Fields of Glory

by Michael Jecks

  ‘It’s not as bad as it could have been,’ Berenger said while Béatrice mopped the sweat from Geoff’s brow. ‘The leech managed to pull the bolt from your shoulder, but it snapped, and splinters were left behind. It was Béatrice who worked them out this morning.’

  ‘Where are we?’ Geoff tried to look round, but the movement made him clench his jaws and groan in agony.

  ‘Not far from where you got this,’ Berenger said tiredly. ‘The bastards managed to harry us just enough. We were held up for a while, making sure that the woods were safe.’

  Berenger saw that Béatrice was finished with her ministrations. She was standing nearby, wiping the hair from her face with the back of her hand, then glancing about her. There were four other men with serious injuries, and at the moan and sob from one of them, she hurried away.

  ‘There were no more attacks, no,’ Berenger said. He relinquished his hold on Geoff’s legs, and rolled over to relax on the grass nearby. ‘But that doesn’t matter. It means we’ve been held up again. Tomorrow, we will have to make better progress.’

  Geoff nodded, but his eyes were on Béatrice. ‘You let her look after me? She could have—’

  ‘Of all those injured, only the men she looked after are still alive,’ Berenger rasped. ‘Jack is telling everyone. The vintaine won’t support any move against her. If you wish to die, I will keep her away, but make sure you die quietly. There are four other injured men over there, and she is saving their lives while you rebuff her aid!’

  19 August

  The next day, Geoff felt as though he was suffering the torments of the damned.

  He had been loaded into the archers’ cart early in the morning, and there he was forced to wobble from side to side as the army made its lumbering way towards the Somme.

  His shoulder was immensely painful, and every so often when there was a halt, Béatrice would appear, wiping at his forehead. The old leech from St-Lô came with her a couple of times, and muttered to himself about ‘English children’ as he washed the wound and smeared cooling egg-white over it. ‘If you will fight with filthy peasants, what more can you expect?’ he demanded at one point, before shrugging to himself. ‘And you are no cleaner yourself, that is the problem,’ he added.

  ‘Why are you here?’ Geoff demanded of Béatrice when the army had halted to rest the mounts and take some much-needed sustenance. She had come to tend to him. ‘You know I am no friend of yours.’

  ‘You are ill. And you remind me of a man,’ she said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My father.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  She looked away. ‘He is dead. They cut him into tiny pieces, and then cast them into a pit at Montfaucon. For a comment made in jest.’

  ‘You saw this?’

  ‘I was not permitted,’ she said, leaning down and wiping the beads of sweat from his brow. ‘My father sent me away. He hoped that Normandy would be safe for us.’

  ‘And then we landed.’

  ‘The people of Barfleur did not trust me. Neighbours heard that my father was the victim of the King’s injustice, so they came and accused me. The daughter of a traitor must herself be a traitor, they said. That was why my uncle sent me away, to a little village where he knew an old widow-woman, Hélène. She took me in, and for a while everything went well. But Hélène grew ill. She died, unshriven, poor lady, because when the priest arrived, he wanted me to whore for him before he would hear her confession. He said he would tell all the villagers that I was a witch if I did not let him . . .’ She stopped and wiped her eyes. Sniffing, she returned to her work, wringing out the cloth in cool water and reapplying it to Geoff’s brow. ‘He refused to take my answer. He tried to force me – and then I stabbed him.’

  Geoff watched her closely. ‘We found that cottage. We found him.’

  ‘He deserved to die. Some knights took Hélène’s body to the church for me, and then I left. The next day you and your army arrived and I felt sure that you would try to do to me what the priest had wished to do, so I fled. And I continued to run until I reached St-Lô, and there you found me.’

  ‘What of the cat?’

  ‘My cat?’

  ‘Someone hanged a black cat and fired the place.’

  ‘I burned it down because I didn’t want anyone to benefit from it,’ Béatrice said. ‘I am sorry about the cat though. He didn’t deserve to die.’

  ‘We thought he was your link to the Devil,’ Geoff said.

