She was hanging from a wooden cross-piece that dangled by a rope thrown over a limb high on the tree, and tied off nearby. Her body was slumped like a crooked crucifix in the lower branches of the tree, her head bent, her arms stretched to either side and up, her body dangling unsupported.
‘Dear God!’ Denisot muttered, and crossed himself. ‘Untie the rope,’ he called. ‘Let us free this poor chit.’
The rope ran from the limb to a smaller oak nearby. It had been tied securely, and with the weight of the body, Poton could not release the knot. He had a little knife in a sheath at his waist, and set it to the rope. It parted with a ripping sound as the fibres were sheared. Denisot climbed from his horse to see the body fall to the ground.
The girl had fallen face-down, and Denisot pulled the plank over, hauling the body with it.
‘Do you recognise the child?’ Denisot asked.
Poton shrugged emphatically. ‘I’ve never seen her before.’
‘Nor I,’ Denisot murmured.
Once she had been a pretty little thing. Her hair was that red-gold that catches the sun with sparkles of fire, and it was thick and curled madly over her shoulders. She would have been three and a half, perhaps four feet tall in life, but the horrible damage done to her had left her looking shrunken and shrivelled.
Close to, her injuries were enough to make even the bayle gag. There were long scrapes where her flesh had been torn away. Her chin was raw to the bone, and her elbows too. Each injury had been expanded by the pecking beaks of the crows and ravens, but the initial scars were still just visible.
‘What happened to her, eh?’ Poton asked.
‘I think she was dragged here behind a horse,’ Denisot guessed. ‘That’s why she has lost so much flesh. Look, there are still pebbles and gravel in the wounds.’
Poton peered more closely, nodding, while Denisot studied the body carefully, trying to prevent his stomach’s rebellion.
‘She was only eleven or twelve, I would say,’ he reflected.
‘Who could have done such a thing to her?’
‘And why?
‘I expect she was raped.’
He began to study the roadway, looking for evidence of large groups of men, but the roadway was well used. After the dry spell of the last few weeks there was no mud to be churned, only dry soil. He could tell nothing from the ground about here.
Poton stood by the corpse while Denisot continued his futile search for signs of the men who had committed this crime. There were plenty of powerful men in the area who could afford to have annoying peasants removed, but this was baffling. A knight or nobleman would take a man’s head off without thinking, while a servant might stab in the back on his master’s command, but to drag a child like this for some distance and rape her, then kill her in this most horrific manner, crucifying her, that spoke of unthinking brutality beyond anything Denisot had seen.
The two lifted the body onto the back of his pony, using the trailing rope to secure the figure in place, and started to trudge homewards.
As they walked, Denisot could not help but look at the body slumped over the pony’s back. She was so young, so small. The sight of her little body made an unfamiliar anger kindle in his belly.
He wanted to avenge her, but there was little he could do. The kingdom was being torn apart by ravenous brutes: English, Guyennois, Flemings – there were all too many who would come here to steal, rape and murder.
What could a provincial official like him do against so many?
Grandarse passed by the busy street smiling beatifically at the passers-by. His purse was deliciously heavy on his belt, and he had it bound at his side, where it rattled most intriguingly as he walked. Men eyed his purse more than they eyed his face. Not that it surprised him. Beneath his genial exterior, the portly man was fully aware of everyone about him.
Rather than his usual leather jerkin and stained old coif, Grandarse wore a rich cotte with long sleeves and a heavy cloak trimmed with fur. A thick, felt hat set the seal on the image he wanted to portray. He knew that these streets were dangerous. There were few enough cities in all Christendom that were safe. Thieves, cut-purses, club-men of all forms roamed the darker alleys in search of prey, and Grandarse was the ideal target for them.
He heard a step or two behind him as he entered an alley between two towering buildings. Making his way along it, he heard the soft footsteps following him. Many people would see a man with a belly as gross as Grandarse’s and assume he was an easy gull. Only a merchant would be so fat, and merchants rarely wanted to risk their own safety when confronted by a bold fellow with a knife. In the dark of an alleyway, a gleaming dagger’s edge would be enough to scare a rich man into handing over his wealth. It wouldn’t take much, not with a grossly fat merchant. And any cut-purse could content himself with the reflection that a man that rich must have used coercion or usury to acquire his wealth. He deserved to be divested of his money.
