‘I see,’ Berenger said. He could hear the silence behind him, which meant that all his archers were listening to their conversation with interest. It was hard not to spin in his saddle and confront them. Yet it mattered little. It was better usually that the men understood the reality of their position. Besides, if they didn’t hear him talking, they would gossip among themselves and come to a nonsensical conclusion.
‘Grandarse, I want you to send some men to the south and keep a close lookout for French forces,’ Sir John said after a few moments of reflection. ‘We must be on our guard at all times. It will do no harm to have more men watching the flanks. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Sir John. Frip, you can go and take the first watch.’
Berenger nodded.
Sir John glanced at him. ‘Be careful, Fripper. You and your men. We are entering a dangerous stage in this campaign.’
‘Much like the chevauchée before Crécy, sir.’
Sir John chuckled. ‘Yes. Before we managed to cross the Somme we were all in fear of our lives, were we not? And yet from the jaws of that disaster we managed to snatch a sudden victory that is still spoken of today.’
‘We were very lucky.’
‘We have God on our side, Fripper. Never forget that: He is with us.’
Berenger would remember his confidence later.
They were riding along on the flank, keeping up with the Prince’s column, when they saw the little huddle of people. Before long there was a desultory assault.
It was an embarrassment. An irritation. From the perspective of an army, it was less than the bite of a horsefly on a stallion’s rump. For Berenger it was little short of a crime.
A local bayle had ordered the peasants from their fields to come and deter the English army by force of their arms. The arms they had were some antiquated bills fixed to ash handles, a couple of swords that had seen more service in the local woodpiles than hewing limbs from men, and some bows that were better suited to stunning rabbits than killing men with or without mail.
Berenger would have let them leave without punishing them, but when the arrows began to fall more thickly, Imbert lashed at his mount and hurtled off after the peasants. Pierre and Felix followed suit, plainly thinking that they were duty bound to follow any man who sought to attack the enemy, and in moments Berenger saw that he had no choice. The first rule of any army was that the men should not run after the enemy until commanded to do so, and that would be only when the commander had been assured that this was not some feint intended to draw the men apart. And now, because of the rashness of Imbert, more than half his force was already riding like men-at-arms in their first charge.
‘Saul, Fulk, keep with me; Robin, Clip, Dogbreath, I trust you with your bows. When we’re in bowshot, watch for any signs of danger. If there is an ambush, don’t wait for the order: loose at will. Is that clear? I’ll have Imbert’s balls for this!’ And then he was off, haring after the rest of his vintaine as fast as his little pony could go. It was not fast, and he was not quick enough to catch up with Imbert or the others. He bellowed at the top of his voice to them to halt, but he knew it was in vain. In his own ears he could hear little but the irregular thunder of his pony’s hoofs, the snap and crack of his cloak as the wind tugged at it, the rattle of chains, the creaking of leather, the stertorous breathing of his mount; the sensation of his hair being tugged back, the hissing and rushing in his ears, was as good as a pint of wine after a filling meal. It made him feel complete – whole.
Then the scene was ruined as he saw the flare of red. He saw Imbert’s sword high in the air, and the youth’s throat opened wide like a second mouth, and the bayle who stood, the bow shaking in his hand as he saw the red death in Imbert’s eyes and tried to draw, but the arrow was released too soon and missed its mark as Imbert ran him down, kicking him in the face, springing from his mount and hacking at the man as he lay screaming, trying to cover himself with his arms, but his arms were no defence against two feet of English steel, and the man was defenceless and left to die as Imbert ran to the next, a pair of young boys who stood sobbing in their terror, as petrified with horror as rabbits seeing the fox approach.
‘Stop! Enough!’ Berenger roared as he approached, but he was too late. He heard them crying out: it sounded like one was calling for his soeur, his sister, perhaps to save him. Most boys would call for their mother, not a sister, but maybe these lads were orphaned and their sister had looked after them. What in Hell’s name did it matter now?
