Blood on the Sand Page 13

  He dropped and felt over the man’s body. His purse held some coins, but not many. Still, better a few than none at all, he reflected. The man had a knife, too, stuck in a sheath about his neck. Clip pulled the thong from over the corpse’s head and slipped it over his own, along with the little stone to whet it.

  A snap of a twig, and Clip started up. Ahead, creeping around a bush, a man was staring at him. The face was familiar, with deep-set eyes in a curious, triangular-shaped face, but Clip couldn’t tell where he might have seen him. Perhaps he had noticed the outlaw during the battle. In any case, the man was thirty paces away, and Clip had neither a bow and arrow to kill him, nor the inclination to run after him.

  ‘Oh, just fuck off,’ he shouted, waving an arm. The man gave him a thankful look, ducked, and bolted away like a startled rabbit.

  ‘Wanker,’ Clip muttered, and went on to the next body.

  ‘Frip?’ Jack said. ‘You’re not going to like this.’

  ‘What?’ Berenger made his way through the long grasses until he was at Jack’s side, but then he stopped and stared at the body at their feet. ‘Oh, shit.’

  Clip was with them a moment later, whistling tunelessly through his teeth. The whistling ceased. ‘Fuck! How did he die?’

  There was no wound on his breast. ‘Help me roll him over, Jack,’ Berenger said. Then, ‘That’s how.’

  ‘A stab wound in his back. That’s not good,’ Clip said. ‘Ach, the poor bugger caught it when he was trying to run away.’

  ‘He didn’t get very far,’ Jack mused.

  ‘What was he doing over here anyway?’ Berenger wondered. ‘I didn’t see. I was too busy with the fight.’

  ‘I saw him being pulled from his horse, and then others crowded round to get at him,’ Jack said. ‘After that, I had to look to myself. Those bastards seemed to spring from nowhere.’

  ‘They managed to kill the one man we were commanded to protect,’ Berenger noted.

  While the three were studying the body, John of Essex appeared. ‘What’s this? Oh, he’s dead is, he? Should never have been sent. He couldn’t handle a knife or sword to save his life.’

  He stopped when he noticed all the others staring at him. ‘What? It’s the truth, isn’t it?’

  Berenger turned back to the corpse at their feet.

  John of Essex peered down. ‘What killed him?’

  ‘He has a stab wound here,’ Jack said.

  They studied it, John of Essex craning his neck to view it from above. ‘That looks like a dagger,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, John, I think we realised that,’ Berenger said with heavy irony.

  ‘It’s got the diamond shape.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jack said.

  ‘One strike only,’ Berenger said. ‘And it looks like it was a downward blow. You can see where the blade moved here. The killer must have hit the shoulder-bone or a rib, and that sent the blade sideways.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have known much about it, anyway,’ Jack said with rough kindness. ‘It must have punctured his heart or lungs. That’s what comes from running away.’

  Berenger nodded. But in his mind’s eye, he remembered Clip and Jack’s bickering from the other day, when Retford alone of all the new recruits in the vintaine had stood his ground and not retreated nervously. The idea that he would turn and run was not credible.

  Of course, someone in the outlaw gang could have slipped behind him and stabbed him – but the vintener could not help but wonder if Sir Peter was right.

  Was it someone from the vintaine who had killed him?

  ‘That was a nasty little skirmish,’ the Pardoner said, and shivered.

  John of Essex grunted. ‘You think so? Nah, I’ve seen worse brawls after a good market-day football match where I come from.’

  Berenger didn’t look at him. They had brought the three bodies to lie in a row at the roadside: Horn, Wren and Retford, all with the same sad emptiness. Alive, the men had possessed vitality, and their spirits had given them strength and poise. Without the guiding soul within them, they were mere bags of bone and meat. Wren still wore a look of surprise, which could almost have been amusing, but for the eruption of blood that had smothered his breast and hosen. Horn looked dreadful. A war hammer had ended his life, the spike punching a hole deep into his skull and killing him instantly. Retford, by contrast, looked almost peaceful.

