Many of these marching wives were happy to join the army. They came not from villages that had been pillaged, but from towns further away. Their lives were already mapped out for them: marriage with a local boy, life under a despotic mother-in-law, a patriarchal father-in-law, who would often hold incestuous desires, all of them ready and waiting to force the young wives into prolonged servitude. And for what? So that they could become brood-mares for the village. Nothing more. They were valued as highly as a bitch in whelp – not even as highly as a cow in calf, for a cow brought milk, meat and money. A bitch would only bark and snap. Little surprise, then, that the more enterprising young women would slip their leashes and run to join the army. There, they were valued as companions and lovers.
But Janyn would not take them. He was content with a simple financial relationship with one of the many whores, but he would not become emotionally entangled. It would take only a moment’s reflection on a husband’s, brother’s or child’s death for a woman to turn into a knife-wielding avenger, and he had no wish to share his bed with a vengeful harpy. Sex with a woman who might bear a grudge for her man’s death – that was a risk he could happily live without.
For that reason, when Pelagia joined him in the camp the day after the three had been scared away by Bill and Walter, the men of his vintaine were surprised. They knew their vintener’s opinions about the marching wives. But none dared say anything. The grim expression on Janyn’s face was enough to dispel any potential humour.
He had come across her lying huddled beside a tree that evening, already cold, shivery, suspicious and wary. She had no cloak to cover herself, nor yet a thick tunic. Instead, she huddled for warmth closer to the tree. It was like clutching ice in the hope of heat.
‘If you don’t find a man to protect you soon, you’ll be taken by someone less understanding. If you’re not careful, I’ll wake up one morning and find your body. I don’t want that,’ he said, and shuddered at the thought as though it were a premonition.
She gave him a long, slow stare. ‘What do you want from me?’
‘I would have you live. That is all,’ he said. ‘There has been enough death about these fields. Just live, woman, and I will be content.’
She rose stiffly, and shivered again. He led the way without turning to see if she was behind him. She could have slid away into the welcome concealment of the surrounding trees, for all he knew, but he continued traipsing on until he reached the circle of his men. There, he turned, and found that she was a mere four paces behind him.
‘Lie down there,’ he said to her, indicating his own blankets. The thick fustian was scratchy and rough, and he saw her eye it doubtfully. ‘It’s all there is,’ he said. ‘If you want to keep warm, you must roll yourself up in it.’
He said nothing more that evening. As she settled herself, wrapped in the coarse cloth, he sat nearby, his back to a tree, his steady gaze fixed on a point in the distance. Walter brought him a little pottage, but for the most part the men left him to his bleak meditations. Only one person didn’t seem to hold him in awe. When he glanced down, he saw that her eyes were still fixed on him. Feline, she seemed, and he could not tell whether, like a cat, she appreciated his protection or doubted his intentions.
Henry the Tun had not thought of the woman in the days since his arrival at Calais. He had been too busy with his men. He had never been an ardent womaniser as such. There were too many other distractions for a man like him. As he strode about the encampment and as he sat in the hastily erected tavern drinking sack, he had no time to think about women, and Pelagia had been little more than a bundle of rags in the ditch when he first caught sight of her, but then, one day, he saw her again, and this time he wanted her.
Henry the Tun took women when the urge washed over him, but he was no cruel ravisher of innocents. Those taken prisoner as the army marched tended to be safe from him. He had little use for them, in truth. Women were necessary on occasion when he was free to indulge his natural desires, and that was all. He preferred the whores who were more likely to be compliant than determined to avenge a dead lover or relative.
With men he was a natural bully. Janyn knew him of old, and knew that Henry was a bold and fierce fighter. He liked to brawl and wrestle, and even when sober, he would join in a gladiatorial battle. He was no coward: that was not one of his faults.
His boldness, his conviction of his own strength and authority, led to his intimidating and bullying others. If there was a ready target for his bile, that fellow would suffer. If a stable-boy mishandled his pony, that boy would receive a clout over the ear that would send him flying, but when he was drunk, Henry would use any as the target of his vicious cruelty.
