He shook his head. ‘All was destroyed.’
Berenger shook his head with dull incomprehension. ‘This was not the idea. We were only to take Uzerche and hold it. We wanted some peace from the wars, and we were to take the town and demand tolls from all those who passed along the roads. That was all.’
‘Where a man takes the power to himself to take over a town, he will often find it easier to kill than to relinquish his power,’ the Abbot said.
‘Where a man takes over a company, he may yet find that there are some who will fight rather than submit,’ Berenger said. ‘Denisot, of all the men of the village, some must have escaped. We need all the able fellows we can find here to protect the monastery. They will come. Will is fully aware that monasteries hold gold and silver in great quantities. We need the means to defend this place. Can you find them?’
‘I could try,’ Denisot said. ‘But there are not many. The mercenaries managed to kill almost all the men. We saw all my neighbours dead in the street.’
‘The only alternative is to find others from about here,’ Berenger said. He looked at the Abbot. ‘Can we call up all the strong fellows from your demesne? We need everyone who can handle a sword or an axe.’
‘We have some few, but not enough who have experience in such warfare.’
‘I’ll find them somehow,’ Berenger said, half to himself.
Saturday 13 August
‘They come! They come!’
The terrified shriek, along with the tolling of the church’s great bell, had Berenger leaping from his palliasse, pulling his chemise over his bare chest, then slipping into a pair of thick hosen and tying their laces. He stepped into his boots and laced them too, before grabbing his sword sheath and hurrying out to the main gate.
There were sixteen men there, a ragtag of scruffy men clad in cheap mail and some armour. They were travel-stained, and there were oil and rust marks on their surcoats and tunics. From the weapons gripped in their fists, he could see that they were experienced fighters, and he was about to increase his speed, when he faltered and stumbled to a halt, his face falling.
He knew two of those faces even from many tens of yards away. If not the face, he could not mistake the immense belly on the glowering fellow in front. He had to stop and gape, and then, seeing another man’s face turn towards him, Berenger gave a roar and pelted towards the men.
‘Grandarse, you old git! Never have I been so happy to see a man in all my life!’
‘Aye, well, you young tarse fiddler, get your great mitts off me, man! What, do I look like a bloody cock-quaen to ye?’
But for all his coarse welcome, there was no doubting the sincerity in Grandarse’s welcome. As Berenger threw out his arms, Grandarse gave a twisted grin, then grabbed Berenger and enfolded him in a bear hug.
Berenger pulled away and then, his face still wreathed in smiles, welcomed the others. ‘John of Essex, as I live and breathe! It’s good to see you! And you have a vintaine with you? How many are archers? Are there any of the old vintaine with you?’
Grandarse shook his head. ‘This is the new batch. The old ones, some of them, are here. They hope for honour, glory, and as much wine as they can drink! Clip and Dogbreath are here, but I sent them back with the men we captured on the ride here. That’s how we heard of you, Frip. Eh, but it was a hard ride. A man could die of thirst after a ride like that!’
‘If you will help defend this place, you will have as much wine as you can drink,’ Berenger said, leading them towards the frater.
Grandarse eyed him keenly. ‘What do you do in this place?’
‘I was injured, and the good Abbot allowed me to recover here,’ Berenger said, but he would not say more before the newcomers had been fed and given ale and wine. Then, while they ate, Grandarse told him of the party of routiers they had found some miles to the south of Uzerche, and how that gave him and his men the direction they could take to follow Berenger. When they were finished, Berenger spoke of his own story: how he had remained in Calais until the pestilence, the deaths of his wife and family, and how he had joined a company of mercenaries who set off to fight wherever they would be paid, and if they weren’t, to pillage across France.
‘You? Ye turned mercenary?’ Grandarse said with some disbelief, but then a broad grin passed over his face. ‘Aye, well, I never doubted you’d see sense in the end.’
