Fields of Glory (32 page)

It was a big mistake, he knew. He had been present in enough battles to know the importance of riding at the side of one’s neighbour, so that the ponderous weight of the horses and men
should slam into their opponents simultaneously. Begin the gallop too early, and many horses would compete with each other, a few throwing caution to the winds and racing onwards to ride into the
enemy’s ranks one at a time, losing the impetus that was the strength of the cavalry attack. No, better to wait and, at the perfect moment, launch a united assault.

They were already trotting forward, each man eyeing his neighbour and keeping his mount in check, while the French hammered towards them. Closer, closer . . . and the Earl gave a bellow. The
knights began to canter, and then, with the French only a matter of yards away, the gallop started.

Sir John wanted to sing. His blood was hot, and a tingle of exultation tickled the base of his spine as he leaned down, his spear pointing at the man charging at him. There was a clash as that
man collided with his neighbour, and suddenly there was another man before him. The French onslaught was hampered: with so few enemies to fight, they were riding on a line that was constricting, as
the knights to left and right unsuccessfully tried to find a target.

Closer, closer, closer . . . the thunder of the hooves was beating a tattoo in Sir John’s helmet, and then the clash – and his spear was shivered to pieces as the man before him
disappeared in a welter of blood.

He dropped the butt of the lance and drew his sword, whirling Aeton round and aiming for three Frenchmen who had encircled the Earl.

‘
Saint Boniface
!’ he bawled, and rode in amongst them. A man turned to face him, and Sir John thrust. He felt his sword crunch through the man’s mouth, through teeth and
bone, and then the point snagged. He jerked it free and the man fell with a gurgling scream that was cut off as a horse trampled his head.

A second man appeared to his left, and Sir John rode at him, Aeton taking the man’s horse with his breast, tumbling man and steed to the ground. Sir John wheeled and rode at the gallop to
a pair of French men-at-arms who were approaching warily. One charged, and his sword hacked, catching Sir John’s left arm. He instantly lost all sensation in his fingers, but before he could
try to bring the man to battle, he was on the second, and he saw an opening beneath the man’s armpit where there was no mail. Their swords clashed, and the blow sent a tremor up his arm into
his shoulder, but already his point was down and he shoved forward, feeling his tip cleave through flesh, tearing and slicing. The man’s head fell back, and his eyes opened wide as his horse
trotted away, carrying its master’s corpse.

Sir John turned to meet his first opponent, and saw that he too was riding away. However, there were four Frenchmen clustering about a desperate esquire, who whirled his sword and slammed it
into the head or body of any man who came too close. Sir John swung his sword at the back of the neck of the nearest one, who slumped in agony; Sir John swung again, backhanded, and caught another
man beneath the chin. His chainmail protected him, but he choked, and Sir John’s blow threw him from his horse.

Another man was fighting with the esquire, and Sir John spurred towards him. He caught him unawares, his sword smashing into his forearm. The blow broke his arm beneath the mail, and he dropped
his own sword. Between them, Sir John and the esquire beat at him until he fell, his face bloody and ruined.

And then it was over. Sir John turned to stare at the French force, but all he could see was bodies in the grass. Those who had been on horseback were either dead or riding away at speed. More
English horsemen were chasing after the infantry, and many already lay twitching.

‘Sir John,’ the Earl said, lifting his own visor. ‘I call that an excellent defence of our bridgehead. I thank you for your aid.’

‘My Lord, I am glad I was here to assist,’ Sir John said. He eyed the bodies on the ground. ‘We need as many of our men as possible to hold this bank. I shall stay and ensure
that we do so.’

The Earl expressed his gratitude and rode off back the way they had come, while Sir John stared about him.

‘Berenger? I would be grateful if you would ask your men to see to all these bodies. Count them and despoil them, but most of all, make sure they are all dead.’

