Fields of Glory (5 page)

As his destrier brought him closer, Sir John de Sully felt his spirits soar: even as the great horse’s hooves pounded at the soil, his heart beat faster and faster, and
he could have sung with joy to be in battle again. This was life! He felt as though his soul was with the angels!

Old age be damned!

His mind was completely focused. It was ever the way for him that, as he approached the enemy, he saw only that which was directly before him. Now two Frenchmen were in his sight-line, one with
a steel helm, one with a leather cap, and neither of any importance. He set himself at them, his lance-point wavering, but as he closed he chose steel-cap, and his lance-point fixed on his target.
Nearer, nearer . . . and he saw the dark eyes narrow in shock, then the man tried to draw aside, but too late, and Sir John’s lance trembled in his fist as the point buried itself in the
man’s breast.

There was a scream, and as Sir John thundered on, his progress so swift that it took only a flick of his wrist and the dying Frenchman, still spitted like a pig, was lifted high overhead to fall
behind. His lance freed, reeking of the blood and shit that dripped down the shaft, Sir John set his mount at another man, spurring Aeton onwards. This man wore a steel bascinet and mail, but
before he could close with him the fellow had set his own horse at the Earl.

Frustrated, Sir John snarled and searched for another opponent, but then realised that three men were making for him. He couched lance as Aeton reared, and charged again. This time his
lance-point struck a shield, and the point became embedded. The shock snapped it away, sprinkling the shield with faeces and blood. Sir John swung the lance’s stump at the second man; it
slammed into his upper arm, but not forcefully enough to do more than bruise. Sir John threw it at the man’s head in disgust and drew his sword. Now the third knight – a heavy-set brute
with a thick, bristling beard – was barging forward, shrieking a war cry, his mouth wide open when Sir John’s lucky stab caught him full in the face. His smile was turned to blood, and
he spat teeth from his ravaged mouth.

Sir John turned to the first man again, who fought with savage determination, although the two-foot splinter sprouting from his shield must have made it horribly unwieldy. Sir John beat at him,
keeping him between Aeton and the third man-at-arms, but it seemed nothing he could do would knock him from his mount. Sir John decided to change tactic. He withdrew his horse a little, and then
urged Aeton on again, riding for the head of the man’s horse. The beast was shoved aside, and Sir John hacked at its rider with two vicious sweeps right, before bringing his sword down onto
the horse’s skull. It collapsed instantly, and Sir John rode over the man on the ground to get back to the last attacker – but he had given up and was riding away, back into the shelter
of the trees.

Sir John had to fight to control Aeton, who was raring to continue the battle. At last he managed to soothe the brute, patting his neck until the bloodlust left him, and he stood shivering,
whickering as his rage cooled.

Looking down, Sir John saw that one of Aeton’s great hooves had landed on the last man’s face, and while he seemed to stare back at the knight with his remaining eye, the other side
of his face had been mangled and stamped by the brute’s horseshoe.

Sir John studied the body dispassionately.

There would be many more dead, he knew, before this campaign was over.

‘Stay with me, lads!’ Berenger warned while he and the vintaine slowly advanced. ‘We’re here to guard the landing, not to go chasing off like hounds
after a hare. Hold the line!’

Jack gave a chuckle. ‘We’re well out of it, I reckon. Getting in the middle of a bunch of hairy-arsed horsemen is one sure way to get your skull broken.’

‘Aye, and I don’t like the thought of running after ’em. If you want a hound, get a hound,’ Wisp added.

A few of the French had tried to coordinate their own charges against the English, but as more and more English knights charged up the beach, the Frenchmen despaired. The foot-soldiers had
already mostly fled: those who hadn’t lay dead or injured. When only twenty-odd men on horseback remained to contest the landing, it was obvious that the English must prevail. The French
faltered, and then, as one body, galloped away.

Two men-at-arms clapped spurs to their beasts to chase after the fleeing enemy, but the Earl ordered them at the top of his voice,
‘No! Stay here with the army!’
Then, seeing
Grandarse, he indicated the bodies. ‘Make sure all are dead, and keep a close eye on those trees.’

Grandarse looked at Berenger, who nodded and pulled out his knife. ‘Come, boys. We have work to do.’

Ed and Clip rejoined the vintaine as the men were wiping their weapons clean of enemy blood. Berenger watched them approach and snarled, ‘You took your time.’

‘Scared we’d leave you, Frip?’ Clip grinned. ‘Wouldn’t do that to him, would we, boy? You know you can trust me.’

For a moment Berenger was gripped by the urge to grab Clip by the throat and punch him – but it passed. It was the reaction. He hated slaying the injured. Some were so badly hurt that they
barely moved as his knife sliced across their throats, or into their hearts or brains – but there had been two today who had looked up with eyes like puppies’ as he delivered them from
their pain.

It reminded him of helping the warrener when he was a boy: catching rabbits and killing them swiftly, releasing them from pain. Except here, the men were surrounded by the odours of battle: the
metallic smell of blood, the midden-smell of opened bowels. Having to step through and kneel in the stinking puddles where men had pissed and shat themselves, getting filth on his fists and legs .
. . he hated that part of a battle: the final butchery.

And Clip hadn’t deserted them. He
had
come back – if slowly.

Clip’s levity faded as he cast a look behind Berenger and understood. ‘Sorry, Frip. We were as fast as possible.’

‘Next time, get a move on. If you don’t, I’ll throw you to the enemy myself.’ The vintener looked over them. ‘Where are the weapons?’

‘Right there,’ Clip said, pointing with his chin. On the hillock where they had been standing, Berenger could see a low handcart with a stack of bowstaves and arrows on it.

‘Good. Light the fire.’

Clip smiled thinly. ‘Maybe Ed would be better? He’s quick with his tinder.’

