‘These are French scouts!’ he shouted.
They were better trained than Berenger’s old company, but while the men in armour hurtled on, other riders were slower to urge their beasts to follow, and the line had begun to fracture. Men riding faster began to fill the gaps where slower men had fallen behind. Now the front men were only two hundred yards away; a hundred and fifty; a hundred; ninety . . .
‘Archers! Draw!’ Grandarse yelled.
Eighty . . .
‘Archers: aim! Archers: loose!’
The whistle and hum of fletchings catching the air, strings vibrating, and then a thin mist seemed to plunge into the riders.
‘Archers: nock! Aim! Archers! Loose at will!’
That familiar sound again, as though a flock of geese had swept past, and already the men racing towards them were falling. Berenger saw a destrier dive forward, head down, and the rider was hurled over, only to be crushed when the hindquarters of his mount flipped over and landed on him; another was thrown when his beast reared, trying to bite at the arrow protruding from his breast; a third and a fourth were hit in the face or chest and were flung back from their horses. More men fell, tumbling and rolling in the dirt like a child’s rag dolls, as insignificant and as lifeless.
‘Loose!’ Grandarse roared one last time, and this time the arrows were aimed almost flat at their targets. Five men disappeared, but the horses came on.
‘Spears!’
The men with the archers lowered the points of their weapons, aiming the leaf-shaped blades at the approaching horses.
‘Aim for their chests, boys!’ Grandarse shouted, and the tips went lower still.
‘Fuck, Frip: these aren’t English, are they?’ Saul said.
‘No, we’ve done what Sir John wanted; we’ve found the French.’
Still the men came on, their horses maddened with the noise and the thrill of the charge. Great destriers, fast rounseys and palfreys, all galloping wild-eyed and crazed. The men on their backs were whooping and cheering, crying to Saint-Denis and France as they came on, and then their lances came down and they crouched in their saddles.
‘Here we go, lads!’ Berenger called. ‘For God, for the Prince, and for Saint George!’
Béatrice and Archibald stared about them as the noise approached. There was a din of shouting and horns blowing, and Ed ran to them, a sword in his hand. ‘Get down!’ he called. ‘They’ll ride straight to you when they see the wagon.’
‘Why?’ she said.
‘Because they’ll think you have valuables in it, you fool!’ he snapped. ‘Get down from there, you too, Archibald!’
Archibald wasn’t listening to him. The horn blasts had ceased, and he could dimly perceive that the men who had approached were talking with the vanguard. A knight trotted forward and was also chatting. Then the column began to move again, and as Archibald watched, the men who had appeared were moving through the column.
‘Who are these men?’ Béatrice asked.
‘I’ve no idea. Nobody I know,’ Archibald said. He saw the leader, a tall, well-built man with sandy hair. Behind him rode a motley assortment. ‘They look like the worst mingling of archers, men-at-arms and mixed scoundrels as ever graced an outlaw band.’
‘You don’t see Berenger?’ she said.
‘No. Not him and not Grandarse neither,’ Archibald said. He saw her slump a little as though she had held herself taut against the possibility of seeing Berenger again. ‘He’ll be close by, maid,’ he added kindly.
The leader of the men passed close by their wagon. ‘God save you,’ Ed called.
‘He will, I am sure,’ Will said, and rode on. He glanced at Béatrice and smiled at her.
She thought he had a kind face.
A spear-point grazed Berenger’s cheek, and he angrily clubbed it away with his forearm even as the man wielding it was thrust through with an English polearm. A thunderous concussion made the ground tremble as a horse was brought down but dust and grit were thrown into the air, blinding Berenger and making him blink and wipe at his eyes.
More men and beasts were falling. They tried to force their way through the English lines, but the out-thrust spears were enough to deter the horses, and the riders were forced to lunge with their weapons at the English from too far away. Their tips would not reach Berenger or his archers. Gradually, those men at the front were whittled down as arrows were sent to them from only yards away. Those with mail or plate armour were not safe at such close quarters. One man Berenger saw remained on his horse even though he had two arrows piercing his armour. He tried to lift his sword to fight on, but already his chin was resting on his breastplate, and soon his sword arm fell to his side and he slumped, toppling from the saddle.
