Ed thought he was weeping at first, and that this must be a friend, or perhaps the father of the dead figure. He looked at the girl again: at the tousled hair, the eyes wide and staring as if in unimaginable pain, the mouth stuffed with shreds of linen to gag her, the hands pinned to the wall by large-headed nails, the smears of blood at her thighs where the skirts of her tunic had been ripped away. Ed had thought she was dead, but then he heard a shrill, muffled squeal. She was alive, but gagged. He felt a thrill of rage clot his heart as he saw the feebly moving leg, the head shaking with panic. The man must surely go and wrest her from her bonds, he thought. Why didn’t he hurry?
He was about to go to help the man, when the fellow stood, glanced about him, gave a stunted cry, and then hurried forward. Ed saw the flash of steel, and the girl’s torment was ended.
Ed couldn’t help his cry of shock. The man turned and saw him. Ed saw dark hair, wide eyes, a mouth like a gash in his beard, and then he was bolting away like a greyhound with a broken paw, low, hunched in anguish, lurching, but moving swiftly, while Ed hurried to the girl.
Her eyes were clear and gazed into his as though he was a thousand miles away. She was only a child.
‘Why?’ Ed demanded of the fleeing man, and then he grabbed at his horn and blew three blasts to call for help.
As he allowed his horn to fall to his side again, the sound of laughter came to Ed on the wind. It chilled his blood.
It sounded like the giggling of a demon.
The town shone like a small ochre jewel in the early evening light, glowing with a golden fire where the sun’s low light struck the pale stones of the church and walls. It sat in the curve of the river as snug and comfortable as a puppy in its basket, the trees of the forest standing behind as if sheltering it, while the rocky outcrops falling down to the river served as a warning to all who might dare consider an attack.
Those little cliffs would deter all but the most determined, but the long approach through the forest was dangerous too. The citizens had manufactured defences: pits, trenches lined with spikes, spring-traps to shatter the leg of a man or horse, tripwires that would release swinging spiked balls of steel to crush a man’s skull. The inventiveness of peasants and castellans alike was a constant, unpleasant source of surprise to the men on their horses.
There was a bridge over the river. It was wood, with a stone tower at this side to protect it, and someone had set a chain across the road as night fell.
The leader of the small band narrowed his eyes. His sight was failing, but he could make out the line of the bridge’s supports, the great wooden planks that criss-crossed the void and held up the roadway.
It was the cause of the town’s prosperity, that bridge. They had sweated to build it; they had saved and expended their treasure; they had maintained it at still more cost, but this little bridge in the Limousin was worth all the money and more, because every traveller crossing it, whether heading east or west, must pay for the privilege. If the townspeople had been wise, they would have destroyed that bridge. But few men were keen to destroy the source of their own wealth. Packhorses, carts, wagons and individual travellers would pay much to pass over it, because it was the only crossing for many miles.
That bridge was the reason why these men had come here.
Throughout France the people lived in terror. Since the disaster of Crécy and the loss of Calais the country had trembled. Outlaws and mercenaries took advantage of the void left by so many dead noblemen and men-at-arms who would have enforced the law. These routiers, the dregs of the cess-pits and gutters of Gascony, Flanders, the Holy Roman Empire and beyond, set out on their own campaigns of murder and looting. The English who had remained in France after fighting for their King were used to slaughter. They preferred to remain here and take what they wanted by force of arms, rather than return to their lives as peasants in England. It was easier, and life was sweet.
So the English and their mercenaries waxed while the peasants on whom they preyed waned.
Berenger cared nothing. He had hoped for a life of ease and peace, but it was shattered, and he blamed God – and France. His life had ended just as he thought he could hang up his sword forever. The French could rot.
But that bridge: control that, and a man would own the tolls paid to cross the river.
Berenger Fripper and his men were keen to have those tolls.
As Archibald carefully stirred the mixture, he thought about the opportunities he was missing. There were times when he wondered whether he still suited this work.
