Part 8 (1/2)

Ach, there was little he could do now. Not while they marched.

He would just have to hope for the best.

Beatrice woke to the sound of snoring several times in the middle of the night, but she didn't feel threatened. There was nowhere else to sleep but on the floor others with better funds had already taken the benches and whenever one man moved, three or four others complained. No one could attack her in such a press.

The people slept where they had sat, lying higgledy-piggledy like garbage in a midden, all taking what s.p.a.ce they could. Although she had planned to be up early with Alain, Beatrice had not realised how tired she was, and did not waken until the sun was over the surrounding hills.

Alain was already awake when she finally stirred, yawning and blearily rubbing her eyes. 'You slept well,' he greeted her.

She rolled stiff shoulders to ease them. 'I could have slept at the bottom of a well, I was so tired.'

'Well, hurry yourself. We must be off as quickly as we can,' he said, gazing across the room to where the bear-like man from the night before stood studying them grimly.

She nodded. Although she had money enough to buy some food to break their fast, it would be better to use it somewhere else. In a chamber like this, too many men could take it into their heads to rob a maid on the road.

They hefted their packs and were soon on their way, but before they had taken more than a handful of paces, there was a shout from the inn.

'Quickly,' Alain said, forging ahead with long strides. It was hard for her to keep up, he moved so fast.

'Maid, maid, are you weary?' he asked when he realised she was falling behind. 'Come!'

She smiled, but then she saw his eyes go over her shoulder. Turning, she saw their enemy running after them, the innkeeper at his side. She gave a little scream, and hurried on to Alain for safety. There was no thought in her mind other than reaching him. Alain was her guide and protector. He had saved her last night, and now, with his clear blue eyes concentrating on the men following, she felt sure he was equal to defending her again.

'Behind me,' he hissed and shoved her from his path. 'Get your knife out!'

She obeyed him, pulling her little knife from its sheath at her belt. It still had a dark crust marring its blade, she saw, and s.h.i.+vered.

The innkeeper ran first to Alain, but the other had different ideas. He slowed as he neared the two, and while Alain and the innkeeper circled each other warily, he stood before Beatrice. He put a hand to his cods and smiled at her. 'You want to fight first? That's good. I like a girl with a bit of spirit.' And suddenly he darted close, his hands grabbing for her.

Beatrice sprang away, her knife held close before her. She had never been taught how to fight. It hadn't been necessary when she lived with her father. And now, she had the skills and knowledge to take care of herself.

'Come, maid! Be friendly, and you'll soon be on your way,' he said with a chuckle.

She ignored him, distracted by the sight before her: the innkeeper had grasped Alain, and the two were struggling with each other, two daggers flas.h.i.+ng in the pale light.

The bearded man tried another lunge at her. This time she swung her own knife as she moved away, and he swore loudly as it sliced the back of his hand. A long red cut opened, and he glared at her as he licked at the wound like a dog. 'If you won't be friendly, you won't leave here on your feet, b.i.t.c.h,' he growled. 'They'll have to carry you away.'

But even as he threatened her, a voice shouted. Other refugees had seen the fight, and now they came running, six men, roaring at them to cease. Beatrice saw her opponent turn and eye the new arrivals, and then he ran at her, pus.h.i.+ng her to the ground. He didn't wait to pursue his little victory, but ran off up the road.

Alain and the innkeeper were still locked together, grunting and swearing at each other in their unholy embrace. The newcomers ringed them as if unsure what to do.

'Stop them!' she cried, but no one moved. They were watching the spectacle like men at a c.o.c.kfight.

Finally, Beatrice took matters into her own hands. She walked over to them and with all her strength, she swung her full purse at the innkeeper's head. It struck with a sound like lead maul hitting a plank. The big man took two paces back, swaying, then fell to his rump.

Alain stood there panting. Then he kicked the innkeeper once, with main force, in the side of the head, and the man collapsed. 'So shall all felons meet their judgement,' he said breathlessly. 'This man tried to rob me and rape my wife. Anyone else want to have a go?'

A few minutes later, the pair were on their way again. Beatrice felt safer as they walked on amongst the other refugees, straggling along ahead and behind, but all the way, she knew that somewhere in the road ahead or in the woods at either side, was their enemy the man with the beard.

