Fields of Glory (38 page)

‘I came here to slay as many French people as possible. They killed my family, and I wanted revenge – but now we are committing the same atrocities they did against us.’

‘Good!’ Gil said with approval. He slapped Ed’s back so hard, the boy almost fell. ‘You’re learning. Perhaps you will become a soldier yourself. If you do, make
sure you avoid the same mistakes so many others make.’ His face grew bleak and he stared into the distance.

‘What, killing the young?’

‘Aye – and of being found out,’ he murmured.

Geoff rode along with a feeling of disquiet. It was good to have something to occupy his mind other than Béatrice. The others were treating him once more as they had
before. But still, this area felt dangerous.

The roadway was broad, and every so often they would find that the plain had a little rise, with cleared land for pasture or planting, but for much of the way, the trail they followed took them
through woods and stands of trees, perfect for ambushes. It was a relief when at last they came out into the open and saw before them the broad sweep of a fresh road.

‘Christ Jesus!’ Jack swore under his breath, and Geoff followed the direction of his gaze, seeing a strong, walled town before them. There was already a fight going on. Clear on the
air they could hear the din of battle: shouting, screaming, the clash of weapons and the thundering of a siege-weapon against the gates.

‘They have moved on faster than I expected,’ Sir John said wearily. ‘Look at that! It’ll be well nigh impossible to extricate them once they feel that they have a modicum
of success. Those fools think that they can blunder their way inside without trouble.’

‘Then we’d best hurry and call them away,’ Berenger said.

Geoff saw his eyes go to him, and he nodded at once. ‘Yes. I’m ready.’

‘Ride on, then – and Jack, you go too. We’ll be along shortly.’

‘I will ride with them,’ Sir John said.

‘I would advise against it,’ Berenger said. ‘Better that they see it’s only men like themselves, more poor warriors, than a rich knight.’

‘Fair enough,’ Sir John said. ‘So, what now? Ride on towards the town?’

‘I think so.’

That was the last Geoff heard as he and Jack trotted off. ‘Look out for Frenchmen,’ he muttered, and Jack nodded.

The land was prodigiously flat here, Geoff noted. Large ripples were the closest things to hills, but were nothing compared with the hills of his native lands.

He missed his home. The thick woods and forests, the swift-flowing streams and brooks, the hills with their pastures for the hill-farmers and shepherds, the strips in the communal fields. He
could almost smell the thick loamy soil near his home, the house in the woods not far from the Avon, in which he had fathered his children with his wife.

But he would never see them again. The thought made his throat close up, and he had to wipe at his eyes with a terrible sadness.

They were close to the town now, and Jack rose in his stirrups, shouting and waving his arm. It was enough to distract Geoff from his grim mood, and he began to copy his companion.

The men at the walls turned to glare at the newcomers. They had worked hard, in the short time they had been here. Palisades and a number of scaling ladders had been constructed of timber
liberated from the nearby woods. A siege engine had been thrown together, brought from King Edward’s siege train, from the look of it. And on all sides men bellowed and fired arrows at the
Frenchmen who dared show themselves at the walls. A team worked with a huge ram resting on a wagon, slamming it at the gates with abandon, while stones hurtled towards them from above. Even as
Geoff and Jack reached the men, there was a gout of flame as a vat of oil was tipped over them, but luckily only two were superficially burned. The others dropped their holds and ran away a short
distance until the worst of the flames were burned through, and then they went back to their charred wagon and ram.

‘Who’s in charge here?’ Geoff demanded of the first man.

He was a heavy-set fellow with a round bearded face and an almost entirely bald head. ‘Who wants to know?’ he replied.

Geoff jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Sir John de Sully, knight banneret, on behalf of Edward of Woodstock.’

‘Really? And why would my Lord Edward be so interested in us here then, eh?’

‘What is your name?’

‘I am Ham of Bristelmestune, master, and I’m the vintener of this group of felons and cut-throats,’ he grinned.

‘Well, Master Ham, you should know that the King’s express orders are that the whole army should be moving because the French army is too close to us already. And if we don’t
keep moving, they will overtake us.’

‘Who cares?’ The man snapped his fingers dismissively. ‘If they come, we’ll fight ’em. You know we can beat the French on any battlefield – we’ve shown
that already. Let ’em come and see what happens when they meet a real army.’

‘Yeah, and if they were to appear here – right now – the whole French army surrounding you here, and beating you like a hammer beating a nail against the town’s walls, do
you really think you’d survive? Are your brains in your tarse that you think you can fight the whole of the French army on ground that suits them, not us?’

As he spoke, Geoff was aware of the man’s eyes going behind him, and he thought that the rest of the vintaine with Sir John had come to join them. It was suitable timing, he thought, just
as he mentioned the idea of the sudden appearance of the French.

Ham turned and bellowed orders. Then he pulled off his metal cap. ‘You could have warned us,’ he hissed to Geoff.

Geoff shrugged. ‘I relayed the King’s orders, that’s all. Get a move on.’

‘We’ll come with all speed. Tell my Lord Edward of Woodstock that we’ll extricate ourselves as quickly as we can.’

Geoff nodded, turned his pony – then sat gaping.

The whole of the English army had appeared behind him, and now straggled in a ragged column over the plain.

Ed felt his legs beginning to falter. They had already covered so many miles in the last few days since leaving Paris, and now, with the load he was carrying, and the weariness
of the long distance, he felt as though he must fall with every stumble.

It was a relief when Tyler gave a shout and the little party stopped. There ahead were more men – a second party of English soldiers who had been scouring the land for provisions.

‘How much further?’ Ed asked as he allowed his load to tumble to the ground.

‘Until we find the army? I don’t know,’ Gil admitted, but before he could say more, Tyler called out.

