Fields of Glory (14 page)

‘Who keeps Wednesday as a fast day?’ Tyler scoffed. He was peering at the barrels in the back of the wagon.

‘Those trained by Holy Mother Church.’

Tyler gave a twisted grin in which suspicion and disbelief were mingled. ‘Even when it’s put in front of you? My priest in London didn’t worry about fasting on a
Wednesday.’

‘Perhaps he did not. Do you want something from my wagon, my son?’

‘No. Why?’

‘You appear unable to remove your eyes from my barrels.’

‘I was just wondering what you carry there?’

‘My friend, you are too rooted in the secular world. It is better to accept the philosophical life. Throw aside greed and avarice. Enjoy in moderation the good things that God has given
you.’

Archibald winked at the boy sitting opposite. He was still yawning fit to unhinge his jaw.

‘You were a monk, but now you are here with the men working on bridges and roads?’ Tyler said.

‘I’m a specialist gynour,’ Archibald informed him.

‘What does that mean?’

‘I work with powder and fire: I bring fire from the heavens and thunder from the clouds, and harness them to hurl at the enemy.’

Tyler regarded him with a confused scowl. ‘What?’

‘It means, my son, you are a man of little wit and less empathy. It means I don’t know you and don’t trust you, and have made that clear; yet you still persist in trying to
learn what you may about me and my business. I do not like that. Nor do I like you.’

Tyler shrugged and tried to grin, but he could not conceal his annoyance. He rose, offended, saying, ‘I see I’m not welcome.’

‘There you speak truly,’ Archibald said comfortably. He watched as Tyler hitched up his belt and walked away, casting a black scowl over his shoulder as he went.

‘That man I would not trust with a broken flint,’ Archibald said ruminatively.

The boy stared over his shoulder. ‘Him? I didn’t understand what you were talking about. He said you were a monk?’

‘Aye, I was once,’ Archibald replied. He took a small leather pouch from beneath his shirt and crumbled salt into the pottage. ‘And while I was there, I was taught much from a
master who was devoted to learning and the natural sciences. It was while I was with him that I learned about the powders of thunder. And I fell in love with knowledge and study.’

‘But if you were a monk, aren’t you still?’

‘The religious life was unsuitable for me. For my studies, I needed more freedom.’

‘But if you become a monk . . .’

‘Some men best serve God in church or monastery. Others, like me, find different routes to Him. I find more of His majesty in my works than I would have discovered in a hundred years with
my abbot.’

The lad was still frowning with incomprehension. ‘But . . .’

‘You have much to learn too, boy. Such as: when to ask questions and when to shut up,’ Archibald said genially as he poured the thin soup into bowls. ‘Eat.’

Béatrice had almost forgotten the stalking man by the end of that second day. She and Alain had kept to the busier roads, joining the throng that wended its way like an
enormous snake of despair, heading in any direction that took them away from the English.

It was in the second evening that he struck. They had been settling for the night with others, when Béatrice went to fetch water from a spring. There was a small shrine next to the spring
where it bubbled up from the ground. A cross had been fashioned from stone, and a wooden cup rested on the base so that pilgrims could drink. She was thirsty, and as she bent to pick it up, she saw
something move from the corner of her eye.

She froze. There were so many wild creatures: boar, wolf, wild dogs – but before she could think of screaming, a lumbering, crashing sound came, and her hair was gripped in a powerful
fist.

‘Bitch. Did you think I’d forgotten you?’

She gasped with the pain, grabbing for her knife, but his hand took hers before she could find it. He let go of her hair and put his arm about her neck, squeezing until she could scarcely
breathe. With his other hand, he pulled the knife from her sheath and dropped it, before his hand rose to encompass her breast. He rubbed and kneaded her through the thin material of her chemise
and tunic, laughing deep in his throat as she struggled, but then his hand moved further down, over the smooth roundness of her belly, and on to her upper thighs. She tried to break away, her
breath rasping as she felt the panic rise: the primeval fears of rape and death smothering her every thought, until they encompassed her entire soul. There was nothing but terror: no rational
thought, no comprehension of existence beyond the present, no memory of happiness or love, only this utter horror.

