Blood of the Innocents

by Michael Jecks

They would learn, Grandarse reflected, just as he had himself all those years ago.

  The English host had many components. Dukes and other noblemen would bring their own men with them, both horsemen and archers. There was a matter of honour, and besides, all had signed contracts stating how many men they would be able to field when called by their King. Knights had a scale of responsibility. Sir John de Sully, for example, was senior, he was a knight banneret, and was responsible for bringing his own force of two hundred. Each hundred was separated into five vintaines, each of twenty men, in theory. The fact was, there were never enough men to fill the ranks.

  Grandarse joined Hawkwood and looked up, pulling a grimace. ‘It’ll be raining before noon, I reckon.’

  ‘Perhaps. Who will you put in charge of the new vintaine?’

  They discussed the group amiably. John Hawkwood was the son of a tanner, and had enjoyed a lucrative career in the last ten years since going to war. He had first met Grandarse during the siege of Calais, but since then he had taken up the life of a soldier with enthusiasm. He had fought with the King’s men during recent campaigns, finishing up with the Prince of Wales’s chevauchée last year. On that raid the English had devastated the country from Arouille to Toulouse and Narbonne, and returned with so many valuables that finding sufficient wagons and horses or oxen to draw them had been a serious problem. A vastly larger French army had been discovered, but as the smaller English force approached, the French retreated, refusing to give battle.

  ‘You will want someone who understands archery,’ Hawkwood said.

  ‘Who, then?’

  Hawkwood frowned as he considered the men in the vintaine. ‘Dogbreath is good in a hand-to-hand fight,’ he said.

  Grandarse gave a hollow laugh. ‘Him?’

  John had to admit Grandarse’s response was fair. Dogbreath’s skills with bow and arrow were invariably forgotten in the heat of battle. It only took a moment for him to throw caution to the winds and hurl himself at an enemy. A commander had to be more cool-headed, especially since Dogbreath could as easily hurl himself at another member of his own army as on one of the enemy.

  ‘How about Robin of London? He seems level-headed enough.’

  ‘I don’t know. Until I see him in a fight I can’t be sure about him. He certainly has the skills of an archer. I don’t know that I’ve seen a more accurate fellow, but for all that he’s come from London for some reason, and I would be happier if I knew what that reason was.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If only we had someone like Jack Fletcher again.’

  ‘He didn’t come?’

  ‘Dead. The pestilence, like so many.’

  They discussed the strengths and weaknesses of each of the men in the group. By common agreement, there were three that they would not consider, but at last they had little alternative.

  ‘What of the two?’

  Grandarse threw him a bitter glance. ‘What, you’d have the youngster? Or the older one who’s more like an outlaw than a member of the Prince’s army?’

  ‘Well, they both showed initiative.’

  Grandarse pulled his mouth down while he considered the father and son who had tried to rob him in the alley. In his eyes, Heaven was near Durham, and the farther from that city a man was born, the more feeble he grew, both in brains and in brawn. ‘I don’t like them.’

  ‘Well, there’s always Clip,’ John said.

  ‘Now you’re pulling my tarse!’

  The blast of horns brought them both back to the matter in hand.

  Sir John de Sully was mounted on his favourite heavy palfrey. He wore his armour and a heavy coat of plates, his bascinet held in the crook of his elbow. Turning in his saddle, he caught sight of Grandarse and nodded to him and Hawkwood before surveying the ranks of archers seated more or less comfortably on their ponies and scruffy rounseys. Two of the less fortunate were sitting, legs dangling, on mangy donkeys, while the boys who would have to hold the mounts or fetch and carry, bringing arrows and bowstrings to the men in battle, waited wearily, yawning or resting their backs against trees or leaning on horses with their eyes closed.

  Lazy bratchets, Grandarse thought to himself. Some of them were eleven or older, but they still tried to sleep at every opportunity. He’d have to beat one or two to inspire the rest to work properly.

  The horns blew again, and at last Grandarse saw the fists raised and punched forward in command to march. He shifted in his saddle and glanced at Hawkwood.

