Fields of Glory (33 page)

She was still weeping, her face hidden in Ed’s chest, one hand clutching the material to cover her modesty.

‘ “Nothing”? Looks like a lot more than “nothing” to me,’ Berenger said.

She looked up, and then stiffened.

Berenger span around to see Geoff, an armful of sticks and branches in his arms, enter the camp. He set them all down carefully at the fire’s side, squatted and began to break them ready
for burning.

Berenger couldn’t believe that Geoff would have done anything to her. A man terrified of a witch wouldn’t try to rape her.

Béatrice deliberately spat in Geoff’s direction before averting her face.

‘Christ’s pain, Geoff,’ Berenger said.

Outside Paris, Sir John had left Aeton with his esquire and made his way to St-Germain, where the French King had recently built a vast new palace for himself. The land all
about was his favourite hunting estate. King Edward had ensconced himself inside, while Edward of Woodstock had taken the old palace alongside.

Sir John found the palace filled with men, and more were outside, laughing and toasting each other.

‘My Lord Warwick? What is happening?’ Sir John asked. The evident jubilation of the men-at-arms outside was almost alarming. It reminded him of the febrile atmosphere of an army
before a foolhardy charge, when all the men drank themselves stupid so as not to face up to the disaster to come.

‘Sir John, the French King has agreed to do battle!’

Sir John stared, his mind whirling at the news. ‘Where? Does he say when?’

‘Our King will soon tell us.’

They were forced to wait while the senior bannerets and lords arrived. The space was much like a glad May morning, with the cheery atmosphere and flags fluttering overhead, but at last there was
a sudden hush. A troop of men with pikes marched from the palace and cleared a passage from the main doors. The King strode out, waving to his cheering officers as he went, until he reached a wagon
and climbed atop, his arms aloft.

‘My Lords, good knights, friends! I hope and trust you are all as happy with the passage of our army as I am, but soon you shall have reason for still more joy at our successes! For today
we have received a letter from our good cousin, the man who calls himself King of France. Would you like to hear what he says? Shall I read it to you?’

There was a chorus of cheers at that, and arms were raised as the knights bellowed support for their King and enthusiasm to hear what Philippe had written.

‘Hold! Hold! Very well, listen, and I shall read it to you,’ King Edward said. He raised a scroll. ‘He says: “Dear cousin, King of England and Wales, and . . .”
well, you don’t want the preliminaries, do you? Let us get to the meat of the dish. He says: “You who want to conquer this land . . .” Is he not most rude? He calls me his
“most dishonourable and disloyal vassal”. I am glad he realises I do not intend to be loyal to
him
! He says he will meet us for battle. He wishes us to go to him, north of Poissy
or some field south of Paris, on Thursday, Saturday, Sunday or Tuesday following the Feast of the Annunciation. What say you? Should we agree to fight him on these days?’

There was a roar of support at this. Fists and drawn weapons were waved in the air, and a man set up a chant of ‘Battle, battle, battle!’ that was taken up by several other knights,
stamping their feet or slapping their breasts in time to the cries.

Sir John did not feel the same enthusiasm. ‘He wants us to meet him at a time and place of his choosing? Philippe will prepare the land and expects us to march to him to our deaths?
Perhaps the French King has learned strategy.’

‘You would avoid his trap?’ the Earl asked.

‘I would.’

‘Silence, my friends! Please, hold!’ the King bellowed, and a herald nodded to a pair of esquires, who blew three loud blasts on their horns.

When the tumult had subsided somewhat, the King lowered his head and cast about, looking at the men before him.

‘My friends, I say
no
! No, we shall not accede to this man’s demands. What? He wants us to “cease in the depredations against my people, cease to burn the lands”,
et cetera. Should we stop our profitable investigations of his favourite manors? I say again,
no
! He says, we may meet him here, or there, when it suits him. I say, we have offered him
battle all the long miles from La Hogue to here, and he has refused us. I was content to accept battle wherever he decided, but he did not come. I wanted to cross the Seine to fight him, but he
tore down the bridges or garrisoned the towns so that we might not reach him. And now, now we are all-powerful, he asks us to agree to
his
terms?’

King Edward paused and stared about him with a slow deliberation, meeting the eyes of his knights and barons as though testing their will-power.

