Fields of Glory (26 page)

When the little battle was over, Sir Thomas stood up in his stirrups, and bellowed at the French on the other bank.

‘St George for King Edward! If any of you dare to meet us, we are ready!’

Sir Thomas had been cheered by the action, and he continued to joke and be merry with the other men as they jogged along. Sir John de Sully looked less sanguine, however, and
Berenger saw him keeping a constant lookout for ambushes.

He was distracted by Richard Bakere, the knight’s esquire, saying, ‘Master Berenger, my lord would speak with you.’

Berenger nodded and urged his pony to trot up to the knight. ‘Sir John – you wanted me?’

‘You and I are not so young as some in this army,’ Sir John said. ‘I remember the ride to Avignon; our old King trusted you as a solid fighting man. You are little changed, I
think. I like to know that men I am selecting are sound.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This war has one purpose, my friend: to crush the French army. We have enough archers to make every French infantryman look like a hedgehog, and with luck our bodkin arrows will prick any
French knight who tries to charge us, but some may escape even our clothyards. Of course, we have other weapons to throw them into confusion, God willing, but there are so many of these damned
Frenchmen! You saw the size of their army at Rouen. If all should fail, we will have to act with caution.’

‘You mean that we should consider retreat?’ Berenger said. The idea did not appeal. The army that turned and fled was invariably the army that was destroyed. No man could fight while
taking to his heels.

‘Do I look like a faithless coward?’ Sir John snapped. ‘No. I mean that we must look to the defence of our King and Prince. We have many young knights and esquires among us who
are less experienced in battle than you or I. We know not to race ahead of our companions because we see a tempting target. Others do not, and are often surrounded and overwhelmed.’

‘We rarely lose unless we are taken by surprise,’ Berenger noted.

Sir John’s flash of anger was already flown. ‘True enough, my friend. However, the bridge at Rouen is gone. The French will be fools if they do not seek to destroy other bridges with
the aim of preventing our crossing –
except
at the place of King Philippe’s choice. When we have the opportunity, a few hotheads may rush over, then find themselves in a trap. It
would only take a small force to throw our army into disarray. Think: a force of a thousand archers and men, crossing at a suitable point, and then enclosed and wiped out. All France would see that
the English were not invincible, and our men would lose heart. They would feel that their King’s star was waning, and mutterings would begin. Many would accuse the King of foolishness in
seeking the crown, and some might even desert his cause.’

‘So what do you suggest?’

‘No more than this: keep an eye on your men. You will serve me directly, and I will bring you to support the Prince. He is our hope and future. We have to protect him at all
costs.’

‘At all costs,’ Berenger repeated softly.

‘You understand, don’t you? Keep your men on a tight rein. If there is a need for military prowess, we shall form a resolute band. But we cannot afford to risk archers committing
themselves like at Caen, or see men like Sir Thomas rushing in willy nilly.’

‘No, sir.’

‘I have fought in many battles, Fripper. At Halidon Hill we crippled the Scottish and left the main part of their army dead on the grass, because we English held our line. We didn’t
break our ranks, but held together as the Scottish attacked. It was just as they had done to us at Bannockburn, when
they
held the ground and we charged them, and were destroyed.’

‘You were there?’

‘It was my first battle, and my worst. But it showed me the importance of discipline.’ He threw a stern glance at Berenger. ‘At Caen we could have lost everything. The archers
rushed ahead and yes, we took the city. But if the French had set traps in the walled town, things could have turned out very differently. If the Welsh had not succeeded in their flanking attack,
if the archers were held at the gatehouse, if there had been more barricades that held up our men, if the citizens began to drop more rocks and missiles on our fellows . . . it would have gone ill
for us.’

‘I was there.’

‘I know. And I am saying this because you are not usually foolhardy. Next time, wait until your King has drawn together all his forces before you take such a risk. Otherwise you could be
responsible for the destruction of the English, and of your King’s ambitions. So, if you see a fool like Sir Thomas rush off to fight, next time, leave him to get on with it.’

