Blood of the Innocents

by Michael Jecks

  At least she had one friend here.

  Berenger and Grandarse took their leave of the knight, walking back into the sunlight. Saul was sitting on the grass with his back against a trestle; Fulk and Loys looked up hopefully from a bench they had commandeered for their own use, and rose to follow Grandarse when he beckoned them.

  He led them between carts and wagons, past men gambling on barrel-tops with dice, and out past the butchers slaughtering captured cattle. The noise here was deafening. There were hawkers bellowing their wares, women offering themselves, armourers clattering and hammering in an irregular timpani, smiths beating out horses’ shoes, while others were spinning the grinding stones, sharpening blades ready for the coming battles, sending sparks flying in all directions.

  ‘This is a vast army!’ Loys said breathlessly. Working men stretched away in all directions.

  Grandarse looked about him dispassionately. ‘Not so large as we had ten year ago, eh, Frip?’

  ‘No. Then we had twelve or thirteen thousand, I think.’

  ‘Half as much again as this, then,’ Grandarse said. ‘Still, at least there are some folk here who’re useful.’

  He led them around a series of smaller, lighter wagons, and at the other side Berenger’s face broke into a grin. ‘Master Gynour!’ he bellowed, and hurried to meet Archibald.

  Archibald smiled and grasped his arm, but even as he did so, he thought how unwell Berenger looked. ‘You are well, Master Fripper?’

  ‘Never better,’ Berenger declared.

  Not so, by my troth, Archibald thought. He could see the bloodshot eyes, the pallor of the skin, and he could tell that Berenger was thinner than he had been when they had last met. ‘Come, have a little cider with me.’

  ‘You have cider still?’ Berenger chuckled. He knew only an overwhelming pleasure to see this old friend again. ‘You always preferred cider to ale, didn’t you?’

  ‘Sometimes, yes. Today I am very thirsty. Do you have water?’

  He poured the drink, and saw how Berenger’s hand shook slightly as he took the cup. That explained much.

  ‘So how is your collection of toys?’ Berenger said when they were sitting.

  ‘My gonnes? I have command of a small company now. We have four great gonnes and some ribauldequins.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Small barrels set on a frame like a handcart. I have two that Ed and I serve, each with three barrels. We can set them off one after another, so that they cut down more men. They are the way of the future, Frip! The great guns are good for knocking down walls, but these little ribauldequins, if we had one for every ten archers, would revolutionise warfare.’

  His eyes took on a dreamy look. Berenger smiled to himself. He knew how Archibald’s mind worked. In his mind, he was seeing massed ranks of these handcarts, all belching smoke and flame like an army of dragons, and before them, swathes of French knights and men-at-arms falling like sheaves of corn before the scythe.

  ‘So Ed is still with you.’

  Archibald’s attention came back to Berenger, reluctantly, from his dream. ‘Him? Oh, yes. And Béatrice, too.’

  Grandarse left Berenger and the others to return to Sir John. He was standing near a fire, and his shrewd glance fixed on Grandarse when the centener appeared. Grandarse thought it was like being spitted on an ash spear three yards long.

  ‘Grandarse, will Fripper be well?’

  ‘He’ll be fine, Sir John. Just give ’im a few days and he’ll be the same Fripper you knew before.’

  ‘You’ve seen as many men like that as I have,’ Sir John said. He stared down at the ground by his feet. ‘It is sad to see a man who was once so hearty and eager changed. Don’t deny it, Grandarse. His spirit is broken, isn’t it? I saw how he set his cup of wine down, as did you, I dare say. He has fought in one battle too many.’

  ‘He’ll be fine. Give him a chance. It’ll only take the first action to bring back the old Fripper,’ Grandarse said as reassuringly as he could.

  Sir John cast a glance at him and was rewarded with the shifty look of a thief with the purse still in his hands. ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m sure of it, on my ballocks,’ Grandarse said. ‘He’ll be fine. He was the best vintener I ever had, and he will be again.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ Sir John said. ‘Because if there is any doubt about his skills, his judgement or his abilities, you will leave him. We have a long ride ahead of us, and I will not endanger our task because of one feeble-minded fool who depends too much on wine for his courage.’