  ‘We’ll take them with us,’ Berenger decided. ‘It isn’t far to York.’

  John of Essex looked around at the empty countryside. ‘Is there any point? We may as well . . .’

  ‘They will receive a proper burial,’ Berenger said firmly. As he spoke, Jack Fletcher stepped near to him. Jack had received a nasty cut to his brow that had left him with a bloody face, smeared where he had tried to wipe it away. It lent him a demonic appearance as he gave John a warning look. John glanced at him and submitted.

  The ponies had scattered. Although they could not find one of them, the rest were discovered huddled anxiously in a little copse where a stream passed, and they were soon gathered together again. Wren’s, when they threw his body over her back, became skittish, rolling her eyes and jerking her head at the stench of blood. Eventually Berenger snapped at the men to move the body to a different mount and put a live rider on her, and at last, shivering fearfully, she allowed Jack to soothe her. Berenger’s own horse had to be slaughtered. The cut to her shoulder had gone too deep, and they had no time to try to let the wound heal. Already the flies were feasting when Jack took a poleaxe to her.

  At last Berenger and the remains of his depleted command mounted their beasts and set off.

  ‘Frip?’ Jack said after a little.

  ‘Yes?’ Berenger didn’t turn his head. His eyes were flitting from bush to bush, hedge to hedge, tree to tree as he sought any sign of a new ambush.

  ‘Retford. Are you content about his death?’

  ‘Content? No! I wanted to bring him safe to the Archbishop. Of course I am not pleased that I have failed in this, no.’

  ‘I meant, his death.’

  ‘What?’ Berenger turned to him irritably. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I was talking to Aletaster, and he said that he saw the Saint and Retford run together. Yet the Saint now denies it.’

  Berenger shrugged. ‘Perhaps Aletaster was mistaken, or Saint and Retford only appeared to be together. You know as well as I do how a man will see one thing under pressure, when something else entirely happened. I’ve known it myself.’

  ‘He was convincing.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I just think we should keep an eye on the Saint. Perhaps the rumours of a spy were not so wide of the bull’s eye, after all.’

  Berenger turned his attention back to his study of the scenery. ‘Keep your eyes on the Saint then, but watch all the other newcomers too. I don’t know that I trust any of them yet. And I certainly don’t care for Tyler. He’s a more likely candidate than the others.’

  That was a thought: he had made the comment from a simple dislike of Tyler, whom he had mistrusted ever since the long march from the coast to Crécy. Tyler had, so he suspected, tried to cause friction between Berenger’s men and others in the King’s army.

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Jack said. ‘You still don’t trust him, then.’

  ‘Would you?’

  As they rode away, the man with the triangular face wiped the dirt from his brow and gave a sigh of relief.

  That had been close. When the scrawny one had seen hm after the fight it had felt like his heart was going to stop. The little prick could have easily killed him, or at the least summoned his comrades.

  It was fortunate that Clip had not recognised him. He had feared that Clip might while the two of them stared at each other over the greensward. Clip had followed him that day back at Villeneuve-la-Hardie. It was his mentioning Clip to the heavy-set Carlisle man that had led to Clip’s unpleasant immersion in the latrines. But perhaps that soaking had led him to forget the man he had follo
wed. The vision of a great brute from Carlisle had entirely overridden his memory.

  It was late the next afternoon that the vintaine reached the walls of York.

  The city lay in the countryside like a great cancer, under a black fog of smoke from all the fires. Grey moorstone walls, lightened with occasional splashes of ochre or raw, red stains in the stone, encircled it. From their approach, Berenger could see the towers of the great church and spires of lesser churches, while outside the walls, suburbs of wattle and daub buildings had been hastily thrown up, some straggling as though for comfort up against the walls themselves.

  He led his group along the road to the gates, and in beneath the vast gatehouse, and up along the street behind. It was narrow for the main street in such a large city: barely wide enough for two carts to pass, and Berenger and the men were forced to sit and wait impatiently when two sumptermen fell to arguing in the middle of the street. Overhead, the buildings jettied out, leaving only a narrow sliver of sky, and that, Berenger could see, was as grey as a slab of stone. Bad weather was on the way or he was a Gascon.