Berenger blew a blast on his horn. ‘Forward!’
The archers and lance-men began to move, stamping down with their left feet, shoving with their lances, stamp and stab, stamp and stab, stamp and stab. A man on a maddened horse tried to wheel to face the danger, but his mount would not obey, and he was run through with a spear as he tried to spur and rally the beast.
Berenger roared, ‘Hold! Hold! Enough!’ but none of the men would listen to him. To his horror, his own men began to rush forward.
The enemy were terrified, having seen their comrades pushed from their horses and hacked to death, but the English were too blood-crazed to hear anything in the heat of the moment. Berenger saw Denisot run to a man on the ground, stabbing him repeatedly in the throat with his knife, not noticing that he had already broken his blade. Fulk was whirling and spinning, his massive axe dealing death on all sides as he darted in between their enemies. The French fell back before him, terrified by his weapon and his seeming invincibility.
There was a man who turned, Berenger saw, and fled. A second saw him, and also left the fight; then a knot of three others copied them. He saw Loys, that foolish grin still fixed to his face, run to a man-at-arms on the ground, lifting his sword to strike, but before he could, Berenger saw the man attack, and his blade came through Loys’ back, slick and oily with Loys’ blood. Loys fell to his knees, and then hacked down with his own weapon, and Berenger saw his opponent’s face erupt with a thick mist of bloody spray, before Loys fell on top of him. He saw Gilles dart forward, stumble, and stare down at the man who had swept his arm from his body. Gilles stopped, staring about him as if bemused and, as his eyes caught Berenger’s, his enemy’s weapon swept back and took his head from his shoulders.
Berenger roared, ‘No!’ and sprang forward, but Hawkwood was already there and Gilles was avenged.
There was one knight still on his feet, slashing and stabbing about him. As Berenger watched, an archer fell, writhing, with a great wound in his belly.
‘Enough!’ Berenger shouted. He snatched a bow and arrow from a man nearby and nocked and drew in one easy, fluid motion. ‘Sir knight, drop your weapon and yield, or by God’s bowels I’ll send this into you and leave you to die here! Drop your sword!’
Sir John was riding with his esquire when the men arrived, surrounded by a strong force of men-at-arms and suspicious-looking archers.
‘Sir John, this man has asked to speak to you.’
‘Really? Who are you, then?’
‘I am called Will, Sir John, and I am commander of this company.’
‘I have heard of you, Will. Was it not you who sought to kill Berenger Fripper?’
‘Kill him?’ Will looked at his companions in appeal. ‘No! He threatened to kill me, Sir John, but for my part I had no wish to see him hurt. He was a good man, although in recent months his skills were blunted.’
Sir John eyed him closely. ‘How so?’
‘He suffered from that malady that men who run their own taverns will often develop: an over-fondness for the ales and wines he sold. It was manageable mostly, but then he decided to indulge his desires and it grew to overwhelm him, I am afraid. I am sorry if this is hard news, Sir John, but Fripper became a keen drinker. The men could no longer trust him. And
then he developed an affection for a woman and would hear nothing to moderate his passion.’
‘Which woman was this?’
‘Alazaïs, a lovely lady of Uzerche. She was beautiful. It is no surprise that men would desire her – but Fripper became infatuated. He grew convinced that his adoration was reciprocated, and that she wanted to run away with him. When she told him she wanted nothing to do with him, he grew enraged. I have never seen such a display, even among drunkards! He threw a tantrum fit for a child, and even tried to threaten some of the men. After that we had no choice but to overthrow him.’
‘You mutinied?’
