Fields of Glory (46 page)

He saw one lad, the tip of a lance sprouting from his cotte; he beat at it with his hands like a maid slapping away a wasp. The knight who had impaled him flicked his wrist to free his weapon,
and the boy was thrown into the crowd like a piece of carrion.

Berenger saw no more. Here in the open, the men were unprotected, and he bitterly regretted his urge to support the Earl and Sir John. Turning, he tried to make his way back to his bow, but he
was stumbling now, and knew he would fail. His ankle was too painful, and the French destriers were gaining too quickly.

‘Here!’

It was Jack. Before Berenger could argue, the sturdy archer grabbed his sword arm and pulled it about his own neck. His other arm went around Berenger’s waist, and he half-supported,
half-carried the vintener back up the hill. As they were stumbling on, the sound of drumming hooves came to them.

A ditch gaped at the side of the roadway. Jack dived into it, pulling Berenger with him. The two scurried farther along the ditch, and the men-at-arms at their heels missed them, cantering on,
laughing and jeering as they went, killing only the easier targets in the road before them.

The two men were up and hurrying again as soon as the French had passed. Berenger saw the place where they had left the cart and hobbled over to it, grabbing a fresh bow stave and looping a new
string to it. With a strung bow, he felt more confident.

Jack had his own bow in his hands, and he snatched up a sheaf of arrows as Berenger gazed about them.

‘Frip!’ Jack shouted, pointing.

The French had turned and spotted them, and were already cantering back towards them. Berenger counted some two and twenty, and although three were knights, the others were men-at-arms in
lighter armour. ‘Leave the knights. Kill the others,’ he grated, then nocked and drew. He loosed, and saw with satisfaction the arrow strike a man squarely in the breast. The man
slumped, but the rest still came on. Other archers had joined the two of them now, and there were five, then six arrows striking at a time. A pair of horses on the right fell, while a third went
berserk, whirling, trying to escape a barbed arrow embedded in its breast, and then the remaining men were almost upon them.

At the last moment, Berenger managed to hit the man nearest him. The arrow flew straight and true, piercing the armour at his right shoulder, and with a screech of pain, the man dropped his
lance. He aimed his mount at Berenger, but even as he did so, the ground moved beneath Berenger’s feet. He thought there was a landslide or some fresh catastrophe, for it felt as though the
earth itself was rejecting the men squabbling on its soil. And then a great roar came from behind him, and he felt the wash as destriers galloped past.

It was the remainder of the English. They had fought their way free from the encircling French forces, and while they were much depleted, they were full of a killing rage. Returning to the
archers, they saw the small number of French knights and sprang at them like wolves on a herd of deer.

Berenger saw Sir John ride straight at a man-at-arms, his sword out. He passed by the French lance-tip with negligent disdain and shoved his sword-point in under the man’s chin. There was
a moment when it looked as though the sword must be jerked from his grasp, but then he wrenched it free as he passed his opponent, and a gout of blood erupted from the man’s throat. The
latter’s lance fell from his hands as he lifted them to his wound as though to stem the flow. He rode on, past Berenger, only to fall a few yards further on.

The rest of the French fought on doggedly, and the English were too exhausted to keep them at bay. Before long, the adversaries were parted and the French rode off with many a cat-call and
jeer.

‘You know what? I don’t think we’ll cross here after all,’ Jack said.

23 August

The two vintaines were not mingled yet. Roger’s men obeyed their orders, but the two groups of men still sat huddled quietly about their own fires.

No one was of a mood to joke or bicker for once, which was the proof, had Berenger needed it, that their morale was low. It was rare enough to see an archer quiet at evening time, but now, as
they all began to stir in the early dawn light, he was aware of a profound dismay amongst them.

