‘You say that the English are near? Where? Is it very close? I hadn’t heard that other men were sent to scout.’
‘Scout? No, they took the town four weeks ago.’
Dogbreath’s face took on a terrifying aspect. He hated to think men could make fun of him. ‘You’re pulling my tarse, you fucking goat-fiddler! You’re telling me that there was a town captured a month ago? Our army was still in Bordeaux then. You’re lying to me and . . .’
‘No, no! I swear it! I’m an ally of the English. You have to take me to your commander, and let me explain. I keep telling you: I’m a friend! The men climbed over the walls at night, and by daybreak they had the whole place. It was taken almost without an injury. And their leader, he said that he was there to protect us all. Not that the townsfolk believed him. The priest, my friend, was beaten almost to death,’ he saw no reason not to embellish a little, ‘and I only escaped by the grace of God. Their leader was a terrible, fierce man.’
‘What did they call themselves, this gang?’
‘It was a company of men. More than a hundred, although not so many as two hundred. Their leader was a man called Berenger Fripper, but . . .’
‘What? Say that name again!’
In Uzerche, many of the mercenaries were growing bored with such diversions as were available. While the town itself had a good store of wine and beer, and provisions of all kinds sufficient to keep the men fed for some weeks, Will knew that their attractions would soon pall. There were women, but these were themselves a problem.
Some of the younger members of the company had early on formed friendships with the girls about the town, but others took their women without wooing. It was starting to lead to more and more fractious relations. The townsmen were determined to protect the honour of their wives, sisters and daughters, and more and more often men from the company were coming to blows with them. One member of the company had been found stabbed and beaten to death in a gutter, and Will had the men from the nearest house dragged into the street. Two were clubbed to a bloody mess in front of their women and the rest of the home-owners, the sound of thudding clubs dulled by the screams and wails of the wives and daughters watching. Both took a long time to die.
To try to maintain the peace, in recent days Will had sent all the vinteners out with their men. He recalled Berenger saying that a good commander would always keep his men busy, and the best activity for a fighter was to learn all he could about the territory on which he may have to fight. Besides, Will wanted them to scout for potential plunder. Merchants and others must want to use the bridge, and they would be called upon to pay for the privilege, but in the meantime it would be good to increase the mercenaries’ purses by finding travellers and charging ‘tolls’ for the use of the roads.
‘Simon, take your men south and then sweep around to the west,’ he said. He still had Simon and Peter as commanders of vintaines, but he had yet to replace Berenger. Several of his men had been slaughtered during the failed attempts to kill Berenger. It would take Will some time to find more men who were capable of fighting efficiently, but he would. For now, Simon and Peter would have to take on the duties of command. ‘If you find a large body against you, don’t offer a battle, but come back here.’
‘Why, don’t you think we could kill any French cockroaches who try to deny us our road?’ Simon said. He was a sandy-haired man of eight-and-twenty, who had already been a warrior for fourteen years. He stood an inch shorter than Will, but his shoulders were almost as broad as his height. He had a strongly muscled left arm, but two fingers on his right were gone: cut off in a battle.
‘I have every faith in you,’ Will said. ‘But if you don’t come and warn us of a large force gathering, I’ll personally cut your ballocks off. Take what you can that’s easy, but if there’s a risk to the town, come here and help us defend it.’
Simon sneered, but finally agreed and left to give his men their orders.
‘What of me?’ Peter asked.
‘Take your fellows up to the north. There’s a town up there called Chamberet. See whether there’s anything worth taking. If you have any trouble, burn the place.’
There was no fanfare. That sort of pretentiousness was not the Prince’s way. He was happy with the regalia of his rank, but he didn’t flaunt it unnecessarily. Just now he wore a suit of armour that gleamed in the sunlight, but he was bareheaded. With him were the commanders of his army: Oxford, Warwick, Suffolk, all of them veterans of the Scottish wars as well as numerous chevauchées in France both here to the south and along the north. With them were the centeners, and one or two of the senior vinteners who had ambled over to listen.