‘No, I would not say so. Rather, we held an election and I won the vote of the majority of the men. Berenger, I fear, was unreliable. A company depends on the leader, and if the company loses confidence in him, they lose their confidence to fight. We had to remove him.’
‘And what then?’
Will would not meet his eye. ‘We let him go.’
‘You tried to kill him?’
‘No. We agreed that he would leave. That was all.’
Sir John threw a glance at Richard, who shook his head. The squire did not believe the story, but Sir John remembered Berenger’s bloodshot appearance, the slight shake of his hands and the tremor of his voice when he was talking. Fripper had definitely every appearance of a man steeped in wine.
‘There is more. Tell me.’
‘Truly, there is nothing more that matters, Sir John. He left with some companions. A great, hulking mountain man with the choleric temper of a lunatic bitten by a rabid hound; a man with the appearance of a child and the same innocence; another who was taken in by Fripper’s tantrums. There will always be men who have such simple minds that they will believe what they are told, and drunks are good at spinning a story that will entrap the innocent.’
‘There is more. You are keeping back a part of the tale.’
Will shook his head, but threw a look at the black-haired man at his side.
‘If you won’t tell them, I will,’ Bernard said. ‘It was this, Sir knight. The man Fripper was mad. When he fled the town, he tried to force the woman to join him, and when she refused, he put her to the sword. Not only her, but her children too, and a physician who was there at the time. He killed them all for jealousy and lust. Nothing more. That is Fripper’s temperament now: those whom he feels thwart him are given short shrift. A woman who refuses his advances will be slaughtered and her children besides.’
‘I see.’
‘We ask nothing. If you prefer, we can ride away,’ Will said. ‘But do, please, consider that I’ve done nothing to deserve your enmity. However, we are fighters, and as soon as we heard that the army was here, we wanted to come and join the battle, if battle there is to be.’
‘That is good. We shall be marching before too long.’
Richard Bakere watched as the party of mercenaries were taken away to join with Sir John’s force.
‘What is it, Richard?’
‘Sir John?’
‘I recognise that look. You disapprove.’
‘I simply wonder about that man and his story. We know Berenger Fripper well. That man’s story does not tally with the Fripper I know.’
‘Fripper’s lost all in the last ten years. Wife, sons, tavern – who would not change?’
Bakere was silent. In the end Sir John turned to him and demanded that he speak his mind.
‘In that case, Sir John, I think Berenger Fripper deserves more credit than you give him. I would trust him with my life, and that means I suspect that man Will of lying. And if he lied about Fripper, what else did he try to deceive you about?’
Archibald and Ed went through their routine checking of the barrels and gonnes while Béatrice went about her duties, fetching water, buying a little meat from a vintaine which had discovered some cattle, chopping up leaves she had found in a hedge, mingling them with some grains of barley she had found at the bottom of a food chest, and adding a sprig or two of rosemary from a bush she found in the garden of a house they had passed that day.
She fetched herself a cup of wine, and sat while the pottage seethed and simmered.
It was good that Berenger was not here. She had missed him so much, and perhaps she had dreamed of him more than was healthy, but now that he was no longer in sight, she was content. She had seen for herself that he was happy enough. But he had given her no sign that he held any feelings for her. Why should he? He had marched with her before, to Paris and back to Calais, and afterwards married another. She was foolish to think that after all this time he would feel differently towards her. She had enjoyed seeing him again, but she recognised with a languid melancholy that he would never be hers.
Béatrice grunted to herself as she finished her cup of wine and stood listlessly. There was work to be done. She had used most of the water to make the pottage, and now she walked to fetch more.
The stream was a short distance, but to reach it she must make endless detours around other groups of men. Most, when they noticed her at all, were quick to look away. No one wanted to be too close to a woman like her. She saw some making the sign of the cross to ward off her evil eye.
