Fields of Glory

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Him?’ Clip called from behind them. ‘Wisp’d blow away in a breeze, he would. Look at him: hardly enough muscle on him to hold a knife, let alone a bleeding sword.’

  ‘He has fist enough to give you a thump,’ Geoff grunted. He was scouting ahead to their left, searching every tree, every bush, for ambush.

  ‘Him? His fists wouldn’t pass through a fog on the Avon!’

  ‘Perhaps we’ll put wagers on you two, then, eh?’ Jack chuckled. ‘You can fight when we camp this evening.’

  ‘I’d not want to hurt him,’ Clip said righteously. ‘’Sides, the King wants all of us fit and hearty for the real fight to come.’

  ‘When we find the French at last, you mean,’ Jack called.

  ‘When we find the French, aye,’ Geoff said.

  Clip shook his head, hawked and spat. ‘It doesn’t matter. We’ll all soon be dead. They’ll murder us, the French.’

  ‘Yes,’ Wisp said quietly. Jack heard, and shot him a look, but made no comment. Instead he allowed his pace to slow a little, so that he dropped back behind Wisp.

  ‘Still bad, is he?’ Berenger asked, seeing his face.

  ‘As bad as a man can be. By God’s blood, I don’t want him near me in a battle. He’s already convinced himself he’ll die, damn his soul!’

  ‘He’ll snap out of it.’

  ‘If he doesn’t, I’ll snap his neck for him,’ Jack said bluntly.

  Berenger nodded. A comrade who was convinced that failure lurked around every corner was a dangerous companion. If a man could not trust his neighbour in a shield wall or assault, confidence in the whole army was lost. It took only a brief loss of trust during a battle, a momentary loss of commitment, for an army to fail. Just now, Wisp was the worst threat to their vintaine.

  Ach, there was little he could do now. Not while they marched.

  He would just have to hope for the best.

  Béatrice woke to the sound of snoring several times in the middle of the night, but she didn’t feel threatened. There was nowhere else to sleep but on the floor – others with better funds had already taken the benches – and whenever one man moved, three or four others complained. No one could attack her in such a press.

  The people slept where they had sat, lying higgledy-piggledy like garbage in a midden, all taking what space they could. Although she had planned to be up early with Alain, Béatrice had not realised how tired she was, and did not waken until the sun was over the surrounding hills.

  Alain was already awake when she finally stirred, yawning and blearily rubbing her eyes. ‘You slept well,’ he greeted her.

  She rolled stiff shoulders to ease them. ‘I could have slept at the bottom of a well, I was so tired.’

  ‘Well, hurry yourself. We must be off as quickly as we can,’ he said, gazing across the room to where the bear-like man from the night before stood studying them grimly.

  She nodded. Although she had money enough to buy some food to break their fast, it would be better to use it somewhere else. In a chamber like this, too many men could take it into their heads to rob a maid on the road.

  They hefted their packs and were soon on their way, but before they had taken more than a handful of paces, there was a shout from the inn.

  ‘Quickly,’ Alain said, forging ahead with long strides. It was hard for her to keep up, he moved so fast.

  ‘Maid, maid, are you weary?’ he asked when he realised she was falling behind. ‘Come!’

  She smiled, but then she saw his eyes go over her shoulder. Turning, she saw their enemy running after them, the innkeeper at his side. She gave a little scream, and hurried on to Alain for safety. There was no thought in her mind other than reaching him. Alain was her guide and protector. He had saved her last night, and now, with his clear blue eyes concentrating on the men following, she felt sure he was equal to defending her again.

  ‘Behind me,’ he hissed and shoved her from his path. ‘Get your knife out!’

  She obeyed him, pulling her little knife from its sheath at her belt. It still had a dark crust marring its blade, she saw, and shivered.

  The innkeeper ran first to Alain, but the other had different ideas. He slowed as he neared the two, and while Alain and the innkeeper circled each other warily, he stood before Béatrice. He put a hand to his cods and smiled at her. ‘You want to fight first? That’s good. I like a girl with a bit of spirit.’ And suddenly he darted close, his hands grabbing for her.

