He glanced at them, this rough family, feeling the sweat run down the grooves etched on either side of his nose, filtering itchily into the grey of his beard.
They were relaxed, chaffering each other and the big oxen Hainault spearmen, who broiled in their leather and wool. One or two of the Welsh had dug out strips of dried beef and venison from under their saddles, where they had been marinading to softness with the animal’s sweat; they chewed with relish and fell into the old argument of whether gelding, mare or stallion sweat made the meat tastier.
Y Crach, as always, was poised like a trembling gazehound. He will hang these with his own hand, Addaf thought sourly, as his own offering to God; Addaf did not care to be reminded that there were too many who would stand with Y Crach.
Others, Addaf was pleased to see, were squinting at the distant riders on a hill. They were Scots, certes, trailing the army like ticks on sheep, but as long as they kept their distance that was fine. Their own prickers on their fast hobs might chase them off, or simply keep them at a distance – and if the rebels closed in on the debris of sick, halt, lame, camp-followers and plain deserters lurking at the rear, it was no great loss to the English army.
The church door opened and the Father, with a relieved and triumphant look back at Addaf, ushered out the rebels: two tottering priests holding one another up – an edgy defiance in grey wool and hodden hood.
‘There,’ said Father John, wiping his sweating face. ‘No harm done, no blood spilled – God be praised.’
‘For ever and ever,’ Addaf replied piously and heard the sound of hooves like a knell, turning into the black, hot scowl of Sir Maurice Berkeley, his two sons like pillars on either side.
‘Is the work done?’ he demanded and Addaf nodded, indicating the little crowd. Berkeley, still scowling, reined his mount round to ride off.
‘Not before time, Centenar Addaf,’ he bellowed over his shoulder. ‘Now hang them all and muster on me – the horse forges ahead.’
There was a pause and then Father John looked wildly from Addaf to the retreating back of Sir Maurice.
‘Your honour …’ he began and Addaf felt the cold stone of it settle in his belly. He had done this from Gascony to here and all points in between, knew there was no arguing with it; he was aware, at the edges of his vision, of Y Crach’s fevered grin of triumph.
The big Hainault captain saw the Welshman’s mourn of face and foraged his mouth with a grimy finger, found the annoying scrap and examined it before flicking it away.
‘Leaf viss us,’ he offered, grinning brownly. ‘Ve fix.’
Addaf hestitated. The Hainaulters wanted the plunder from the church – well, that was fair enough. Let them do the deed; Addaf turned abruptly away from the disbelief on the face of Father John, swept his gaze over Y Crach and his scowl and bellowed at his men to move out, trying to drown the little priest’s screechings.
God serves him badly, Addaf thought sourly, blocking the frantic protests from his ears. Stupid little priest, look you. He should have stayed away when he had the chance.
Up on the hill, Dog Boy and the Black sat at ease, one leg hooked across the saddle, with a mesnie of riders on either side. They watched the archers mount up and ride off, while the big red-faced sweaters flung rope over the graveyard elm; some moved into the church and began to splinter wood in their search for loot.
‘I am sure those are the Welsh we had stushie with,’ the Black offered. ‘The wee flag they carry is the same one we took – the King gave it back as a gift.’
Dog Boy could not deny it, watching as the priest who had been most animated and loud was hauled up in a fury of flailing ankles, two big men in metal-leafed jacks pulling on a leg each until his kicking stopped; one cursed when the priest’s dying bowels opened.
The other two monks, white-haired and patient, sat like old stones and waited to die, while the pungent, heady scent of yellow-blazing gorse drew in buzzing life all round them.
It was not right and Dog Boy said so. The Black, who had already hanged his share of priests, said nothing; if he thought of what he had done it was with the deep, banked burn of everything the English had taken from him. Even having the Cliffords scoured from Douglas and the promise of restoration to the slighted fortress was not nearly revenge enough.
The sight of the English was a stun to the senses, all the same, spread out round a backbone of carts that stretched for miles, hazed in a shroud of dust from thousands of hooves. Behind was a snail-trail of dung-churned morass, where the detritus of the army stumbled. Ahead, and forging ever faster, the horse and the mounted infantry – like the archers – shifted further from the foot.
‘They are in a hurry,’ the Black noted.