It was enough to make her curl her lips in contempt for the poor fools. They understood nothing about making the black powder and assumed that there must be some kind of magic woven in among the grains in order to make the explosions. They didn’t realise that it was only a simple mixture. Making powder for the gonnes was like making a loaf of bread. It meant using the best ingredients and mixing them in the right proportion. The only difficulty was, making sure that the cake of powder was safe from sparks and flames. Still, the powder burns and scars on her arms and face meant that all too often the soldiery would look at her with horror, as though these were proofs of her association with the Devil.
Béatrice didn’t care. It meant that on the whole she was left safe from the men of the army. It was more than most women could expect.
Near the river she stopped. A woman was there already. She was older, from the look of her: her gown was matronly in style and cut, like a mother in her thirties, although her face was lined and creased with care and woe. She looked like so many French women whom Béatrice had seen in this sorry country: worn down with fear, haggard with grief, hunger and exhaustion.
‘What are you doing?’ Béatrice called.
The woman was surrounded by four men, all from other companies. One was taller than the rest and stood laughing uproariously, while his three shorter companions held their arms out like men trying to catch a sheep or piglet. They were laughing too, as men will when they see that their prey is almost in their grasp. And there was little doubt what they intended for this woman when they had her.
It was all too reminiscent of Béatrice’s experiences ten years ago, when other soldiers tried to catch her to rape her. She was armed only with her wooden bucket and a small knife, but the two were adequate. She only hoped that the men were most of them drunk. That would make her attack all the more easy.
The nearer man must have heard her feet or sensed his danger, because he began to turn even as the bucket was hurtling towards his head. It struck his nose and cheek with a crack that could have been heard in Paris, Béatrice thought, and then she was swinging it towards the second man. He must have been partly drunk, for he turned only just in time to see the pail rising. He dodged backwards and it missed him by a quarter-inch, but his hurried evasion meant that he fell back heavily onto his arse, and while he was there, Béatrice continued onwards, letting the bucket clump against his forehead. The heavy rim left a thick welt on his brow and he remained where he lay.
As she turned, she found the tall man in front of her. He wasn’t smiling now, but stood with his sword outstretched and pointing at her breast. ‘Who are you, bitch?’
Béatrice walked around him until she was at the side of the woman. ‘I am named Béatrice. If you want to find me, you will find me with the men of the Prince’s artillery.’
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br /> ‘I’ve heard of you – you are the witch with the serpentine powder, then? You think yourself so fearsome that I will quail at your approach? I am not so easily scared, wench. But you are more wholesome than this old drab. Perhaps I ought to take you in her place, since you have been so keen to injure my men to protect her. The best protection for her would be to be supplanted. You will be an adequate replacement.’
Béatrice nodded as though in agreement. She weighed the bucket in her hand. The tall man was not alone. His last companion was still nearby, although he said little. Béatrice could easily raise more support by screaming for help, but there was no telling what manner of support that would bring. It was as likely to bring more men who would decide to rape her for their personal gratification. They might not realise she worked with serpentine.
So Béatrice did not scream or call for help. She stood her ground, watching while the man stepped forward, his short riding sword held with the ease of experience. He advanced until the blade touched her breast-bone, and he smiled then.
She took a step backwards. From the corner of her eye she could just see the last of the men. He was sidling around to move behind her, and she feigned surprise to see him. All at once she was some inches from the sword-point, and she lifted her bucket, shoving it over the blade and pushing down and forward, trapping it. The sudden attack surprised the tall man. His sword was dragged to the ground, and Béatrice stepped on the cross. He could not lift it from that angle, and even as he released his grip on the hilts, he felt the prick of her small knife under his chin.
‘Be very careful, master,’ she hissed, ‘for I am nervous. I would not wish to slit your throat from fear. What is your name?’
‘I am called Quilter.’
‘Good, Master Quilter. Now, tell your man to step back. I will not hesitate to kill you. Believe me.’
‘I believe you!’ he said, then, ‘Back away! I don’t want to be gralloched just because you misread her determination!’
‘That is good, master. Now, you will step away too.’
‘What of my sword?’
Blood of the Innocents Page 28
