Part 2 (2/2)

'Well?' Granda.r.s.e 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.

Berenger chuckled. 'I thought your eyes were shut?'

'Aye, even when they are, I'm alert,' Granda.r.s.e said smugly.

Berenger grinned as he reported to his centener about the men, his sentries, how he had stored their provisions.

'The men know what they're doing,' Granda.r.s.e noted. 'Most have campaigned with the King before, and any man grows easier in spirit, the more there are with him. No man likes to be at the foremost point of a King's spear, to be the first man landed on a hostile sh.o.r.e, but when he is one of hundreds or thousands, his courage is rekindled.'

'True enough,' Berenger agreed.

'You still think he's no good, eh?' Granda.r.s.e said shrewdly. 'That boy?'

Berenger squatted beside the fire. 'He's too young to stand in the line; he can't draw a bow he's a wasted mouth. What will you pay him?'

'Pay? I get a s.h.i.+lling a day, like an esquire; you get sixpence; the men get thruppence; a Welshman tuppence. He's worth a penny, I suppose, if he can carry our stores. He can forage, and he can fetch supplies in battle, can't he? He'll earn it. You saw him today. Was there any sign he would break?'

'No,' Berenger admitted. 'He obeyed orders.'

'He didn't puke at the sight of bodies, did he?'

'No.'

'Then stop worrying! He'll work his way until he's a man. Same as some of us did. Like I did.'

'Yes,' Berenger nodded, staring into the fire. Granda.r.s.e rarely tired of telling how he had joined the King's host when he was an orphan scarcely eleven, and had never looked back.

Granda.r.s.e hawked and spat, eyeing him keenly. 'Well, Frip? What is it?'

'I don't know. There's something about him that doesn't feel right. I've had boys join before, you know that, and they start out nervous and fretful. But when they have fought some battles and killed a few men, they begin to grow. Soon they're men. But when they see their first fight, see the bodies strewn about, they have a sympathy for them. They realise that these were only men. This lad's different. He was pathetically worried before, but when he saw the bodies of the French, he had a sort of feral enthusiasm for them. There was no pity or concern, only . . . excitement.'

'We've seen enough men like that before,' Granda.r.s.e observed slowly, prodding at the fire with a stick. He paused. 'D'you think he's bad luck?'

'I don't know,' Berenger said shortly.

'Keep your eyes on him, then.'

'I will.'

Ed felt a part of the vintaine already.

As he sat, nursing a wooden bowl filled with meaty soup and a handful of leaves gathered from the fields, he felt as close to these men as he had to any. It was just like having a family at last, and he relished the sense of belonging.

A man pa.s.sed by and a hand ruffled his hair, and although he s.n.a.t.c.hed his head away automatically, scowling, he treasured the rough affection.

He averted his eyes when he saw Geoff watching him. Ed felt sure the man meant him no harm, but he was another like Fripper, who seemed to be able to read his thoughts. They both made him nervous.

The others were all kindly though: Jack, who held a senior position along with Geoff; Oliver, who had a horrible squint that made him seem to be leering the whole time; Matt, the square-faced, black-haired man who was proud of his reputation as a womaniser; Walter, the one over at the far side of the fire, with the bright blue eyes and fair hair, who had a thin, sensitive face and puckered lips; Gil with the gingerish hair and the perpetual scowl sitting next to Luke, the man with the round face and air of affable confusion, no matter what he did.

Luke was addressing Ed now.

'So, master, you belong to our vintaine now. The only remaining question is, what shall we call you?'

'My name is Ed.'

'No, master, that will not do,' Luke sat back and belched gently. 'I think you are more of a packhorse. You lumber as you go. Perhaps we should call you ”Sumpter”.'

'Too long,' Oliver commented. ' ”Pack” would be better.'

'Whoever heard of a man called ”Pack”?' Luke protested. 'Every time we left a camp, the poor boy would think we were calling him as the orders flew around his head. No, we couldn't call him that.'

'How about ”Goat”? He smells like one,' Walter said disdainfully.

'Now, Walt, there's no need to be offensive.' Luke stretched and yawned. 'I think my idea was best.'

'What's wrong with my real name?' Ed demanded, colouring.

'It's too cheeky, for one thing. What if we call to you, and the King is nearby and thinks we are insulting him or his son? It is a most common name, after all. No, it won't do. Perhaps ”Cart”? We shall be using you to carry all our belongings.'

'Call him ”Pony” and be done,' was Matt's contribution. 'I just wish we could go to a town. This sand is getting everywhere. I swear it's in my cods already.'

'Then it's lucky there are no women for you to sheath your dagger of love, matey,' Gil said with a chuckle. 'No wench would want you near her with a rough edge like that!'

Matt muttered a foul rejoinder, but Luke wouldn't let it drop. 'The boy must have a name,' he insisted. 'Come, shall we have a vote for the most popular?'

'Call him ”Boy”!' Gil called out.

'”Mule?”' Jack offered. 'He has the temperament of one.'

'p.i.s.s on you, Matt!' Eliot called. He was a short man with greying hair and a ready smile. 'The lad's still new. Give him a week, and he'll be standing us a round of ales in a tavern.'

Ed knew that they were all mocking him, but he didn't care. He felt as though he was being accepted.

'I know,' Luke said into the general mirth. 'He will fetch and carry, and he isn't a Pony, while Mule is potentially offensive. Boy, from here on, you will be known as ”Donkey”.'

'Why?'

'Because it suits you, but more, because it suits me,' Luke said comfortably. He settled back, pulling his dirty old felt cap over his eyes. 'You will learn, Donkey, as you grow older (if you do) that there is more to life than a Christian name. Sometimes the name our comrades give us is much more important.'

'So why are you keeping to your given name?'

Luke opened a bright, beady eye like a blackbird's, and peered at him. 'I was named Martin, Donkey.'

It was late when Berenger finally slumped to the ground near Geoff. The others had already rolled themselves in their blankets and cloaks, and there was a muted snoring from Clip, a whiffling wheezing from an older man nearer the fire. Two members of the vintaine sat murmuring at a farther fire, one of them slowly and methodically stroking a stone over his sword's blade like a harvester sharpening his scythe.

Berenger had walked the outer line of the sentries, and wandered out beyond the light from the fires. There he had stealthily crept from one tree to another, his ears alert for any sounds, but he returned rea.s.sured. The French were nowhere about. Not yet.

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