Part 23 (1/2)

Yet at the same time he felt his ta.r.s.e swelling. Her rapid breathing made her b.r.e.a.s.t.s swell against the thin material of her tunic, and he couldn't help but stare. It had been so long. He had not lain with a woman since the day he found his wife's body. The day his life had ended. Suddenly the longing became uncontrollable.

She stood and backed away from him.

'Don't run! I won't hurt you,' he said, his voice thick with l.u.s.t. He wanted to hold her and feel her body next to his.

His tone alarmed her still more, he saw. She shook her head, before trying to bolt from the room. He put his hand to her, but she drew away, backing to the wall.

'No! Please don't!' she cried.

'I won't hurt you,' he repeated, and he meant it yet he felt a dreadful emptiness in him. The memory of his own wife back in England, the horror of the deaths . . . This young Frenchwoman could give him some much-needed solace. He wanted it. He deserved it.

Unconvinced, she suddenly darted forward in an attempt to escape. He tried to grab her by the arm, not to harm her, but just to hold her still so he could explain that he wanted only to talk. But his hand missed. Instead he grasped a fold of cloth, which ripped with a deafening sound that desecrated the chapel. The two stood, her panting like an injured cat, him stock-still, his eyes fixed on the softness of her bared breast. With a moan, he leaned forward, his mouth open.

Her hand raked down his cheek, narrowly missing his eye, and he roared with surprise and shock. Purely by reflex, he punched her in the face, so that her head snapped back, and she fell to the ground, unconscious. He knelt and put a trembling hand towards her breast. He could have taken her like the s.l.u.t he knew she was, but before his hand touched her, his eyes rose. There, before him like a marker on the road to h.e.l.l, he saw the crucifix on the wall, and he stopped, staring, his hand inches from her.

He clenched his fist and remained there, staring at Christ's sad face. Then, leaving Beatrice still slumped on the floor, he walked to the altar and knelt. Gradually his body became racked with dry, heaving sobs.

Berenger was startled awake by the sound of weeping as Beatrice ran into the camp area, staring about her wildly, clutching her tunic to her breast.

'Sweet Mother of G.o.d,' he cried, and clumsily climbed to his feet, fumbling for his sword. 'What's happened? Who is it? Where?'

He ran to the slope and stared out over the lip of the bank. Luke was standing sentry, and he shook his head baffled. 'She was out there, near those woods, Fripper. I saw her come out, and she began running. You saw what she looked like. Sobbing, she was, the whole way. And her t.i.t hanging out.'

'Is there any sign of the French over there?' Berenger demanded, scowling at the woods as if daring them to conceal his enemies.

'No. Geoff went in there a while back, but I haven't seen him come out yet.'

'Geoff? Very well. Call out if you see anything suspicious.'

Berenger turned and went back to where the woman knelt, shuddering, clinging to Donkey. 'What's the matter with her?' Ed looked up, distraught. 'Look at her! Can't you see? She's been raped, or someone tried to rape her. Are the Welsh out there?'

'Non, non. Ce n'est pas . . . C'est rien. Rien.'

She was still weeping, her face hidden in Ed's chest, one hand clutching the material to cover her modesty.

' ”Nothing”? Looks like a lot more than ”nothing” to me,' Berenger said.

She looked up, and then stiffened.

Berenger span around to see Geoff, an armful of sticks and branches in his arms, enter the camp. He set them all down carefully at the fire's side, squatted and began to break them ready for burning.

Berenger couldn't believe that Geoff would have done anything to her. A man terrified of a witch wouldn't try to rape her.

Beatrice deliberately spat in Geoff's direction before averting her face.

'Christ's pain, Geoff,' Berenger said.

Outside Paris, Sir John had left Aeton with his esquire and made his way to St-Germain, where the French King had recently built a vast new palace for himself. The land all about was his favourite hunting estate. King Edward had ensconced himself inside, while Edward of Woodstock had taken the old palace alongside.

Sir John found the palace filled with men, and more were outside, laughing and toasting each other.

'My Lord Warwick? What is happening?' Sir John asked. The evident jubilation of the men-at-arms outside was almost alarming. It reminded him of the febrile atmosphere of an army before a foolhardy charge, when all the men drank themselves stupid so as not to face up to the disaster to come.

'Sir John, the French King has agreed to do battle!'

Sir John stared, his mind whirling at the news. 'Where? Does he say when?'

'Our King will soon tell us.'

They were forced to wait while the senior bannerets and lords arrived. The s.p.a.ce was much like a glad May morning, with the cheery atmosphere and flags fluttering overhead, but at last there was a sudden hush. A troop of men with pikes marched from the palace and cleared a pa.s.sage from the main doors. The King strode out, waving to his cheering officers as he went, until he reached a wagon and climbed atop, his arms aloft.

