Fields of Glory (35 page)

‘You married her a long time ago.’

‘It was the Feast of Saint John the Baptist, fourteen, fifteen years ago. Her father wouldn’t let me near, so we met in a little leaf-strewn clearing in the trees, and there we
straightway made love. There was no discussion, no lengthy negotiation. We both knew that we were meant to be married.

‘After that, things moved swiftly. We made our vows there in the leaves, in front of friends, before visiting the doddery old fool of a priest, who blessed us at the church door.
Afterwards, he declared that it was the first wedding he had legitimised for a couple in love.’

He remembered it all. ‘You know, when I was told to go and fight the Scots, I was dead keen. And when I returned – Christ’s pains! – Sarra was so glad to have me return,
it was a day before she allowed me from our bed!’

‘You are lucky, Geoff. I’ve never found a woman like that.’

‘I never had reason to doubt her affection.’ Never, in all those years, he told himself wonderingly.

Berenger was called away by Matt, and when he was alone, Geoff remained, staring into the distance.

She had always been there to look after him: the one fixed point of his life. Until the beginning of summer, when he met Edith.

Young, fresh, wriggling and gorgeous as a summer’s morning, she worked in the tavern, and all the men adored her. Her ivory skin, her rich auburn hair, the perfect roses of her lips. She
was sweet and taut and soft and bitter, and he longed for her when he was away from her in a way that tormented his soul. Sarra, in comparison, looked like a worn-out drudge.

At his neglect, Sarra grew sharp, with a poisonous tongue that could slay a saint. It made his visits to the tavern to see Edith all the more delightful. Until that day when he wandered home
drunk, after spending the day with her, and Sarra tore into him. She shouldn’t have done that. It wasn’t her
place
to demand, to insult him and say that he was whoring with all
the sluts in the alehouses. She shouldn’t have spoken to him like that. No man could keep his anger under control, when provoked like that.

The next morning, he found her down behind the table, her throat cut. And the memory returned – of their shouting, their fighting, her spitting at him, raking at his face with fingers like
claws, kicking and punching at him, her face twisted into a mask of hatred while their little boys watched.

That was why he never joined in the rapes in the towns; that was why he couldn’t take Béatrice by force when he had the chance. Not because he didn’t want to, but because
every time he took a woman, he saw his Sarra’s eyes, her dead eyes, looking back at him accusingly.

17 August

‘Up! The lot of you:
up
!’

Berenger was awake at the first shout. Before the second, he was on his feet, sword in hand.

All around him, men were yawning, rubbing their eyes and grumbling in the gloom. This was not their usual routine. Most mornings, it would be Berenger moving about them kicking the occasional
figure, beating on a pot or shouting. Today, however, Grandarse and Sir John’s esquire were hurrying about the camp, waking everyone.

‘What’s the matter?’ Berenger demanded.

‘We’re to break camp,’ Richard Bakere said tersely.

‘You heard him,’ Grandarse snapped. ‘
Now
! We’re leaving the wagon train and anything unnecessary. Bring all the oxen and horses, but the heavy ballocks are to be
left behind.’

Berenger felt the words hit him in the belly. ‘Leave the wagon train? The enemy are that close?’

‘The mother-swyving sons of whores have already closed on us. We’re told to find ourselves horses or ponies, anything with four legs we can steal to get away from here. I’d cut
their throats if we could stop and fight, you lads would shoot ’em so full of arrows they’d look like my lady’s pin-cushion, but the fact is, they are a large army, and we are
depleted. Damn their black souls, but I didn’t think they’d catch us so speedily!’

Grandarse was already off again, swearing and shouting at Roger’s vintaine, and Berenger walked to a tree and pulled down his hosen, pissing long while trying to come to terms with the
news.

‘Will they catch us, do you think?’ Matt asked quietly, taking his post at the tree a moment or two later.

‘If they’re on the same plain, they may, I suppose. It’s ludicrous to think that they’d risk it though,’ Berenger said.

