Fields of Glory (23 page)

The French had the largest army in Christendom: thousands of knights and well-armed men who could be called upon. There was no doubt that they must beat the English if they met on equal terms.
However, the English had superb archers. The French had encountered English archers before, but never on such a massive scale as King Edward planned.

‘We shall whip them,’ the Earl said smugly.

There came the sound of marching and the rattle of armour and mail, and the door opened to show the Prince. He looked around the commanders with a firm eye.

‘My friends, I am glad to see you all here. Where is Northampton? Oh, there you are, my Lord. We have news. Apparently our friend Philippe is gathering men to defy us. Excellent! He has no
idea what he is going to find, does he? Page, fetch wine for my guests. Quick about it.’

‘Where is he, Your Highness?’ the Earl of Warwick asked.

‘He has met with his men at Rouen. The Oriflamme is to be raised against us, apparently, so when we defeat him, we shall be proving ourselves invincible compared with his ancestors. It
will be a glorious battle, my friends!’ he said, breaking into a broad grin.

The wine arrived, and the Prince had all their goblets filled, then proposed a toast: ‘To the ruin of Philippe and the two crowns united!’

Sir John raised his goblet and prayed silently to St Boniface for his aid in the coming battles. They would be hard, he had no doubt. Yet he found himself warming to this young Prince.

Perhaps Edward of Woodstock was not so callow as Sir John had feared.

Clip had traded some fur for a small sack of oats, which he had brought back from the coast like a war trophy. It was stored carefully in the vintaine’s box in the cart,
and that night the men squatted contentedly at their fires and watched as their little oaten cakes cooked.

Berenger was still in pain. The scabs covering the wound in his shoulder had pulled away during the fighting for Caen. He lifted his shirt to look at it, but before he could do so, the old leech
arrived at his side and studied the wound carefully.

‘I’m all right,’ Berenger said gruffly.

‘Which is more than we will be,’ Geoff said. He had removed his cake from the fireside and now stood eating it, watching how the leech probed and tested.

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘It’s all wrong to have that girl come with us. She will bring bad luck – you know that. Wisp told us all that we were taking a course that would end in disaster, and he was
proven right.’

‘She saved the Donkey, Geoff. It could—
will you stop doing that, you clumsy old goat!
’

The leech gave Berenger a contemptuous sneer and continued with his ministrations.

‘If Grandarse hears what Wisp said – you know, about the chevauchée being doomed when he saw that cat – he’d have her out on her ear in a blink, you know
that.’

‘What’s it got to do with Grandarse?’

‘We have the boy with us. I like the Donkey, but he isn’t exactly blessed with fortune, is he? He’s hardly a safe mascot.’

‘If we discard the fool, he’ll be dead in a day.’

‘He is bringing us bad luck, and so is the girl.’

‘What?’

‘You can’t trust women, you know that.’

‘I never thought to hear you say that. You are always so happy with your wife.’

‘Yes, well . . . I
was
.’

Berenger gave him a close look. ‘Is there something wrong, Geoff?’

Geoff looked up again. ‘Frip, all women are the same, and this French one’s more dangerous than most. She loiters with us, but she isn’t one of us. She’s
French.’

‘So?’

‘I could get rid of her: no one need know – no one.’

‘No! Leave her. I will see what I can do. And don’t mention her or Wisp’s words to Grandarse.’

‘If you’re sure,’ Geoff said.

He left Fripper there, staring sadly at the fire while the leech, all but forgotten now, muttered to himself, mopping and cleaning the wound.

Geoff nodded grimly. The French bitch had to go. If Frip wouldn’t do it, he would have to take on the job himself.

At the Prince’s lodging, Sir John listened as the commanders moved on to a discussion of the King’s plan of campaign.

‘We shall be leaving here early in the morning. Be ready before dawn,’ the Prince said.

‘We march in our normal battle order?’ Sir John asked.

