‘You mean that?’
He took her shoulders in his hands and stared into her eyes. Deep within them he saw the fear and doubt. He could see it with ease. It was like peering into a mirror of his soul.
‘Woman, I care about children. This girl is the second I have found raped and murdered. These children could have been ours, if Pons and Fabrisse were still alive. I want to do all I can to help find the murderers, but if you want, I will remain here.’
‘You would send another?’
‘Yes. If it will help you, if it will help remind us both of how we were before God took our children.’
She sniffed and rubbed her nose with the heel of her hand. ‘Go, Denisot, but return soon.’
‘I will, my love, my wife. I will.’
They smiled at each other, and then Gaillarde pushed him away with a fleeting return of her irritation. ‘Go! You want to demand that I burst into tears, you layabout?’
He laughed, and walked away.
Friday 5 August
Denisot and Ethor had spent Thursday night at the site. First they had retrieved the girl’s body with as much care as Denisot could bring, and placed her gently on the cart’s bed. The girl was younger than Alicia, Denisot guessed. He covered her with a blanket and glanced about him, feeling weary. There was still nothing. Just a mass of flattened grasses and the impressions of boots in the mud. Later, while he lay rolled in blanket and cloak, he found he had to wipe the tears from his eyes. It was a lonely place for a young woman to die.
That morning they had another look about the area.
‘The man who could do this should be stopped before he can hurt another,’ Ethor said. ‘If he’s found, you won’t need to convene a court, Denisot.’
‘I wouldn’t want to. He must be driven by the Devil to do things like this,’ Denisot said.
They soon had the cart rattling back towards their town, the body covered by a blanket. Denisot and his friend maintained an uncomfortable silence on the way. Ethor had never married, but he knew of Denisot’s sadness at losing his own children, and could see how Denisot’s eyes kept returning to the figure under the covering. He could imagine how Denisot felt, on finding these two victims. No father liked to think of the death of his own children, but to be confronted with the deaths of others must make the loss of his own uniquely terrible and hard to bear.
Both men were so fully involved in their own thoughts that they did not hear the rattle of hoofs and clinking of harness over the rumble and thud of the cart’s wheels until it was too late.
‘Hoi! Stop, if you don’t want to be speared like a hog!’
The town was large, and the walls stood out clearly in the early light as the mists rose and smoke drifted from a hundred chimneys.
Grandarse shifted uncomfortably. He hadn’t slept well the previous night, and he felt unrefreshed and irritable as he glared along the river towards the town. ‘What’s it called, you say?’
Hawkwood peered at the town from narrowed eyes. ‘Brive, they said, I think.’
Grandarse nodded. The two shepherds had been easy targets. Although they were not wealthy in terms of money, a shepherd, he had learned over the years, could be a useful source of local information. ‘It’s not the place Frip’s supposed to be.’
‘I was going to ask for more information about that, but they died,’ Hawkwood said. His tone was neutral, but there was a glint of anger in his eyes. He had given instructions not to kill the two until he had checked their stories, but Imbert had ignored his commands. One day, he thought, there would be a reckoning with Imbert.
Did they say where Uzerche lay?’ Grandarse said.
‘To the north, they thought. Up along that road.’
Grandarse nodded. There was a river at this side of the town, and beyond he could see the road winding northwards. They would have to pass over the bridge, then go on, past the town while remaining in arrow- and bolt-shot of the town, until they could pass beyond and continue.
Hawkwood voiced his concerns. ‘The river is fast enough to ensure we would need a bridge, but if we keep to the road they could destroy the bridge before we reach it, and even then they’d keep up a sharp practice against us with their bows as we passed by.’
‘Aye,’ Grandarse agreed.
‘Do you want to wait until dark?’
‘No. But we won’t cross here. Let us ride on to the next bridge or ford. It will hold us up a little, but better that than losing half our men unnecessarily.’