He was a keen drinker and, when deep in his cups, he was vicious. He would pick on any man, even one of his own company. No matter that the fellow was stronger than most, Henry would willingly take him on. And often, when he had taken more wine than he should, his thoughts turned to other pleasures.
That night he was feeling comfortably amorous after a few pints of wine, and walking back from the tavern, he was feeling a warm glow. His men were content, his purse was full, and all was well with his world. Perhaps he should go to the stews and find himself a woman. There were wenches down there who would be willing enough when they saw the weight of his purse, but it was growing harder to find one to slake his desires. As his reputation was passed from one slut to another, it grew ever more difficult to persuade one to let him lie with her. No woman willingly slept with him above once or twice when he was deep in his cups, because for him the height of ecstasy was to inflict pain while he rutted.
The roads from one place to another were well marked out by then. All about the town of Calais, where the English were camped, a makeshift town had been thrust up. Now there was a regular market, with peasants from about the countryside bringing in some goods, and more appearing from English ships. Wine, ale, clothing, and – blessed Mary! – even new boots materialised. At the same time, ale-houses and taverns appeared, their barrels set up on wagons or simple trestles, and the men tramped along paths that were soon solid-packed earth roads. Gutters ran alongside the older, long-established roads, and it was into one of these that Henry stumbled drunkenly.
Cursing, he stood and staggered from the filth back to the road itself, and began to make his way back to his men, but now he found his path was blocked by a slowly trundling wagon, and he must stand aside.
At the side of the road here, he saw a group of huddled figures, and in their midst, he saw her: the girl.
He didn’t recognise her immediately. At that first glimpse all he saw was a woman with a long, willowy throat, her hair indecorously loose over her shoulders, without wimple or coif. She must have appeared a very lewd woman, sitting there amongst a company of men. Who knows? Perhaps he thought her a common marching wife, or even a whore.
Janyn saw Henry at the side of the roadway, and immediately felt the prickling in his belly that warned of danger.
Henry was a strong man, the commander of a centaine, responsible for the wellbeing of his men, but he had no actual friends, only men to be commanded. Janyn’s was a lonely enough position, answering to the commands of his banneret, but trying always to keep the men beneath him happy and keen. It wasn’t always easy, and for a man more senior, like Henry, it was still more difficult. There was no camaraderie for the leader of a hundred. Above him was his lord, Sir John de Sully, who was himself a stern commander, but a knight had his own circle of companions. Henry had none, only the loneliness of authority.
Seeing him there, Janyn thought Henry had a wistful look about him. Perhaps that was it: sometimes a man just wants to stop, rest, take some comfort. That evening, as drunk as a churl at the harvest festival, Henry perhaps sought only that at first: companionship. Perhaps that was all he ever wanted from a woman. A moment’s freedom from responsibility, a spurious friendship. And only later did he come to want to inflict pain to increase his own delight.
Whe
n his eyes lit on her, he saw not a prisoner, not a piece of meat, but a young woman of delicacy and beauty. Perhaps, like Janyn, he remembered a vision: a summer’s day, a river bank, the scent of meadowsweet heavy on the air making him drowsy as he sat with his head resting in the lap of a woman such as this. It was the kind of memory to take a man’s breath away. A lovely, enticing memory of a time long gone, when a boy could meet a girl and they could enjoy the natural pleasures without shame.
It is often the way that a man will form a picture in his mind, when he is all but befuddled with drink, and he won’t realise that the object of his affections doesn’t share his dream. So it was this time.
He made his way to them.
‘Maid, I have a mind to take ye,’ he said, belching and dragging at his belt. He was far gone in his cups that night, and once he had the idea of a bout with the maid, nothing would dissuade him from his determination.
‘She’s not for sale,’ Janyn said. ‘She’s not a slut from a tavern.’