Sir John stood and watched the Prince and his entourage march forward to the middle of the square. All the commanders of the army were gathered there, and their cheers rose as their commander took his place in the centre. He lifted his hands, grinning, palms out in a gesture of silence, and waited until the noise died down.
‘Captains, I thank you for attending to me. Can you all hear me? My Lords, knights, men-at-arms, we have been wasting away here for too long, I fear. Here at Bergerac we have been kept comfortably, but I think that now we are come into August it is perhaps time to make a move. Do you agree?’
There was a low growl of assent from the men listening, and the Prince bared his teeth. He was a good-looking man, Edward of Woodstock. Tall, fair-haired, with a moustache and beard neatly trimmed in preparation for the campaign, he looked every part the young warlord preparing for action.
‘My friends, for we are all friends here, I do not march into France from any desire to harm people, but purely to bring order into the world. If a tyrant can steal a throne that is not rightfully his, which kingdom will be safe? It is not to be borne that a man can steal a kingdom. I will not permit it. I will lead you into France, where we shall, with God’s good grace, meet with this John who calls himself King, and there we shall beat him so thoroughly that he will be forced to surrender his crown to us. God will smile upon our deeds, for God knows that the crown is rightfully mine in line from my father. It was his mother who was sister to the French King, and were she not most cruelly robbed of her inheritance by the Valois and his kin, she would have seen the crown passed to her son, my father by right of descent. But no! This false John sought to enrich himself, as did his predecessor. Now he must be shaking in his cordovan leather boots! No matter how expensive and well made his boots, they will not serve to help him! Unless he wishes to turn and flee in them!’
Prince Edward stopped and peered at the men about him as a ripple of laughter ran around them.
‘I see bold Englishmen here surrounding me. I see courageous knights and squires who have fought and struggled with me over many years. We are grown in power and might since my first battles here. Now we make up the strongest army in Christendom, because we fight with God on our side, and against Him, none may succeed.
‘We came here to Bergerac because I wanted to leave my options open to the last. From here we could advance in any direction. However, there is only one direction that makes sense. That is in the direction where the false French King lies quaking at our advance. My friends, we shall attack to the north.’
There was a roar then, of men bellowing their approval and excitement. Steel gauntlets clattered against steel breastplates, sword and dagger pommels hammered on shields, and from hundreds of throats there were cheers.
The Prince held up his hand for silence. ‘Friends, I fear that there are concerns that the Duke of Armagnac might take it into his head to enter our lands and attack Bordeaux. We cannot afford to risk that. So I will send back three thousand men. It is a hard decision, but we shall have enough men to ensure our victory even with fewer than ten thousand. Unless the French can field thirty thousand against us, I fear the battles will all be a little too easy for us to win!’
There was a louder cheer then. He continued, ‘This is the best way to end the wars. We have been fighting for many years already. Now, we may
bring it to an end at last. My father has tried to bring about the key battle with the French army for some twenty years already. Now we have a possibility of success. Not only do we savage the peasants in a war of dampnum, bringing the taste of horror and defeat to the people of the lands so that all may see that their King cannot succeed even to protect the most lowly in his realm, we also ride through some of the French King’s most valuable lands. With our ride, we shall destroy the lands on which he depends for his taxes. Without his taxes, he must suffer.’
Again he paused and eyed his audience. Then a grin broke over his face. It was the sheer joy of the pirate. ‘And that of which we shall deprive him, we may take home. If you have a wife, a sweetheart, or even a mother – not you, Jed, I know you could not have one!’ he said, pointing to a young squire to the right, who instantly coloured with embarrassment. ‘Any person you love and whom you would have love you, for them you will bring the wealth of this land. We will visit Limoges, Châteauroux, Bourges, and on up to Chârtres, all of them vastly wealthy towns, and we shall take them all and despoil them of their wealth. Any abbots, any merchants, any knights or noblemen whom we can capture, we shall hold to ransom, as is the custom, and you will all benefit! There is no reason why we should not make money from their errors, after all!’
