Blood of the Innocents

by Michael Jecks

  ‘I do feel well,’ Berenger admitted.

  ‘And it is good to see you so recovered. You spoke of the shade of your wife visiting you. Does she still, eh?’

  ‘Often. Only when I see her I do not feel the horror and hatred for the world that once I did.’

  ‘I am glad to hear it. Perhaps she is prepared to let you go. You . . . you have cried out in your sleep. Other people, I think, have come to disturb your rest. Do they still?’

  Berenger did not meet his eyes. ‘I do not see them now. At night, many of them will return to me.’

  ‘My friend, I believe that you have a demon inside you. He was strong, and he knew how to push you to do his bidding. He knew how to make you angry, and how to keep you on edge so that you were capable of the worst excesses.’

  ‘He was most competent, then.’

  ‘You must not listen to him. He weakens. If you continue to fight him, you will prevail. In future, promise me that you will try to seek the best in all men.’

  ‘I will do my best. My last talk with the Infirmarer persuaded me of that. I shall do my best to do that and remember my wife and how she would like me to behave and think.’

  ‘Good. Where will you go?’

  ‘I was thinking of heading west and finding my way to the English towns in Guyenne.’

  ‘That is good, but the roads are dangerous. There are bands of club-men, outlaws and murderous English. Still, you and your men can defend yourselves against outlaws on the road.’

  ‘Perhaps so.’

  ‘I have heard rumours that the English are moving. They appeared outside Périgueux and tormented the poor townspeople there for some days. Where they are now, God Himself alone knows. You must be careful. The roads are not safe. The English attack everyone, and may not recognise you as their own; the locals will certainly kill you if they realise you are English.’

  ‘I thank you for your kind warning.’

  ‘Do not forget: although you may see off your devil, there are many others with their own demons. Even among the local population. There are rumours near here of a man who rapes children and crucifies them.’

  Berenger shook his head. ‘I recall Bayle Denisot speaking of that.’

  ‘It brings a new horror to our poor land.’

  Berenger nodded, but in his mind he saw Will again, and wondered what horrors the company was inflicting on the locals of Uzerche and beyond.

  Peter strode along the town’s main street and eyed the buildings. Already mercenaries were making their way from the houses and out into the streets. A wailing procession of younger women had already been gathered, their hands bound securely with ropes that were tied to saddles, while the older ones knelt in the dirt and smothered their faces and hair in dust in their despair.

  This was an unnecessary distraction, Peter thought. The town had done nothing to him or Will, but Will was determined to punish the place just because the bailiff had been the man who had saved Berenger from death. And now they had lost Simon’s vintaine too. It had clearly unsettled Will, as though he was aware that events were gathering momentum against him.

  ‘Burn it all!’ Will bellowed from the other side of a small square.

  ‘What purpose will it serve?’ David asked Peter. He was a thick-set man with long black hair that looked out of place against his dark complexion. His shoulders were as broad as an ox’s, and he looked vicious and cruel, but Peter knew that he had personally saved three children from death this morning. Other men had found them cowering under a table in a house, and were about to spit them all, when David saw to it that they were released. Hopefully they had made it from the town, but Peter doubted it somehow. In any case, they were not his responsibility.

  ‘Purpose? None. He just wants to make an impression. He’s a weak man. I’ve seen others like him. Not a thought for strategy, only a series of tactics. He’s not bright enough to plan a campaign.’

  ‘Dull fucker,’ David said.

  ‘Yes. But right now, he has the command.’

  ‘Right now, yes. But I think if it was put to the vote, you’d probably have the majority.’

  ‘Perhaps. But I’m not putting my head in that sack, thanks. Besides, what’s the point? Will is determined to find Fripper and kill him. And if I was to put money on that fight, I wouldn’t expect Will to win.’

