quarrels, stabbed, slashed, beaten . . . I have endured.’
‘Not only in battle.’
Berenger shook his head, but didn’t speak. That pain of his loss was still too raw.
The Abbot bent his head as he walked, staring at the small flowers in among the grasses. ‘I was here when the great pestilence appeared. Ten years ago, almost. It’s shocking, isn’t it, how so much has changed since then. We all suffered greatly, of course. When it hit us, I think there were some fifty men working here. We had the choir, of course, but there were all the lay-brothers too, and of all of us, only five survived. One tenth only.’
‘Who else lived?’
‘There was me, the Brother Infirmarer, the Salsarius and one of the lay-brothers who was responsible for the mill. It was a grave position to be in, for of course we could not maintain the estates afterwards. The villagers on whom we depended were themselves sorely depleted, and just holding services for the dead was a dreadful responsibility and took so much of our time. It was truly appalling. But you know that, of course.’
‘Yes.’
‘Where were you when you experienced it?’
Berenger shook his head, then: ‘In Calais.’
‘Alone?’
‘I was afterwards.’ Suddenly Berenger was aware of a thickness in his throat. He had to swallow before he could add: ‘And ever since.’
Grandarse glanced at Hawkwood as the vintaines rounded up their new recruits into a shuffling, embittered group. Hawkwood was watching the prisoners, but he was most carefully eyeing a younger fellow who had the sallow, anxious look of a man who was never too sure where his next meal would come from.
Hawkwood called Dogbreath over. ‘Take him,’ he said.
The youngster was clearly terrified to have been singled out. Dogbreath and Clip had to grab his arms and physically yank him from among his companions.
‘What are you doing? What do you want with me?’
Dogbreath chuckled hoarsely in the back of his throat, while Clip shoved him to the road’s edge and then down in among the trees.
‘What? What did I do? You’re going to kill me, aren’t you? Why? What have I done?’
‘Shut up,’ Clip said. ‘You were in the wrong place, that’s all. It’s just bad luck. Tough. Get used to it.’
‘What are you going to do to me?’
Dogbreath smiled evilly. ‘We’re going to have some fun, that’s what!’
The boy looked as though he was about to faint. There was a rising hubbub behind them from the road, where some of the other men were protesting at the way their
young comrade had been taken away. Clip pushed the lad again and this time he caught his foot on a root and went sprawling, smashing his face on a fallen bough. He pushed himself up on all fours, and Clip kicked him hard in the flank. The lad gave a wailing gasp and collapsed, wheezing.
‘Listen, Prickle,’ Clip said quietly. ‘We want to know some things about you and your mates. If you answer honestly and quickly, you may live. But every time I think you’re lying, my friend here is going to encourage you with his dagger. Understand?’
‘I don’t know anything! You need to ask Simon. He knows what’s happening and things. I don’t, Will never tells us anything!’ He had rolled back to sit and now stared at them with wide, fearful eyes.
‘Who’s Will?’ Clip asked.
‘He’s the leader of our company. When he kicked out the old drunk, he was elected.’
Clip shook his head. ‘I don’t understand you,’ he said, and kicked again.
The lad curled into a ball, whining with a high keening as he cupped his ballocks, rocking back and forth.
‘I told you, I want the truth and that quickly. Who is this Will?’
‘He’s just the leader of our company, like I said.’
‘How long’s he been there?’
‘Since Fripper was kicked out. Two weeks since, I think. I don’t know!’
‘Fripper?’ Dogbreath snarled. ‘Who?’
‘Fripper! He was our captain, but he was drunk and Will kicked him out. I don’t know more than that!’
‘This Fripper – was he so tall?’ Clip asked, holding his hand out. ‘Big scar over his face like this?’ He matched gesture to words, indicating a line across his brow, nose, down across his cheek to his jaw.
‘Yes, yes, that’s him.’
‘What happened to him?’ Dogbreath demanded.
Clip saw him fingering his dagger. Both knew the most common manner in which a captain would lose his command. ‘Did this Will kill him?’
‘No! He was allowed to go. He had friends with him, and they left.’
Clip shot a look at Dogbreath. Dogbreath nodded slowly, and said, ‘That was it? This Will just let him go? Doesn’t sound like any leader I’ve known.’
‘He didn’t mean to,’ the lad said tearfully. He curled into still more of a ball as though, if he could, he would have pushed himself into the soil and away from the two. ‘He had his men try to ambush Fripper, but Fripper saw them and killed them all before they could hurt him.’
‘Not such a drunk, then,’ Clip said.
‘I suppose.’
‘Were you there to help kill him?’
‘No! I was back at the town, waiting with the others.’
‘So you knew he was going to be attacked?’
The boy’s mouth moved, but while his eyes went from one to the other, guessing at the answer they wanted to hear, no sound came.
‘You didn’t think to warn him, did you?’ Dogbreath hissed.
‘He was a commander! What else would he think would happen? It’s the way of things! I didn’t do it, though. I wasn’t there!’
Clip bared his teeth in a snarl, then lunged down, grabbed the squawking lad by the jerkin, and pulled him to his feet.
‘Come, boy. If we’re going to get anywhere tonight, we’ll need you ready to march.’
‘You let them go?’ Will demanded. He stood and began to pace the room. ‘They could have taken you straight to Fripper and let us catch him! In Christ’s name, do you not realise what an opportunity you’ve let fall through your fingers? Are you so moon-struck you didn’t see how important these two men were?’
Peter watched him with his thumbs stuck in his belt, sucking at his teeth while his commander ranted.