There was no doubt that war was a younger man’s business. For a fellow like him, a man in his middle years, the days of rising early, riding to battle and carousing with comrades afterwards were long gone, not that many would want to join him. When he caught sight of himself in a mirror, he was surprised by the sight of the man looking back at him: his hair was pale and thin, his beard full and mostly grey, his blue eyes hidden beneath his bushy brows, and surrounded by so many wrinkles it seemed a miracle that the man was still living. It seemed but a blink of his eye since he was an eager monk, but that was many years ago. Archibald glanced down at his body as he stirred. He wore his customary leather coif, and a loose lace flicked across his face in the breeze that passed through the workshop. He had a kerchief about his throat, and a thick sleeveless leather jack with a linen chemise beneath, all pocked and blackened with sooty marks, and below that was his heavy leather apron, like a smith’s in that it was discoloured all over with black scorch marks and occasional holes. Looking at himself, he shook his head. His paunch was grown greatly in the last two years. Life here was too easy. He would find it hard to go to war again.
‘Master, how is it?’
‘It goes well enough,’ Archibald said, concentrating on turning the paddle and keeping the mixture moving gently. Mixing dry powders like this was always slightly nerve-wracking. He must not make the concoction get warm, but always be gentle.
Ed crossed the floor. Archibald raised an eyebrow as he stood staring down at the large bowl. ‘What is it?’
Ed stared at the mixture doubtfully. ‘Have you added all the—’
‘If you think you can do better, you should set up your own house and find your own customers,’ Archibald said evenly. ‘Until then, you should recall who it was that taught you all you know.’ He peered closer at Ed. ‘What is it? Something has alarmed you.’
He knew Ed like his own flesh and blood. The lad was usually relaxed and unemotional, but today he was on edge.
It was almost ten years ago that he had first met Ed. Then the boy had been a gangling brat, little able to feed himself, nervous and wary in the presence of men. Archibald had taken him in and adopted him, and since then he had come to appreciate the lad. Ed had a quick mind, a sharp wit and was utterly devoted to Archibald and Béatrice, the young woman whom they had discovered on the march to Crécy, and who had remained with the army for the following year. Archibald had often wondered whether the two would find love or tenderness in each other’s arms, but so far his hopes had been dashed. Béatrice and the Donkey (an affectionate nickname given to Ed by the rest of that first vintaine) appeared to be as fond of each other as any brother and sister, but no more. Béatrice felt the full weight of her extra four or five years, and Ed was content to take his few pennies to the whores in the stews when he needed to indulge his natural desires.
‘Aye, you taught me all you could,’ Ed said. ‘Do you think that passing on information is like other gifts? Once you have given it, it is no longer yours?’
‘What is that supposed to mean?’ Archibald demanded, still stirring gently. ‘And don’t try to change the subject. What has upset you, boy? I know you well enough. You’ve a face like an alewife who’s just found her beer’s turned to piss.’
Ed gave a smile. ‘No secrets from you, eh, Gynour?’
‘I doubt you could manage it.’
‘I saw a man murder a little girl today. A black-haired, black-bearded man. He had na
iled her to a wall like a crucifixion and raped her, poor child.’
Archibald winced. ‘There are many demons in this world. Did you recognise him?’
‘No, but I’d know this man again, I think.’
Ed returned to his table, cutting a loaf in half and scooping out the creamy-coloured crumb.
‘Did you report it?’
‘No. I blew my horn for the hue and cry, but left them to it.’
‘Good.’ Neither Ed nor Archibald was sure of the customs of this town, but in England reporting a murder would entail being amerced, held over by payment of a surety until the coroner could investigate, and neither had any intention of waiting here for some King’s officer to decide to amble over. Ed didn’t want to have to pay a fine, but more to the point, he didn’t want to end up as a suspect. All too often a foreign first finder could become the first – and only – suspect.