  Béatrice sprang away, her knife held close before her. She had never been taught how to fight. It hadn’t been necessary when she lived with her father. And now, she had the skills and knowledge to take care of herself.

  ‘Come, maid! Be friendly, and you’ll soon be on your way,’ he said with a chuckle.

  She ignored him, distracted by the sight before her: the innkeeper had grasped Alain, and the two were struggling with each other, two daggers flashing in the pale light.

  The bearded man tried another lunge at her. This time she swung her own knife as she moved away, and he swore loudly as it sliced the back of his hand. A long red cut opened, and he glared at her as he licked at the wound like a dog. ‘If you won’t be friendly, you won’t leave here on your feet, bitch,’ he growled. ‘They’ll have to carry you away.’

  But even as he threatened her, a voice shouted. Other refugees had seen the fight, and now they came running, six men, roaring at them to cease. Béatrice saw her opponent turn and eye the new arrivals, and then he ran at her, pushing her to the ground. He didn’t wait to pursue his little victory, but ran off up the road.

  Alain and the innkeeper were still locked together, grunting and swearing at each other in their unholy embrace. The newcomers ringed them as if unsure what to do.

  ‘Stop them!’ she cried, but no one moved. They were watching the spectacle like men at a cockfight.

  Finally, Béatrice took matters into her own hands. She walked over to them and with all her strength, she swung her full purse at the innkeeper’s head. It struck with a sound like lead maul hitting a plank. The big man took two paces back, swaying, then fell to his rump.

  Alain stood there panting. Then he kicked the innkeeper once, with main force, in the side of the head, and the man collapsed. ‘So shall all felons meet their judgement,’ he said breathlessly. ‘This man tried to rob me and rape my wife. Anyone else want to have a go?’

  A few minutes later, the pair were on their way again. Béatrice felt safer as they walked on amongst the other refugees, straggling along ahead and behind, but all the way, she knew that somewhere in the road ahead or in the woods at either side, was their enemy – the man with the beard.

  She was as scared of him as she was of the English.

  The army had split into three sections: the vanguard was under Sir Edward of Woodstock. Berenger had looked askance on hearing that but, to his relief, Warwick and Northampton were with the young Prince to advise him on his way. Behind them came the main part of the King’s men, with archers, hobelars and men-at-arms in a straggling column across a wide front, and at the rear came the last men with the wagon train, led by the Earls of Arundel, Suffolk and Huntingdon, as well as the ferocious Bishop of Durham, a prelate who was more fearsome than any knight, in Berenger’s view. The man’s sword was as notched and chipped as a crusader’s, and any man seeking compassion from him during a battle had best look to his defence.

  ‘Where are we going today, Berenger?’ Clip called.

  ‘East.’

  ‘Any chance of plunder?’

  Berenger grunted. So far that morning, all they had found was ruined and burned little hamlets where scouts and hopeful English had sought to despoil local farms. It was astonishing to Berenger that they had bothered. There could be nothing of any value, save perhaps a woman or two.

  The weather was kind. Not too hot, and the dust of the road was lying low after a brief shower.

  They were ahead of the main body of the army and to the right. It was because of their position that th
ey were the first to see the French. Thin woods sprawled on either side, with bushes and clumps of ferns beneath. On their right, the land rose, and a hill stood out clearly.

  ‘Berenger?’ Jack called, and pointed ahead. The vintener nodded and slipped forward.

  ‘What?’ Ed said. ‘What is it?’ He was too short to see over the scrubby bushes. But though he could not see, he could sense the tension.

  The archers crouched, pulling strings from purses or hats and bending their bows, grabbing arrows and nocking them with an easy familiarity, glancing back towards Berenger when ready.

  He was standing still, a hand on a tree-limb and staring ahead intently.

  ‘What do you think?’ Geoff said.

  ‘You’ve got the best eyesight,’ Berenger said irritably. ‘What do you see?’

  ‘Four men-at-arms on horseback. I can see the sun catch on mail and plate. I think that’s all – I can’t see any more.’

  ‘Are they French?’

  ‘At this distance they could be Teutons for all I know,’ Geoff said with asperity.

  ‘How far?’

  ‘At a guess, three bow-shots.’

