Part 10 (1/2)

There was a subtle change in his tone as he spoke. She looked at him with a quick suspicion. 'What do you mean?'

He had not tried to grope her or even steal a kiss. She had been sure that she could trust him, and yet there was a distance between them now.

'Your money you have plenty. The man saw it in the tavern when you showed me. That was his problem. He really wanted to have your money as well as taking you. It left him confused.'

'He wanted to rape me.'

'Yes, that too.'

There was a coolness in his tone. She looked about, and realised that the last stragglers of the latest column of refugees had pa.s.sed on and were disappearing behind some trees. They were alone.

She took a step away.

'I wanted to take the purse as soon as I saw you with all that money,' he said, facing her again. 'I had thought I would have money, but when I asked my mother for some, she said that she had nothing. I searched, but she wasn't lying. The stupid old hag must have forgotten and left her money behind.'

'So you stabbed her,' Beatrice said. She stepped away again.

'How did you know that?' He frowned, his clear blue eyes reflecting his surprise.

'She told me.'

'No, I killed her.'

'You stabbed her. I took her into a house and eased her pa.s.sing.'

'That was kind. I will make sure you don't suffer.'

'You will kill me too?'

'I think you could be jealous. You may want the money back. Wait!' His frown deepened. 'You say you helped her: where did you get that money?'

'She gave it me.'

He laughed. 'She gave it all to you? And then you walked into me, and I can take it from you. Hah! That is perfect!'

'If you touch me, I'll kill you.'

'You can try, little maid. But I'm better equipped to defend myself than that fool with a beard, and I won't be distracted by your splendid figure.'

He stepped towards her, and she kept her eyes fixed on him. Curiously, she felt no fear. She had killed two men already in the last week. This man was no stronger or quicker than they were. He was no longer 'Alain', her protector: he was only another man seeking to use her, to steal from her and kill her.

No, she had no fear of such a man.

He took another step towards her and she moved back. Another, and she retreated again. 'Will you walk back to Barfleur?' he taunted.

'No.'

He darted forward, his hand under his cloak as he came, and pulled out his knife.

She turned and fled, towards Caen, towards the last people she had seen on the road.

He would know she was bolting in search of protection, just as she had run to him when he first met her. A man like him, a coward who would stab his own mother, would not comprehend a woman who was not terrified of him. He was after her like a greyhound seeing the hare run.

His high-pitched laugh sounded to her like the giggle of a demon, but she didn't care. He was only a man. She had nothing to fear from him. She had already killed two like him.

She ran on, her feet raising small clouds of dust as she went. The air seared her lungs. She pounded onwards, all the while hearing his panting breath draw nearer and nearer, until she could almost feel his hands about to grab at her clothing.

That was when she stopped, her legs bending like spanned bows, and she straightened and whipped round, the knife already in her hand.

He ran into her, and didn't feel her blade at first. Only when she grabbed his own knife-hand and twisted her little blade under his breast did he understand.

For a long moment the two stood, she breathing deeply, her eyes fixed on his face, while he stared back, panting. Then there was a sob in his breath, and he tottered towards her. She shoved with her knife, sawing the blade downwards, feeling it rasp against his flesh, and suddenly he collapsed.

She pulled the knife free, stepped away, and watched as he squirmed and started to wail as the pain in his belly grew.

22 July The next morning, Archibald woke with a grunt.

The hammering and clattering had carried on ceaselessly through the night while the engineers worked on the bridge, curses flying regularly as tools or nails were dropped into the River Vire, but that wouldn't normally keep him awake. Archibald had learned early on, while training as a monk, that sleep should be s.n.a.t.c.hed whenever possible. A monk's life was harsh enough without exhaustion to torment the soul.

He prepared himself as the rest of the King's host lumbered to their feet, swearing and bickering lethargically.

It was good to see how the vintaine with Berenger Fripper immediately set to making a fire and toasting their little cakes, he thought. Most men would break their fast later in the day, but these men saw to it that they had eaten before risking battle. That, to Archibald, was the sign of seasoned campaigners.

For him, a hunk of bread and the remains of the pottage from the night before were sufficient. Then, with a stretch and yawn that would have befitted a bear, he made his way to the river. He was thirsty, and he wanted to get there before the majority of the army. Too many p.i.s.sed into the waters.

At the bank, he saw Welshmen and others filling their skins and pots. He went a short way upstream and slipped down the bank behind a little stand of trees, filling his pottle-pot. It held two quarts, and the mouth was small, so he must hold the barrel-shaped container under the water for a while to fill it. While he was there, he heard voices.

'You should be careful,' he heard a man say.

The voice was familiar, but he thought nothing of that. Right now he was concentrating on his water.

'Who are you to tell me to be careful?'

This second was a strange voice, but the accent was recognisable to any man in the King's army: it was a Welshman speaking. Idly, Archibald listened to their conversation.

'The boy said you attacked him. You know the one, the boy with the archers? He said you a.s.saulted him and robbed him just before the s.h.i.+p set sail.'

'Him? We didn't hurt him. We only made fun of him. He wanted to join us in the army, and tried to bribe us to bring him. As if we would have a halfling like him with us in the midst in a battle!'

'Well, he says you a.s.saulted him, and he's told other people that you did.'

Archibald frowned as he suddenly recognised the voice as Tyler's. Leaning closer, he listened more attentively, but it was too late. The voices moved on, the men walking away from him.

Archibald filled his pottle-pot and thrust the cork home with a slap of his palm.

That was interesting. He wondered who the boy was, and why Tyler had chosen to accuse him of spreading tales. Not that it was any of his concern. As something of an outcast himself, Archibald was less inclined to tell tales.

However, he disliked Mark Tyler. The man was up to something.

Granda.r.s.e roared and waved his hat to egg them on as the main body of infantry hurried past them over the bridge.