  Friday 12 August

  It was a beautiful, clear morning filled with the scent of roses and incense from the church when Berenger walked out into the garden from the infirmary. He had a sense that his quiet interlude was about to end. It was summer, and the blossoms were developing into fruits. The nut trees were full with young almonds, walnuts and hazelnuts. In a month they would be ready for harvesting. Roses twisted and climbed with profusions of little flowers, while birds swooped past urgently to feed their young. There was a soothing atmosphere all about him: nature felt the year had been good. For him, memories of fighting with the company were fading, and he was aware of a calmness that had gradually spread over him like a blanket.

  The Abbot was walking contemplatively from the church; when he saw Berenger, he made towards him.

  ‘I trust you are well?’ he said.

  Berenger nodded. ‘I feel rested.’

  ‘I am glad.’ The Abbot looked up at the sky. ‘It is a beautiful morning. I understand from the Brother Infirmarer that the boy you were accustomed to send to fetch more wine has been found to have much time on his hands.’

  ‘I harkened to your words. It seemed to me that my dead wife would prefer that I drank less.’

  ‘And has she visited you since then?’

  Berenger smiled fleetingly. ‘Not since, no. My sleep has been happier.’

  ‘I am glad.’

  Berenger bent his head. ‘My Lord Abbot, I would ask you a boon. I have a feeling that I came here because I was guided. I have lived in the world of war for too long. Perhaps I was meant to come here and learn the life of a monk.’

  ‘You wish to join the Order?’

  ‘My body craves it more than anything.’

  ‘Yet you only recently lost a woman you loved, and came here seeking vengeance against her killer. If you wanted to come and live here, all thoughts of romance and revenge must be cleaned from your soul.’

  ‘I think I am ready for that.’

  ‘I shall have to consider. This is not an easy decision. I must pray for guidance.’

  Fulk was standing leaning against a tree, whittling at a stick with his knife. Loys was sitting near him; Saul was lying on his back with a broad grin on his face.

  ‘Well, Frip? How is the wound today?’ Saul asked.

  Loys was still very pale after his fever, but the colour was returning to his cheeks. He said, ‘You look better all round, Frip. First time I’ve seen you looking so hearty.’

  ‘Since my injury, you mean?’

  Loys reddened and Saul chuckled.

  ‘I think he means,’ Saul said, ‘that you look healthier than at any time since Loys met you. Your drinking is more restrained, and you have more watered wine than strong Bordeaux.’

  Berenger looked away towards the hills in the distance. ‘I do feel well. Ridiculously well. The rest has been good.’

  It had. Although he would never tell these men, he felt relaxed and fitter. Two days without wine had made Marguerite’s shade leave him. He felt almost as though she had forgiven him. It meant he had less and less of an urge to drink.

  ‘I saw you talking to the Abbot this morning,’ Saul said. ‘Is he demanding we leave?’

  Berenger hunkered down, squatting on his haunches, and picked up a handful of soil, watching it spill from his palm. It looked clean and wholesome. ‘Boys, I’ve been thinking. There are worse lives than these.’

  ‘What do you say?’ Fulk said, stopping with his knife halfway through the wood.

  ‘I was just thinking that life here is not bad. It would make sense to take some time to try to do some good.’

  ‘The Abbot’s wine has turne
d your wits. You’re addled, man!’ Saul said.

  ‘No. I’ve found peace at last. I will remain here, if he will allow me.’

  Loys gasped. He turned to Saul, looked up at Fulk, then back at Berenger. ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘Never more so. I never intended to be a mercenary. It was just something to do to take revenge on France.’

  ‘So you will foreswear your past and become a monk?’ Saul said. He rolled onto his elbow. ‘That means no women, Frip.’

  ‘I know.’ Berenger saw the door to the Abbot’s house open and the familiar features of the Abbot appeared. He stood still a moment, and then beckoned Berenger. There was a short man with him, who moved with a curious gait, like a man who had almost forgotten how to walk. Berenger stood as they approached.

  The man with the Abbot was considerably shorter, and very elderly. He had the emaciated body of a man who willingly went without food, and at his throat there were two dangling dewlaps of skin that put Berenger in mind of a cockerel. About him Berenger could detect a sour smell. It seemed to come from his body, an odour more of illness than that of mere lack of bathing.