‘Yes. We will lay waste to the broadest area. Our men will devastate every farm, village, town in our path. The people must be shown that Philippe cannot protect them, therefore to be
safe, they must enter our King’s Peace.’

‘I heard that Bayeux tried that yesterday,’ the Earl of Northampton said. He scratched his ear. ‘Did you hear of that, my Lord?’

The Prince chuckled with delight. ‘Absolutely! The city was so petrified of our army that they sent fifteen of their bourgeois to meet the King. They hadn’t seen a single Englishman
threaten them, but the news of our rampages across the countryside were clearly too shocking for them to wait for us to come and take their city – even though we have already passed
it!’

‘Did the King accept their allegiance?’ Sir John said.

The Earl of Northampton laughed. ‘No, he was much too sharp for that. He refused it. Politely, but firmly. He told them that he was not going to leave men dotted about the country to
garrison little towns and cities like theirs; he was marching to fight their King, so he could not promise to protect them – yet. However, he would be glad to take their oaths of allegiance
and protect them fully once Philippe has been defeated.’

All present laughed at that. Soon afterwards the men were dismissed, and each returned to his own billet. While the Prince was still in a happy, cheerful mood, Sir John sought him out.

‘Your Majesty, there is one matter I should wish to discuss: Berenger Fripper.’

‘You have caught him already? Good.’

‘I know where he is, my Lord. However, I would not have him punished.’

‘Where will the army’s discipline be without the guilty being punished?’

‘This was a matter of army discipline. The Welshmen had captured Fripper’s servant. They were hanging him.’

‘Why? What had he done?’

‘Nothing. He was merely a source of entertainment.’

‘I see.’ The Prince looked at the Earl of Warwick.

The Earl glanced at Sir John, frowning. ‘Is this the vintener who was injured at the gates of St Lô?’ he asked.

‘Yes, my Lord. He was there even though he had been injured before.’

‘Then I know him. He is a good fighter, and bold, too. I would make more use of him, Your Highness. Put him in the front line where he can show his mettle.’

‘Very well. But I shall not be so lenient in future,’ the Prince declared. And then he broke into a broad smile again. ‘Tomorrow we start to search for Philippe, my friends!
It’s marvellous, isn’t it?’

3 August

It was the end of a weary day’s marching when Sir John de Sully next saw the centaine.

He rode forward to meet them. Nodding to Grandarse, he said, ‘How are your men?’

All about them, soldiers could be heard bickering and grumbling. The old man looked up at him from beneath his bushy eyebrows.

‘They’ll serve,’ he replied.

‘What of the boy with Fripper’s men?’

‘He’s well enough: he fetches and carries when ordered.’

Sir John dismounted. He could see Clip returning from a foraging expedition with a cockerel and a hen. He grinned to himself: Fripper’s vintaine was experienced in all the arts of war.

Patting his rounsey’s shoulder, he noticed the woman leading the old nag at the cart.

‘Who is she?’ he demanded.

‘Just a French slut. In Caen, our boy suffered from the Welsh. They nearly killed him.’

‘So I heard.’

‘This wench saw him and drew us to him. Without her, the boy would be dead.’

‘So she is wife to the vintaine.’ Sir John smiled. He knew how ‘wives’ could be adopted. Half the female followers in the army had chosen to be wives for the course of
the campaign.

‘Rather, she is the sister,’ Grandarse said reprovingly. ‘Aye, the lads decided that she had saved our mascot and it’d be bad fortune to harm her after that. So they
adopted her and took her as their ward. I doubt any of ’em would think to touch her. Besides, she can cook and sew better than Eliot or Matt, and she makes a good pottage.’

Sir John eyed the girl. She was a sullen-looking mare, he thought, with her down-drawn mouth and dark eyes, but if she kept the vintaine happy, he was content. ‘Very well – but make
sure she doesn’t cause any arguments. We both know how women can sow dissent.’ As he spoke, he caught a glimpse of Geoff’s expression. The fellow was watching the woman with a
mistrustful expression.

