Fields of Glory (36 page)

That afternoon, it all went to pot.

For once, Berenger and the others were not in the lead as the army rumbled, squeaked and thumped its way north and west. Other scouts were sent to spy out ahead, and more men on horseback
clattered by, throwing clods of soil in all directions as they passed, carrying messages to the King or from him to his son. Every so often, a white-faced archer or esquire would hurtle back from
the front with news. Whether it was of sightings of the French army or not, Berenger could not tell.

But the fighting – he knew when that started.

There were three vintaines of Grandarse’s century up ahead of them when it kicked off. At first there was a series of shouts and orders, then the blast of dozens of horns.

‘Frip!’ Geoff cried.

‘Archers, string your bows!’ Berenger roared. ‘Clip! Fetch arrows:
now
! Donkey, help him!’

Ed the Donkey stared mulishly, but a kick from Archibald almost sent him sprawling. ‘You think this is a holiday? You want to argue whether you work for him or not? Get moving and make
sure there’s an army to fight with!’

Berenger gave him a quick grin, then hared off to see what had happened. There came the pounding of hooves, and a whey-faced youth rode back from the front, reining in late when Berenger held up
his hands.

‘Hold! What is the alarm?’

‘Ambush! Those French cunts are slaughtering us!’ There were perhaps four dozen of them, he told Berenger and Geoff, nestled together in the ruins of a little cottage, with some
crossbowmen lying further up in a deep ditch at the side of the road. As the first of the English had ridden down the lane towards the village, a sudden shock of arrows had slammed into the front
rank. Six men were downed and two horses, and then, as the English began to edge forward, more bolts flew, and three more men were impaled.

‘We’ll have to get around them,’ the rider declared, his voice shaking. ‘I’m to fetch help.’

Berenger let him go. The lad was petrified, and would be no help in a fight. Better to let him take his terror with him, lest he infect the rest of the men.

‘Come on!’ he said, and his vintaine pressed forward in his wake.

There was not much cover here: on their left, a large shaw of mixed trees and bushes, on their right, a pasture spreading out towards a stream. Cattle and some sheep were grazing, warily eyeing
the intruders. Occasional bushes and trees stood between them and the houses ahead.

The ambush was set in a hamlet; there was a chapel and five cottages, with the grey line of the roadway passing on between all.

‘Where are they?’ Geoff muttered as the two crouched low. Matt joined them on Berenger’s right, kneeling and peering ahead with narrowed eyes.

‘Can
you
see anything?’ Berenger asked, his own eyes fixed.

‘There’s something at that window,’ Geoff breathed, pointing to the second house on their left. ‘And I think I saw someone in the ditch at the side of the road. But it
could have been a flower moving in the wind.’

‘Wind, my arse,’ Berenger said. There was not a breath of air. Even the dust from the roadway hung in the air behind them to show their path.

‘Are they trained, or local militia?’ Matt said.

‘They have a good position,’ Geoff considered.

‘That may be because they live here and don’t want to give up without a fight,’ Berenger said.

‘I say, lay down a strong assault with our arrows, and run in on ’em,’ Jack said. ‘We can do it if we’re fast.’

‘If they’re trained, the first men will be killed,’ Berenger said.

‘So make sure your friends are in the second rank,’ Geoff said grimly. ‘I don’t fear the bastards.’

Berenger nodded, and then called to the rest of his men.

Behind them was the Welsh contingent, and then two more English vintaines. Roger and his men were there, and he and Berenger agreed a plan. Two vintaines of archers drew up in two formations,
like arrow-heads pointing at the village.

‘Nock!’

A ripple of movement as the archers brought up their arrows.

‘Draw!’

The men bent their backs, their bows creaking under the strain as the clothyard arrows were aimed up into the sky.

‘Loose!’

A whirring and whistling, and the arrows rose into the air, and as they went, the archers were already nocking again. This second flight took to the air before the first had plummeted to the
ground. A third flight, and even as they soared, Berenger and Geoff and the rest of the vintaine, along with the Welsh, were racing over the road as fast as their legs would bear them.

