Fields of Glory by Michael Jecks Read Free Book Online Page A

make your own way to safety – if you can find it anywhere in our
unhappy kingdom.’
    ‘I thank you,’ she said. She ran back into the cottage and gathered a few belongings, and then, as the men brought out the old woman’s body, she threw
Hélène’s palliasse onto the fire. Smoke rose from the hay inside, and she turned and strode from the place.
    Outside, the old cat rubbed against her legs, giving a loud purr that seemed almost demented. She stroked his head as she watched the flames through the doorway. The roof gave off a thick,
greenish-yellow smoke as the thatch caught. A flash of heat made the animal leap from her.
    She called to the cat, but he had hidden himself away. Unbeknownst to her, it was the last time she would see him, for soon, locals would come to accuse her of witchcraft, and they would hang
him, in the casually brutal way of superstitious peasants. If she had known, she would have taken him with her.
    ‘Why fire the place?’ the knight demanded.
    She looked at him and forgot the cat.
    ‘I’ll not have her belongings looted by the English,’ she said, adding silently to herself, ‘nor by the locals.’

13 July
    Berenger rose as the first horns blared through the early morning. ‘On your feet!’ he shouted to his men, making a dishonest display of enthusiasm for leadership.
In truth, he would have much preferred a cup of warm, spiced ale and another hour under his cloak.
    It was still dark, yet all around him men were stirring and grumbling, many searching for a bush or tree to piss against, while others packed belongings and adjusted their coats against the
chill. Out at sea, ships waited, and more were being beached and unloaded.
    ‘Aye, there’ll be a fight before we see home again,’ Jack Fletcher said in his heavy Ousham accent, hoicking up his hosen. Berenger had known him longest, and Jack was the man
he relied on to give him the mood of the men. ‘Those sailor boys have an easy time of it, eh? Buggering off back to port, guzzling the best wine and ale while we march the soles of our boots
thin all the way to bloody Paris. The buggers.’
    Berenger grinned.
    ‘How do you think the men are doing?’ he asked.
    Jack shrugged. ‘Clip’s whining wors’n ever; Wisp’s worried, as usual, but he’s keeping it quiet. You know what he’s like.’
    Berenger knew all too well. Will the Wisp was lanky and clumsy and always fretting: would they win a good reward for their effort, would his bag hold for their campaign, would the rains come on
and ruin his boots? In Wisp’s life there were so many things to worry about.
    ‘The others?’ he asked.
    ‘Oliver has toothache; Eliot’s upset because his harrier bitch was kicked by a packhorse and she’s limping; Matt’s on about needing a whore; Gil wants an ale; Jon is
hungry; Walt didn’t sleep. It’s the usual moaning and griping, but they’re fine. It’s when they stop bleating you need to worry. That’s when they’re plotting
mutiny!’
    Berenger pulled the straps tight on his pack. He wanted to ask about the boy, but there was no point. Of all the men under Berenger, Jack was the most loyal. He would protect any man from the
vintaine, especially a youngster, to the utmost limit of his strength. ‘What of Geoff?’
    ‘He’s just missing his wife and boys, as usual.’
    Berenger nodded. Geoff was always sombre at the beginning of a campaign. Berenger had seen it before. His protectiveness towards Ed was just his paternal nature coming to the fore.
    Clip had relit the fire, and now the men were heating flat stones. Most men did not bother with an early meal, but Berenger insisted that, when possible, each man should have something inside
them to sustain them for the day’s march. Each had mixed oats with flour and water, some with honey, to make little cakes. It was a trick they had learned from the Scots.
    However, during this campaign there was no telling where they would find supplies. Berenger decided he