Read Online Fields of Glory by Michael Jecks - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Jecks
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strange taking.
Jack was standing nearby, whittling a stick into a sharp spike. Berenger called to him.
‘Jack, speak to Wisp. Something’s upset him. Find out what’s wrong, eh? It’s not like him.’
Jack nodded and ambled over to Wisp as Berenger returned to his seat at the tree. He had hardly settled when Grandarse came back from reporting their findings to Sir John de Sully.
‘Well?’ Berenger said, looking up.
‘All’s well enough,’ Grandarse replied, levering his massive bulk onto a log. ‘The King’s men are at the next town away over there – Morsalleen or somesuch.
Suppose they’ll all be sleeping in warm cots the night.’
‘Knights and nobles always get the better lodgings,’ Berenger said.
‘Aye. Not that I have to like it though.’ Grandarse scowled resentfully up at the trees. ‘Did you check for widow-makers?’
‘There are no limbs about to fall from this tree,’ Berenger said.
‘Aye,’ Grandarse continued. ‘I could just do with a warm bed, a fire roaring on the hearth, and a saucy little French maid to liven my evening.’ He sighed hopefully.
‘Not that we won’t be able to win such soon, with luck.’
‘Any news of the French?’
‘No sign to east or south. There are Welsh fighters searching, and the King’s already in a rage with them.’
‘Why?’
In answer, Grandarse jerked a thumb towards the columns of smoke. ‘Look! The King made a proclamation: all would be safe if they came into his peace – does it look like the French
can trust his word, do you reckon? We’re supposed to wage
dampnum
against those who reject our King, but if he offers protection to those who accept his rule and the Welsh still go
ahead and slaughter them, the French will support Philippe. The King isn’t best pleased.’
The Donkey returned with two water pails and squatted nearby. At Grandarse’s words, he stirred. ‘The French need to be ruled with an iron fist. They are a wicked people.’
‘Oh, aye?’ Grandarse threw him a glance of amused interest. ‘What, like the English, are they?’
‘The English only defend what is theirs.’
‘You think we are any better than them?’ Geoff put in harshly.
Grandarse ignored him. ‘He’s right, eh, Frip?
Ballocks
, boy!’ he said, giving a broad smile. His hands behind his head, closing his eyes, he muttered dreamily,
‘You ought to be back in England if you want to defend things. We’re here to take what we want, and I’m going to make the most of it. And then get home and make a wife of the
naughtiest little wriggle-arsed wench I can find. Ah! That’ll be the life. Ale whenever I want it, a good house, and a bad little wife who’ll adore me in my bed each night.’
‘So you’ll want her blind as well, then?’ Berenger asked mildly.
Grandarse opened a bright blue eye and grinned wickedly. ‘Wouldn’t hurt, Frip. Wouldn’t hurt.’
‘Why do they call you Fripper?’ the Donkey said.
Berenger cast him a look. ‘What is a Fripper, boy?’
‘A man who sells second-hand clothes.’
‘Aye, boy,’ Grandarse said, and suddenly opened both eyes, glaring. ‘And this dangerous man is known for stripping the dead and selling their clothes after a battle, see?
It’s not every man’s job, but it keeps him in ale.’
Ed stared at him, then at Berenger, who sighed.
‘My friends here reckon my clothing is old and worn, Donkey. Listen to Grandarse about fighting and warfare, but not about women, the characters of other men, or the ways of the
world.’
‘That’s what I want: to learn how to fight the French.’
‘Aye, well, you’ve come to the right place to learn,’ Grandarse said. He stretched and broke wind flamboyantly, an expression of pained concentration twisting his features.
‘Aye, that’s better,’ he grunted. ‘And for now, boy, you can bugger off and fetch us some wine. You see, that’s how you support your King: you look after his men,
eh?’
Jack beckoned Berenger as Grandarse
Jack was standing nearby, whittling a stick into a sharp spike. Berenger called to him.
‘Jack, speak to Wisp. Something’s upset him. Find out what’s wrong, eh? It’s not like him.’
Jack nodded and ambled over to Wisp as Berenger returned to his seat at the tree. He had hardly settled when Grandarse came back from reporting their findings to Sir John de Sully.
‘Well?’ Berenger said, looking up.
‘All’s well enough,’ Grandarse replied, levering his massive bulk onto a log. ‘The King’s men are at the next town away over there – Morsalleen or somesuch.
Suppose they’ll all be sleeping in warm cots the night.’
‘Knights and nobles always get the better lodgings,’ Berenger said.
‘Aye. Not that I have to like it though.’ Grandarse scowled resentfully up at the trees. ‘Did you check for widow-makers?’
‘There are no limbs about to fall from this tree,’ Berenger said.
‘Aye,’ Grandarse continued. ‘I could just do with a warm bed, a fire roaring on the hearth, and a saucy little French maid to liven my evening.’ He sighed hopefully.
‘Not that we won’t be able to win such soon, with luck.’
‘Any news of the French?’
‘No sign to east or south. There are Welsh fighters searching, and the King’s already in a rage with them.’
‘Why?’
In answer, Grandarse jerked a thumb towards the columns of smoke. ‘Look! The King made a proclamation: all would be safe if they came into his peace – does it look like the French
can trust his word, do you reckon? We’re supposed to wage
dampnum
against those who reject our King, but if he offers protection to those who accept his rule and the Welsh still go
ahead and slaughter them, the French will support Philippe. The King isn’t best pleased.’
The Donkey returned with two water pails and squatted nearby. At Grandarse’s words, he stirred. ‘The French need to be ruled with an iron fist. They are a wicked people.’
‘Oh, aye?’ Grandarse threw him a glance of amused interest. ‘What, like the English, are they?’
‘The English only defend what is theirs.’
‘You think we are any better than them?’ Geoff put in harshly.
Grandarse ignored him. ‘He’s right, eh, Frip?
Ballocks
, boy!’ he said, giving a broad smile. His hands behind his head, closing his eyes, he muttered dreamily,
‘You ought to be back in England if you want to defend things. We’re here to take what we want, and I’m going to make the most of it. And then get home and make a wife of the
naughtiest little wriggle-arsed wench I can find. Ah! That’ll be the life. Ale whenever I want it, a good house, and a bad little wife who’ll adore me in my bed each night.’
‘So you’ll want her blind as well, then?’ Berenger asked mildly.
Grandarse opened a bright blue eye and grinned wickedly. ‘Wouldn’t hurt, Frip. Wouldn’t hurt.’
‘Why do they call you Fripper?’ the Donkey said.
Berenger cast him a look. ‘What is a Fripper, boy?’
‘A man who sells second-hand clothes.’
‘Aye, boy,’ Grandarse said, and suddenly opened both eyes, glaring. ‘And this dangerous man is known for stripping the dead and selling their clothes after a battle, see?
It’s not every man’s job, but it keeps him in ale.’
Ed stared at him, then at Berenger, who sighed.
‘My friends here reckon my clothing is old and worn, Donkey. Listen to Grandarse about fighting and warfare, but not about women, the characters of other men, or the ways of the
world.’
‘That’s what I want: to learn how to fight the French.’
‘Aye, well, you’ve come to the right place to learn,’ Grandarse said. He stretched and broke wind flamboyantly, an expression of pained concentration twisting his features.
‘Aye, that’s better,’ he grunted. ‘And for now, boy, you can bugger off and fetch us some wine. You see, that’s how you support your King: you look after his men,
eh?’
Jack beckoned Berenger as Grandarse
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