Berenger saw that Felix and Pierre were copying Imbert’s example, Felix slashing about him with the abandon of a man in a horrible dream, while Pierre looked as sad as only a reluctant executioner can.
Berenger looked about him. There was no ambush. Here, strewn about the grasses and the mud, were only a collection of peasants pulled from their fields that morning, with no training, and given a rudimentary collection of weapons. They had not managed to injure even a single man of the vintaine. The two boys killed by Imbert looked as though they were too young even to hold a sword. They were shorter than the adults by a full head. They could only be some ten or eleven summers old. Only a little older than Alazaïs’s boys, he thought, and that brought a tear to his eye.
‘French bastards!’ Imbert shouted. He was kicking at the corpse of the bayle still; the red mist had clearly come down over him.
Berenger turned and beckoned to Robin and the others before riding to Imbert. He pointed to Nick and Pierre. ‘Hold him,’ he snapped. ‘If he tries to kick someone again, I’ll break his fucking leg. And you!’ he added to Imbert, ‘will wait and do every painful duty for the vintaine in the next week to remind you that you wait for my orders before you risk your life and theirs in a reckless charge like that! Next time, I will leave you to ride on to your own doom without our support!’
He waited for the rest of his vintaine, and as he did, he cast his eye over the landscape quickly, wary of another French party arriving. There were men over to the south, but they appeared to be watching, not considering approaching and disputing the right of the English to be there. Then he saw a mounted force approaching from the ruins of a village in front of the army.
‘Riders!’ he shouted. ‘Archers! Dismount and nock an arrow!’
There was a rattle of hoofs from behind him, and he heard Clip’s muted ‘Fuck!’ at the sight of the youngsters, but then the men were all leaving their saddles and stringing their bows, snatching arrows up and nocking in preparation. Clip had seven arrows already stabbed into the ground in front of him as he stood with his bow at the ready. ‘You want me to drop one o’ them, Frip?’
Robin scoffed at that. ‘Can you see them yet, old man? I thought your eyesight wouldn’t pick them up yet.’
‘My eyesight’s good enough to hit an arsehole at thirty paces, and you’re nearer than that!’
‘A glowing endorsement. You can hit a man at thirty paces. Impressive,’ Robin said.
‘I’ll . . .’
‘Shut up, both of you!’ Berenger snapped. He was peering at the riders with narrowed eyes. ‘Can anyone see whether they’re ours or French?’
Fulk suddenly leaned forward and stared. ‘Scheisse! It’s Will, Frip. I can see him riding in front.’
Denisot heard and he strained to see the horsemen more clearly.
‘Keep him back!’ Berenger ordered, and then squared his shoulders as Will and his party came nearer. Berenger felt the anticipation like acid in his belly. His bow was not in his hand. That was fortunate, because if it had been, he might have drawn and loosed before Will had approached any nearer.
‘Fripper, God has been kind to you!’ Will called. He held up his hand and the company slowed to a halt, before Will himself allowed his horse to walk forward. It looked expensive, and Berenger felt a sudden shame to be mounted on such a lowly beast as his pony. ‘You look as though you are better than when you left me. Your liking for strong wines then was the most obvious driving force in your life, but now you look almost
like a man who is happy without. Or do you have a large wineskin about you now?’
‘What are you doing here, Will?’
‘Such a cold voice? I am surprised. And I thought we were—’
Fulk and Saul moved to stand at Berenger’s side as he cut Will off. ‘You are a fool, Will. You think to embarrass me before my men, but they know me well enough already.’
‘These? Fulk and Saul, I know. Where is Loys? Oh, but I heard, he died, didn’t he?’
‘Not from the wounds your ambush gave him,’ Berenger snapped.
‘Oh, I know that. I know much about you and your men.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Have you never thought about that? How we never met on the march until today?’ He smiled then. ‘You cannot continue a feud in the army, Fripper. You will get yourself into trouble.’