Will was a brave man, but his temper could always get the better of him when he thought his own will was being thwarted. Like many who were unsure of their own competence, he would deride the opinions of others when they disagreed with his own. He disliked any problems or interruptions, especially if he felt that they affected his reputation. He was very fond of his reputation.
When Will had first made moves to remove Berenger, it had been enormously popular with the men. On a show of hands in the tavern among Will’s men, there were none who disputed his main contention that Berenger was old and past it. No one who saw his red-rimmed eyes and smelled his acrid breath in the morning could have doubted that. He was growing ridiculous, and no company of fighters could rely on a man who was thought ridiculous by his own fellows. A mercenary army was effective only for so long as the commander was trusted by his men. If he became unpredictable or capricious, the men would lose faith in his ability to win them plunder. Usually the exit for such a man was a rope or a knife. After all, effective discipline was a key requirement of a commander. Without that, mutiny was natural. Not that it was called mutiny. It was the natural order of men, that the strongest would take over for as long as he was strongest.
With Will, the men had put in place a man whom all admired. He had been brave in battle, bold and most important, very lucky. All the targets which engaged his interest had fallen to him. His one failing recently had been the matter of the execution of his predecessor. He had tried, but both attempts had failed. First the attack in town, and then the ambush that had succeeded in killing the woman and her children, leaving a dangerous man in search of revenge. Now Peter had lost the opportunity of finding Fripper when all he had to do was bring this peasant to him.
Peter eased his shoulders as Will ranted. He had plenty of time. After all, Peter was in a strong position. Many of Will’s men had been in his vintaine, and they mostly died in the costly attempts to kill Berenger. Now he relied on Simon and three others to maintain his position. His own power within the Company was reduced.
‘Have you finished yet?’ Peter asked.
‘Don’t you speak to me like that!’
‘I’ll speak how I like,’ Peter said. There was a touch of ice in his voice now. He would not bow to Will here in the hall. He would show respect before the rest of the company, as was natural for discipline, but in private there was no need. As mercenaries they were equals; no, Peter had more men than Will now. He was superior in force. He walked to the table and poured himself a mazer of wine.
Will was filled with rage. ‘You come here and tell me you’ve allowed the link to Fripper to slip through your fingers and expect me to be pleased?’
‘Yes, because if you listen, I can tell you where Berenger is.’
Tuesday 9 August
Berenger felt more comfortable. He tried to put all thoughts of his family from his mind, and instead found himself thinking more and more about the men he had once known.
It was easy to recall men like Geoff, and Jack, and the others in his vintaine. Those had, mostly, been happy days. He had been a respected commander of men, for the most part. Even when he had suffered, such as when he had been sent up to the northern borders to help fight the Scottish, and had received the wound about his face as a result, he had been proud to be among friends. Or that was how he remembered his time.
Of course, many of them had died while he was with them, suffering from an array of stab wounds, cuts, crossbow bolts, even shards of flying metal when gonnes exploded catastrophically, the whirling slivers of metal cutting men’s bodies in half, severing limbs and leaving a hideous trail in their wake, like a lunatic’s demented visions of Hell.
But those days had been better than more recent ones.
There was a curious sense of freedom to be released from Uzerche. He did, in truth, feel recovered from the bleak misery that had settled on him after his final eviction as leader. The memory of Alazaïs lying in the roadway, her two boys at her side, was enough to make him want to weep still, but now her face was fading in his memory. Hers was only one of a number of faces he could remember. There was a woman he had found at the roadside while slogging eastwards during the Crécy campaign, a matron in a doorway in a tiny hamlet near Paris, a young woman still clutching her beheaded
infant at a vill on the march from Crécy to Calais.
In those years there had been so many deaths, so many horrors. He could not comprehend the full magnitude of the disaster that had befallen the land. He had a strange feeling that not one death among all of them had been unique. They had been nothing more than discrete fractions, small parts of the whole swathe of deaths that had encompassed France before, during and after the horror of the pestilence. Alazaïs’s death was no more singular in its way than any number of killings in the last few years.
For the first time, Berenger began to see the wars and his involvement in them less as little distinct moments of time, and more as a continuously flowing river of events, with each battle, each rape, each murder little more than curvetting ripples and currents. Each individual, each separate, but nevertheless a part of the flow. Stopping the death and killing would be like damming a great river. It was impossible.
A sudden vista of dead faces sprang into his mind. Men, women, children, lying on the ground like a carpet of corpses, a tapestry woven from misery. Most he recognised. Men whose lives he had ended with his blades or arrows, women whom he had seen dying at the hands of his companions, some of them staring at him now as though pleading for his aid. He had not been able to save them, and even now, although he offered up prayers for their souls, he knew it was not enough. He had done too much harm in his life to be able to make reparation now. There was nothing he could do.
‘How could any man or woman want to bring a child to life?’ he wondered. How indeed. To bring life into the midst of all this destruction and horror seemed perverse. There was no sense in it. No, if he could have his life again, he would avoid bloodshed. He would rest his bones in a quiet valley like this.
Perhaps he should be a monk, he pondered. A man dedicated to the souls of the toilers; a man who would forsake the world and spend his time in prayer and contemplation. That was an appealing idea now. In the past he had never desired more than a home with a child or two to carry on his name, a good woman who would see to it that his table was full, that his guests would always be welcomed, and that his bed was warm at night. Those dreams seemed so immature and pathetic now. Better by far to fight with the Heavenly Host against evil.
Blood of the Innocents Page 17