‘Is that the view of my friend the vintener, or the politics of a commander?’ Matt grinned. ‘I am a man, Frip. I can take the truth.’

‘Very well. If they can, they will fall on us like wolves on a flock. But we still have our King and his advisers. You know what they say: if five Englishmen were attacked by fifteen
French it would be an unfair fight, like five wolves attacked by fifteen sheep.’

‘Aye, but these sheep have steel fangs and mail for fleece!’

Berenger shrugged. ‘I cannot think of the last time the French managed to assault us and win. Can you?’

Clip overheard them, and called out gleefully, ‘Aye, if they get much closer, they’ll murder the lot of us. We’ll all be slain!’

Matt spat on the grass at his feet. ‘I’ll bloody murder you myself if they don’t manage it first,’ he said.

They were soon ready, packed and off.

Berenger watched the horizon closely as he rode his small black and white pony. They had found him in a field as they marched past, and then two decent rounseys at a stable, but Berenger took
one look at the rounseys and decided to stick with the pony. It was less distance to fall. Together with the other beasts they had already found, these were enough for half the vintaine to ride.
Those without horses padded along on the grass, for the most part complaining loudly that their legs ached.

Before they had covered a league, Matt had stopped and pulled off his shoe, saying he had a thorn in his foot, and Berenger saw that the shoe had almost no sole. The upper was flapping
uselessly. Matt was not the only man to go near-barefoot though, and before long many others would be too.

The path they took was clearly used by villagers moving their cattle, and soon they found themselves in a small town.

It was a quiet little place. Smoke still rose from a hearth in one cottage, but the whole place was deserted. Only one ancient dog barked for a while, until one of the vintaine hit him with an
axe handle.

‘Is there any drink?’ Clip demanded, hurrying into the nearest house.

There was little enough of anything. They moved cautiously, taking cover when a flight of duck flew overhead, jumping when a cock crowed, constantly fearing attack. Berenger whispered and hissed
his commands, convinced that the French had encircled them by their quick marching and were already here.

Soon Berenger heard a loud noise from behind. A column of their own men was advancing, along with the lumbering wagons of Archibald, the Donkey and Béatrice marching at its side. On a
whim, he walked to greet them.

‘Is he treating you well?’ he asked of the boy.

‘He’s very kind,’ Ed replied. But his face was thinner, and his eyes looked larger than ever.

‘Have you eaten?’ Berenger asked, shooting a suspicious look at the rotund Archibald.

‘Eaten, Master Fripper?’ the gynour replied. ‘Damn me if he has. Why should he eat?’

‘I didn’t supply you with a slave to be starved!’ Berenger snarled, and would have leaped onto the wagon to grab the man, but the Donkey put out a hand to prevent him.

‘No, Master, he hasn’t eaten either. No one has brought us any food.’

‘Is that true?’

‘It’s often the way,’ the gynour shrugged. Then he looked very directly at Berenger, and jerked his head towards Béatrice.

‘It’s normal, Vintener. The others don’t like men like me. They think that since I smell of the Devil, the Devil can look to my meals! Eh? So, if you have a crust or two of
bread, I’d be glad of it. Failing that, a half-ox would meet my own needs, washed down with a tun of good French wine!’

Berenger looked at Béatrice and back to Archibald again. It was clear that this was an invention to protect her feelings. Archibald and his little cavalcade had no food because too many
of the soldiers feared her. Rumours that she could be a witch were widespread. Berenger grinned. ‘I don’t have much, but you can share in our fortunes. Would you ride with us in the
front?’

‘I don’t know about that,’ Archibald said. ‘I’ve heard it’s dangerous to be at the point of the spear. But if you mean to tell me that there is more food to
be had there, I’ll gladly chance my safety.’

Before Berenger could respond, a sly voice intruded. ‘Be careful of him, Master Gynour. That vintener is dangerous to know. People die around him.’