14 August

The bridge was completed. All through the night engineers had struggled and lifted, sawed, hammered and cursed, and the result was a bridge that could take the weight of the
entire army, as well as the wagons and carts.

For his part, Berenger was bone tired. He hadn’t slept well, expecting a counter-attack at any moment. The news that he and the rest of Grandarse’s men were to hold the north bank he
greeted with something near relief. Others would go to burn the towns and manors all about, but Berenger and his vintaine could rest and keep watch from the bridgehead.

As the first men began to ride out, Sir John de Sully was at their head. Behind him straggled a party of fifty, archers and men-at-arms. He paused as he passed Berenger.

‘Master Fripper, your men fought well last evening. I congratulate you.’

‘We saw you kill several,’ Berenger replied.

‘There were enough for all of us, eh? And there will be plenty more. That’s why I’m riding north, to see how far from us the French are, and what they are doing.’

‘What of the south?’

‘The King has ordered everything to be burned south of Paris, especially the manor of Montjoye. That was King Philippe’s favourite, apparently.’ He turned and pointed to a
billowing cloud of smoke. ‘That was it, I think, there.’

Berenger felt a shiver of anticipation. ‘The French have plenty of reason to want to fight us.’

‘Aye. They have that. Which is why I’d ask you to keep your eyes on the horizon for me and my esquire Bakere here. If you see us riding back in haste, nock your arrows!’

‘We shall, my Lord. Godspeed!’

The knight nodded and held his hand aloft. With his hand a blade, he pointed forward and the party trotted off to the north. Somewhere out there lay the mass of the French army, and it was
crucial to know whether they would attack from the north, or would circle round Paris to come at the English from the south.

Setting sentries, Berenger sent Clip to forage for food, while Geoff made the fire.

‘We’ve no sticks,’ Geoff said. ‘I’ll fetch some more.’

‘Good,’ Berenger said flatly. His brain felt leaden, and he sat down with his back to the cart’s wheel, letting his head rest against the spokes with relief.

He could not help but think that their enterprise was teetering on a knife’s edge. On the one side lay disaster, on the other, perhaps more disaster. Geoff was still convinced it was down
to that Frenchwoman, Béatrice. Placing her with Archibald had not cured Geoff’s suspicions. He did not trust her, and the Welshman’s words were constantly pricking at him, he
said. Perhaps Berenger should trust Geoff’s judgement and warn others. Tell Grandarse – or perhaps say something to Sir John? There were enough priests, from that ferocious fighter, the
Bishop of Durham, down to vicars from London and the Scottish Marches. Any number of them would listen with sympathy to a man’s honest concerns about the woman.

‘Be careful Geoff. Don’t stray too far – and make sure to keep away from that woman,’ he mumbled and yawned profoundly. His eyes were already shut, and as his mouth
closed, his breathing became shallow and noisy.

‘Sleep well, Vintener,’ Geoff murmured as he turned and began to make his way up the slope of the bank. There was a copse over on the left, a scant half-mile away, which should
provide him with firewood.

In the midst of the little wood, Geoff saw a small building.

Others would have been about here already, he knew – scouts, pillagers and idlers trying to avoid hard work at the bridge, but nevertheless there was no point taking risks. He set his hand
to his sword and drew it slowly from the scabbard, holding it low, ready to cut upwards at the first sign of danger. Stepping cautiously, avoiding the twigs and bits of broken timber that lay all
about, he made his way to the door.

It was no farm building or storehouse, he discovered: it was a little chapel. The cross over the gable was crooked, as though the priest had set it up himself with scant knowledge of carpentry,
but it was a tidy little building. As he approached, there was a cry, and glancing up, he saw a black bird, a raven or crow, sitting on the cross and staring down at him with its beady eye. It was
unsettling.

At the door, Geoff pushed gently. There was a slight scraping as the timbers scratched their way over the threshold, but the hinges had been well smeared with grease, and made no sound. Geoff
entered warily, his sword higher, his left hand flat near his belly, ready to knock away an assailant’s weapon.

