Blood of the Innocents Page 5

  Thomas stared at him. He wanted to say, ‘Flee? Flee where?’ After all, he was one of the few men who knew the truth about the negotiations Charles of Navarre had held with the English, offering to split France between them both, half to King Edward, half to Charles.

  The old priest continued, ‘I should take the road west, head towards Pèrigueux first, then south by degrees. If you go to the English at Bordeaux, you may be able to find a ship to take you to Galicia and avoid the mountains. The English are friends to your King, are they not?’

  Thomas de Ladit gave a brief laugh but there was no humour in it. ‘They were.’

  ‘Why, surely they are still allies?’

  ‘My Lord is a very competent politician. He has always used his position to gain power. At first, he thought that he could win back lands by intrigue. When King John took away his territories to reward others, my Lord fought back as he could. He made friends at court, he courted the Dauphin and finally he sent for help from the English. But when his threats worked, he turned against the English. They are in Normandy now, but if they have learned the truth about his duplicity, I think that they would be very keen to speak with me.’

  ‘Then all the more reason to head south as speedily as you may. Escape while you can! Find yourself a place of sanctuary.’

  ‘There is no sanctuary for me,’ Thomas said, and he felt as though his heart would break as he admitted it to himself.

  Clip snored and mumbled, then rolled over. A tree root stuck in his back and he moved away, trying to get comfortable. It wasn’t easy. He had slept on sandy beaches, he had slept on ploughed fields, he had slept on roadways, but he had always found it difficult to sleep where there were too many roots.

  He’d picked this spot because it looked so soft and inviting, and safe underneath the oak, too. But no matter where he tried to go, this patch of grass concealed lumps and bumps that would have tested a drunken man-at-arms in full armour. Clip had no chance. He opened his eyes and was about to sit up when he saw a large shape against the sky.

  It was a man, moving carefully and silently between the various recumbent figures on the ground. As Clip watched, he saw the man lift his leg high in an elaborate step over one fellow, then pause and rest when another nearby grunted and muttered in his sleep.

  Where are you going? Clip wondered. He considered calling out, but then thought better of it as he recognised that it was Imbert. Imbert was a big man, and he was close enough to reach Clip and clobber him before any of the others had woken. Clip quickly closed his eyes in case Imbert should see a glint in the dark.

  Thus it was that when there was a sudden movement, a thud like a lead maul striking a log, and a soft sound like a body collapsing gently, aided by a man’s supportive hands, Clip saw none of it. When he opened his eyes, there was no sign of Imbert. However, there was a louder snore from the direction in which he had been walking. Clip sat up, peering in that direction. He saw a new body lying on the grass with no blanket. When he glanced about him, he saw Imbert’s blanket where he had settled, supposedly for the night. Grandarse was apparently asleep some yards away, farting and chuckling in a dream, while the others seemed to be content too. Only one man seemed to be awake. When Clip glanced over at Robin, he was sure he caught a brief glimpse, as though an eye had been open and watching him.

  Thursday 7 July

  Denisot was home before the second hour of the morning after speaking with the priest, and pursed his lips when he saw the familiar figure waiting for him.

  Ethor was built like the prior’s barns: massively. He had shoulders that would have suited a bull for power, and his forehead was as heavy as a destrier’s. But his long features were not unkind. He had a mass of unruly brown hair, and sharp little dark eyes, almost hidden beneath his thick brows. His moustache and beard were extravagant, a cause for annoyance with the prior he served as steward, but he refused to allow the barber near his cheeks. So, since the prior knew him to be shrewd and competent at resolving disputes between the ecclesiastical community and the people of Domps, he was permitted to keep his beard.

  Denisot and he were often forced to confer. Usually a visit from Ethor presaged a call from the priory to explain some infringement of the rules, but at least, as Denisot told himself, Ethor was reasonable. They were often able to negotiate together without having to involve the prior’s court.

