Fields of Glory (27 page)

There was no time to argue with him. He was prepared to fight and die in the attempt to protect her.

As he rose, Béatrice snatched up a stone and brought it down against his skull. It was for his own sake. She pushed him under the cart, and while there, she came across Archibald’s
little powder flask. She quickly dropped it beneath her tunic, and was straightening when Erbin and two men grabbed her legs and pulled her out. She tried to snatch at her knife, but they had
gripped her firmly, a hand clapped over her mouth.

‘Not a sound, witch, or you’ll suffer more pain than you knew could exist in this world or the next!’ Erbin breathed in her ear.

Gritting her teeth, she thought how, with her knife, she would have stabbed and slashed at them until no flesh remained, until she had smothered the grass all about in their blood and gore. But
when she glanced back and saw Ed’s body, she felt relief that, once again, she had saved him. She hadn’t stopped her father’s death, but she had saved Ed from dying: she had
submitted to her own capture in order to protect him.

And then, suddenly, she felt a lurch in her belly. For the first time since killing the priest, she felt defenceless and was overcome by a blind, unreasoning terror as Erbin and the men pulled
her away from the safety of the wagon and deep into the darker recesses of the forest.

Berenger and the others soon reached the little copse in which Archibald parked his wagon. Ed was leaning against the wagon’s wheel, a hand to his brow. It was his scream
they had heard. ‘They took her, they took her!’ he moaned.

‘Who took her?’

‘The Welshmen! They came and took Béatrice!’

‘Shit!’ Heedless of Grandarse’s shouts for him to slow down, and despite Sir John’s recent talk about the need to act prudently, Berenger pelted through the undergrowth
to where the Welshmen had made their camp.

The Welsh had taken a large yard area near a farm. They had a series of fires on the go, with rabbits and a lamb spitted and roasting. The men were drinking and laughing, some holding valuable
mazers with chased silver rims, some chewing on pieces of meat.

Berenger did not pause to think. He strode into their midst, anger sending ripples down his spine. Clenching his fists, he demanded, ‘Where is your captain? Where is he?’

‘Why?’ asked Erbin. ‘Oh, it’s you: the murderer. What do
you
want?’

‘Your men have taken a woman of ours.’

‘A whore?’

‘She is our woman,’ Berenger said. ‘Your men were seen taking her.’

‘Who saw them?’

‘The boy.’

‘Oh, him.’ Erbin shrugged contemptuously. ‘He would say anything to insult the Welsh. Look at the stories he’s made up about us already. Perhaps it was a screech-owl that
scared the brat. There are many about here.’

Berenger was tempted to grab his sword and hold it to the man’s throat. He was maddeningly smug. ‘Don’t try my patience, Erbin. Where is she?’

‘I couldn’t say. If you have lost your goose, you should go and search for her.’ The man squatted insolently by the fire. ‘Perhaps she is back in your bed
already?’

Two men strolled towards Berenger. One was grinning inanely, and toying with the hilt of a short sword; the other wore a scowl of hatred.

Berenger suddenly felt foolish. How stupid of him, to have rushed here without anyone to back him up. He was at the mercy of the Welsh. If they were to kill him, they would be perfectly within
their rights, defending themselves against a crazed attacker.

Erbin stood now and smiled. ‘What, Englishman, do you mean to remain here and drink our wine?’ he jeered. ‘Have some and be merry! But you care little for your wench if you
leave her to her fate while you enjoy yourself here.’

Berenger took a pace back, but as he did so he became aware of more steps behind him and he froze with the certainty that a Welshman was blocking his escape. Then he recognised Geoff’s
voice, saying, ‘What now, Frip?’

‘I don’t know,’ Berenger admitted.

‘I’m bloody soaked, me,’ Grandarse grumbled. ‘When that scream came, I was nearly beshitten. Taking a piss, and hearing that sort of row, it’s a wonder I
didn’t cut off me tarse I was in such a hurry to tie me braies!’