  ‘My friend, this is Father Jean. He works in the little convent of Sainte Marie some twenty miles away.’

  The man shook his head. ‘I did.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Berenger looked from one to the other. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘A company of routiers attacked it yesterday and destroyed it entirely. The women have all been assaulted, and the buildings looted. There is little enough remaining,’ the little man said. His eyes filled with tears and he looked up at Berenger with hopeless despair. ‘They even raped poor Mother Superior. She was seventy-two. Seventy-two, and treated with such contempt. They laughed at her as she died with a knife in her belly. The poor woman, martyred for no reason!’

  Berenger shook his head, staring from one to the other. His gaze fixed on the Abbot questioningly.

  ‘I am worried that they may come here next, my son,’ he said.

  ‘Then you must leave. Pack all that you can, and depart immediately.’

  ‘Give up God’s house to thieves and outlaws?’

  ‘If you stay, you risk death, my Lord Abbot.’

  ‘I do not know. If I stay, I may be able to protect the church. Our books, our precious icons, our . . .’ he waved a hand helplessly towards the buildings that held the abbey’s relics and other valuables. ‘I said to you only a little while ago, that entering this holy cloister means turning the other cheek, but do I have the right to tell my brothers that they must lay down their lives too? Yet surely God’s House must be defended so that it will continue to reflect His glory. Should we leave, these murderers would no doubt burn the place.’

  Berenger felt the keen pressure of anticipation, dreading the answer even as he asked, ‘What do you want us to do?’

  The first task was to assess the men who remained in the abbey. There were some sixty, all told. Berenger eyed them without comment. Then: ‘This is all?’

  ‘We are a religious house, not a castle,’ the Abbot responded with asperity.

  Berenger walked past the Abbot and stared at a short, bald man. ‘How old are you?’

  Gums devoid of teeth were displayed as his mouth opened. ‘Me? Seven-and-sixty last summer.’

  ‘And you reckon men such as this can hold a sword?’ Berenger demanded of the Abbot.

  ‘I can hold one as well as a brat of twenty,’ the old man said grimly. ‘I’ve been the blacksmith here for nigh-on thirty years. You show me a child who can use a twelve-pound hammer all day and I’ll show you a lad who can equal me.’

  Berenger lifted an eyebrow. He was not convinced. The problem was, the majority of the lay-brothers here were incapable of holding a weapon. They were less afflicted with issues of the morality of hurting their fellow men, and more with an inability to hold a weapon and point it in the right direction.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. He had collected some lengths of lath, and now he passed these to each of the men. He took one himself and stood near a strong fellow with no neck and legs as thick as his own waist. ‘Attack me!’

  The man smiled nervously, wetted his lips, and then drew his arm back to strike Berenger. Before his stick had fallen, Berenger had hit him thrice, and then whirled and smacked him across the back with two more blows.

  ‘Abbot,’ he said later, when he and the Abbot were sitting at a table with a cup of wine each. ‘The trouble is, these men are incapable of fighting. You have raised them to be incompetent in such matters.’

  ‘My son, I appreciate that. You will have to help teach them.’

  ‘My Lord Abbot, with the best will and intentions, I cannot. They will remain incompetent in battle. If I were to set them to defend your monastery, they would all die in the first charge.’

  ‘Then what should I do?’

  ‘If you wish for my advice, I would say you should evacuate this place, take all your people and all your valuables, and escape. You cannot hope to hold it against men such as the routiers which Will leads. You and they must perish.’

  ‘God will not desert us.’

  ‘Abbot, I’ve fought in many battles, and in each and every one of them, the Lord God has been adjured from both sides to help them. Only one side has ever won, and if nothing else, I have learned that He has better sense than to serve the interests of men who decide to battle for their own interests.’

  ‘This is a different matter. We have a monastery dedicated to His service. It must succeed. He will guard us.’

