Fields of Glory Page 4

  Once, only a short time ago, Béatrice would have grinned at the thought, but not now. There was no place for humour in her life any more. Not since her father’s arrest and execution.

  Execution: a word that struck the heart with terror. Béatrice knew how men who had incurred the King’s displeasure were made to suffer the most savage punishments before death. It was appalling to think that her own father could have endured such horrors. Friends had betrayed him. A respected specialist, valued by all who knew him and his work, and yet his life had been snuffed out like a candle so that no memory remained except in her.

  Afterwards she had fled to her uncle’s house at Barfleur, some two days’ journey north. There she had hoped to be safe, but in the little port, stories about her father’s crime were soon bruited about, and all too many assumed the worst. Even her uncle, a decent, law-abiding merchant, was accused of being a spy or murderer. Leaving the house one morning, she was set upon by a gang of urchins, who taunted her and pelted her with stones and ordure. Bloody and bruised, she was left to crawl away.

  For her own safety, her uncle had sent her here. The woman, Hélène, was the widow of a former servant of his. She lived on a small pension provided by Béatrice’s uncle, but for the last few days she had been unwell. Béatrice was fearful that she too was going to die, and once more she would be all alone; here, further than ever from home. It was no good dwelling on her family – she had no idea where her mother was.

  At least the local priest was kind. He had offered to come and help her with the old woman.

  At that moment, there was a snap of twigs, footsteps, and she went to peer round the side of the cottage.

  ‘I am glad to see you, Father,’ she said now as she saw the priest walking slowly up the path to the door.

  ‘And I to see you, child.’

  He was a young man for the job. Only three- or four-and-twenty, short, dark-skinned and with large, liquid brown eyes that smiled all the while as though he could see a joke that was hidden to others. He smiled now, his eyes taking in her clothing. ‘You look tired, maid.’

  ‘I am weary,’ she admitted.

  ‘How is Hélène?’

  ‘She grows weaker, Father. I have fed her on warm pottage and an egg, but it does her no good.’

  ‘Let us pray for her.’

  Béatrice made to go inside, but he stopped her. ‘No, we can honour God out here in the world He made.’

  ‘I’d rather go inside, Father. I don’t like to leave her alone for long.’

  ‘Come here, maid. Hold my hands.’

  She did as she was asked. What else should a woman do when commanded by a priest? But he had different ideas. He took her hands and gently put them on his waist, pulling her nearer. ‘Hold me, maid, and we can pray together.’

  Béatrice tried to pull away. His voice was grown harsh and hoarse, and when he thrust his groin at her, she felt his tarse poking at her through his habit. She froze. It felt as though her heart stopped beating. ‘Father, let me go!’

  ‘Child, do not disobey your priest! I am not evil. Just lie with me, and let me show you how—’

  ‘No, Father!’ she blurted, and snatched her hands away.

  His voice took on a sly tone. ‘You will do everything I say, because if you don’t, I will accuse you of being a witch. Would you like that? People already mutter about you here. They say you have a black cat, that you are killing the old woman here in the cottage. They will believe me rather than you. What are you, after all, but a slut who came here because your father was a despised traitor.’

  ‘He wasn’t! Leave! Go away,’ she whispered. No one could think she was a witch, surely? She felt suddenly weak, as if she was about to faint. And she thought she might vomit.

  His tone changed again, became wheedling. ‘I love you, can’t you see that? Let me have you, Béatrice. I burn for you!’

  ‘Get away from me! We’ll both burn if you force me!’

  The young man lost patience. ‘You are no better than your father. He was a traitor, but you are a witch. You give the appearance of holiness, Béatrice, but you despise priests like me. Devil’s whore!’

  She recoiled from him and from his words. ‘Please – have pity on me,’ she begged.

  ‘If you don’t do as I ask, I will denounce you, witch. It is said you are privy to secrets no woman should know.’

  ‘Go away!’

  Afterwards, there was no memory. She saw him at that moment, his hands reaching for her breasts, a look of pure lust and devilry in his eyes, and then . . . then she was back inside the cottage and kneeling at Hélène’s bedside. As she bathed the old woman’s forehead to cool her, she was surprised to see the water in the bowl turn red as she put her hands in it.

