Blood of the Innocents

by Michael Jecks

  ‘I doubt many of the peasants about here would recognise such a fine distinction.’

  Berenger pulled out his knife. ‘Perhaps they wouldn’t. But I do, and that’s what matters to me just now.’

  Berenger could feel the eyes of the men on him as he rode into the camp.

  Imbert frowned, then grinned. ‘You had good taste, then. A nice young cony!’

  If Berenger had looked at him just then, he would have killed the man. As it was, he rode on, and did not halt until he found a priest only a short distance from Sir John’s pavilion.

  ‘Here, Father,’ he called. ‘I have a maid for you.’

  ‘Eh?’ the priest was a fellow in his middle thirties, with a fair paunch and jowls that wobbled as he spoke. ‘What has happened to her?’

  ‘Someone from our army captured her, raped her, crucified her, and then killed her slowly.’

  ‘You sound very sure.’

  ‘I have seen this work before. I know what he does.’

  The priest looked at him closely. ‘Come in here, and bring her with you.’

  Inside the priest’s tent, Berenger laid her gently on a bench before the altar. ‘She shouldn’t have died like this.’

  ‘You said you knew of the man who did this?’

  ‘Yes. And if I can, I will stop him.’ Berenger studied the priest. He had the look of a lad who had been born to privilege, and who had enjoyed a soft life in the Church, but there was also something else in his eyes: a hardness; a resolution. ‘I am sorry, I don’t know your name.’

  ‘You can call me Father Paul.’

  ‘Thank you, Father. What else can I do about it?’

  ‘If the man is here, I can have him punished for his crimes. The Prince wants bold men who will fight men for him, not weaklings, cowards, and those driven by the Devil to assault women. Tell me all you can.’

  So Berenger spoke of the man, Denisot, and the girl he had found, and then all the other bodies that had been discovered in the last weeks. ‘He killed this maid only last night. He will do so again. Be assured of that.’

  Thursday 8 September

  Berenger was with the vintaine on the far left flank for much of the day after depositing the girl’s body with the priest. They slept where they halted that night on top of a little knoll, all the men exhausted after their efforts riding up before the rest of the main columns, checking the houses and barns that lay dotted about the countryside.

  Twice the day before they had run into optimistic groups of peasants wielding scythes and billhooks and had to fight them. They had no difficulty in routing them. Berenger’s men were growing more experienced by the day, and Robin was already showing his worth as a subordinate, taking Berenger’s orders and reining in the men when their natural enthusiasm for chasing and hunting down the fellows who bolted took over. Even Imbert appeared to have taken Berenger at his word and now remained with the others. Several times the peasants bolted towards woods and copses where Imbert was keen to follow them, and only Robin’s stern commands stopped him. Imbert was beginning to realise that without the rest of the vintaine, his life would be in jeopardy if he was to get into a fight.

  Today, however, Berenger and the rest were sitting near their horses and waiting for something to happen.

  They had ridden up here to this hillock overlooking the town of Tours last night, and now they sat and watched as English soldiers will.

  ‘Aye, not worth the fight, I tell you,’ Clip said in his whine.

  ‘Look at it, man! There must be ten thousand people living in that place! It’s huge!’ Saul protested.

  ‘Big is fine, but it doesn’t mean they have money, does it?’ Clip said.

  ‘Look at the place!’ Imbert said greedily. He licked his lips. ‘Of course they have money!’

  Clip shook his head. ‘Ye haven’t the brains you were born with! Look, two little enclosed areas, there and there, both with a wall, and then another wall to surround the two others and the suburbs between. And how do they look? They look like they’re falling down already. Do ye think they’d let their walls get in that condition, if the merchants and burgesses inside had money?’

  Robin peered at the walls. ‘If they didn’t expect to be attacked, they might well allow the walls to become dilapidated, and that third construction looks as though it is unfinished.’

  ‘Man, they’ve heard of us in this area for months now. I’m telling you, if they had any money, they’d have spent it on the walls.’

