Free Fields of Glory by Michael Jecks Page A

to help Béatrice.
    Setting out, she joined the thinning column of refugees. She had already marched many leagues, trying to put distance between herself and the English, but no matter how far they tramped, the
news of murder, slaughter of animals, senseless ruin and rape increased. Riders from the coast with pale faces told of bestial acts by the enemy that were enough to chill the blood of any
Frenchman. One shivered so with horror that he could not speak, and merely mouthed his shock when questioned.
    The people slogged on, none too certain of their destination, hoping, all of them, that they might reach some sort of refuge. The King must arrive soon, they said, and throw these English swine
from the land. But others disagreed: all too many had heard that Philippe had resisted the urge to do battle before. Some doubted that, even now, he would come to protect his people. The reflection
did little to raise the spirits of the weary travellers.
    This place, therefore, was a welcome sight: a large inn by the side of the road, already packed with people, but not turning any away. It made Béatrice feel a surge of joy, seeing that
some people could still offer kindness to strangers, even one weary, dispossessed and desperate.
    ‘What do you want?’ The man at the door was short, but broad as the doorway itself. He eyed her truculently.
    ‘I seek a chance to sit by a fire,’ she said meekly.
    ‘Where is your money?’
    His manner was brusque, and Béatrice didn’t understand why – and then she reflected that the poor man must have had hundreds no, thousands, beating at his door.
    ‘I only want to sit at your fire a moment and warm myself,’ she said. ‘I am very tired. I’ve been walking since—’
    ‘You want food, you have to pay; drink, you pay; a seat at my fire, you pay. Your money – where is it?’
    ‘I have some here,’ she said, gesturing at her hip. The purse was tied to the rope about her waist, under her cloak.
    A second man had joined the doorman. He had blue eyes and a shock of dark curls. ‘Let her in, my host,’ he urged. She is hardly going to cause trouble, is she?’ he said as she
patted the coins, making them rattle. ‘She can speak when she is inside.’
    The innkeeper stood aside, and she entered nervously. A woman on her own was always at risk of rape or worse in a rural tavern.
    Inside, the smoke rose lazily, choking the throat. There was no chimney, only a fire burning on a tiled hearth in the middle of the hall. Fresh rushes had been set about the floor, but the air
reeked of rancid wine, woodsmoke and sweat from all the men and women inside.
    Their faces were pale and haunted in the dimness. Some shielded children against their stomachs, standing or sitting in postures of feebleness and exhaustion. There were a few benches, and a
couple of trestle tables had been put out, but for the most part it felt like a prison. The people in there were like prisoners in a dungeon of their own making. That thought made her shudder.
    ‘Come, maid, I have a space over here,’ the curly-haired man said. He led her to a corner. ‘You should keep your money hidden,’ he advised. ‘It’s dangerous in
places like this or on the road, if people get to know that you are carrying lots of money.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘Perhaps I should walk with you and protect you?’
    ‘I should be glad of your help,’ she gratefully said. ‘An old woman gave me her purse. Her son stabbed her and left her for dead, and she gave it to me to save it from the
English.’
    ‘Really? How much did she give you?’
    ‘I don’t know. I didn’t count it.’
    ‘All the more reason for you to need a guard,’ he said, and when he smiled, his eyes twinkled. ‘I shall be your knight, maid. I will protect you.’
    At the sight of that smile, she felt as though all her troubles were almost ended. It was the smile of an angel.
    The nearest town, Barfleur, was a scant two leagues hence. It took them until the sun