A Bit of Heaven on Earth Page 3

  “If young Edward can lead troops into battle only a year older than you, Gavin, I suppose the time has come for you to ride by my side.”

  Gavin fought valiantly that day, Aldred serving as his guide. Young Prince Edward had been far outnumbered by French troops, yet the royal youth guided the English lines into holding their position on the hill and on to victory. Gavin continued the fight until Edward’s army, weakened by illness, was forced into battle by a vastly superior French army. Fortunately, the English longbow had again triumphed at Crecy, before the English had returned to England.

  Gavin itched for war again these past ten years, when a lull in the fighting occurred. The Great Pestilence swept across Europe, and no man was safe on the battlefield from its long arm. He’d spent the time at home, happy to be back at Ashgrove learning how to run a large estate, keeping his father’s army of knights ready to fight at a moment’s notice.

  Finally, his time came again. Today. Gavin, now officially knighted, would once more follow the Black Prince into the fight against the French. Gone, however, was Aldred, who remained at Kentwood. Age had taken its toll on the gallant warrior. Since Gavin left his service, Aldred had married for a third time, almost half a score ago. The union had produced no children.

  It was unfortunate because Aldred’s elder son died in the taking of Calais several years before, while his younger son fell from his horse while hunting. Paralyzed for two years, every breath an agony, the boy succumbed to the same fever that also took his younger sister. Gavin knew of these events from missives received by his father. After the deaths of Aldred’s two remaining children, no news came.

  He shook himself from the past, wondering why he always became so contemplative before battle. It pained him to think of Aldred’s troubles, for he loved the old lord to his core. His own father, Berwyn, never seemed more than a distant relative. They had little in common except their connection through Gillian.

  Gavin smiled at the thought of his beloved mother. Though she spent much time in prayer, she’d never been the remote parent his father had. She lavished him with love from his earliest memories. An English victory today might mean he could return home. Her health, always delicate, caused him some concern. He prayed she was well and then rose for the day.

  Dace, as usual, appeared from nowhere. The loyal squire anticipated his every thought and action. Gavin knew the boy would make a steady soldier one day. High-spirited, with boundless enthusiasm, Dace was as much family to him as Robert.

  “Here’s a loaf of bread and a bit of ham, my lord.” Dace handed over the food and removed a wineskin gripped under his arm. “Wine, too. A good soldier needs his strength to enter battle.”

  Gavin smiled indulgently at his retainer and ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately. “Right you are, Dace. When your time comes, you will be more than ready.”

  Dace’s eyes gleamed at the thought of entering battle.

  “And did you start the morning feast without me?”

  Gavin turned and saw Robert standing there. “Good morn to you, my friend. I trust you slept well?”

  Robert laughed. “Like a babe, Gavin. The thought of battle may terrify most, but somehow ‘tis a sense of peace that falls over me the night before a conflict begins.”

  Gavin handed him the wineskin, and Robert took a swig. “Nectar from the gods. These French know how to do something right, after all.”

  The three chuckled, and Gavin tore a hunk of bread from his loaf to share with his trusted companions. They talked for a few minutes before Dace reminded them they must prepare themselves for the fight ahead.

  As the squire dressed Gavin and Robert for battle, Gavin looked fondly upon them both. Dace he’d known since the boy was a tot, but Robert came from a manor in the south, close to Aldred’s estate. They’d met years ago and had renewed their friendship when Robert rushed to Gavin’s aid in battle. They’d fought side by side ever since. An established trust between them made Robert the brother Gavin never had. He couldn’t conceive going into war without the steadfast Robert next to him.

  “Ready?”

  Gavin adjusted his cuirass and nodded to his friend and then issued his usual warning to Dace to stay far back from the action. “I can care for myself and if trouble should arise, Robert will be there to aid me. You are to remain here, Dace. Understood?”

  The boy nodded his head, but Gavin had his doubts whether he would listen this time. At four and ten, Dace was eager to enter battle and prove his prowess. He also had a sweetheart back home. He’d confided to Gavin that he couldn’t wait to tell her tales of his bravery against the French. Knowing that, Gavin thought Dace might become a little careless, thus he always reminded him of his duties.

  “Yes, my lord. Your horses are ready.”

  The noblemen followed Dace to their warhorses. Gavin smelled the excitement in the early morning light, hovering across the multitude of men gathered to fight. The Black Prince, heir to England’s throne, inspired courage and loyalty amongst his men. Those present were eager to prove their worth to their royal commander whose black armor gave him his nickname.

  Robert slapped him on the back. “We have God upon our side, Gavin. He’d not have given us victory at Crecy and allowed us to take Calais, nay, even control of the Channel itself, were not we on the side of right.”