  ‘What do we care?’ Pierre said. He and his son were sitting close together as was their wont. ‘We will be thrown at it, anyway. We must hope that there is something inside that makes the sacrifice of so many men worthwhile.’

  ‘There’s nothing there worth the taking,’ Clip said. ‘We’ll get thrown at the walls anyway, and we’ll all get killed, and that for nothing.’

  ‘Shut up, Clip,’ Robin said in his automatic response to Clip’s whine of their impending deaths.

  ‘Aye, well, you can tell me to shut up, but it’ll happen.’

  ‘Why?’ Imbert said. ‘If there’s no money, why would the Prince ask us to take the place? You’re talking shite.’

  ‘Am I?’ Clip said, leering horribly.

  ‘It is the bridge,’ Denisot said wearily. ‘The Prince wants that bridge.’

  Clip nodded. ‘Do you know nothing, Imbert? See, there’s a nice stone bridge over the river, isn’t there? And the only thing stopping us crossing it is that shit-hole of a town. Doesn’t matter whether the men living there are the richest in the land or the poorest. Our Prince will want to cross and meet with the Duke of Lancaster on the other side. He won’t do that while the town blocks his path, will he? So he’ll throw us at it. It’s always us, after all. We’ll all get killed.’

  When the summons to see Sir John de Sully came, Berenger was still chuckling to himself at the sight of Saul and Robin wrestling with Clip, who shrieked and complained continually until Imbert threatened to fill his mouth with horse dung.

  ‘What is it about Will and his men?’ Sir John demanded as soon as Berenger approached.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I’ve just had Father Paul talking to me. He tells me that you have been going on at him about Will again. I don’t want to hear any more about it, Frip!’

  ‘I believe he’s responsible for the murders of these children and women.’

  ‘Perhaps he is! If not him, it’s someone in his company. So what? This was your company once, Frip. You’ve allowed your anger that he took your men from you to colour all your actions since.’

  ‘That’s not fair, Sir John! I only—’

  ‘You only what? You only thought it was reasonable for women to be raped and murdered by your men while you were their leader? You thought it was all right while the men were acting under your command? Tell me, Frip, because I do not understand!’

  ‘These are children, Sir John,’ Berenger snapped. ‘You haven’t seen them. Raped, crucified and murdered, like so many—’

  ‘Like so many victims of this army, Frip. We are here bent on destruction, Vintener, to bring the full horrors of war to everyone in the community here! It is our task to bring about the collapse of the people so that they no longer want to support the man who calls himself their King, but come over to the legitimate Peace of King Edward! It is the aim and desire of the Prince that this army of his shall wage war so ruthlessly and unmercifully that the people will submit to him without loosing an arrow, and you say that a few children dead is a reason to call into question the commander of a successful company?’

  ‘If you want to bring the people into the King’s Peace, it is better to show them that there is at least a semblance of justice and law under his rule,’ Berenger said.

  Sir John stared at him for a long moment. At last he said, with forced control, ‘If that is how you feel, Berenger Fripper, perhaps it would be best for you to leave the Prince’s army now. I will not delay you. Robin seems a competent leader, and I am sure he
could take over your responsibilities without difficulty. If you wish to leave the Prince’s service, and mine, you can go freely, in honour of the good service you gave him ten years ago.’

  ‘No, I don’t want to leave.’

  ‘Then I will have your word that you will leave this matter alone. I want nothing more to do with dead children and crucifixion. Do you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, Sir John.’

  ‘Do you not think we have enough to worry about as it is?’ he added.

  ‘Sir?’

  Sir John had turned and was standing at his table reading messages passed to him by his clerk. When he spoke, it was without the rancour of the last minutes. He was engrossed. ‘Eh? Oh, it’s the same as ten years ago, Frip. The French are snapping at our heels now. They’ll want to bring us to action as soon as they can. Never mind. I’ll have Will and his men at the rear of our column and we’ll see how we get on. I’ll want your men to the fore again. But for now, we have to concentrate on this town. We’ll attack in the morning.’

  ‘My men?’