  ‘My link to the Devil?’ she repeated, and amusement gleamed in her eyes for a moment or two. In that time, he saw not a fearsome witch, but a pretty young girl about to laugh for pure joy. But then her expression hardened again.

  ‘I am sorry about the chapel,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t care. My life is already over.’

  He gave a dry chuckle. ‘As is mine. I have no family now. All is lost.’

  ‘You had a wife?’

  ‘Yes. She is dead,’ he said, remembering how her body had caved in when his knife entered her throat. The way she stared up at him as her eyes faded. All because of the ale; all because he was infatuated with a tart from a tavern. He had killed his wife while he was enraged, and the next morning he did not even remember until he found her body. And then the bodies of his sons. He had killed his entire family in his drunken rage and frustration. Perhaps he had reasoned with the logic of a drunkard that, if his family were all gone, he could take Edith for his own and could start a fresh life with her. He shuddered as a vision of Sarra and the boys returned to his mind, their faces blanched, lips blue, eyes dead and flat – and instantly felt Béatrice’s cool hand on his brow.

  ‘I’m all right,’ he gasped. ‘Just remembering things.’ Tears stood in his eyes.

  ‘Why did you attack me?’ she asked.

  ‘I . . . I was desperate. Lonely. And then I saw you, and the sight inflamed me. I was mad, I think.’

  There were calls and horns blown and the vintaine rose, ready for the afternoon’s march.

  ‘I must go,’ she said.

  ‘I thank you. My life is yours now.’

  ‘Perhaps I will have need of it before long,’ she said, and was gone.

  21 August

  Berenger had spent an unsatisfactory day with his men, riding to and fro across the line of march of the army – and now, at last, they were approaching the river.

  The carts made a hellish din as they rattled and crashed over the ruts and stones of the tracks. Every so often there would be a short scream as the injured inside them were thrown around, making broken bones move and wounds reopen. Two more men had died from their injuries, and three from a sickness that had spread to many in the army.

  It was always the way. Berenger had never yet seen as many men killed in battle as had died from disease. This time, perhaps because the men were moving continually, the illnesses were fewer. It was an interesting thought.

  Uppermost in his mind, however, was the whereabouts of the French.

  Every day for the last three they had been attacked by groups of militia, but these were uncoordinated assaults. It was the main force that Berenger feared, yet the French had not been sighted.

  It was alarming. The English were suffering. Those marching on foot had boots that were worn through, and several men had given up on them, casting them aside or stuffing them in their packs in the hope of finding some leather to mend them with before too long.

  In Berenger’s mind, there was an ever-ready presence just over the horizon: the French King with his enormous army. And when the first troops of that mighty host appeared, the English had best be ready and waiting or, as Clip foretold, they would all be slaughtered.

  He had no idea how many men the French could muster, but everyone knew that with King Philippe’s funds, he could hire the most proficient mercenaries from Genoa, Saxony and beyond. There truly was no defence, unless the English could find a perfect piece of land for a battle: an area where they could install themselves to their own satisfact
ion.

  Sir John had mentioned this himself. He had ridden up behind Berenger late yesterday morning, and the vintener had seen how the strain of the last few days was affecting the old knight.

  ‘How are the men, Fripper?’

  ‘Well enough, Sir John.’

  ‘Good. Let’s hope this nonsense will soon be over and done with. We need to cross this damned river. Once we are over the other side, then will I be content.’

  Sir John cast an eye at Berenger. ‘You reminded me of the land north of here. Once we’re across the Somme, I recall the ideal place where we could settle and wait for the French to meet us. Do you remember a vill called Crécy? A broad plain, sweeping down from a curved hill. If the French were to ride into that horseshoe, and we were on the hill, few of them would make it to our lines.’

  Berenger nodded thoughtfully. He recalled the place. ‘Is the enemy far away?’

  ‘No. Not far enough! We don’t want to meet the French too soon. That could spell disaster.’ Sir John’s old eyes were fretful. ‘If we are forced to a battle here, God Himself knows how it will go, and who will win the day. But once over there, then we shall be safe.’

  Safe. It was a word that returned to Berenger now, as he led his vintaine at a brisk trot a mile in advance of the main body of the army.