‘Since you have not taken her,’ Berenger called to Erbin, ‘you won’t mind us staying for some drink and food, as comrades who share at ease.’

‘Nay,’ Erbin said, looking at Berenger coolly. ‘You accused us, and that was an insult. On second thoughts, I think you should go now before I call the guards to report you. Go
on – fuck off. The wench is probably back there already, wondering where you have got to.

Berenger glanced at Geoff. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think he’s talking ballocks, Frip.’

Berenger had risked his life many times for money and the chance of winning a butt of wine. If he were to attack Erbin, he felt sure there was a good chance he would die, but what of that? To
die trying to save the girl who had herself saved their Donkey was a good trade. He saw Geoff give a wolfish grin, and felt his own face crack into a smile. He was just about to shout and launch
himself at Erbin when Grandarse put his hand to his breast.

‘No, lads. If you do that, we’ll all hang. Leave these Welsh fellows alone.’

‘Why?’ Berenger said. He was ready for action.

‘Fripper, you had Sir John save you once before when you killed one of these pieces of shit. Don’t expect him to do so again.’

‘I don’t know,’ Berenger had his eyes fixed on Erbin. That was the man, if it came to blows, whom he would kill first. There was something cold and feline in Erbin’s
eyes. Something unnatural.

‘What now?’ Geoff murmured from the side of his mouth.

‘Ballocksed if I know,’ Berenger said with a shamefaced chuckle. There was nothing they could do but retreat. It was one thing if these Welshmen leaped upon them and brought matters
to a head, but if they did nothing and stood back while the Englishmen remained here, it was a stalemate. No one would support them if they caused an affray in the middle of the Welsh camp.

All because of that woman, too. All this trouble over a French tart who wasn’t even a ‘wife’ to any of them.

Geoff said, ‘If she was here, we’d have heard her by now, Berenger.’

‘He’s got a point, Fripper. If they’ve killed her, it’s too late to do anything about it now,’ Grandarse added.

‘All right, I know,’ Berenger said. But he was reluctant to leave, and possibly abandon her to her fate.
She had saved Ed
, he told himself.

There came to his ears a noise, a pop and hiss like a loud hiccup. All heard it. Erbin’s eyes slid away towards a door set in the wall on their right, and a sudden, shrill scream came from
within.

Berenger stepped forward, slammed the cross of his sword into Erbin’s face hard enough to feel the nose break, and then span to his side. His sword was at the throat of the nearer
Welshman, and the second was stepping away from Geoff’s point, arms held up defensively.

‘Wait here, Grandarse,’ Berenger snapped, and was about to make his way to the chamber, but there was no need.

She appeared in the doorway, her face blank. Her mouth was moving, as though she was whispering something, but Berenger could hear not a single word.

The Welsh drew away from her, averting their faces, one covering his eyes as she came out and walked forward, her feet scarcely rustling the grasses, until she drew level with Berenger. She
looked like a woman who had peered into Hell itself, and who had lost her mind. She then continued on her way, passing behind Grandarse and Geoff, leaving the clearing and continuing on towards the
vintaine’s camp beyond the copse.

Berenger felt a shiver run down his spine. There was the distinct odour of brimstone about her. The men in the camp huddled anxiously near the fire as if men afrighted by a ghost or a vampire,
casting agitated glances all about them. And all the while, shrieks of agony came from the little room.

Berenger, still clutching his sword, saw a man stumble from the room, his hands to his face.

‘I’m blind! The bitch blinded me!’ he cried.

Ed was sitting back, feeling sick to his core, while Archibald ministered to him, when she returned.

‘Béatrice? Are you all right?’ Archibald asked. Each syllable threatened to shatter his own bruised skull.

She said nothing, merely squatted on her haunches at the fireside, staring at the flames. Then she pulled out the flask and placed it on the ground near Archibald, away from the fire.

