Part 2 (1/2)

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 pa.s.sed. 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 p.i.s.sed 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 Granda.r.s.e, 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 Beatrice 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 pus.h.i.+ng 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, Beatrice 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. Beatrice 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 a.s.sumed 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. b.l.o.o.d.y and bruised, she was left to crawl away.

For her own safety, her uncle had sent her here. The woman, Helene, was the widow of a former servant of his. She lived on a small pension provided by Beatrice's uncle, but for the last few days she had been unwell. Beatrice 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 Helene?'

'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.'

Beatrice made to go inside, but he stopped her. 'No, we can honour G.o.d 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.'

Beatrice tried to pull away. His voice was grown harsh and hoa.r.s.e, and when he thrust his groin at her, she felt his ta.r.s.e 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 s.l.u.t 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, Beatrice. 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, Beatrice, but you despise priests like me. Devil's wh.o.r.e!'

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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s, a look of pure l.u.s.t and devilry in his eyes, and then . . . then she was back inside the cottage and kneeling at Helene'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, Helene died, very peacefully and when Beatrice 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.