  The vintaine’s scouting had been reduced after their mauling three days ago. Other men had been called to the front to take their place temporarily, to allow them a little peace and recovery time. Today they were back at the front again.

  ‘It’s wrong, that’s all I’m saying. We’ll all be slaughtered.’

  Berenger didn’t bother to look up. ‘What is, Clip?’

  ‘It’s not right, that’s all.’

  ‘We’ve done our bit, haven’t we? Why can’t we ride at the back, or with the King and his bodyguard? We’ve lost too many men already – do they want to see us wiped out?’

  ‘Stop your blathering,’ Jack said.

  ‘It ain’t blather, you bastard! You want to die here, you go ahead. It’s fine by me. But I don’t see why I should be stuck up here with—’

  Jack bit his thumb at him, grinning.

  ‘And that’s your answer, is it?’ Clip demanded shrilly. ‘You reckon you can just insult me, and I won’t—’

  ‘Clip,’ Berenger said wearily, ‘Shut the fuck up! If you want to go and complain to the King back there, he’ll be delighted to hear your comments, I’m sure. But for now, I’m tired of your whining.’

  ‘It’s not fair, that’s all I’m saying,’ Clip muttered. ‘Why are we always riding ahead, scouting for the army?’

  Jack laughed. ‘What are you complaining about? Look over your shoulder, man. There are fifteen thousand Englishmen at your back, and when you meet a Frenchman, all he’s going to see is the number of men here to protect you: a king’s host, with knights and English archers. He’ll take one look at that lot, crap himself, drop his sword and flee.’

  ‘At least it’s not much further,’ Berenger said appeasingly.

  ‘How do we know that?’ Clip moaned. ‘It could be another hundred miles, for all we know.’

  ‘No. We’ve been travelling too long already. The river isn’t too far now.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Clip said, his tone tempered by hope.

  ‘I have been here before. Many years ago.’

  ‘Oh. So how long will it be?’

  ‘Enough, Clip! We’ll be at the river in less than a day, I think. Now shut your trap – you’re giving me earache.’

  He did recall this land. The plains were familiar. It was a long time ago that he had last been here, but with the journey the memories flooded back. He recognised a village, now smouldering where English troops had set fire to the houses.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Eh?’ Berenger was jerked back to the present.

  ‘When were you here last?’ Clip said.

  ‘Sixteen years ago. Last time I saw it, people were working in the fields; the horses were set to pasture. There were children laughing, darting in among the trees at the edge, playing catch-as-catch-can.’

  Yes. And King Edward II had thrown a coin to them, and the children had scurried for it gleefully. It was a happy scene.

  ‘See? I can inspire joy in the hearts of the innocent,’ the King had said sadly. ‘Even if I have lost wife, son, throne and realm.’

  Sixteen years ago, Berenger had been – what? Twenty? That was when he had fled England, travelling first to Avignon, thence to Italy.

  ‘So long as we make it there,’ Clip said gloomily.

  Berenger frowned. ‘What now?’

  ‘I doubt many of us will ever reach home. Not with the witch still among us.’

  ‘Without her nursing, Geoff would be dead by now.’

  ‘He’s dying anyway,’ Clip said. ‘He won’t make it to England. You’ve seen how his face is. He’s got a fever.’

  ‘It’ll break. He’ll recover,’ Berenger said.

  ‘You think so?’

  It hadn’t crossed his mind that Geoff could die. Geoff was always there, an essential cog in the machine that was the vintaine. Without him, Berenger thought, the team would fall apart.

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ he repeated, but he glanced over his shoulder towards the cart in which Geoff bounced. He could see that Béatrice was sitting in the cart still, her long hair concealed beneath a coif. It was tempting to go back and check on him, just to make sure that Geoff was truly all right.

  He needed the miller’s son alive.

  ‘The river!’

  The army straggled over a wide area as they ambled onwards, like men walking or riding in their sleep. On hearing the cry, Berenger saw Jack lurch, startled, and Clip almost tumbled from his mount.

  Ahead, a scout was pointing and waving urgently.