‘He could have died without our support.’

‘Then so be it. It is worth losing one rash fool compared with losing the battle. We need steadiness in the army.’

‘Aye, Sir John.’ Berenger looked at him with respect mingled with relief. His nagging concerns about the leadership of the army had been quelled.

‘Now return and find your men. I will speak with you again very soon.’

‘I have bread and wine here, boy. We lack meat, more’s the shame, but there is some thick pottage left over from last night, if you want some. We can soon heat it
up.’

Archibald bent to the fire again, and Ed saw that he had made small loaves of bread which were sitting on top of a steel disk over the embers. The glorious scent of newly baked bread mingled
with the odour of brimstone.

‘What is that smell?’ Ed asked.

‘Don’t worry about it. I use this same pan to test my mixtures sometimes. A little of the smell gets into the metal, I suppose,’ Archibald said.

Ed nodded, joining him at the fire. ‘Is Béatrice here?’

‘She’s gone off somewhere, boy. Don’t worry about her.’

‘I do, though. If you’d seen the way that the Welsh treated her . . .’

‘I did, remember? But they will think twice about doing anything to her while she’s with me.’

‘I’ve heard rumours, rumours that . . .’ Ed stammered. He felt foolish even mentioning it.

‘That I’m in league with the Devil, I suppose.’

‘Yes.’

‘I can make magic, of course. You may see that one day.’

‘Oh.’

‘And I am considered so foul by the Lord God, that I must be ostracised and excommunicated.’

‘I hadn’t heard that, but—’

‘And my soul is doomed. Oh, and so are those of any who join with me. Like you.’

‘I . . .’ Ed looked into the fire. In his heart he felt sure that he could see demons deep in the flames, leering at him.

Archibald suddenly gave an explosion of laughter.

‘Boy, it’s ballocks! I am a man like any other. I am a Christian, and I go to the altar like you every day. There is nothing to fear from me. They say I make magic. What they mean
is, they don’t understand how I do things
without
magic.’

He pulled out a platter of wood, and slid the bread onto it. ‘Go on, boy, eat. You see, what I do is make use of modern arts. I learned from a clever religious man many years ago how to
make the black powder. It is a marvellous powder, full of energy and excitement. It makes flashes and flames, it lights the sky, if you want it to. In years to come, it will be seen as the means of
giving princes power. Because no matter how highborn, no matter how wealthy, a man with a bag of powder at his side will be your equal.’

‘How can you say that?
Powder?
’

‘Watch and learn, boy!’

The gynour rose and walked over to the wagon. He took up a leather satchel, inside which was a waxed bag like a small wineskin. Bringing this back to the fireside, he pulled out the cork and
poured a small amount into his hand. Thick black flakes of powder appeared, and Ed peered at them closely.

‘It looks like the dust from the roadside after the rains have panned the mud and wagons have crushed it,’ he said.

‘Aye. And I make it in much the same way, very carefully mingling the three elements – clean charcoal, brimstone and saltpetre. I have made it from other ingredients, but those
three, mixed in the correct proportion, give you the real powder. After that, I wet the mixture into a thick pottage, and then leave to dry on wooden racks in the sun. Never by a fire! Later, I
crumble it – gently, very gently – in a large mortar, and finally, I am left with this glorious, God-given residue:
black powder
. Look!’

The gynour threw the powder into the fire. There was a sizzling flash, and a roiling cloud of blue-black smoke rose from the fire like a small thundercloud.

Ed did not see it. He had leaped away, yelping:
‘Christ Jesus, save me!’

Archibald laughed at his shock, setting his little flask on the ground beside him.

‘Don’t panic! It is quite safe,’ Béatrice said, walking up to them and sitting near the fire. ‘It is only the powder he uses in his guns.’

‘I know. It was a gun like that which killed my father,’ Ed said brokenly.

