Fields of Glory Read Online Free PDF Page B

through and kneel in the stinking puddles where men had pissed and shat themselves, getting filth on his fists and legs .
. . he hated that part of a battle: the final butchery.
    And Clip hadn’t deserted them. He
had
come back – if slowly.
    Clip’s levity faded as he cast a look behind Berenger and understood. ‘Sorry, Frip. We were as fast as possible.’
    ‘Next time, get a move on. If you don’t, I’ll throw you to the enemy myself.’ The vintener looked over them. ‘Where are the weapons?’
    ‘Right there,’ Clip said, pointing with his chin. On the hillock where they had been standing, Berenger could see a low handcart with a stack of bowstaves and arrows on it.
    ‘Good. Light the fire.’
    Clip smiled thinly. ‘Maybe Ed would be better? He’s quick with his tinder.’
    ‘Do as you’re told,’ Berenger snapped.
    Clip shrugged and went on, his usual whine forgotten: ‘Ed here makes a good sumpter. He brought most of them. He was in a hurry to get here and see the bodies.’
    Berenger cast an eye over the boy as he wiped blood from his hand. ‘Why, lad? Haven’t you seen enough dead men already?’
    No one could get to the age of twelve without seeing a dead man: a grandparent, a friend, a felon – death was all too common. But Ed wasn’t listening. His gaze moved intently over
the figures.
    ‘You all right there, Ed?’ Berenger said.
    Ed wore an expression of such savagery that Berenger was shocked. He had never before seen a look like that in one so young. He shot a glance over at Grandarse, but the centener was bellowing at
Geoff and two others to get their fingers out and didn’t notice.
    ‘Ed – what is it?’ Berenger said more forcefully.
    ‘Nothing,’ Ed replied with a little sigh. He turned and strode away, but now he was no anxious young boy with a head permanently bowed in submission. He looked more like a man.
    A killer.
    It was dark already when Béatrice Pouillet shut the door to the henhouse behind the cottage. The foolish creatures were making a din as they bickered on their perches.
She could imagine them pushing at each other, the lowest in the pecking order forced against the walls, the matronly leader waggling her tail feathers and making herself comfortable.
    Once, only a short time ago, Béatrice would have grinned at the thought, but not now. There was no place for humour in her life any more. Not since her father’s arrest and
execution.
    Execution: a word that struck the heart with terror. Béatrice knew how men who had incurred the King’s displeasure were made to suffer the most savage punishments before death. It
was appalling to think that her own father could have endured such horrors. Friends had betrayed him. A respected specialist, valued by all who knew him and his work, and yet his life had been
snuffed out like a candle so that no memory remained except in her.
    Afterwards she had fled to her uncle’s house at Barfleur, some two days’ journey north. There she had hoped to be safe, but in the little port, stories about her father’s crime
were soon bruited about, and all too many assumed the worst. Even her uncle, a decent, law-abiding merchant, was accused of being a spy or murderer. Leaving the house one morning, she was set upon
by a gang of urchins, who taunted her and pelted her with stones and ordure. Bloody and bruised, she was left to crawl away.
    For her own safety, her uncle had sent her here. The woman, Hélène, was the widow of a former servant of his. She lived on a small pension provided by Béatrice’s
uncle, but for the last few days she had been unwell. Béatrice was fearful that she too was going to die, and once more she would be all alone; here, further than ever from home. It was no
good dwelling on her family – she had no idea where her mother was.
    At least the local priest was kind. He had offered to come and help her with the old woman.
    At that moment, there was a snap of twigs, footsteps, and she went to peer