  ‘See that, Jack?’ Berenger said. ‘What is it?’

  Jack peered through the dust that the rider had stirred; beyond was a sparkling and glinting. ‘I don’t know.’

  The gleams were so faint, they could have been the sun sparkling on water, Berenger thought. Perhaps that was it: they had reached the river at last! With a quick thrill of fear, something struck him: the sun was behind them. Surely if it were a river, there would be less glittering? Besides, these glimmers looked to be too high. Any water would be low against the land.

  That was when he realised what he could see, and recognised their danger. In that instant, he felt his bowels must empty.

  ‘VINTAINE, TO ME!’ he bellowed. ‘It’s the French, and they’re coming straight at us!’

  There was a sudden hush, and his men paused and looked at him, then back at the greyness ahead. ‘Where?’ someone asked.

  Later, Berenger could have sworn that they sat stationary on their mounts for an age. Once, long ago, he had sat at the side of his village’s pond and observed a strange, repulsive brown creature that climbed from the slime and ooze, to pause, gripping the reeds. Then, fascinated, he watched as the skin split, and gradually a brilliant, colourful body appeared. The wings were crumpled and useless, he saw, and he thought that they must somehow have been crushed, but then they gradually expanded, their appearance flattened and became shaped, and he realised that this was a magnificent dragonfly.

  It had taken an age before the creature was able to fly away, and today he measured the time between the appearance of the rider and the sight of the men approaching them in a similar manner. In truth, he knew they came quickly. He saw men-at-arms in armour, lance-points shining in the afternoon sun . . . and then suddenly they were ploughing through the vintaine, and the air was full of the shouts of the wounded, and screams and bellows as men tried to escape from the enemy. Berenger saw Jack avoid one lance, and then slam his bow at the face of another rider. He ducked too, but his aim was thrown off and he missed his own mark.

  Berenger felt a lance-tip cut along his ribs but by a miracle, beyond the fine razor’s slash, there was no damage. He looked up, just in time to see a
second horse pounding towards him. He tried to jerk his mount out of the way, but the pony appeared spellbound by the terrifying sight of the other beast and the lance, and froze. Berenger yanked at the reins with such gusto that he fell half from the saddle. He felt a great shudder run through the horse, then heard a loud crack. The lance, aiming for him, had dropped when he fell, and speared his mount instead, the lance snapping as the rider galloped on.

  He kicked his feet free from the stirrups as the little pony collapsed to its knees, blood gushing from its nostrils, and dodged swiftly aside as the beast collapsed, rolling, hooves flailing in the air.

  Berenger could not afford to spend time to put the brute out of its misery. His sword in his fist, he stared about him. It seemed that the French were already gone. They had ridden through the midst of the scouts, killing many, and then continued on for a short distance, but when they caught sight of the main body of the army, they turned about and returned northwards.

  Unknowing, Berenger knelt and gave thanks, his forehead resting on his sword’s cross.

  ‘You’d better hurry,’ Jack said. ‘They’ll be back soon.’

  ‘Back?’ Berenger said, still dazed.

  ‘Aye. And here are the first of them.’

  Berenger looked, and saw a mass of men. Some on horseback, others running on foot. He took a deep breath.

  ‘Tell the men to prepare.’

  There was little time for the army to respond, but as Berenger bellowed to the men nearby to dismount and string their bows, he was aware of movements behind him as more men rode to his side and flanks. In a surprisingly short time, there were two hundred or more archers, bows strung and ready, their arrows near to hand.

  ‘Frip, take these!’ he heard, and turned to see the Donkey carrying an armload of arrows.

  ‘Dump them here, lad,’ Berenger said gratefully.

  ‘You think I have time to clean your mess for you?’ the Donkey responded with a grin. ‘Take them and be damned. I have to take these to other men.’

  Ed dropped the arrows, and Berenger quickly stabbed them into the ground a short way away so he could snatch them up in a hurry. It wasn’t as efficient as having them in a wicker quiver before him as he preferred, but it was a great deal better than nothing. He counted quickly. Three-and-twenty arrows. Not enough, but they would suffice, with luck.