Part 9 (1/2)

Berenger threw another look to Granda.r.s.e. There was more to Ed's hatred of the French than he had guessed. He would have to speak to the lad once again and try to learn what was on his mind.

19 July Archibald Tanner grunted as he clambered from the rear of his wagon. He saw a boy seeking employment, and soon had him rubbing down the oxen in exchange for an offer of bread and wine. The lad worked in a lackadaisical manner, yawning with an almost devotional dedication, his eyes half-closed with exhaustion. He was too young for this harsh world.

Who wasn't too young? Archibald had enough experience of the world to know that the people who infested it were cruel. Even those who enjoyed the religious life could be as unkind and greedy for power and position as any merchant in a city. All wanted money and control over others. He had learned that while in the monastery.

More, he had realised out here in the world of men that a mild manner and genial att.i.tude would not win friends. While affable in all his dealings, because of his craft he was still looked upon as a wors.h.i.+pper of the Devil or worse. Even now, as he sat and made his camp beside his wagon, he could see the suspicion on the faces of the army men. As soon as he held their gaze, they hurriedly turned away.

It was enough to make a cat laugh. But he had no need of boon companions. He was a self-contained man, happy with his own company. That was one useful thing he had learned from the Church.

'Leave them to their rest now, boy,' he called, and set about lighting a fire some safe distance from his wagon. Soon he had flames leaping from his tinder, and he sat and fed twigs to the fire.

He had some bread, old and hard as the boards of his wagon, which he cut apart with his knife, throwing the fragments into his cook pot. Some leaves he had gathered from the hedgerows, and garlic he had found in a field, along with some salt, formed the basis of a good, warming pottage. The boy knelt close by, gratefully sniffing at the odour.

'That smells good,' a voice said.

Archibald had learned the art of remaining still when surprised. A master of theology had often found him dreaming and would chastise him for it. His head, he was told, was too often in the clouds, when he should have been concentrating on his prayers. He had countered that, saying surely by definition prayer should elevate a man's thoughts. Now he said simply, 'For a meal without meat, it serves well enough.'

'There's meat if you want it,' the man said. 'There have been two herds captured, if you wish for a cut of beef.'

'Who are you?' Archibald asked.

'I'm called Mark of London, or Mark Tyler.' The man squatted at Archibald's side. 'I'm with the vintaine over there. An archer.'

'I'm glad to hear it,' Archibald said. He recalled seeing the fellow. Tyler was with one of the vintaines under Granda.r.s.e. He rather liked Granda.r.s.e: a man after his own heart. This Tyler was different. Archibald didn't like his quick, furtive glances at Archibald's belongings and pottage. 'But while I am glad to have news of any food, this is a Wednesday and I am happy to forgo the pleasures of swine and beef, and partake of more modest fare.'

'Eh?'

'I won't eat meat today,' Archibald translated piously. 'I trained to the religious life, and I will not eat meat on a fast day.'

'Who keeps Wednesday as a fast day?' Tyler scoffed. He was peering at the barrels in the back of the wagon.

'Those trained by Holy Mother Church.'

Tyler gave a twisted grin in which suspicion and disbelief were mingled. 'Even when it's put in front of you? My priest in London didn't worry about fasting on a Wednesday.'

'Perhaps he did not. Do you want something from my wagon, my son?'

'No. Why?'

'You appear unable to remove your eyes from my barrels.'

'I was just wondering what you carry there?'

'My friend, you are too rooted in the secular world. It is better to accept the philosophical life. Throw aside greed and avarice. Enjoy in moderation the good things that G.o.d has given you.'

Archibald winked at the boy sitting opposite. He was still yawning fit to unhinge his jaw.

'You were a monk, but now you are here with the men working on bridges and roads?' Tyler said.

'I'm a specialist gynour,' Archibald informed him.

'What does that mean?'

'I work with powder and fire: I bring fire from the heavens and thunder from the clouds, and harness them to hurl at the enemy.'

Tyler regarded him with a confused scowl. 'What?'

