Fields of Glory (8 page)

‘Come!’

Struggling, Béatrice managed to get her almost to her feet, but then both fell down. The old woman was no lightweight. A second time Béatrice managed to have her rise, only to
collapse once more. Before they could try a third time, a housewife hurried over to them, loudly scolding her husband for his tardiness, and took hold of the old woman’s arm while her unhappy
spouse was commanded to take the other. Between them, they managed to get the woman upright and help her to the door of the cottage. Béatrice opened it and drew her inside.

There was little left in there. A couple of smashed pots lay on the floor, and a single neckerchief beside the hearth showed how urgently the owners had packed and departed, but the fire still
held some heat, and while the two helpers set the old woman down on the ground by the wall, Béatrice tended to the coals. When she turned, she was not surprised to see that the two helpers
had left. Why should they wait to help someone who was neither relative nor friend?

‘Come, let me see your wound,’ she said as she rose.

‘You go. I can look after myself.’

‘You were going to die out there,’ Béatrice pointed out. ‘Let me see the wound. I have some skill with healing.’

‘You have the powers of a saint? No? Then do not bother.’

‘Was it a long knife?’

She held her hands four inches apart. ‘No, just an eating knife. But it was enough. Ach! It doesn’t hurt too much. It’s just every so often it feels as though he’s
stabbing me again!’

‘You are bleeding still. I should bind you.’

‘He wanted my money,’ the woman said, not listening. Her head was resting against the wall, eyes staring into the distance. She put her hand into her chemise and drew out a purse.
‘He thought it was in my pack, so he took that. All the food and some clothes, the fool. He didn’t get anything else.’

‘Outlaws don’t think. They rob and run while they can.’

‘He wasn’t an outlaw. He was my son.’

The vintaine stopped and had a good lunch of looted bread, sweet cheese and wine, sitting on a low hill from which they could see the sea. It sparkled and gleamed like frosted
silver, Berenger thought, and he felt a strange tingle in his heart, like the first thrill of lust at the sight of a beautiful woman. Some things were almost too lovely to endure. Near them was the
second vintaine, led by Roger, a dark, narrow-featured man with a determination to survive and prosper. He eyed any patch of ground with a caution that in others would be considered cowardly,
except Berenger knew him to be courageous, but careful.

Roger and Berenger had not spoken since arriving on French soil, and Berenger took the opportunity to join him.

‘Good wine,’ he said.

Roger had a goatskin filled with wine from a barrel at the last farm. ‘Better than the piss they serve at the Sign of the Boar in Hereford,’ he agreed with a chuckle.

‘How are your men?’

Roger glanced about at his men. ‘All good, I think. While there’s vittles and the promise of women, they’re content. A fight won’t bother them.’

‘Mine too.’

‘I see you’ve taken on a youngster. He bearing up all right?’ Roger said, watching Ed.

‘Well enough.’

‘I’ve a new fellow, too. See him over there? Fustian jerkin, with the faded red hosen, and a beard that would suit your boy rather than a grown man?’

‘I see him.’

The man he indicated was a shortish fellow, perhaps five-and-twenty years old, with a long nose and brown eyes, set in a lugubrious face with sallow skin. His hair was straw-coloured, which made
his eyes seem startlingly piercing, and they darted about the land before them and back to the men with a swiftness that was quite birdlike.

‘He’s a curious one. Says he came from London, but his accent’s wrong. Calls himself Mark Tyler, or Mark of London. The boys call him “Cook” because if you give him
a rabbit or lamb, he can make a feast.’

‘Plenty of men will call themselves “of London”, if they’ve been apprenticed there,’ Berenger said.

‘True enough, but apart from cooking, this one seems to have no skills. Still, he knows how to broach a barrel,’ Roger said with a rough laugh. He pulled out his knife to cut off a
hunk of bread. ‘And that always makes a man welcome in the army!’

‘You think he’s an abjurer – an outlaw seeking pardon?’ Berenger asked more quietly. If so, it would be better that the other men did not hear. Some took a dim view of
harbouring felons.

‘He’s probably just a runaway, but I’ll keep watch on him. A new man’s always an unknown until his first fight. Inexperience can be a risk.’

Berenger stood and stretched. ‘The sooner we’re on our way, the better.’

‘Aye. And the sooner we are in a real fight, the happier I’ll be,’ Roger said, glancing over at Mark.

Berenger and Roger walked side-by-side behind Grandarse on the way back as the sun fell, the men straggling along behind them.

‘What’s that?’ Grandarse said suddenly, pointing.

Off on their right was a little stand of trees, and in their midst a small cottage.

‘Looks like someone’s been here already,’ Berenger said.

It might once have been thatched, but now the little building’s walls had tumbled, and spars and joists stuck up jagged against the evening sky. There was an air of sadness and decay about
it. Soon, many more houses would be laid waste like this, he knew, and he was struck with a sense of gloom.

‘Didn’t see it on the way out,’ Grandarse said. He already had his hand on his sword. ‘It’d be a good place for someone to hide.’

‘Grandarse, it’s a pit. It’s been empty since the days of William the Bastard,’ Berenger said, but he was an old soldier, and knew the importance of reconnaissance as
well as any. He hitched up his belt, muttered a curse under his breath, and called to Geoff and Clip. ‘Come on, lads. Let’s get it checked out, eh?’

Their path was a foot-wide trampled passage through grass and scrub. Berenger led the way, scowling at the building as shadows began to dominate the land. It seemed to him as though the slower
they walked, the nearer the cottage appeared, as though it was approaching them as well, like a predator stalking its hunter. He felt a slither of unease in his belly.

