He genuflected, and was about to leave when a glitter caught his eye. He stooped to the fire and found in among the ashes a small crucifix of iron on a rosary of dark wooden beads. It was the one he had seen the Infirmarer wearing. Small and perfectly formed, it was a lovely work of art, and the figure of Christ was gilded, he saw. Someone must have found it on the Infirmarer and stolen it thinking it was gold, only to throw it away when he discovered it was merely gilded iron. He picked it up and walked outside, rubbing the soot and dirt from it as he went.
Outside, Grandarse stood gazing about him with an appraising stare. He had fetched his horse and now gripped the reins as he eyed Berenger. ‘Your lot, you think?’
‘I expect so.’
‘Do they normally collect slaves?’
‘No, why?’
‘As far as I can see there’s no sign of Hawkwood or the others.’
Berenger slipped the rosary and crucifix over his neck as he looked around. Grandarse was right. There were many lay-brothers, but there was not one body of the men who had come with Hawkwood. ‘Where have they gone?’
‘I’d guess they either disappeared quickly when they saw the odds, or . . .’
Grandarse stopped suddenly, his face registering his suspicion. Berenger coldly finished his words for him.
‘Or they joined with the mercenaries.’
Gaillarde was grateful at least that she hadn’t been offered to other men.
She walked with the stiff gait of the exhausted, her wrists chafed and bloody where the thongs binding her had rubbed. In the last days she had walked farther than in the last year. Her feet were worn. Both shoes were gone now, and if it were not for the help that one of the marching wives had given her, she must have fallen by the wayside. If that were to happen, Gaillarde knew what they were likely to do to her. She would be stabbed and hurled into a ditch.
‘Try this, dame.’
She was an unprepossessing slut, this, with raven hair that hung bedraggled half over her face, but she was kind enough. She smeared thick pork fat over two pieces of rag and tied them over Gaillarde’s feet, and then wrapped long strips over and about her feet and up her ankles, before pushing a pair of thick-soled sandals towards her. ‘Put these on as well. The fat will help your feet heal, with luck.’
Gaillarde had hardly the energy to thank her. This was all a nightmare. As they rose in the morning, she hobbled about like a crone, her legs and back complaining against the exercise. She was only glad that so far only one man had raped her. She wouldn’t think about that, though. It was too horrible for words. The bruising, the pain, the vicious speed, his almost embarrassed departure, leaving her without dignity or honour, her legs still spread as she wept. She had never felt so demeaned, so irrelevant. She was nothing more than an object. A chattel to be used and discarded when no longer desired. A thing. Even in the worst months of her marriage, when Denisot’s and her love had turned sour, he had treated her with respect, if not affection. Good God, but she missed her husband! She would never raise her voice to him again, if she could return to him!
The man had returned to her on the second evening. That time he had brought her food. Some bread, a little cheese, some grapes. He watched her as she greedily stuffed it into her mouth, and he laughed when she could not swallow, the bread too dry in her parched throat. Luckily another woman passed her a leather bottle of water, and she drank it desperately, choking, brackish water spurting from her nose as the lump gradually shifted, feeling like a sharp stone that ripped at every inch of her gullet. When it was finally gone, she choked but held back her tears, imagining how Denisot would have responded to her. He would have surely shown her some compassion. Alas for her, that he was not here now to protect her!
They had reached the grounds of a large religious institution the day before. At least that meant that she was allowed to sleep in the dry for once. She was given a space on the floor in a hall once she and the other women had pulled the dead out of the room, while the men from the company watched. There were many of them, the dead. All were monks or lay-brothers, and yet the mercenaries had stabbed and slashed at them even when they were already dead. There was no honour in these deaths. It was merely butchery for profit, for as soon as the last monk had been stabbed, the men of the company fell into an orgy of drinking, laughing and arguing about the spoils.