  Berenger stared about him. If they were to leave now, it was possible they would be found on the road, and if that were to happen, they would be slaughtered. ‘Well, if you’re sure. First, send someone to find help. Second, we have to build defences. Ideally we will have to create areas that appeal to the mercenaries, and into which we may funnel them, so that we can kill them more easily. Third, we must teach your men how easy it is to kill another man, and try to shape them into a force. How long do we have?’

  ‘They could be here at any moment. If Father Jean could reach us, they could be hard on his heels.’

  ‘Not so. They will drink themselves stupid first. So, that means we have at least a few days. We must find help from somewhere and . . .’

  The cries from the gatehouse made him turn and then begin to run, drawing his sword as he went, convinced that Will and his men had already arrived.

  As he reached the gate, he saw it open wide, and there, in the open passage, tottering in slowly, was Denisot. He saw Berenger and held out a hand before falling to his knees in exhaustion, Ethor at his side trying to help him up.

  ‘Thank God,’ Denisot said in a broken voice.

  ‘It was terrible,’ Denisot explained when they were sitting at a table and the Abbot had placed a large jug of wine before them. ‘I could not describe it all.’

  ‘What happened?’ the Abbot asked.

  They were sitting in his chamber at his great table. Denisot and Ethor were side by side at their bench, while Abbot Andry was seated at the head. Berenger had the other side with Fulk, whom Berenger had grown to trust even more in recent weeks.

  ‘It was the mercenaries. They must have come to the town at about noon. We should have been there. Ethor and I had been down on the road south and east, where some soldiers had murdered a family and burned their house. It is growing all too common now, I fear,’ he added sadly.

  ‘What then?’ the Abbot asked.

  ‘We conducted an inquiry around the burned house, and then set off homewards. It was late, and in the end we stopped and rested many times. The cart with the bodies was so heavy, we could not push it all afternoon. You do understand that? So it was in the late afternoon when we saw smoke rising ahead and realised the town was on fire.’

  ‘We hurried,’ Ethor said. He had lost his ruddy complexion now, and was almost grey-faced. ‘As soon as we came to the place, we saw bodies littering the streets. Men, women, boys, girls. The
y didn’t even leave the dogs or cats in peace. Everything they could kill was left there dead. Everything.’

  When he stopped and put his face in his hands, it was strangely unsettling. Berenger felt as though his heart was welling with sympathy. He didn’t know this man, but to see such a large fellow brought so low by the sights he had seen was oddly affecting, especially since he could imagine those sights so clearly. For a moment he was struck with a desire to put an arm about this fellow, but he restrained himself. He had himself caused so many deaths after attacks, it would be the height of hypocrisy to offer sympathy to this man now.

  Yet he felt Ethor’s pain like a blow. Berenger thought back to the cities and towns which he had helped despoil. There were so many, it was hard to recall their number, let alone how many citizens had been slaughtered and robbed within the town walls. He felt a quickening shame at the thought that he had helped create such misery.

  Denisot continued, ‘When we went to my own house, there was nothing there. My maid, Suzette, was dead. She had been raped in front of the house, and left to die after someone stabbed her in the breast. My wife . . . well, I don’t know where my wife is,’ Denisot admitted.

  His face told of his anguish.

  When he saw Suzette sprawled where the men had held her down, her face blue in death, tiny explosions of blood in her eyes, Denisot had crouched at her side and wept, mourning for the pretty little maid who had been so vivacious and attractive. He had remained there, crying for his pretty Suzette, before lurching up and rushing into his house, searching with ever increasing desperation. Gaillarde was not there, nor in the garden, nor yet out in the little shed in the field where his cow lay dead. She was his wife, his responsibility, his ward, his love. He should have guarded her, he should have been there!

  The horror was reserved not only for his own house.

  There were many other scenes in his mind that he could not mention. The sight of Pathau in his wine shop, tied to his counter top, his breast torn apart by the blows of some great edged weapon, and the children of his neighbours lying in the streets, their throats cut. There was a great accumulation of men and women in the square, the two sexes separated. While the men were poleaxed, the women were forced to suffer all the indignities of women through the ages before also being killed. Bodies everywhere; buildings burned to the ground, their contents rifled and stolen.