  ‘Well, John. I hope you’re ready. We’re off to war again soon.’

  ‘Bergerac first, and then, give it another two, maybe three weeks and we’ll be off,’ Hawkwood agreed. There was a suppressed excitement about him.

  He’ll make a good captain one day, Grandarse thought to himself, but then the centaine was moving, and he succumbed to the rolling gait of his horse. When he rode on long distances he often found that his mind would empty. It was different when he was in the middle of dangerous territory. On those occasions he would recall every blade of grass, every twig; but on days like this, passing through quiet lands with no danger threatening, he could travel twenty or thirty miles and not recall a single foot of his journey.

  His last thought, before he allowed his mind to enter that quiet void of introspection, was that he wished he had some of the old team back here. To have Jack and Fripper around would make his job a great deal easier.

  Jack was dead. If only he could learn where Fripper was, he would be happier.

  Wednesday 20 July

  Berenger knew something was wrong as he walked along the streets. He saw a pair of his men, and they nodded, but their eyes were hooded and they averted their gaze, talking loudly, like criminals about to be taken by the watch. He knew that look – he had worn it often enough himself.

  He had been at a tavern for his lunch, and his pot of thick pottage with herbs and rabbit had been washed down with a quart of good local wine. It had made him feel comfortable and slightly dizzy after the ale before lunch, but his mind was as clear as a crystal as he strode out and down the street, thinking idly of his wife. She died so young. So terribly young.

  There were two men on the left at the street’s corner ahead. Another man lounged on the right side, his hat half over his face. Something made him lurch up and lift his hat, and then he stared in Berenger’s direction.

  Berenger recognised all three of them as men from Will’s vintaine. They were loyal to his subordinate, Berenger knew, but they were also mercenaries. They would fight for whoever offered them the most money. Berenger stooped, tying the laces on his boot while he considered. He could return to the tavern, perhaps, or seek support from other men, but where would he find a man he could trust? Better to brazen it out, or fight and accept the consequences.

  He stood upright again, rolling slightly, listening carefully to all sounds. The street was ominously silent, but that meant he could hear that no one was following him now. There was no subtle, quiet footfall behind him as he made his way up the alley. He took off his hat as he went, wiping a fine dew of sweat from his brow, and then dropping his hat. Staring at it stupidly like a drunk, he chuckled to himself, then picked it up in his left hand and dusted it off by slapping it against his right forearm. He was almost at the two men now, and he smiled broadly at them.

  They grinned back, but he could see the tension in their eyes. Exchanging a glance, he saw one look over the way to the third fellow and heard the man step forward quietly. Berenger was still slapping his hat against his arm, but now his dagger was already unsheathed, concealed by his hat.

  The first man didn’t realise. They had all fallen for his ploy of pretending to be drunk, and now the farthest to his left was moving forward to take hold of Berenger’s arm. Once he had grabbed hold of Berenger, his companion would whip out a knife and stab him, or perhaps both of them would grasp an arm each and the third would take the opportunity to slip a dagger between his shoulders. They would want to give him a quick death. He hadn’
t been a bad leader, luckily.

  But he was a bad enemy.

  His knife was ready and his mind was clear. Berenger had been a warrior and fighter for longer than these three put together, and he was prepared. With the cold reasoning of the professional he analysed his enemies, evaluated the worst threats, and then acted.

  He stepped sharply to the side, and the momentum of the first man spitted him on Berenger’s blade. It sank into his belly. Berenger twisted his hand viciously, then slashed it right, the blade ripping through the man’s gut and pulling a coil of viscera with it. The man opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came. Instead he grabbed at his bowels as though to shove them back into the gaping hole in his flesh. Berenger continued to turn, whipping his blade across the face of the second fellow, who shrieked as the edge took his cheek. It tore through his skin, smashing his teeth, and Berenger moved, punching with his fist until the cross slammed into the man’s nose and eye. He screamed and fell, his hands to his face, even as Berenger continued his turn, trying to whirl to catch the third man, but he knew he was too late.

