Blood of the Innocents

by Michael Jecks

  But then, when after four years she could not fall pregnant again, she began to look at Denisot askance. She reviewed his life, and found many aspects wanting. Perhaps he was having affairs; perhaps he was frequenting the whores when he went to Limoges and elsewhere; perhaps he was stealing taxes from the people. Tax collectors were always said to be thieves with their fingers in the cash boxes. Perhaps it was nothing she had done; what if Denisot himself was guilty of crimes.

  That would mean he had killed their children, that he had made her womb dry and shrivel.

  She allowed him into their bed, but when he approached her, she froze at his touch. She could not help it.

  He was a lonely man, yes. He had lost his children. But his crimes had made him. And his offences meant that his wife was being punished too.

  And now? Now she hated him.

  The road was long and winding, and Denisot grew warm in the hot sun. He fanned himself, and wished he had brought more water, but a short while later he found a small stream at the side of the road and dismounted to refill his leather flask. His horse was keen too, and Denisot let him drink his fill before they continued.

  He had come to learn all he could about the dead girl, and to see for himself what the risks were from the English devils at Uzerche, but there was no sign of pillaging about here. The farms stood in their fields, the peasants worked as labourers will anywhere, and Denisot found himself submitting to the soporific effect of the sun and his plodding pony. He had been led to believe that if there was a threat of Englishmen, the land for miles would be laid waste. The English devils tended to ride on a broad front, so that they could wage war over the widest area. Only when they had need of haste would they resort to riding in a narrow column. Fields would be burned, houses too, and bodies would lie strewn about, men, women and children, lying in a mess of blood. The savagery of the English was shocking. They were like ravening wolves launching themselves on an unsuspecting world.

  Yet here all was calm, all was secure and peaceful. He found his eyes were closing as he nodded with the horse’s movement.

  He came to with a jerk. There were three riders ahead of him, and they were approaching at speed, throwing up a cloud of dust from the dry surface. Denisot caught his breath and stared about him. Fool! He had been idly dreaming while the road had taken him to a dreadful place at which to meet brigands. Although a short way ahead there was a wood that came down to the road, where he sat now there was no escape. The way here was passing through a cutting where a hill had been carved away for the road. On his left a rocky cliff loomed fifteen feet overhead, while on his right the ground fell away into a river valley. There was no way of escape, other than to turn and ride back the way he had come and hope that he might outride these men.

  But even as he had the thought, he saw that the riders were reining in and dismounting. Two of them hurried up in among the trees, while one took their mounts away, up the hill behind the trees. Surely that was a boy, Denisot thought. The other two appeared to be carrying crossbows and full quivers, he thought, and as he watched they merged in amidst the ferns and undergrowth. Soon there was no sign that anyone had been there. The dust on the air drifted away, and all was as peaceful and calm as it had been moments before.

  Denisot sat anxiously on his horse, unsure how to proceed. If he continued, the men with the crossbows might attack him. He had no defence against crossbows. He had a sword in his scabbard, but while it was a good weapon that had once been his father’s, it was less than useless against men such as these – for he had no doubt that these must be English murderers set on robbing the next merchant to pass.

  He was coming to the conclusion that his best option would be to return and fetch help in the form of officers, when he saw more dust on the air. It looked like a small party of men riding towards him. Two, no, three of them. And with them were others on foot, all advancing towards the men who had taken up positions in the trees beside the road.

  Denisot felt the breath thicken in his lungs. Time seemed to slow, and he stared in horror as the men in the trees knelt with their bows spanned and ready. He saw a man bend and fix a bolt into the channel before resting the stock over his shoulder and taking aim. The travellers would be killed.

  They had stopped. Perhaps they had seen the men lying in wait. A stray sound had betrayed the men, maybe? One of the riders dismounted, and his place was taken by another. They were so far away that they were mere figures in the distance, but Denisot could make out the fact that two of the walkers were smaller than the others. He thought they could be children.

