Fields of Glory (6 page)

Berenger chuckled. ‘I thought your eyes were shut?’

‘Aye, even when they are, I’m alert,’ Grandarse said smugly.

Berenger grinned as he reported to his centener about the men, his sentries, how he had stored their provisions.

‘The men know what they’re doing,’ Grandarse noted. ‘Most have campaigned with the King before, and any man grows easier in spirit, the more there are with him. No man
likes to be at the foremost point of a King’s spear, to be the first man landed on a hostile shore, but when he is one of hundreds or thousands, his courage is rekindled.’

‘True enough,’ Berenger agreed.

‘You still think he’s no good, eh?’ Grandarse said shrewdly. ‘That boy?’

Berenger squatted beside the fire. ‘He’s too young to stand in the line; he can’t draw a bow – he’s a wasted mouth. What will you pay him?’

‘Pay? I get a shilling a day, like an esquire; you get sixpence; the men get thruppence; a Welshman tuppence. He’s worth a penny, I suppose, if he can carry our stores. He can
forage, and he can fetch supplies in battle, can’t he? He’ll earn it. You saw him today. Was there any sign he would break?’

‘No,’ Berenger admitted. ‘He obeyed orders.’

‘He didn’t puke at the sight of bodies, did he?’

‘No.’

‘Then stop worrying! He’ll work his way until he’s a man. Same as some of us did. Like I did.’

‘Yes,’ Berenger nodded, staring into the fire. Grandarse rarely tired of telling how he had joined the King’s host when he was an orphan scarcely eleven, and had never looked
back.

Grandarse hawked and spat, eyeing him keenly. ‘Well, Frip? What is it?’

‘I don’t know. There’s something about him that doesn’t feel right. I’ve had boys join before, you know that, and they start out nervous and fretful. But when they
have fought some battles and killed a few men, they begin to grow. Soon they’re men. But when they see their first fight, see the bodies strewn about, they have a sympathy for them. They
realise that these were only men. This lad’s different. He was pathetically worried before, but when he saw the bodies of the French, he had a sort of feral enthusiasm for them. There was no
pity or concern, only . . . excitement.’

‘We’ve seen enough men like that before,’ Grandarse observed slowly, prodding at the fire with a stick. He paused. ‘D’you think he’s bad luck?’

‘I don’t know,’ Berenger said shortly.

‘Keep your eyes on him, then.’

‘I will.’

Ed felt a part of the vintaine already.

As he sat, nursing a wooden bowl filled with meaty soup and a handful of leaves gathered from the fields, he felt as close to these men as he had to any. It was just like having a family at
last, and he relished the sense of belonging.

A man passed by and a hand ruffled his hair, and although he snatched his head away automatically, scowling, he treasured the rough affection.

He averted his eyes when he saw Geoff watching him. Ed felt sure the man meant him no harm, but he was another like Fripper, who seemed to be able to read his thoughts. They both made him
nervous.

The others were all kindly though: Jack, who held a senior position along with Geoff; Oliver, who had a horrible squint that made him seem to be leering the whole time; Matt, the square-faced,
black-haired man who was proud of his reputation as a womaniser; Walter, the one over at the far side of the fire, with the bright blue eyes and fair hair, who had a thin, sensitive face and
puckered lips; Gil with the gingerish hair and the perpetual scowl sitting next to Luke, the man with the round face and air of affable confusion, no matter what he did.

Luke was addressing Ed now.

‘So, master, you belong to our vintaine now. The only remaining question is, what shall we call you?’

‘My name is Ed.’

‘No, master, that will not do,’ Luke sat back and belched gently. ‘I think you are more of a packhorse. You lumber as you go. Perhaps we should call you
“Sumpter”.’

‘Too long,’ Oliver commented. ‘ “Pack” would be better.’

‘Whoever heard of a man called “Pack”?’ Luke protested. ‘Every time we left a camp, the poor boy would think we were calling him as the orders flew around his head.
No, we couldn’t call him that.’

‘How about “Goat”? He smells like one,’ Walter said disdainfully.