A loud cry of delight greeted this announcement, and he gave that piratical grin once more. He took a moment to glance at the men at his side, and then gazed about his commanders once more. Sir John felt sure that he had been about to say something else, and had decided that this was not the time. It made him wonder what the Prince could have been considering.
‘So, my friends, now is the time to prepare. We have need of all equipment to be ready for our departure in two days. I want the wagons loaded and prepared, carts filled, arrow sheaves loaded and ready for immediate use. Check the bow staves, check the strings, you who are responsible for the archers. Gynours, make sure your gonnes are loaded carefully against any sudden downpours. Ensure that the powder is secured against the damp. And above all, ensure that your men are ready. We march in two days!’
Sir John de Sully left the Prince and men-at-arms cheering in the square with a thrilling in his veins that he recognised so well. It would not be long before he was fighting again. He had a sudden vision of flames and blood, steel and flesh, and he stopped in the road.
‘Sir John?’ Richard Bakere said solicitously. His squire had been with him for more years than he could remember. Once he had offered to knight Richard, but his squire refused the suggestion. He was content to serve.
‘I’m well enough,’ Sir John said.
‘You look as though you are in pain.’
‘No. It’s just a twinge in my hand,’ Sir John lied. He saw Richard nod. After all, his master was in his middle seventies. He was entitled to some infirmities.
‘May I fetch you a cloak or something?’
‘I’m not unwell. I just get these pains sometimes,’ Sir John said. The sharp pain from a tendon stretched too far was the least of his grievances.
They continued on their way, stepping about the piles of manure and broken trash that lay in the streets until they were back at Sir John’s rented home. There they found two men waiting.
‘Grandarse? What is it?’ Sir John said.
‘We’ve just returned, Sir John. We captured a fellow named Thomas de Ladit. He was keen to talk. He said he was in Uzerche, a town north of here, and it was taken by a company of mercenaries. Their leader, he said, was a man called Berenger Fripper.’
‘You are sure of this?’ Sir John said.
Grandarse elbowed Dogbreath, who sullenly nodded. ‘That’s what he said. Said Fripper was at this town. Didn’t sound like Fripper, though. Threatening the people and all.’
‘What do you think, Grandarse?’
The centener glanced at Dogbreath. ‘I don’t think another man would take Frip’s name. This must be him. But not only him: he has a company with him.’
‘We have need of more men,’ Sir John said. ‘Go to Uzerche and see if you can find Fripper.’
‘There is more, Sir John. This prisoner, he claims he is Chancellor to the King of Navarre.’
‘What is he doing here, then?’
Grandarse pulled a face. ‘I think you need to talk to him about that.’
‘Very well, I shall. But for now, bring me Fripper, Grandarse. You’ll need to take at least forty men, but be quick and return soon. We will march before the end of the week.’
Monday 25 July
‘I need to get up,’ Berenger declared on the third day.
‘That’s good, my friend. If you need to be up and out and about, you carry on. It’ll save me a lot of work, if you go out into the world first.’
‘I will be well enough to travel?’
‘No. You will be dead in a week. So travel far and fast. Let some other poor physician take over your ravaged, wretched body, so that I may sleep for a week and make sure that the abbey doesn’t suffer the expense of any more herbs and medicaments.’
‘I feel greatly improved.’
‘You are.’
Nicholas, the Brother Infirmarer, was a man of about thirty years with a long, dark-complexioned face and laughing eyes. He stood half a head shorter than Berenger, but gave the impression of great strength. At his waist was a rosary, and Berenger caught sight of a golden crucifix, but then he concentrated on the man’s face as Nicholas continued, ‘But if you leave this chamber and go gallivanting about the country, you will soon be dead. Your wound is not dangerous yet. It is not festering. Given time, it will heal. However, if you insist on leaving the safety of the abbey, I will wager a fair sum that you will pass through dangerous lands. Places where miasma lurks. Perhaps a swamp with malaria. Your wounds will become befouled, septic, and you will die. On the other hand, there is also the other possibility, which is that local people who have heard of you will come here to kill you out of hand. So, you can take your pick, I suppose.’