Grandarse suddenly put on a spurt of speed. His boots slapped into the puddles and ordure that lay on the alley’s floor, and then he whirled about and pulled back his cloak to show his sword.
Two men behind him hesitated and exchanged a look as he shed a little of his smile on them. ‘You want something?’ he asked cheerily.
‘Your purse. Just untie it and throw it to us,’ one of the men said. He was younger, from the look of him, and had an oval face with a narrow chin. He wore a green linen shirt and a dark coat. A hood over his head left his face in the dark, but Grandarse could see that his eyes flitted about the alley nervously. This boy was concerned that there might be a trick of some sort, but was not sure what form it might take.
‘What, this purse? You want to take coins from me?’
‘Just untie it and hurry up,’ the other said. He was built more heavily that the first, and had thick, greying hair held long. His clothes were worn, but neatly patched. Grandarse was certain he was a sailor who had fled his ship. Few soldiers could sew that well. Looking at them, they could be father and son. They were, he decided.
‘I’ll give you one each, and if you refuse, you will regret it all your lives,’ he said.
‘Untie the purse,’ the first said. His attention was focused on that leather bag as though it held inside all the secrets of eternal life and alchemy mixed.
‘Ah, I cannot,’ Grandarse said, drawing his sword regretfully. ‘But I will still give you your coins. You deserve your reward.’
He stepped forward as the two blows were struck.
‘You didn’t hit them too hard, did you?’ he asked of his accomplices. The two would-be robbers lay on the ground, the older snoring gently. ‘He sounds like a puppy after taking the teat, that one,’ he said, prodding the man with his boot.
Dogbreath and John of Essex glared at him.
‘Why, you think we’d bilk you of your fee?’ Dogbreath said.
He was a scrawny man with grey hair that matched his face. His voice was a whine that put Grandarse in mind of a nail running down a slate. He shivered. The man looked like a cur that had been kicked beyond submission and into rabid fury.
‘I have no doubt you’d do that if you thought you could get away with it,’ Grandarse said. He grinned. ‘But you know you wouldn’t, so you won’t, will you? Now, take these two scrotes back to the camp and get them ready. Hopefully they’ll still be able to walk after a while.’
‘Oh, aye. I’ll get them to dance for me if I like,’ Dogbreath muttered. He flourished his own knife. ‘I can tickle them up in a . . .’
‘Just help them up and get them back to camp,’ Grandarse said. He glowered at Dogbreath, then at the other man. ‘What are you grinning at?’
‘Nothing, Centener.’
‘Good. Then wipe that smirk off your face and get these shites back to camp.’
That evening Grandarse stood out in the drizzle and surveyed his new recruits.
He never thought he would say it, but he was for once glad to have Clip and Dogbreath in his centaine. Cli
p was the same wizened little fellow, with that whine of dissatisfaction still nailed to his voice. Dogbreath was a scowling man with the complexion of someone who had been locked in a cell for too many years. Apart from that, the two had always been remarkable in that they were so similar, and yet had never fraternised during previous campaigns. However, now that they were the only two members whom Grandarse knew from past battles, he would have to rely on them more. Jack Fletcher, Matt and Geoff were all gone.
However, here he had his newest recruits lined up to inspect. It was not a sight to inspire a man.
‘You are now lucky men,’ he roared. ‘I have saved you from a life of brief pleasures and swift justice. All of you, every one, is a miserable shit who deserves to find a berth in the gaols of a dozen kingdoms, but I am giving you a chance of glory. Real glory! Your names will live forever, like Arthur and his knights!’
‘Who are—’ one man started. He was taller, a serious-looking, fair-haired man, but even as he spoke, Dogbreath appeared before him, grinning wickedly.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Er . . . Baz, I—’
‘Do you like taking a shit in the morning?’ he asked.
