Fields of Glory (20 page)

It was then, when Berenger found himself slumping against the wall of a church in the city again, that the black reaction came over him.

Looking about him, he saw bodies everywhere. Two men lay at his feet, both with gaping wounds. Nearby lay other men without arms, without heads, with their hamstrings cut, their corpses
discarded like so much rubbish. The whole street reeked of death.

It was a scene of Hell.

‘Dear Christ, what have we done?’ he groaned.

He wanted to weep.

Sir John left the fighting tired but content. While he had not taken much in the way of loot, he was still alive and whole, which was all to the good. The only pain he
acknowledged was a soreness in his shoulder and neck from wielding his sword. It had been hard work in that press, but they had won the day.

Dear God!
he prayed, gazing back at the city.
You have granted us a marvellous success. To have conquered a city so strong as that in an afternoon!
It was truly a miraculous
achievement.

He nodded to the guards outside the King’s pavilion and entered to find King Edward stalking about it in a towering rage.

‘Who do they think they are to thwart me?’ he began, his pale blue eyes flashing with anger. ‘They wanted to hold their gates against me –
me
! Only a few remain,
shuttered up in the castle. Well, we can take our time over that. How many of our men are lost?’

Clerics scribbled urgently in ledgers. The Earl of Warwick stood looking over their shoulders with Sir Godfrey de Harcourt nearby. Three other knights stood huddled together as though in defence
against the King’s mood.

‘I fear it is some hundreds,’ Warwick said. ‘Genoese archers did some harm, but the fighting was fierce – especially when we came to the bridge. The Welshmen were brave
indeed to wade across the river and outflank the militia, but still, many archers were killed.’

‘How many of my archers?’

‘Three, perhaps four hundred, Your Majesty.’

‘So many?’

The King’s face went white. At first Sir John thought it was merely shock, but then he realised that this was pure, white-hot wrath. King Edward III had come to power with a sword in his
fist, capturing his mother and her adulterous lover, Roger Mortimer. His choleric temper was forged in vengeance. Those who thwarted his ambition learned to their cost that a King’s right
should not be questioned.

‘Three or four hundred of my archers are dead because of these bastards? We need those archers, my Lord! They are the strength of our army, in Christ’s name!’

‘We can make up the numbers, Your Majesty,’ the Earl said calmly. He had been eating a hunk of bread, and now he tossed the crust to two hounds lying on a rug. The two bickered over
it, and then one snapped at the other’s throat and pinned him to the ground until he yelped. The winner took his prize, swallowing it in a quick gulp.

The King watched the two as Warwick continued.

‘Send messages to your sheriffs and ask for more archers. They will understand the urgency. Besides, there were some who were late to the muster. Perhaps they will have arrived by now. It
is not only these men today whom we have lost: there were others on the way. Now would be a good time to replenish your army with men as well as provisions.’

‘Yes. You are right,’ the King said, but his mind seemed elsewhere. He pointed to his hounds. ‘See them? The fastest and boldest wins the treat. The greater overwhelms the
lazier, more indolent brute – just as we shall defeat Philippe. We shall win the land and I shall take the crown. We have swallowed this town today. A swift attack, and our men proved their
valour. In the same way we can take the whole of France, if the coward Philippe will ever dare to meet us.’

‘We shall make such a din of war in all his land that he will be forced to meet us,’ the Earl said comfortably.

Sir John was surprised to see the Earl so calm. He had expected Warwick to display more anger. After all, many of the archers thrown into that hectic fight had been his own vassals.

‘We shall do that,’ the King declared, and then he frowned. ‘So many of my archers gone – that is a great shame. Not all were killed by the Genoese bastards?’

‘No. When our fellows broke into the city, the citizens took to their roofs and hurled stones and other missiles down upon them. Those, along with the barricades and the militia fighting
street-to-street, caused most of the injuries.’

‘So the people of the city are guilty of all these murderous acts?’ The King’s voice grew cold again. ‘You will give orders, my Lord. In punishment for their intolerable
revolt against my honour, the people of this city shall pay a heavy price. The army may take what they want tonight: loot, women –
anything
– and be free of censure. And then I
shall burn the city to the ground.

‘Your Majesty, it shall be done.’

‘Wait – a moment, please, my Lord?’

Sir John saw that Godfrey de Harcourt had interrupted before the Earl could put his orders into force. He was a shortish knight, with the dark hair and eyes of a Norman, a strong, square jaw,
and heavy brows. Sir John knew him by sight: he was a wealthy landowner, but because he had declared his loyalty to Edward, he had been exiled from France. Sir John was wary about Normans, for he
considered them prey to divided loyalties, and apt to change with the wind at a moment’s notice, but this man seemed reliable enough. He had been enormously useful, Sir John had heard, in
choosing the site of the English force’s landing, and then deciding on which route the King should take. Now Sir Godfrey was pale.

‘You wish to add something?’

‘Your Highness, I beg that you curb your wrath. You brought me with you to advise you. Let me give you my opinion. I know these people. They are my people. You can destroy this city. It is
yours, and if you wish to bring it down, you can do so. But I urge that you reconsider. It has already been sacked. There are no families which have not suffered the full brunt of your attack. They
have seen their property taken, their animals slaughtered, their women raped, their treasure stolen. Many have lost their menfolk. They have suffered. But if you go further, sire, if you burn the
place as well, you will have shown that you are utterly merciless. All the cities and towns between here and Paris will rise up and fight you. Why would they not? Where is the virtue in surrender,
when the result is the same? At least if they fight, they will die with honour. So they will contest every town, every village, every hamlet, every street. You will never win another quick victory
like that which you have won today. And that will cost you
more
time, and men! You say it is your urgent wish to assault Philippe? Then you have a need for haste. Delay here, and it will not
aid your cause. If you have to fight every step on the way to Paris your army will be depleted, so that when you do meet Philippe, he will prove too strong. He may win the day, or you can choose to
retreat from him, and that would not gain you respect.’