His questing hand reached her groin, and he clutched at her, his face reaching round, slobbering and drooling at the line of her jaw, as though he would kiss her on the lips.

For some reason, that was more repellent than the thought of his hands on her, or his sex inside her. She jerked with revulsion – and the suddenness of her movement surprised him. He
released her neck, and she tumbled to the ground.

She tried to scramble away, but he grabbed her ankle, and she grasped the first thing to hand to try to drag herself away. A stick. She turned and tried to slam it into his head. He smiled as he
caught it in his hand. Yes: he smiled. It was the look of a ravening wolf. His mouth was wide with excitement and anticipation as he pulled the stick from her. She couldn’t hold it against
his strength.

He put his hand to her tunic’s collar, and she slapped at it, squealing with desperation. A nail caught at the scab of his wound, and a flake of black clot was yanked away. He grunted,
then bunched his fist and drove it at her chin.

With both on the ground, she could roll and evade the blow, and as she moved, she felt a sharp pain. She had rolled onto her knife, and the point tore a wedge from her rib. As he put his hand
back to her breast, squeezing hard, and she gasped with the pain, her fingers found the knife.

When she stabbed the priest, she had no recollection afterwards. This, she would remember for the rest of her life. With the priest she had been scared for her soul, but with this man it was the
certainty of death that drove her on. Something snapped in her, a cord in her soul that kept her sane. The death of her father had begun the process, the priest’s attempted rape had brought
her to a new level of shock, but this man had finally broken the fragile bonds of her gentle feminine upbringing.

Her first wild slash missed his face and buried the blade in his upper arm. She pulled it back and stabbed again, and this time her raking cut caught his nose and cheek, and she saw his flesh
opened. There was no space in her heart for compassion, only utter, concentrated loathing. She stabbed and cut, striking time and time again, while he bellowed and roared, punching at her, but
always trying to move away from the wicked four inches of steel in her hand. He rose to retreat, but she carried on, coldly, methodically, following him with precision, her blade darting hither and
thither, lacerating him as it moved. She kept on even when he tried to surrender, even when he covered his face with his hands. She carried on striking him long after he had ceased to be a threat,
and then, while his body jerked and spasmed, she stabbed him again and again.

‘Maid, maid, what have you done!’ Alain cried.

She stopped, panting, the knife still in her hand. And then, she slipped the knife into his throat, cutting through to his windpipe, and rose. The knife she wiped on his hosen, and replaced it
in her sheath. Her hands and face she rinsed in the spring water, turning it crimson. Afterwards, when she looked down, she thought only that the spring was polluted – and that was good. It
was marked by death. No more would pilgrims come to celebrate and pray here. For ever more, this would be a place reviled, stained with an evil man’s blood.

It was only just.

21 July

Berenger saw the movement at the same time as Geoff did. ‘What the fuck is
that
?’

They had left Valonges some days before and were close to St-Lô. Since then, life had become a banal routine of carnage. Each day, Berenger rose with the men, they attacked villages and
hamlets, destroying all in their path, and made camp and slept, ready to continue the following morning. Now, after a week of fighting and marching, he didn’t know, nor did he care, where
they were. It was merely the approach to another town.

‘Looks to me like men are breaking down the bridge,’ Geoff said as scurrying figures attacked it with iron bars and axes.

‘Can we get around them?’ Berenger wondered.

‘How?’ Geoff pointed to the line of the river. From here, the river curved back towards them on the left and right, with the bridge at the very tip of the loop before them. ‘If
there’s a ford, I don’t see it.’

Grandarse scratched under his arm. ‘Someone’ll have to go and look, won’t they?’ he said.

