Part 3 (1/2)

'That lad Donkey.'

Berenger didn't have to look to know whose voice it was. The sibilance revealed that it came from Geoff. He squatted down near his old comrade and held his hands to the fire. 'What about him?'

'The boy's made enemies of the Welsh already. I saw him fetching water a while back, and a group of knifemen were laughing and making comments. I swear he would have pulled his knife on one who came too close.'

Berenger scowled. 'He tries that again, cuff him round the head. What, did the fool think they were French or something?'

'He knew they were Welsh, but he has no love for them, it seems. The boy's weird, I know, but he'll work out. He just needs a good thras.h.i.+ng every so often, like all lads.'

'That's what Granda.r.s.e said.'

'But you aren't sure?'

'I wish I was.' Berenger picked up a twig and shoved it into the fire. The end of his twig glowed, and he withdrew it, blowing on the ember reflectively.

'You never had a son, did you?' Geoff said.

'No. At least you have your wife and children,' Berenger said. He stared at the fire. 'That's my greatest regret. After this war, I will find a wife. I should give up this life.'

'You think you can?' Geoff chuckled mirthlessly. 'It's easier to be said than to be done. A woman can at least be bought easily enough,' he added. 'There are enough camp followers who would make you a good wife for as long as you want.'

Berenger looked at him, hearing a sharp edge to his voice. Geoff had always spoken with pride of his wife and two sons. Suggesting Berenger might find a 'good wife' from among the camp followers was unsettling. 'Are you all right?'

'Yes. I'm just tired.'

'It's been a long day,' Berenger agreed.

'Don't worry about the boy. I'll look after him,' Geoff said gruffly.

Berenger nodded. With Geoff taking responsibility, he felt rea.s.sured.

'Perhaps Ed is here for some reason we cannot guess at,' Geoff yawned. 'G.o.d has His plans, and we rarely comprehend them.'

Berenger gave a twisted grin. The smell of thousands of men, along with the latrines, let alone the French corpses piled a short distance away, all made him wonder what plans G.o.d might hold for them. Later, when he was preparing for sleep, his head on his bag, he glanced across at Geoff. The fellow was staring up at the black sky still.

'b.u.g.g.e.r it,' Berenger heard him mutter, just before he fell into a deep sleep.

They were a rag-bag of soldiers. Even in her shocked state, Beatrice thought how battered they looked, when they pa.s.sed by her cottage later that night.

Their leader was a tall, well-mannered n.o.bleman with a face marked by pain and fatigue. Grey bruises under his eyes and deep lines at either side of his mouth and at his brow told of the savage beating they had received at the hands of the English invaders.

'Maid, you must leave here,' he said, halting his horse at her gate while his men shuffled past. His head dropped from exhaustion as he surveyed her sadly. 'It is dangerous. The English are come. No man, woman or child is safe. You know what monsters they are.'

She looked up at him dull. The priest's attempted rape of her, and his death, had affected her deeply. She felt washed out, weary almost to death. This n.o.bleman could have no idea of monsters: her father had been slain by the King! But she nodded nonetheless. She would not show her true feelings.

'They landed very near,' the man went on. 'We did all we could, but they slaughtered my men and we few escaped with these injuries. They're only a matter of hours away. I tell you again: you have to leave this place before they get here.'

'I cannot. My mistress has died and I must see to her.'

'Let the priest deal with her, if he will come,' the knight said.

She nodded, feeling as if the priest's body was screaming to him from the bushes at the back of the house.

Not that he or his men could hear anything other than the clamour of arms. It was in their faces: they were mired in horror. They marched slowly, mere tattered remnants. A few rode horses or ponies, but most were on foot, limping and staggering, some helping comrades with arms about their necks as they hobbled along, others using polearms as makes.h.i.+ft staffs.

'Sir, what happened?'

'We arrived too late,' he said. 'I should have been there sooner, but one man cannot guard a coast so vast as Normandy's. When we arrived, there were already enough ash.o.r.e to thwart us. Our bowmen from Genoa had already deserted us, claiming they were owed money, so we had no protection nothing. We did all we could, but this is all that is left of the force I had to defend us all. I must make haste to reach St-L or Caen and warn them. The English rats will infest every part of our county until they can be burned out.'

'I must remain to bury my mistress,' Beatrice said, glancing back at the cottage.

'We can carry her to the church, if it will help you,' the knight said.

'I must collect my things. Some money . . .'

'Then be quick!' he snapped, keen to be off. 'We can help you to the church, but after that you must make your own way to safety if you can find it anywhere in our unhappy kingdom.'

'I thank you,' she said. She ran back into the cottage and gathered a few belongings, and then, as the men brought out the old woman's body, she threw Helene's pallia.s.se onto the fire. Smoke rose from the hay inside, and she turned and strode from the place.

Outside, the old cat rubbed against her legs, giving a loud purr that seemed almost demented. She stroked his head as she watched the flames through the doorway. The roof gave off a thick, greenish-yellow smoke as the thatch caught. A flash of heat made the animal leap from her.

She called to the cat, but he had hidden himself away. Unbeknownst to her, it was the last time she would see him, for soon, locals would come to accuse her of witchcraft, and they would hang him, in the casually brutal way of superst.i.tious peasants. If she had known, she would have taken him with her.

'Why fire the place?' the knight demanded.

She looked at him and forgot the cat.

'I'll not have her belongings looted by the English,' she said, adding silently to herself, 'nor by the locals.'

13 July Berenger rose as the first horns blared through the early morning. 'On your feet!' he shouted to his men, making a dishonest display of enthusiasm for leaders.h.i.+p. In truth, he would have much preferred a cup of warm, spiced ale and another hour under his cloak.

It was still dark, yet all around him men were stirring and grumbling, many searching for a bush or tree to p.i.s.s against, while others packed belongings and adjusted their coats against the chill. Out at sea, s.h.i.+ps waited, and more were being beached and unloaded.

'Aye, there'll be a fight before we see home again,' Jack Fletcher said in his heavy Ousham accent, hoicking up his hosen. Berenger had known him longest, and Jack was the man he relied on to give him the mood of the men. 'Those sailor boys have an easy time of it, eh? b.u.g.g.e.ring off back to port, guzzling the best wine and ale while we march the soles of our boots thin all the way to b.l.o.o.d.y Paris. The b.u.g.g.e.rs.'

Berenger grinned.

'How do you think the men are doing?' he asked.

Jack shrugged. 'Clip's whining wors'n ever; Wisp's worried, as usual, but he's keeping it quiet. You know what he's like.'

Berenger knew all too well. Will the Wisp was lanky and clumsy and always fretting: would they win a good reward for their effort, would his bag hold for their campaign, would the rains come on and ruin his boots? In Wisp's life there were so many things to worry about.

'The others?' he asked.

'Oliver has toothache; Eliot's upset because his harrier b.i.t.c.h was kicked by a packhorse and she's limping; Matt's on about needing a wh.o.r.e; Gil wants an ale; Jon is hungry; Walt didn't sleep. It's the usual moaning and griping, but they're fine. It's when they stop bleating you need to worry. That's when they're plotting mutiny!'

Berenger pulled the straps tight on his pack. He wanted to ask about the boy, but there was no point. Of all the men under Berenger, Jack was the most loyal. He would protect any man from the vintaine, especially a youngster, to the utmost limit of his strength. 'What of Geoff?'

'He's just missing his wife and boys, as usual.'