‘They took me into their room and left me tied up. They said I was to satisfy all of them. But my hands were in front of me. I poured powder into a drinking horn, and put stones and sand
on top. I wanted to kill them. When the vintener came, a man was sent to hold me still and quiet. I sat down and shivered, and asked him to stir the flames and make the fire warmer. When he did, I
threw the horn into the fire. It exploded, right beneath his face.’

‘You did well, maid,’ Archibald said, but he thought something had broken. Something deep inside her that had been fine and strong was rent apart and would never be mended.

He stood, fetched a thick blanket and, barely touching the woman, draped it over her shoulders. He poured water into a pot and set it on the fire to boil. Tipping some strong wine into a large
cup, he topped it up with the steaming water, stirred in a dollop of honey and passed it to her. She took it without looking up, but at least she sipped it.

Something about its warmth or taste communicated with her. She looked about her as if startled, wondering where she was, but then stared at the ground, and Archibald was saddened to see her
misery. It made his own eyes well up.

‘Maid, you’re safe now,’ he said gruffly.

‘No. I will never be safe,’ she said, and began to weep.

‘You know what she is?’ Erbin said. He stood at Berenger’s shoulder now. ‘She has already killed one of mine, at Caen, when she called you to aid your
bratchet. Now she has blinded another of my men. She will bring bad luck to us all. You understand me? She is evil, man. A witch. You saw her cursing us. We have to destroy her.’

The man in the room was being tended to at the fire. His face was a mass of blood where the flesh had been burned, and his eyes were mere bloody caverns. He sobbed and moaned as the men tried to
comfort him.

‘She had something, and it exploded in my face! It all blew up! I can’t see anything!’

Erbin spat. ‘Someone shut him up.’

‘This is your fault.
You
took her,’ Berenger said, although he felt his flesh creep at the inhuman sounds coming from her victim. ‘Leave her alone. If you do anything
more, if you look at her, let alone touch her, I will command her to curse you with all the fervour at her command.’

‘It is not just us,’ Erbin called as Berenger rejoined Grandarse and Geoff and set off for their camp. ‘It’s the whole army. You think a bitch like her will comfort you
in your beds? While you’re swyving her, you’ll be seeing to the end of all of us! We’ll all die here!’

Berenger continued on his way as the Welshman shouted after them, his words growing more overwrought as the English left the Welsh camp behind.

‘You hear me? You will see to the ruin of the whole army if you keep her! She’s evil! She’s a witch!’

Grandarse stopped and looked back at Erbin through the trees. ‘You hear that? Daft bugger has had his pate beaten once too often, hasn’t he? He’s brain-dead. Witch, my arse!
What, does he think a witch would come here just to annoy
him
?’ His tone was light, but there was a frown on his face. His superstitious soul rebelled at the thought of harbouring a
witch. ‘Eh? Berenger?’

‘Yeah, what do
you
think, Frip?’ Geoff asked.

Berenger looked at them both. ‘She feared – rightly – that she was to be raped, by the whole lot of them, so she defended herself as best she might. That’s all. They
captured her and imprisoned her in that little chamber. We all heard her being taken.’

‘Aye, but if she is a witch . . .’ Grandarse growled.

‘If she is, she’ll likely strengthen us. We haven’t done anything but try to help her, so the wench would have no cause to want to harm us,’ Berenger said with
finality.

They entered the edge of their camp and Grandarse and Geoff strode to the fire, squatting near the heat.

Berenger found his own attention moving to Archibald and the wagon. There was a small fire, and Berenger could see Ed sitting there beside Béatrice. The sight of her reminded him of
Erbin’s hissed words: ‘She is evil, man. A witch.’

‘Ballocks to the lot of it,’ he sighed tiredly, and stepped around the men in the camp, over to his own belongings, and there he lay down.

At a sudden snapping of twigs, he looked up again and felt a shiver of unease when he saw that Béatrice was staring straight at him, as though she could read his every thought.