When Denisot looked up, there were fifteen all told, all mounted on sturdy, powerful ponies and rounseys, and all wearing mail or thick, stiffened leather, with steel bascinets to protect their heads. Most gripped long spears, while three held maces and one last carried a whip. He cracked it in the air occasionally, as though wishing he had a back to lash.
Before Denisot and Ethor could think of bolting, they were encircled, with a sparkling ring of steel threatening their breasts. Both held their hands up, glaring at the mercenaries all about them.
The man who had spoken was in his middle twenties, and had a squint in his left eye. His hair was a pale, mousy colour, and he had a thin beard of wispy gingerish hair. His face looked as though he would smile a lot, but now he glowered as he peered at the two. ‘What is in the cart?’
Denisot felt an unaccountable anger building. ‘You are English? Then you will probably know already what is in there.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What is your name?’
The young mercenary’s horse moved skittishly beneath him as he grinned. ‘You are bold enough! Still, I am content to exchange names. I am called Peter of Reading, and now, I ask that you return the compliment. What is your name?’
‘I am the Bayle of Domps, and I am named Denisot.’
‘Well, Bayle Denisot, what are you doing down here?’
‘I am here investigating a murder, and I will search for the murderer, no matter where he is.’
‘What murder?’
Denisot said nothing, but grasped the corner of the blanket and flung it away. The girl’s face was suddenly revealed.
‘Look! A child! Raped, and then nailed to a board and hung in the trees to die. Look at her! This is what men like you do in this country every day!’
Peter glanced about him at the other faces. These were battle-hardened men. Denisot saw little shock or horror. Rather, there was interest in the faces peering down at the little figure.
‘Where did you find her?’
‘She was in the woods a league south of here,’ Denisot said. ‘It was reported to me and I came to find her so that we can find her murderer if possible.’
‘You will have to look carefully,’ one man called. ‘There are enough bodies already lying about the countryside, and many murderers.’
‘I will look very carefully,’ Denisot said scornfully. ‘And I will not hesitate to bring the criminals to justice.’
‘You think to threaten us?’ Peter of Reading said.
‘I know what sort of men you are. You do not make me fearful. But no man with a soul would want to support or protect this kind of murderer. A man who rapes and then murders by crucifixion in imitation of the death of Christ, is a man who will bring all his comrades to Hell with him, for surely he is the Devil himself.’
Peter kicked his horse and his lance-point came closer and closer to Denisot. ‘Don’t forget what sort of man you are threatening, bailiff,’ he said as the tip touched Denisot’s stomach. Denisot could feel the sharp point pressing at his skin, and he steeled himself to stand still, even if he must be injured or slain. He was quite certain, seeing the look in Peter’s eyes, that he would be stabbed for sure if he tried to turn and run, but he felt no fear. He would go to Heaven, with luck, and there be reunited with his children. Soon his wife would join him, and his struggles would be over. In Heaven, all would be happiness and love. What was there here for him? He felt a slight rip at his belly, a jerk so infinitesimal it was almost unnoticeable, bu
t he noticed it as the material of his jack gave way and then his shirt too. He could feel the oily menace of the metal against his flesh now and, looking up into Peter’s face, he was sure that the mercenary was about to thrust it home.
Then a horse broke wind. The routiers all about burst out with guffaws of laughter. As if it had all been an elaborate joke, Peter lifted his lance away and set it at the rest, chuckling. ‘You have a bold spirit, bailiff, aye, I’ll give you that! You are bold and prepared to stand your ground. I salute you! But don’t go threatening any of my companions, eh? You may find other men in my company are less amiable than me!’
‘Others are easier, too.’
‘You’ve met some of us?’
‘I’ve met Berenger and his companions.’
Peter’s face changed. His laughter was stilled and he peered closely. ‘I’d heard he escaped. That’s good. Do you know if he is safe?’
‘I left him so. He is being looked after by the monks of St Jacques,’ Denisot said without thinking.
‘Where is that?’
‘Many miles from here.’