  Later, Hélène died, very peacefully – and when Béatrice went out to throw away the dirty water, she stumbled over the priest’s body.

  She screamed with shock. She vaguely remembered slapping at him with her hands, but she hadn’t realised that she had been holding her little knife.

  ‘Well?’ Grandarse was sitting with his back to a tree close by the wood from which the attack had been launched. Flames from the fire were flickering over his bearded features, giving them a devilish tint.

  Berenger chuckled. ‘I thought your eyes were shut?’

  ‘Aye, even when they are, I’m alert,’ Grandarse said smugly.

  Berenger grinned as he reported to his centener about the men, his sentries, how he had stored their provisions.

  ‘The men know what they’re doing,’ Grandarse noted. ‘Most have campaigned with the King before, and any man grows easier in spirit, the more there are with him. No man likes to be at the foremost point of a King’s spear, to be the first man landed on a hostile shore, but when he is one of hundreds or thousands, his courage is rekindled.’

  ‘True enough,’ Berenger agreed.

  ‘You still think he’s no good, eh?’ Grandarse said shrewdly. ‘That boy?’

  Berenger squatted beside the fire. ‘He’s too young to stand in the line; he can’t draw a bow – he’s a wasted mouth. What will you pay him?’

  ‘Pay? I get a shilling a day, like an esquire; you get sixpence; the men get thruppence; a Welshman tuppence. He’s worth a penny, I suppose, if he can carry our stores. He can forage, and he can fetch supplies in battle, can’t he? He’ll earn it. You saw him today. Was there any sign he would break?’

  ‘No,’ Berenger admitted. ‘He obeyed orders.’

  ‘He didn’t puke at the sight of bodies, did he?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then stop worrying! He’ll work his way until he’s a man. Same as some of us did. Like I did.’

  ‘Yes,’ Berenger nodded, staring into the fire. Grandarse rarely tired of telling how he had joined the King’s host when he was an orphan scarcely eleven, and had never looked back.

  Grandarse hawked and spat, eyeing him keenly. ‘Well, Frip? What is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. There’s something about him that doesn’t feel right. I’ve had boys join before, you know that, and they start out nervous and fretful. But when they have fought some battles and killed a few men, they begin to grow. Soon they’re men. But when they see their first fight, see the bodies strewn about, they have a sympathy for them. They realise that these were only men. This lad’s different. He was pathetically worried before, but when he saw the bodies of the French, he had a sort of feral enthusiasm for them. There was no pity or concern, only . . . excitement.’

  ‘We’ve seen enough men like that before,’ Grandarse observed slowly, prodding at the fire with a stick. He paused. ‘D’you think he’s bad luck?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Berenger said shortly.

  ‘Keep your eyes on him, then.’

  ‘I will.’

  Ed felt a part of the vintaine already.

  As he sat, nursing a wooden bowl filled with meaty soup and a handful of leaves gathered from the fields, he felt as close to these men as he had to any. It wa
s just like having a family at last, and he relished the sense of belonging.

  A man passed by and a hand ruffled his hair, and although he snatched his head away automatically, scowling, he treasured the rough affection.

  He averted his eyes when he saw Geoff watching him. Ed felt sure the man meant him no harm, but he was another like Fripper, who seemed to be able to read his thoughts. They both made him nervous.

  The others were all kindly though: Jack, who held a senior position along with Geoff; Oliver, who had a horrible squint that made him seem to be leering the whole time; Matt, the square-faced, black-haired man who was proud of his reputation as a womaniser; Walter, the one over at the far side of the fire, with the bright blue eyes and fair hair, who had a thin, sensitive face and puckered lips; Gil with the gingerish hair and the perpetual scowl sitting next to Luke, the man with the round face and air of affable confusion, no matter what he did.

  Luke was addressing Ed now.

  ‘So, master, you belong to our vintaine now. The only remaining question is, what shall we call you?’

  ‘My name is Ed.’