Later that night he had come to her again, but this time he didn’t rape her. While she cowered and cringed from him, he shook his head and lay beside her. ‘I don’t want your body, woman. Just the chance to sleep.’
She had watched him through the dark hours. His nose and beard were shadows in the darkness. She could hear his whispering breath as he snored, ever so slightly. It was that which made her realise he was a little younger than she. When he caught her, she had thought he was older, with his thick, dark beard and glowering demeanour, but now, thinking about his roughness on their first night, and his laughter at her discomfort on the second, she began to realise that he was only young, and being immature, did not know how to behave. That was good, she thought. It gave her a slight feeling of superiority. Perhaps he would respond to her if she were careful in how she behaved around him. It may be possible to inspire his trust, perhaps even win his affection.
Gaillarde was not one to put off till tomorrow what she could achieve today. She had put out a hand to him and touched his beard, just lightly. In response, his eyes snapped open and he stared at her. She smiled, putting into it all the love and sympathy for another that she could.
His fist struck her high on the cheek and she fell away, lights whirling and spinning in the ceiling above her.
She no longer had any illusions about her value to this man. He was a brute. An animal. And when he was done with her, she would be lucky only to be killed. More than likely, she would be passed to another mercenary, or even a group of men.
With that thought she continued. But the rebellious part of her that was still independent swore that she would never let a gang rape her. She would take one of their knives first and kill any who came near until they were forced to kill her. She would not suffer the last indignity.
‘So, where are they, then?’ Grandarse wondered aloud.
Berenger shook his head and stared around them. ‘If I had to guess, they wouldn’t head south. They must have heard of the Prince and his army. Will wouldn’t want to be caught by the Prince. He’d fear being forced to serve. There’s less profit for a commander who is subordinate to a great captain. He’d want to move on ahead of the army and grab what he can. Yes, I’d expect them to ride north, before the vanguard of the army. They were going to remain in Uzerche, if I’d had my way – that was my intention, to charge tolls for the use of their bridge and some of the local roads – but the fact that they have moved off I think must mean that they are determined to make profit before the Prince can plunder all in his path.’
‘A good enough plan,’ Grandarse said grudgingly. ‘What of Hawkwood and the others? Are they with this Will?’
‘I don’t know. There were so many horses and feet passing up this road, it’s impossible to say who was with them. The company – it was surely my old one.’ He licked dry lips. ‘Shit!’
Grandarse was watching him. ‘What’s happened to you, Frip? You don’t look like the man I left ten years ago.’
‘I’m not the same man, Grandarse. I’ve changed, just as we all have,’ Berenger said. There was a crawling, itching feeling under his skin, and he found himself stroking the crucifix. It seemed to take away the feeling of guilt that threatened. He had been the leader of this company. If enough of the men had demanded it, he would have been responsible for the carnage in the abbey grounds.
‘Very good,’ Grandarse said. ‘Well, we can’t hope to catch this lot now. Not with only four of us.’
‘No,’ Berenger agreed. It would be suicidal to attack over a hundred men. And yet . . . ‘It may pay us to follow their trail, though. We can see how they are camped, how professiona
lly they behave. Perhaps catch a sentry and learn more. It may be possible to free their victims in the dark, or . . .’
Grandarse glared at him and then gave a guffaw. He stopped, turned his head as if listening attentively. ‘Hear that?’
‘What?’
Grandarse lifted a leg and let out a blast that would have deafened a drunk gynour in the midst of a battle, laughing again. ‘You are a moon-struck bastard, I’ll give you that. Well, if there are two scouts who can take a man from the middle of a sleeping army, it’s surely thee and me! That’s the great thing about being light on your feet and quiet as a virgin crossing a roomful of randy priests! Ach, there never was a vintener like you, Frip, and there won’t be again! This’ll be fun. So long as these two puppies don’t give us away,’ he added, eyeing the archers with distaste.