‘Gentlemen, I will burn and destroy everything he most values here. All his manors, even this splendid palace here, the Palais du Roy, and the other over there where my son rests. He asks:
Where shall he find us? And I say: Look for the smoke. Look for the fires. That is where I shall be. Listen for the sound of mourning and weeping.
That is where I shall be!
And when
we
desire it, we shall stop at a place of
our
choosing, where we may offer battle. But should I take his commands to fight at such a place and such a time, when he desires it? Then
indeed should I be accused of being a false vassal, for only a vassal would agree to terms from his lord in such manner. I shall not. I shall not.
I SHALL NOT
! I am King of England and of
France. I shall continue rewarding those who demonstrate their fealty, punishing those who are faithless! And I will take this land with your aid, my friends, my noble companions. This
chevauchée
shall be remembered through the centuries, I swear!’

The Earl nodded as the men erupted once more in bellows of support. He commented drily, ‘Well, it would appear he agrees with you, Sir John.’

‘I am glad to hear it. I think that his conclusion is correct.’

‘Which is?’

‘The French wish us to stop burning and looting. They offer nothing, only a battle at some time in the future, if we are good enough to accept it, when they have overwhelming
force.’

The Earl eyed him. He himself was thirty years old, so thirty years younger than Sir John. There was no disputing the fact that Sir John had more experience of war, of success and shameful
disaster and failure, than he did. ‘They will say that we run, that when they offer us a battle, we avoid them.’

‘Yes, they will,’ Sir John agreed. ‘For a while, a little while. But we shall seek and find ourselves a more accommodating site for a battle than a flat field on which the
French may encircle us and destroy us at their leisure. Has he responded already to the French King?’

‘Yes. The Bishop of Meaux came to deliver it, and he has been sent back with an offer of a truce for the morrow. The Feast of the Annunciation will be celebrated in peace – and the
day after, we shall be ready for war.’

Sir John nodded. He recalled speaking with Berenger earlier. In his mind’s eye he pictured a field north of the Somme: a sloping hill with strong woods behind. A perfect place for siting a
defence against even massive foes.

‘We are ready now, but we need the right field,’ he said, ‘not somewhere selected by the French. A place with a hill where we can set our archers, where we can assault the
enemy with impunity, a place where they must attack on one line of approach. A field where we must win.’

That night, Geoff sat apart from the rest of the vintaine as they ate their meal. He cast wary glances towards Berenger and the others, chewing his portion of hard bread until
at last the vintener rose and walked away from the fire, crouching at his side, still carrying his bowl. He didn’t meet Geoff’s eyes, but dipped a crust into his pottage and sucked
it.

‘Well?’

‘It’s not true.’

‘Did you rape her?’

‘You know me better than that.’

‘How well does any man know another?’ Berenger muttered.

‘Look at me, Frip! I am the same man you joked with yesterday.’

‘Aye, very well. What happened up there, Geoff?’

Geoff wouldn’t speak for a time. Then: ‘Frip, when did the Devil last try to tempt you?’

‘Me?’ Berenger frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Have you never been tempted?’

‘I’ve seen Him in many men after a battle, but no, I don’t think He’s ever tempted me. Neither in battle nor with a woman.’

‘The Devil tries to tempt me all the time.’

‘But he has easier targets,’ Berenger objected. ‘There are men who only need a push to go and murder a nun or monk. Why would he take you on, when there is such easy
prey?’

‘I know the Devil is here – and out there today, I saw His skill. She is the Devil’s own, Frip.’

Berenger began to smile, but he caught a glimpse of Geoff’s expression. ‘What happened up there?’

‘In the woods there’s a chapel. I saw her in there, and I wanted to talk to her. That was all, I swear. But she didn’t trust me, and I suppose that got my blood up. I wanted to
make her stop and listen to me.’

‘You raped her?’

‘No. I could have, Frip, if I’d wanted to. But I didn’t. I just tried to hold her back, and she gave me this scratch. I was furious, but I let her alone.’

‘It’s between you and her, Geoff. But if I could, I’d have you stay right away from her from now on.’