She was as scared of him as she was of the English.

The army had split into three sections: the vanguard was under Sir Edward of Woodstock. Berenger had looked askance on hearing that but, to his relief, Warwick and Northampton were with the young Prince to advise him on his way. Behind them came the main part of the King's men, with archers, hobelars and men-at-arms in a straggling column across a wide front, and at the rear came the last men with the wagon train, led by the Earls of Arundel, Suffolk and Huntingdon, as well as the ferocious Bishop of Durham, a prelate who was more fearsome than any knight, in Berenger's view. The man's sword was as notched and chipped as a crusader's, and any man seeking compa.s.sion from him during a battle had best look to his defence.

'Where are we going today, Berenger?' Clip called.

'East.'

'Any chance of plunder?'

Berenger grunted. So far that morning, all they had found was ruined and burned little hamlets where scouts and hopeful English had sought to despoil local farms. It was astonis.h.i.+ng to Berenger that they had bothered. There could be nothing of any value, save perhaps a woman or two.

The weather was kind. Not too hot, and the dust of the road was lying low after a brief shower.

They were ahead of the main body of the army and to the right. It was because of their position that they were the first to see the French. Thin woods sprawled on either side, with bushes and clumps of ferns beneath. On their right, the land rose, and a hill stood out clearly.

'Berenger?' Jack called, and pointed ahead. The vintener nodded and slipped forward.

'What?' Ed said. 'What is it?' He was too short to see over the scrubby bushes. But though he could not see, he could sense the tension.

The archers crouched, pulling strings from purses or hats and bending their bows, grabbing arrows and nocking them with an easy familiarity, glancing back towards Berenger when ready.

He was standing still, a hand on a tree-limb and staring ahead intently.

'What do you think?' Geoff said.

'You've got the best eyesight,' Berenger said irritably. 'What do you see?'

'Four men-at-arms on horseback. I can see the sun catch on mail and plate. I think that's all I can't see any more.'

'Are they French?'

'At this distance they could be Teutons for all I know,' Geoff said with asperity.

'How far?'

'At a guess, three bow-shots.'

'Then we go on, but archers, watch your front and flanks. I don't want to walk into a trap.'

Ed was about to step forward when Clip grabbed the shoulder of his jack and jerked him back. For all that Clip looked scrawny as an old c.o.c.kerel that had fasted for a week, he had a wiry power in his fingers. 'Wait,' he hissed.

Geoff, Eliot, Jon Furrier and Matthew had already moved on, weapons ready, while Berenger spoke quickly to Roger, the vintener of the second vintaine. Roger had already pointed to four of his own men, and Ed saw them melting away amongst the bushes. Berenger gave a quiet command, and the rest of the vintaine began to make their way cautiously through the long gra.s.ses.

Ed shrugged away Clip's hand and walked on. The whole vintaine looked on him as a slave, he thought grumpily, just a fetcher-and-carrier, nothing more. They couldn't see his fervent desire to find a Frenchman and cut his throat. He had much to repay- A sudden grab at his arm, and the air was ejected from his lungs as his back crashed to the hard earth. He could do no more than gasp for breath as Clip sprang lightly over him and thrust his sword into a bush.

There was a shriek, and then, while Ed lay staring wildly about him, men erupted from all directions. They had been concealed in the vegetation, and now fought with desperation. Ed rose to his knees, breathing hard, and was immediately hit on his back by something. When he looked around, he saw a forearm with a dagger gripped in its fist lying in the road. The owner was a few yards away, staring at his b.l.o.o.d.y stump, and then his head seemed to jerk and a blade appeared in his brow. Berenger had struck him from behind, and almost clove his head in two.

The man fell to his knees, Berenger swearing loudly as he struggled to free his blade. As two more men came running through the undergrowth, Ed dived to the ground, and only at the last moment did he see both men punched backwards as English arrows found their marks.

Ed rose to his feet, s.h.i.+vering, as Berenger placed his boot on the back of the dead Frenchman and jerked his sword sideways like a woodsman freeing his axe from a log. The man's head turned, twisted, gave a crack, and then the blade slid free.