Gaillarde stumbled on, one shoe already gone, the soft leather torn away. Her light shoes weren’t made for long marches, and she could feel how the sole of her foot was tender already. When she put it down on the dry earth, it felt like she was stepping onto brambles. Each step was agony, but the agony was dissipated by its constant repetition. It felt as though her mere existence was itself grown to be a torment. Nothing else existed but the action of placing one foot before the other.
A prod in her buttock urged her on to greater speed, and she acquiesced without complaint. She had seen what happened to others who had argued, who had complained, or who had wept bitter tears. All were dead. The last was a woman of two-and-twenty, who had limped and wept after seeing her husband beaten to death while trying to protect and conceal their child. When he was dead and his body rolled over, the mercenaries saw the child. Three of them played campball with the baby, kicking it from one side of the square to the other while the woman screamed and screamed in horror until her voice was gone. Two of the guards raped her then, and afterwards more, but she never spoke a word. Her eyes were already dead by then. Gaillarde could see her clearly. She breathed, and her body functioned, but her heart was dead within her. It was a terrible sight.
So Gaillarde trudged on, heedless of the direction, not caring where they were going, but determined not to die.
Not yet.
It was only a little later, once Berenger had persuaded the doubtful porter and Abbot that these men were safe enough to be permitted into the monastery, that he could stand leaning at the walls, sipping at a cup of wine while Grandarse and Hawkwood drank with gusto.
‘Aye, but that’s good wine!’ Grandarse said, smacking his lips and smiling beatifically at the sight before him.
He had already split his men into two groups. Half were to return to the English army with their spoils, while Grandarse and Hawkwood had decided to take their ease for a few days. The men were unloading the horses and ponies now. There were several large bags on three packhorses that rattled very interestingly, and Hawkwood caught Berenger’s eye when two men lifted weighty strongboxes from a donkey.
‘We’ve had a successful rampage,’ he said with a smile. ‘We are scouting for the King. In fact, we serve under your old master, Frip. Sir John de Sully is with the army.’
‘What army?’
‘Christ’s bones, man, have you been sleeping all year?’ Grandarse said. He belched and wiped his mouth with a delicate thumb and forefinger. ‘Last year the King was determined to see the French brought to battle. They’ve been pulling at his beard for too long now, and he wanted to end things once and for all, not that he had any joy in it. The French refused battle at every opportunity. Even when he stood to and demanded satisfaction, King John held himself and his armies away. This year, Lancaster took the battle to Normandy, thinking to force the French to fight, but they didn’t. So now we’re down here to force the French to fight once and for all. The King wants his French crown, the men want his money and his treasure, and the women want his silks and furs. There’s something here for everyone, aye,’ he said, and held his empty mazer to be refilled.
‘We have been able to stock our stores in the last couple of days,’ Hawkwood said. He was quiet a moment, and then added, ‘It is good to see you again, Frip. I heard about your wife. I was sorry about that. We all liked her.’
‘We all know of people who lost wives, brothers, friends. It was hard, but many had it worse,’ Berenger said. He knew he was lying even as he spoke.
‘Perhaps,’ Hawkwood said. Neither believed it.
‘Have you been to a convent
a little to the south?’ Berenger asked.
‘Not a nunnery, if that’s what you mean. Is there a rich one nearby, then? We wouldn’t mind going and seeing a parcel of naughty nuns if there are some down here.’
Berenger looked around him at the convent and felt an acid bitterness in his stomach. He knew what the outcome would be, were a vintaine to go to a nunnery. He had seen such scenes before. Yet Grandarse would not lie about the places he had been to, nor the atrocities committed, so it had not been he and John with their men who had so devastated that place. Someone else had been there: no doubt it was Will and his men.
‘Aye, we’ve visited a few other places, mind, and persuaded the inhabitants to support us,’ Grandarse said, sucking down another long draught of wine. ‘On the way here we found a parcel of men. I had them taken back to Sir John. We could do with the extra hands.’
‘What sort of men were they?’