There was a scream as an English arrow found its mark, and then a figure rose from the side of the road, hesitated, and turned and fled. Three arrows were sent after him, but none found its
mark. Another man appeared – only a youth, this; an arrow struck him in the groin and he fell down, squirming horribly, a thin shriek of agony cutting through the whistle and thud of arrows
striking the ground.

‘To me!’ Berenger bellowed, pounding across the road.

All sound faded. He could feel the blood thundering in his veins, the metallic taste of blood in his throat, and he was aware of an all-encompassing desperation to get to the other side before
he could be struck down.

Yet there was more than mere desperation. There was a sense of the justness of this. He was a warrior, and this – here, now – was his duty, his life, his love. He wanted to cross the
road safely because this was his vocation: to run, to charge . . . and to kill.

The arrows ceased, and suddenly he could hear noises again: the rasp of breath – it was his own – the slap of boots and bare feet, the rattle and chink of mail, shrieks of terror,
the solid thwack of bolts striking flesh, screams of pain.

A man sprang from the ground before him, and Berenger swung his sword, wounding his assailant in the throat. He fell, and Berenger leaped over the ditch, making for the houses where they had
seen the men at the windows. An English arrow sped past his shoulder and he saw it continue in through an open window, saw the figure inside stumble; then a bolt loosed down at the ground near
Berenger’s feet, but he scarcely registered it as he ran at full tilt.

Behind him, the Welshmen were hacking at bodies on the ground, although their leader was looking about him for fresh targets. When he saw Berenger, he pointed, but did not direct his men to join
the English. Instead, they held back.

Berenger saw and gritted his teeth. He was being left to be caught and slaughtered. From the room inside the house, he heard a man’s voice. He sounded terrified, and Berenger slammed his
pommel against the window’s shutter twice, hard, shouting:
‘Surrender!’

His only answer was a pair of bolts sent flying towards the English. In a sudden rage, he threw himself bodily through the window.

It was a gloomy chamber, but he made out three figures. Two were trying to span their crossbows, while the third handed out bolts from a satchel. The first bowman Berenger caught as he fell in
through the window, the point of his sword entering under the fellow’s ribcage and opening his gut. He shrieked like a snared rabbit, and fell back, hands moving frantically as he tried to
push back the glistening intestines; Berenger tumbled to the floor and rolled, grunting as he clambered back to his feet. The third man was wielding his bolt like a dagger, and he thrust at
Berenger’s face, but Berenger’s sword slashed, and the man’s hand fell away, flapping on the ground like an injured bird. A fine spray of blood briefly blinded Berenger. Then the
second bowman flung his crossbow at him and raced for the door. Berenger tried to get to him, but the hand-less loader obstructed him. He had to stab the man in the breast to get past, and as he
did so, he saw his quarry escape through the open doorway, running for dear life. With brilliant timing, an arrow fell lazily from the clear sky and slammed right into his spine, causing him to
drop like a pigeon hit by a slingshot.

Geoff appeared in the doorway, his bow still in his hand, and peered in cautiously.

Berenger had turned to look at the wounded. The hand-less one was only a boy, and the crossbowman not much older. He was struggling with the coils of his belly, all his attention on his opened
gut, a boy of perhaps fourteen years, with a thin, long face and blue eyes that streamed tears.

It took just one heavy blow to open his skull and release him from his suffering. Berenger felt exhausted. He walked a short way from the chamber and slumped against the wall, staring out to the
north.

When he had launched himself into that room, he had assumed that there were adult men in there, trying to kill him and the others. It was a fair fight. But then to discover that they were so
young shamed him. They should not have been fighting him and his men.

‘They were boys, Geoff. Not fully grown! And now they’re dead. What in Christ’s name were they doing, trying to hold up our army? Were they mad?’

As he spoke, Ed ran up through the doorway, his arms full of arrows.

Berenger stared at him. ‘So – does your heart good, does it, to see these poor dead French boys, the same age as yourself?’