Remounting his rounsey, Berenger smiled, but inwardly he felt sick. The itching in his hands was noticeably worse, and he had a conviction that if he didn’t get a pot of wine soon, he would become weak and ill.
But he wouldn’t just give up. If there was a possibility that Hawkwood and the others were still alive, he would do all he could to help them.
Tuesday 16 August
The four rode as fast as Grandarse’s overburdened beast would allow, slowing as they approached clearings, searching the little hills and trees for any sign of sparkling armour or arrow-tips, and only edging out cautiously when they were as sure as they could be that it was safe to do so.
‘By my ballocks, Frip. This is turning into a longer hunt than Arthur’s for the Holy Grail,’ Grandarse said at the end of the first day.
They were sitting in a small stand of trees. The horses were haltered to a rope lashed between two trees, and they were resting their backs against their saddles, the two archers a little distance away from Grandarse and Berenger as they talked quietly, wrapped in their blankets and chewing at dry husks of bread that crackled and crunched between their teeth like snail shells. Berenger had lit a small fire, and now he fed it with dried twigs he had picked from some conifers. The lower branches were dead and gave off little smoke.
‘It’s a longer ride than I had anticipated,’ Berenger admitted. He sucked at a piece of bread stuck between his teeth meditatively. ‘I had hoped to be with them by now.’
‘We may have to give up if we don’t find them soon. The army will be preparing, and I don’t have time to be hunting for Hawkwood, damn his cods. I have four other vintaines of archers to command,’ Grandarse said apologetically.
‘I understand,’ Fripper said. He spoke dully, his eyes fixed on the fire. It was a lunatic chase. The old centener was quite correct. They had no chance of finding the company; they didn’t even know when the company had attacked the abbey, nor how long they had been travelling north.
From the look of the tracks the company had been hurrying, but there were plenty of people on foot. He had seen their boot prints. Not that this was any surprise. A King’s Messenger would travel the same distance in a day, whether he was on a horse or on foot. A horse would cover shorter distances more quickly, but then would need to rest before continuing. A man on foot could keep on all day.
The fire flared. Berenger looked away, his sight blinded, and then had a thought.
During the day, seeing a mass of men through trees was next to impossible, but it was just possible that he might be able to see the light from campfires in the distance. If he saw it, he would know that the company was not many miles distant.
He stood and strode quickly to the edge of their little stand of trees.
‘What is it, Frip?’
‘Just an idea. If there are a hundred men, they’ll have at least ten good-sized fires, won’t they? Unless they’ve found a village or hamlet to take for the night, and have all their fires indoors, they’ll make some light.’
He peered through the trees. There was nothing. The sky was clear of clouds, and there was no glow, while the landscape all the way through to where he thought the horizon lay was black. If there were a thousand men encamped out there, he had the feeling he would see nothing. The trees were so dense that even a bright fire would be concealed.
‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s . . .’
And that was when he saw it. There must be a tiny chink between the tree trunks there, so that when he looked he could just catch a glimpse of light. He thought it was like a star among the trees, and when he moved his head fractionally, the pin-prick disappeared again. It was only in this one place, with his head just so, that the tiny flickering spark was visible.
‘What is it, Frip?’
‘I’ve found them.’
They decided to rest for the most part of the night. The sun was still only an imaginary lightening on the far horizon when Berenger kicked dust over the remains of their fire, and they saddled and remounted. It must have been the last hour before dawn, Berenger reckoned. He was sluggish with cold, exhaustion, and most of all the lack of wine. They rode along an earthen track among the trees where the soil deadened the sound of their hoofs, and then into a broad, open area. Here they found a small stream into which their mounts enthusiastically dipped their heads, and Berenger dropped from his horse to fill their water skins. It was cold as cruelty, but refreshing nonetheless, and Berenger felt some of the urgent desire for wine begin to fall away from him again.