Ed worked on two more loaves, and then crossed to the pot set over the fire. He ladled two good scoops of pottage into the makeshift trenchers. Setting them on the table, he pulled his spoon out from under his shirt and took the thong from over his head. ‘Food, old man,’ he called, then, ‘Béatrice!’
Archibald set his mixing bowl aside. It was difficult to grind the mixture. Usually men would add the brimstone, sal petrae and charcoal into their wooden pestles and cautiously crush them into powder. Recently Archibald had been pounding the individual components and then mixing the three together, but he was thinking that he may leave it to Béatrice in future. She had the woman’s touch. In any case, he wasn’t sure yet that it was a more efficient means of making his black powder. He walked to the table, wiping grimy hands on his apron, and was pulling the stool from under the table when Béatrice walked in.
The French woman was tall, as elegant and slender as a birch, with all the associated strength. Archibald had first encountered her when the vintener in Grandarse’s company had asked him to look after the two. Then she had been thin and drawn, driven by her fear of her countrymen. Her family had been destroyed when her father had been executed, she had told him once, and she joined with the English because she thought she had little choice. Now she had grown into an attractive woman.
Archibald closed his eyes as she sat, and spoke a few brief words in thanks for the food in front of them. When he reopened his eyes he frowned.
‘What is in this?’ he asked, peering into the trencher.
‘Ramsons, peas, some beans and plenty of good water from further up the river,’ Ed said. His face lightened momentarily.
‘Something wrong?’
‘I was just thinking. I heard some news today,’ Ed said. He and Archibald exchanged a glance. Mention of young girls being raped would upset Béatrice, and neither wished to offend or upset her.
‘Well? What of it?’
‘There is to be another raid under the Prince. He is to take an army into France again.’
‘Where this time? Last year he ravaged the whole of the south as far as Narbonne. Where does he intend to attack this time?’
‘Oh, it must have slipped his mind to tell me!’ Ed said sarcastically. ‘How would I know? Do you think he would ask me for my advice before setting off?’
‘I had hoped you could learn a little more, certainly.’
‘I did.’ Ed smiled slowly as he chewed a hunk of bread. ‘I spoke to Sir John de Sully’s esquire. He told me that the army will need serpentine and a Master Gynour . . . but in their absence, he will be content to have you go with him.’
It was midnight. Berenger sniffed the air. There was a chill that seemed to impregnate a man’s skin, seeping in like oil into a cloth until it had laid hold of a man’s bones. He stood, studying the town’s bulk in the distance, his cloak wrapped tight about him, a figure of deeper darkness in the gloom of night.
It was called Uzerche, he had learned. They had found a young goatherd in the hills before the town, and he had been eager to help them. In exchange they had swiftly ended his troubles with a knife. Berenger had seen to it that it was swift. There had already been too much suffering in this sorry land.
The men were rested. It was time.
Berenger signalled with his hand to his sergeant, Will, who called out quietly, and the men climbed to their feet. Will was tall and elegant. Many thought him effete, with his bright, little-boy-blue eyes and wistful grin under his unkempt thatch of fair hair. Women adored him, and men sneered at him, until they saw him fighting. He was as brave and heedless of danger as a berserker in battle.
The horses and ponies were left with the boys, and the whole party of almost a hundred men formed a column and began to tramp onwards.
There were few lights. At this time of night in a small town, there would be some watchmen, but the larger part of the citizens would be asleep. The curfew would be in place, and all fires damped and smothered while the people slumbered. It was the ideal time for the assault.
They were at the bridge. Four men with scaling ladders went to the tower. There was one figure at the wall, but as he peered down, Will pointed him out. Will’s man Alex loosed his arrow, striking the sentry in the head at the same time as two others hit him in the breast and throat. He was dead before he could cry out. Berenger had feared that the noise of the arrows slamming into his mail would itself wake the garrison, yet there was no sound from inside.
The four men were followed by another four, and soon Berenger heard the cry of an owl on the evening air, and knew that the tower was theirs.
More men, more ladders, now crossing the bridge to the main town beyond.