A scrabbling sound made him turn. There, near the altar, there was a little, low doorway, and he stared, listening intently. A quiet step, then another, and he scowled. There was someone in
there, he was sure. He walked on tip-toes along the nave’s flags, and when he reached the door, he peered inside.

‘Maid, what are you doing here?’ he said when he saw Béatrice. She was kneeling before a crucifix with her hands clasped, the picture of piety. From his vantage point, he
could see the nape of her neck, and was struck by the beauty of her soft, pale skin. He added gruffly, ‘You should be careful in places like this. I thought you might be a French
spy.’

Startled, she rose, staring at him, her eyes wild with fear. Her head was bared, her hair awry, and to him she looked like a creature of the forest, a spirit of nature. It made him feel nervous,
as though she was more dangerous than he could see.

Yet at the same time he felt his tarse swelling. Her rapid breathing made her breasts swell against the thin material of her tunic, and he couldn’t help but stare. It had been so long. He
had not lain with a woman since the day he found his wife’s body. The day his life had ended. Suddenly the longing became uncontrollable.

She stood and backed away from him.

‘Don’t run! I won’t hurt you,’ he said, his voice thick with lust. He wanted to hold her and feel her body next to his.

His tone alarmed her still more, he saw. She shook her head, before trying to bolt from the room. He put his hand to her, but she drew away, backing to the wall.

‘No! Please don’t!’ she cried.

‘I won’t hurt you,’ he repeated, and he meant it – yet he felt a dreadful emptiness in him. The memory of his own wife back in England, the horror of the deaths . . .
This young Frenchwoman could give him some much-needed solace. He wanted it. He
deserved
it.

Unconvinced, she suddenly darted forward in an attempt to escape. He tried to grab her by the arm, not to harm her, but just to hold her still so he could explain that he wanted only to talk.
But his hand missed. Instead he grasped a fold of cloth, which ripped with a deafening sound that desecrated the chapel. The two stood, her panting like an injured cat, him stock-still, his eyes
fixed on the softness of her bared breast. With a moan, he leaned forward, his mouth open.

Her hand raked down his cheek, narrowly missing his eye, and he roared with surprise and shock. Purely by reflex, he punched her in the face, so that her head snapped back, and she fell to the
ground, unconscious. He knelt and put a trembling hand towards her breast. He could have taken her like the slut he knew she was, but before his hand touched her, his eyes rose. There, before him
like a marker on the road to Hell, he saw the crucifix on the wall, and he stopped, staring, his hand inches from her.

He clenched his fist and remained there, staring at Christ’s sad face. Then, leaving Béatrice still slumped on the floor, he walked to the altar and knelt. Gradually his body became
racked with dry, heaving sobs.

Berenger was startled awake by the sound of weeping as Béatrice ran into the camp area, staring about her wildly, clutching her tunic to her breast.

‘Sweet Mother of God,’ he cried, and clumsily climbed to his feet, fumbling for his sword. ‘What’s happened? Who is it? Where?’

He ran to the slope and stared out over the lip of the bank. Luke was standing sentry, and he shook his head baffled. ‘She was out there, near those woods, Fripper. I saw her come out, and
she began running. You saw what she looked like. Sobbing, she was, the whole way. And her tit hanging out.’

‘Is there any sign of the French over there?’ Berenger demanded, scowling at the woods as if daring them to conceal his enemies.

‘No. Geoff went in there a while back, but I haven’t seen him come out yet.’

‘Geoff? Very well. Call out if you see anything suspicious.’

Berenger turned and went back to where the woman knelt, shuddering, clinging to Donkey. ‘What’s the matter with her?’ Ed looked up, distraught. ‘Look at her! Can’t
you see? She’s been raped, or someone tried to rape her. Are the Welsh out there?’

‘Non, non. Ce n’est pas . . . C’est rien. Rien.’