It was not fear: rather, it was the realisation that their chances of escaping the French net were growing ever more remote. While none of them admitted to being scared, that was not to say that
they didn’t appreciate the gravity of their position. With the main French army approaching, they must escape over the Somme or die. And all attempts had failed. Apart from the two in which
Berenger and his men had participated, there had been two more, one at Longpré and another at Fontaine; there too, the English army had run into larger forces and been pushed back. At each
confrontation the English had suffered considerable losses, and after the last attempt, the order had gone out to cease trying. The army could not afford to lose any more men.

‘We’ve no chance,’ Clip said. He was hunched down in front of the fire as usual, holding his hands to the flames and staring morosely into the embers. ‘I thought when we
came to the King’s own territories, the people would welcome us. They all said the folks here were fond of him, didn’t they? And what do we get? Grateful thanks from the people, offers
of food, and their prettiest daughters? Not bloody likely. No instead we get a lance up our arse.’

Berenger snorted, tightening a strip of linen about his sore ankle. It was already feeling a lot better, but he would be limping for days. ‘Apart from you, Clip – as usual,’ he
said bitterly.

It was true enough. Clip was the only man amongst them who was uninjured after their attacks the day before. Even Jack had taken a stab in his thigh from an unhorsed Frenchman.

‘Some of us know where to put our feet,’ Clip retorted scornfully. ‘You’d do well to remember that, Frip.’

‘He’s right,’ Luke said. ‘What were they thinking of, bringing us all the way up here?’

‘Quiet!’ Berenger said. He glared as a large, bulky figure approached.

‘What were they thinking of?’ Archibald repeated, amused. He walked to their circle, his eyes on their fire, and stood there, his smile twisting his magnificent moustache.
‘They were thinking how to win, that’s what they were thinking. They wanted the French King to be so humiliated by our march over his lands and territories, by the sight of the fires
and devastation, by the daily news of how you lot laid waste to all his manors, that he would be forced to set off after us. It worked, didn’t it? And now, our King is looking for the best
place to settle this once and for all.’

‘To see his army cut to pieces, I suppose,’ Jack sneered. ‘Look at the fucking state of us! It’s all right for the King and his friends to be captured and ransomed. They
will be safe enough. But what about us? There’s no money in ransom for ordinary churls like us. We’ll all be beheaded or hanged, or used for target practice by the Genoese. It’s
one thing to gamble when you aren’t risking your own life.’

‘Be still, Jack,’ Berenger said.

‘No, let him speak,’ Archibald said, unruffled. He was still smiling. ‘Master, you should know that your King and his advisers take your health and fitness very seriously. He
knows that without your being able to draw a bow, he will never win France. And he desires France more than anything else in his life.’

‘Well he won’t have it, not unless he finds us food and a fresh crossing over the river.’

‘It’s only a river,’ Archibald said with confidence. ‘There will be a way.’

‘Even if do we find a crossing,’ Clip put in grimly, ‘do you really think the French will let us over? We’ll be cut to pieces on both sides of the water, and no one will
survive.’

‘Does he ever stop his whining?’ Archibald enquired mildly to Berenger.

‘Not to my knowledge.’

‘He must be a trial to you.’

‘Hey!’ Clip objected. ‘You may think this is a matter for jesting, Master Gynour, but we stand to die here. So unless you can make use of your friend the Devil and sort out a
miracle to rescue us, I think you should start to plan for meeting your friend face to face.’

‘You think I am a friend of the Devil?’

‘Everyone says so. It’s obvious.’

Archibald eyed him very coldly and seriously for a moment. The other members of the vintaine looked away.

‘Clip, just be quiet,’ Berenger said. He was unsettled. There was something odd about this large gynour with his calm self-possession even now, in the face of the odds ranged against
them. ‘He didn’t mean it,’ he added to Archibald.

‘Oh yes, he did,’ Archibald said. He stared at all the men in turn. ‘And so he should, because it’s not a story I have ever bothered to contest. But if I was a friend to
the Devil and prayed to Him, I would be scorched by touching a cross, wouldn’t I?’ He pulled from beneath his chemise a battered little cross of wood. At its side, dangling from the
same thong, was a pilgrim badge: a pewter shell for St James of Compostela. He kissed them. ‘You see, fool? I am as much a Christian as you. But there are some arts which men can learn
without too much effort, and I have learned much about my powders. So, if you want to believe that I am a crazed worshipper of the Devil, you carry on.’

