Fields of Glory (31 page)

The only beam of hope was the possibility of the capture of Paris, Berenger reckoned. The men were speaking openly about the wealth inside the city; having enriched themselves at St-Lô and
Caen, they spoke of the fabled treasures of Paris with a greed that rivalled that of any Pope.

Berenger did not share their excitement. He had an old soldier’s respect for his enemy. No matter how good the land, how skilled the troops with their weapons, it was still the case that a
momentary failing on the part of the war-leaders could throw all into disarray and disaster. Today, as he looked over to the opposite bank, he was aware only of the strength of the French position.
A small force was all that would be needed to defend the far banks against English troops trying to wade across, even if a ford were to be found. A few hundred men could hold off the English for a
long, long time.

He shook himself. A pox on that! This army would cross somehow, and they would fight their way back home. And if the French army tried to cut them to pieces, so be it.

As the order to move came, he shrugged his pack over his back and joined the rest of the men. All the while his eyes were not on the road, but on the small force of men-at-arms on the opposite
shore. Their mail gleamed merrily in the sunshine and their tunics were bright, clean and colourful, as they ambled gently along the northern bank of the river, matching the pace of the English.
Soon, they stopped and began to break their fast, and Berenger watched them jealously. He could do with some decent food inside him, too.

They entered a small wood, and Berenger heard a large animal blundering through the undergrowth some yards away. There was a narrow trail cut through, and he watched it warily. Long ago, he had
seen an esquire stab a boar with his spear, but the damned brute ran on and on, driving the spear through his body and then continuing up the shaft until he reached the esquire and gored him
horribly. The man had killed his boar, but he died in the attempt.

Berenger carried on through the forest, until they at last reached the further edge, and stood looking down on the town of Poissy.

It was a town of ghosts.

Poissy was deserted.

Berenger waved a hand at Geoff, who nodded and ran ahead with Clip and Eliot. They stopped at a low wall, peering over into what appeared to be the main street, arrows nocked and ready. Berenger
followed them, with Luke and Gil behind him. Grandarse and Matt and Oliver were over on the left, while the rest spread out in a line behind them.

There was a clatter, and instantly sixteen bows bent, the arrows pointing at Ed, who paled and shook his head, bleating as he grabbed the sheaves of arrows he had dropped when he tripped.

Berenger grunted his relief, and gazed ahead. A broad street led towards the river, and he and the others clambered over the wall and made their way along it, edgily staring along their arrows
at empty windows and doorways.

He had never known such utter desolation. There was nothing: not the sound of a baby crying, not the creak of a wagon’s wheel, not the chatter of women washing – nothing but an
occasional exclamation as a crow or rook rose, complaining at their interruption of the peace. Clip, startled stupid by a sudden explosion of sound at his feet, let fly and spitted a pigeon. It
fell, the arrow clattering loudly on the stony roadway.

‘You stupid bugger,’ Grandarse called out. ‘Next time, fall on your own fucking arrow and save us the bloody trouble!’

Clip pulled a face and tugged his arrow free. It was gory, and he wiped it on his sleeve before pensively picking up the bird and stuffing it inside his shirt.

They gradually made their way through the town until, at last, they approached the river.

Berenger saw the piles where the bridge had once stood and felt his heart sink. A man from Roger’s vintaine cried, ‘Another failure, by Christ’s pain! Look at it!’

It was the first time Berenger had seen Geoff lost for words, but now he wiped a hand over his brow and sighed deeply. ‘Perhaps there’s another bridge near, Frip?’

Berenger pointed at the far bank. A group of French soldiery stood there, jeering; two dropped their hosen and braies to display their arses. ‘You think they’d bother to wait if they
thought we could force our way over somewhere else?’

Clip, offended by their antics, loosed an experimental arrow, and struck a man in the groin. He fell, shrieking like a stuck pig, and Clip received several buffets of congratulation about the
head in return. Grinning, he muttered modestly that it was nothing.

