Fields of Glory

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Leave them to their rest now, boy,’ he called, and set about lighting a fire some safe distance from his wagon. Soon he had flames leaping from his tinder, and he sat and fed twigs to the fire.

  He had some bread, old and hard as the boards of his wagon, which he cut apart with his knife, throwing the fragments into his cook pot. Some leaves he had gathered from the hedgerows, and garlic he had found in a field, along with some salt, formed the basis of a good, warming pottage. The boy knelt close by, gratefully sniffing at the odour.

  ‘That smells good,’ a voice said.

  Archibald had learned the art of remaining still when surprised. A master of theology had often found him dreaming and would chastise him for it. His head, he was told, was too often in the clouds, when he should have been concentrating on his prayers. He had countered that, saying surely by definition prayer should elevate a man’s thoughts. Now he said simply, ‘For a meal without meat, it serves well enough.’

  ‘There’s meat if you want it,’ the man said. ‘There have been two herds captured, if you wish for a cut of beef.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Archibald asked.

  ‘I’m called Mark of London, or Mark Tyler.’ The man squatted at Archibald’s side. ‘I’m with the vintaine over there. An archer.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Archibald said. He recalled seeing the fellow. Tyler was with one of the vintaines under Grandarse. He rather liked Grandarse: a man after his own heart. This Tyler was different. Archibald didn’t like his quick, furtive glances at Archibald’s belongings and pottage. ‘But while I am glad to have news of any food, this is a Wednesday and I am happy to forgo the pleasures of swine and beef, and partake of more modest fare.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I won’t eat meat today,’ Archibald translated piously. ‘I trained to the religious life, and I will not eat meat on a fast day.’

  ‘Who keeps Wednesday as a fast day?’ Tyler scoffed. He was peering at the barrels in the back of the wagon.

  ‘Those trained by Holy Mother Church.’

  Tyler gave a twisted grin in which suspicion and disbelief were mingled. ‘Even when it’s put in front of you? My priest in London didn’t worry about fasting on a Wednesday.’

  ‘Perhaps he did not. Do you want something from my wagon, my son?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘You appear unable to remove your eyes from my barrels.’

  ‘I was just wondering what you carry there?’

  ‘My friend, you are too rooted in the secular world. It is better to accept the philosophical life. Throw aside greed and avarice. Enjoy in moderation the good things that God has given you.’

  Archibald winked at the boy sitting opposite. He was still yawning fit to unhinge his jaw.

  ‘You were a monk, but now you are here with the men working on bridges and roads?’ Tyler said.

  ‘I’m a specialist gynour,’ Archibald informed him.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I work with powder and fire: I bring fire from the heavens and thunder from the clouds, and harness them to hurl at the enemy.’

  Tyler regarded him with a confused scowl. ‘What?’

  ‘It means, my son, you are a man of little wit and less empathy. It means I don’t know you and don’t trust you, and have made that clear; yet you still persist in trying to learn what you may about me and my business. I do not like that. Nor do I like you.’

  Tyler shrugged and tried to grin, but he could not conceal his annoyance. He rose, offended, saying, ‘I see I’m not welcome.’

  ‘There you speak truly,’ Archibald said comfortably. He watched as Tyler hitched up his belt and walked away, casting a black scowl over his shoulder as he went.

  ‘That man I would not trust with a broken flint,’ Archibald said ruminatively.

  The boy stared over his shoulder. ‘Him? I didn’t understand what you were talking about. He said you were a monk?’

  ‘Aye, I was once,’ Archibald replied. He took a small leather pouch from beneath his shirt and crumbled salt into the pottage. ‘And while I was there, I was taught much from a master who was devoted to learning and the natural sciences. It was while I was with him that I learned about the powders of thunder. And I fell in love with knowledge and study.’

  ‘But if you were a monk, aren’t you still?’

  ‘The religious life was unsuitable for me. For my studies, I needed more freedom.’

  ‘But if you become a monk . . .’

  ‘Some men best serve God in church or monastery. Others, like me, find different routes to Him. I find more of His majesty in my works than I would have discovered in a hundred years with my abbot.’