  ‘You question his courage?’

  ‘I question everything about him, Grandarse. Keep him with you, then, and ensure that he is safe. I want no man who is not safe and firm in the line.’

  It was his eyes that she noticed first of all.

  Béatrice had known Berenger for almost a year when she last saw him. He had remained in Calais, while she went with Archibald, originally to London, and then, a year ago, to Bordeaux. When she’d left Berenger with his new wife, he had been happy. If ever a man could be said to be contented, that man was Berenger. He had at last found a wife, and his future looked happy. Looking into his eyes, Béatrice could see only happiness as he gazed over at his woman.

  Now his eyes were empty. There was life glittering deep in their depths, but this was not the man she had known ten years before.

  ‘It is good to see you again, Master Fripper,’ she said. It was a formal greeting, but somehow suitable. Neither of them was young, and neither was unmarked by the passing of the years. She had been orphaned during the crisis in the year before the battle at Crécy. Her father was accused of treachery and executed, and it was only the English under Berenger that had saved her. She owed him and his group her life.

  ‘I hope you are well,’ he said.

  ‘I have a good master in Archibald.’

  ‘You never married?’ he asked, and glanced at her sidelong. She was as attractive as he remembered.

  ‘Me? No. I never found the right man,’ she said, staring at her hands. ‘You were married, I thought?’

  ‘The pestilence.’

  She nodded, her head on one side. ‘I am so sorry. You were happy?’

  ‘For a little, yes. She bore me a son, too. But the boy died. They all died,’ he said. ‘What of you?’

  ‘I am content,’ she said firmly. ‘It has been enough for me to be maid to Archibald and Ed.’

  She could not explain it to him. How could he understand? She was a woman without lands, money, or even family. Her life was ruined in France, and in England she would always be looked at askance. Men in England were the same as men anywhere: they thought that a hand on a woman’s rump or breast was a compliment, just as an offer of money for a quick knee-trembler in an alley would be accepted with alacrity. The more wine a man had drunk, the more convinced he became that his tarse was the only one in the world that could interest a woman. Especially, she had come to realise, a French woman. She was exotic, compared with the standard fare at the docks or in the stews south of the Thames. They all thought that she was delectable and assumed her to be ever-available. At least living with Archibald and Ed, many of the less welcome overtures could be evaded.

  Especially since most men still viewed Archibald’s talents as being only a short walk from devilry.

  ‘You never thought to wed either of them?’

  She blinked. Archibald? she wanted to say. A fat, old man with a beard so thick that she was almost convinced mice and rats lived in it? A man who could never wash away the blackness from his skin because the powder burns had tattooed him? Or Ed, a boy who was still younger than her. ‘It would be like marrying my father or brother,’ she said.

  There came a bellow from Archibald, and she turned to see her master carrying a heavy barrel and putting it on to a wagon.

  ‘I am coming!’ she called.

  ‘I will see you on the march,’ Berenger said.

  She nodded and began to hurry to Archibald,
but after only a few paces she turned and watched Berenger as he walked, his head bowed, back towards Grandarse.

  ‘They would never match the man I wanted,’ she breathed sadly, and then pushed the thought from her mind. Time enough later for mourning, when she was in her blankets and could indulge her misery to the fullest extent.

  Berenger had never noticed her feelings for him. He couldn’t reciprocate her affection in the past, and although she was shocked to find that her heart was still devoted to him, it was clear that he had no feelings for her.

  That evening Berenger sat about the fire and observed his new vintaine as the men chatted.

  There was an atmosphere of half-suppressed excitement among the men. When Berenger was presented, he sensed the immediate suspicion and distrust. It wasn’t like the old days, when he’d had Jack Fletcher and Matt and Geoff and the others; then he could read the temper of the men in an instant. Now he was aware of wariness from all the men under his command. God, but he needed a pot of wine!