  ‘Move yourself!’ he called at last, irritated by the delay. At once he became aware of the attention of several people. Two were the sumptermen, one of whom cursed Berenger before realising that he had a vintaine behind him and swiftly buttoned his lips. But another group took notice, a half-dozen men with polearms and the tatty remnants of uniforms.

  One, clearly their captain, eyed Berenger and the others with scowling interest before wandering over. He had a crop of black stubble sprouting on his jaw, a broken nose, and an overall appearance of competence with the weapons in his hand and at his belt. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

  Jack turned his mount and stared at the man, waiting for Berenger to comment.

  Clip snorted, hawked and spat. ‘Aye, we’ve ridden all the way up here to save the prickle, and now he wants to arrest us for it?’

  ‘Silence, Clip,’ Berenger said.

  ‘We’ll all get killed by our own, is all I’m saying,’ Clip said, unruffled.

  ‘Master, we are here to see the Archbishop with an urgent message from the King.’ Berenger held up the message purse he had rescued from Retford’s body.

  ‘What’s that?’ the watchman demanded, pointing at Retford’s body slumped over a pony.

  ‘We have been attacked by felons. They killed three of our men. We need them buried.’

  ‘The Archbishop doesn’t demean his office by things like that.’

  ‘Did you not hear me? I have messages from your King. Lead us to the Archbishop immediately.’

  After a certain amount of reluctant arguing, the man finally agreed and took the vintaine towards the great cathedral church, but on the way Berenger saw a rough board hanging over a doorway, with a picture of a ferocious-looking wild boar painted on it. ‘Jack, take the men in there and wait for me. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve passed on the message. Hopefully then we can escape back south to sanity.’

  Jack nodded, and after Berenger had paid one urchin to take the reins of two of the ponies with their cargoes of Wren and Horn, he followed after the watchman with the reins of the pony carrying the body of Retford loose in his hand.

  He left the bodies on the ponies as he entered the cathedral’s close, and soon he was at the Archbishop’s hall.

  ‘You have a message for me, I think?’ the Archbishop said.

  William de la Zouche was no doddering fool. He was the latest in a line of intelligent, strong men from his family, and political manoeuvring was in his blood. He waited while Berenger kissed his ring, and then nodded. ‘You are from the King?’

  ‘Yes, my lord. The King’s message was being brought to you by a companion of mine, Andrew Retford, but I am afraid he was killed when my party was attacked.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘A day and a half ago. We were waylaid by two groups of men, but the last killed three of my vintaine, including Retford.’

  The Archbishop took the small rolled vellum and read it quickly, a frown puckering his brows. ‘This says that French ships have sailed for Scotland, and that you saw them?’

  ‘I did, my lord.’

  ‘Then speak! When did you see them – where – how many were there? Tell me everything, and speak quickly! We have just heard that the Scots have broken over the border and are heading towards Carlisle.’

  Archibald worked at his gonne, cleaning the inner barrel with a lambswool swab soaked in oil. Standing in a muddy field waiting for something to happen, he was as content as a man could be. He had known muddier fields and filthier weather. However, it was important to keep the two boys busy. Georges and Ed needed constant supervision when they hung around too close to the powder, and when they had no work to do, he was worried about what they might get up to. An army was not a safe place for lads of their age.

  His ruminations were interrupted by Sir John de Sully, who appeared with his esquire.

  ‘Master Gynour, I hope I see you well?’

  ‘Aye, I am well indeed, Sir Knight. Just seeing to my little toy here.’

  ‘You spoke to me of a larger beast that you could use.’

  Archibald set down his swab and turned to face the knight. ‘Sir?’

  ‘We can send a ship to fetch it. When could you be ready to sail?’

  ‘Any time now, sir.’

  Sir John nodded. ‘You will sail to fetch it and bring it back here to set it up at the harbour mouth and destroy all ships trying to force their way to the Calesian harbour.’

  ‘I’ll need more powder, too,’ Archibald said.