  ‘Then we go on, but archers, watch your front and flanks. I don’t want to walk into a trap.’

  Ed was about to step forward when Clip grabbed the shoulder of his jack and jerked him back. For all that Clip looked scrawny as an old cockerel that had fasted for a week, he had a wiry power in his fingers. ‘Wait,’ he hissed.

  Geoff, Eliot, Jon Furrier and Matthew had already moved on, weapons ready, while Berenger spoke quickly to Roger, the vintener of the second vintaine. Roger had already pointed to four of his own men, and Ed saw them melting away amongst the bushes. Berenger gave a quiet command, and the rest of the vintaine began to make their way cautiously through the long grasses.

  Ed shrugged away Clip’s hand and walked on. The whole vintaine looked on him as a slave, he thought grumpily, just a fetcher-and-carrier, nothing more. They couldn’t see his fervent desire to find a Frenchman and cut his throat. He had much to repay—

  A sudden grab at his arm, and the air was ejected from his lungs as his back crashed to the hard earth. He could do no more than gasp for breath as Clip sprang lightly over him and thrust his sword into a bush.

  There was a shriek, and then, while Ed lay staring wildly about him, men erupted from all directions. They had been concealed in the vegetation, and now fought with desperation. Ed rose to his knees, breathing hard, and was immediately hit on his back by something. When he looked around, he saw a forearm with a dagger gripped in its fist lying in the road. The owner was a few yards away, staring at his bloody stump, and then his head seemed to jerk and a blade appeared in his brow. Berenger had struck him from behind, and almost clove his head in two.

  The man fell to his knees, Berenger swearing loudly as he struggled to free his blade. As two more men came running through the undergrowth, Ed dived to the ground, and only at the last moment did he see both men punched backwards as English arrows found their marks.

  Ed rose to his feet, shivering, as Berenger placed his boot on the back of the dead Frenchman and jerked his sword sideways like a woodsman freeing his axe from a log. The man’s head turned, twisted, gave a crack, and then the blade slid free.

  ‘You all right, Donkey?’ Berenger panted.

  ‘Yes. I . . . I think so.’

  ‘He didn’t get hit,’ Clip said. He was behind Berenger, grinning.

  ‘Battle isn’t as easy as you thought, is it, lad?’ Berenger said.

  Ed looked down at the fist with the dagger still clenched in its grip, and puked.

  ‘Hoy, Frip – over here,’ Clip shouted. ‘Take a look! We’ve got a live one.’

  Berenger left Ed rocking on his knees and holding his belly, and strode across to join Clip and Geoff.

  The badly injured Frenchman at their feet was only young, with barely the stubble to colour his jaw. Dark eyes stared with a wild disbelief at the pain, as his hands clutched his lower belly. Blood pulsed thickly through his fingers.

  ‘Where are you from?’ Berenger asked in French.

  The man winced. ‘I will not say! You will kill all our people!’

  ‘Kings don’t murder peasants. Who would do the work, then, lad?’ Berenger said gently.

  The Frenchman closed his eyes a moment. ‘Valognes. I come from Valognes.’

  ‘Is it far?’

  ‘A league. We wanted to divert you.’

  ‘With so few men?’

  ‘We didn’t think so many of you were here.’

  ‘Where is the French army?’

  ‘What French army? The Marshal rode through a few days ago, kept on going.’

  ‘Are there other forces about here?’

  ‘There were five hundred Genoese, but they left.’

  ‘Left?’ Berenger was aware that Ed had joined them and now stood staring at the blood with horrified fascination.

  ‘Three days before you landed. They hadn’t been paid,’ the man said hoarsely. His face was grey and screwed up with pain.

  ‘Where did they go?’

  ‘I don’t know. They didn’t pass our town. Only the Marshal. His men were here to defend us. Look at me! Did they defend me?’

  His face ran with tears as he looked up at Berenger, and as he squeezed his eyes against the pain, more ran down his cheeks.

  Berenger looked at Geoff, who met his glance and shook his head. Both could smell the sewer-stench of faeces – the blow that opened his belly had broken into his bowels, and that meant a slow, hideously painful death.