Peter gave another laugh. ‘He was a friend of mine, bailiff. I won’t seek to hurt him. As proof, I won’t even ask where the monastery is. But you should be careful in your dealings about here. Watch out for my companions. As I said, not all are as friendly as me.’
So saying, he gave a sharp whistle, and the array of lances was lifted away. The riders turned their mounts and set off up the road again, riding at a gentle canter, keeping a loose formation of riders side-by-side in pairs.
Ethor took a deep breath.
‘We’ve been friends a long time, you and me, Denisot. Let me just tell you, if you ever try to accuse a vintaine of mercenaries of something like that again, you will die.’
‘I didn’t think.’
‘Because if you ever do that again, I’ll throttle you myself!’
Saturday 6 August
Berenger was quick to heal. At the end of the first week his back had been a mass of scabs; already now the flesh had healed well, and the Infirmarer declared himself delighted with the quality of his handiwork when he prodded and poked, before bending to the altar and giving thanks for his success, while his rosary and golden crucifix rattled and tapped at the side of Berenger’s cot.
The healing chamber was like a chapel. Each bed was positioned carefully to give a clear view of the altar with the crucifix, for naturally it was the prayers and the nearness of the holy altar that cured men of their ills here.
It was hard to like a man whose sole interest in life appeared to be making his wounds still more painful, but Berenger appreciated the depth of his knowledge, and grew to look forward to his visits. The Infirmarer had a caustic wit and an unsympathetic manner.
‘Ouch! That hurts!’ Berenger said.
‘You haven’t lost your sense of feeling then.’
‘What do you do when you have no patients to hurt? Go and find a baby to torture?’
‘No. That would involve travelling. I find it easier to hurt little puppies and kittens.’
‘You are a sick man, Infirmarer.’
‘So my patients tell me.’
Loys recovered more slowly. Some splinters of wood were left when the bolt was removed, and there came a day when the Infirmarer discovered a thick, green pus leaking from behind the clot, and Loys became feverish, giggling, and then shouting like a drunkard.
Suddenly the Infirmary was invaded by assistants to the Infirmarer. One brought a charcoal brazier and lit it, while others brought cloths and hot water. Berenger watched as they used a scorched knife to reopen the wound. Then a hot brand was used to sear the wound while Loys arched his back in agony, the pain so intense he could make no sound. When the Infirmarer finally settled back, there was sweat running down his face.
He left the room and returned a little later with a skin of wine and some cups. He poured for Berenger and Saul and another for himself, and then drank deeply. ‘There are some parts of this work I hate.’
‘You did well,’ Berenger said grudgingly.
‘I hope I cleaned the wound sufficiently.’ He glanced towards Loys. ‘I fear that the boy is weak. The next day will tell us whether our prayers have been answered.’
‘You can only do your best. Is there more wine?’
The Infirmarer nodded and passed the jug. Berenger poured a large cup and drank deeply. It was a powerful wine and he could feel his troubles lifting. It brought an atmosphere with it, an odour and sense of sunshine and happiness. With another draught he could almost remember her face, the little figure held so gently in her arms, the warmth and pain of such a strong affection in his heart. The world had been a jolly, kindly place then, ten years ago.
But the world had changed, and he had changed with it.
The Infirmarer saw the change in his expression. ‘Do you want to talk about it, my friend?’
‘What?’ Berenger said. ‘There’s nothing to discuss.’
The Infirmarer glanced at Saul, who sat on the next cot watching Berenger warily. He looked back at Berenger and said softly, ‘One day you will want to talk to a friend. When you are ready, I am happy to listen. And if I am not, there is always another who will.’
‘Who would listen to an old soldier’s story?’
The Infirmarer nodded towards the altar. ‘I think you know who will listen, my friend.’
‘Him? He never listened to me before when I was a religious man and only sought to help others. Why would He help me now?’ Berenger said.
Sunday 7 August
They had been riding for too long. Peter was weary after his long reconnaissance, and as he came round the last curve in the road, he was thinking only of the wine and the women who were waiting back in Uzerche. Will and the other members of the company would be having a marvellous time there, drinking their way through the barrels in the storehouses during the day and spending their evenings whoring, while Peter and his men were riding all about the area ensuring that they were safe from attack.
