Fields of Glory (12 page)

‘Good. Bring him inside.’

It was not Bakere’s fault, Sir John thought, but he did assume that his knight was too superior and elevated to sink to cleaning his own weapons. Damn that! Sir John had cleaned and
sharpened and oiled and polished his own weapons for more than thirty years now. When he was too old to see to his own equipment, he would cease riding to war. For him, it was an essential part of
a knight’s duty, to take care of his weaponry. His life depended on all being in perfect working order.

If he didn’t like it, his esquire could damn well seek a new master.

‘Fripper, come, take a cup of wine with me,’ he said.

‘You asked to see me, Sir John?’

‘Yes,’ Sir John said. While Bakere poured them both wine, Sir John studied the fellow. He saw that Berenger’s face was haggard. That was natural. They were all tired, after
marching or riding all over the countryside without a proper bed. Although they had not been forced to endure the worst of the weather, marching in the heat was itself exhausting. A man trudged on,
thinking wistfully of ale and wine, while the sweat soaked his hat and clothing. Soon, straps for knapsacks would wear away a man’s shoulder, and blood would begin to ooze. Necks would be
rubbed raw, feet would develop blisters, and a man’s temper would fray. It was all too common, and no one was immune.

Still, there was something about this man that was familiar. He recalled that feeling from before, when he had visited Grandarse’s centaine.

‘I know you, don’t I?’ he said.

‘You and I walked together some years ago,’ Berenger said. ‘We crossed the sea and made our way on foot to Avignon.’

Sir John was still for a moment, then, ‘You were with me then?’

‘I was one of the party with the Welshman.’

‘In God’s name, that was a long time ago,’ Sir John breathed.

‘Sixteen years, I think.’

‘The years have not been kind to you.’

Berenger gave a grin. ‘Sir John, do you have a mirror?’

The knight gave a chuckle. ‘Aye. Every white hair has been earned.’

They were quiet for a while, both remembering: a long journey, walking to visit the Pope and deliver their charge into his care.

‘Do you ever hear from him?’ Berenger asked.

Sir John peered into his wine. ‘There was never anyone to hear from. The man didn’t exist, did he?’ he said quietly.

‘No.’ Berenger knew that their mission that year had been secret. No one could know of their companion, because he was officially dead. To talk of him had, for years, carried the
threat of execution.

‘But now, I think he is dead. You have heard that our King’s son has been created Prince of Wales, like the King’s father?’

‘The King never took the title for himself, did he?’ Berenger said.

‘His father never relinquished it,’ Sir John said.

Berenger nodded. Edward II had kept the Welsh title for his own. He had always been inordinately proud of his Principality, and the people who remained loyal to him even at the last, when the
rest of his realm crumbled and submitted to his adulterous wife and her lover.

Sir John took a deep breath and held up his drink. ‘To the health of a man who was already dead when he walked with us to Avignon,’ he said. The two toasted the memory, and then Sir
John frowned. ‘Talking of Welshmen, there are rumours of disharmony between them and your men.’

‘Sir?’

‘The Welsh say that you’ve started a feud with them. It will not do.’

‘That is untrue.’

‘Have you not come to blows with them?’

‘You want an answer?’

Sir John eyed him. ‘Not really, no. But be wary of them, Fripper. They are dangerous enemies to have. Stronger men have been ruined by them.’

Berenger’s face went hard for a moment as he remembered the woman murmuring, ‘Merci,’ to him in the town’s square. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll try to remember
that.’

‘Are your men bearing up?’

‘Yes. Well enough.’

‘We’ll see their mettle when we have a real fight.’

‘Yes, Sir John.’

‘Good. And keep away from the Welsh, if you can.’

‘We will try to.’

‘That will help. You must remember that the Prince has himself only recently been elevated to Prince of Wales. Like his grandfather, he is proud of his Principality and its
people.’

‘I understand,’ Berenger said. Then he added: ‘There is one among them, Erbin, who delights in trouble. At Barfleur he burned the town, killing many.’