‘You know how to make a man feel comforted.’
‘Yes, well, that is a skill I have developed,’ the Infirmarer said. He probed, making Berenger hiss.
‘If you want to kill me, stab me, damn your soul! There’s no need for this slow, damned torture!’
‘Ah, so the English soldiers are not fearless and incapable of feeling pain,’ the monk said mildly, frowning as he pulled at another loose flap of skin, sealing the injury. ‘The rumours are false, clearly. You are not a race of superior men.’
‘We have courage and determination enough,’ Berenger said. He winced at a fresh prod.
‘Keep still. I may be a mere mediocre medical man, but I like to have compliant patients when I sew them up. A man with all your injuries should appreciate a physician’s skills. You have made use of them often enough.’
‘Did you learn your bedside manner here, or did some demon teach you?’ Berenger growled.
‘It was naturally a demon. Where else would a man like me learn such skills?’
Tuesday 2 August
It was already eleven days since Denisot should have returned. In all that time there was nothing to say what had happened to him. He had left her and ridden off, and Gaillarde had waited, expecting daily some hint of news, but nothing came.
For the first week her rage knew no bounds. There was a strumpet in the tavern who had caught his eye. Who could say but that he had not run away with a whore? She had teased him and wriggled her backside at him. He was foolish enough, and so driven by his lusts that a wench with a large bust could tempt him all too easily.
What they would live on, she had no idea, she thought as she shouted at Suzette for her slowness. The foolish chit was growing pale and restless while Denisot was away. Perhaps she was pining for him? Gaillarde had always suspected that the two were enjoying each other’s bodies whenever she wasn’t looking. It was the way of men like him.
He should be back by now.
There was a deepening fury in her. It was buildin
g with every passing day, until today it suddenly dissipated while she was in the market. She came across three men talking about an attack down south of Chamberet. A party had been ambushed, and bodies were discovered by the roadside. News had been slow to arrive, because there were constant rumours of English fighters riding about the area, but a pair of enterprising sergeants had ridden along the road towards Domps, and there they found a dead horse and a number of dead men. They brought the saddle and bridle back with them, and Gaillarde stared at them with a face made wooden with shock. She could hear a loud whistling in her ears, and she had to shake her head, trying to make sense of the man’s words.
‘Denisot is fine. He cannot be hurt,’ she said several times. ‘That sounds like his horse, and I know that saddle and bridle. I helped him buy them. But he cannot be injured.’
Their faces were grim and sympathetic, but she ignored them. She was as sure as she could be that her husband was unhurt. He may be imperfect, and he might have been responsible for the deaths of their children, but he was surely not dead.
No. He could not be dead. She walked home with a curious, light feeling in her legs and body, and the whistling sound would not leave her. He was alive. Of course he was alive. And when he came back eventually, she would make him regret ever thinking of staying away so long.
And then, as she closed the door behind her at her home, she suddenly realised she had left all her purchases at the market, and burst into sobs that tore at her soul.
Berenger learned to be quiet in his reflections in the presence of the amiable and loquacious brother. The Abbot himself, Berenger soon realised, was sure to hear anything that he discussed with the Infirmarer.
Not that there was much to hear, he thought. The men all came to see him during the day, but he sent them away when their eyes showed their concern. He wanted no sympathy or meaningless words. His back was afire, and he wanted them to leave him.
Now Denisot visited to see how he progressed, his face grave but not twisted with compassion. It gave Berenger a feeling of satisfaction to see one man at least who didn’t shower him with platitudes.
Blood of the Innocents Page 14