It was enough. He had ridden hard and there was little enough to show for it. A cart with a box of furs taken from two merchants riding to market, some food and plate from a small manor. It was not enough to justify the length of their journey.
‘We’ll return today,’ he said to Ulric, a glowering Saxon with a scar that ran from his right temple to his chin.
‘About focking time,’ Ulric said in his thick accent. ‘I want to get to a seat that does not rock under me all the day long.’
‘We’ll get back as soon as we can,’ Peter said. He rose in his saddle and was about to call to the rest of the men, when one of his scouts came back at a fast trot.
‘There’s a town ahead.’
Peter spurred his mount and rode up to where the second scout sat on his mount staring ahead. ‘Well?’
The scout pointed. Peter saw a thin smear of smoke against the sky. ‘We will ride on. I want to know what size that place is before we return,’ he said.
What was it that bayle had said? He was the Bayle of Domps, he said, didn’t he? Perhaps this was his town, then. It meant nothing to Peter, although if there was an abbey nearby, perhaps this was where Fripper had gone when he escaped the ambush. That would interest Will.
Monday 8 August
Clip was riding before the column with a growing sense of grievance.
He should be back with the main army, not prancing around in the wrong direction like this, making his way through a thick forest. There were others who could be easily used for this kind of service, but no, it was him again, sent on a daft mission, in a direction where there were no decent manors to plunder, no monasteries, no nunneries, no rich merchants to deprive of their furs and gold. It was a waste of time. And meantime the army would have packed up and started to advance, if all he had heard was right. The men who were still with Sir John had opportunities to enrich themselves, to find wine and ale, to drink and whore and enjoy themselves . . . and he was here, scouting
before Grandarse with Dogbreath, riding at the arrow’s tip with forty men behind him. He was the man in danger if they met the enemy, as usual.
‘How much further do you think it is?’ Dogbreath asked again.
‘How the fuck should I know?’ Clip snapped. ‘It’s just another town on this bleeding river. They all look the same to me. Who gives a shit about one more? Fucking Fripper, if he’s there, could have picked a better place. Why’d he come here? What’s the point of taking a town so far from anywhere? He could have stayed nearer Calais or gone south towards Bordeaux, but no, if the story’s right, he came all the way to this, the arse-end of the world. I don’t see it. I think we’re wasting our time.’
‘You don’t think he’s there?’
‘No. What, a little town around here? What sort of money can he win here? There’s nothing. I think that merchant, or whatever he was, was lying. He wanted to keep his head on his shoulders so he told Sir John a tale that would keep him alive.’
Dogbreath scowled. ‘I’ll tickle him up with my dagger next time I see him, then.’
‘You do that. Meantime, I’ll . . .’ He stopped, staring ahead, and his head dropped onto his chest as he peered fixedly.
Dogbreath sniggered. ‘It was a bird, Clip.’
His companion said nothing, but jerked his hand quickly to indicate silence, never once ceasing in his careful study of the road ahead. ‘Riders. Lots of them,’ he said, whirling his horse’s head about and cantering back.
‘Grandarse, there are men coming. Possibly two vintaines-worth, possibly more.’
‘You say so?’ Grandarse glanced over Clip at the road ahead. ‘I can’t see anything.’
‘The road turns in among those trees. I saw three flashes of reflected sun. When I looked, I could see shapes passing between the trees. I counted fifteen between one pair of trunks. I reckon they were men on horseback. Riding double file, that means thirty men. Could be I’m wrong. But if I’m right . . .’
Grandarse nodded. ‘Enough!’ He had never known Clip to make a mistake when scouting. It was why he was used so often. That and the fact that his whining grated on a man’s nerves after a few miles. Grandarse looked about him quickly. To his left the road fell down among the trees. It was a shallow incline, but enough.
Blood of the Innocents Page 16
