Free Fields of Glory by Michael Jecks

began to snore. Jack’s expression didn’t bode well.
    ‘What have you found out?’ Berenger asked quietly.
    Jack’s grey eyes were serious. ‘Wisp’s convinced himself we’re heading for disaster. He reckons the cat was an omen.’
    Berenger looked past Jack’s shoulder at Wisp, who sat wretchedly plucking at tufts of grass. ‘I’ll have a word,’ he said, and got up and walked over to Wisp, dropping to
sit beside him. ‘So?’
    ‘I told Jack already. I may as well tell you.’
    ‘Tell me what?’
    ‘This whole enterprise is going to fail. We’ll not make it home again. None of us.’
    Berenger said gently, ‘Look, you’re taking this cat business for too seriously, my friend.’
    Wisp looked up and met his eyes. ‘I’ve never felt like that before, but I did at that cottage – when I saw that witch’s cat hanging. The folks about there knew the woman
who’d been inside. They saw that she was evil. It wasn’t done by someone who dislikes cats, Frip. It was done by people who hate witches.’
    ‘You don’t know any of this for sure, Wisp. You saw a cat.’
    ‘And the dead priest outside?’
    ‘He could have been killed by our scouts. It wasn’t magic killed him, I know that much.’
    ‘This chevauchée is going to fail, Frip. We should get away while we can.’
    ‘No one’s going to run away from the King’s host, lad. You know the penalty for desertion.’
    ‘I know we’ll all die. I can see it just as if it’s already happened. I’m dead. We all are. I won’t see home again, just as you won’t.’
    Wisp gave a sob. ‘The chevauchée is doomed. And so are we.’

When Sir John de Sully arrived, just before dawn, the men were already standing-to with their weapons.
    Berenger had not seen Sir John above a handful of times since landing. The knight had been too busy seeing to the disposition of the archers and men-at-arms under the Prince of Wales. Like the
other men, a thick stubble was already forming over his jaw. At his chin it was grey, the colour of old, unpolished pewter, like his hair. His eyes were firm and steady, as befitted a senior
warrior of five-and-sixty years who had taken part in every battle his King had fought since Edward II’s first wars against Scotland, three-and-thirty years ago.
    Grandarse called Roger Bakere and Berenger to join them.
    ‘The King’s unhappy,’ Sir John said. ‘Men are ignoring his proclamation to spare towns and people who wish to come under his protection. You are to look for French
militia, but also to search for any plunderers.’
    ‘And what – um – do we do with them if we find them?’ Roger asked. He had a lazy drawl that made him sound foolish on occasion, like an inbred peasant with scrambled
brains. But there was a shrewd gleam in his eyes. At his side, the man he had spoken of, Mark Tyler, or Mark of London, showed a quick interest.
    ‘Use your imagination,’ Grandarse snapped. ‘I don’t like it any more than you do, but those are our orders, so get used to it.’
    It took the men only a short time to grab hot bread from their morning fires to eat on the march and soon they were away. Berenger looked at Mark Tyler thoughtfully. The fellow was too keen by
half about the idea of fighting. That was why Roger kept him close, no doubt. Always best to have the least-trusted men to hand where they could be watched; in a fight it was best to keep your
friends close, and your enemies closer still.
    Béatrice was glad to reach the little inn.
    The old woman was dead. She had not lasted the night, and Béatrice wept over her corpse with a feeling of genuine bereavement. Both had suffered much in the last few days, and to lose a
friend, even one of such brief duration, was a further blow to Béatrice.
    That morning, she took the old woman’s shawl and her purse, and set her hands crossed over her breast. There was no guilt at taking her money or belongings. Those items could not help
their owner now, but they might serve