  However, Denisot had enough to deal with today with the crucified body without having more troubles thrown in his direction. He hoped this was a simple matter.

  ‘My friend,’ he said as Ethor approached. ‘I am glad to see you.’

  ‘You soon won’t be,’ Ethor said. ‘I have no good news.’

  ‘Nor have I,’ Denisot said. ‘I am in the troubling situation of having discovered a dead body.’

  ‘You will soon have many more,’ Ethor said uncompromisingly.

  Denisot frowned at that. He led the way to a bench at the side of his house, from where he could see the roadway. ‘Will you eat a little bread and cheese with me?’

  Ethor nodded and Denisot bellowed for food and drink; while they waited, Denisot spoke of the body Poton had shown him.

  ‘Crucified? In God’s name, that is the work of the Devil!’

  ‘Or his agents on Earth,’ Denisot agreed heavily.

  ‘And what have you done about it?’ Ethor said.

  ‘I took her to the church and she lies there now. This afternoon we shall call the villagers together to discuss the matter.’

  ‘I may be able to help you,’ Ethor said.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘There are messages coming from Uzerche. The town is taken by the English.’

  Denisot was generally careful to avoid curses, but he felt himself close to a profanity at that news. ‘This is certain? I had not heard of any raids being launched in our direction.’

  ‘You know how the English are. They will send out small parties to try their fortune,’ Ethor growled. ‘They roam over a wide area plundering the peasants. I dare say a small group rode up past us a few days ago scouting out the land for their main body, found your girl and killed her.’

  Denisot’s wife, Gaillarde, appeared in the doorway, a servant boy following her with trenchers of cheese and a board holding a one-day-old loaf. She herself carried a jug of wine and two mazers and set them down on the bench near Ethor. She pointedly ignored her husband, pouring for Ethor and leaving Denisot’s cup empty. Her job done, she left the men and went back inside.

  ‘You been stabbing your lance in another woman?’ Ethor asked, his brows lowered so his eyes were almost entirely hidden as he gazed after her.

  ‘You think I have time? That harpy would probably be glad if I did. She would really have something to complain about.’

  Ethor laughed. ‘I’ve seen your maid, Denisot. You mean to tell me you haven’t been asking her to serve your pork sword?’

  Denisot’s face darkened. ‘Gaillarde would know in a trice if I dared.’

  ‘Where is she? I’ll try my own luck with her.’

  ‘You think my wife would allow her to come and tempt us with her charms? Suzette will be indoors cleaning or something, while Gaillarde forces the boy to come and serve guests or their master,’ Denisot said bitterly.

  Ethor chuckled. ‘I see: she has you fixed. She has Suzette hidden away, and keeps you away from her at all hours. So, what’s the matter with her, then?’

  Denisot gave an emphatic shrug. ‘She’s a woman. When I have learned what makes her unhappy, I will sell the cure and become as rich as a cardinal.’

  Ethor chuckled and poured wine for Denisot.

  Denisot took the mazer from him and the two sipped. Then Denisot set his cup aside. ‘Very well. What have you heard?’

  ‘The town was attacked in the night. All guards were slain where they stood, the gates were opened and the English went through the town like plums through a hound. They’ve burned and slaughtered all in their path, I hear.’

  ‘What will the
y do now?’

  ‘You know what the English are like,’ Ethor said. ‘They’ll ravage the place and then go on to the next. There’s no telling where they’ll try next, but I fear that it could be in our direction. We should prepare ourselves.’

  Denisot nodded grimly and sipped his wine. ‘The meeting with the villagers is even more vital now. We have to prepare ourselves for attack.’

  Later, when Denisot stood before the rest of the men of the village, he had to bellow at the top of his voice to kill off the hubbub. He was at the door to the village church, the body of the dead girl on the ground before him. It had been decided that the interior of the church would not provide enough space for all to view the body.

