Free Fields of Glory by Michael Jecks Page B

was a quarter of the way to midday, marching steadily but without urgency. They were in no
hurry to reach it. They knew what to expect.
    Then Berenger heard a sound – a low moaning. It needed to be investigated – although it might be a trap. He sent Geoff to the right, Clip to the left, and the bulk of his men spread
between them. He kept only Jack with him, while Donkey he placed behind the rest. There was no point in seeing the boy hurt before he had learned which end of a sword was safest.
    They were approaching a low wall, and the men crouched behind it. To their left, a pair of buildings had been burned, and even now the heat was like a dragon’s exhalation. The wall
appeared to be the boundary of a small pound, while on their right was a huddle of cottages. A vegetable garden nearby was devastated, with boot-prints visible amongst the flattened salads and
beans. A boy’s body lay among the remains.
    The moaning started again as they reached him. His throat had been cut and the wound gaped. Berenger thought that he could see cartilage inside, but then it moved, and he realised it was flies,
gorging themselves. Jack ended the boy’s misery with his dagger.
    Then, peering over the wall, Berenger was confronted with a scene that would remain with him for a long time.
    ‘Your Royal Highness, my Lords,’ Sir John said as he entered the Prince’s large tent and bowed.
    It was a simple construction a short way inland from the beach. Inside was only the most basic decoration: this was the working tent of a knight, not a gaudy display for a tournament. There was
a pair of trestles: one covered with pages weighted with leather-covered stones, two clerks murmuring to each other as they worked through correspondence; the other held meats and cheeses set out
on plundered silver plates, and wine in great jugs. Beyond that, the room contained all the essentials for a knight: spare armour, spare weapons and surcoats.
    He had heard of foreign potentates who insisted upon their subjects treating them with a fawning reverence more suited to God than a mortal. They dared not gaze at their masters directly for
fear of giving insult. Not, thank God, in England. Here, if a man were to avoid his eyes, a monarch would rightly be suspicious.
    ‘Sir John. I am glad to see you,’ the Prince said.
    Edward of Woodstock, Prince of Wales, was a handsome young man of sixteen. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the neck of a fighting knight, he had trained from an early age with a heavy war helm in
jousts and tournaments. His fair hair was long, and he had a thin moustache trimmed back from his mouth. His blue eyes were clear and confident.
    Sir John thought much of his confidence was due to his father, but a large part came from the men in the pavilion with him.
    Sitting on a stool and chewing on a honeyed lark, Thomas de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, was a heavy-set, dark-haired man in his early thirties. Already a war leader of great fame, having led the
King’s armies against the Scots, he was the Marshal of England, known for his intelligence, his devotion to his King – and his utter ruthlessness.
    Behind him, resting against a trestle and toying with a long misericord dagger, was the Earl of Northampton, William de Bohun, a man as famous for his cunning as for his ferocity in battle. He
had marched with King Edward from the first, being one of the King’s most devoted comrades in the recent battles at Sluys and Morlaix.
    ‘Your Royal Highness,’ Sir John began, ‘my men have returned from Barfleur. It is as we feared. The town is destroyed.’
    Warwick took a bone from his mouth and sucked it noisily. ‘None living?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Then there will be no ships from there to harry the fleet, which is good.’
    The young Prince glanced at Sir John. ‘What do you say?’
    Sir John cast an eye at the two magnates. The Prince had the same direct manner as his father. Against his better judgement, he found himself thinking that