A Bit of Heaven on Earth (4 page)

He signaled Robert. Both men retreated, only swinging their swords a time or two. It seemed like fighting would be called off for the day.

They arrived back where they’d started so many hours ago. Gavin pulled the heavy helmet from his head, every muscle in his arms and back strained to their limits, calling for respite.

Dace ran up, his face betraying bad news. All color had rushed from it, leaving him deathly pale. Out of breath, he stopped before them, his breath coming in long gasps.

“Easy, Dace,” he told the squire. He reached for a wineskin and offered it to the young man. “Drink slowly. Your news ’twill keep.”

Dace did as instructed, dribbling wine down the front of his tunic despite Gavin’s warning. He did not venture to speak till he could be understood.

“’Tis a bargain the Black Prince stands to make.” Dace pushed his hair from his brow with a forearm. “The French force has overwhelmed us, my lord. His advisers said to maintain dignity, much less leave with our lives, ‘twould be the only way. ‘Tis too many we are up against.”

“What says this bargain?” asked Robert.

Dace shook his head, his mouth gone sour. “The Prince himself wrote it. Called for parchment and ink, he did. Said ‘twould come from his hand and his alone, to go straight to King John the Good.” The squire spat in the dust. “He means to leave French soil. Not to fight for seven years.”

“Seven years?” echoed Gavin. He’d known how heavily they were outnumbered in the field this day, but to leave France for so long a time? That might prove a disaster in the long run.

“And,” Dace continued, “the prisoners already taken are to be surrendered, along with the spoils won.”

He quickly cut his eyes to Robert. Both men realized with Dace’s words how desperate the situation had become.

“I wonder how soon ‘twill take King John to answer?” mused Robert.

Gavin raked his fingers through his hair, a nervous gesture he’d never been able to rid himself of. “I doubt we’ll wait long. With their advantage, France would do well to press it quickly.”

Rumors circulated the camp for less than two hours before word reached them. Again, Dace brought it, his mouth a thin line as he hurried toward them. It struck Gavin how young the boy seemed at that moment.

“France has rejected all,” the squire revealed. “Ye must be quick, my lord. Even now, French knights advance on foot.”

Gavin had anticipated such news, not trusting the French to back down so easily. He and Robert had readied their rested destriers, and they now mounted them quickly. He checked to see that he had all the weapons he required, daggers and swords, his shield and his mace.

“My lord?”

He looked down at his squire, who held his helmet high. “The mail coif will do, Dace. I’d like as much vision about me as I can.”

“But, my lord—”

“No buts, Dace.” He winked at the boy, trying to bolster his own courage as he reassured the squire. His heart hammered in his chest loud as the cannons that had gone off at Crecy. He touched his hand to his head and gave a brief nod before turning his horse.

He and Robert rode through a field of blood. Heavy losses had occurred. Gavin blocked out the agonizing calls for help, the pitiful cries, the torn and mangled bodies that lay all about them. The smell of blood filed the air, heavy now with despair, as they joined up with others who resumed the fight.

Then they were upon French foot soldiers, and his concentration began in earnest. He fought from atop his destrier for some minutes, the height giving him some small advantage. While distracted to his left, though, an enemy soldier plunged his sword high into his horse’s throat.

As Gavin heard the gurgling scream, the horse started to falter. He threw a leg over and leapt from the beast before it took him down. A primeval shout poured from his mouth as he swung his mace. It connected with the head of the offending Frenchman. The man dropped dead to the ground, his own scream trailing off before he made contact with the dirt.

Gavin threw himself into the fight full force, his sword punishing every man in his path. His ears rang with the musical clanging of sword against sword, sword upon shield. Sweat poured into his eyes, stinging them, clouding his vision for a moment.

It reassured him that Robert fought next to him. No braver man had Gavin met than his friend. If they came out of this, ‘twould be together. If one fell, the other would catch him. And if by chance they died this day, they would know they’d taken a good number of French bastards into death with them.

Robert brushed up against his back suddenly. Gavin looked over his shoulder to see they were slowly being surrounded. Back to back they fought, lashing out at those who pressed closely.