‘So it
is
true about the feud, then.’

‘Not on my part, Sir John, no. But he may have taken it into his head to cause friction whenever he sees me and my men, no matter what we do or say.’

Sir John considered. ‘Avoid him, and all will be well.’

‘Yes, sir. And do you have any idea when we are likely to find the French?’

Sir John smiled. ‘They will try to stop us very soon – before we can turn towards Paris.’

‘Paris?’ Berenger repeated, shocked. That was a vast city, from all he had heard. It would take more than a few score knights and ten thousand archers to breach her great
defences.

‘We aren’t here on a reconnaissance, Fripper. We’re here to establish the King’s rights. For that, we need Paris. Or at least, to make a demonstration of our power that
will so shock the French and Parisians, that they surrender to us.’

‘Yes, Sir John,’ Berenger said, but his mind was reeling.
Paris
! He had faith in his men, his army and his King, but to take Paris would be like trying to seize Jerusalem
again! It was an appalling idea!

Sir John watched him go, grinning at Berenger’s reaction. They could not take Paris, of course. That would need many more men – he knew that perfectly well. But the French
didn’t, and if the English made a strong enough demonstration in the direction of the capital, they might so raise the fever of terror in Paris that the citizenry would hand over the keys
without a fight. If all went well.

Aye. If all went well.

17 July

They were marching at last.

‘Christ Jesus, it’s a relief to be moving,’ Geoff declared.

Wisp just grunted.

They had made their way down to the south of St Vaast-la-Hogue, and now the vintaine was descending a hill on a road that had been built for a peasant’s donkeys, rather than wagons.

‘You’re quiet,’ Jack said to Wisp.

Wisp peered up at the sky. How could he explain his despair? The sight of the hanged cat was an evil omen, no matter how a man looked at it. He was sure his premonition of doom was correct.
‘I am well enough,’ he said.

‘Glad I am to hear it,’ Jack said. ‘These French will mass enough men to trample us into the mire if they can. We need all the fellows we have. Even you.’

‘Him?’ Clip called from behind them. ‘Wisp’d blow away in a breeze, he would. Look at him: hardly enough muscle on him to hold a knife, let alone a bleeding
sword.’

‘He has fist enough to give you a thump,’ Geoff grunted. He was scouting ahead to their left, searching every tree, every bush, for ambush.

‘Him? His fists wouldn’t pass through a fog on the Avon!’

‘Perhaps we’ll put wagers on you two, then, eh?’ Jack chuckled. ‘You can fight when we camp this evening.’

‘I’d not want to hurt him,’ Clip said righteously. ‘’Sides, the King wants all of us fit and hearty for the real fight to come.’

‘When we find the French at last, you mean,’ Jack called.

‘When we find the French, aye,’ Geoff said.

Clip shook his head, hawked and spat. ‘It doesn’t matter. We’ll all soon be dead. They’ll murder us, the French.’

‘Yes,’ Wisp said quietly. Jack heard, and shot him a look, but made no comment. Instead he allowed his pace to slow a little, so that he dropped back behind Wisp.

‘Still bad, is he?’ Berenger asked, seeing his face.

‘As bad as a man can be. By God’s blood, I don’t want him near me in a battle. He’s already convinced himself he’ll die, damn his soul!’

‘He’ll snap out of it.’

‘If he doesn’t, I’ll snap his neck for him,’ Jack said bluntly.

Berenger nodded. A comrade who was convinced that failure lurked around every corner was a dangerous companion. If a man could not trust his neighbour in a shield wall or assault, confidence in
the whole army was lost. It took only a brief loss of trust during a battle, a momentary loss of commitment, for an army to fail. Just now, Wisp was the worst threat to their vintaine.

Ach, there was little he could do now. Not while they marched.

He would just have to hope for the best.

Béatrice woke to the sound of snoring several times in the middle of the night, but she didn’t feel threatened. There was nowhere else to sleep but on the floor
– others with better funds had already taken the benches – and whenever one man moved, three or four others complained. No one could attack her in such a press.