‘Shut your mouth, unless you want to feel the King’s justice for answering a King’s officer,’ Henry said. ‘By Christ’s balls, she is lovely. Maid, I want you. Won’t you come with me? I’ll look after you better than these churls!’
‘Centener, go!’ Janyn said.
‘Go swive a donkey,’ Henry said.
Henry had lumbered forward like a man almost in a trance. His lips were moving, but Janyn couldn’t hear a word, only a roaring in his ears that muffled all sound. There was a moment when he felt suffocated with rage, and thought he was going to fall down, but then an intoxication of fury propelled him forwards, and he found himself face to face with Henry.
The centener didn’t look at him. His attention was focused entirely on the girl, and as Janyn thrust himself before him, Henry stopped and blinked as though confused to find that another man was in his way.
‘She is not for sale,’ Janyn grated. ‘Leave us alone.’
‘You are trying my patience,’ Henry said, his face reddening. His jaw jutted as he leaned towards Janyn. ‘Get out of my way, you cat’s turd.’
‘You try this, and I’ll have you broken,’ Janyn said. ‘All my vintaine here will stop you.’
‘You would stop a King’s officer? You think so? I’ll come back with three vintaines, man, and I’ll take her over your dead bodies!’
‘Try it. You’ll be the first to die,’ Janyn hissed.
There was a moment’s shocked pause. Janyn could feel the tension like a taut bowstring as he stared at Henry. There was a creak and a slight click, the familiar sound of a bow being drawn taut. Janyn knew that behind him at least one man had nocked an arrow.
‘Hear that, Centener? You try to strike me down, or try to steal her from us, and you’ll be dead before you’ve taken two paces. Now go!’
Henry the Tun’s face went utterly blank. The colour left his features like water running from a leaking bucket, and Janyn could almost imagine he was facing a ghost. The thought made him shiver.
‘You’ll regret this,’ Henry said quietly. He stood, studying Janyn for a long moment, his eyes empty of all emotion. For a while, Janyn held his breath, convinced that his centener would draw steel and try to stab him, but at last, Henry retreated. After some paces, he turned and walked away, but before he had taken more than a few paces, he stopped again.
His eyes took in all the men there: Janyn, the bowman behind him, and the woman, and he nodded as though reminding himself of all their faces, before chuckling to himself and striding off.
Was he evil? Janyn considered that again now, sitting before the fire. He always wanted to see the good side of any man, where possible. In the past he had taken raw, savage men, and from them honed sharp, competent warriors, and he would like to think that there was more to Henry than he met at first sight, but he knew, even as he considered the man, that there was no point.
Some men may be overtaken with rage in an instant and forgive in the next. Henry was not of that mould. He took his hatred and viciousness and nursed it to his breast until it became a focus and concentration of his anger.
Henry was filled with bile and spite at that moment, that was certain. To be forced away from his chosen prize by a few meagre churls from another vintaine, and by one of Sir John’s own vinteners, was demeaning, and that alone incurred his wrath. But to leap from that to declaring him evil was a long jump. Janyn knew that many men, thwarted of their desires, could be vicious. Some would lie in wait for a victim and take revenge for a slight. Many would punish a man by any means. Henry did none of these. He was fixed upon a different revenge. If he could not take her, he would have those who protected her destroyed; he would have her destroyed in time. But he would take her. He had no doubts of his abilities there. He would recognise no bounds to his rage at his humiliation. No, he would see how to get his revenge, and when he did, he would see them all utterly ruined, and they would see his hand in their destruction. He would gain satisfaction in their horror. And he would ensure that they knew he would have her regardless.
That was the mark of his cruelty. Not that he would stab or punch in a moment’s rage, but that he would nurse his hatred and black bile to himself and nurture them, and let them grow and fester, until they took him over entirely.
Henry did not think himself evil. His life had been one of fighting and struggling, but he was only a man, making his way as best he could.
Arriving in Guyenne after he fled London, he had been happy. He had enjoyed his time there. The warmth, the wine, the women, all were to his taste. But a man needed a career as well. He had no trade, but he was good, he learned, at fighting, and he began to take part in the little tournaments for money. He would take on all comers, and his speed and lack of fear usually gave him the victory. Whether he fought with swords, daggers or fists, Henry soon learned that he had an edge over most men.
