Part 4 (1/2)

Struggling, Beatrice managed to get her almost to her feet, but then both fell down. The old woman was no lightweight. A second time Beatrice managed to have her rise, only to collapse once more. Before they could try a third time, a housewife hurried over to them, loudly scolding her husband for his tardiness, and took hold of the old woman's arm while her unhappy spouse was commanded to take the other. Between them, they managed to get the woman upright and help her to the door of the cottage. Beatrice opened it and drew her inside.

There was little left in there. A couple of smashed pots lay on the floor, and a single neckerchief beside the hearth showed how urgently the owners had packed and departed, but the fire still held some heat, and while the two helpers set the old woman down on the ground by the wall, Beatrice tended to the coals. When she turned, she was not surprised to see that the two helpers had left. Why should they wait to help someone who was neither relative nor friend?

'Come, let me see your wound,' she said as she rose.

'You go. I can look after myself.'

'You were going to die out there,' Beatrice pointed out. 'Let me see the wound. I have some skill with healing.'

'You have the powers of a saint? No? Then do not bother.'

'Was it a long knife?'

She held her hands four inches apart. 'No, just an eating knife. But it was enough. Ach! It doesn't hurt too much. It's just every so often it feels as though he's stabbing me again!'

'You are bleeding still. I should bind you.'

'He wanted my money,' the woman said, not listening. Her head was resting against the wall, eyes staring into the distance. She put her hand into her chemise and drew out a purse. 'He thought it was in my pack, so he took that. All the food and some clothes, the fool. He didn't get anything else.'

'Outlaws don't think. They rob and run while they can.'

'He wasn't an outlaw. He was my son.'

The vintaine stopped and had a good lunch of looted bread, sweet cheese and wine, sitting on a low hill from which they could see the sea. It sparkled and gleamed like frosted silver, Berenger thought, and he felt a strange tingle in his heart, like the first thrill of l.u.s.t at the sight of a beautiful woman. Some things were almost too lovely to endure. Near them was the second vintaine, led by Roger, a dark, narrow-featured man with a determination to survive and prosper. He eyed any patch of ground with a caution that in others would be considered cowardly, except Berenger knew him to be courageous, but careful.

Roger and Berenger had not spoken since arriving on French soil, and Berenger took the opportunity to join him.

'Good wine,' he said.

Roger had a goatskin filled with wine from a barrel at the last farm. 'Better than the p.i.s.s they serve at the Sign of the Boar in Hereford,' he agreed with a chuckle.

'How are your men?'

Roger glanced about at his men. 'All good, I think. While there's vittles and the promise of women, they're content. A fight won't bother them.'

'Mine too.'

'I see you've taken on a youngster. He bearing up all right?' Roger said, watching Ed.

'Well enough.'

'I've a new fellow, too. See him over there? Fustian jerkin, with the faded red hosen, and a beard that would suit your boy rather than a grown man?'

'I see him.'

The man he indicated was a shortish fellow, perhaps five-and-twenty years old, with a long nose and brown eyes, set in a lugubrious face with sallow skin. His hair was straw-coloured, which made his eyes seem startlingly piercing, and they darted about the land before them and back to the men with a swiftness that was quite birdlike.

'He's a curious one. Says he came from London, but his accent's wrong. Calls himself Mark Tyler, or Mark of London. The boys call him ”Cook” because if you give him a rabbit or lamb, he can make a feast.'

'Plenty of men will call themselves ”of London”, if they've been apprenticed there,' Berenger said.

'True enough, but apart from cooking, this one seems to have no skills. Still, he knows how to broach a barrel,' Roger said with a rough laugh. He pulled out his knife to cut off a hunk of bread. 'And that always makes a man welcome in the army!'

'You think he's an abjurer an outlaw seeking pardon?' Berenger asked more quietly. If so, it would be better that the other men did not hear. Some took a dim view of harbouring felons.

'He's probably just a runaway, but I'll keep watch on him. A new man's always an unknown until his first fight. Inexperience can be a risk.'

Berenger stood and stretched. 'The sooner we're on our way, the better.'

'Aye. And the sooner we are in a real fight, the happier I'll be,' Roger said, glancing over at Mark.

Berenger and Roger walked side-by-side behind Granda.r.s.e on the way back as the sun fell, the men straggling along behind them.

'What's that?' Granda.r.s.e said suddenly, pointing.

Off on their right was a little stand of trees, and in their midst a small cottage.

'Looks like someone's been here already,' Berenger said.

It might once have been thatched, but now the little building's walls had tumbled, and spars and joists stuck up jagged against the evening sky. There was an air of sadness and decay about it. Soon, many more houses would be laid waste like this, he knew, and he was struck with a sense of gloom.

'Didn't see it on the way out,' Granda.r.s.e said. He already had his hand on his sword. 'It'd be a good place for someone to hide.'

'Granda.r.s.e, it's a pit. It's been empty since the days of William the b.a.s.t.a.r.d,' Berenger said, but he was an old soldier, and knew the importance of reconnaissance as well as any. He hitched up his belt, muttered a curse under his breath, and called to Geoff and Clip. 'Come on, lads. Let's get it checked out, eh?'

Their path was a foot-wide trampled pa.s.sage through gra.s.s and scrub. Berenger led the way, scowling at the building as shadows began to dominate the land. It seemed to him as though the slower they walked, the nearer the cottage appeared, as though it was approaching them as well, like a predator stalking its hunter. He felt a slither of unease in his belly.

Closer to the cottage, he saw that where a thick thatch must once have lain, now there was only the stench of burned straw. Some greenish clumps remained on the top of one wall, but the rest had been consumed in the conflagration. It was still warm.

'Some of our boys been here already?' Berenger wondered.

'Must have,' Geoff said.

'There'll be nothing in there to take,' Clip noted sadly.

Berenger nodded, and they all stepped silently to the gaping hole where the door had once stood. It was there still, but burned and ruined, lying half in, half out. The doorpost had been scorched to a repellent, twisted black shape, like a snake standing and staring at him. It was enough to make Berenger swallow hard and take a second look. In the dark he could have sworn that the thing had eyes and watched him closely as he came closer.

'What is it, Frip?' Geoff asked, seeing his stare.

'Just a . . . I thought I saw something.'

It was stupid to be superst.i.tious. It was only a peasant's home, one small room, that was all. Yet he was reluctant to enter. He had seen bodies burned to foetal skeletons before now. When he died, he wanted an arrow in the throat, not a burning.

He looked about him warily and then jerked back. 'Sweet Mother of . . .' Dangling from a cord bound to a rafter, swinging slightly in the warm air, he saw a dead cat. 's.h.i.+t!'

'What?' Geoff hissed.

'Nothing', Berenger muttered. He crossed himself hurriedly. A black cat was ominous. Everyone knew that.

Geoff glanced at Clip. The two were either side of the doorway now, and at a nod from Geoff, they raced inside, knives out and ready, low enough to gut anyone foolish enough to try to ambush them.