  He could think of nothing to do that would save them. He had no choice: surely he must flee. He could at least save himself and make his way back to Domps, and there he could alert the town. He could . . .

  A voice came to him, clear on the warm air. It was the voice of a young boy. For just a moment he thought it was Pons, his Pons. In his mind’s eye at that moment he saw his own dear son in the road.

  He would not run. He had only the one honourable option.

  Without further consideration, he slapped his mount with his hand, then again, and raked his spurs down the brute’s flanks. The beast began to edge forward, and then when he jabbed his heels again, the horse began to canter and then gallop. Denisot tore off his hat and waved it urgently, whooping as loudly as he could. He passed around a bend, where the bowmen were hidden, and then he was riding straight at them, and to his horror he saw the nearer man turn and take deliberate aim. He saw the bolt fly, and his eyes widened in horror at the thought of the iron-tipped quarrel striking him, and ducked hurriedly. Feeling the change in his position, the horse pulled away to the right, and the missile flew past safely.

  The man was hauling the bowstring up to the nut again, and Denisot felt a quickening terror. He was so close now, he could not see how he could escape a second bolt, but then he realised that there were not only the two men he had seen on the road: at least seven were in among the trees, all with bows, and all glaring now at him.

  He was level with the trees now, and heard another quarrel hiss past his head, and then he was past them, and tearing on down the road towards the little group he had seen.

  Thomas de Ladit, his feet sore, stumbled on, convinced that he would never make it to Bordeaux.

  This country was obnoxious to him. It had all the perils of damnation, as far as he was concerned. The roads were dreadful, the inn he had stayed in last night had been deplorable – he was sure that the itching about his legs was from fleas – and there were rumours of the English massing ready to attack.

  He had stayed almost a week in Thiviers, and then made his way to Périgueux, thinking that he would learn the best route to Bordeaux from there, but on his way he had been set upon and beaten by some scruffy peasants. They hadn’t bothered to rob him, luckily, but they had left him feeling very battered and bruised, and he had needed to rest at the next village he came to. Now, a week later, he was determined just to escape this country and find his way homewards again.

  Normandy had been such a delightful place to live while King Charles was there with the Dauphin, so it was a great shock to come down here to the warmer climates and learn that the peasants had no idea of the common civilities for a man of his importance. Not that he could even remonstrate with them. He dare not announce to the world who he was.

  The officer in Périgueux to whom he had reported the bullies who beat him so on the road outside the town seemed to think that it was more the fault of Thomas, as an outsider, than the peasants themselves. There was a distinct impression given that Thomas should have moved out of their way when they approached him. Foreigners had little right to use the same road as those who lived and laboured in the area.

  He walked on, limping from a badly stubbed big toe on his left foot, and thus it was he didn’t realise his danger until it was too late.

  ‘Morning, Master,’ Hawkwood said.

  Hearing Hawkwood’s laugh, Thomas turned to flee, but his legs would no
t move fast enough. Before he could take more than three paces, a lance-butt struck the back of his head and he was down like a stunned rabbit in the middle of the roadway.

  Laughing men surrounded him on horseback, and he snatched up a handful of the gritty soil, thinking he could fling it in their faces. This was not right!

  Thomas de Ladit was an important man in the service of the King of Navarre, in God’s name. These men should bow to him and beg his forgiveness, not assault him as though he was some kind of felon.

  He climbed to his feet, glaring at the men all around. That they were outlaws was his first thought, but then, as he took in their weapons and the wolfish smile on their leader’s rotund face, he let the soil slip from his fingers.

  These weren’t French bandits. These were much worse: they were English.

  Berenger had to nag her for a quarter-mile before she agreed.

  ‘Come, madam, you are exhausted. I can see that.’

  ‘You have saved my life already. I will walk,’ she said. ‘Charlot, be quiet!’

  The boy pulled a face in response. He and his older brother had been singing and playing as they went, both relieved to be safe from the mercenaries and full of high spirits to be setting off on an adventure.

  ‘Charlot!’

  He evaded the hand that tried to smack his ear and darted away, laughing.