‘Now, Walt, there’s no need to be offensive.’ Luke stretched and yawned. ‘I think my idea was best.’

‘What’s wrong with my real name?’ Ed demanded, colouring.

‘It’s too cheeky, for one thing. What if we call to you, and the King is nearby and thinks we are insulting him or his son? It is a most
common
name, after all. No, it
won’t do. Perhaps “Cart”? We shall be using you to carry all our belongings.’

‘Call him “Pony” and be done,’ was Matt’s contribution. ‘I just wish we could go to a town. This sand is getting everywhere. I swear it’s in my cods
already.’

‘Then it’s lucky there are no women for you to sheath your dagger of love, matey,’ Gil said with a chuckle. ‘No wench would want you near her with a rough edge like
that!’

Matt muttered a foul rejoinder, but Luke wouldn’t let it drop. ‘The boy must have a name,’ he insisted. ‘Come, shall we have a vote for the most popular?’

‘Call him “Boy”!’ Gil called out.

‘“Mule?”’ Jack offered. ‘He has the temperament of one.’

‘Piss on you, Matt!’ Eliot called. He was a short man with greying hair and a ready smile. ‘The lad’s still new. Give him a week, and he’ll be standing us a round
of ales in a tavern.’

Ed knew that they were all mocking him, but he didn’t care. He felt as though he was being accepted.

‘I know,’ Luke said into the general mirth. ‘He will fetch and carry, and he isn’t a Pony, while Mule is potentially offensive. Boy, from here on, you will be known as
“Donkey”.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it suits you, but more, because it suits
me
,’ Luke said comfortably. He settled back, pulling his dirty old felt cap over his eyes. ‘You will learn, Donkey, as
you grow older (if you do) that there is more to life than a Christian name. Sometimes the name our comrades give us is much more important.’

‘So why are you keeping to your given name?’

Luke opened a bright, beady eye like a blackbird’s, and peered at him. ‘I was named Martin, Donkey.’

It was late when Berenger finally slumped to the ground near Geoff. The others had already rolled themselves in their blankets and cloaks, and there was a muted snoring from
Clip, a whiffling wheezing from an older man nearer the fire. Two members of the vintaine sat murmuring at a farther fire, one of them slowly and methodically stroking a stone over his
sword’s blade like a harvester sharpening his scythe.

Berenger had walked the outer line of the sentries, and wandered out beyond the light from the fires. There he had stealthily crept from one tree to another, his ears alert for any sounds, but
he returned reassured. The French were nowhere about. Not yet.

‘That lad – Donkey.’

Berenger didn’t have to look to know whose voice it was. The sibilance revealed that it came from Geoff. He squatted down near his old comrade and held his hands to the fire. ‘What
about him?’

‘The boy’s made enemies of the Welsh already. I saw him fetching water a while back, and a group of knifemen were laughing and making comments. I swear he would have pulled his knife
on one who came too close.’

Berenger scowled. ‘He tries that again, cuff him round the head. What, did the fool think they were French or something?’

‘He knew they were Welsh, but he has no love for them, it seems. The boy’s weird, I know, but he’ll work out. He just needs a good thrashing every so often, like all
lads.’

‘That’s what Grandarse said.’

‘But you aren’t sure?’

‘I wish I was.’ Berenger picked up a twig and shoved it into the fire. The end of his twig glowed, and he withdrew it, blowing on the ember reflectively.

‘You never had a son, did you?’ Geoff said.

‘No. At least you have your wife and children,’ Berenger said. He stared at the fire. ‘That’s my greatest regret. After this war, I will find a wife. I should give up
this life.’

‘You think you can?’ Geoff chuckled mirthlessly. ‘It’s easier to be said than to be done. A woman can at least be bought easily enough,’ he added. ‘There are
enough camp followers who would make you a good wife for as long as you want.’

Berenger looked at him, hearing a sharp edge to his voice. Geoff had always spoken with pride of his wife and two sons. Suggesting Berenger might find a ‘good wife’ from among the
camp followers was unsettling. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes. I’m just tired.’