He turned to see that a party of Welshmen had caught up with them. Ed shrank away, and Béatrice moved until her back was at the wagon’s side. She fumbled at her belt, feeling for
her knife.

‘Stop that, child, or you’ll cause more disturbance than you would wish,’ Archibald said firmly. He eyed the Welsh with contained belligerence.

The Welshman sneered at him and moved on past, their long ragged cloaks trailing.

Archibald watched them disappear, saying, ‘If I were to get myself in a tight spot, I shouldn’t like to have to rely on
them
. We had more trouble from them last
night.’

‘What happened?’

‘That turd Erbin offered to purchase young Béatrice for the sum of one loaf and a bowl of pottage. When I told them where to go, they took away their food and we were left
hungry.’

‘They didn’t try to attack you again?’

Archibald gave a cold smile. ‘I think they have learned that it’s not a good idea to try to surprise folks with experience of black powder.’

After that, Berenger kept close to Archibald’s wagon. If there were to be an ambush, it could become a stronghold for the men when arrows began to fly.

There was no sign of the French army as yet. Lulled by the sounds of squeaking harnesses, the rattle of pans and chains, the steady tramping of many feet, he began to lose the sense of urgency,
and instead listened to the men talking.

‘We’re not to halt, they say. But if we don’t, how can we forage?’ Matt was saying.

Geoff contributed, ‘It’s bad enough that the food has run out. We are starving when the villages all about here have food in plenty.’

‘Aye, how can a man fight on an empty stomach?’ Eliot said sadly.

‘Does it matter? You’re all going to die soon, anyway,’ Clip said. Then: ‘Ouch!’

Matt spoke with an innocent voice. ‘What, did you hurt yourself?’

‘You hit my pate!’

‘You viciously butted my elbow with your head, Clip, I think you’ll find.’

‘Aye, well, we’ll see who’s left laughing when the French are done with you,’ Clip muttered in his nasal whine.

‘Will you shut up saying that!’

Berenger could tell that these were not the usual gripes and grumbles: the men were beginning to feel anxious.

Beckoning Matt, he pulled him to one side. ‘The men. What’s their temper?’

‘You can hear what they’re saying, Frip. They aren’t happy. Nor am I, for that matter. For one thing, they’re hungry.’

‘They’ve been on short rations before.’

‘It ain’t just that. They’re worried about the French, too. Come on, Frip, you know what they’re like: they had an easy march of it from the landing to Paris, and they
reckoned the whole thing would be a piece of cake. Now they see there’ll be a serious fight.’

‘The King told us as much when we embarked. They knew he meant to catch the French.’

‘Yes. But now it looks like it’s us who’ll be caught. We could be engaged in the open on the plains before we can even form our battles. If the French get us, before
we’re good and ready, we’ll be buggered. You want that? I know I don’t.’

‘Distract the men. Occupy them with thoughts of women and wine at the next town.’

‘Which is that?’

‘I don’t know,’ Berenger admitted.

‘I’ll do what I can.’

‘And get them to speed up. The King has ordered that we should all hurry.’

‘Has he?’ Jack looked at him sharply. ‘The French must be very close, then.’

‘Why else would we have left the wagons behind?’

‘Yeah, but if the King’s worried we’re—’

‘No one’s worried. It’s just the way things are. We have to reach the river as soon as possible before we get cut off. Once we cross the Somme, we’ll be home and dry
– it’s country the King knows well.’

‘Aye, well, I’ll try to buck them up,’ Matt said, rising.

‘Do that. We don’t want the daft sods getting themselves panicked.’

‘Panicked?’ Matt repeated with a sidelong grin. ‘We’re in a foreign land, without food or supplies, and the biggest army in the whole of Christendom is heading for us,
hoping to beat us bloody and break our pates, but, there’s
nothing to worry about
.’ His smile disappeared, like water soaking into sand. ‘I’ll do my best, Frip, but I
can’t perform sodding miracles.’