  There was a raking, dragging sensation at his flank, under his arm, and he felt the tearing as muscles were sliced. He felt something rip, a skittering over his ribs, and then his dagger was back and he could jerk his body away. The third man stepped back quickly, alarmed.

  ‘What, boy, suddenly scared to fight a man?’ Berenger spat.

  The fellow had a long knife in his hand. So that was what had sheared through his jacket and muscles. Berenger let his sword waver, then the point dropped. He still gripped his hat in his hand, and now he fanned his face with it. It was hard not to pant, and he felt weary – but not so weary that he couldn’t see the man’s eyes suddenly narrow.

  Quick as an adder, the fellow lashed out with his knife, dropping his body in the thrust, but Berenger shoved his hat forward. The blade sliced through it, and Berenger yanked it to the side, feeling the blade cut into the flesh under his wrist, before thrusting with his long knife. It sank into the boy’s throat, just above the ‘V’ of his collar bone. There was a quiver of ecstatic agony as the blade passed through his windpipe and throat, coming to rest on his spine. Berenger could feel it catch on bone.

  Berenger stared into his eyes, seeing the realisation that he was stabbed sink in. The lad’s knife clattered on the floor, and Berenger saw the shocked mournfulness in his eyes at the feel of the chilly steel deep in his body, then Berenger wrenched his blade free. The flesh sucked at the metal as though reluctant to relinquish its hold. It would have been easier if Berenger had turned it, ripping apart the body from within, but that would have given the lad a quick death, and he was in no mind to give him that. Instead he withdrew the steel cleanly and straight and watched as the blood began to gush from the fellow’s mouth and nostrils, his hands clutching at his throat, his heels hammering on the ground as he drowned in his own blood.

  Berenger studied the three, panting, his knife still in his hand. He felt no elation at his success, only a numbing dullness that sapped his energy. It was all he could do not to drop his dagger.

  His hat was ruined. After being stabbed and used as a shield to defend himself against the last man’s knife, it was a ravaged mess.

  The second man was still alive. He sat on his rump, his hands to his ruined mouth, staring at Berenger, then down at his comrades. The first was not dead yet, but he had a cold blueness about his lips, and a grey cast to his face. Berenger knew that he would soon die: he sat with his back to a wall, still gripping his bowels in both hands, weeping weakly. He had vomited, and there was blood all down his breast.

  ‘They’re both dead already,’ Berenger said. ‘Do you want to die too?’

  The fellow shook his head. Berenger remembered his face. He was called Owen, a young fighter from Warwickshire, he seemed to remember. A sudden lancing pain struck him under his arm, and he rested the tip of his dagger on Owen’s breast. ‘Why?’

  Owen tried to speak, but as soon as he tried to enunciate a word, a spray of blood erupted from the side of his cheek. He bowed his head and sobbed as Berenger pushed slightly with his blade. ‘Speak!’

  ‘Vill . . . ’e – cold us . . .’

  ‘Will told you to do it?’

  The man nodded, his eyes closed. He was a mercenary. The punishment for a rebel was clear enough. Berenger need only shove his sword down hard, and the third of the assassins would be dead. He stood, studying the fellow for a moment or two, but then stepped back and left the lad there, in the dirt of the road, soaking up the blood of his companions as they slowly sagged. By the time Berenger turned and stalked off up the hill, both were dead, and only Owen remained, still sobbing, hunched over in his relief and shame.

  Berenger made his way to his house and entered with a careful tread. His back and flank were giving him hell, and he made his way to the large seat at his table with the caution of a man who fears that the slightest mistake could make his heart spring from his breast or his brain roll from his skull.

  The widow whose house he had commandeered had slightly slanted eyes in a narrow face with high cheekbones, and auburn hair that strayed permanently from her tight-fitting coif. She looked anxious, as well she might, since she had two sons, one of six years and one of ten, but no man to look after her. Apparently he had died in a fever two summers before, and she had been content to live alone, to the scandal of her neighbours, no doubt. So, while she resented Berenger’s arrival, she did understand that he protected her.

