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Authors: Michael Jecks
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he managed. ‘Just a gut-rot.’
Roger’s voice came to them from outside. ‘Hoy, Fripper, best take a look at this.’
Berenger gave Wisp a clap on the shoulder, then turned and left.
Wisp remained, staring at the cat.
‘Cut that thing down,’ he gulped.
‘What, the cat?’
Wisp nodded.
‘You do it,’ Clip said. ‘You think I’m your esquire?’
‘Just cut the bastard thing down,’ Wisp said with a sudden venom. He wanted to throw up. ‘You see what it is?’
‘Yeah – a dead cat. So what?’
‘It’s a sign that a witch lived here. They killed her cat, because it was her link to the Devil. Christ save us!’
Wisp stumbled from the sad little house and, once outside the door, he fell to his knees and puked.
Berenger had walked out to Grandarse and Roger, who stood near a little spring with the rest of the men. ‘What?’
‘Looks like someone wasn’t too popular,’ Roger said with a grin, pointing. On the ground at his feet lay a man in a foetal curve, arms clutched to his belly.
‘A priest? Who did it – one of our scouts after the landing?’ Berenger said, prodding the body with his foot.The skin was foul already and had dark veins showing.
‘Who’d bother to kill a priest?’ Roger wondered. ‘They don’t carry money.’
Grandarse spat. ‘Aye, well, priest or sinner, there’ll be plenty more like him before long.’
They returned to the camp late in the evening, and Berenger was glad to be able to sit down and warm his hands at a fire.
All the way back they had seen fires in the distance, and now smoke was rising like scars on the sky to south and west. Berenger knew what was happening. English and Welsh opportunists were
slaughtering cattle, sheep and people, before the stores of food and fields of wheat were burned. That was why they were here: for wholesale destruction.
But he wasn’t thinking about the fires. On the way back, they had passed a group of Welsh knifemen, and one of them called out: ‘Glad to see someone took on the brat. Hey, boy,
thanks for the ale!’
Berenger turned. The speaker was a thin-featured Welshman with a scar over his left cheek that left a white mark in his sideburn. The top of his ear had been removed with the same slash.
Ed lifted his head, and at the sight of the Welshmen, he seemed to shrink into himself, as though he was petrified. His hand rested on his knife’s hilt.
‘You know our Donkey? He’s a good worker. You should have used him yourself,’ Berenger said.
There was some ribald laughter at this, which seemed to hold an edge of contempt.
‘What is your name?’ he asked.
‘I am called Erbin. I am leader of these men,’ the man said.
‘Know that I am called Berenger. I am in charge of this vintaine under Sir John de Sully.’
‘We are under the command of the Prince of Wales,’ Erbin said sneeringly. ‘That beats a poxed knight.’
Berenger held up his hand when he saw Geoff and Eliot bristling. ‘Leave them, lads. You, Erbin, had best watch your tongue. You have the ear of the Prince. I have the ear of his father, so
go swyve a goat!’
‘You offering me your mother?’ Erbin called back.
Berenger felt his jaw tighten. ‘If you want, we can test which of us is the stronger.’
‘Maybe we should put that to the trial!’
‘Carry on,’ Grandarse said. ‘Enough of this ballocks! Welshman, keep a civil tongue or the Prince will hear of it. Come on, Frip, and the rest of you!’
They carried on, ignoring the mocking laughter behind them, but Berenger threw a curious glance at the Donkey, wondering what was going on in his mind. ‘Boy, do you know them?’
‘Yes. What of it?’ the lad snapped. ‘They don’t scare me!’ But his eyes held an unmistakable fear.
Berenger decided he would find out more when he could. Just now he had other things to think about. Wisp looked as though a carthorse had kicked him in the cods. It was unnerving to see a
usually reliable member of their vintaine in such a
Roger’s voice came to them from outside. ‘Hoy, Fripper, best take a look at this.’
Berenger gave Wisp a clap on the shoulder, then turned and left.
Wisp remained, staring at the cat.
‘Cut that thing down,’ he gulped.
‘What, the cat?’
Wisp nodded.
‘You do it,’ Clip said. ‘You think I’m your esquire?’
‘Just cut the bastard thing down,’ Wisp said with a sudden venom. He wanted to throw up. ‘You see what it is?’
‘Yeah – a dead cat. So what?’
‘It’s a sign that a witch lived here. They killed her cat, because it was her link to the Devil. Christ save us!’
Wisp stumbled from the sad little house and, once outside the door, he fell to his knees and puked.
Berenger had walked out to Grandarse and Roger, who stood near a little spring with the rest of the men. ‘What?’
‘Looks like someone wasn’t too popular,’ Roger said with a grin, pointing. On the ground at his feet lay a man in a foetal curve, arms clutched to his belly.
‘A priest? Who did it – one of our scouts after the landing?’ Berenger said, prodding the body with his foot.The skin was foul already and had dark veins showing.
‘Who’d bother to kill a priest?’ Roger wondered. ‘They don’t carry money.’
Grandarse spat. ‘Aye, well, priest or sinner, there’ll be plenty more like him before long.’
They returned to the camp late in the evening, and Berenger was glad to be able to sit down and warm his hands at a fire.
All the way back they had seen fires in the distance, and now smoke was rising like scars on the sky to south and west. Berenger knew what was happening. English and Welsh opportunists were
slaughtering cattle, sheep and people, before the stores of food and fields of wheat were burned. That was why they were here: for wholesale destruction.
But he wasn’t thinking about the fires. On the way back, they had passed a group of Welsh knifemen, and one of them called out: ‘Glad to see someone took on the brat. Hey, boy,
thanks for the ale!’
Berenger turned. The speaker was a thin-featured Welshman with a scar over his left cheek that left a white mark in his sideburn. The top of his ear had been removed with the same slash.
Ed lifted his head, and at the sight of the Welshmen, he seemed to shrink into himself, as though he was petrified. His hand rested on his knife’s hilt.
‘You know our Donkey? He’s a good worker. You should have used him yourself,’ Berenger said.
There was some ribald laughter at this, which seemed to hold an edge of contempt.
‘What is your name?’ he asked.
‘I am called Erbin. I am leader of these men,’ the man said.
‘Know that I am called Berenger. I am in charge of this vintaine under Sir John de Sully.’
‘We are under the command of the Prince of Wales,’ Erbin said sneeringly. ‘That beats a poxed knight.’
Berenger held up his hand when he saw Geoff and Eliot bristling. ‘Leave them, lads. You, Erbin, had best watch your tongue. You have the ear of the Prince. I have the ear of his father, so
go swyve a goat!’
‘You offering me your mother?’ Erbin called back.
Berenger felt his jaw tighten. ‘If you want, we can test which of us is the stronger.’
‘Maybe we should put that to the trial!’
‘Carry on,’ Grandarse said. ‘Enough of this ballocks! Welshman, keep a civil tongue or the Prince will hear of it. Come on, Frip, and the rest of you!’
They carried on, ignoring the mocking laughter behind them, but Berenger threw a curious glance at the Donkey, wondering what was going on in his mind. ‘Boy, do you know them?’
‘Yes. What of it?’ the lad snapped. ‘They don’t scare me!’ But his eyes held an unmistakable fear.
Berenger decided he would find out more when he could. Just now he had other things to think about. Wisp looked as though a carthorse had kicked him in the cods. It was unnerving to see a
usually reliable member of their vintaine in such a
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