Part 5 (1/2)

'All's well enough,' Granda.r.s.e replied, levering his ma.s.sive bulk onto a log. 'The King's men are at the next town away over there Morsalleen or somesuch. Suppose they'll all be sleeping in warm cots the night.'

'Knights and n.o.bles always get the better lodgings,' Berenger said.

'Aye. Not that I have to like it though.' Granda.r.s.e scowled resentfully up at the trees. 'Did you check for widow-makers?'

'There are no limbs about to fall from this tree,' Berenger said.

'Aye,' Granda.r.s.e continued. 'I could just do with a warm bed, a fire roaring on the hearth, and a saucy little French maid to liven my evening.' He sighed hopefully. 'Not that we won't be able to win such soon, with luck.'

'Any news of the French?'

'No sign to east or south. There are Welsh fighters searching, and the King's already in a rage with them.'

'Why?'

In answer, Granda.r.s.e jerked a thumb towards the columns of smoke. 'Look! The King made a proclamation: all would be safe if they came into his peace does it look like the French can trust his word, do you reckon? We're supposed to wage dampnum against those who reject our King, but if he offers protection to those who accept his rule and the Welsh still go ahead and slaughter them, the French will support Philippe. The King isn't best pleased.'

The Donkey returned with two water pails and squatted nearby. At Granda.r.s.e's words, he stirred. 'The French need to be ruled with an iron fist. They are a wicked people.'

'Oh, aye?' Granda.r.s.e threw him a glance of amused interest. 'What, like the English, are they?'

'The English only defend what is theirs.'

'You think we are any better than them?' Geoff put in harshly.

Granda.r.s.e ignored him. 'He's right, eh, Frip? Ballocks, boy!' he said, giving a broad smile. His hands behind his head, closing his eyes, he muttered dreamily, 'You ought to be back in England if you want to defend things. We're here to take what we want, and I'm going to make the most of it. And then get home and make a wife of the naughtiest little wriggle-a.r.s.ed wench I can find. Ah! That'll be the life. Ale whenever I want it, a good house, and a bad little wife who'll adore me in my bed each night.'

'So you'll want her blind as well, then?' Berenger asked mildly.

Granda.r.s.e opened a bright blue eye and grinned wickedly. 'Wouldn't hurt, Frip. Wouldn't hurt.'

'Why do they call you Fripper?' the Donkey said.

Berenger cast him a look. 'What is a Fripper, boy?'

'A man who sells second-hand clothes.'

'Aye, boy,' Granda.r.s.e said, and suddenly opened both eyes, glaring. 'And this dangerous man is known for stripping the dead and selling their clothes after a battle, see? It's not every man's job, but it keeps him in ale.'

Ed stared at him, then at Berenger, who sighed.

'My friends here reckon my clothing is old and worn, Donkey. Listen to Granda.r.s.e about fighting and warfare, but not about women, the characters of other men, or the ways of the world.'

'That's what I want: to learn how to fight the French.'

'Aye, well, you've come to the right place to learn,' Granda.r.s.e said. He stretched and broke wind flamboyantly, an expression of pained concentration twisting his features. 'Aye, that's better,' he grunted. 'And for now, boy, you can b.u.g.g.e.r off and fetch us some wine. You see, that's how you support your King: you look after his men, eh?'

Jack beckoned Berenger as Granda.r.s.e began to snore. Jack's expression didn't bode well.

'What have you found out?' Berenger asked quietly.

Jack's grey eyes were serious. 'Wisp's convinced himself we're heading for disaster. He reckons the cat was an omen.'

Berenger looked past Jack's shoulder at Wisp, who sat wretchedly plucking at tufts of gra.s.s. 'I'll have a word,' he said, and got up and walked over to Wisp, dropping to sit beside him. 'So?'

'I told Jack already. I may as well tell you.'

'Tell me what?'

'This whole enterprise is going to fail. We'll not make it home again. None of us.'

Berenger said gently, 'Look, you're taking this cat business for too seriously, my friend.'

Wisp looked up and met his eyes. 'I've never felt like that before, but I did at that cottage when I saw that witch's cat hanging. The folks about there knew the woman who'd been inside. They saw that she was evil. It wasn't done by someone who dislikes cats, Frip. It was done by people who hate witches.'

'You don't know any of this for sure, Wisp. You saw a cat.'

'And the dead priest outside?'

'He could have been killed by our scouts. It wasn't magic killed him, I know that much.'

'This chevauchee is going to fail, Frip. We should get away while we can.'

'No one's going to run away from the King's host, lad. You know the penalty for desertion.'

'I know we'll all die. I can see it just as if it's already happened. I'm dead. We all are. I won't see home again, just as you won't.'

Wisp gave a sob. 'The chevauchee is doomed. And so are we.'

When Sir John de Sully arrived, just before dawn, the men were already standing-to with their weapons.

Berenger had not seen Sir John above a handful of times since landing. The knight had been too busy seeing to the disposition of the archers and men-at-arms under the Prince of Wales. Like the other men, a thick stubble was already forming over his jaw. At his chin it was grey, the colour of old, unpolished pewter, like his hair. His eyes were firm and steady, as befitted a senior warrior of five-and-sixty years who had taken part in every battle his King had fought since Edward II's first wars against Scotland, three-and-thirty years ago.

Granda.r.s.e called Roger Bakere and Berenger to join them.

'The King's unhappy,' Sir John said. 'Men are ignoring his proclamation to spare towns and people who wish to come under his protection. You are to look for French militia, but also to search for any plunderers.'

'And what um do we do with them if we find them?' Roger asked. He had a lazy drawl that made him sound foolish on occasion, like an inbred peasant with scrambled brains. But there was a shrewd gleam in his eyes. At his side, the man he had spoken of, Mark Tyler, or Mark of London, showed a quick interest.

'Use your imagination,' Granda.r.s.e snapped. 'I don't like it any more than you do, but those are our orders, so get used to it.'

It took the men only a short time to grab hot bread from their morning fires to eat on the march and soon they were away. Berenger looked at Mark Tyler thoughtfully. The fellow was too keen by half about the idea of fighting. That was why Roger kept him close, no doubt. Always best to have the least-trusted men to hand where they could be watched; in a fight it was best to keep your friends close, and your enemies closer still.

Beatrice was glad to reach the little inn.

The old woman was dead. She had not lasted the night, and Beatrice wept over her corpse with a feeling of genuine bereavement. Both had suffered much in the last few days, and to lose a friend, even one of such brief duration, was a further blow to Beatrice.

That morning, she took the old woman's shawl and her purse, and set her hands crossed over her breast. There was no guilt at taking her money or belongings. Those items could not help their owner now, but they might serve to help Beatrice.

Setting out, she joined the thinning column of refugees. She had already marched many leagues, trying to put distance between herself and the English, but no matter how far they tramped, the news of murder, slaughter of animals, senseless ruin and rape increased. Riders from the coast with pale faces told of b.e.s.t.i.a.l acts by the enemy that were enough to chill the blood of any Frenchman. One s.h.i.+vered so with horror that he could not speak, and merely mouthed his shock when questioned.