Grandarse cocked a shrewd eye. ‘You know well enough, Frip. One of them told us you had been at some town with a strange name, and that your friends had decided to do without your leadership. That right?’
‘Yes. They tried to ambush me once they had told me I was free. I will meet their leader again and make him pay for his deceit,’ Berenger said.
‘Aye, well, that will be good. And soon we’ll be heading north with the rest of the army.’
‘Sir John will be going too?’
‘Aye. He was at Bordeaux with the Prince, but they moved to La Réole early in the month. They’ll be marching now, I’d guess. They were waiting for reinforcements, but they must have arrived by now. They should be arriving around here any time now.’
‘What then?’
‘Then? Then we’ll prepare for another grand chevauchée! There’ll be rich pickings when we ride north. You should join us.’
‘I would like to. But I would have this abbey left safe,’ Berenger said.
‘Aye, well, if you want to get your revenge on this man Will, you won’t do it while bolted up inside an abbey, unless he comes to attack you here. And if he does that, you’ll be wishing you had a better force to defend the place.’
‘They’ll have to fight past me. The good Abbot and his monks have been kind to me. I won’t see them slaughtered.’
‘As they should be to an English archer,’ Grandarse said. He cast an eye about the place. ‘Little enough, you say?’
‘Grandarse, I would not want to fall out with you over a small abbey. This is too small to tempt even you.’
‘If you’re sure,’ Grandarse said.
Sunday 14 August
‘Frip, come with us. We need to exercise the beasts,’ Grandarse said soon after they rose. ‘Besides, we should ride and check the area. We don’t want your old company suddenly springing up and surprising us.’
Berenger was nothing loath. He had been inside the monastery since arriving, and he had a keen desire to see outside the grounds again. With Grandarse and two archers, he set off, trotting briskly along the road that led west. It had been decided that, in their absence, Hawkwood would take charge of the men left behind at the abbey.
‘Guard them well,’ Grandarse said. ‘Fripper’s friends are away to the south and west. We will ride south and then scout. I expect it will take two days. Keep a close guard on the roads.’
‘We will,’ Hawkwood said. ‘They’ll be as safe with me as my own wife.’
Berenger gave him a long stare. ‘Your wife? Would she be safe with you?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t see her harmed by anyone else.’
Berenger shook his head as he walked away and mounted the horse held by a groom. ‘You are an unrepentant bastard, aren’t you?’
‘Me?’ Hawkwood said with mock innocence.
Berenger chuckled as he rode out through the gatehouse.
Once, he turned and stared back at the buildings rising from among the trees, but then he shook off the feeling of slight anxiety and set himself to enjoying the ride.
The sun flared and died as clouds passed overhead, but Berenger was enjoying the feeling of the wind in his face and hair, and the comfort of being with an old friend. They had ridden a mile, and he could feel his mount starting to ease up. It was a palfrey with a spirit to match Berenger’s today, and Berenger glanced about him with a sudden feeling that he was as young as a lad not yet twenty. He felt impudent and it was a feeling that thrilled him and made him feel mischievous all at once.
Suddenly he clapped spurs to his beast’s flanks and felt the palfrey surge forward like a greyhound seeing a hare. ‘Hah! Hah!’ he shouted, lashing the brute’s buttocks and bending low.
He heard Grandarse bellowing behind him, and snatched a glance over his shoulder. From that he saw the centener impotently flailing with his reins to try to persuade his mount to hurry, but all to no avail. Berenger grinned and urged his palfrey on.
Flies hit his face like tiny pellets, and he swallowed one, hawking and spitting several times to expel it. It felt as though the creature was stuck in his throat. A corner in the road and a low branch almost unseated him, but he managed to duck lower, laughing and shouting with pure pleasure, and missed it.
He had been riding for another mile when he came to a small hamlet in a clearing. A pair of carts and three resting horses spoke of an inn nearby, and he reined in. The beast was content to take a rest, and they soon slowed to an easy trot and then a walk as Berenger took in the sight of the little inn. It was a simple thatched house with two tables and a pair of benches. Nearby there was a ring set into the wall, and Berenger slid from the saddle and hitched the palfrey to it before taking his seat at the bench, looking at the other travellers.