  Several of his men had tried to take the house and her virtue, but Berenger had drawn a line. Although he had already commanded that the women of the town were to be safe from rape, he did not suffer from false hopes. Some of the men were incapable of restraint. He made sure it was known that this woman and her children were under his personal protection. Any man giving them any cause for complaint would answer to him directly. Berenger was the commander of mercenaries. His men would all want to avoid his displeasure.

  ‘Wine?’ she asked now.

  Berenger stared at her. He slumped into the seat with a low grunt of pain. ‘Yes.’

  She frowned at him, but then tilted her head and went to fetch a jug and mazer. It was a good cup, with silver chasing around the lip of a sycamore bowl, and she filled it, watching him all the while. Berenger took it up, but already there was a coldness in his breast and the hand holding the cup shook so much that wine was spilled over the table and his lap. He took the cup in his other hand and tried to sip, but the shaking was like an ague.

  Alazaïs curled her lip, assuming him to be drunk, and took up a napkin to wipe the wine from the table. She passed it to him to clean his own lap, and when she took the cloth back from him, she saw the blood. ‘You are injured!’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ he said.

  She set her jaw, staring at him for a moment like a woman looking at a little unruly boy, and then left the room. In a little while she returned with a tall, lugubrious man with black moustache and beard and the rich clothing of a professional.

  ‘Who are you?’ Berenger managed. He had to grit his teeth to stop them from chattering.

  ‘I am a surgeon and apothecary. I have skill with wounds. Let me see yours, and I will be able to reassure this good woman that you will soon be dead and out of her house.’

  ‘The pox on you!’

  ‘Very likely. Now, where were you stabbed?’

  Berenger lifted his arm and let the doctor peer at his wound.

  ‘Oh, I will have to deny her the pleasure of my reassurance,’ the doctor said. ‘Sadly, I think you will live.’

  Berenger was sore and enfeebled when the doctor was finished. ‘Are you trying to kill me or save me?’ he demanded at one point when the pain grew too acute. Alazaïs brought warmed water and plenty of towels, and Berenger mumbled his thanks to her, studying his tormenter balefully before sucking down a pint of wine to try to deaden the pain in his flank.

  The blade had missed its mark in that vicious little fight. It h
ad been aimed at the hollow of his armpit, where it could achieve a swift death, tearing through his lungs and even into his heart, but the suddenness of his response had thrown his attacker’s aim off, and the blade had slipped over his ribs, slicing through muscles and skin. It was sore, and would remain so for a while.

  The physician, who was called Antoine, whistled when Berenger’s jacket and bloody chemise were removed. ‘You are used to pain, I see,’ he said, studying the various scars that marred his back.

  I’m a warrior,’ Berenger snarled.

  ‘It is a bad injury, but you will mend, God willing. The wound is long, but not deep. You are lucky.’

  ‘You say you can heal me?’

  ‘I see no reason to think you will not be fit again. So long as you do nothing that could strain the muscle for a few days.’

  After long experience, Berenger was glad. He considered that the physician was as good as his word. Berenger felt as well patched and mended as he had after any encounter with a medical man after a battle.

  ‘Do not work that arm too much. You will tear open the wound again,’ Antoine said as he applied a sweet-smelling salve to a strip of muslin. Berenger couldn’t place the odour: it was something like honey and herbs, with an aromatic background, a little like strong rose water. ‘You must rest it and try not to exert yourself for two weeks at least.’

  ‘I will be sure to be careful,’ Berenger said with a wince. ‘But you may have noticed that I am a mercenary commander.’

  ‘Yes. And you were attacked by others from your band. That appears curious to me. Perhaps I am old-fashioned, but I had expected that your soldiers would be loyal to you. It seems the stories of your men are true.’

  ‘What stories?’ He picked up the mazer of wine.

  ‘People have often noted that those who seek only money are less consistent in their loyalty than those who fight for their honour and the glory of their masters.’

  Berenger slammed the mazer down on the table. ‘You should be more careful with your words, potion-peddler! You think I’m without honour? I’ve fought for my King wherever I’ve been sent! I’ve been scorched, stabbed, cut and beaten in his service, and you dare say I’m less loyal than others?’