Fields of Glory (41 page)

The battle for now was over for Berenger, who let his head sink back to the grasses and closed his eyes, so exhausted for the moment that he might as well have been dead. Before him, he could
hear the sudden screams and cries as a mass of cavalry joined together to charge into the French flank, and then there were only cheers as the English celebrated their victory, strolling amongst
the fallen Frenchmen and ensuring they were all dead before looting them.

Berenger could have kept his eyes shut and slept for a week, he thought. And then there was a whining voice near to his ear. ‘Aye, well, the old bastard’s survived, then.’

‘Me, you mean?’

‘Who else, Frip?’ Jack rumbled, but there was an odd note in his voice.

Berenger opened his eyes to find Jack and Clip at his side, while Eliot and Jon went systematically from one Frenchman to another, gathering up their purses and bringing them back to the
vintaine. Walt and Luke stood a little way away, bows ready with arrows nocked, in case more men should appear from within the woods.

It was then that he caught sight of Geoff. He was sitting with his back to a tree, a bolt in his upper left breast. He gave a twisted grin as Berenger caught his eye, before leaning his head
back against the tree, his face contorted with pain.

Geoff regained consciousness with a scream. There was a red-hot sensation in his left shoulder and breast; as soon as he moved, pain shot through his entire left side, making
the breath shudder in his throat. It felt as though someone had thrust a heated brand thrust into his flesh and was twisting it.

‘Keep still, you dog’s turd,’ he heard a man hiss, and he looked around to see Jack at his side, gripping his arms and holding him in place. Berenger was at his feet, sitting
on his ankles, and above him was a figure with a cloth.

‘Keep her away from me!’ he panted, but then saw her reach down to his face. He jerked his head away, and wept as the movement made his injury complain again. ‘Keep her away,
damn your soul, Jack Fletcher, or I’ll kill you!’

‘Shut up, fool,’ Berenger called. ‘She has already nursed you all the way here, when we thought you would die. You would indeed be dead, were it not for her.’

‘I don’t want her help,’ Geoff declared, but they paid no heed to his complaints. ‘She’s a witch. She has to be brought before the priests! She should be
burned!’

Jack gripped his arms more tightly, until his fingers were as painful as vices slowly squeezing. ‘Shut up, Geoff. Didn’t you hear him? It’s Béatrice who’s kept you
alive.’

Looking about, Geoff saw that it was full night, and the flames from a nearby fire licked Berenger’s face with an orange-red tint and made him look demonic. The same lurid light cast a
glow over Béatrice’s features, but as he stared at her, he saw the lines of pain and worry at her brow. She looked less evil than Berenger, he thought to himself, and then he wondered
how he must look himself. In the light of the fire, he knew he must look just like Berenger, and his life justified it: he
was
evil.

She washed his wound, then smeared some liquid over it, before placing a thick lump of cloth over it. Geoff had to grit his teeth as she pressed.

‘It’s not as bad as it could have been,’ Berenger said while Béatrice mopped the sweat from Geoff’s brow. ‘The leech managed to pull the bolt from your
shoulder, but it snapped, and splinters were left behind. It was Béatrice who worked them out this morning.’

‘Where are we?’ Geoff tried to look round, but the movement made him clench his jaws and groan in agony.

‘Not far from where you got this,’ Berenger said tiredly. ‘The bastards managed to harry us just enough. We were held up for a while, making sure that the woods were
safe.’

Berenger saw that Béatrice was finished with her ministrations. She was standing nearby, wiping the hair from her face with the back of her hand, then glancing about her. There were four
other men with serious injuries, and at the moan and sob from one of them, she hurried away.

‘There were no more attacks, no,’ Berenger said. He relinquished his hold on Geoff’s legs, and rolled over to relax on the grass nearby. ‘But that doesn’t matter.
It means we’ve been held up again. Tomorrow, we will have to make better progress.’