'My Lords, good knights, friends! I hope and trust you are all as happy with the pa.s.sage of our army as I am, but soon you shall have reason for still more joy at our successes! For today we have received a letter from our good cousin, the man who calls himself King of France. Would you like to hear what he says? Shall I read it to you?'

There was a chorus of cheers at that, and arms were raised as the knights bellowed support for their King and enthusiasm to hear what Philippe had written.

'Hold! Hold! Very well, listen, and I shall read it to you,' King Edward said. He raised a scroll. 'He says: ”Dear cousin, King of England and Wales, and . . .” well, you don't want the preliminaries, do you? Let us get to the meat of the dish. He says: ”You who want to conquer this land . . .” Is he not most rude? He calls me his ”most dishonourable and disloyal va.s.sal”. I am glad he realises I do not intend to be loyal to him! He says he will meet us for battle. He wishes us to go to him, north of Poissy or some field south of Paris, on Thursday, Sat.u.r.day, Sunday or Tuesday following the Feast of the Annunciation. What say you? Should we agree to fight him on these days?'

There was a roar of support at this. Fists and drawn weapons were waved in the air, and a man set up a chant of 'Battle, battle, battle!' that was taken up by several other knights, stamping their feet or slapping their b.r.e.a.s.t.s in time to the cries.

Sir John did not feel the same enthusiasm. 'He wants us to meet him at a time and place of his choosing? Philippe will prepare the land and expects us to march to him to our deaths? Perhaps the French King has learned strategy.'

'You would avoid his trap?' the Earl asked.

'I would.'

'Silence, my friends! Please, hold!' the King bellowed, and a herald nodded to a pair of esquires, who blew three loud blasts on their horns.

When the tumult had subsided somewhat, the King lowered his head and cast about, looking at the men before him.

'My friends, I say no! No, we shall not accede to this man's demands. What? He wants us to ”cease in the depredations against my people, cease to burn the lands”, et cetera. Should we stop our profitable investigations of his favourite manors? I say again, no! He says, we may meet him here, or there, when it suits him. I say, we have offered him battle all the long miles from La Hogue to here, and he has refused us. I was content to accept battle wherever he decided, but he did not come. I wanted to cross the Seine to fight him, but he tore down the bridges or garrisoned the towns so that we might not reach him. And now, now we are all-powerful, he asks us to agree to his terms?'

King Edward paused and stared about him with a slow deliberation, meeting the eyes of his knights and barons as though testing their will-power.

'Gentlemen, I will burn and destroy everything he most values here. All his manors, even this splendid palace here, the Palais du Roy, and the other over there where my son rests. He asks: Where shall he find us? And I say: Look for the smoke. Look for the fires. That is where I shall be. Listen for the sound of mourning and weeping. That is where I shall be! And when we desire it, we shall stop at a place of our choosing, where we may offer battle. But should I take his commands to fight at such a place and such a time, when he desires it? Then indeed should I be accused of being a false va.s.sal, for only a va.s.sal would agree to terms from his lord in such manner. I shall not. I shall not. I SHALL NOT! I am King of England and of France. I shall continue rewarding those who demonstrate their fealty, punis.h.i.+ng those who are faithless! And I will take this land with your aid, my friends, my n.o.ble companions. This chevauchee shall be remembered through the centuries, I swear!'

The Earl nodded as the men erupted once more in bellows of support. He commented drily, 'Well, it would appear he agrees with you, Sir John.'

'I am glad to hear it. I think that his conclusion is correct.'

'Which is?'

'The French wish us to stop burning and looting. They offer nothing, only a battle at some time in the future, if we are good enough to accept it, when they have overwhelming force.'

The Earl eyed him. He himself was thirty years old, so thirty years younger than Sir John. There was no disputing the fact that Sir John had more experience of war, of success and shameful disaster and failure, than he did. 'They will say that we run, that when they offer us a battle, we avoid them.'

'Yes, they will,' Sir John agreed. 'For a while, a little while. But we shall seek and find ourselves a more accommodating site for a battle than a flat field on which the French may encircle us and destroy us at their leisure. Has he responded already to the French King?'

'Yes. The Bishop of Meaux came to deliver it, and he has been sent back with an offer of a truce for the morrow. The Feast of the Annunciation will be celebrated in peace and the day after, we shall be ready for war.'

Sir John nodded. He recalled speaking with Berenger earlier. In his mind's eye he pictured a field north of the Somme: a sloping hill with strong woods behind. A perfect place for siting a defence against even ma.s.sive foes.