  ‘You can set your jaw like a mule if you want, madam,’ Berenger said as she glared after her son, ‘but I know women. You will only demand that I buy you new shoes in the next town, and that would be additional expense. Besides, it is demeaning for me to ride while you suffer on the ground. Any man would think that I was a mean fellow. They might take me for a priest!’

  ‘I think the danger worth risking,’ she said.

  ‘Why, is my saddle not of sufficient quality for you?’ he said. ‘Come, widow, please. If you will not ride, I will walk in any case. There is no joy in riding when I can see you limping with sore feet. Please, I entreat you!’

  She turned her head and would have ignored him, but he swung his leg over his mount’s rump and walked beside her.

  When he had her attention, he lifted his brows and made his face to go round-eyed with feigned shock. ‘Good widow, look what I have discovered! A horse without a rider! Do you think there could be a rider without a horse nearby? Perhaps if you were to climb into the saddle, you may espy the poor rider. No doubt he allowed himself to be bucked from his seat by the violence of the beast’s gait. Or by the stubbornness of a mule in the near vicinity?’

  So saying, he draped the reins over her shoulder and walked on, casting a glance back at her as he went.

  She relented.

  ‘Aha! I see you can smile, in any case,’ he said delightedly, and she gave a little gasp of amused exasperation. He grinned. ‘Come! Let me help you.’

  She took the offer of his linked hands, and he helped her up. She took the reins and smiled down at him with a cocked eyebrow. ‘You help a lady very prettily,’ she said.

  He felt his smile dim. ‘I have not had the opportunity too often in recent years,’ he admitted, and then turned away.

  Loys said, ‘What’s that?’ and Berenger’s joy was turned to sourness and evil.

  He saw the dust of the road at first, and then there was the clattering of hoofs and, in the midst of it, he saw a terrified-looking rider pelting along without regard to the large stones of the road or the risks of a broken neck. His eyesight was not good, but he was sure that there was a solitary rider. No other men appeared to be near him.

  Saul suddenly bellowed, ‘Men in the woods! Ambush! Ambush!’ and turned his beast to the edge of the roadway. Loys was about to follow him when there was a flash of sun on polished steel, and men stepped from the cover of the trees letting loose their quarrels. The heavy bolts flew past quickly, whistling, and Berenger saw the cloud of dust as the horse ahead of them went sprawling, fatally wounded. Next he saw the bolt that struck Loys, catching him at the left shoulder and spinning him around on his horse. He had scarcely time to kick his feet free of the stirrups before he slammed into the surface of the road. Berenger was about to go to his aid when he realised that the boys and Alazaïs were all in the open, easy targets. He turned to them just in time to see the bolt that hit Alazaïs between her breasts.

  He heard nothing, and for a moment his life paused. There was a roaring in his ears, as though he was listening to the sea in a storm, and his arms hung slackly as he watched her. Her eyes were fixed on his as her hands rose as if to pull the bolt from her breast. Then her back bent and she leaned over the cantle, her chin dropping. He shouted ‘No!’ but she began to slide out of the saddle as he watched.

  The bolt had hit her in the middle of her ribcage, and the shock had probably stopped her heart in that instant, for even as she slipped from her mount, Berenger saw that her eyes were already empty, as though she had been a corpse for hours already. The horse reared, alarmed to feel that something was wrong with his rider, and that was enough to throw her from him, crashing down into the road.

  ‘No!’ Berenger shouted again, and with that shout he felt his heart shatter into tiny fragments. His life was ended once more.

  Berenger’s cry was a shriek from the pits of his soul, and he drew his sword. He ran towards the source of the bolts that whizzed and hissed past him. Many appeared to be flying, but he was unhurt. There was a deep, guttural roar from behind him, and Berenger saw that Saul was standing at the side of Alazaïs. At his feet were the bodies of the two boys. They had run to their mother when she fell, and bolts had passed through both thin little figures. Saul, the great seaman and fighter who had been in Berenger’s company for all the last three years and had taken over a vintaine when Berenger himself was elected leader seven months ago, was beside himself with mingled rage and despair. As Berenger watched, Saul took a grip of his sword in his right hand, a war-axe in his left, and suddenly bolted for the trees. Berenger joined him, his head down and his arms pumping as he moved, avoiding a straight line and jigging like a fly as he covered the ground.