It was that which led to his joining the King’s men. He fought for many of the noblemen of his day, spending much of his time with Sir John of Norwich, but then he met Sir Walter Manny, and joined his forces. Ten years after the murder of the man in Southwark, Henry was on a ship once more, and fighting with Sir Walter against French ships near Sluys. They won a victory at Cadsand and, from that moment, Henry knew his vocation. He was a fighter for the King.
As the war continued and conflicts spread, he found himself advancing ever further. He joined as an infantry fighter, but then gained a pony and a bow. From there he became vintener, and gradually built a reputation for steadiness in battle, for a cool head, and a ferocity unequalled in Edward’s host. Henry was as fierce as a tiger when he was placed with an enemy before him, but that enemy could be a Frenchman or a recalcitrant fighter from his own vintaine. A man who did not fight for him would often be forced to fight against him. He held an iron discipline in his unit, and all who disliked it were forced to respect it.
When he rose to his current post, it was because the old centener was too incompetent for his own good, let alone the men he was supposed to lead. He couldn’t lead the men into a tavern on a good day. On a bad day, he was too swine drunk to bother. More and more often it was Henry who took the men and led them himself, while his own men rallied them when a sudden reverse struck. And one day, the old man was in the line, fighting, when a sword caught his belly and opened him like a paunched rabbit.
That day, Henry took the top job. It was his right. It was his reward, he felt, for having endured the laziness and cowardice of his predecessor. He had to kill the man for the good of his unit and that whole arm of the King’s host.
In all these last years, no one had dared gainsay him. No one had thought to refuse him anything he demanded. And this miserable cur, this mewling kitten, this streak of piss, this Janyn Hussett, dared to stand before him and deny him the woman he should have as a right!
He would have her. He wanted her, and no one would stand in his way.
No, he did not think himself evil. He merely did not consider how any action of his own would a
ffect other people. He didn’t care.
Janyn and his men could guess that no good could come of this.
‘Well, Janyn, by my faith, you’ve dropped us right into the shite this time,’ Barda muttered, taking the arrow from the string and putting it back with its sheave before reaching up to unstring his bow. ‘Ballocks to that! I didn’t come over the water to fight my own folk. I thought I was going to fight and kill the King of France’s men.’
Barda atte Mill was a short man, with a fuzz of grizzled hair circling his bald pate. About his cheeks and chin was a thick growth of beard as if to compensate for his hairless skull. His eyes were shrewd and kindly, with enough laughter creases to make him look like a modern Bacchus.
‘What would you have had me do? Let him take her?’ Janyn demanded, glancing round at Pelagia.
She was still staring after Henry and, when she felt his eyes on her, she threw him a cursory look before bending and continuing with her work preparing vegetables for the pot.
‘Aye. If it makes our life easier,’ Barda said. His eyes were narrowed as he peered after Henry, but there was no humour in them. ‘It’s a mistake to go upsetting the man who commands you in battle, Jan.’
‘Don’t talk of her like that,’ Bill said. His face blackened with his mood. ‘Would you see the poor maid raped by that son of a dog?’
‘I’d prefer to see her open her legs wide for him rather than see us suffer his anger.’
‘Perhaps. But I wouldn’t let him take her,’ Janyn said.
‘Is she your wife?’
Janyn didn’t answer that.
‘Well, I hope she’s worth it in the end, Vintener,’ Barda said, and walked off.
Bill and Walter stood together, muttering in low voices, their eyes drifting off to where Henry had gone, but Janyn squatted with his back against a tree and closed his eyes. After the rush of excitement, he felt light-headed and slightly sick. He had been so close to drawing a knife that he could feel how it would have been, to have stabbed and slain the centener. There was a metallic taste in his mouth at the thought, just like he had after a battle.
The Deadliest Sin Page 4