  Sir John appeared to focus on him. He frowned. ‘Yes. You can join them. You will be led by Bartholomew Burghersh. I will inform him.’

  ‘Gaillarde!’ Denisot shouted.

  He was hunting down a drink of something to make him feel less waterlogged and more human, when he saw the figure moving between fires and huddles of men. ‘Gaillarde!’

  There could be no doubting who it was! It was his wife! She had turned half-towards him and he recognised her profile as the firelight caught her. He ran towards her, and then a large man stood in his path, and he slowed, baffled, as he took in the face.

  ‘It’s all right, Bernard, don’t hurt him!’ Gaillarde called. The man before Denisot, a large, dark-bearded man with a scowling face, moved aside. As he stepped from Denisot’s way, Denisot saw that Gaillarde was watching the man as though fearfully.

  ‘Gaillarde! Come, I’ll take you back with me and we can . . .’

  ‘I don’t know who you are, but she’s staying here with me. She’s married to me.’

  Denisot was so stunned that for a moment he could only gape. Then he shook his head. ‘She is my wife, and has been many years past.’

  ‘She is mine now.’ Bernard pushed past Denisot and took his place in front of Gaillarde.

  ‘You have not the right!’

  ‘She has chosen. Now fuck off!’

  ‘Gaillarde! Come with me.’

  ‘You heard him, Denisot. I am his wife now. I am safer here.’

  ‘Safer?’ he cried, but Gaillarde turned away, and Denisot, head downcast, watched as she crouched at the nearer fire next to a younger man who was laughing at his expense.

  ‘It was humiliating,’ Denisot said to Berenger later. ‘I didn’t know what to do or say.’

  ‘You came away. That was the right thing. It means you’re still alive. Don’t pick a fight with those men,’ Berenger said.

  Imbert grinned wolfishly. ‘Let’s go and get her tonight. We could creep in among them and take her. If any of them try to keep her, we . . .’

  ‘Would kill them and then be hanged for mutiny or fighting among our own,’ Berenger said flatly. ‘No. Denisot, did it never occur to you that the woman might have been willing to go with them? She might have considered you likely to be dead, after all.’

  ‘Well, we had a bad few years after the children died,’ Denisot admitted. He was close to tears. He simply could not believe that his wife, his loyal, if unhappy, companion had chosen to desert him. After all those years of loneliness, he had thought that they were about to enter a new period of happiness.

  But she had chosen another man. Denisot, after such a long journey to rescue her, had been rejected by her. He walked away from the vintaine, seeking solitude to nurse his hurt and incomprehension.

  Friday 9 September

  ‘Into line, you maggots!’ Grandarse roared, and the men shuffled and jostled into the semblance of a straight row. ‘And get those strings strung!’

  Berenger stood in the drizzle and felt the water running over his brow and down his neck. His waxed cowl and hat were no help when the weather was like this. The rain had fallen steadily for the last two hours, all while the men had been standing to, waiting for the assault, and now, at last, it seemed that they were going to be moving.

  He watched the rest of his vintaine. The words of Sir John had cut, as the knight had intended. Berenger had never yet run away from a battle or left either his men or his King when he was needed, but that was clearly what Sir John had expected. Or he had threatened him with expulsion and exile from the army in order to shock him into his senses.

  Berenger didn’t know whether he was mad or not. Only a matter of weeks ago, he would have been unconcerned about women and girls who had been killed unless, as he had seen at Uzerche, the death of the victim might have an impact on him or his men by rousing rebellion among the population. Pointless murder was just that: pointless. In an army like this, there was logic in creating fear and horror. But it was one thing to inspire dread, and quite another to harbour a man who, for his own perverted reasons, wanted to torture and kill in that cruel manner. A man like that must be weak. He wanted his gratification at the expense of those so much more weak in comparison to him, so that he must pick on young girls.

  Berenger heard a horn blow, then another, and the mass of men on his right began to tramp along the plain towards the French walls. One and a half thousand men armed with shields and spears began their walk towards battle and death.

