Fields of Glory (13 page)

The army had split into three sections: the vanguard was under Sir Edward of Woodstock. Berenger had looked askance on hearing that but, to his relief, Warwick and Northampton
were with the young Prince to advise him on his way. Behind them came the main part of the King’s men, with archers, hobelars and men-at-arms in a straggling column across a wide front, and
at the rear came the last men with the wagon train, led by the Earls of Arundel, Suffolk and Huntingdon, as well as the ferocious Bishop of Durham, a prelate who was more fearsome than any knight,
in Berenger’s view. The man’s sword was as notched and chipped as a crusader’s, and any man seeking compassion from him during a battle had best look to his defence.

‘Where are we going today, Berenger?’ Clip called.

‘East.’

‘Any chance of plunder?’

Berenger grunted. So far that morning, all they had found was ruined and burned little hamlets where scouts and hopeful English had sought to despoil local farms. It was astonishing to Berenger
that they had bothered. There could be nothing of any value, save perhaps a woman or two.

The weather was kind. Not too hot, and the dust of the road was lying low after a brief shower.

They were ahead of the main body of the army and to the right. It was because of their position that they were the first to see the French. Thin woods sprawled on either side, with bushes and
clumps of ferns beneath. On their right, the land rose, and a hill stood out clearly.

‘Berenger?’ Jack called, and pointed ahead. The vintener nodded and slipped forward.

‘What?’ Ed said. ‘What is it?’ He was too short to see over the scrubby bushes. But though he could not see, he could sense the tension.

The archers crouched, pulling strings from purses or hats and bending their bows, grabbing arrows and nocking them with an easy familiarity, glancing back towards Berenger when ready.

He was standing still, a hand on a tree-limb and staring ahead intently.

‘What do you think?’ Geoff said.

‘You’ve got the best eyesight,’ Berenger said irritably. ‘What do
you
see?’

‘Four men-at-arms on horseback. I can see the sun catch on mail and plate. I think that’s all – I can’t see any more.’

‘Are they French?’

‘At this distance they could be Teutons for all I know,’ Geoff said with asperity.

‘How far?’

‘At a guess, three bow-shots.’

‘Then we go on, but archers, watch your front and flanks. I don’t want to walk into a trap.’

Ed was about to step forward when Clip grabbed the shoulder of his jack and jerked him back. For all that Clip looked scrawny as an old cockerel that had fasted for a week, he had a wiry power
in his fingers. ‘Wait,’ he hissed.

Geoff, Eliot, Jon Furrier and Matthew had already moved on, weapons ready, while Berenger spoke quickly to Roger, the vintener of the second vintaine. Roger had already pointed to four of his
own men, and Ed saw them melting away amongst the bushes. Berenger gave a quiet command, and the rest of the vintaine began to make their way cautiously through the long grasses.

Ed shrugged away Clip’s hand and walked on. The whole vintaine looked on him as a slave, he thought grumpily, just a fetcher-and-carrier, nothing more. They couldn’t see his fervent
desire to find a Frenchman and cut his throat. He had much to repay—

A sudden grab at his arm, and the air was ejected from his lungs as his back crashed to the hard earth. He could do no more than gasp for breath as Clip sprang lightly over him and thrust his
sword into a bush.

There was a shriek, and then, while Ed lay staring wildly about him, men erupted from all directions. They had been concealed in the vegetation, and now fought with desperation. Ed rose to his
knees, breathing hard, and was immediately hit on his back by something. When he looked around, he saw a forearm with a dagger gripped in its fist lying in the road. The owner was a few yards away,
staring at his bloody stump, and then his head seemed to jerk and a blade appeared in his brow. Berenger had struck him from behind, and almost clove his head in two.

The man fell to his knees, Berenger swearing loudly as he struggled to free his blade. As two more men came running through the undergrowth, Ed dived to the ground, and only at the last moment
did he see both men punched backwards as English arrows found their marks.