‘I wouldn’t have any of that, Sir John,’ Grandarse said. ‘I’d take her as my own marching wife before I let the men turn to fighting over her.’

His words distracted Sir John. ‘You? By Christ’s pain, man, you’d crush the poor maid,’ the elderly knight chuckled. ‘Your belly is vast as a tun of wine, man. That
would be a cruel way to kill her!’

Grandarse was grinning widely and about to respond when there came a cry from the sentries.

Sir John rose to his feet and watched as Berenger darted over to the sentries. They pointed, and Berenger peered into the distance with fierce concentration.

‘What is it, Fripper?’ Grandarse called.

He wanted to say, ‘How the fuck can I tell?’ but it was best not to remind Sir John that his eyes could see little further than half a bow-shot. He muttered to the guards before
responding: ‘Two men. They could be priests from their clothing. Riding at speed.’

‘Frip, send four of your archers to meet them,’ Grandarse called. There was no need for more men than that. If the two riders were alone, they could be little danger to the
English.

Sir John made his way to join Berenger and the sentries. ‘They look well-enough fed to be priests,’ he said thoughtfully as the men approached.

Berenger nodded without speaking. He was still studying the roads, the trees and grasses for any sign of enemies.

The two were cardinals, from their dress. Berenger noticed Archibald glaring at the two with deep distrust. It made him wonder again about Archibald’s background. Still, there was no time
to speculate now.

‘Good Sir Knight,’ the first said as he reached the line of sentries and archers, but looking directly at Sir John.

He was at least fifty years old, with a weather-bronzed face and cunning little blue eyes that flitted hither and thither as if counting how many soldiers were in the army. ‘I am Cardinal
Pietro of Piacenza, and this is my companion, Cardinal Roger. We are here to see your King. I expect safe passage to his presence.’

‘Berenger, bring two men,’ Sir John said.

With Jack and Will, Berenger was soon marching, while Sir John ambled along beside the cardinals on his rounsey. Berenger watched the countryside as he strode along. All knew that Popes tended
to support the French and had done ever since the Popes moved to Avignon from Rome. He listened as Sir John spoke with them, ears straining unashamedly for a clue about their visit.

‘You have proposals for the King?’ Sir John asked.

‘What we have is for his ears only. The Pope is alarmed at the rancour that your army is causing here in France. It is not to be borne that royal cousins should fight in such a
manner,’ Pietro said. He had a tone of resentful disdain, as though it was far beneath his dignity to discuss such affairs with a mere knight.

‘Perhaps the Pope would be better advised to support the wronged party,’ Sir John said, making Berenger grin.

‘It is not the French King who has invaded his cousin’s lands,’ the Cardinal spat. ‘The wrong is upon one side.’

‘When we took Caen, there were many interesting records,’ Sir John said. He spurred his mount until he was alongside the Cardinal. ‘You know what was in there? Plans for
Philippe, who calls himself King, to invade England. All written up and sealed and signed. If we had not come here to prevent him, our lands would be laid waste just as we do now. This is a war of
self-defence.’

‘A war of self-defence in which the people are being slaughtered,’ the Cardinal declared icily.

‘God is with us. The Crown belongs to Edward,’ Sir John said comfortably.

Berenger smiled grimly to himself. It was true. King Edward was the son of Isabella of France who had married Edward II. When her brothers died without issue, the crown should have passed to her
son, but the French nobility barred him by creating a new law so that the crown could not pass through the female line. Edward III was disinherited. All England knew that. Their King had been
robbed.

Not that it mattered to Berenger. All he knew was, he was happy to be serving his King.

It was not an easy journey. The English army marched on a broad front, and now it was some fourteen miles across. The King was a good league from where the vintaine had stopped, and Berenger was
relieved when they came to a group of Welsh spearmen. He recognised their leader.

Sir John rode to him. ‘Erbin, I place these Cardinals in your care. You are charged to take them to the King as swiftly as you may, and to treat them with all courtesy while they bide with
you. They are messengers from the Pope.’