Geoff nodded, but his eyes were on Béatrice. ‘You let her look after me? She could have—’

‘Of all those injured, only the men she looked after are still alive,’ Berenger rasped. ‘Jack is telling everyone. The vintaine won’t support any move against her. If you
wish to die, I will keep her away, but make sure you die quietly. There are four other injured men over there, and she is saving their lives while you rebuff her aid!’

19 August

The next day, Geoff felt as though he was suffering the torments of the damned.

He had been loaded into the archers’ cart early in the morning, and there he was forced to wobble from side to side as the army made its lumbering way towards the Somme.

His shoulder was immensely painful, and every so often when there was a halt, Béatrice would appear, wiping at his forehead. The old leech from St-Lô came with her a couple of
times, and muttered to himself about ‘English children’ as he washed the wound and smeared cooling egg-white over it. ‘If you will fight with filthy peasants, what more can you
expect?’ he demanded at one point, before shrugging to himself. ‘And you are no cleaner yourself, that is the problem,’ he added.

‘Why are you here?’ Geoff demanded of Béatrice when the army had halted to rest the mounts and take some much-needed sustenance. She had come to tend to him. ‘You know I
am no friend of yours.’

‘You are ill. And you remind me of a man,’ she said.

‘Who?’

‘My father.’

‘Where is he?’

She looked away. ‘He is dead. They cut him into tiny pieces, and then cast them into a pit at Montfaucon. For a comment made in jest.’

‘You saw this?’

‘I was not permitted,’ she said, leaning down and wiping the beads of sweat from his brow. ‘My father sent me away. He hoped that Normandy would be safe for us.’

‘And then we landed.’

‘The people of Barfleur did not trust me. Neighbours heard that my father was the victim of the King’s injustice, so they came and accused me. The daughter of a traitor must herself
be a traitor, they said. That was why my uncle sent me away, to a little village where he knew an old widow-woman, Hélène. She took me in, and for a while everything went well. But
Hélène grew ill. She died, unshriven, poor lady, because when the priest arrived, he wanted me to whore for him before he would hear her confession. He said he would tell all the
villagers that I was a witch if I did not let him . . .’ She stopped and wiped her eyes. Sniffing, she returned to her work, wringing out the cloth in cool water and reapplying it to
Geoff’s brow. ‘He refused to take my answer. He tried to force me – and then I stabbed him.’

Geoff watched her closely. ‘We found that cottage. We found him.’

‘He deserved to die. Some knights took Hélène’s body to the church for me, and then I left. The next day you and your army arrived and I felt sure that you would try to
do to me what the priest had wished to do, so I fled. And I continued to run until I reached St-Lô, and there you found me.’

‘What of the cat?’

‘My cat?’

‘Someone hanged a black cat and fired the place.’

‘I burned it down because I didn’t want anyone to benefit from it,’ Béatrice said. ‘I am sorry about the cat though. He didn’t deserve to die.’

‘We thought he was your link to the Devil,’ Geoff said.

‘My link to the Devil?’ she repeated, and amusement gleamed in her eyes for a moment or two. In that time, he saw not a fearsome witch, but a pretty young girl about to laugh for
pure joy. But then her expression hardened again.

‘I am sorry about the chapel,’ he said.

‘I don’t care. My life is already over.’

He gave a dry chuckle. ‘As is mine. I have no family now. All is lost.’

‘You had a wife?’

‘Yes. She is dead,’ he said, remembering how her body had caved in when his knife entered her throat. The way she stared up at him as her eyes faded. All because of the ale; all
because he was infatuated with a tart from a tavern. He had killed his wife while he was enraged, and the next morning he did not even remember until he found her body. And then the bodies of his
sons. He had killed his entire family in his drunken rage and frustration. Perhaps he had reasoned with the logic of a drunkard that, if his family were all gone, he could take Edith for his own
and could start a fresh life with her. He shuddered as a vision of Sarra and the boys returned to his mind, their faces blanched, lips blue, eyes dead and flat – and instantly felt
Béatrice’s cool hand on his brow.