Ed rose to his feet, shivering, as Berenger placed his boot on the back of the dead Frenchman and jerked his sword sideways like a woodsman freeing his axe from a log. The man’s head
turned, twisted, gave a crack, and then the blade slid free.

‘You all right, Donkey?’ Berenger panted.

‘Yes. I . . . I think so.’

‘He didn’t get hit,’ Clip said. He was behind Berenger, grinning.

‘Battle isn’t as easy as you thought, is it, lad?’ Berenger said.

Ed looked down at the fist with the dagger still clenched in its grip, and puked.

‘Hoy, Frip – over here,’ Clip shouted. ‘Take a look! We’ve got a live one.’

Berenger left Ed rocking on his knees and holding his belly, and strode across to join Clip and Geoff.

The badly injured Frenchman at their feet was only young, with barely the stubble to colour his jaw. Dark eyes stared with a wild disbelief at the pain, as his hands clutched his lower belly.
Blood pulsed thickly through his fingers.

‘Where are you from?’ Berenger asked in French.

The man winced. ‘I will not say! You will kill all our people!’

‘Kings don’t murder peasants. Who would do the work, then, lad?’ Berenger said gently.

The Frenchman closed his eyes a moment. ‘Valognes. I come from Valognes.’

‘Is it far?’

‘A league. We wanted to divert you.’

‘With so few men?’

‘We didn’t think so many of you were here.’

‘Where is the French army?’

‘What French army? The Marshal rode through a few days ago, kept on going.’

‘Are there other forces about here?’

‘There were five hundred Genoese, but they left.’

‘Left?’ Berenger was aware that Ed had joined them and now stood staring at the blood with horrified fascination.

‘Three days before you landed. They hadn’t been paid,’ the man said hoarsely. His face was grey and screwed up with pain.

‘Where did they go?’

‘I don’t know. They didn’t pass our town. Only the Marshal. His men were here to defend us. Look at me! Did they defend
me
?’

His face ran with tears as he looked up at Berenger, and as he squeezed his eyes against the pain, more ran down his cheeks.

Berenger looked at Geoff, who met his glance and shook his head. Both could smell the sewer-stench of faeces – the blow that opened his belly had broken into his bowels, and that meant a
slow, hideously painful death.

‘You wanted to kill a Frenchman,’ Berenger said harshly to Ed. ‘Here you are: take your knife. Cut his throat.’

Ed looked up sharply. ‘Me?’

‘You said you wanted to kill men. Here’s your chance.’

‘I can’t. No!’

Berenger looked at him and nodded. He had not expected the Donkey to be able to do this. It was the hardest job of a soldier, killing for mercy. ‘Good.’

‘You fought bravely, my friend,’ Berenger said, and reached down to pat the Frenchman’s shoulder. ‘Go with God.’

The Frenchman smiled thinly as Geoff slipped the long, thin dagger in at his neck and down into his heart. He was dead before Geoff pulled the dagger out again.

18 July

Grandarse spat into the fire. ‘Aye, a grand town, that. Full of the choicest furs, pewter, silver, wine, jewels and women, aye – and here we are. In the sodding
shite
again.’

Sir John had apologised as he ordered Grandarse to the east of Valognes. Now, maybe two miles away, Berenger and the others were camping as best they could in a small wood on a slight hill, but
while they had some shelter, a thin rain drove at them, and no one was comfortable.

‘As usual, we take all the risks, and those bone-idle sons of whores get the wine and warm beds,’ Jack complained, swaddled in his blanket.

‘It’s not fair!’ was Clip’s view. ‘We should have been in there with the others. Why do we always get the bastard jobs?’

‘The Welsh, did you see how they went scurrying in like rats after a dead pig? All over the place they were,’ Geoff grumbled.

‘At least the town surrendered,’ Berenger said. He lay back and closed his eyes. The rain was an irritation, but he had a waxed cloak, and the damp wouldn’t stop his sleep.
Nothing ever did. He could go to sleep in the middle of a battle, if folk would promise not to stand on him.

‘We should have put them all to the sword,’ Ed muttered.