Meanwhile, Jack had been studying the shattered bridge. Many of the timbers from the bridge still bobbed in the water, caught against the piles. ‘Frip, look!’ he cried. ‘The
piles are pretty intact. We could have planks set on them, then a light man could run across on those timbers.’

Berenger looked. ‘Do you know what? He’s right. Clip, you’re the lightest – do you want to try it?’

‘Swyve your mother and your sister, Frip. You show me how, and I’ll be pleased to, but if you think you’ll get me to test that with my own life, you can call on the Devil
first!’

Berenger grinned. ‘Ed, go and find Archibald and bring him here – quickly.’

‘What is it, Fripper?’ Grandarse demanded.

‘The piles are all there, all of them. We could rebuild the bridge – if the King had a mind,’ Berenger said. And for the first time in days he felt the return of
excitement.

The vintaine camped there at Poissy while other vintaines and centaines were sprawled as far as St-Germain, only three leagues from Paris. Berenger stood with Archibald at the
water’s edge.

‘What do you think?’

‘My expertise lies more in the destruction of bridges,’ Archibald said, but he frowned thoughtfully at the timbers. ‘The piles are all solid enough, aren’t
they?’

‘They look it,’ Berenger agreed.

‘What do you want me to do?’ Archibald asked.

‘You must know the best carpenters and joiners. Who should we ask to look at this? The King’s own man?’

‘He’s a good fellow,’ Archibald smiled, ‘but he’s more used to being given the best timbers and a perfect site to construct his efforts. This needs a good
bodger.’

‘A what?’

‘Someone who’ll take what he’s given and make something worthwhile. I know just the man. Miserable devil, but he’s talented. He makes the
talaria
, the trestles the
gonnes rest on.’

It took only a short time to track down the man, a squat, ugly Cornishman with a perpetual scowl, who glared at the piles as though they had personally offended him.

‘There’s sod-all to work on here,’ he said with exasperation. ‘What idiot thought up this idea, eh? Was it you, Archibald? How are we expected to fix this? Look at it!
It’s just a mess of bits and pieces of trash. It’ll be like building a bridge from bloody hedge-trimmings and twigs! A complete waste of time.’

‘So you can’t do it,’ Archibald said, his voice carrying just a hint of contempt.

‘Did I say that? Did I bloody say that? Did I?
Did I?
’ the engineer demanded truculently. ‘You hear me say that, did you?
No!
So shut your gob and let me
think!’

He stood, hands on his hips for a long time, staring at the river. At last, he pursed his lips firmly and turned away from the water.

‘Right! Pinch and Hon, go and chop down the biggest bleeding tree you can find. You lot, come here. I need all the joiners I can lay my hands on. We can work on the planks that are already
there for now, and then peg a tree to firm it up, before we can lay the new bed in place. Got me?’

Berenger and Archibald sat down to watch. Clip had recently come across a hastily abandoned house that still had loaves left in the bread oven, and he had liberated them for the vintaine. Jack
in turn had located a cellar full of wine, and the vintaine was in cheery mood as they gathered to observe the engineers’ labours. Several times the carpenters cast sour looks at them as they
laughed whenever a man failed to fix his plank to the bridge securely. When one man fell into the water, their delight was so uproarious that Matt began to choke on a crust of bread and had to be
pounded on the back. Luckily the joiner in question was soon hauled from the water.

A shout went up as the tree appeared, and the Cornishman ran off to supervise its working. A pit had been found in a joiner’s yard, and the tree was manhandled to it, while a team of
workmen set to sawing the trunk into planks. It took them from noon until Vespers, but by then Berenger was surprised to see cut and shaped planks being carried to the river. There were enough to
span the remaining distance from the bridge to the far bank.

‘Come on, then, you idle gits. Think you can sit about all sodding day while we do all the hard work?’ the engineer demanded.

‘We don’t have orders to cross,’ Clip said.

