Fields of Glory (22 page)

‘I don’t need anything.’

‘Your purse?’

Ed shook his head, but as Berenger stared at him, he reluctantly fumbled with the cords binding his old purse to his belt. He dropped it on the blanket and snatched up Will’s old purse.
There were only three pennies in it, but that didn’t matter. Ed tied the thongs to his belt, eyeing Berenger defiantly, then turned and strode away.

‘You think they were behaving as thieves, don’t you?’

Ed turned at the sound of Archibald’s voice. The gynour was sitting at the bank of the little stream that passed by the village. Béatrice smiled at Ed shyly as he took his seat near
them and began to hurl stones into the water.

‘It was horrible,’ he said. ‘They just stole whatever they wanted.’

‘You really believe that?’ Archibald said.

Béatrice gave a chuckle. It was a breathy little sound, and she gazed at the water for a moment before reaching into her tunic. On a cord there hung a simple wooden cross from a leather
thong. It was much like the one Will had worn, and which Geoff had taken. ‘See this?’

‘Yes.’

‘It was my father’s. Now it is all that I have that remains of him.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘He was arrested by the King’s men. They thought he was a traitor. He had said he wasn’t sure that it would be worse to be ruled by an efficient English King than a foolhardy
French one, or something like that, and he was reported for his words. They came for him and took him away. I gave him my cross so he could pray to Jesus, and took this. But it is all I have of him
or my family now. All else was taken from me, and destroyed.’

‘What of it?’ Ed still didn’t understand.

Archibald looked at him. ‘William the Wisp was their friend, can you not see that? They were all fond of him.’

Ed threw another stone. It was true that there was no theft, for all the items they removed from the blanket were exchanged with their own. The blanket was as full after they had taken the goods
as it had been beforehand.

‘The maid is right. When he died, it left a hole in their hearts. So they swapped a thing of theirs for a thing of his, so that they would not forget him.’

She nodded. ‘Don’t judge them harshly. They remember their companion: they keep a part of him with them forever.’

‘Perhaps,’ Ed grudgingly allowed.

She saw a tear fall down his cheek. His pain and sorrow were so intense, she looked away, not wishing to intrude on his misery. In her mind’s eye she saw the axeman hacking off her
father’s limbs, and fingered his cross for comfort.

But Ed was not thinking of Wisp. He was remembering his mother on that fateful day when his entire family was wiped out.

It was some hours later. By his fire, Archibald watched as Berenger stood, staring down at Wisp’s sorry pile of goods.

‘Master Fripper,’ he called. ‘Would you like a sup of wine?’

He saw the vintener give him a sharp glance, but then he nodded and crossed the grass to meet the gynour. ‘That would be welcome, master.’

‘It’s a good wine. Sweet as a good bishop’s.’

‘It is good,’ Berenger agreed, taking Archibald’s mazer and sipping. ‘If you want, we have some bread and meats.’

‘Ah, the food that has been liberated from the city,’ Archibald said, leaning back against his wagon-wheel with satisfaction. ‘A man could grow fat in this land.’

Berenger nodded. ‘It is a good land. I pity the poor souls living here.’

‘Aye, well, peasants and burgesses alike should accept our King.’

‘Perhaps they will.’ Berenger was quiet a moment, rubbing his sore shoulder, and then said, ‘My apologies for refusing your offer earlier.’

‘You had suffered loss.’

‘It was a hard battle.’

‘Aren’t they all?’

‘I was here before. I thought then how beautiful the lands were. I never thought I’d return and burn them.’

Archibald cast an eye at him. ‘What were you doing here?’

‘Travelling with a man to Italy. A rich man.’

‘I have a feeling there is more you could tell me.’

‘Maybe another day,’ Berenger said. ‘Some tales can get a man into trouble.’

‘Ah, well, that is very true. Such as a story that a boy is spreading malicious rumours.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I heard that your boy was hurt?’

‘The Welsh tried to hang him.’