“You bastard!” shouted Robert.

“What’s wrong?” answered Gavin, forcing his sword into another man’s chest, then ripping it from the body as his foot kicked the man away.

“The bloody fool sliced my arm. God’s wounds, but it hurts.”

“The right or left?” called Gavin, knowing Robert was left-handed.

“’Tis my left,” Robert muttered.

He stole a quick glance and saw the bright stream of blood pouring down Robert’s arm, which now hung at his side. His friend’s shield thrusted upward, warding off blows. Gavin knew their time was running out.

As he turned back, a dark swirl met him. Blindsided, the shot caused the world to go stark white. As Gavin blinked several times, trying to get his bearings, a curtain of darkness began to descend.

His world went black.

CHAPTER 3

Gavin groaned. His hands went to his pounding head. His fingers immediately touched dried blood matted through the back of his scalp. Gradually, he remembered the battlefield. The hoarse cries. The carnage. His magnificent destrier’s throat gushing blood.

And Robert?
Where was Robert?

He forced open his eyes. The barest of light filled the room he occupied. His head ached tremendously, as did the muscles across his shoulders and through his lower back. His gaze swept across the surroundings. He decided to sit up.

Immediately, a flash of light rippled across the room. It brought intense pain. He cradled his head in his hands and took long, deep breaths, willing the agony to recede.

It did. He knew it would. He wasn’t injured enough. Robert was another matter, though. Gavin remembered the deep slice across his friend’s upper arm and the long trail of dripping blood as the limb hung uselessly at his side. He took his time and lifted his head carefully before he rose gradually to his feet. The room was sparse. A table with a wooden bench on each side held a lone candle and basin. Gavin scanned the room and saw another cot. Robert lay upon it.

His friend was sleeping—or unconscious. He still wore his aketon. Gavin looked down at himself, noting his hauberk was gone. Only the thickly padded aketon remained. Obviously, the chain mail could have been used as a weapon. Their captors had stripped them of that.

What of Robert’s wound? Gavin bent and touched his friend’s left arm. He flinched, a frown crossing his flushed face. Gavin brought his open palm to Robert’s forehead. Fever burned within him.

Nothing had been done about Robert’s injury, and Gavin had not even a small baselard to cut away the cloth and see to the wound. At least the aketon’s thickness had helped stanch the bleeding. Still, Robert’s arm needed to be bathed and the injury dressed in clean cloth.

A metal scraping broke the silence. The door suddenly swung open and an old priest entered, a basket over his arm. He grunted something in French, and the door closed behind him. Gavin heard the lock turn.

He met the eyes of the bearded cleric. This man had done nothing to harm him. Gavin hoped he was here to tend to Robert’s arm.

And not to give last rites.

He pushed the thought far away. He would not let his companion die.

The priest moved across the room till he stood in front of them, speaking in heavily-accented English. “I am Father Janus.”

Gavin moved closer and inclined his head. “Gavin of Ashgrove.” He motioned to the cot. “This is Robert of Fondren. He’s been injured in the battle.” Gavin indicated the arm, its cloth crusted with dried blood.

“Yes. His injury is why I am here.” The old priest, so tall and thin, knelt beside Robert as if to pray.

He bit his tongue. A pretty prayer might be all well and good, but Robert’s damaged limb needed attention now.

Father Janus set the basket down next to him and opened it. His movements were slow and deliberate as he cut the cloth from Robert’s arm. He peeled the material away and studied the injury some moments.

“The water, please.” He spoke slowly, deliberately, as if thinking of every word, translating before he voiced it.

Gavin went to the table. The bowl contained water. He brought it back to the priest.

“May I help?” he asked as he rested the bowl on the ground next to the cot.

The cleric nodded. “Hold him. Stay out of my way. I do not wish to harm him more than he has already suffered.”

Gavin dropped to his knees and kept Robert still as the priest cleansed the wound, first with water and then using wine from a small flask he produced. He then cracked an egg and rubbed the white from it onto the wound.

Bending close to the gash, he held the wound closed and chanted, “In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Mary. The wound was red, the cut deep, the flesh be sore, but there will be no more blood or pain till the blessed Virgin bears a child again.”