‘It’s been a long day,’ Berenger agreed.

‘Don’t worry about the boy. I’ll look after him,’ Geoff said gruffly.

Berenger nodded. With Geoff taking responsibility, he felt reassured.

‘Perhaps Ed is here for some reason we cannot guess at,’ Geoff yawned. ‘God has His plans, and we rarely comprehend them.’

Berenger gave a twisted grin. The smell of thousands of men, along with the latrines, let alone the French corpses piled a short distance away, all made him wonder what plans God might hold for
them. Later, when he was preparing for sleep, his head on his bag, he glanced across at Geoff. The fellow was staring up at the black sky still.

‘Bugger it,’ Berenger heard him mutter, just before he fell into a deep sleep.

They were a rag-bag of soldiers. Even in her shocked state, Béatrice thought how battered they looked, when they passed by her cottage later that night.

Their leader was a tall, well-mannered nobleman with a face marked by pain and fatigue. Grey bruises under his eyes and deep lines at either side of his mouth and at his brow told of the savage
beating they had received at the hands of the English invaders.

‘Maid, you must leave here,’ he said, halting his horse at her gate while his men shuffled past. His head dropped from exhaustion as he surveyed her sadly. ‘It is dangerous.
The English are come. No man, woman or child is safe. You know what monsters they are.’

She looked up at him dull. The priest’s attempted rape of her, and his death, had affected her deeply. She felt washed out, weary almost to death. This nobleman could have no idea of
monsters: her father had been slain by the King! But she nodded nonetheless. She would not show her true feelings.

‘They landed very near,’ the man went on. ‘We did all we could, but they slaughtered my men and we few escaped with these injuries. They’re only a matter of hours away. I
tell you again: you have to leave this place before they get here.’

‘I cannot. My mistress has died and I must see to her.’

‘Let the priest deal with her, if he will come,’ the knight said.

She nodded, feeling as if the priest’s body was screaming to him from the bushes at the back of the house.

Not that he or his men could hear anything other than the clamour of arms. It was in their faces: they were mired in horror. They marched slowly, mere tattered remnants. A few rode horses or
ponies, but most were on foot, limping and staggering, some helping comrades with arms about their necks as they hobbled along, others using polearms as makeshift staffs.

‘Sir, what happened?’

‘We arrived too late,’ he said. ‘I should have been there sooner, but one man cannot guard a coast so vast as Normandy’s. When we arrived, there were already enough
ashore to thwart us. Our bowmen from Genoa had already deserted us, claiming they were owed money, so we had no protection – nothing. We did all we could, but this is all that is left of the
force I had to defend us all. I must make haste to reach St-Lô or Caen and warn them. The English rats will infest every part of our county until they can be burned out.’

‘I must remain to bury my mistress,’ Béatrice said, glancing back at the cottage.

‘We can carry her to the church, if it will help you,’ the knight said.

‘I must collect my things. Some money . . .’

‘Then be quick!’ he snapped, keen to be off. ‘We can help you to the church, but after that you must make your own way to safety – if you can find it anywhere in our
unhappy kingdom.’

‘I thank you,’ she said. She ran back into the cottage and gathered a few belongings, and then, as the men brought out the old woman’s body, she threw
Hélène’s palliasse onto the fire. Smoke rose from the hay inside, and she turned and strode from the place.

Outside, the old cat rubbed against her legs, giving a loud purr that seemed almost demented. She stroked his head as she watched the flames through the doorway. The roof gave off a thick,
greenish-yellow smoke as the thatch caught. A flash of heat made the animal leap from her.

She called to the cat, but he had hidden himself away. Unbeknownst to her, it was the last time she would see him, for soon, locals would come to accuse her of witchcraft, and they would hang
him, in the casually brutal way of superstitious peasants. If she had known, she would have taken him with her.

‘Why fire the place?’ the knight demanded.

She looked at him and forgot the cat.

‘I’ll not have her belongings looted by the English,’ she said, adding silently to herself, ‘nor by the locals.’