‘I . . . er . . .’ It occurred to the fellow that there was potentially no good answer.
‘Because if you like them so much, and you don’t want to listen to the centener there, then there’s always a job needs doing. Either digging a new pit or moving the shit from a full one,’ Dogbreath said nastily. ‘Sometimes, if you’re careless, you can fall in. And drown. Think of that!’ He licked his lips, displaying his foul gums and, from the expression on the young recruit’s face, exhaling. Dogbreath was well named, and it was rumoured that the air from his mouth was more noxious and poisonous than that which regularly emanated from his arse. No one who had smelled either would want to repeat the experience.
Grandarse looked at John of Essex, or John Hawkwood, he reminded himself. Hawkwood was chewing on a piece of dried meat, eyeing the men without enthusiasm.
‘I know,’ Grandarse said, ‘that you have had experience of the bow, and I can tell that a fair number of you have skills with knife or sword. Who has fought for the King before?’
He stared at a tall, lean man with mousy hair. This fellow had given his name as Robin of London, and from his build he had never suffered from hunger. He looked like many a poacher, in Grandarse’s experience. ‘You’ve been a fighter, haven’t you?’
Robin cast an eye along the others in the line with him and shook his head. ‘I know nothing about fighting, me. I’m just a trader in cloths. I was caught and brung ’ere without knowing what was goin’ on.’
‘Really?’ Grandarse walked closer and peered at him. The man’s accent was like none he had heard before. It sounded like a mixture, as if the man was trying to sound like a fellow from Suffolk. He took hold of Robin’s hands and studied his right hand. He saw that there were calluses on the first three fingers. On the left, there was a ridge of scarred skin on the side of the forefinger’s knuckle. Robin’s whole story, he decided, was a fabrication. It was common enough for men to avoid service by lying. ‘You’re an archer,’ he said. ‘Good. You can show us what you’re like.’
‘I’m no good with a bow,’ Robin said with his voice low and angry. He had given up the pretence and now sounded like a natural-born Londoner.
Grandarse stared at him. ‘You’ll be a fucking star with a bow with all that hard skin, lad,’ he said. ‘Or I’ll have to peel it off your fingers with a knife. Understand me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yes, Centener!’
Robin stared at him with real hatred. ‘Yes, Centener.’ In his voice it sounded like a curse.
‘Good!’ Grandarse said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. ‘Now, who else have we got here?’
There was the father and son from Bordeaux who stood and shuffled unhappily. After questioning them when they had recovered from their headaches, Grandarse had learned that the father’s name was Pierre and his son was Felix. They declared that they were in Bordeaux for the market and had fallen on hard times when they had been robbed, but Grandarse could tell from the look in their eyes that there was more to them than that. He was sure that they had some experience of fighting, although both denied it, and the boy had the marks of shackles on his wrists and ankles. When Grandarse looked at them, both looked resigned to their fate. When he questioned them, they soon admitted that the boy had been accused of a felony and would have been hanged, but he had been offered the chance to join the Prince’s army in return for a pardon. Grandarse told himself to keep an eye on them.
Behind them was a taller man with lowered brows and suspicious, deep-set eyes. He had a beard and hair that was as black as a Celt’s.
Grandarse pointed at him. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Imbert.’
‘Have you used a bow?’
‘Sometimes.’
The man looked away as though that was the end of his interview, and Grandarse sighed to himself, walking along the rest of the line of recruits. Dogbreath gave him a sneering smile; beside him Clip ducked his head in imitation of respect, and looked up at him with wary suspicion. Beyond them were another pair: one a short, grinning fellow of perhaps five-and-twenty, and a taller, slimmer, more serious fellow who listened carefully and with apparent concern.
‘Who are you?’
The shorter man was almost as fat as Grandarse himself, and his smile was as expansive as the sky. ‘I am called Gilles, Centener,’ he said. ‘I know I’ll be good here.’
‘Why are you here?’ Grandarse asked.