‘I know, Frip, and I will. I don’t want to go anywhere near her. She has been touched by the Devil. That’s why I was tempted, because
he
tempted me. Just like . .
.’

‘What?’

Geoff shook his head. He couldn’t tell Berenger about his wife and the boys. It was still too raw. Their screams still filled his nightmares. ‘Nothing. I’ll leave her
alone.’

‘You’d better. The others may find it hard to swallow, that the Devil suddenly came and forced you. They believe her.’

‘All I know is, I won’t sleep easy while she’s still here. The thought of her blade at my throat is with me all the while.’

Sitting at his own fire, Archibald watched Geoff from beneath beetling brows. Béatrice sat near him, her own eyes fixed upon the fire, arms huddled about her upper body.
Her eyes had streamed with tears earlier, and left pale tracks in the dirt that masked her features. She had been so near to forgetting the Welsh attack, that to see her in this state again was
upsetting.

‘Ed, take this to her,’ Archibald said, passing him a goatskin full of wine.

The boy took her the wine, and she looked at Archibald and ducked her head in gratitude, tipping it up and drinking deep.

‘That’s right, maid,’ he said. ‘Drink it away. And be assured, I won’t let him near you again.’

‘He will never touch me again!’ she hissed.

‘You need not worry. Just stay here with me and the vintaine. I am sorry this happened while you were under my protection. You should have told me you were going up there.’

‘I saw the chapel, it seemed right to go,’ she whispered.

‘Aye, possibly. But we have priests aplenty here in the army. Any of them could have shriven you or said a Mass.’

‘I wanted some peace to pray for my family.’

‘What happened to them?’ Archibald asked, thinking it might help her, to talk about it.

Hesitantly at first, Béatrice began to tell her story. Gradually, her voice strengthened and her pride shone through.

‘I was the daughter of Simon Pouillet, of Argenteuil. We were a happy family. He made powder for gonnes – like you, m’sieur.’

‘Just call me Archibald,’ he said gently.

‘I had a spoiled life. We lived well, and often had friends of importance come to stay. Well, last year my father had a party for those who had helped him over the past twelve months. He
invited his brother, and lots of members of the guilds came to dine with us.

‘My mother was always proud of her cooking and her brewing, and she laid on a wonderful feast. The men grew merry, and my father was praised for his hospitality. But during the meal,
someone mentioned the King of England and his demands. My father made a silly remark. He said: “Perhaps France would benefit from a King who ruled well and wisely, even if he were English,
rather than being ruled badly by Philippe.” It was a joke – a jest. No one took it seriously.’

She wept, her face in her hands. That was the last time her family had been together, happy, free, prosperous and comfortable. She could remember the long table, her mother at the side of her
father, all their guests in their finery, the servants moving quietly and efficiently between them, serving the large messes of stews, the pies with gravy oozing, the honeyed larks, the mixed
dishes and beautiful sweetmeats. How everyone had laughed and sung and danced and enjoyed themselves. And then . . .

‘The first I knew something was wrong was the knock at our door two days later. There was the sound of mailed fists against the timbers, and then the door burst open and men poured in.
They took my father, and when my brother tried to stop them, they beat him over the head with a cudgel. My mother was screaming –
I
was screaming. The maids were terrified, and the
bottler and our manservants did not know what to do. How could they?’

‘What happened, maid?’ Archibald asked.

‘They took him. He was held in a gaol overnight, and we heard later that – that they took him to Montfaucon. There they hanged him on a hook in the butchers’ slaughterhouse,
and hacked him apart while he . . .’

‘Enough, maid,’ Archibald said. ‘You poor thing!’

She sniffed, not daring to look at him. His voice was breaking, and she knew that in his face she would see sympathy. But she didn’t want it. Béatrice was strong. She wanted no
man’s compassion. All she wanted was the means to protect herself.

‘So that’s why you have no feeling for your people, then?’ he said.

She nodded, head hanging. There was nothing left in her now, she felt drained. And then she did look up. Archibald was weeping, and the sight made something tear in her soul. Her eyes filled
with tears, and she began to sob. The attack by Geoff had been more unsettling than the attempted rape by the priest or even her capture by the Welsh, because she had come to feel secure with the
Englishmen. It made her misery all the worse, knowing that one of them had broken that bond of trust.