  On the way he passed the man who had ridden towards them. The man was lying on the ground, trapped with one leg under his dead horse. Berenger almost stabbed him. It was an automatic reaction – in a battle a sensible man never left a potential enemy behind him – but the man had something in his eyes when Berenger approached, an anger, but not directed at Berenger. Besides, if he was an enemy, why had the men in the trees loosed their bows at him?

  An arrow pierced the air by his head and Berenger continued, pounding through the dust, on and on, until he was in among the trees. Saul was over on his right, and as Berenger spotted him, he saw Saul strike with his axe, spin and stab with the sword, and then crouch as a bolt flew past him, then he was back, the axe whirling.

  Berenger ran on, and saw a man rise in front of him, crossbow on his shoulder, already aiming at Berenger. It was one of Will’s men, he saw, and he tried to move faster, but he knew he would be too late. There were seven or eight yards between them and Berenger couldn’t cover the distance in time to save himself.

  Then the bow was knocked up and away, and the bolt flew harmlessly into the sky. Berenger roared with relief and rage, and then saw Fulk. The great Swiss had his halberd in his fist, and as the crossbow was loosed safely into the air, the savage blade of the polearm hooked back and opened the archer’s throat from side to side in one easy slash. The man collapsed, his hands to his throat, as Fulk leaned round the tree and nodded to Berenger.

  Fulk was the last man Berenger expected to find fighting on his side. He had never shown any signs of friendship towards him, except for the brief conversation in farewell the day before.

  Even as the thought passed through his mind, Berenger realised Fulk had disappeared into the undergrowth, only to appear at another tree farther up the hill. Berenger saw his fearsome weapon flash with a red, oily gleam, and another man was jerked into the open, his head impaled on the spike. Fulk had to fight to retrieve h
is weapon from the man’s body.

  Berenger ran on among the trees. He could hear Saul screaming as he found another man, and then Berenger found himself confronting a youth. It was Alain of Chartres. The fellow had been in Will’s vintaine for the last year, and was determined always to advance himself. Berenger felt the rage building in his breast until it felt as though he must scorch his flesh with the heat of his fury. He flew at the lad, beating at him with his sword in the most unscientific manner, until Alain had his back to a tree and could only duck and block Berenger’s blows with terror in his eyes, whimpering as death approached.

  With a quick blow from above, then a flick of his wrist and a stab that tore the stitching at his flank, Berenger attacked inside Alain’s defence and his sword-point entered Alain’s shoulder, cutting through the flesh and gristle of the socket and shearing the bone. The lad gave a high, keening shriek and his sword fell to the ground. Berenger stepped on it, and placed his sword at Alain’s throat, ready for the final blow, but then a thought occurred to him, and instead he whacked the solid pommel on the boy’s head. The lad’s eyes rolled up and he fell on his face into a mass of brambles.

  There were brambles everywhere here in the woods. They caught and snagged on Berenger’s hosen as he made his way through the undergrowth towards the last men of the ambush. Two were fighting Saul, and Berenger joined the battle, dispatching his foe with three quick slashes; Saul had dropped his sword somewhere, and now he flew in close with his axe, the head flashing in the sunlight. The man he fought had a grin on his face at first, thinking a man with a sword could easily keep an axeman at bay, but gradually it came to him that this axeman was more than competent at parrying and blocking, and all the while Saul was pushing him back, his weapon glittering as it moved faster and faster.

  ‘End it,’ Berenger snapped.

  Saul said nothing, but the next blow took off the man’s hand and wrist, still clutching his sword. The man gaped, clutching at his stump with his good hand, and had time to look at Saul with shock before the axe fell once more and his head rolled in the dirt.