  The lad was still frowning with incomprehension. ‘But . . .’

  ‘You have much to learn too, boy. Such as: when to ask questions and when to shut up,’ Archibald said genially as he poured the thin soup into bowls. ‘Eat.’

  Béatrice had almost forgotten the stalking man by the end of that second day. She and Alain had kept to the busier roads, joining the throng that wended its way like an enormous snake of despair, heading in any direction that took them away from the English.

  It was in the second evening that he struck. They had been settling for the night with others, when Béatrice went to fetch water from a spring. There was a small shrine next to the spring where it bubbled up from the ground. A cross had been fashioned from stone, and a wooden cup rested on the base so that pilgrims could drink. She was thirsty, and as she bent to pick it up, she saw something move from the corner of her eye.

  She froze. There were so many wild creatures: boar, wolf, wild dogs – but before she could think of screaming, a lumbering, crashing sound came, and her hair was gripped in a powerful fist.

  ‘Bitch. Did you think I’d forgotten you?’

  She gasped with the pain, grabbing for her knife, but his hand took hers before she could find it. He let go of her hair and put his arm about her neck, squeezing until she could scarcely breathe. With his other hand, he pulled the knife from her sheath and dropped it, before his hand rose to encompass her breast. He rubbed and kneaded her through the thin material of her chemise and tunic, laughing deep in his throat as she struggled, but then his hand moved further down, over the smooth roundness of her belly, and on to her upper thighs. She tried to break away, her breath rasping as she felt the panic rise: the primeval fears of rape and death smothering her every thought, until they encompassed her entire soul. There was nothing but terror: no rational thought, no comprehension of existence beyond the present, no memory of happiness or love, only this utter horror.

  His questing hand reached her groin, and he clutched at her, his face reaching round, slobbering and drooling at the line of her jaw, as though he would kiss her on the lips.

  For some reason, that was more repellent than the thought of his hands on her, or his sex inside her. She jerked with revulsion – and the suddenness of her movement surprised him. He released her neck, and she tumbled to the ground.

  She tried to scramble away, but he grabbed her ankle, and she grasped the first thing to hand to try to drag herself away. A stick. She turned and tried to slam it into his head. He smiled as he caught it in his hand. Yes: he smiled. It was the look of a ravening wolf. His mouth was wide with excitement and anticipation as he pulled the stick from her. She couldn’t hold it against his strength.

  He put his hand to her tunic’s collar, and she slapped at it, squealing with desperation. A nail caught at the scab of his wound, and a flake of black clot was yanked away. He grunted, then bunched his fist and drove it at her chin.

  With both on the ground, she could roll and evade the blow, and as she moved, she felt a sharp pain. She had rolled onto her knife, and the point tore a wedge from her rib. As he put his hand back to her breast, squeezing hard, and she gasped with the pain, her fingers found the knife.

  When she stabbed the priest, she had no recollection afterwards. This, she would remember for the rest of her life
. With the priest she had been scared for her soul, but with this man it was the certainty of death that drove her on. Something snapped in her, a cord in her soul that kept her sane. The death of her father had begun the process, the priest’s attempted rape had brought her to a new level of shock, but this man had finally broken the fragile bonds of her gentle feminine upbringing.

  Her first wild slash missed his face and buried the blade in his upper arm. She pulled it back and stabbed again, and this time her raking cut caught his nose and cheek, and she saw his flesh opened. There was no space in her heart for compassion, only utter, concentrated loathing. She stabbed and cut, striking time and time again, while he bellowed and roared, punching at her, but always trying to move away from the wicked four inches of steel in her hand. He rose to retreat, but she carried on, coldly, methodically, following him with precision, her blade darting hither and thither, lacerating him as it moved. She kept on even when he tried to surrender, even when he covered his face with his hands. She carried on striking him long after he had ceased to be a threat, and then, while his body jerked and spasmed, she stabbed him again and again.

  ‘Maid, maid, what have you done!’ Alain cried.

