Fields of Glory (15 page)

That was Ed’s first real experience of witnessing the risks of battle, the first time he saw one of the vintaine’s men struck, and he didn’t enjoy it. Until
then, the men had seemed impervious to all dangers. He had hurried to bring fresh missiles or water, but none of the English were injured. Now he could see the dangers at first hand as they carried
Berenger away.

He saw the main body of the army arrive as he gathered up sheaves of arrows. Soon he was back with the men. Clip stood with his hand on his hip, his face drawn into his familiar sneer.

‘Took your time, boy!’ he rasped, and grabbed an arrow, aiming and loosing in one practised movement.

The first men joined the archers shortly afterwards. There were carpenters and joiners, and perhaps five score more archers, chattering and laughing as they came. It was like Sunday at the
vill’s butts, Ed thought, as they strung their bows and started to nock and loose. There was no thought of volleys, just the irregular, carefully aimed flights, and after many there came a
cry or scream from the other side of the river.

More Frenchmen were coming. Grandarse gave a hoarse command, and a hundred arrows sprang into the air to plummet on the advancing men like hawks. Five in the front rank collapsed as the first
arrows struck. A single man wearing the arms of a lord stood before them in a red tunic with a white emblem on the breast, but as more and more of the men behind him fell to the ground, his
exhortations grew increasingly desperate. His ranks thinned rapidly; some men had been struck by English arrows, while others had fled.

Soon those remaining could see there was no point in this unequal battle, and they retreated, while the English kept up a withering fire until they were out of accurate bowshot.

To Ed’s surprise, English carpenters were already crawling over the bridge. Fresh timbers were unloaded at the shore, grabbed and carefully positioned. Grandarse barked an order, and the
first hundred archers climbed on the makeshift bridge, shooting their arrows at any French defenders who showed their faces. The way to the town was already clear before the bridge was complete,
and English archers stood at either side of it on the St-Lô side to provide cover for the infantry as they crossed. Grandarse and the vintaine stood and eyed the walls and gates of the town
speculatively.

Suddenly, fresh shouts and curses startled them. Scouts came running back from the east of the town where they had been seeking weaknesses in the defence. A large number of men-at-arms and
knights were sallying forth from a postern. Their appearance had terrified the scouts that they might be caught in the open and slaughtered.

Desperate, the men pelted back to the bridge, at which point Geoff began to laugh. Ed thought he was sent mad by his unholy bloodlust, but then the others began to jeer – and he realised
what Geoff had seen. The knights were not attacking: they were riding away, leaving the town to its fate.

‘We’ve won it, Donkey! We’ve won it!’ he exulted. ‘They haven’t a hope now.’

Béatrice kept up with Alain all those weary miles. He had been shocked by the sight of the body by the spring, and she was not of a mood to allay his fears. If he was
worried by her, so much the better. For her part, Béatrice felt she could trust no one. All wanted either her body or her money. No one was honest. No one except perhaps Alain.

The passage of time meant nothing to her by now. They walked by day, and at night they found places to hide and shelter from the weather. When they came to towns, she viewed them with an eye to
the strength of the defences. Those with meagre protection were rejected almost immediately. It was only when they reached a town a few miles from Caen that she felt more secure. Caen was huge, she
knew.

Alain had been quiet since the death of the man. Whereas in the first days he had been thoughtful and caring, he had grown progressively more withdrawn. She knew that her ferocity that day had
struck him dumb.

‘When we get to the city,’ he said now, ‘we should find a good inn.’

He was studying the countryside as he spoke. They had reached the summit of a small hillock, and he stood gazing about him. Some people were walking along the road – a man with a cart
laden with goods, two women with baskets slung over their backs, children with fear graven on their faces – but as these passed, there were few enough behind them. Traffic on the roads had
thinned out.

‘We can find a cheaper bed at a tavern,’ she said. There was no point in wasting her money. The old woman’s purse was still mostly full, for she had hoarded the coins
carefully, but there was no telling how long the money must last. With no father, no Hélène, no family and no means of support, she must eke out her remaining funds.

‘We can afford a good chamber – food, wine, everything. We don’t have to stint,’ he said.

There was a subtle change in his tone as he spoke. She looked at him with a quick suspicion. ‘What do you mean?’

He had not tried to grope her or even steal a kiss. She had been sure that she could trust him, and yet there was a distance between them now.

‘Your money – you have plenty. The man saw it in the tavern when you showed me. That was his problem. He really wanted to have your money as well as taking you. It left him
confused.’

‘He wanted to rape me.’

‘Yes, that too.’

There was a coolness in his tone. She looked about, and realised that the last stragglers of the latest column of refugees had passed on and were disappearing behind some trees. They were
alone.

She took a step away.

‘I wanted to take the purse as soon as I saw you with all that money,’ he said, facing her again. ‘I had thought I would have money, but when I asked my mother for some, she
said that she had nothing. I searched, but she wasn’t lying. The stupid old hag must have forgotten and left her money behind.’

‘So you stabbed her,’ Béatrice said. She stepped away again.

‘How did you know that?’ He frowned, his clear blue eyes reflecting his surprise.

‘She told me.’

‘No, I killed her.’

‘You stabbed her. I took her into a house and eased her passing.’

‘That was kind. I will make sure you don’t suffer.’

‘You will kill me too?’

‘I think you could be jealous. You may want the money back. Wait!’ His frown deepened. ‘You say you helped her: where did you get that money?’

‘She gave it me.’

He laughed. ‘She gave it all to you? And then you walked into me, and I can take it from you. Hah! That is perfect!’

