Part 5 (2/2)

The people slogged on, none too certain of their destination, hoping, all of them, that they might reach some sort of refuge. The King must arrive soon, they said, and throw these English swine from the land. But others disagreed: all too many had heard that Philippe had resisted the urge to do battle before. Some doubted that, even now, he would come to protect his people. The reflection did little to raise the spirits of the weary travellers.

This place, therefore, was a welcome sight: a large inn by the side of the road, already packed with people, but not turning any away. It made Beatrice feel a surge of joy, seeing that some people could still offer kindness to strangers, even one weary, dispossessed and desperate.

'What do you want?' The man at the door was short, but broad as the doorway itself. He eyed her truculently.

'I seek a chance to sit by a fire,' she said meekly.

'Where is your money?'

His manner was brusque, and Beatrice didn't understand why and then she reflected that the poor man must have had hundreds no, thousands, beating at his door.

'I only want to sit at your fire a moment and warm myself,' she said. 'I am very tired. I've been walking since-'

'You want food, you have to pay; drink, you pay; a seat at my fire, you pay. Your money where is it?'

'I have some here,' she said, gesturing at her hip. The purse was tied to the rope about her waist, under her cloak.

A second man had joined the doorman. He had blue eyes and a shock of dark curls. 'Let her in, my host,' he urged. She is hardly going to cause trouble, is she?' he said as she patted the coins, making them rattle. 'She can speak when she is inside.'

The innkeeper stood aside, and she entered nervously. A woman on her own was always at risk of rape or worse in a rural tavern.

Inside, the smoke rose lazily, choking the throat. There was no chimney, only a fire burning on a tiled hearth in the middle of the hall. Fresh rushes had been set about the floor, but the air reeked of rancid wine, woodsmoke and sweat from all the men and women inside.

Their faces were pale and haunted in the dimness. Some s.h.i.+elded children against their stomachs, standing or sitting in postures of feebleness and exhaustion. There were a few benches, and a couple of trestle tables had been put out, but for the most part it felt like a prison. The people in there were like prisoners in a dungeon of their own making. That thought made her shudder.

'Come, maid, I have a s.p.a.ce over here,' the curly-haired man said. He led her to a corner. 'You should keep your money hidden,' he advised. 'It's dangerous in places like this or on the road, if people get to know that you are carrying lots of money.'

'Thank you.'

'Perhaps I should walk with you and protect you?'

'I should be glad of your help,' she gratefully said. 'An old woman gave me her purse. Her son stabbed her and left her for dead, and she gave it to me to save it from the English.'

'Really? How much did she give you?'

'I don't know. I didn't count it.'

'All the more reason for you to need a guard,' he said, and when he smiled, his eyes twinkled. 'I shall be your knight, maid. I will protect you.'

At the sight of that smile, she felt as though all her troubles were almost ended. It was the smile of an angel.

The nearest town, Barfleur, was a scant two leagues hence. It took them until the sun was a quarter of the way to midday, marching steadily but without urgency. They were in no hurry to reach it. They knew what to expect.

Then Berenger heard a sound a low moaning. It needed to be investigated although it might be a trap. He sent Geoff to the right, Clip to the left, and the bulk of his men spread between them. He kept only Jack with him, while Donkey he placed behind the rest. There was no point in seeing the boy hurt before he had learned which end of a sword was safest.

They were approaching a low wall, and the men crouched behind it. To their left, a pair of buildings had been burned, and even now the heat was like a dragon's exhalation. The wall appeared to be the boundary of a small pound, while on their right was a huddle of cottages. A vegetable garden nearby was devastated, with boot-prints visible amongst the flattened salads and beans. A boy's body lay among the remains.

The moaning started again as they reached him. His throat had been cut and the wound gaped. Berenger thought that he could see cartilage inside, but then it moved, and he realised it was flies, gorging themselves. Jack ended the boy's misery with his dagger.

Then, peering over the wall, Berenger was confronted with a scene that would remain with him for a long time.

'Your Royal Highness, my Lords,' Sir John said as he entered the Prince's large tent and bowed.

It was a simple construction a short way inland from the beach. Inside was only the most basic decoration: this was the working tent of a knight, not a gaudy display for a tournament. There was a pair of trestles: one covered with pages weighted with leather-covered stones, two clerks murmuring to each other as they worked through correspondence; the other held meats and cheeses set out on plundered silver plates, and wine in great jugs. Beyond that, the room contained all the essentials for a knight: spare armour, spare weapons and surcoats.

He had heard of foreign potentates who insisted upon their subjects treating them with a fawning reverence more suited to G.o.d than a mortal. They dared not gaze at their masters directly for fear of giving insult. Not, thank G.o.d, in England. Here, if a man were to avoid his eyes, a monarch would rightly be suspicious.

'Sir John. I am glad to see you,' the Prince said.

Edward of Woodstock, Prince of Wales, was a handsome young man of sixteen. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the neck of a fighting knight, he had trained from an early age with a heavy war helm in jousts and tournaments. His fair hair was long, and he had a thin moustache trimmed back from his mouth. His blue eyes were clear and confident.

Sir John thought much of his confidence was due to his father, but a large part came from the men in the pavilion with him.

Sitting on a stool and chewing on a honeyed lark, Thomas de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, was a heavy-set, dark-haired man in his early thirties. Already a war leader of great fame, having led the King's armies against the Scots, he was the Marshal of England, known for his intelligence, his devotion to his King and his utter ruthlessness.

Behind him, resting against a trestle and toying with a long misericord dagger, was the Earl of Northampton, William de Bohun, a man as famous for his cunning as for his ferocity in battle. He had marched with King Edward from the first, being one of the King's most devoted comrades in the recent battles at Sluys and Morlaix.

'Your Royal Highness,' Sir John began, 'my men have returned from Barfleur. It is as we feared. The town is destroyed.'

Warwick took a bone from his mouth and sucked it noisily. 'None living?'

'No.'

'Then there will be no s.h.i.+ps from there to harry the fleet, which is good.'

The young Prince glanced at Sir John. 'What do you say?'

Sir John cast an eye at the two magnates. The Prince had the same direct manner as his father. Against his better judgement, he found himself thinking that perhaps he could like this new Edward.

'Your father did not want men and women attacked if they had accepted the King's Peace.'

Warwick shrugged. 'I'm happy if there are no pirates attacking our army from the sea or cutting off our supplies.'

'So you would ignore my father's orders?' Edward said quietly.

There was no answer. After a moment, the Prince faced Sir John again. 'You say it is destroyed?'

'My men said that it was a scene of utter carnage.'

Carnage was right. Berenger thought the sights would sicken the Devil himself.

It was one thing to partic.i.p.ate in the capture of a town, to rush at the walls of a fortress and clamber up the scaling ladders, expecting at any moment to be slain, knowing that the man beside you had fallen with a shriek, that the man before you had been punched in the chest by an arrow, and to expect that your own life was about to end. Then, when your entire mind was filled with the red mist and bloodl.u.s.t the primeval desire to slay all who stood before you and survive then it was natural to use a sword, lance, axe, mace, club, anything, and lash out at those who dared defy you.

But it was different to walk into a town in cold blood and slaughter all the innocents there.

The place reeked of blood and death. Bodies littered the streets. Near Berenger a woman lay gutted on the threshold of a house, a baby sprawled pathetically beside her, its head crushed. Three men and a boy lay in the road, all beheaded, and opposite were smoking ruins where once had been houses. There was little standing that wasn't blackened by soot.

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