  Gavin nodded, agreeing with Robert’s words. He longed for this fight to be over, for England to take the south of France and allow the Black Prince to rule in Aquitaine. King Edward, still in good health, looked to be upon the throne in England for many years. ‘Twould be only right for young Prince Edward to have his own place to rule, as part of English territory and reward for the great service he’d given both his father and country in their conflict against the bastard French.

  He looked about him. Archers, pikemen, light infantry, and cavalry were all in sight, as they had been years before at Crecy. This combined force had proven effective. He was surprised that the French clung to their old-fashioned ways of fighting after that humiliating defeat. He predicted a quick victory for England today.

  Gavin mounted his horse. Dace handed over his sugarloaf great helm, and he slipped it over his head. Most of the early morning light ceased, the slit only allowing in a small portion of the sun’s rays. Last, Dace gave him his shield. He gripped it firmly in one hand, the reins of his warhorse in the other. He looked to Robert and nodded as they trotted their coal-black destriers onward.

  Another wave of arrows whizzed over Gavin’s head. Everywhere he looked in front of him, men fell left and right, their cries of pain ringing in his ears. The French forces easily outnumbered the English soldiers gathered here. His heart pounded loudly, and he knew it wise to retreat before more casualties occurred.

  “Could it be any worse?” Robert shouted through his helmet, above the din.

  They’d abandoned their horses in favor of their feet. Dace quickly appeared to spirit the animals from harm’s way. Gavin yielded his sword in one hand, his mace in the other, both clutched tightly as he made good use of them.

  “Fall back!” The order sounded several times across the battlefield. He sensed the English forces gradually moving behind him.

  He signaled Robert. Both men retreated, only swinging their swords a time or two. It seemed like fighting would be called off for the day.

  They arrived back where they’d started so many hours ago. Gavin pulled the heavy helmet from his head, every muscle in his arms and back strained to their limits, calling for respite.

  Dace ran up, his face betraying bad news. All color had rushed from it, leaving him deathly pale. Out of breath, he stopped before them, his breath coming in long gasps.

  “Easy, Dace,” he told the squire. He reached for a wineskin and offered it to the young man. “Drink slowly. Your news ’twill keep.”

  Dace did as i
nstructed, dribbling wine down the front of his tunic despite Gavin’s warning. He did not venture to speak till he could be understood.

  “’Tis a bargain the Black Prince stands to make.” Dace pushed his hair from his brow with a forearm. “The French force has overwhelmed us, my lord. His advisers said to maintain dignity, much less leave with our lives, ‘twould be the only way. ‘Tis too many we are up against.”

  “What says this bargain?” asked Robert.

  Dace shook his head, his mouth gone sour. “The Prince himself wrote it. Called for parchment and ink, he did. Said ‘twould come from his hand and his alone, to go straight to King John the Good.” The squire spat in the dust. “He means to leave French soil. Not to fight for seven years.”

  “Seven years?” echoed Gavin. He’d known how heavily they were outnumbered in the field this day, but to leave France for so long a time? That might prove a disaster in the long run.

  “And,” Dace continued, “the prisoners already taken are to be surrendered, along with the spoils won.”

  He quickly cut his eyes to Robert. Both men realized with Dace’s words how desperate the situation had become.

  “I wonder how soon ‘twill take King John to answer?” mused Robert.

  Gavin raked his fingers through his hair, a nervous gesture he’d never been able to rid himself of. “I doubt we’ll wait long. With their advantage, France would do well to press it quickly.”

  Rumors circulated the camp for less than two hours before word reached them. Again, Dace brought it, his mouth a thin line as he hurried toward them. It struck Gavin how young the boy seemed at that moment.

  “France has rejected all,” the squire revealed. “Ye must be quick, my lord. Even now, French knights advance on foot.”

  Gavin had anticipated such news, not trusting the French to back down so easily. He and Robert had readied their rested destriers, and they now mounted them quickly. He checked to see that he had all the weapons he required, daggers and swords, his shield and his mace.

  “My lord?”

  He looked down at his squire, who held his helmet high. “The mail coif will do, Dace. I’d like as much vision about me as I can.”

  “But, my lord—”

  “No buts, Dace.” He winked at the boy, trying to bolster his own courage as he reassured the squire. His heart hammered in his chest loud as the cannons that had gone off at Crecy. He touched his hand to his head and gave a brief nod before turning his horse.

  He and Robert rode through a field of blood. Heavy losses had occurred. Gavin blocked out the agonizing calls for help, the pitiful cries, the torn and mangled bodies that lay all about them. The smell of blood filed the air, heavy now with despair, as they joined up with others who resumed the fight.

  Then they were upon French foot soldiers, and his concentration began in earnest. He fought from atop his destrier for some minutes, the height giving him some small advantage. While distracted to his left, though, an enemy soldier plunged his sword high into his horse’s throat.