‘If you touch me, I’ll kill you.’

‘You can try, little maid. But I’m better equipped to defend myself than that fool with a beard, and I won’t be distracted by your splendid figure.’

He stepped towards her, and she kept her eyes fixed on him. Curiously, she felt no fear. She had killed two men already in the last week. This man was no stronger or quicker than they were. He
was no longer ‘Alain’, her protector: he was only another man seeking to use her, to steal from her and kill her.

No, she had no fear of such a man.

He took another step towards her and she moved back. Another, and she retreated again. ‘Will you walk back to Barfleur?’ he taunted.

‘No.’

He darted forward, his hand under his cloak as he came, and pulled out his knife.

She turned and fled, towards Caen, towards the last people she had seen on the road.

He would know she was bolting in search of protection, just as she had run to him when he first met her. A man like him, a coward who would stab his own mother, would not comprehend a woman who
was not terrified of him. He was after her like a greyhound seeing the hare run.

His high-pitched laugh sounded to her like the giggle of a demon, but she didn’t care. He was only a man. She had nothing to fear from him. She had already killed two like him.

She ran on, her feet raising small clouds of dust as she went. The air seared her lungs. She pounded onwards, all the while hearing his panting breath draw nearer and nearer, until she could
almost feel his hands about to grab at her clothing.

That was when she stopped, her legs bending like spanned bows, and she straightened and whipped round, the knife already in her hand.

He ran into her, and didn’t feel her blade at first. Only when she grabbed his own knife-hand and twisted her little blade under his breast did he understand.

For a long moment the two stood, she breathing deeply, her eyes fixed on his face, while he stared back, panting. Then there was a sob in his breath, and he tottered towards her. She shoved with
her knife, sawing the blade downwards, feeling it rasp against his flesh, and suddenly he collapsed.

She pulled the knife free, stepped away, and watched as he squirmed and started to wail as the pain in his belly grew.

22 July

The next morning, Archibald woke with a grunt.

The hammering and clattering had carried on ceaselessly through the night while the engineers worked on the bridge, curses flying regularly as tools or nails were dropped into the River Vire,
but that wouldn’t normally keep him awake. Archibald had learned early on, while training as a monk, that sleep should be snatched whenever possible. A monk’s life was harsh enough
without exhaustion to torment the soul.

He prepared himself as the rest of the King’s host lumbered to their feet, swearing and bickering lethargically.

It was good to see how the vintaine with Berenger Fripper immediately set to making a fire and toasting their little cakes, he thought. Most men would break their fast later in the day, but
these men saw to it that they had eaten before risking battle. That, to Archibald, was the sign of seasoned campaigners.

For him, a hunk of bread and the remains of the pottage from the night before were sufficient. Then, with a stretch and yawn that would have befitted a bear, he made his way to the river. He was
thirsty, and he wanted to get there before the majority of the army. Too many pissed into the waters.

At the bank, he saw Welshmen and others filling their skins and pots. He went a short way upstream and slipped down the bank behind a little stand of trees, filling his pottle-pot. It held two
quarts, and the mouth was small, so he must hold the barrel-shaped container under the water for a while to fill it. While he was there, he heard voices.

‘You should be careful,’ he heard a man say.

The voice was familiar, but he thought nothing of that. Right now he was concentrating on his water.

‘Who are you to tell me to be careful?’

This second was a strange voice, but the accent was recognisable to any man in the King’s army: it was a Welshman speaking. Idly, Archibald listened to their conversation.

‘The boy said you attacked him. You know the one, the boy with the archers? He said you assaulted him and robbed him just before the ship set sail.’

‘Him? We didn’t hurt him. We only made fun of him. He wanted to join us in the army, and tried to bribe us to bring him. As if we would have a halfling like him with us in the midst
in a battle!’

‘Well, he says you assaulted him, and he’s told other people that you did.’

Archibald frowned as he suddenly recognised the voice as Tyler’s. Leaning closer, he listened more attentively, but it was too late. The voices moved on, the men walking away from him.

Archibald filled his pottle-pot and thrust the cork home with a slap of his palm.

That was interesting. He wondered who the boy was, and why Tyler had chosen to accuse him of spreading tales. Not that it was any of his concern. As something of an outcast himself, Archibald
was less inclined to tell tales.

However, he disliked Mark Tyler. The man was up to something.

Grandarse roared and waved his hat to egg them on as the main body of infantry hurried past them over the bridge.

Sir John de Sully was one of the first men to cross it. He nodded to Grandarse, but gave a quick frown to see Jack Fletcher leading Berenger’s vintaine. Later he would have to go and check
on the vintener, to see how he fared from his wound, he reminded himself, before trotting towards the main gates. There he sat, resting his forearms on the crupper of his saddle, and studying the
main walls with interest. ‘Over here,’ he called, waving to Grandarse and his men.

When they reached him, he pointed to the town.

‘These walls are a mess. They have only recently been repaired – and that in a slapdash manner. You can see where they have expended their main efforts. There, there and
there.’ He pointed at the three cracks in the walls where rocks had been thrust into crevices in an effort to strengthen them. ‘We should attack from here.’

‘Yes, sir,’ his esquire said.

A man-at-arms stared at the walls with dismay. ‘You want to scale the wall
here
?’

‘We have two choices: we can wait while the engineers construct trebuchets and other siege weaponry, all the while allowing King Philippe to prepare for us, or we can take it quickly. Do
the men on the walls look like trained men-at-arms? No. If I am any judge, I would say that they are townsfolk. Specifically, townsfolk who are petrified of us, and with good reason. Richard, see
to it that ladders are brought here.’