There were sentinels on the walls, but as the English quietly scrambled up the rungs, it became clear that the guards were dozing. Not one cried out in alarm.
To his left, Will led one group; further on, Simon was first to breast the wall with another section; beyond him Peter: all of them courageous and bold leaders, each with their own contingent of twenty men. With men like this it was hard to fail.
Berenger’s men bore their scaling ladder to the wall and leaned it quietly. He was beaten to the rungs by Loys, who sprang up it with the agility of a monkey. Berenger felt the familiar excitement roiling in his belly as he set his foot to the first rung.
There was no fear, such as he had known when he was new to his business, only a firm determination to win the town. He hurried up the ladder to the battlements and climbed over, landing quietly on the packed stones of the inner walkway. There, he stood gazing about him.
Two guards had been dispatched by Simon on the walkway, both dying where they slept. Loys was stabbing them again, just to be certain. One looked as though he was still sleeping, but he had been stabbed by three of Simon’s men already, none wishing to risk his waking, and now Loys opened his throat from ear to ear, grinning all the while as if in imitation of the appalling wound.
Already the English were scattering. Some went left with Peter, to the nearer guard tower. More pulled a ladder up after them and lowered it inside the town before making their way down and quietly scurrying to the gates. Berenger followed them, and nodded to Will.
Seeing Berenger’s approval, Will hissed to the others, and Simon with three of his men set themselves at the massive baulks of timber holding the gates. They slid back into their sockets in the walls, and willing hands hauled at the gates, pulling them wide. With a groan from the iron hinges, the gates were drawn inwards, and the men began to cheer. With whoops of glee the remaining routiers burst in through the gates with an infernal clamour. Their boots thundered like waves crashing heavily on a shingle shore, but then their bellows and howls were overwhelmed by the cries of dismay from the population.
Their attack was a surprise. Men and women who had been slumbering in their beds were woken to the shrieks of their neighbours, to the sound of doors being smashed with axes and great hammers, the timbers broken and rent asunder, and blood-crazed English fighters leaping over them to ransack, rape and kill.
Berenger saw his men pelting up the main street and sto
od watching. His heart once would have felt pity, but not now. These people were the cause of his emptiness inside. Their terror fed his vengeful nature. He felt like a demon watching sinners herded to pits of flames. There was no compassion – only urgency to get this over with.
In the roadway up ahead he saw a tavern. His blood craved wine and he crossed to it. On either side the houses were broken open and men poured into them. He heard a scream, a rising ululation of terror, and as he glanced up he saw a figure fly through a window. It span, emitting a mewling noise, and in its wake he heard a cry like the last horrified squeal of a soul in torment. Looking up, he saw a woman with long, dark hair, her mouth wide, her eyes staring at her child as it hurtled to the ground. Her face was jerked from the window, and he saw her no more, although her screaming continued.
The child was only perhaps one year old. Its neck was broken now, and its struggle for life was over. Berenger stared at it for a moment. He wanted to feel something, to have some sorrow for the life ended, but there was nothing. His heart was as empty as an up-ended jug. No: a broken jug. His heart was shattered and broken. It could no longer contain anything like mercy.
There was only one creature for which he could feel sadness, and that was himself. He had already lost everything he loved or valued.
Wednesday 6 July
On the first day after their assault, Berenger held court in the market square. Some fires still raged over to the east of the town, but Berenger had ordered that the houses near them should be torn down, and while the populace whimpered and wrung their hands, his men eagerly despoiled the buildings and then used some of their scarce resources of serpentine powder to detonate them. One of his men was struck by a flying splinter two feet long, and all but cut in half, but he was the only fatality.
Berenger had breakfasted in a tavern with a flagon of wine and bread. He had taken the house of a widow, but her cold anger made him prefer to eat elsewhere. Her name was Alazaïs, and he liked her slanted eyes and the fixed resentment in them, but he had not raped her or tried to take her with subterfuge. His attraction to her lay in the location of her house: nothing more.
Blood of the Innocents Page 2