‘Ballocks to that, you little drop of piss! You think the King will be happy to learn that we builded him a bridge and some lazy bunch of shits couldn’t be bothered to get off their
flabby arses to defend the bridgehead? Now fuck off over there –
and keep your eyes open!
’

Berenger could see the logic of his words, but he grumbled as much as the others as he made his way reluctantly to the bridge.

‘Be careful, Master Fripper!’ Archibald called.

Berenger nodded. ‘Aye. Bows ready, lads,’ he said, stringing his own. He grabbed an arrow and nocked it, taking a deep breath.

The first part was firm enough, where the original bridge had survived, and each plank was firmly set in place. After this, for about fifty feet or so, the engineers had constructed a pair of
rails, one riding each set of piles. Berenger carefully ascended the leftmost runner, and gently tested the set of the timber. It was firmly fixed.

Jack came after him, and as Berenger reached the middle of the first span between piles, stepping with the caution of a man desperate to keep his balance, Jack jumped up and down, making
Berenger turn and glare. ‘You do that again and I’ll personally cut out your liver!’ he snarled as the tremors moved in waves through the soles of his feet. Jack merely
grinned.

Far below he could see the murky waters of the Seine. The more he looked at it, the further away the water seemed, until he could almost persuade himself that the bridge was rising, and that to
fall would be to die, instantly.

He turned his eyes from the view beneath and stared ahead, walking faster. There was a rushing in his ears, and he wasn’t sure whether it was the sound of the river below or the blood in
his veins. Certainly he felt lightheaded and slightly dizzy as he hurried over the last few feet. With his feet on solid ground once more, he took a long, shivering breath, and wiped a hand over a
forehead that had grown unaccountably clammy.

Jack joined him, laughing. ‘That was fun! I want to go again!’

‘Shut up!’ Berenger snapped. The vintaine was soon with them, and more men were arriving by the minute. On the bridge, men hammered pegs into planks, fitting a stronger path.
Grandarse shouted and pointed, and Berenger nodded. The land rose from here. They must keep a lookout.

‘Geoff, Jack – go and take a look from up there,’ he said.

He watched the two hurry up the sandy bank and turned his attention to the rest of the men. ‘All of you must go and . . .’ he began, but he got no further, because then he heard
Geoff blowing the alarm on his horn ‘. . .
support Geoff
,’ he bellowed, and ran at the bank himself, roaring over his shoulder: ‘Donkey, bring arrows!’

At the top of the bank, Geoff was already drawing, aiming and loosing his arrows.

‘Sweet Mother Mary,’ Berenger said with shock. There, on the plain before them, was a party of Frenchmen.

‘There’s at least a thousand men on horse, and double that on foot, Vintener. What shall we do?’ Geoff panted. He drew again, aimed, loosed, and the arrow plunged into one of
the leading horsemen.

‘By the Son of God, I don’t know,’ Berenger spat. He had nocked his own first arrow, and it flew straight and true into the breast of a horse. The beast collapsed, ploughing
into the soil, throwing the man-at-arms from its back and forcing horses behind to swerve. Two crashed together, and another knight was knocked out of his saddle.

‘Donkey, where are you?’ Berenger roared, and loosed again. When he dared cast a glance behind him, he saw no sign of Ed, but there was better news.

Sir John and the Earl of Northampton were already crossing the bridge with two dozen knights. They were soon over the river, and Berenger could feel the solid drumbeat of their hooves as they
took the bank at a canter, paused at the top, and then, with spears ready, plunged on towards the French.

Sir John blew out his cheeks at the sight of the French. A thousand men on horseback – a force capable of smashing the tiny English defence and trampling the archers into
the ground. Already there were cries of defiance to rally the French, and the dust was rising from their hooves as they began to charge.

Foolish, his brain told him as he lowered the visor on his bascinet. His new conical helmet clung closely to his skull at both cheeks. It was laced with thongs to his mail coif, and with the
visor in place, he felt impregnable. He had his eyes fixed on the enemy approaching, and already he could see that there were a few hotheads racing out in front.