He remounted, and they continued. The fires of the company would be dead by now. Although Berenger had always tried to enforce a rule that fires should be covered and sentinels set about any encampment, the men had often moaned and complained when they thought they were in safe territory. Now, he hoped, their laxness would prove useful. He set his rounsey’s head in the direction where he thought he had seen the spark, and he and Grandarse made good time, walking briskly, keeping their eyes open for any rabbit holes or other dangers.
It was because he had his eyes fixed so firmly on the ground at his mount’s hoofs that he didn’t see the ambush until they were already caught.
‘Hello, Frip,’ a voice called. It was guttural and vaguely familiar, but Berenger was in no mood to analyse it. He whipped his sword out and turned to face the danger, knowing that he was already too late. Any men who had set up an ambush and waited this long would have their plan fixed firmly. He anticipated a stunning blow to his skull, or the sudden impact of a crossbow bolt, or a clothyard arrow to his breast.
He had not expected to see Fulk and Loys approaching, both grinning in delight.
‘So, what happened?’ Berenger said.
‘We were setting up more defences, but we were too late. The first of them came over the wall at full tilt,’ Loys said. ‘We had some men standing guard at the gatehouse, but their main attack came from the far side of the abbey, over the orchard and past the Abbot’s house. You know, where the butts were set up? We had little enough time to form a defence, and even then it was touch and go. The men with Hawkwood fought a good rearguard, but what can twenty do against more than a hundred, especially when the hundred are battle-hardened? Hawkwood managed to get to the stables, and some of his men rode off, while we and a few others did what we could. We killed a few.’
Remember that vicious little shit Sebastian?’ said Fulk. ‘From Will’s vintaine? Short man, squint, dark hair. He got to the Abbot before anyone could stop him. Denisot saw him stab Abbot Andry, and Denisot ran to him and punched him so hard, he almost flipped in a somersault.’
‘It was lucky Fulk was there,’ Loys added. ‘He got to Sebastian and killed him before the bastard could gut Denisot. He’s a tough little shit, that bailiff.’
‘I couldn’t let the bayle get himself killed for trying to help an abbot,’ Fulk said.
‘How did you all escape?’
Loys answered: ‘We went out the way they came in. It was impossible to get back through the main gate, so we ran for the woods, and watched as they trashed the place. They captured four or five of the lay-brothers, tortured them to learn where the abbey’s valuables were, then killed them. By the
n they were all on foot. John Hawkwood had been waiting for his moment, and he came back at the charge and knocked them away. He held Will and his men back while we took to our heels, and when we were safe, he trotted off after us. Will tried to have his men give chase, but they were having nothing to do with it. Instead, they took to looting everything. They grabbed everything they could, Frip. The gold, the wax, the wine, the lot. Just drank themselves stupid, robbed the place, then packed up and went.’
‘They will have been slowed by all the goods they stole.’
‘They are close by. Denisot and Hawkwood’s men are keeping an eye on them.’
‘How many are there?’
‘About ninety to a hundred. Not more, I don’t think. They have had some attrition.’
‘We don’t have enough, then.’
Grandarse rumbled, ‘If we surprise them, we might be able to . . .’
‘These are my men, Grandarse. I know them too well,’ Berenger said. ‘If we attack them, we may win a slight advantage for a while, but these are war-hardened men. They won’t collapse in terror because of a sudden attack. They’ll re-form and attack back. There are good archers in among them, and the rest are strong fighters with sword or axe.’
‘Aye, but a quick assault with some of these lads, and we’ll be through them like a stick through shit! We captured sixteen or so of them last week. That was how we learned where you were, remember.’
‘For what purpose? Can we capture them? No. Can we recover all the stolen wealth? No. Can we even free any of their prisoners? Unlikely. More likely is that they will get to hold us off, then attack again and kill every one of us. Like I said, these are professionals, every bit as competent as Walter Manny or Thomas Dagworth’s men. They know how to encircle and change their fortunes. I trained them.’
Blood of the Innocents Page 22
