Part 9 (2/2)

When she stabbed the priest, she had no recollection afterwards. This, she would remember for the rest of her life. With the priest she had been scared for her soul, but with this man it was the certainty of death that drove her on. Something snapped in her, a cord in her soul that kept her sane. The death of her father had begun the process, the priest's attempted rape had brought her to a new level of shock, but this man had finally broken the fragile bonds of her gentle feminine upbringing.

Her first wild slash missed his face and buried the blade in his upper arm. She pulled it back and stabbed again, and this time her raking cut caught his nose and cheek, and she saw his flesh opened. There was no s.p.a.ce in her heart for compa.s.sion, only utter, concentrated loathing. She stabbed and cut, striking time and time again, while he bellowed and roared, punching at her, but always trying to move away from the wicked four inches of steel in her hand. He rose to retreat, but she carried on, coldly, methodically, following him with precision, her blade darting hither and thither, lacerating him as it moved. She kept on even when he tried to surrender, even when he covered his face with his hands. She carried on striking him long after he had ceased to be a threat, and then, while his body jerked and spasmed, she stabbed him again and again.

'Maid, maid, what have you done!' Alain cried.

She stopped, panting, the knife still in her hand. And then, she slipped the knife into his throat, cutting through to his windpipe, and rose. The knife she wiped on his hosen, and replaced it in her sheath. Her hands and face she rinsed in the spring water, turning it crimson. Afterwards, when she looked down, she thought only that the spring was polluted and that was good. It was marked by death. No more would pilgrims come to celebrate and pray here. For ever more, this would be a place reviled, stained with an evil man's blood.

It was only just.

21 July Berenger saw the movement at the same time as Geoff did. 'What the f.u.c.k is that?'

They had left Valonges some days before and were close to St-L. Since then, life had become a ba.n.a.l routine of carnage. Each day, Berenger rose with the men, they attacked villages and hamlets, destroying all in their path, and made camp and slept, ready to continue the following morning. Now, after a week of fighting and marching, he didn't know, nor did he care, where they were. It was merely the approach to another town.

'Looks to me like men are breaking down the bridge,' Geoff said as scurrying figures attacked it with iron bars and axes.

'Can we get around them?' Berenger wondered.

'How?' Geoff pointed to the line of the river. From here, the river curved back towards them on the left and right, with the bridge at the very tip of the loop before them. 'If there's a ford, I don't see it.'

Granda.r.s.e scratched under his arm. 'Someone'll have to go and look, won't they?' he said.

Berenger sighed. 'And as usual, that ”someone” will be us poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds up at the front, you mean?'

'Come on, eh? You think you're all alone up there at the front? Just think how many friends you have behind you, man. You won't feel lonely with all these lads at your back, will you?'

'At my back, Granda.r.s.e, thanks. I hadn't thought of that,' Berenger said drily.

'Go on, you daft beggar. You know you love it. All that plunder will be yours, won't it? You'll be first to claim it all.'

'Oh, like in Carentan? And Valognes and Barfleur and . . .'

Granda.r.s.e's tone hardened. 'Enough. Get going, Frip. Watch your flanks, and look out for crossbows. Christ's bones, but I hate those things. See if the bridge is usable, and if it isn't, check for a ford and come back.'

'Yes, Centener.' Berenger set his jaw. 'Come along, boys. We have a short pilgrimage before our supper tonight.'

The first bolt hissed past as they approached the bridge, and Berenger saw a crossbowman bending to span his bow for a second shot. 'See him? Come on, can't one of you get the b.a.s.t.a.r.d?'

At the far end of the bridge, a scruffy-looking militia was forming. Men with leather jacks or colourful tunics were standing ready to repel anyone who was foolish enough to try to cross. To the left of the bridge stood a group of crossbowmen, while forty more stood shouting their defiance, waving axes and swords.

Jack already had his bow strung. 'I'm going to get that b.u.g.g.e.r,' he vowed, nocking an arrow and drawing. There was a moment's silence, then the dull thrumming of the bowstring, and Berenger leaned in front of Jack so he could watch the flight. From here, he saw the clothyard rise, then stoop and plummet. It missed the crossbowman, but hit another a couple of feet away. He gave a shriek as it found its mark in his hip. The other discharged his crossbow harmlessly into the water as he caught his friend's arm.

'You're s.h.i.+te,' Matt commented.

'You missed him,' Geoff said.

'There's a man over there, Jack, he's bigger. Perhaps you could hit him?' Clip enquired genially.

'Shut the f.u.c.k up, the lot of you!' Jack said, fitting a fresh arrow. 'He was closer than I thought, that's all. Didn't have me eye in.'

Berenger made his way towards the bridge. For all the bickering, he could also hear the sounds of bows being strung, Clip whining about his arrows being held in a quiver, when, 'Ye all know I like 'em in the ground before me!' and Eliot's muttering about his 'b.l.o.o.d.y bow's useless look at the grain there, eh? Knot big as my left ballock. Whoever the bowyer was who made that, the f.u.c.kwit should be strung up with his own string!'

Grinning despite himself, Berenger continued until he reached the bank. Here it was a good yard above the water, and it was clear that they wouldn't be able to cross. The bed of the bridge was broken away; the timbers had dropped into the river and were floating downstream. There was no sign of a ford. The river flowed too quickly for a man or cart to attempt to cross here, especially since it looked deep.

