Fields of Glory by Michael Jecks

perhaps he could like this new
Edward.
    ‘Your father did not want men and women attacked if they had accepted the King’s Peace.’
    Warwick shrugged. ‘I’m happy if there are no pirates attacking our army from the sea or cutting off our supplies.’
    ‘So you would ignore my father’s orders?’ Edward said quietly.
    There was no answer. After a moment, the Prince faced Sir John again. ‘You say it is destroyed?’
    ‘My men said that it was a scene of utter carnage.’

Carnage was right. Berenger thought the sights would sicken the Devil himself.
    It was one thing to participate in the capture of a town, to rush at the walls of a fortress and clamber up the scaling ladders, expecting at any moment to be slain, knowing that the man beside
you had fallen with a shriek, that the man before you had been punched in the chest by an arrow, and to expect that your own life was about to end. Then, when your entire mind was filled with the
red mist and bloodlust – the primeval desire to slay all who stood before you and survive – then it was natural to use a sword, lance, axe, mace, club, anything, and lash out at those
who dared defy you.
    But it was different to walk into a town in cold blood and slaughter all the innocents there.
    The place reeked of blood and death. Bodies littered the streets. Near Berenger a woman lay gutted on the threshold of a house, a baby sprawled pathetically beside her, its head crushed. Three
men and a boy lay in the road, all beheaded, and opposite were smoking ruins where once had been houses. There was little standing that wasn’t blackened by soot.
    ‘Why are we here?’ Geoff muttered. ‘There’s nothing for us to do.’
    He spoke for them all. They had been sent to scout for potential threats from an enemy who was nowhere to be seen.
    They had guessed that the town would have been attacked, but this was far worse than any of them had anticipated. As they wandered the streets, they came across women raped and discarded with a
sword in the belly, men butchered, babies kicked or stamped to death. Blood seeped into the cobbles on all sides.
    It was natural that the first men to disembark were sent to scout the lands all around. This was one of the first towns the English had reached, and their arrival had been as unexpected as it
was savage. The proof lay all around.
    ‘Come on, boys,’ Berenger said. He took the lead and walked warily, the point of an arrowhead of men. Hearing a scurrying, he turned quickly, but it was only a pair of startled crows
rising from a body near a chapel.
    The whole town seemed to crackle and tick as burned timbers glowed and cob or brick walls cooled in the late-morning air. As he passed one ruined building, the heat from the brick walls licked
at Berenger’s cheek. It was so hot he thought his hair must blacken and curl.
    Wisp was at his side, but he didn’t meet anyone’s eye. Since the day he had seen the cat in the cottage, he had withdrawn into a world of personal terror. The others were beginning
to shun him.
    ‘The Devil’s been here,’ he said. ‘This is
his
work.’
    ‘Shut up, Wisp,’ Berenger snapped, nerves on edge.
    At first, when they saw Wisp’s fear, the others had been supportive – even Clip had gone to speak with him – but the aura of unremitting gloom that now surrounded Wisp had
repelled all their efforts. It was affecting the morale and cohesion of the vintaine, and Berenger didn’t know how to combat it. Perhaps he should bellow and curse them out of this tension?
Grandarse would have done so. If they could loot a barrel of wine, that might help.
    He was no leader of men, he thought bitterly. When all went well, he was fine, but given a problem like Wisp, he was lost. A man used to dealing with disobedience would have been more competent:
a father, a beadle or sergeant. Berenger was just a solitary soul. No woman, no children, only a life spent serving the interests of others.
    ‘There’s no one here.