  ‘We can be sure that the English have been here,’ he said. ‘They have taken Uzerche, and we know that they came past us, for why else would we have this poor child found in this state?’

  ‘She was crucified,’ the priest said, shaking his head and crossing himself several times. ‘It is an abhorrent crime, to kill a child in this manner. To taint the image of the death of Christ!’

  ‘It’s a pretty foul way to kill whether it’s in the style of the Son of God or anyone else,’ Nicolas said. The peasant had a round, ruddy face with heavy jowls. He drew down the corners of his fleshy mouth and rubbed his fingers on his leather jerkin with loathing. ‘The man who could do this does not deserve to be protected by the law. He should be pulled through the streets to the top of the hill and broken on the wheel.’

  ‘Who knows this girl?’ Denisot said sharply. He had seen enough meetings degenerate into squabbles and arguments. With the news of Uzerche, he was keen to get the matter of the body put away so that the men could all return to the more important matter of the town’s survival.

  ‘I have not seen her,’ the priest said, shaking his head as he studied the body.

  ‘Someone must know her!’ Denisot declared, raising his voice and glaring about him. ‘Come, does no one recall seeing her on the road? At market?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Ethor said, ‘she was found miles away by the English. They are all murderers and thieves, those routiers. Perhaps they discovered her at the side of the road twenty miles away and took her as a marching wife? It is the sort of thing they do.’

  ‘You think mercenaries would take a child like this for their beds?’ Denisot said. ‘I have heard that they kill without thinking, but if they were to take a wife they would surely have a grown woman who could march with them?’

  ‘No one here recognises her,’ Nicolas said. ‘She will have to be buried in a pauper’s grave. So, what of the English?’

  ‘We should at least ask in neighbouring towns whether anyone has gone missing,’ Denisot said. ‘Perhaps we ought to send to Chamberet – or to Sussac?’

  There was a grumbling from the villagers, but when the priest stood and agreed with him, the disgruntled noise settled down. However, when it came to finding a man to take the message, the others all looked down or away.

  Denisot sighed. ‘I shall go, then.’

  As soon as that was announced, business moved on swiftly to the threat of mercenaries and Englishmen. ‘Has anybody heard anything since Uzerche was taken?’

  ‘I heard from old Remon that the day before yesterday he saw horses with thirty or more men in armour,’ Talebot said. He was a perpetually anxious-looking man, tall and grey-featured even after hours labouring in the sun. He had never recovered from the loss of his wife and two sons in the plague, and now his eyes squinted permanently as though he was still peering at the world from behind a veil of tears.

  ‘Remon?’ Denisot said.

  He was reminded that Remon lived far to the south, perhaps a quarter of the way to Uzerche itself, almost six miles on the road to Chamberet. He had a small patch of land with a cottage, and held it as a free man. His wife was feared in every market, where her ability to negotiate discounts made her despised by all sellers, but Remon was amiable enough.

  Talebot nodded as others spoke about old Remon. ‘Yes, he saw them, he says, about the last hours of daylight. They were riding incautiously, looking about them. He had no idea who they might be, but he hid himself just in case.’

  ‘They had no children such as this with them?’ Denisot said.

  ‘Not that Remon told me, but he wouldn’t have spent long looking,’ Talebot said. ‘They must have been English. If he had got too close, they would have murdered him, just as they kill all others.’

  Denisot felt a flame of anger. ‘They are only men,’ he said. ‘No better nor worse than us!’

  But they have the weapons,’ Talebot said.

  Friday 8 July

  Berenger was up early that morning. He rose quietly, as was his wont, and made his way out from the building where he had established his command centre, a widow’s house just off the square near the middle of the town.

  He had no fears of the townspeople here; he had no fear of anyone living. No weapon could hurt him. Weapons were only a means to end his suffering in this miserable world. With a sword at his side and his padded coat with hardened leather breastplate, he felt as safe as he would anywhere in the world.