‘There is a monastery two miles north of us. It has a rich tithe barn, with stores from the area, and there are cattle and pigs for the taking. What do you say?’

‘We were told to return to the army,’ Ed said.

‘Yes,’ Gil said. ‘But if we find more food and drink, that won’t matter.’

‘Is that all that is in his mind?’ Ed asked.

‘It’s a monastery,’ Gil said. ‘Any man’s mind will turn to gold and silver: but there could be food too.’

‘I don’t like this,’ Ed confessed. ‘God will not reward us if we attack His churches.’

‘He won’t object to us taking a little food and drink from these priests and monks,’ Gil said reassuringly. ‘He will know we need to eat to be able to do His work, and
it’s only natural that we should seek food from any source.’

Ed was not convinced. So now another monastery was to be sacked and looted.

To his mind, the English were now the criminals. And he was one of them.

Berenger was glad to see Geoff and Jack return. They rode along with the rest of the army, for once not scouting for the enemy at the front, but in the midst of the main groups
of fighting men.

‘There are benefits to being in the lead, you see,’ Sir John chuckled. The dust from thousands of boots and hooves was rising all around them in a cloud, clawing their way up
Berenger’s nostrils and irritating his eyes with tiny particles of grit.

‘Damn this dust!’ Sir John muttered under his breath. How are your men?’

Berenger shot him a look. ‘They are well enough. The marching is getting to them, and it’s hard to see long-standing comrades die. We’ve lost several now.’

‘I know of Will and . . . that man James. Who else?’

‘Matt died today. And of the newer recruits we collected in the last muster, three or four are dead. Two others are badly injured. One will come back, the other won’t.’

‘So, of twenty, you’ve lost five or six?’

‘We never were twenty. When we left Portsmouth we were four under our number. Now, we’re half-strength.’

‘The boy?’

‘Yes. But he’s gone, too.’ Berenger met Sir John’s stare. ‘He had some trouble with the Welshmen, as I told you. In Caen, after the sack, they found him and tried
to hang him. Apparently they mistreated him before he met us, before we sailed, and they held a grudge, or wanted to silence him.’

‘Oh, yes. That was why you attacked them, I recall.’

‘I was in a black rage that they should try to murder one of my men. I would do it again.’

‘You would be a poor leader of men, were you not to take their health and well-being in hand. And avenge them in death.’

‘I do my best for them,’ Berenger said.

Sir John nodded. ‘It is no more than I would expect.’ His eyes suddenly widened. ‘What is that?’

Ahead, and a little to the north, was another thick column of smoke. The wind caught at it and tugged it this way and that, but the pall was so thick and oily that it still remained hanging over
the whole area.

Sir John studied it for some while, and then he beckoned his esquire. ‘Richard, go and ask the Prince if we may ride to investigate that. It is far from our line of march. None of our men
should be there. Suggest that we and two vintaines should go and reconnoitre.’

‘Sir.’

The esquire wheeled his horse and cantered back to where Edward of Woodstock rode with the Earl of Warwick. Soon he was back.

‘Sir John, the Prince thanks you for your observation. He says he would be grateful if we could go and investigate.’

‘Good! Berenger, you come with me, and bring your men. We’ll take Roger and his vintaine too,’ Sir John said. He glanced at his esquire. ‘We can ride and investigate, and
if there is nothing, at least we shall have escaped this damned dust for a while,’ he added.

They took their horses across the path of a swearing, furious wagon-master, and thence up a gentle rise to the top of a broad hillock. In the distance they could plainly see a series of large
buildings enclosed by low walls.

‘It’s a monastery,’ Richard said. ‘If those are our men, they will pay a heavy price for this. The King wants no insults to God this late in the campaign.’

‘God?’ Sir John snorted. ‘More to the point, the King wants as few English archers wasted in individual mercenary engagements as possible. He needs every single man. And he
does
not
wish to be held up here, with the French breathing down our necks. If those are Englishmen, they will live to regret their actions for the rest of their lives. Although that may not
prove to be a very long time.’

Later, sitting muzzily in the dark with a goblet of wine, Berenger would remember every moment of that afternoon.

Even as he cantered under the monastery’s gatehouse, Berenger had a premonition of disaster. Just inside, three bodies were sprawled in the dirt. Avoiding them, the vintaine rode in past
the outbuildings and towards the main convent.

All about the grass, they saw, were more bodies – lay-brothers who had tried to defend their church and cloister, but had failed. Some had been pierced by arrows, while others had been
beaten to death or stabbed. Fighting and killing those who were all but incapable of defending themselves was the action of outlaws, Berenger thought in disgust, not a disciplined army.

At a doorway, a porter lay draped over the steps. Berenger dismounted, and with Sir John and Geoff, he marched inside.

From the abbot’s chamber upstairs there came the sound of ribald celebration. Sir John drew his sword and, with a quick look at the men behind him, took the stairs in a rush.

At the top there was an already open door, and inside they found a party of thirty men.

All were drunk. A pair were dancing on the abbot’s table; beneath it lay the body of a man. A piper played a tune, beating time with his tambour, while others capered and sang, all
brandishing goblets and cups which they refilled from the cask set on the sideboard. The cushions and hallings that had been hanging on the walls to keep the room warm, were thrown to the floor,
and a man was pissing on them as Sir John entered. He turned, mouth agape, at the intrusion, but before he could make a comment, Sir John’s gauntleted fist smashed his lips against his teeth,
and he crashed into the cupboard. Pewter and plate rattled and fell to the ground in a discordant cacophony, as though a box of hand-bells had been thrown on to a granite slab.

The piping, drumming and singing tapered off, and all the men in the room turned to stare at Sir John. He lifted his sword and pointed it at the men on the table. ‘Get down!’