  She stopped, panting, the knife still in her hand. And then, she slipped the knife into his throat, cutting through to his windpipe, and rose. The knife she wiped on his hosen, and replaced it in her sheath. Her hands and face she rinsed in the spring water, turning it crimson. Afterwards, when she looked down, she thought only that the spring was polluted – and that was good. It was marked by death. No more would pilgrims come to celebrate and pray here. For ever more, this would be a place reviled, stained with an evil man’s blood.

  It was only just.

  21 July

  Berenger saw the movement at the same time as Geoff did. ‘What the fuck is that?’

  They had left Valonges some days before and were close to St-Lô. Since then, life had become a banal routine of carnage. Each day, Berenger rose with the men, they attacked villages and hamlets, destroying all in their path, and made camp and slept, ready to continue the following morning. Now, after a week of fighting and marching, he didn’t know, nor did he care, where they were. It was merely the approach to another town.

  ‘Looks to me like men are breaking down the bridge,’ Geoff said as scurrying figures attacked it with iron bars and axes.

  ‘Can we get around them?’ Berenger wondered.

  ‘How?’ Geoff pointed to the line of the river. From here, the river curved back towards them on the left and right, with the bridge at the very tip of the loop before them. ‘If there’s a ford, I don’t see it.’

  Grandarse scratched under his arm. ‘Someone’ll have to go and look, won’t they?’ he said.

  Berenger sighed. ‘And as usual, that “someone” will be us poor bastards up at the front, you mean?’

  ‘Come on, eh? You think you’re all alone up there at the front? Just think how many friends you have behind you, man. You won’t feel lonely with all these lads at your back, will you?’

  ‘At my back, Grandarse, thanks. I hadn’t thought of that,’ Berenger said drily.

  ‘Go on, you daft beggar. You know you love it. All that plunder will be yours, won’t it? You’ll be first to claim it all.’

  ‘Oh, like in Carentan? And Valognes and Barfleur and . . .’

  Grandarse’s tone hardened. ‘Enough. Get going, Frip. Watch your flanks, and look out for crossbows. Christ’s bones, but I hate those things. See if the bridge is usable, and if it isn’t, check for a ford and come back.’

  ‘Yes, Centener.’ Berenger set his jaw. ‘Come along, boys. We have a short pilgrimage before our supper tonight.’

  The first bolt hissed past as they approached the bridge, and Berenger saw a crossbowman bending to span his bow for a second shot. ‘See him? Come on, can’t one of you get the bastard?’

  At the far end of the bridge, a scruffy-looking militia was forming. Men with leather jacks or colourful tunics were standing ready to repel anyone who was foolish enough to try to cross. To the left of the bridge stood a group of crossbowmen, while forty more stood shouting their defiance, waving axes and swords.

  Jack already had his bow strung. ‘I’m going to get that bugger,’ he vowed, nocking an arrow and drawing. There was a moment’s silence, then the dull thrumming of the bowstring, and Berenger leaned in front of Jack so he could watch the flight. From here, he saw the clothyard rise, then stoop and plummet. It missed the crossbowman, but hit another a couple of feet away. He gave a shriek as it found its mark in his hip. The other discharged his crossbow harmlessly into the water as he caught his friend’s arm.

  ‘You’re shite,’ Matt commented.

  ‘You missed him,’ Geoff said.

  ‘There’s a man over there, Jack, he’s bigger. Perhaps you could hit him?’ Clip enquired genially.

  ‘Shut the fuck up, the lot of you!’ Jack said, fitting a fresh arrow. ‘He was closer than I thought, that’s all. Didn’t have me eye in.’

  Berenger made his way towards the bridge. For all the bickering, he could also hear the sounds of bows being strung, Clip whining about his arrows being held in a quiver, when, ‘Ye all know I like ’em in the ground before me!’ and Eliot’s muttering about his ‘Bloody bow’s useless – look at the grain there, eh? Knot big as my left ballock. Whoever the bowyer was who made that, the fuckwit should be strung up with his own string!’

  Grinning despite himself, Berenger continued until he reached the bank. Here it was a good yard above the water, and it was clear that they wouldn’t be able to cross. The bed of the bridge was broken away; the timbers had dropped into the river and were floating downstream. There was no sign of a ford. The river flowed too quickly for a man or cart to attempt to cross here, especially since it looked deep.