  ‘No, master, that will not do,’ Luke sat back and belched gently. ‘I think you are more of a packhorse. You lumber as you go. Perhaps we should call you “Sumpter”.’

  ‘Too long,’ Oliver commented. ‘ “Pack” would be better.’

  ‘Whoever heard of a man called “Pack”?’ Luke protested. ‘Every time we left a camp, the poor boy would think we were calling him as the orders flew around his head. No, we couldn’t call him that.’

  ‘How about “Goat”? He smells like one,’ Walter said disdainfully.

  ‘Now, Walt, there’s no need to be offensive.’ Luke stretched and yawned. ‘I think my idea was best.’

  ‘What’s wrong with my real name?’ Ed demanded, colouring.

  ‘It’s too cheeky, for one thing. What if we call to you, and the King is nearby and thinks we are insulting him or his son? It is a most common name, after all. No, it won’t do. Perhaps “Cart”? We shall be using you to carry all our belongings.’

  ‘Call him “Pony” and be done,’ was Matt’s contribution. ‘I just wish we could go to a town. This sand is getting everywhere. I swear it’s in my cods already.’

  ‘Then it’s lucky there are no women for you to sheath your dagger of love, matey,’ Gil said with a chuckle. ‘No wench would want you near her with a rough edge like that!’

  Matt muttered a foul rejoinder, but Luke wouldn’t let it drop. ‘The boy must have a name,’ he insisted. ‘Come, shall we have a vote for the most popular?’

  ‘Call him “Boy”!’ Gil called out.

  ‘“Mule?”’ Jack offered. ‘He has the temperament of one.’

  ‘Piss on you, Matt!’ Eliot called. He was a short man with greying hair and a ready smile. ‘The lad’s still new. Give him a week, and he’ll be standing us a round of ales in a tavern.’

  Ed knew that they were all mocking him, but he didn’t care. He felt as though he was being accepted.

  ‘I know,’ Luke said into the general mirth. ‘He will fetch and carry, and he isn’t a Pony, while Mule is potentially offensive. Boy, from here on, you will be known as “Donkey”.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it suits you, but more, because it suits me,’ Luke said comfortably. He settled back, pulling his dirty old felt cap over his eyes. ‘You will learn, Donkey, as you grow older (if you do) that there is more to life than a Christian name. Sometimes the name our comrades give us is much more important.’

  ‘So why are you keeping to your given name?’

  Luke opened a bright, beady eye like a blackbird’s, and peered at him. ‘I was named Martin, Donkey.’

  It was late when Berenger finally slumped to the ground near Geoff. The others had already rolled themselves in their blankets and cloaks, and there was a muted snoring from Clip, a whiffling wheezing from an older man nearer the fire. Two members of the vintaine sat murmuring at a farther fire, one of them slowly and methodically stroking a stone over his sword’s blade like a harvester sharpening his scythe.

  Berenger had walked the outer line of the sentries, and wandered out beyond the light from the fires. There he had stealthily crept from one tree to another, his ears alert for any sounds, but he returned reassured. The French were nowhere about. Not yet.

  ‘That lad – Donkey.’

  Berenger didn’t have to look to know whose voice it was. The sibilance revealed that it came from Geoff. He squatted down near his old comrade and held his hands to the fire. ‘What about him?’

  ‘The boy’s made enemies of the Welsh already. I saw him fetching water a while back, and a group of knifemen were laughing and making comments. I swear he would have pulled his knife on one who came too close.’

  Berenger scowled. ‘He tries that again, cuff him round the head. What, did the fool think they were French or something?’

  ‘He knew they were Welsh, but he has no love for them, it seems. The boy’s weird, I know, but he’ll work out. He just needs a good thrashing every so often, like all lads.’

  ‘That’s what Grandarse said.’

  ‘But you aren’t sure?’

  ‘I wish I was.’ Berenger picked up a twig and shoved it into the fire. The end of his twig glowed, and he withdrew it, blowing on the ember reflectively.

  ‘You never had a son, did you?’ Geoff said.

  ‘No. At least you have your wife and children,’ Berenger said. He stared at the fire. ‘That’s my greatest regret. After this war, I will find a wife. I should give up this life.’