‘You will have trouble enough. I will have revenge on you for having Alazaïs murdered with her children.’
‘Who?’ Will smiled. ‘The little French widow? Oh, she was nothing. But she did like me. As for having her murdered, it’s a little rich to blame me. If you had left her behind she would still be living now. Her death is another of your responsibilities, Frip, I fear.’
‘What of my wife, then?’ Denisot blurted, trying to wrest his pony from the two men holding him back. ‘What of her, and the others in my little village?’
‘Who is that, Fripper? A keen little ferret you picked up along the way? You always liked your little rescues, didn’t you?’
‘Get off your horse, and we’ll see who’s—’ Denisot blurted, wrestling to free himself.
‘Much though I’d like to, I have to get back. I am a scout, you see, and our vintaine is due some rest once we have reported. Not all of us can enjoy such exciting sport as killing children, after all,’ he added, looking down at the youngsters lying dead.
Berenger almost threw himself at him. Will was so arrogant, so smooth, so confident. ‘Command has served you well,’ he said. ‘You come across as assured, but I know the weakness at your core.’
Will laughed long and loud. Still smiling, he leaned down until his elbow was on the crupper. ‘You dare say to me that I have a weakness at my core? When your hands shake even now with desire for a pot of wine?’
He was still laughing as he rode past.
Wednesday 7 September
There was a thin mist over all the land when Berenger woke the next morning. It was cooling and attractive, but it did not soothe his blood. He had a choleric disposition that morning. The memory of Will’s laugh and his smile was enough to make Berenger clench his fists and tense his belly. There could be nothing better than to wipe that smile from his face forever.
He rolled up his blanket and went to the fire’s embers from the night before. There was no heat in it, and he would have to start again from scratch. As a task to distract him, building a fire would be effective, so he gathered some drier twigs and pulled out his own tinder in its draw-string leather purse. His flint was in there too, and he took it and began the laborious job of striking a spark, succeeding after many attempts, and carefully blowing on the tiny spark, enwrapping it in some charcloth, blowing more firmly until the tinder and the charcloth were showing a small flame, and then setting it down with some more tinder and wood shavings.
When he had a good fire built, he rose. He saw Robin watching him. ‘Well?’
‘You appeared to be doing well enough without my help.’ Robin rose from his bed and stretched. ‘Is it to be another wet day today?’
Berenger pulled a face. ‘It seems better to me. The air is clearer. With luck it’ll be warm.’
‘You’re still angry, then?’
‘It’s that obvious?’
‘Leave him, Frip. Wait until we have a battle and you can drop him without anyone seeing.’
Fripper gave a dry grin. ‘Is that how it’s done now?’
‘Hasn’t it always been?’
‘That bastard. He’s won. I can’t do anything to him.’
‘Why not?’
Berenger shook his head. ‘He even knew about Loys. How could that be, unless he has a friend here in the vintaine?’
‘You suspect me now?’
Berenger glanced at the two huddled bodies at the far side of the clearing: Saul and Fulk. Had one of them been spying on him?
Robin laughed. ‘Them? And how did they broadcast your news? By letter, sealed and delivered to Will? Think, Frip. More likely it was a cook or baker who heard of your plight and Loys’ death, and Will heard tell. You think Fulk or Saul would betray you after all the time they’ve been with you?’
‘I don’t know. I’m going to go and ride about the camp.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t think that is a good idea.’
‘You think someone could attack me?’
Robin said nothing, but his expression told the tale. He believed Berenger was going to seek Will.
‘You wait here,’ Berenger said.
He saddled and bridled his pony and trotted off into the early morning. The last vestiges of darkness still lingered, and he didn’t feel comfortable about riding at speed, but he was desperate to get away from all the men for a little while, if he could. He set his mount’s face to the west and cantered along easily enough. The wind in his face, the feel of the pony beneath him, the sight of a fresh morning, all served to calm his angry spirit. Some of his choler left him, leaving him feeling bitter, but less angry. Instead he began to become aware of a melancholy settling on him like a cloak, dulling his awareness, but not so much that he was unaware of the horse riding after him.