  There was a shout, then cries went up from their enemies and Grandarse gave a hoarse bellow, ‘Archers!’ that was repeated along the line of bowmen as each vintener took up the call.

  ‘Archers! Nock!’

  Berenger heard the familiar commands up and down the line. They were acted upon almost without thought now.

  ‘Archers! Draw!’

  The noise of creaking as all the men lifted their great bows overhead and then drew them, both arms lowering, the yew tensing and crackling in their hands, the strings taut as wires, the men grunting as they held the weapons on target, shoulders burning already with the immense effort.

  ‘Make sure you allow for the distance, you shitheads! Don’t hit our fucking men! Now: loose!’

  A flurry of fletchings catching the air, the whistle as the shafts sprang away from their bows, and the men were ordered to nock again, and a second and third flight were gone before Berenger could take three breaths.

  He nocked a fresh missile and prepared himself.

  The men were moving more urgently now. He could see their leaders at the front, urging on their companies by their own example, waving their swords or holding spears aloft, and then starting to trot onwards. Suddenly the entire line of English was moving more swiftly, breaking into a faster pace as it reached the flatter lands before the town.

  But then the line faltered. A series of volleys were launched at them from crossbows at the walls, and even with his eyesight Berenger saw the front row collapse like reeds under the scythe. The next ranks were already there, but they too stuttered, and there were splashes as men fell.

  ‘Bastards must have dug pits or something,’ Robin said.

  The men were floundering now, some with their arms waving as if to aid them walking. Berenger could just make out the French darting from their walls, loosing their bolts, others with slings releasing their stones, while occasional gouts of flame spoke of small gonnes at the walls.

  ‘Archers! Archers! Give them support, in Christ’s name!’ Grandarse bellowed, and the men sprang to their duties again, sending shafts sleeting towards the walls. No time for worrying about picking a target at this range: it was a case of putting as many arrows into the sky as possible, hoping that even if they missed the enemy, the fact of their arrival would drive many French defenders to seek the safety of an overhanging roof of some sort.

  The English were making heavy weather. They struggled on, but it was clear that they would n
ot breach the walls. Men fell and were trampled, and over the noise of the trumpets and shouts, the screaming of the wounded was growing louder. Still the English moved on, depleted now, but determined.

  Berenger held up his hand. ‘Stop sending arrows now,’ he said. ‘They’re too close to the French.’

  The English had made it to the line of the outer wall, but there they were held. There were too many defenders, and for every Englishman that reached the weaker points, there were three Frenchmen with rocks to be hurled, or crossbows, or even spears to stab the man in the face or at the throat.

  That was when the rain began to fall in earnest. Berenger was blinded immediately as the rain pelted down. His hat was nothing more than an encumbrance, and he pulled it off, tucking it into the front of his jack, but there was little point. The rain was so torrential that all he could see before him was a grey mist, with unrecognisable shapes that may or may not have been men, ebbing and flowing like wraiths in the wind. The very thought made him swallow uncomfortably. Perhaps the ghosts of past French warriors were here to repel the English invaders?

  ‘Archers! Hold fast!’ Grandarse called, and this time Berenger could hear the weariness in his tone. Even Grandarse had endured enough marching and rain in the last few weeks.

  They did not even penetrate the main wall.

  Later, as they marched back to their waterlogged camp, Berenger was struck by the atmosphere among the men. There was a sullenness about them all. The men were not despairing, but they were not far from it, and that was a cause for concern.

  Berenger was sitting in the limited shelter provided by a cloak tied between a couple of trees and two thongs that took the lower corners to pegs in the ground when Archibald found him that evening.

  ‘Space for a small one?’ Archibald asked.

  Berenger grunted and shifted to one side. There was barely enough room for him, and he took up less than Archibald, but there was a feeling of comradeship between the two from their past service.

  ‘I heard you were helping with the assault?’ Archibald said.

  Berenger had tried to light a fire, but the wood was so damp that his tinder could not light even the thin sticks of pine he managed to rescue from the lower branches of the trees.