The people slept where they had sat, lying higgledy-piggledy like garbage in a midden, all taking what space they could. Although she had planned to be up early with Alain, Béatrice had
not realised how tired she was, and did not waken until the sun was over the surrounding hills.

Alain was already awake when she finally stirred, yawning and blearily rubbing her eyes. ‘You slept well,’ he greeted her.

She rolled stiff shoulders to ease them. ‘I could have slept at the bottom of a well, I was so tired.’

‘Well, hurry yourself. We must be off as quickly as we can,’ he said, gazing across the room to where the bear-like man from the night before stood studying them grimly.

She nodded. Although she had money enough to buy some food to break their fast, it would be better to use it somewhere else. In a chamber like this, too many men could take it into their heads
to rob a maid on the road.

They hefted their packs and were soon on their way, but before they had taken more than a handful of paces, there was a shout from the inn.

‘Quickly,’ Alain said, forging ahead with long strides. It was hard for her to keep up, he moved so fast.

‘Maid, maid, are you weary?’ he asked when he realised she was falling behind. ‘Come!’

She smiled, but then she saw his eyes go over her shoulder. Turning, she saw their enemy running after them, the innkeeper at his side. She gave a little scream, and hurried on to Alain for
safety. There was no thought in her mind other than reaching him. Alain was her guide and protector. He had saved her last night, and now, with his clear blue eyes concentrating on the men
following, she felt sure he was equal to defending her again.

‘Behind me,’ he hissed and shoved her from his path. ‘Get your knife out!’

She obeyed him, pulling her little knife from its sheath at her belt. It still had a dark crust marring its blade, she saw, and shivered.

The innkeeper ran first to Alain, but the other had different ideas. He slowed as he neared the two, and while Alain and the innkeeper circled each other warily, he stood before Béatrice.
He put a hand to his cods and smiled at her. ‘You want to fight first? That’s good. I like a girl with a bit of spirit.’ And suddenly he darted close, his hands grabbing for
her.

Béatrice sprang away, her knife held close before her. She had never been taught how to fight. It hadn’t been necessary when she lived with her father. And now, she had the skills
and knowledge to take care of herself.

‘Come, maid! Be friendly, and you’ll soon be on your way,’ he said with a chuckle.

She ignored him, distracted by the sight before her: the innkeeper had grasped Alain, and the two were struggling with each other, two daggers flashing in the pale light.

The bearded man tried another lunge at her. This time she swung her own knife as she moved away, and he swore loudly as it sliced the back of his hand. A long red cut opened, and he glared at
her as he licked at the wound like a dog. ‘If you won’t be friendly, you won’t leave here on your feet, bitch,’ he growled. ‘They’ll have to carry you
away.’

But even as he threatened her, a voice shouted. Other refugees had seen the fight, and now they came running, six men, roaring at them to cease. Béatrice saw her opponent turn and eye the
new arrivals, and then he ran at her, pushing her to the ground. He didn’t wait to pursue his little victory, but ran off up the road.

Alain and the innkeeper were still locked together, grunting and swearing at each other in their unholy embrace. The newcomers ringed them as if unsure what to do.

‘Stop them!’ she cried, but no one moved. They were watching the spectacle like men at a cockfight.

Finally, Béatrice took matters into her own hands. She walked over to them and with all her strength, she swung her full purse at the innkeeper’s head. It struck with a sound like
lead maul hitting a plank. The big man took two paces back, swaying, then fell to his rump.

Alain stood there panting. Then he kicked the innkeeper once, with main force, in the side of the head, and the man collapsed. ‘So shall all felons meet their judgement,’ he said
breathlessly. ‘This man tried to rob me and rape my wife. Anyone else want to have a go?’

A few minutes later, the pair were on their way again. Béatrice felt safer as they walked on amongst the other refugees, straggling along ahead and behind, but all the way, she knew that
somewhere in the road ahead or in the woods at either side, was their enemy – the man with the beard.

She was as scared of him as she was of the English.