‘Well, I’ve heard how much money others have made from the raids. I lived in a small vill in Oxfordshire, you see, and I thought I might as well come see the world, make some money, save a bit for when I settle down.’
Grandarse looked him up and down. The lad was well dressed, with soft woollen hosen, a shirt of fine muslin, his cotte hardy cut from strong but soft linen. ‘You’re the son of a rich man,’ he said.
‘Nay, only a hardworking freeman.’
‘Then you robbed him, eh? If not, someone else. Keep an eye on your purses, boys, while this one’s around. Who are you?’
This to the last recruit, a grinning, wiry fellow with black hair and clear, grey eyes. ‘I’m Nick, Centener.’
‘God’s ballocks, but was there ever such a collection of short-arsed, fat little wastrels gathered all together in one place,’ Grandarse wondered aloud as if astonished that he could have collected so many. He walked back to the top of the line shaking his head.
In among the fifteen men he had collected there were probably more gaolbirds than free men, but then that was the way of things when a man went to the town to recruit. Most of those who would put their name forward would do so in the hope of earning a pardon, or of winning some kind of renown and being given their freedom. In the case of these men, none had volunteered. Grandarse had captured them with Dogbreath and Clip, and they were reluctant fighters at best, although all would appreciate their pay when they could pocket it.
‘Well?’ he said later, when he was sitting with his feet towards the fire, his fist gripping a large jug of cider. ‘What do you think of them, Essex?’
‘I think they’d sooner stab your paunch than your enemy’s,’ Hawkwood said.
‘You could be right there.’
‘And if you want my advice—’
‘I’ve been at this job a while, boy,’ Grandarse growled.
‘Of course,’ Hawkwood said, and closed his mouth, staring into the fire.
‘Well?’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t wish to insult you. You know your job as well as any, after all,’ Hawkwood added.
Grandarse squirmed a little. ‘Aye. True enough,’ he said at last. ‘But I need to know if you’re the right sort of material, too. So, what were you thinking?’
Hawkwood threw him a look. ‘First, I think you should use my name.’
‘John?’
<
br /> ‘Hawkwood. Remember that name, Grandarse. It’ll be famous one day.’
‘And I’ll be the King’s sergeant in charge of the royal whores! Well?’
‘If I were you, I’d have some men keep an eye for a group of five to ten men trying to escape the camp.’
‘Ballocks! You’re probably right.’
Thomas de Ladit had run from the terror of the north and sought peace down here, far away from the King’s men, only to throw himself into this lunacy. He could have wept from frustration and fear as he helped the old priest away from the square.
There were many there who knew their priest, but no one moved to help the two as they hobbled down the lane.
‘No, no, not here. Take me to the physician,’ the priest mumbled through broken teeth and mashed lips.
‘Père Albert, you need to rest. Let me take you to your bed and then I’ll send a boy to bring a physician.’
The priest looked down at his hands as though confused. ‘My staff! In the name of all that is holy, I left my staff in the square when that godless, murderous swine hit me. He’s lucky I’m not ten years younger! I’d break his face for him!’ He looked up at Thomas with quick decisiveness. ‘Take me to the physician, and then take the road south. There’s nothing for you here, Thomas. This is not your battle. Go south and seek your Lord’s lands. You should be safe in Navarre.’
‘What of you? You have shown me kindness these last weeks.’
‘I will live unless I die, and if I die, I will die cursing these heathens to Hell and back until they all know the terror that everlasting damnation can bring,’ Père Albert said, as firmly as his ravaged mouth would allow.
‘Let me take you home.’
The priest stopped and gripped his arm fiercely. ‘Those men do not care whether we live or die, Thomas. These people here are my people. I have lived here with them all my life. They look up to me. You have no place here, though. You must take yourself away. If they ever learn you are the Chancellor of King Charles of Navarre, you will be captured and held until they can force a ransom from someone. And if they get nothing, they will torture you to death for the fun of it! You have heard what these men are like. Mercenaries who would cut off your fingers to take your rings. They have no feelings for other human beings. All they care about is gold and silver. You have to flee.’
Blood of the Innocents Page 4