‘Perhaps they thought he was deliberately slandering them,’ Archibald said and explained what he had overheard.

‘I will speak with him. If he
has
been talking in that way of the Welsh . . .’ Berenger looked at him. ‘What of you?’

‘Me?’

‘What is your story?’

Archibald smiled. ‘You and I are not so dissimilar.’

‘Eh? What do you mean?’

‘Only that you and I are both running from something. Isn’t that true of almost all the men here?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Berenger said, bridling. He passed the mazer back and was about to rise, but Archibald restrained him and refilled the mazer.

‘Friend, I meant no insult. But almost everyone here is escaping something or someone. A woman, a job, a money-lender . . . the reasons for their presence here are many. Those with a happy
woman at home are rare. They would be at home else, at her side.’

Berenger reluctantly took the mazer from him, with a doubtful sucking at his teeth.

‘I am not your enemy, Master Fripper. I am a gynour, and I know my reputation, but I’m
not
evil.’

Berenger gave a short grin. ‘I never thought you were. I’m not superstitious.’

‘You have a wife?’

‘No. I’ve known only the King’s army since I was a boy, not yet eleven years old. My father was servant to Sir Hugh le Despenser. When the Marcher lords fought with Sir Hugh,
Father was killed and my mother raped and murdered. Good King Edward, our King’s father, sought to protect me. King Edward II was a great man, kind and honourable. I grew up in his household,
moving about the country with him, as though I was his legal ward.’

‘Because you were orphaned.’

‘Because my father died defending Sir Hugh’s lands. Sir Hugh was the King’s best friend and closest adviser.’

‘So the King protected you?’

‘And later, I protected him.’

‘How so?’

‘During the rebellion I fought for him. I was there when he was caught and brought back to England. And later, I was with him when he was imprisoned.’

‘And when he died?’ Archibald asked.

Berenger shot him a look. ‘I don’t know if he’s dead yet. That is why I know this area. I walked it with him sixteen, seventeen years ago, all the way to Avignon to see the
Pope. God save his memory: King Edward II was as good a man as any I have ever known.’ Berenger held up his mazer in a silent toast. ‘The King gave me some money, and I lived here in
France for a time, but I missed England, so returned. Since then, about eleven years ago, I have been a soldier for the new King.’

‘You came straight to the army after that, then?’

‘No. First I was arrested and held as a traitor’

‘What?
Why?
’ Archibald choked on his wine.

‘Some said I was involved in murdering his father, but our King heard that I always loved his father, and he pardoned me and had me released.’

‘But no wife.’

‘The army is my family: the vintaine contains my brothers. I am proud to be one of them.’

‘That is a fascinating tale. Do you think the old King is yet alive?’

‘I am sure he is dead. And that is good. He was old, and his son, God save him, would not need the complication of a father appearing and demanding his throne back!’

‘True enough.’

‘And now,’ Berenger said, finishing the wine, ‘I must return to the men. I thank you for your hospitality.’

‘And I thank you for your candour.’

‘Aye, well, some secrets are too ancient to be kept.’

‘And watch out for the boy.’

Berenger was about to respond, when he saw Sir John de Sully.

‘Berenger Fripper, I have been told to take you in chains.’

‘
What?
’ Berenger sprang to his feet.

‘Our good Lord the Prince of Wales has heard that you feloniously slew one of his men, a respected fighter with his spearmen. His men all assert that you killed him.’

‘I did.’

‘Ah!’ Sir John looked at him. ‘Very good, Berenger. I know you. As you reminded me, we once walked together on a long journey. So, if you killed this man, you will have had a
reason, I hope?’

‘They’d caught our young boy and were hanging him. We had to kill the Prince’s man to get to Ed and release him.’

‘So you say they were tormenting your young mascot, and you took offence? I can understand that. However, His Highness is inordinately fond of his title, you know, and of the men of his
Principality.’