Berenger sighed. ‘And as usual, that “someone” will be us poor bastards up at the front, you mean?’

‘Come on, eh? You think you’re all alone up there at the front? Just think how many friends you have behind you, man. You won’t feel lonely with all these lads at your back,
will you?’

‘At my back, Grandarse, thanks. I hadn’t thought of that,’ Berenger said drily.

‘Go on, you daft beggar. You know you love it. All that plunder will be yours, won’t it? You’ll be first to claim it all.’

‘Oh, like in Carentan? And Valognes and Barfleur and . . .’

Grandarse’s tone hardened. ‘Enough. Get going, Frip. Watch your flanks, and look out for crossbows. Christ’s bones, but I hate those things. See if the bridge is usable, and if
it isn’t, check for a ford and come back.’

‘Yes, Centener.’ Berenger set his jaw. ‘Come along, boys. We have a short pilgrimage before our supper tonight.’

The first bolt hissed past as they approached the bridge, and Berenger saw a crossbowman bending to span his bow for a second shot. ‘See him? Come on, can’t one of
you get the bastard?’

At the far end of the bridge, a scruffy-looking militia was forming. Men with leather jacks or colourful tunics were standing ready to repel anyone who was foolish enough to try to cross. To the
left of the bridge stood a group of crossbowmen, while forty more stood shouting their defiance, waving axes and swords.

Jack already had his bow strung. ‘I’m going to get that bugger,’ he vowed, nocking an arrow and drawing. There was a moment’s silence, then the dull thrumming of the
bowstring, and Berenger leaned in front of Jack so he could watch the flight. From here, he saw the clothyard rise, then stoop and plummet. It missed the crossbowman, but hit another a couple of
feet away. He gave a shriek as it found its mark in his hip. The other discharged his crossbow harmlessly into the water as he caught his friend’s arm.

‘You’re shite,’ Matt commented.

‘You missed him,’ Geoff said.

‘There’s a man over there, Jack, he’s bigger. Perhaps you could hit
him
?’ Clip enquired genially.

‘Shut the fuck up, the lot of you!’ Jack said, fitting a fresh arrow. ‘He was closer than I thought, that’s all. Didn’t have me eye in.’

Berenger made his way towards the bridge. For all the bickering, he could also hear the sounds of bows being strung, Clip whining about his arrows being held in a quiver, when, ‘Ye all
know I like ’em in the ground before me!’ and Eliot’s muttering about his ‘Bloody bow’s useless – look at the grain there, eh? Knot big as my left ballock.
Whoever the bowyer was who made that, the fuckwit should be strung up with his own string!’

Grinning despite himself, Berenger continued until he reached the bank. Here it was a good yard above the water, and it was clear that they wouldn’t be able to cross. The bed of the bridge
was broken away; the timbers had dropped into the river and were floating downstream. There was no sign of a ford. The river flowed too quickly for a man or cart to attempt to cross here,
especially since it looked deep.

He turned, intending to go back to his men, and it was then that the bolt struck him. The steel point hit the upper part of his shoulder, and flew on just beneath his collar bone. It felt like a
horse had kicked him with a red-hot hoof.

‘Sweet Jesus!’ he gasped, and fell to his knees, staring dumbly at the blood dripping from the bolt’s head.

Geoff was the first to see him. He gave a roar of anger so loud, Berenger was sure the ground shook, before drawing his bow and letting the first of many arrows fly straight to the enemy
archers. In a moment, Jack and Clip and the others were also drawing and loosing, and in only a short time the crossbowmen fled, leaving two on the grass. The swordsmen retreated, trying to conceal
themselves behind balks of timber, but even there the English arrows found their mark.

‘Donkey? Don’t stand there staring, you lurdan, fetch more arrows, quickly!’ Geoff bellowed, his face as red as a beetroot, and Ed went scampering up the road to their
cart.

Berenger was still on his knees when Geoff came to him, took him gently by his good arm, and led him away.