  As Gavin heard the gurgling scream, the horse started to falter. He threw a leg over and leapt from the beast before it took him down. A primeval shout poured from his mouth as he swung his mace. It connected with the head of the offending Frenchman. The man dropped dead to the ground, his own scream trailing off before he made contact with the dirt.

  Gavin threw himself into the fight full force, his sword punishing every man in his path. His ears rang with the musical clanging of sword against sword, sword upon shield. Sweat poured into his eyes, stinging them, clouding his vision for a moment.

  It reassured him that Robert fought next to him. No braver man had Gavin met than his friend. If they came out of this, ‘twould be together. If one fell, the other would catch him. And if by chance they died this day, they would know they’d taken a good number of French bastards into death with them.

  Robert brushed up against his back suddenly. Gavin looked over his shoulder to see they were slowly being surrounded. Back to back they fought, lashing out at those who pressed closely.

  “You bastard!” shouted Robert.

  “What’s wrong?” answered Gavin, forcing his sword into another man’s chest, then ripping it from the body as his foot kicked the man away.

  “The bloody fool sliced my arm. God’s wounds, but it hurts.”

  “The right or left?” called Gavin, knowing Robert was left-handed.

  “’Tis my left,” Robert muttered.

  He stole a quick glance and saw the bright stream of blood pouring down Robert’s arm, which now hung at his side. His friend’s shield thrusted upward, warding off blows. Gavin knew their time was running out.

  As he turned back, a dark swirl met him. Blindsided, the shot caused the world to go stark white. As Gavin blinked several times, trying to get his bearings, a curtain of darkness began to descend.

  His world went black.

  CHAPTER 3

  Gavin groaned. His hands went to his pounding head. His fingers immediately touched dried blood matted through the back of his scalp. Gradually, he remembered the battlefield. The hoarse cries. The carnage. His magnificent destrier’s throat gushing blood.

  And Robert? Where was Robert?

  He forced open his eyes. The barest of light filled the room he occupied. His head ached tremendously, as did the muscles across his shoulders and through his lower back. His gaze swept across the surroundings. He decided to sit up.

  Immediately, a flash of light rippled across the room. It brought intense pain. He cradled his head in his hands and took long, deep breaths, willing the agony to recede.

  It did. He knew it would. He wasn’t injured enough. Robert was another matter, though. Gavin remembered the deep slice across his friend’s upper arm and the long trail of dripping blood as the limb hung uselessly at his side. He took his time and lifted his head carefully before he rose gradually to his feet. The room was sparse. A table with a wooden bench on each side held a lone candle and basin. Gavin scanned the room and saw another cot. Robert lay upon it.

  His friend was sleeping—or unconscious. He still wore his aketon. Gavin looked down at himself, noting his hauberk was gone. Only the thickly padded aketon remained. Obviously, the chain mail could have been used as a weapon. Their captors had stripped them of that.

  What of Robert’s wound? Gavin bent and touched his friend’s left arm. He flinched, a frown crossing his flushed face. Gavin brought his open palm to Robert’s forehead. Fever burned within him.

  Nothing had been done about Robert’s injury, and Gavin had not even a small baselard to cut away the cloth and see to the wound. At least the aketon’s thickness had helped stanch the bleeding. Still, Robert’s arm needed to be bathed and the injury dressed in clean cloth.

  A metal scraping broke the silence. The door suddenly swung open and an old priest entered, a basket over his arm. He grunted something in French, and the door closed behind him. Gavin heard the lock turn.

  He met the eyes of the bearded cleric. This man had done nothing to harm him. Gavin hoped he was here to tend to Robert’s arm.

  And not to give last rites.

  He pushed the thought far away. He would not let his companion die.

  The priest moved across the room till he stood in front of them, speaking in heavily-accented English. “I am Father Janus.”

  Gavin moved closer and inclined his head. “Gavin of Ashgrove.” He motioned to the cot. “This is Robert of Fondren. He’s been injured in the battle.” Gavin indicated the arm, its cloth crusted with dried blood.

  “Yes. His injury is why I am here.” The old priest, so tall and thin, knelt beside Robert as if to pray.

  He bit his tongue. A pretty prayer might be all well and good, but Robert’s damaged limb needed attention now.

  Father Janus set t
he basket down next to him and opened it. His movements were slow and deliberate as he cut the cloth from Robert’s arm. He peeled the material away and studied the injury some moments.

  “The water, please.” He spoke slowly, deliberately, as if thinking of every word, translating before he voiced it.

  Gavin went to the table. The bowl contained water. He brought it back to the priest.

  “May I help?” he asked as he rested the bowl on the ground next to the cot.

  The cleric nodded. “Hold him. Stay out of my way. I do not wish to harm him more than he has already suffered.”

  Gavin dropped to his knees and kept Robert still as the priest cleansed the wound, first with water and then using wine from a small flask he produced. He then cracked an egg and rubbed the white from it onto the wound.