  He turned, intending to go back to his men, and it was then that the bolt struck him. The steel point hit the upper part of his shoulder, and flew on just beneath his collar bone. It felt like a horse had kicked him with a red-hot hoof.

  ‘Sweet Jesus!’ he gasped, and fell to his knees, staring dumbly at the blood dripping from the bolt’s head.

  Geoff was the first to see him. He gave a roar of anger so loud, Berenger was sure the ground shook, before drawing his bow and letting the first of many arrows fly straight to the enemy archers. In a moment, Jack and Clip and the others were also drawing and loosing, and in only a short time the crossbowmen fled, leaving two on the grass. The swordsmen retreated, trying to conceal themselves behind balks of timber, but even there the English arrows found their mark.

  ‘Donkey? Don’t stand there staring, you lurdan, fetch more arrows, quickly!’ Geoff bellowed, his face as red as a beetroot, and Ed went scampering up the road to their cart.

  Berenger was still on his knees when Geoff came to him, took him gently by his good arm, and led him away.

  That was Ed’s first real experience of witnessing the risks of battle, the first time he saw one of the vintaine’s men struck, and he didn’t enjoy it. Until then, the men had seemed impervious to all dangers. He had hurried to bring fresh missiles or water, but none of the English were injured. Now he could see the dangers at first hand as they carried Berenger away.

  He saw the main body of the army arrive as he gathered up sheaves of arrows. Soon he was back with the men. Clip stood with his hand on his hip, his face drawn into his familiar sneer.

  ‘Took your time, boy!’ he rasped, and grabbed an arrow, aiming and loosing in one practised movement.

  The first men joined the archers shortly afterwards. There were carpenters and joiners, and perhaps five score more archers, chattering and laughing as they came. It was like Sunday at the vill’s butts, Ed thought, as they strung their bows and started to nock and loose. There was no thought of volleys, just the irregular, carefully aimed flights, and after many there came a cry or scream from the other side of the river.

  More Frenchmen were coming. Grandarse gave a hoarse command,
and a hundred arrows sprang into the air to plummet on the advancing men like hawks. Five in the front rank collapsed as the first arrows struck. A single man wearing the arms of a lord stood before them in a red tunic with a white emblem on the breast, but as more and more of the men behind him fell to the ground, his exhortations grew increasingly desperate. His ranks thinned rapidly; some men had been struck by English arrows, while others had fled.

  Soon those remaining could see there was no point in this unequal battle, and they retreated, while the English kept up a withering fire until they were out of accurate bowshot.

  To Ed’s surprise, English carpenters were already crawling over the bridge. Fresh timbers were unloaded at the shore, grabbed and carefully positioned. Grandarse barked an order, and the first hundred archers climbed on the makeshift bridge, shooting their arrows at any French defenders who showed their faces. The way to the town was already clear before the bridge was complete, and English archers stood at either side of it on the St-Lô side to provide cover for the infantry as they crossed. Grandarse and the vintaine stood and eyed the walls and gates of the town speculatively.

  Suddenly, fresh shouts and curses startled them. Scouts came running back from the east of the town where they had been seeking weaknesses in the defence. A large number of men-at-arms and knights were sallying forth from a postern. Their appearance had terrified the scouts that they might be caught in the open and slaughtered.

  Desperate, the men pelted back to the bridge, at which point Geoff began to laugh. Ed thought he was sent mad by his unholy bloodlust, but then the others began to jeer – and he realised what Geoff had seen. The knights were not attacking: they were riding away, leaving the town to its fate.

  ‘We’ve won it, Donkey! We’ve won it!’ he exulted. ‘They haven’t a hope now.’

  Béatrice kept up with Alain all those weary miles. He had been shocked by the sight of the body by the spring, and she was not of a mood to allay his fears. If he was worried by her, so much the better. For her part, Béatrice felt she could trust no one. All wanted either her body or her money. No one was honest. No one except perhaps Alain.