Closer to the cottage, he saw that where a thick thatch must once have lain, now there was only the stench of burned straw. Some greenish clumps remained on the top of one wall, but the rest had
been consumed in the conflagration. It was still warm.

‘Some of our boys been here already?’ Berenger wondered.

‘Must have,’ Geoff said.

‘There’ll be nothing in there to take,’ Clip noted sadly.

Berenger nodded, and they all stepped silently to the gaping hole where the door had once stood. It was there still, but burned and ruined, lying half in, half out. The doorpost had been
scorched to a repellent, twisted black shape, like a snake standing and staring at him. It was enough to make Berenger swallow hard and take a second look. In the dark he could have sworn that the
thing had eyes and watched him closely as he came closer.

‘What is it, Frip?’ Geoff asked, seeing his stare.

‘Just a . . . I thought I saw something.’

It was stupid to be superstitious. It was only a peasant’s home, one small room, that was all. Yet he was reluctant to enter. He had seen bodies burned to foetal skeletons before now. When
he died, he wanted an arrow in the throat, not a burning.

He looked about him warily and then jerked back. ‘Sweet Mother of . . .’ Dangling from a cord bound to a rafter, swinging slightly in the warm air, he saw a dead cat.
‘Shit!’

‘What?’ Geoff hissed.

‘Nothing’, Berenger muttered. He crossed himself hurriedly. A black cat was ominous. Everyone knew that.

Geoff glanced at Clip. The two were either side of the doorway now, and at a nod from Geoff, they raced inside, knives out and ready, low enough to gut anyone foolish enough to try to ambush
them.

Berenger entered more slowly, averting his eyes from that unsettling doorpost. One wall, which had supported the end of the beam, had collapsed when the fire had taken hold, and the beam had
crashed into the room, smashing everything beneath it. Berenger could see a table, two stools, a couple of pots, even a long scrap of blackened material.

‘Nothing here,’ Geoff said, after wandering about the room. There was nowhere to conceal a body, and he kicked at some rubble, bent and peered under the beam.

Clip stood with his lip curled. ‘You’re right. Whoever got here before us took everything left unburned.’

Berenger let his hand rest on the beam. It was still warm. ‘It was a recent fire,’ he noted.

Wisp had walked in after the men, and stood in the doorway, looking slightly green.

‘You all right, Wisp?’ Berenger asked.

Wisp felt strangely light-headed. Seeing the cat dangling, he had been struck with superstitious terror. He felt as if he was at the top of a tall cliff and peering out to death far below. His
head was filled with a curious dizziness, and he sucked in his breath.

‘Wisp? Wisp, what is it?’

He could hear Berenger’s voice, but it felt like Frip was a long way away. Wisp’s heart was thundering like a horse in full gallop, and he had to grasp a timber to keep from
toppling.

‘I’m fine,’ he managed. ‘Just a gut-rot.’

Roger’s voice came to them from outside. ‘Hoy, Fripper, best take a look at this.’

Berenger gave Wisp a clap on the shoulder, then turned and left.

Wisp remained, staring at the cat.

‘Cut that thing down,’ he gulped.

‘What, the cat?’

Wisp nodded.

‘You do it,’ Clip said. ‘You think I’m your esquire?’

‘Just cut the bastard thing down,’ Wisp said with a sudden venom. He wanted to throw up. ‘You see what it is?’

‘Yeah – a dead cat. So what?’

‘It’s a sign that a witch lived here. They killed her cat, because it was her link to the Devil. Christ save us!’

Wisp stumbled from the sad little house and, once outside the door, he fell to his knees and puked.

Berenger had walked out to Grandarse and Roger, who stood near a little spring with the rest of the men. ‘What?’

‘Looks like someone wasn’t too popular,’ Roger said with a grin, pointing. On the ground at his feet lay a man in a foetal curve, arms clutched to his belly.

‘A priest? Who did it – one of our scouts after the landing?’ Berenger said, prodding the body with his foot.The skin was foul already and had dark veins showing.

‘Who’d bother to kill a priest?’ Roger wondered. ‘They don’t carry money.’

Grandarse spat. ‘Aye, well, priest or sinner, there’ll be plenty more like him before long.’

They returned to the camp late in the evening, and Berenger was glad to be able to sit down and warm his hands at a fire.

All the way back they had seen fires in the distance, and now smoke was rising like scars on the sky to south and west. Berenger knew what was happening. English and Welsh opportunists were
slaughtering cattle, sheep and people, before the stores of food and fields of wheat were burned. That was why they were here: for wholesale destruction.

But he wasn’t thinking about the fires. On the way back, they had passed a group of Welsh knifemen, and one of them called out: ‘Glad to see someone took on the brat. Hey, boy,
thanks for the ale!’

Berenger turned. The speaker was a thin-featured Welshman with a scar over his left cheek that left a white mark in his sideburn. The top of his ear had been removed with the same slash.

Ed lifted his head, and at the sight of the Welshmen, he seemed to shrink into himself, as though he was petrified. His hand rested on his knife’s hilt.

‘You know our Donkey? He’s a good worker. You should have used him yourself,’ Berenger said.

There was some ribald laughter at this, which seemed to hold an edge of contempt.

‘What is your name?’ he asked.

‘I am called Erbin. I am leader of these men,’ the man said.

‘Know that I am called Berenger. I am in charge of this vintaine under Sir John de Sully.’

‘We are under the command of the Prince of Wales,’ Erbin said sneeringly. ‘That beats a poxed knight.’

Berenger held up his hand when he saw Geoff and Eliot bristling. ‘Leave them, lads. You, Erbin, had best watch your tongue. You have the ear of the Prince. I have the ear of his father, so
go swyve a goat!’