  ‘You wanted to kill a Frenchman,’ Berenger said harshly to Ed. ‘Here you are: take your knife. Cut his throat.’

  Ed looked up sharply. ‘Me?’

  ‘You said you wanted to kill men. Here’s your chance.’

  ‘I can’t. No!’

  Berenger looked at him and nodded. He had not expected the Donkey to be able to do this. It was the hardest job of a soldier, killing for mercy. ‘Good.’

  ‘You fought bravely, my friend,’ Berenger said, and reached down to pat the Frenchman’s shoulder. ‘Go with God.’

  The Frenchman smiled thinly as Geoff slipped the long, thin dagger in at his neck and down into his heart. He was dead before Geoff pulled the dagger out again.

  18 July

  Grandarse spat into the fire. ‘Aye, a grand town, that. Full of the choicest furs, pewter, silver, wine, jewels and women, aye – and here we are. In the sodding shite again.’

  Sir John had apologised as he ordered Grandarse to the east of Valognes. Now, maybe two miles away, Berenger and the others were camping as best they could in a small wood on a slight hill, but while they had some shelter, a thin rain drove at them, and no one was comfortable.

  ‘As usual, we take all the risks, and those bone-idle sons of whores get the wine and warm beds,’ Jack complained, swaddled in his blanket.

  ‘It’s not fair!’ was Clip’s view. ‘We should have been in there with the others. Why do we always get the bastard jobs?’

  ‘The Welsh, did you see how they went scurrying in like rats after a dead pig? All over the place they were,’ Geoff grumbled.

  ‘At least the town surrendered,’ Berenger said. He lay back and closed his eyes. The rain was an irritation, but he had a waxed cloak, and the damp wouldn’t stop his sleep. Nothing ever did. He could go to sleep in the middle of a battle, if folk would promise not to stand on him.

  ‘We should have put them all to the sword,’ Ed muttered.

  Berenger opened an eye and glanced at Grandarse. He didn’t want to say, ‘I told you so,’ but for a moment the temptation was very strong.

  Grandarse leaned over and cuffed Ed over the head. ‘Boy, when you’ve killed your own man, you can say things like that. Until then, keep your trap shut or I’ll take a whip to your scrawny hide.’

  ‘That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?’ Ed demanded.

  ‘No, Donkey, that’s not why we’re here,’ Bereng
er said, his eyes closed once more. ‘We are here because our King, Edward the Third of England – soon to be, by the Grace of God, King of France as well – has commanded us to join him. But while you can take all you can plunder from a town that won’t submit willingly, you may not assault and murder the people who ask to come into the King’s Peace.’

  ‘Why not? They’re our enemies!’

  ‘If they surrender to his justice, they are the King’s people,’ Berenger pointed out.

  ‘Well, I reckon the only good Frenchman is a dead one,’ Ed mumbled.

  ‘You have so much experience of them,’ Clip said sarcastically.

  ‘I’ve had enough, yes! They— No matter.’ Ed put his arms about his knees and hid his face.

  Berenger threw another look to Grandarse. There was more to Ed’s hatred of the French than he had guessed. He would have to speak to the lad once again and try to learn what was on his mind.

  19 July

  Archibald Tanner grunted as he clambered from the rear of his wagon. He saw a boy seeking employment, and soon had him rubbing down the oxen in exchange for an offer of bread and wine. The lad worked in a lackadaisical manner, yawning with an almost devotional dedication, his eyes half-closed with exhaustion. He was too young for this harsh world.

  Who wasn’t too young? Archibald had enough experience of the world to know that the people who infested it were cruel. Even those who enjoyed the religious life could be as unkind and greedy for power and position as any merchant in a city. All wanted money and control over others. He had learned that while in the monastery.

  More, he had realised out here in the world of men that a mild manner and genial attitude would not win friends. While affable in all his dealings, because of his craft he was still looked upon as a worshipper of the Devil or worse. Even now, as he sat and made his camp beside his wagon, he could see the suspicion on the faces of the army men. As soon as he held their gaze, they hurriedly turned away.

  It was enough to make a cat laugh. But he had no need of boon companions. He was a self-contained man, happy with his own company. That was one useful thing he had learned from the Church.