Ed gazed back at him, and Berenger was surprised to see tears begin to run through the grime of his cheeks. With a sob, the Donkey threw the arrows to the ground and fled from the chamber.

‘The little sod’s spent so much time telling me how the only good Frenchman is a dead one, and I’ve had enough of it,’ Berenger ranted, forgetting that Ed’s view
had changed over the past weeks. ‘Look at these poor devils. Not one is old enough to wear a beard, in Christ’s name! Does the country have no men to fight us? Must France depend upon
children?’ He was enraged.

‘I don’t give a clipped penny for them,’ Geoff said thinly. ‘They killed Matt. He’s dead, too.’

Berenger went with Geoff and the others to Matt’s body, Ed trailing in their wake.

Matt’s face registered only surprise. There was no horror or shock in his eyes, as if he had died instantly as the bolt struck him.

‘He was a good fellow,’ Geoff said quietly.

‘He was a randy old git,’ Jack muttered, but he wiped at his eye as though rubbing away some grit.

‘He was our randy old git though,’ Geoff amended.

‘A sound judgement,’ Eliot said. Then: ‘In the meantime, my friends, there are more men up there.’

‘Shit!’ Geoff said. ‘These bastard French seem to have discovered their courage at last.’

‘What did I tell ye? Ye’ll all be slaughtered afore long,’ Clip waited.

‘Shut up, you bastard,’ Geoff and Jack said in unison.

‘Makes you think about Wisp,’ Eliot said slowly. ‘I mean, he said it as soon as he saw that body, didn’t he? How we’d all get killed. How none of us would go
home.’

‘That’s not what he said,’ Berenger snapped. ‘He was just alarmed, that was all.’

‘It was that cat hanging. He said it was a witch’s pet, that’s what he said,’ Geoff said.

‘Aye, and we all heard him say that we were doomed, and the French would find us and destroy us,’ Jon Furrier said glumly.

‘It’s all that woman,’ Geoff said. ‘We should tell Grandarse about her.’

‘Tell him what?’ Berenger said. ‘That she retaliated when a Welshman tried to rape her? That she was saved when they tried to attack her again? That she was nearly raped by one
of our own?’

‘Even if she isn’t a witch, she’s bringing bad luck on the whole army,’ Geoff said. ‘She should be—’

‘
No!
’ The Donkey pushed his way to the front. ‘That’s wrong! Béatrice is gentle and kind. She wouldn’t do anything to cause us hardship.’

‘Maybe she would, and maybe she wouldn’t. But having a witch in our company puts the whole army at risk,’ Geoff looked around at the other men standing nearby and said
earnestly: ‘God will not allow an army to prevail when it keeps such people in the ranks.’

‘Leave her alone!’ Ed declared wildly.

‘Silence, boy,’ Geoff said with irritation. ‘This is a matter for men.’

‘No, it isn’t. It’s for God, just as He will see the validity of the King’s claim to the throne and support him,’ Berenger said.

‘If she stays in the army, the French will crush us,’ Geoff stated. ‘We all know how large is the host raised against us. If God wills it, we could fight with His strength and
win. Were His support to weaken, His resolve would also falter. Keeping a woman like her with us – that would stop Him wanting to aid us. He would withdraw, and then the French must win. With
so many men at their command, we cannot succeed.’

‘Well, they haven’t done too well so far,’ Berenger commented, pulling at his hosen. ‘Now cut the ballocks and let’s get back to work. Geoff, you take the left,
Jack, you’re on the right. Eliot, you stay with me. The rest of you, spread out along the line and we’ll go and get these bastards. Don’t forget to leave a good gap between each
of you.’

There was grumbling, especially from Clip, but then the men gradually formed their line and began to stride forward, past the houses and beyond.

Berenger could not help but stare back at the house where he had killed the boys. It would be many long nights before he forgot them. This chevauchée was turning into a nightmare. Only a
few weeks ago, the men had been cheerful, enthusiastic. Now he could see in their faces only a weary determination to slog on somehow.

They all felt the same rising despair. It was hard to believe that they would return home triumphant – or return at all.