  The only two whom he had known from previous campaigns were Clip and Dogbreath, and they were both locked in their own worlds so tightly it would be a miracle for him or any other man to get any sense from them.

  These others, though, were hard to read.

  Robin of London was a pale-faced man of perhaps thirty years, with the build of a smith. He had a naturally slender frame, but his muscles were taut and wiry under a thin skin that spoke of long weeks with little to eat. Every muscle stood out clearly when he moved an arm, and although there was no great bulk to him, when asked he could lift great weights. He was reluctant to talk about his past life, but because of his paleness, Berenger assumed that he was one of those who had been gathered from a gaol and offered a pardon if he would fight for his King. He certainly had the mistrustful look of a prisoner, shooting little glances all about him as though expecting an attack at any moment. Sitting on his rump now with a bowl held to his mouth, he had his hands gripping the bowl in a way that concealed the contents. It looked much like other men Berenger had seen in gaols. Yet Clip had told him that this Robin had commanded the vintaine for the last weeks, and had done so well.

  There were also the two Guyennois: Père et Fils, as the others called them. The older, Pierre, was a rugged-looking man whose hands showed none of the calluses or scars of a working man, and he shivered. He was better accustomed to the warmth of a hall’s fire than living out of doors. His son, Felix, had deep-set eyes that looked away when someone peered in his direction. He bore clear signs of guilt, and Berenger wondered what he had done. It seemed clear enough that the two had left their home because of some crime committed by the boy, but what it might be, Berenger had no idea. Nor did he particularly want to know. He was happy to think that the past of any members of his vintaine were their own business, so long as they obeyed him when he needed them to.

  He had enough shame and guilt to bear as it was. He didn’t need to take on another man’s. A sudden desire for wine came over him. Rather than dwelling on his own inadequacies, he glanced at the others. He would have to get to know them all as quickly as possible. He must know their strengths and weaknesses before they were thrown into a fight.

  One, a taller, fair-haired man with a narrow face and swift, birdlike movements called Baz, was picking at a bone with his teeth. He glanced at Berenger with disinterest, as though he didn’t think the vintener would be around for very long and wasn’t worthy of his attention. Beside him, slurping pottage from a bowl, was Gilles, a chubby fellow of not yet twenty, who had the look of a stable-boy or similar. He was plainly here on a great adventure, and was desperately keen to fit in with the other, more experienced and older men. Imbert, behind him, was tall and watchful. He listened a great deal, but tended to keep his own council. Berenger thought he could be a source of dissent in the group, because men like that tended to hoard secrets. Occasionally they might share their perceptions with others, and that could lead to disputes.

  There were two fellows from Bristol, Gilles and Nick, who had known each other for years. In their middle to late twenties, Gilles was under middle height, slim and had a quick sense of humour. Nick was shorter. He had a smile constantly fixed to his face. He wasn’t a deep thinker, from what Berenger had seen, but he would be an asset in terms of building camaraderie in the unit. There were few men like him, who could generally find something humorous in any situation.

  For all that, he was happy that he had Loys, Fulk and Saul in his vintaine. All were known to him, and their abilities were respected. His only reservations lay with Fulk, who was not by nature an archer, but he had the strength to draw a bow and loose it. In a general mêlée, that would be adequate. Accuracy against a mass of horses and men was less essential. Speed mattered more.

  Yes, Berenger felt that there were enough characters to meld a coherent fighting unit from all these men. His main doubt was his own ability to lead them and fight. He was not so young as when he had led the vintaine to Crécy and Calais ten years ago.

  Looking down, he realised that all this while he had been fingering the crucifix.

  He was not the same man at all.

  Thursday 18 August

  ‘They want to send us away? We only just got here!’ Saul said despairingly.

  ‘Sir John wants to see how we work,’ Grandarse said. ‘Every horse, every ox, every man has to be used to their burdens. He wants to know ye’re accustomed to our packs. The beasts too. Aye, and as we ride on, every bishop in their churches will mutter curses towards us, and the townspeople will stare and wonder, quaking at the thought of Englishmen marching towards them. The alarm is spreading throughout France. Their King must hear that we are here, he must tremble to hear of our approach; he must fear us so much that he gathers his army and comes to meet us.’

