Part 30 (1/2)

'Yes. She is dead,' he said, remembering how her body had caved in when his knife entered her throat. The way she stared up at him as her eyes faded. All because of the ale; all because he was infatuated with a tart from a tavern. He had killed his wife while he was enraged, and the next morning he did not even remember until he found her body. And then the bodies of his sons. He had killed his entire family in his drunken rage and frustration. Perhaps he had reasoned with the logic of a drunkard that, if his family were all gone, he could take Edith for his own and could start a fresh life with her. He shuddered as a vision of Sarra and the boys returned to his mind, their faces blanched, lips blue, eyes dead and flat and instantly felt Beatrice's cool hand on his brow.

'I'm all right,' he gasped. 'Just remembering things.' Tears stood in his eyes.

'Why did you attack me?' she asked.

'I . . . I was desperate. Lonely. And then I saw you, and the sight inflamed me. I was mad, I think.'

There were calls and horns blown and the vintaine rose, ready for the afternoon's march.

'I must go,' she said.

'I thank you. My life is yours now.'

'Perhaps I will have need of it before long,' she said, and was gone.

21 August Berenger had spent an unsatisfactory day with his men, riding to and fro across the line of march of the army and now, at last, they were approaching the river.

The carts made a h.e.l.lish din as they rattled and crashed over the ruts and stones of the tracks. Every so often there would be a short scream as the injured inside them were thrown around, making broken bones move and wounds reopen. Two more men had died from their injuries, and three from a sickness that had spread to many in the army.

It was always the way. Berenger had never yet seen as many men killed in battle as had died from disease. This time, perhaps because the men were moving continually, the illnesses were fewer. It was an interesting thought.

Uppermost in his mind, however, was the whereabouts of the French.

Every day for the last three they had been attacked by groups of militia, but these were uncoordinated a.s.saults. It was the main force that Berenger feared, yet the French had not been sighted.

It was alarming. The English were suffering. Those marching on foot had boots that were worn through, and several men had given up on them, casting them aside or stuffing them in their packs in the hope of finding some leather to mend them with before too long.

In Berenger's mind, there was an ever-ready presence just over the horizon: the French King with his enormous army. And when the first troops of that mighty host appeared, the English had best be ready and waiting or, as Clip foretold, they would all be slaughtered.

He had no idea how many men the French could muster, but everyone knew that with King Philippe's funds, he could hire the most proficient mercenaries from Genoa, Saxony and beyond. There truly was no defence, unless the English could find a perfect piece of land for a battle: an area where they could install themselves to their own satisfaction.

Sir John had mentioned this himself. He had ridden up behind Berenger late yesterday morning, and the vintener had seen how the strain of the last few days was affecting the old knight.

'How are the men, Fripper?'

'Well enough, Sir John.'

'Good. Let's hope this nonsense will soon be over and done with. We need to cross this d.a.m.ned river. Once we are over the other side, then will I be content.'

Sir John cast an eye at Berenger. 'You reminded me of the land north of here. Once we're across the Somme, I recall the ideal place where we could settle and wait for the French to meet us. Do you remember a vill called Crecy? A broad plain, sweeping down from a curved hill. If the French were to ride into that horseshoe, and we were on the hill, few of them would make it to our lines.'

Berenger nodded thoughtfully. He recalled the place. 'Is the enemy far away?'

'No. Not far enough! We don't want to meet the French too soon. That could spell disaster.' Sir John's old eyes were fretful. 'If we are forced to a battle here, G.o.d Himself knows how it will go, and who will win the day. But once over there, then we shall be safe.'

Safe. It was a word that returned to Berenger now, as he led his vintaine at a brisk trot a mile in advance of the main body of the army.

The vintaine's scouting had been reduced after their mauling three days ago. Other men had been called to the front to take their place temporarily, to allow them a little peace and recovery time. Today they were back at the front again.

'It's wrong, that's all I'm saying. We'll all be slaughtered.'

Berenger didn't bother to look up. 'What is, Clip?'

'It's not right, that's all.'

'We've done our bit, haven't we? Why can't we ride at the back, or with the King and his bodyguard? We've lost too many men already do they want to see us wiped out?'

'Stop your blathering,' Jack said.

'It ain't blather, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d! You want to die here, you go ahead. It's fine by me. But I don't see why I should be stuck up here with-'

Jack bit his thumb at him, grinning.

'And that's your answer, is it?' Clip demanded shrilly. 'You reckon you can just insult me, and I won't-'

'Clip,' Berenger said wearily, 'Shut the f.u.c.k up! If you want to go and complain to the King back there, he'll be delighted to hear your comments, I'm sure. But for now, I'm tired of your whining.'

'It's not fair, that's all I'm saying,' Clip muttered. 'Why are we always riding ahead, scouting for the army?'

Jack laughed. 'What are you complaining about? Look over your shoulder, man. There are fifteen thousand Englishmen at your back, and when you meet a Frenchman, all he's going to see is the number of men here to protect you: a king's host, with knights and English archers. He'll take one look at that lot, c.r.a.p himself, drop his sword and flee.'

'At least it's not much further,' Berenger said appeasingly.

'How do we know that?' Clip moaned. 'It could be another hundred miles, for all we know.'

'No. We've been travelling too long already. The river isn't too far now.'

'How do you know that?' Clip said, his tone tempered by hope.

'I have been here before. Many years ago.'

'Oh. So how long will it be?'

'Enough, Clip! We'll be at the river in less than a day, I think. Now shut your trap you're giving me earache.'

He did recall this land. The plains were familiar. It was a long time ago that he had last been here, but with the journey the memories flooded back. He recognised a village, now smouldering where English troops had set fire to the houses.

'When?'

'Eh?' Berenger was jerked back to the present.

'When were you here last?' Clip said.

'Sixteen years ago. Last time I saw it, people were working in the fields; the horses were set to pasture. There were children laughing, darting in among the trees at the edge, playing catch-as-catch-can.'

Yes. And King Edward II had thrown a coin to them, and the children had scurried for it gleefully. It was a happy scene.

'See? I can inspire joy in the hearts of the innocent,' the King had said sadly. 'Even if I have lost wife, son, throne and realm.'

Sixteen years ago, Berenger had been what? Twenty? That was when he had fled England, travelling first to Avignon, thence to Italy.