They seemed intimidated by him, and he realised that all three were considerably younger. None had a scar on their faces like his. He touched the old wound unthinkingly. He had won that in the north of England, defending Durham from Scottish invaders, and he had nearly died from it. The wound had healed, but the handiwork of the old tooth-butcher who had doubled as a surgeon on that campaign had left much to be desired. He had not thought of it in a long while. When he was running his little inn at Calais, people knew him and, besides, most of them were old soldiers like him. His face was no surprise to them.
‘In Christ’s name, Fripper!’
‘You made it, then, Grandarse,’ Berenger said.
‘No thanks to you, you old git.’
Berenger grinned and the men ordered wine. Berenger asked for a pitcher of water from the well. Grandarse watched as he added it to his cup of wine. ‘You need to be careful of the water,’ he said.
‘I find it is good for me,’ Berenger said. ‘I have drunk enough wine in my time already.’
‘Aye, well, I think it’s impossible for a man to have had a surfeit of wine, no matter what,’ Grandarse said, and tipped his cup into his mouth.
‘It is good to see you again, old friend.’
‘I am glad to find you,’ Grandarse said. ‘We have need of all the fighters we can get.’
‘Not me, though.’
‘Come, Frip, you can’t mean it when you say that you’ll avoid a fight?’
‘I mean to take the tonsure and spend the rest of my days here contemplating all the things I did before. I may even pray for you, Grandarse.’
‘Don’t waste your breath,’ Grandarse said with a chuckle. ‘You two, fuck off and leave us to talk.’
Berenger waited until the two archers had picked up their drinks and walked away to the next table. ‘What is the route?’
‘Far as I understand it, the idea is to go north from here and seek out the French if we can. We want to force him to fight us. But it won’t be easy. He seems to enjoy offering battle and then waiting until we get bored or run out of food and drink and have to move off. He did that last year, and I think he avoided battle with my Lord Lancaster earlier this year in a shameful manner. But hopefully we will tweak his tail so badly that he will want to fight us, no matter what his reservations.’
‘His
father was less than accommodating.’
‘His father was brighter. I’ve heard much about King John. He is not a calculating, rational man. He responds, and often badly. It makes him enemies more easily than friends. We can use that. And I can use you.’
‘I don’t want to fight any more. My intention is to join a little monastery. I was badly injured again only three weeks ago, and it’s taken this long for me to heal. If it wasn’t for the help I had from the monks, I’d be dead by now. I owe them.’
‘You owe your King, Fripper.’
Berenger’s voice hardened. ‘I think I’ve repaid any debts of service long ago. I have the wounds and scars to prove it.’
‘Stay with us, Frip. It would be good to have you in my retinue again. You were always one of the first to the front. You want me to beg you? You wouldn’t believe the incompetents and tarse-fiddlers I’ve got in the vintaine!’ He shuddered. ‘I need a man like you who can knock them into shape.’
‘I can’t,’ Berenger said. He felt something then: a slight shiver of anticipation in his blood at the thought of holding a sword and burying it in another man’s breast. ‘No! If I fight again, I think I will become a monster. I cannot do it. I had retired to Calais, you remember, and had given up all thoughts of fighting.’
‘Aye. I recall. It was a good little tavern you had there. But when I was last there, your tavern was closed. They said you were gone.’
‘My wife and our boys died there. They are buried in a plague-pit along with the others who died. That made me mad. I hated everything to do with France and the French. I’ve been running with a band of routiers for the last years and . . . I’ve had enough of death and killing, Grandarse. I cannot go back to that. If I do, I think I will lose my soul. I already have a lot to atone for. The monastery gives me an opportunity to make some restitution for all I’ve done. If I go there and spend the rest of my life in prayer, I will achieve something good from my life.’
Blood of the Innocents Page 20