'It means, my son, you are a man of little wit and less empathy. It means I don't know you and don't trust you, and have made that clear; yet you still persist in trying to learn what you may about me and my business. I do not like that. Nor do I like you.'

Tyler shrugged and tried to grin, but he could not conceal his annoyance. He rose, offended, saying, 'I see I'm not welcome.'

'There you speak truly,' Archibald said comfortably. He watched as Tyler hitched up his belt and walked away, casting a black scowl over his shoulder as he went.

'That man I would not trust with a broken flint,' Archibald said ruminatively.

The boy stared over his shoulder. 'Him? I didn't understand what you were talking about. He said you were a monk?'

'Aye, I was once,' Archibald replied. He took a small leather pouch from beneath his s.h.i.+rt and crumbled salt into the pottage. 'And while I was there, I was taught much from a master who was devoted to learning and the natural sciences. It was while I was with him that I learned about the powders of thunder. And I fell in love with knowledge and study.'

'But if you were a monk, aren't you still?'

'The religious life was unsuitable for me. For my studies, I needed more freedom.'

'But if you become a monk . . .'

'Some men best serve G.o.d in church or monastery. Others, like me, find different routes to Him. I find more of His majesty in my works than I would have discovered in a hundred years with my abbot.'

The lad was still frowning with incomprehension. 'But . . .'

'You have much to learn too, boy. Such as: when to ask questions and when to shut up,' Archibald said genially as he poured the thin soup into bowls. 'Eat.'

Beatrice had almost forgotten the stalking man by the end of that second day. She and Alain had kept to the busier roads, joining the throng that wended its way like an enormous snake of despair, heading in any direction that took them away from the English.

It was in the second evening that he struck. They had been settling for the night with others, when Beatrice went to fetch water from a spring. There was a small shrine next to the spring where it bubbled up from the ground. A cross had been fas.h.i.+oned from stone, and a wooden cup rested on the base so that pilgrims could drink. She was thirsty, and as she bent to pick it up, she saw something move from the corner of her eye.

She froze. There were so many wild creatures: boar, wolf, wild dogs but before she could think of screaming, a lumbering, cras.h.i.+ng sound came, and her hair was gripped in a powerful fist.

'b.i.t.c.h. Did you think I'd forgotten you?'

She gasped with the pain, grabbing for her knife, but his hand took hers before she could find it. He let go of her hair and put his arm about her neck, squeezing until she could scarcely breathe. With his other hand, he pulled the knife from her sheath and dropped it, before his hand rose to encompa.s.s her breast. He rubbed and kneaded her through the thin material of her chemise and tunic, laughing deep in his throat as she struggled, but then his hand moved further down, over the smooth roundness of her belly, and on to her upper thighs. She tried to break away, her breath rasping as she felt the panic rise: the primeval fears of rape and death smothering her every thought, until they encompa.s.sed her entire soul. There was nothing but terror: no rational thought, no comprehension of existence beyond the present, no memory of happiness or love, only this utter horror.

His questing hand reached her groin, and he clutched at her, his face reaching round, s...o...b..ring and drooling at the line of her jaw, as though he would kiss her on the lips.

For some reason, that was more repellent than the thought of his hands on her, or his s.e.x inside her. She jerked with revulsion and the suddenness of her movement surprised him. He released her neck, and she tumbled to the ground.

She tried to scramble away, but he grabbed her ankle, and she grasped the first thing to hand to try to drag herself away. A stick. She turned and tried to slam it into his head. He smiled as he caught it in his hand. Yes: he smiled. It was the look of a ravening wolf. His mouth was wide with excitement and antic.i.p.ation as he pulled the stick from her. She couldn't hold it against his strength.

He put his hand to her tunic's collar, and she slapped at it, squealing with desperation. A nail caught at the scab of his wound, and a flake of black clot was yanked away. He grunted, then bunched his fist and drove it at her chin.

With both on the ground, she could roll and evade the blow, and as she moved, she felt a sharp pain. She had rolled onto her knife, and the point tore a wedge from her rib. As he put his hand back to her breast, squeezing hard, and she gasped with the pain, her fingers found the knife.