‘Do as you’re told,’ Berenger snapped.

Clip shrugged and went on, his usual whine forgotten: ‘Ed here makes a good sumpter. He brought most of them. He was in a hurry to get here and see the bodies.’

Berenger cast an eye over the boy as he wiped blood from his hand. ‘Why, lad? Haven’t you seen enough dead men already?’

No one could get to the age of twelve without seeing a dead man: a grandparent, a friend, a felon – death was all too common. But Ed wasn’t listening. His gaze moved intently over
the figures.

‘You all right there, Ed?’ Berenger said.

Ed wore an expression of such savagery that Berenger was shocked. He had never before seen a look like that in one so young. He shot a glance over at Grandarse, but the centener was bellowing at
Geoff and two others to get their fingers out and didn’t notice.

‘Ed – what is it?’ Berenger said more forcefully.

‘Nothing,’ Ed replied with a little sigh. He turned and strode away, but now he was no anxious young boy with a head permanently bowed in submission. He looked more like a man.

A killer.

It was dark already when Béatrice Pouillet shut the door to the henhouse behind the cottage. The foolish creatures were making a din as they bickered on their perches.
She could imagine them pushing at each other, the lowest in the pecking order forced against the walls, the matronly leader waggling her tail feathers and making herself comfortable.

Once, only a short time ago, Béatrice would have grinned at the thought, but not now. There was no place for humour in her life any more. Not since her father’s arrest and
execution.

Execution: a word that struck the heart with terror. Béatrice knew how men who had incurred the King’s displeasure were made to suffer the most savage punishments before death. It
was appalling to think that her own father could have endured such horrors. Friends had betrayed him. A respected specialist, valued by all who knew him and his work, and yet his life had been
snuffed out like a candle so that no memory remained except in her.

Afterwards she had fled to her uncle’s house at Barfleur, some two days’ journey north. There she had hoped to be safe, but in the little port, stories about her father’s crime
were soon bruited about, and all too many assumed the worst. Even her uncle, a decent, law-abiding merchant, was accused of being a spy or murderer. Leaving the house one morning, she was set upon
by a gang of urchins, who taunted her and pelted her with stones and ordure. Bloody and bruised, she was left to crawl away.

For her own safety, her uncle had sent her here. The woman, Hélène, was the widow of a former servant of his. She lived on a small pension provided by Béatrice’s
uncle, but for the last few days she had been unwell. Béatrice was fearful that she too was going to die, and once more she would be all alone; here, further than ever from home. It was no
good dwelling on her family – she had no idea where her mother was.

At least the local priest was kind. He had offered to come and help her with the old woman.

At that moment, there was a snap of twigs, footsteps, and she went to peer round the side of the cottage.

‘I am glad to see you, Father,’ she said now as she saw the priest walking slowly up the path to the door.

‘And I to see you, child.’

He was a young man for the job. Only three- or four-and-twenty, short, dark-skinned and with large, liquid brown eyes that smiled all the while as though he could see a joke that was hidden to
others. He smiled now, his eyes taking in her clothing. ‘You look tired, maid.’

‘I am weary,’ she admitted.

‘How is Hélène?’

‘She grows weaker, Father. I have fed her on warm pottage and an egg, but it does her no good.’

‘Let us pray for her.’

Béatrice made to go inside, but he stopped her. ‘No, we can honour God out here in the world He made.’

‘I’d rather go inside, Father. I don’t like to leave her alone for long.’

‘Come here, maid. Hold my hands.’

She did as she was asked. What else should a woman do when commanded by a priest? But he had different ideas. He took her hands and gently put them on his waist, pulling her nearer. ‘Hold
me, maid, and we can pray together.’

Béatrice tried to pull away. His voice was grown harsh and hoarse, and when he thrust his groin at her, she felt his tarse poking at her through his habit. She froze. It felt as though
her heart stopped beating. ‘Father, let me go!’

‘Child, do not disobey your priest! I am not evil. Just lie with me, and let me show you how—’

‘No, Father!’ she blurted, and snatched her hands away.

His voice took on a sly tone. ‘You will do everything I say, because if you don’t, I will accuse you of being a witch. Would you like that? People already mutter about you here. They
say you have a black cat, that you are killing the old woman here in the cottage. They will believe me rather than you. What are you, after all, but a slut who came here because your father was a
despised traitor.’

‘He wasn’t! Leave! Go away,’ she whispered. No one could think she was a witch, surely? She felt suddenly weak, as if she was about to faint. And she thought she might
vomit.

His tone changed again, became wheedling. ‘I love you, can’t you see that? Let me have you, Béatrice. I burn for you!’

‘Get away from me! We’ll both burn if you force me!’

The young man lost patience. ‘You are no better than your father. He was a traitor, but
you
are a witch. You give the appearance of holiness, Béatrice, but you despise
priests like me. Devil’s whore!’

She recoiled from him and from his words. ‘Please – have pity on me,’ she begged.

‘If you don’t do as I ask, I will denounce you,
witch
. It is said you are privy to secrets no woman should know.’

‘Go
away
!’

Afterwards, there was no memory. She saw him at that moment, his hands reaching for her breasts, a look of pure lust and devilry in his eyes, and then . . . then she was back inside the cottage
and kneeling at Hélène’s bedside. As she bathed the old woman’s forehead to cool her, she was surprised to see the water in the bowl turn red as she put her hands in
it.

Later, Hélène died, very peacefully – and when Béatrice went out to throw away the dirty water, she stumbled over the priest’s body.

She screamed with shock. She vaguely remembered slapping at him with her hands, but she hadn’t realised that she had been holding her little knife.

‘Well?’ Grandarse was sitting with his back to a tree close by the wood from which the attack had been launched. Flames from the fire were flickering over his
bearded features, giving them a devilish tint.