‘He is a fool, Gynour,’ Berenger said. With his good foot he poked at Clip, who fell over with a muttered curse. ‘Sit by our fire, and take some food with us. We have some
flour.’

‘Flour?’ The gynour’s smile returned. ‘I would be glad of a little. Do you have salt?’

Berenger was about to shake his head when he saw Archibald pull a small leather purse from under his chemise. ‘Do you keep all your belongings in there?’

‘My cross, my badge, my salt and my tinder.’

Berenger nodded to Oliver, who took flour from their communal bag, one handful per man, and placed it in the wooden bowl. He added water sparingly, and mixed it together with a little of the
salt. Soon he had a thick dough, which he moulded into one ball per man, and squashed flat. Each man took one and set his upon a stone at the fireside. They all waited and watched in companionable
silence, turning their little cakes every so often, until each was cooked to the satisfaction of the owner and gradually withdrawn from the heat to cool.

The gynour took his and held it between his hands while still piping hot. Looking up at Berenger, he nodded. ‘I’m most grateful to you, my son,’ he said. ‘It is not
common for me to receive such a welcome.’

‘There are few who wouldn’t welcome companionship just now,’ Berenger said. He grinned without humour. ‘Perhaps we won’t have many more such
opportunities.’

‘Oh yes, we will.’ Archibald held up the scallop-shell. ‘You think Saint James would desert us just when we need his help to cross a river? Have faith, my friend. Have faith.
Saint James will carry us over.’

Berenger shook his head. ‘I wish I had your faith. For, by my mother’s soul, I believe we will die here.’

It was still early when the warning horns blew, and the army was ordered to march once more.

‘What is it now?’ Berenger demanded of Grandarse, who appeared just as the first mists were beginning to disperse.

‘You want to complain? Speak to the French! The bastards almost caught the King at breaking his fast. He and his officers had to leave their meals, so don’t expect them to be in a
good and friendly frame of mind when you see them.’

But for all his dire words, when Berenger saw the Prince and Sir John with the Earl of Warwick, the three were laughing and making jests at each other’s expense. It could have been a show
to keep the spirits of their men from flagging, but he somehow doubted it.

He had a fresh little pony, whose rider had died at the river yesterday, and he jogged along with less discomfort than he had experienced the day before. Perhaps it was the sight of the cheerful
party of war-leaders, perhaps it was Archibald’s conviction: whatever the reason, he felt happier than he had for days.

To add to his good mood, Geoff had recovered enough to give up his place in the cart to another injured archer who was in greater need. While he refused to mount a pony, saying, ‘God gave
me these legs for a reason,’ and walked along at the side of the others, Geoff seemed more at peace with himself than he had been for some weeks. His attitude towards Béatrice was now
that of a man who accepted her place and importance in their team. He even, once, offered her a share of his food.

It was late in the morning when they reached Oisemont, the local market town. Unfortunately, the people there were not willing to give it up to the English.

‘Oh, God’s teeth!’ Geoff said when he saw the gates.

Before them, drawn up in irregular formation, stood the townspeople. A scratch force of all the young men of the area, clutching hedging and ditching tools fitted to long ash-poles, stood
between the English and their city.

‘They’ll not survive above an hour,’ Jack said. ‘Silly shite-for-wits.’

Berenger felt sympathy for the townspeople as the English men-at-arms gathered, chuckling and teasing each other about the sport they were about to enjoy. Esquires and valets tightened buckles
and fixings, making sure all was ready for their encounter, but the knights could not treat this seriously. It was one thing to charge a line of French cavalry, and quite another to gallop at a
force of fearful citizens from a market town who had neither the training nor the weapons to pose a challenge.