  ‘So he will come all the faster to meet us? That doesn’t sound sensible,’ Robin said. He snorted and leaned back on one arm. ‘You are saying that all the French will be prepared for us? The towns and villages where we hoped to find plunder will be deserted and emptied, and instead we will find soldiers and archers to contest our path?’

  Fulk looked across at him. ‘You thought there would be none? The longer we sit here and practise what we must, the better a force we become. In the last day I have learned how to hit a target with a bow. You have learned how to fight with a sword and axe. We grow more strong as we learn.’

  ‘For my part I would just hurry on,’ Felix said.

  Berenger looked across at Grandarse. He stood like a rich merchant viewing a new market. Before him, the men looked less convinced. Pierre looked grey-faced and fretful at the thought of fighting.

  ‘Do not wish for excitement,’ Berenger said. He prodded the fire with a stick, urging the flames to cook his oatcake more swiftly. ‘Excitement is the last thing a soldier should crave.’

  Grandarse gave a loud belch. ‘Aye, Frip’s got the right of it there! Peace, rest, ale and women, yes, but not excitement. Excitement isn’t all it’s said to be. Give me boredom and a wench, and I can fill my time.’

  Pierre and his son were staring into the flames as the men waited for their cakes to cook through. Berenger had always insisted that his men should have something in their bellies before he asked them to ride or fight, and Grandarse knew better than to try to persuade him to change that habit.

  ‘What is our actual task?’ Berenger asked Grandarse as the other men began to chatter about women they had slept with and the best taverns in London or Bordeaux.

  ‘If anyone asks, we are scouting ahead. If we happen to run into someone called Will, and liberate a woman he is holding, that’s up to us. Especially if the thieving scrote happens to have a lot of plunder with him that we could usefully look after!’

  ‘So it is approved for us to ride on ahead?’ Fulk asked.

  ‘Aye, lad. But we have to be careful. There is likely a large French army coming down to meet us, man. If we’re found pulling our tarses out there, we’ll get more excitement than we�
�d want!’

  Gaillarde could see the men gathering in a huddle. She was cold, and while her feet were less painful than they had been, she was yet aware that they were not healing as she would have liked, with the constant marching.

  They were close to another village, but this time Will and his men turned west and moved off the main track. Soon she saw why. Smoke was rising through the trees, and there was a series of buildings deep in the valley.

  Suddenly the atmosphere changed. It was like being out when a storm was brewing. There was a feeling that the men, their animals, their prisoners, all were charged. To touch another would lead to painful sparks. But there was nothing there in the space between people, it was in the people themselves. It was a thrilling of excitement and tension in the men as they prepared themselves for another raid on an unsuspecting community.

  She would have rushed forward to warn them, if she had the strength. But she didn’t. She was empty of all feeling. She was aware of compassion, but there was no power in her to bring it to bear for the benefit of another. Instead, when Bernard pointed her towards a gap in the trees and told her to wait there with the other women and prisoners, she meekly complied. Two men were set to guard them all, and they stood with their knuckles white as they gripped their polearms, watching their captives, but all the while listening to the other sounds.

  Gaillarde set her back to a tree and slowly allowed her legs to give way until she was resting on the ground. She was exhausted. The thought of moving on any further was hideous. She had no more energy. She could not cope with another mile.

  There was a scream. Then another.

  The two guards laughed, and one slapped his thigh to hear the panic. They could hear bellows and whoops, like huntsmen after a hart, and then a long shriek that died away shivering like an ululation at an unimaginable distance. On the wind they heard more screams, muffled now. Some of the women with Gaillarde wept at the sounds. They knew what was happening further on in the woods. For her part, Gaillarde was too weary to feel sympathy, compassion or anything else. She was only aware of a heaviness of spirit that left her feeling empty.