‘The Welsh were going to kill him. The proof is there on his neck, where the rope bruised and burned him.’

‘Was he worth your life?’ Sir John asked.

‘Without him, we’d have run out of arrows in the battle. Would the Prince prefer to have lost Caen and more archers because of a lack of weapons?’ Berenger asked. ‘I
protected our boy against those who tried to murder him. One stood in my way and I had to kill him. It’s as simple as that.’

‘I will speak to the Prince and we shall see what comes of it. Meanwhile, my friend, I recommend that you keep yourself out of the way as much as possible in the days to come.’

Geoff had noticed Ed’s mood.

The boy had been quiet and withdrawn for days. His throat was healing, and the livid blue-black mark was turning to green and gold at the edges, but he looked like a beaten hound, slouching
around with his head down: the picture of despondency.

‘What is it, boy?’ he asked. ‘What’s troubling you?’

Ed jumped at his voice. ‘I was thinking of all the French in the town,’ he said. His voice faltered. ‘So many dead.’

‘You were the boy who once told us that the only good Frenchman was a dead one,’ Geoff reminded him.

‘That was because . . .’

‘What?’

‘My parents were killed by French pirates when I was a boy,’ Ed burst out. He didn’t want Geoff’s sympathy, but he couldn’t keep his story hidden any longer.
‘My father was out fishing when they arrived in several big ships, and they landed and killed everyone. My father, mother, brother – all slaughtered. And for nothing!’

He could picture the scene in his mind’s eye now: the ships beaching, one with a gonne in the prow that boomed and belched flames and death at the unarmed men on the beach. Horror-struck,
he saw his father’s friends hacked down by pirates as they stood mending nets. Others were cut down by the evil flying balls from the gonne or from the deadly bolts from crossbows.

‘So that’s why you hate the French,’ Geoff said.

‘I have always hated them. I wanted to come here to kill as many as I could, but now I see them, it’s hard to hate them. They look like us!’

Berenger had been sitting in the dark of a tree’s shadow. ‘It’s a good lesson to learn, boy,’ he put in. ‘All people are the same, deep down.’

‘But if you know that, how can you go on killing them?’

Geoff rose suddenly. ‘God will know which are His own when He receives their spirits. Look around you. The good people of that city will be in a better place this night.’

The Prince’s lodging was in a merchant’s sumptuous house in the old city, and it was already full of his commanders. Sir John had been summoned, which surely meant
that there was news about the French army.

This was a new, modern building, with chimneys and glazed windows, and Sir John eyed the place covetously. Even now, after the army had been through every chamber before the Prince could
commandeer it, there were still beautiful paintings on the whitewashed walls. Scenes of biblical events, pictures of angels sitting over base sins, and one glorious tapestry which depicted the
Battle of Charlemagne against the massed hordes of the Saracens.

Sir John would have taken that first. It would suit his manor at Ashreigny.

‘You like that?’ the Earl of Warwick asked. He was sitting at a table, sipping wine from a mazer. The Prince and his bodyguards had not yet arrived.

‘It is magnificent, my Lord.’

‘Perhaps in years to come they’ll have to replace it with our King’s battle against Philippe.’

‘You believe it will come to that?’

‘That we shall finally crush them when the French meet us in battle? Yes, with God’s help.’

‘Yes,’ Sir John said.

‘You sound doubtful?’

‘We have tried to bring him to battle many times before.’

‘This time we shall make such a noise that even Philippe must hear it and try to stop us. And if our chevauchée fails, we shall go to Calais and lay siege to it. Philippe cannot
dare to leave Calais to endure a lengthy siege. He will come and rescue the city. He must.’

Sir John nodded. He was too old to be concerned about riding into battle. He had done so many times. Sometimes the outcome had been magnificent, but he could still recall other, less happy days
– the disaster of Bannockburn, for instance. He had no wish for a repeat of that. But in recent years Edward III had brought the English to one victory after another. Even on the sea the
English succeeded, no matter what the odds.