  ‘You think you can?’ Geoff chuckled mirthlessly. ‘It’s easier to be said than to be done. A woman can at least be bought easily enough,’ he added. ‘There are enough camp followers who would make you a good wife for as long as you want.’

  Berenger looked at him, hearing a sharp edge to his voice. Geoff had always spoken with pride of his wife and two sons. Suggesting Berenger might find a ‘good wife’ from among the camp followers was unsettling. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. I’m just tired.’

  ‘It’s been a long day,’ Berenger agreed.

  ‘Don’t worry about the boy. I’ll look after him,’ Geoff said gruffly.

  Berenger nodded. With Geoff taking responsibility, he felt reassured.

  ‘Perhaps Ed is here for some reason we cannot guess at,’ Geoff yawned. ‘God has His plans, and we rarely comprehend them.’

  Berenger gave a twisted grin. The smell of thousands of men, along with the latrines, let alone the French corpses piled a short distance away, all made him wonder what plans God might hold for them. Later, when he was preparing for sleep, his head on his bag, he glanced across at Geoff. The fellow was staring up at the black sky still.

  ‘Bugger it,’ Berenger heard him mutter, just before he fell into a deep sleep.

  They were a rag-bag of soldiers. Even in her shocked state, Béatrice thought how battered they looked, when they passed by her cottage later that night.

  Their leader was a tall, well-mannered nobleman with a face marked by pain and fatigue. Grey bruises under his eyes and deep lines at either side of his mouth and at his brow told of the savage beating they had received at the hands of the English invaders.

  ‘Maid, you must leave here,’ he said, halting his horse at her gate while his men shuffled past. His head dropped from exhaustion as he surveyed her sadly. ‘It is dangerous. The English are come. No man, woman or child is safe. You know what monsters they are.’

  She looked up at him dull. The priest’s attempted rape of her, and his death, had affected her deeply. She felt washed out, weary almost to death. This nobleman could have no idea of monsters: her father had been slain by the King! But she nodded nonetheless. She would not show her true feelings.

  ‘They landed very near,’ the man went on. ‘We did all we could, but they slaughtered my men and we few escaped with these injuries. They’re only a matter of hours away. I tell you again: you
have to leave this place before they get here.’

  ‘I cannot. My mistress has died and I must see to her.’

  ‘Let the priest deal with her, if he will come,’ the knight said.

  She nodded, feeling as if the priest’s body was screaming to him from the bushes at the back of the house.

  Not that he or his men could hear anything other than the clamour of arms. It was in their faces: they were mired in horror. They marched slowly, mere tattered remnants. A few rode horses or ponies, but most were on foot, limping and staggering, some helping comrades with arms about their necks as they hobbled along, others using polearms as makeshift staffs.

  ‘Sir, what happened?’

  ‘We arrived too late,’ he said. ‘I should have been there sooner, but one man cannot guard a coast so vast as Normandy’s. When we arrived, there were already enough ashore to thwart us. Our bowmen from Genoa had already deserted us, claiming they were owed money, so we had no protection – nothing. We did all we could, but this is all that is left of the force I had to defend us all. I must make haste to reach St-Lô or Caen and warn them. The English rats will infest every part of our county until they can be burned out.’

  ‘I must remain to bury my mistress,’ Béatrice said, glancing back at the cottage.

  ‘We can carry her to the church, if it will help you,’ the knight said.

  ‘I must collect my things. Some money . . .’

  ‘Then be quick!’ he snapped, keen to be off. ‘We can help you to the church, but after that you must make your own way to safety – if you can find it anywhere in our unhappy kingdom.’

  ‘I thank you,’ she said. She ran back into the cottage and gathered a few belongings, and then, as the men brought out the old woman’s body, she threw Hélène’s palliasse onto the fire. Smoke rose from the hay inside, and she turned and strode from the place.

  Outside, the old cat rubbed against her legs, giving a loud purr that seemed almost demented. She stroked his head as she watched the flames through the doorway. The roof gave off a thick, greenish-yellow smoke as the thatch caught. A flash of heat made the animal leap from her.