He turned, intending to go back to his men, and it was then that the bolt struck him. The steel point hit the upper part of his shoulder, and flew on just beneath his collar bone. It felt like a horse had kicked him with a red-hot hoof.

'Sweet Jesus!' he gasped, and fell to his knees, staring dumbly at the blood dripping from the bolt's head.

Geoff was the first to see him. He gave a roar of anger so loud, Berenger was sure the ground shook, before drawing his bow and letting the first of many arrows fly straight to the enemy archers. In a moment, Jack and Clip and the others were also drawing and loosing, and in only a short time the crossbowmen fled, leaving two on the gra.s.s. The swordsmen retreated, trying to conceal themselves behind balks of timber, but even there the English arrows found their mark.

'Donkey? Don't stand there staring, you lurdan, fetch more arrows, quickly!' Geoff bellowed, his face as red as a beetroot, and Ed went scampering up the road to their cart.

Berenger was still on his knees when Geoff came to him, took him gently by his good arm, and led him away.

That was Ed's first real experience of witnessing the risks of battle, the first time he saw one of the vintaine's men struck, and he didn't enjoy it. Until then, the men had seemed impervious to all dangers. He had hurried to bring fresh missiles or water, but none of the English were injured. Now he could see the dangers at first hand as they carried Berenger away.

He saw the main body of the army arrive as he gathered up sheaves of arrows. Soon he was back with the men. Clip stood with his hand on his hip, his face drawn into his familiar sneer.

'Took your time, boy!' he rasped, and grabbed an arrow, aiming and loosing in one practised movement.

The first men joined the archers shortly afterwards. There were carpenters and joiners, and perhaps five score more archers, chattering and laughing as they came. It was like Sunday at the vill's b.u.t.ts, Ed thought, as they strung their bows and started to nock and loose. There was no thought of volleys, just the irregular, carefully aimed flights, and after many there came a cry or scream from the other side of the river.

More Frenchmen were coming. Granda.r.s.e gave a hoa.r.s.e command, and a hundred arrows sprang into the air to plummet on the advancing men like hawks. Five in the front rank collapsed as the first arrows struck. A single man wearing the arms of a lord stood before them in a red tunic with a white emblem on the breast, but as more and more of the men behind him fell to the ground, his exhortations grew increasingly desperate. His ranks thinned rapidly; some men had been struck by English arrows, while others had fled.

Soon those remaining could see there was no point in this unequal battle, and they retreated, while the English kept up a withering fire until they were out of accurate bowshot.

To Ed's surprise, English carpenters were already crawling over the bridge. Fresh timbers were unloaded at the sh.o.r.e, grabbed and carefully positioned. Granda.r.s.e barked an order, and the first hundred archers climbed on the makes.h.i.+ft bridge, shooting their arrows at any French defenders who showed their faces. The way to the town was already clear before the bridge was complete, and English archers stood at either side of it on the St-L side to provide cover for the infantry as they crossed. Granda.r.s.e and the vintaine stood and eyed the walls and gates of the town speculatively.

Suddenly, fresh shouts and curses startled them. Scouts came running back from the east of the town where they had been seeking weaknesses in the defence. A large number of men-at-arms and knights were sallying forth from a postern. Their appearance had terrified the scouts that they might be caught in the open and slaughtered.

Desperate, the men pelted back to the bridge, at which point Geoff began to laugh. Ed thought he was sent mad by his unholy bloodl.u.s.t, but then the others began to jeer and he realised what Geoff had seen. The knights were not attacking: they were riding away, leaving the town to its fate.

'We've won it, Donkey! We've won it!' he exulted. 'They haven't a hope now.'

Beatrice kept up with Alain all those weary miles. He had been shocked by the sight of the body by the spring, and she was not of a mood to allay his fears. If he was worried by her, so much the better. For her part, Beatrice felt she could trust no one. All wanted either her body or her money. No one was honest. No one except perhaps Alain.

The pa.s.sage of time meant nothing to her by now. They walked by day, and at night they found places to hide and shelter from the weather. When they came to towns, she viewed them with an eye to the strength of the defences. Those with meagre protection were rejected almost immediately. It was only when they reached a town a few miles from Caen that she felt more secure. Caen was huge, she knew.

Alain had been quiet since the death of the man. Whereas in the first days he had been thoughtful and caring, he had grown progressively more withdrawn. She knew that her ferocity that day had struck him dumb.

'When we get to the city,' he said now, 'we should find a good inn.'

He was studying the countryside as he spoke. They had reached the summit of a small hillock, and he stood gazing about him. Some people were walking along the road a man with a cart laden with goods, two women with baskets slung over their backs, children with fear graven on their faces but as these pa.s.sed, there were few enough behind them. Traffic on the roads had thinned out.

'We can find a cheaper bed at a tavern,' she said. There was no point in wasting her money. The old woman's purse was still mostly full, for she had h.o.a.rded the coins carefully, but there was no telling how long the money must last. With no father, no Helene, no family and no means of support, she must eke out her remaining funds.

'We can afford a good chamber food, wine, everything. We don't have to stint,' he said.

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