Berenger opened an eye and glanced at Grandarse. He didn’t want to say, ‘I told you so,’ but for a moment the temptation was very strong.

Grandarse leaned over and cuffed Ed over the head. ‘Boy, when you’ve killed your own man, you can say things like that. Until then, keep your trap shut or I’ll take a whip to
your scrawny hide.’

‘That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?’ Ed demanded.

‘No, Donkey, that’s
not
why we’re here,’ Berenger said, his eyes closed once more. ‘We are here because our King, Edward the Third of England – soon to
be, by the Grace of God, King of France as well – has commanded us to join him. But while you can take all you can plunder from a town that won’t submit willingly, you may
not
assault and murder the people who ask to come into the King’s Peace.’

‘Why not? They’re our enemies!’

‘If they surrender to his justice, they are the King’s people,’ Berenger pointed out.

‘Well, I reckon the only good Frenchman is a dead one,’ Ed mumbled.

‘You have so much experience of them,’ Clip said sarcastically.

‘I’ve had enough, yes! They— No matter.’ Ed put his arms about his knees and hid his face.

Berenger threw another look to Grandarse. There was more to Ed’s hatred of the French than he had guessed. He would have to speak to the lad once again and try to learn what was on his
mind.

19 July

Archibald Tanner grunted as he clambered from the rear of his wagon. He saw a boy seeking employment, and soon had him rubbing down the oxen in exchange for an offer of bread
and wine. The lad worked in a lackadaisical manner, yawning with an almost devotional dedication, his eyes half-closed with exhaustion. He was too young for this harsh world.

Who wasn’t too young? Archibald had enough experience of the world to know that the people who infested it were cruel. Even those who enjoyed the religious life could be as unkind and
greedy for power and position as any merchant in a city. All wanted money and control over others. He had learned that while in the monastery.

More, he had realised out here in the world of men that a mild manner and genial attitude would not win friends. While affable in all his dealings, because of his craft he was still looked upon
as a worshipper of the Devil or worse. Even now, as he sat and made his camp beside his wagon, he could see the suspicion on the faces of the army men. As soon as he held their gaze, they hurriedly
turned away.

It was enough to make a cat laugh. But he had no need of boon companions. He was a self-contained man, happy with his own company. That was one useful thing he had learned from the Church.

‘Leave them to their rest now, boy,’ he called, and set about lighting a fire some safe distance from his wagon. Soon he had flames leaping from his tinder, and he sat and fed twigs
to the fire.

He had some bread, old and hard as the boards of his wagon, which he cut apart with his knife, throwing the fragments into his cook pot. Some leaves he had gathered from the hedgerows, and
garlic he had found in a field, along with some salt, formed the basis of a good, warming pottage. The boy knelt close by, gratefully sniffing at the odour.

‘That smells good,’ a voice said.

Archibald had learned the art of remaining still when surprised. A master of theology had often found him dreaming and would chastise him for it. His head, he was told, was too often in the
clouds, when he should have been concentrating on his prayers. He had countered that, saying surely by definition prayer
should
elevate a man’s thoughts. Now he said simply, ‘For
a meal without meat, it serves well enough.’

‘There’s meat if you want it,’ the man said. ‘There have been two herds captured, if you wish for a cut of beef.’

‘Who are you?’ Archibald asked.

‘I’m called Mark of London, or Mark Tyler.’ The man squatted at Archibald’s side. ‘I’m with the vintaine over there. An archer.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Archibald said. He recalled seeing the fellow. Tyler was with one of the vintaines under Grandarse. He rather liked Grandarse: a man after his own heart.
This Tyler was different. Archibald didn’t like his quick, furtive glances at Archibald’s belongings and pottage. ‘But while I am glad to have news of any food, this is a
Wednesday and I am happy to forgo the pleasures of swine and beef, and partake of more modest fare.’

‘Eh?’

‘I won’t eat meat today,’ Archibald translated piously. ‘I trained to the religious life, and I will not eat meat on a fast day.’