‘I’m all right,’ he gasped. ‘Just remembering things.’ Tears stood in his eyes.

‘Why did you attack me?’ she asked.

‘I . . . I was desperate. Lonely. And then I saw you, and the sight inflamed me. I was mad, I think.’

There were calls and horns blown and the vintaine rose, ready for the afternoon’s march.

‘I must go,’ she said.

‘I thank you. My life is yours now.’

‘Perhaps I will have need of it before long,’ she said, and was gone.

21 August

Berenger had spent an unsatisfactory day with his men, riding to and fro across the line of march of the army – and now, at last, they were approaching the river.

The carts made a hellish din as they rattled and crashed over the ruts and stones of the tracks. Every so often there would be a short scream as the injured inside them were thrown around,
making broken bones move and wounds reopen. Two more men had died from their injuries, and three from a sickness that had spread to many in the army.

It was always the way. Berenger had never yet seen as many men killed in battle as had died from disease. This time, perhaps because the men were moving continually, the illnesses were fewer. It
was an interesting thought.

Uppermost in his mind, however, was the whereabouts of the French.

Every day for the last three they had been attacked by groups of militia, but these were uncoordinated assaults. It was the main force that Berenger feared, yet the French had not been
sighted.

It was alarming. The English were suffering. Those marching on foot had boots that were worn through, and several men had given up on them, casting them aside or stuffing them in their packs in
the hope of finding some leather to mend them with before too long.

In Berenger’s mind, there was an ever-ready presence just over the horizon: the French King with his enormous army. And when the first troops of that mighty host appeared, the English had
best be ready and waiting or, as Clip foretold, they would all be slaughtered.

He had no idea how many men the French could muster, but everyone knew that with King Philippe’s funds, he could hire the most proficient mercenaries from Genoa, Saxony and beyond. There
truly was no defence, unless the English could find a perfect piece of land for a battle: an area where they could install themselves to their own satisfaction.

Sir John had mentioned this himself. He had ridden up behind Berenger late yesterday morning, and the vintener had seen how the strain of the last few days was affecting the old knight.

‘How are the men, Fripper?’

‘Well enough, Sir John.’

‘Good. Let’s hope this nonsense will soon be over and done with. We need to cross this damned river. Once we are over the other side, then will I be content.’

Sir John cast an eye at Berenger. ‘You reminded me of the land north of here. Once we’re across the Somme, I recall the ideal place where we could settle and wait for the French to
meet us. Do you remember a vill called Crécy? A broad plain, sweeping down from a curved hill. If the French were to ride into that horseshoe, and we were on the hill, few of them would make
it to our lines.’

Berenger nodded thoughtfully. He recalled the place. ‘Is the enemy far away?’

‘No. Not far enough! We don’t want to meet the French too soon. That could spell disaster.’ Sir John’s old eyes were fretful. ‘If we are forced to a battle here,
God Himself knows how it will go, and who will win the day. But once over there, then we shall be safe.’

Safe.
It was a word that returned to Berenger now, as he led his vintaine at a brisk trot a mile in advance of the main body of the army.

The vintaine’s scouting had been reduced after their mauling three days ago. Other men had been called to the front to take their place temporarily, to allow them a little peace and
recovery time. Today they were back at the front again.

‘It’s wrong, that’s all I’m saying. We’ll all be slaughtered.’

Berenger didn’t bother to look up. ‘What is, Clip?’

‘It’s not right, that’s all.’

‘We’ve done our bit, haven’t we? Why can’t we ride at the back, or with the King and his bodyguard? We’ve lost too many men already – do they want to see us
wiped out?’

‘Stop your blathering,’ Jack said.

‘It ain’t blather, you bastard! You want to die here, you go ahead. It’s fine by me. But I don’t see why I should be stuck up here with—’