The priest then reached into the basket once more. He brought out a poultice. He placed it upon the wound and then bandaged it, winding a clean cloth around and around to hold it in place. Robert moaned a few times, but Gavin thought he’d not remember this.

Father Janus gave him a few instructions and left the basket behind. “They will bring soup soon. See that he takes some. Water, too, will help keep his fever down.”

Gavin helped the priest to his feet. He was amazed at how little skin was wrapped around the man’s bones. If he would have but squeezed, the bones would have snapped and turned to dust in his hands.

“
Merci
.” Father Janus studied him. “They mean to ransom you. The English caused heavy losses for France today. They need more money to fight these idiotic wars. They will not let you die.”

His words reassured Gavin. Due to their dress, he and Robert would have stood out as nobility. Ransoming the enemy was common amongst many countries. As soon as he could get a missive off, the process would be in motion. It would take several weeks to get a message to England and their respective homes, his in the northern border country, Robert’s to the south.

But in time, they would go home. Gavin’s relief stirred him to care for Robert all the more. They would make it through this. Together.

He watched the priest leave the room. The old man gave him a brief smile before he left.

Gavin pulled one of the benches over to Robert’s cot and seated himself next to his friend.

He would come through this. He must.

“Are you cheating again?”

Robert raised his eyebrows. “Me? Cheat?” He sighed. “Mayhap I’m simply changing the rules of the game somewhat.”

Gavin smiled indulgently at his friend. It had been touch and go for a good fortnight, but Robert was recovered from his wound. Amazingly enough, no infection set in. Whatever poultices Father Janus pulled from his bag on a daily basis had done the trick. After close to two months, Robert was the picture of health, thanks to the simple country fare they’d eaten. Gavin had no idea how the priest connected to this puzzle, but he felt sure the man was responsible for their fair treatment.

He moved his chess piece and tried to hide a triumphant smile. “Check.”

“God’s wounds, Gavin. How can you expect me to win if I do not cheat? You constantly check here and there and then ‘tis checkmate on top of that. Do you realize I have won but two bloody matches in all the time we have been here?”

Gavin laughed heartily. “You have not the patience to plan your moves, Robert. Chess is a game of strategy. You must think ahead four, eight, even twelve moves. Never be predictable. The way to win is to outthink your opponent. Lull him into complacency. Then,” and he allowed a smile to grace his face, “go in for the kill.”

Robert pushed back from the table and began pacing the small room. “All well and good for you to say. You have a military mind. Me? I have the brute strength to be nothing more than a good soldier. Go where I am told, when I am told, and kill the enemy. I’m but a simple farmer.”

Gavin stood, as well. “I’ve seen Fondren, my friend. ‘Tis no simple estate, and you are no simple farmer.” He sighed. “’Twould that we would have been known to each other all those years ago whilst I fostered with Aldred.”

Robert grimaced. “Aye, I would have liked that, too. Instead I was freezing my love-apples off in the unforgiving north.”

He gave his friend a mock look of horror. “Take care, Robert of Fondren. You tread on sacred ground. Those of us born in the north have it in our blood, all our lives, no matter where our travels take us.”

His friend laid a hand on his shoulder. “And being a border lad, I bet you fancy the fine comfort of our accommodations here. ‘Twould be a step up from your usual way.”

Gavin looked over the sparse room and chuckled. “Not that I won’t be ready to be ransomed. The sooner, the better.” He paused. “I wonder how much longer ‘twill take.”

Robert closed his eyes in thought. “’Twould be several weeks just to get the message to the coast and back through the channel and bay. Not as long for my father to hear tale, being in Kent.”

He opened his eyes and grinned. “Why, ‘twould not surprise me if the French messenger gives up when he sees how harsh and unforgiving the north is. He will fairly run screaming for London and a ship back to France.”

Robert winked. “’Twill mean that I, of course, will be ransomed first. But not to worry, Gavin. I am sure they will eventually come hunting for you. Why, without my fine, calming influence, you may become a veritable madman. Our captors will probably chase you to the sea and cheer when you swim in the rough channel waters for home.”