Soon they had reached the outer limits of the camp. At first, the sentries on duty were suspicious of the little cavalcade, but before long Berenger was back with Grandarse and
the men, squatting at the fireside and dunking pieces of rough, unleavened bread in a watery pottage.

‘How was it?’ Geoff asked.

‘Not bad. They have a lot of men up there,’ Berenger said, looking at Grandarse.

The latter pulled a face. ‘Aye, the buggers are likely thinking they can roll us up like a tapestry and throw us into the sea.’

‘If they can gather together well enough, that would be likely. You wouldn’t believe how many there were.’

Jack grunted. ‘What of it? We’re worth any number of French churls.’

‘They won’t get through us,’ Matt agreed.

‘We’ll all get slaughtered,’ Clip said gloomily. Then: ‘What? Why’re ye all looking at me like that?’

‘Shut up, Clip,’ Berenger said.

Grandarse heaved his bulk up, scratching his cods. ‘Aye, well, there may be many of them, but there are enough ugly bastards here with us, too. Ach, I need a piss.’

Berenger dipped bread into his pottage. ‘I hope you’re right.’

At a tree, Grandarse lifted his chemise and pulled down his braies to water the grass. Over his shoulder he called, ‘Listen to you, man. You’ve lost your senses! You think we
can’t beat a bunch of Frenchies? Most will be local levies without training or weapons to protect themselves, let alone hurt us. There’ll be some mercenaries, maybe some Genoese –
look how useful they were at Caen! And knights. Well, if we take our own position and hold it, we’ll keep them away, too.’

Berenger was about to make a comment when there was a sudden scream. He sprang up, his bowl of pottage falling into the fire and spattering and hissing. Ramming the last of his bread into his
mouth, he set hand to sword and ran towards the scream, while Grandarse roared and swore, slapping at his damp thigh and trying to pull his braies up as he lumbered after his vintener.

Béatrice had not lost her instinctive distrust of men. Archibald she could tolerate, in the way that a child could put up with the annoying attentions of a generous
uncle. The gynour, she felt sure, was unlikely to rape her. His genial manner appeared genuine. Ed, too, was no danger. But that was not the case with other men in the English camp. She could feel
their lascivious gazes on her.

‘Come, maid, food,’ Archibald said. He held a large bowl aloft.

She took it slowly, and began to eat. Once, a year or more ago, she had found a stray dog, and although it was ravenous and wanted the tidbits she held out, it was afraid to approach too close.
She felt like that wild brute herself now. Distrustful, hungry, ready to bite.

After their meal, Archibald toyed with the leather flask.

‘What is this powder?’ Ed asked.

‘It is called the Serpentine,’ Archibald said. ‘You let the fire get to my wagon here, and have one of the barrels there get scorched, and you’ll level this
forest!’

Ed’s lip was curled. ‘I know that smell,’ he muttered.

‘Few don’t. You are used to the powder?’ Archibald enquired of Béatrice.

She nodded. ‘I told you. My father was a merchant of powders. He made it, and I learned how to make it from him.’

‘Maid, I think you are my perfect woman,’ Archibald smiled.

Shortly afterwards he settled, his hat over his eyes, his back against a tree. Béatrice took herself a short distance from him, almost under the wagon. Ed went to join her, and she
covered them in a cloak, snuggling up tightly.

It was late when she heard the footsteps. In the gloom she could see nothing. Then there were figures, flitting softly from tree to tree. She thought them wraiths, but then one went to the side
of Archibald, and she heard a thud as that person struck him on the pate. Instantly his breathing changed to a shallow snore.

‘Ed,
vite
! Flee!’ she hissed. ‘The Welsh, they are here!’

He goggled momentarily, and then she saw an awful comprehension in his eyes. As though she could read his mind, she guessed he was thinking of the women in Caen, the wives and daughters
littering the roadside. She saw him clench his jaw and frown.