  ‘Bring all you require.’

  ‘One thing: I must have men here to guard the gonnes and the powder while I’m away.’

  ‘I will set guards myself,’ Sir John promised, and soon afterwards took his leave.

  Archibald picked up his swab again, whistling happily. The knight was obviously one of those who held a superstitious fear of Archibald’s trade. No matter. He was confident of his own unique expertise.

  ‘Donkey!’ he bawled as he swabbed.

  Ed and his new friend appeared.

  He would leave the boy behind, he thought. Béatrice would be able to look after the guns with Ed’s help. Especially now that Marguerite and Georges were here as well.

  ‘You may not realise it, you scruffy little churls, but you are looking at the man who could just be the saviour of the siege here. Me and my little toys will help to end it quickly – and in our favour!’

  ‘We’ll all get killed,’ Clip droned. ‘Why is it always us at the sharp end?’

  ‘Shut it, Clip,’ Jack said.

  ‘It’s fine for ye to tell me to shut it, but what’ll happen when you’re in the front line with ten thousand hairy-arsed Scotch bastards running at you with their pikes ready? Ye’ll change your tune then,’ Clip said with satisfaction.

  ‘If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’ll throw you at them to carry their points,’ Jack said nastily, ‘and then I won’t have to listen to your moaning and maundering.’

  ‘Oh, aye. That’ll help you. And how will ye fight without me? It’s me has given you the backbone to fight,’ Clip boasted.

  ‘Sweet Mother of God,’ Jack said, rolling his eyes.

  ‘Give it a rest, Clip,’ the Aletaster put in. ‘You think we want to listen to your constant blather?’

  Jack turned to him and gave him a cold look. ‘Have you stood in a line yet? In battle? Then keep your trap shut. Clip has fought more battles than you’ve . . .’ his face twisted. ‘I was going to say, than you’ve had hot meals, or you’ve drunk ales, but neither would be true for a fat git like you, would it? Until you’ve held your place in the line with the others and pricked your targets as they run at you, and fought them off with your axe or sword, you keep your gob shut and your thoughts to yourself.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Clip said happily, grinning malevolently at Aletaster.

  ‘Shut up, Clip!’ Jack said.

  ‘Wh
y do I care? You’ll all get killed,’ Clip said.

  Berenger grinned to himself as he jogged along. He had been given a fresh pony by the Bishop, and now he and the rest of his vintaine were riding to the muster at Richmond.

  ‘I can’t listen to Clip for another minute. If I hear that we’re all going to die one more time, I’ll kill him myself,’ Jack said savagely.

  ‘You’ll have push past me to get to him first,’ Berenger said.

  ‘What do you reckon to this, Frip?’ Jack asked a moment later.

  ‘What, the muster? The Scots have seen their chance. King Edward is wallowing in the mud about Calais, so King David thinks he can carve out a chunk of the North of England for himself. It’ll be the same as the Scots always do: they’ll ride fast and steal all the cattle, sheep and plunder they can get their hands on, and then run before we can catch them.’

  ‘So you don’t think they’ll be in the mood for a fight?’

  ‘They haven’t wanted to fight us since Hallidon Hill, have they? No, they are in it for all they can snatch,’ Berenger said dismissively. ‘I’ve fought against them before. They rarely risk an actual battle against us, because they know they’ll lose. They don’t possess the equipment and armour that we have.’

  ‘Aye, that’s true,’ Jack said with every appearance of satisfaction.

  The Earl had been listening. Now he urged his pony forward to join in the conversation. ‘There is one aspect that gives me pause, I fear,’ he said. ‘The ships that you saw, Vintener: I’ve heard it said that the French could have sent men to aid the Scots in an attack. If so, surely our King must draw his men away from Calais. He could not suffer an army to trample over his northern marches.’

  ‘What do you know of the Scots and French?’ Jack scoffed. ‘You’re only a rich boy from London.’

  ‘How do you make that out?’ Earl asked.

  ‘Your accent, your behaviour, everything.’

  ‘You are from London, aren’t you?’ Berenger said.