Michael Jecks - The Bishop Must Die

But they would soon learn the truth. For now, Baldwin could only feel his anger beginning to rise, along with a deepening sense of alarm. So far, they had not found any people on the roadway, and that in itself was ominous. Usually he would expect the local peasants to pack all they could, and make off into the woods to escape the men riding hither and thither. If there were none, it could mean that all had escaped, or more likely that they were dead.

His worst fears were soon realised.

Jack saw them first. A small group lying in the ditch beside the road, a man and woman, and children. There was a baby with her head crushed, as though knocked against a tree, while the woman had plainly been raped. The men had not bothered to cover her body afterwards. Nearby the man lay slumped with blood black and thick running from his throat.

‘Ride on, Jack,’ Baldwin said urgently, but the boy sat still, gaping at the sight. Baldwin had to take his arm, and bring him back to the present. ‘Ride on, boy. There’s nothing we can do for them,’ he said, and the party rode on again. Baldwin could hear one of his men weeping, and another two were forced to dismount and run to the hedge to throw up.

Baldwin himself had seen similar hideous scenes when he was much younger, when he had fought in the last days at Acre, and the sight of the dead had not held any horror for him since. However, they were apt to instil a boiling rage in him. To think that Englishmen could do such things was appalling. He had expected it of the Moors in the Holy Land, because that was a religious crusade against the heathens. Except he had soon learned that the religious beliefs of the Moors were not so different from those of the Christians who were invading. And he had also learned that the Christians could be more barbaric than the Moors. Yes, he had seen such horrors before, and all too often they were committed by the English.

The land about here was showing the violence of war. As they approached the coast, all the little farms and hamlets which he had scarcely noticed in the peace of three days ago, were burning or burned. The smoke rose, and there was a fine snowy shower at one point as the ash from one farm began to fall about them. Baldwin rode on in silence now, thinking of different times, thinking of the men he had known, the villages they had attacked and burned. And he could not help but compare these little vills with his own manor. How swiftly would his home at Furnshill go up in flames! How quickly would it be destroyed, with his wife and children inside!

It was not a thought to be borne. And it tore at him as he rode. In his mind’s eye he could see Furnshill with the flames roaring from the roof and windows, hear the screams of the animals, see his wife’s body, perhaps, lying in a ditch, just as that poor woman had been.

They did not see Felton when they approached the shore. A couple of drunk sailors were roaring and singing in the roadway, arms about each other’s shoulders, and as Baldwin rode nearer, one of them fumbled for his heavy sword, but seemed incapable of drawing it, which led to gales of laughter from the pair of them. A gust of wind brought the stench of death to Baldwin’s nostrils, and he saw some bodies dangling from a tree’s branch in the next field. Three young peasants. All male.

These people had been happy three days ago. He had ridden past them in their fields, and they were merely contented farmers who had brought in their harvests. And now, because of a foolish escapade trying to bring home the king’s son, they had all been killed. He looked down at Jack, who was still staring stupidly at the swinging bodies, and wondered what had happened to the little lad who had been watching his sheep when they rode to Rouen.

The reflection spurred his anger, and he rode through the two laughing sailors to the beach itself, searching for someone in control.

It was fortunate that the first man he met was a grim-faced Nicholas de Cryel. Before Baldwin could speak, Sir Nicholas hurried to him. ‘Thank God you have returned safely, Sir Baldwin. Matters here are going from bad to worse. Felton is a fool — he should never have been given command. He’s set the sailors and men loose to pillage and kill everything. What the hell he’s up to, is anybody’s guess, but so far as I’m concerned, I am heartily sick of the whole affair. I believe we have one more day of safety, and then the French will fall on us like wolves. After all the wilful violence done to the local folk, they will be within their rights to slaughter us out of hand.’

‘Where is Felton?’

‘On his ship,’ Sir Nicholas said, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Drunk, I daresay. He spends most of his days with a bottle near to hand now.’

‘Then we shall give the order to re-embark. The duke refused to come with us, so our cause here is lost,’ Baldwin said.

‘So all this was for nothing,’ Sir Nicholas said, gazing about him with his lip curled. ‘If I had the authority, I would get Felton out here now and string him up from the highest tree in the area.’

The weather began to change later in the afternoon, and the lengthy process of getting all the men and horses back on board was made more hazardous by heavy rain. The decking grew slippery, and the sailors brought buckets of sand to hurl over the timbers to make it safe underfoot. With sailors hauling on their ropes, some ships were slowly drawn further away from the shore while others approached. It was no easy task, for the ships which were nearest the shore had to take care not to overload themselves, in case they remained beached as the tide came in. Those which were out to sea must run in, and stay in the shallows while men clambered up the ladders and ropes, and the horses were led into the waters, complaining bitterly. One lashing out in fright managed to hit a man’s skull, and it burst open like a bladder filled with water. Baldwin saw the fellow’s eyes roll up into his head, and he slid under the water without a word, the only sign to show that he had been there, the crimson flower of blood that bloomed under the water.

It was madness. The sailors were all disgruntled and most more than half-drunk. The warriors were all angry at being called back when they were sure that there were more easy pickings to be had. Most had managed to steal a barrel or two of cider or ale, while some had found a store of coin, so Baldwin had heard. When he asked about it, there were only two men who had the cache, and he wondered if there had been more, but these two had killed the others. It was more than possible. Law and order had collapsed here by the sea.

Then the French arrived.

The first warning was a shriek so high and appalling it could have come from a soul in torment. Baldwin was at the side of the ship supervising his mount as it was lifted high in a sling, ready to be installed in the hold with the other horses. Turning, he saw the glitter of swords and lances, and realised their danger. ‘’Ware! Knights!’ he cried, and began to run back up the shore to the further pickets. Jack began to run with him, but he curtly ordered the boy back to the ships. This was no place for a lad of his age.

With his sword drawn, he stood in the shallows, pointing to the different ships. He bellowed for Sir Nicholas to arrange bowmen at the front castles of the cogs, and prayed that they weren’t so drunk that they would kill him and the last of the men. Then he crossed himself quickly, uttered a short prayer, and waited, his sword gripped in both hands.

The first shock of the French was witheringly powerful. Their horses pounded on down the slope, their lances couched, and in an instant forty men were stabbed with the heavy ash poles. The man right next to Baldwin suddenly gave a hiccup and gurgle as the lance punctured his jack just above his belly, and he was thrust back, hacking with all his might at the timber skewering him, his eyes wide with terror, like a horse in a fire. Baldwin would have helped him, but already another man-at-arms was riding towards him, and he saw the lance aiming for his face. He crouched low, spun and beat at the lance with his sword, knocking it past his shoulder, and continued the spin, his sword now whirling with him, to slash into the horse’s shoulder. There was a spray of blood, and then a jarring shock in his arm as the blade caught the animal’s shoulderbone and stuck. Baldwin had to release his bright, peacock-blue sword before his arm was snatched away, and saw the horse rearing in agony, the blade projecting, while a long flap of skin waved, splattering blood in all directions.