‘So you cannot even obey a simple order, like stay where you are?’
Robin gave a short laugh. ‘If I had been that obedient, I would not be here now.’
‘Why? What brought you here, Robin?’
‘You suspect me of spying on you?’
‘You didn’t answer the question.’
Robin gave a wry smile. ‘So you do suspect me now? In the first place I am here because Grandarse caught me in Bordeaux. He found me in the streets when I was hungry and thirsty, and he bought me food and drink. But when I found myself here, I thought, “Why not?” After all, everyone in England has heard about the amounts of money made by the soldiers who joined the King and the Prince in previous chevauchées. And I had little to look forward to at home.’
‘Why?’
‘I am here because I was forced to abjure. I killed a man at home, and although I managed to make it to the church and claim sanctuary, the coroner gave me the usual punishment. Exile for life. I gave up all my possessions, everything was forfeit, and made my way here.’
Berenger watched him as Robin stared out over the flat landscape, a land of fields and trees. ‘You look like a man who has found a place to live.’
‘I love it,’ Robin said. ‘But I wish I could see it in happier times.’
‘Yes,’ Berenger said.
The two rode on. There was a natural path that took them between stands of trees and on towards a distant smoke. Both paused, Robin gazing about them diligently, while Berenger stared down at the ground, deep in thought.
He said, ‘Perhaps there is someone who is keeping an eye on me and the vintaine. It could be someone from Sir John’s entourage. It could be Sir John’s clerk, or the squire. There is his sergeant, too, and his . . .’
‘There are men enough in the army to spy on you, I agree,’ Robin said. ‘But not too many would have . . . What is that?’
Berenger stopped his horse and turned in his saddle to peer at Robin. ‘What?’
Robin said nothing, but urged his horse into a slow walk along a pathway cut in the bracken that led to a small copse.
‘Oh, Christ’s bones!’
She was young, but still, a woman not a child. Her arms were spread between two trees, bound with thongs, and her body had slumped back, her chin pointing up at the sky. She had been killed slowly, from the
look of her. Blood was all over her pale breasts and between her legs.
‘Sweet Mother of God,’ Robin whispered.
Berenger dropped from his pony and walked to her. The blood had congealed beneath her, so she had not died very recently, he guessed, but when he touched her throat, he discovered that she was still warmer than the air about them. It looked as though her killer had raped her with a spear or knife, from the blood at her thighs.
‘Poor child!’ Robin said.
Berenger nodded and took his hand away, contemplating her. He had taken women in his time as a soldier; he had seen many women slain after the sack of a town; and yet this death struck him as more sad than all the others. She was not beautiful, she was not rich. She was a mere peasant woman, scarcely old enough to be wedded, and she had been brought here and tortured for no reason except possibly her killer’s twisted lust.
‘He’s getting worse,’ Berenger said. ‘At first it was just killing. Now he’s torturing his victims. And he’s killing more and more. Look at this woman! I’ve seen rapes, I’ve seen women killed. I’ve seen them forced to witness their husbands and children being slain before them, but that was soldiers killing when their blood was up, or when they were drunk. This is a sober man who chooses to kill because he enjoys it. And every time, it is just after Will’s company has passed by.’
‘There are many in our army who enjoy killing and raping,’ Robin said.
‘There are some. But most kill because they have to, because if they do not, their opponent will kill them. In the company, when I still ruled it, women were raped. I tried to stop it, but even then the men were more likely to rape a woman and let her go. It was rare that she would be slain, and if she was, it would be because she tried to defend herself and hurt her assailant. It was an immediate, drunken reaction, not because the assailant needed to see her die for his satisfaction!’
Blood of the Innocents Page 35