‘Then what do you recommend?’

‘This: your army has already made free with the city, so show them mercy, and others will submit to you. They will bring you food and wine. They will aid you. You own the city already. It
is a poor thing, to destroy that which hundreds gave their lives to win.’

The King nodded slowly, but reluctantly, Sir John thought. He was not inclined to mercy. This was not a campaign to win over the loyalty of the Normans by showing clemency; it was a campaign of
conquest.

The Earl of Warwick snorted and peered down at his torn surcoat. Blood adorned the bright red of his shield, and the yellow stripe that passed between the six crosses was ripped where swords had
thrust at him.

‘There is another aspect, Your Highness,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘This is a good port. We may hope to win another, but for now, Caen could be used to resupply ourselves
with men and provisions.’

‘Which other do we hope to win?’ Sir John asked, and for the first time in that meeting, he saw a smile break out over the King’s face.

‘Those bastard French at Calais protect pirates,’ Edward said. ‘I have long felt that, if we could, we should take Calais. Even if the French King refuses to fight me in
France, he will change his mind when we lay siege to Calais. He cannot allow that city to fall without fighting.’

The town that night was a scene of riotous pleasure as the English and Welsh moved from one house to another, liberating them of wine and cider, furs, pewter and silver.

Ed wandered through it all in a daze, looking for the vintaine. He had lost them as they continued into the town, and now he gazed about with a growing sense of unreality. He was used to ribald
singing and occasional fights from sailors in his home town of Portsmouth, but to see the army let off the leash in this way was like gaining a view of the inner circles of Hell. He saw men bending
a shrieking woman over a table as they took her in turns. A man was on the floor, and Ed assumed it was the woman’s husband. A thick pool of blood lay all about him from a terrible gash in
his forehead.

A scream from further up the lane caught his attention, and he turned in time to see a woman running from a house, two men chasing after her with cups of wine spilling. She turned at a locked
door, and as the men approached her, she drew a little eating-knife from her belt and, weeping, shouted something at them. Ed didn’t understand her words, but it sounded like a plea. One of
the men, laughing, went to her, but cursed when he felt the prick of her blade. He drew a long dagger and began to slash at her, long, raking cuts that sliced into her and opened her belly, her
breast, and then her throat. She fell, wailing, and Ed watched helplessly as the man kicked her slowly moving body, hurling vile abuse, until his friend called him away.

Ed could not drag his eyes from her. She was only about twenty, if that, and her long dark hair was unbraided, falling from beneath her coif to lie in disarray over her shoulders. As he watched
her, he saw her eyes rise to his. There was no expression in her face, only a dumb acceptance, as though he was like all the others, the men who had raped her and killed her. He was no better,
because he was a man. She swallowed and he thought he saw a tear run down her cheek, but then she sighed, and her entire body sagged, as though her soul had been sucked from her in that moment.

He couldn’t bear to see any more. He turned and fled through the streets, now fitfully lighted by occasional bonfires or by burning houses, away from her accusing eyes. That was how it had
felt as she looked at him, as though he was just one more man like those others. He was no better.

That must be how all the English were viewed, he thought. These people could only see the English through the glass of their own experience. Men and women slaughtered like beasts, their city
pulled apart around them, the richest merchants captured and held for ransom while their daughters were despoiled.

A group of men burst from a building ahead, and he slunk into the darkness, feeling afraid. Somewhere in the city were Berenger, Geoff and Clip, and he should find them. With them he would be
safe, but not here. Out here in the streets was no place for a boy like him. Not tonight. Not ever.

The flickering lights showed him another long alley, and he hurriedly slipped into it, his bare feet slapping through the puddles and ordure, until he came to a broader thoroughfare. He
cautiously poked his head around the corner, and gazed up and down. He heard footsteps approaching, and singing. Returning to his little alley, he waited anxiously, until a group of men appeared.
There were two archers in the front, English, and he felt the relief flare in his breast. They didn’t seem too drunk or dangerous.

There was a movement, and he saw a woman at the street opposite, her hair all awry, eyes wild.

Ed was transfixed. She was a pretty woman, much older than him, but in her fear for her safety he felt she was a kindred soul. In a moment the men would see her, and they would rape and kill
her, just as they had the French maid – and just as the French had killed his mother.

He would not allow it.

Without further thought, he stepped into the road, jerking his head at her to show she should conceal herself again.

By the second jerk of his head, she had disappeared, and now he found himself facing the group – and too late he realised that the archers were separate. They were already past him, and
now he was confronted by the men behind: the Welsh spearmen.

‘Another French pup!’ one cried, and he was soon ringed by them, many speaking out in their uncouth tongue. A few laughed and chattered in English, and he called to them, pointing
out that he was English and with the army himself.

It didn’t help. One of them, Owain, an ill-favoured man with black eyes and brows that formed a single dark line, bared his teeth in a laugh, and pulled out a long dagger. He pointed at
Ed, saying something he couldn’t understand, and then a man came and gripped Ed’s arm and pulled him forward.

‘Wait! No! Leave me alone,’ he said desperately. ‘I’m English! Remember? You saw me at the tavern at Portsmouth? I bought you ale!’