  But the dead: the dead were different. In his dreams he saw them again, all those whose lives he had ended or seen ended. Young boys slain because they tried to protect their father’s farm; a young girl decapitated because a jumpy member of Berenger’s company had caught a fleeting glimpse of a moving figure and thought it was a man trying to kill him. All those dead; all the mutilated. They came to him at night. It was only the wine that protected him from them. And from her. From the memory of his wife.

  There was a woman’s body in the corner of a building, and he slowed slightly as he took in the sight of her torn skirts, bared breast and spread legs. Another woman dead. Too many were dying. Men in mercenary companies did not join because they were kind or gentle, and those in the towns where they stayed did not feel warmth and comradeship towards those who raped their wives and daughters and left them for dead. He lengthened his stride as he approached the gate, and hardly slowed as he mounted the stairs to the walkway.

  ‘You can go,’ he said to the yawning guard.

  A young fighter, Loys had joined the English in Guyenne. He had shown himself to be hardy, but he was not the brightest of the men, in Berenger’s opinion, and his pale, thin face was growing haggard. English and Low Countries fighters laughed at his pale hair, gangling limbs and credulity, and he had often been the butt of their malicious jokes.

  Loys nodded gratefully and stretched his back, then spread his hands. Long hours gripping his spear shaft had turned his fingers into claws. He jerked his head over the surrounding landscape. ‘Nothing moving there, Frip.’

  ‘Thanks. Go and sleep.’

  The man turned and lumbered down the stone steps, leaving Berenger alone over the gate. From here he could see the bridge clearly, the small stone tower defending the approach standing a little more than a bowshot away over the river. It was the river that defined this little town. It had slashed through the ground here like a surgeon’s knife, although not so neatly. Here, about Uzerche, it had gouged a long finger from the land pointing northwards, with the bridge at the tip of the fingernail. Although the weather had been mild, the river was still full and its thunder and roar could be heard from almost everywhere in the town.

  Beyond the tower, trees broke the line of the landscape as it rolled away. Berenger stood at the town’s gate, and behind him the town rose on tier upon tier of rock, with wealthy houses bearing turrets and castellations like so many castles. This place was wealthy, and much of the wealth came from that little timber bridge.

  ‘Frip?’

  He turned to see his second-in-command, Will. The fair-haired Englishman came up the stairs in a rush and stood staring about him. ‘A fine morning.’

  ‘No trouble?’

  ‘A couple of my boys got frisky with a young maid, but she wasn’t badly injured,’ Will said easily. ‘I had her sent home.’<
br />
  ‘Did you check to see she was safe?’

  ‘Why would I? She was only a French maid.’

  ‘Not the woman who lies dead not a bowshot from here, then?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You should keep your men under tighter control,’ Berenger snapped. His head felt heavy, and the thoughts moved sluggishly in his mind. ‘We don’t want the townspeople to rise against us.’

  ‘They’ll regret it if they do, won’t they?’ Will said. ‘We have men enough and weapons to keep them all down.’

  ‘Perhaps. But it would be better if we didn’t have to. If we stick to keeping them safe from robbers and thieves, we can stay here for a long time and enjoy some peace ourselves.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Will said. He was smiling again. ‘But too much peace will make the men sloppy and lazy.’

  Berenger wanted to argue. There had been a time ten years before when he would have made it a point to correct Will. It was futile to inflict more violence and suffering on a town than was entirely necessary; the consequence would be revolt and the need to use even more force to quash it. Berenger had no compunction about using violence on those who tried to thwart him, but he deprecated using it unnecessarily.

  ‘The men need their releases, Frip. You know that as well as any.’

  Berenger stared away, over the landscape. His back was injured, his face bore a ragged scar, his shoulder had a hideous star-shaped wound where a bolt had passed through him. Yes, he had endured enough of battle to know that men must have their relaxation. Soldiers needed women for sex and comfort, just as they needed their wine and ale. And the latter inspired a desire for the former.