Blood on the Sand Page 19

  The archers crashed into the line with a breaking clatter like storm waves striking a pebbled shore, their axes and mauls beating at the Scots. Berenger found himself at the point of a dagger of men that had stabbed deep into the Scottish flank, and now he was holding his sword two-handed and dealing death with a raging determination he had never known before. He swung and chopped, lopping off a hand, then thrusting at a face and feeling it give as the blade pierced bone and slid on inwards. His blood pounded and roared until he could hear nothing else.

  There was no exhaustion now, only the will to finish this butchery as soon as possible.

  Suddenly there was a clear space before him, and he saw that many Scottish lords had formed a defensive ring about one man – their King. A banner fluttered overhead, and he saw that it held the lion of Scotland. He trampled bodies underfoot as he approached, and saw before him, as part of the ring, the Frenchman with the mashed face who had been sent back to the Scots with the herald. The lad stared at him with stark horror in his eyes. This was his first battle, and he had seen too many die already.

  His face and his horror cut through Berenger’s exultation. He felt drained, as though the whole weight of the fighting had suddenly struck him with full force. His head was a ponderous weight, as though his brain was turned to lead, and he let his sword-point drop.

  The boy seemed to understand him, or so Berenger thought. A wakening gratitude came into his eyes, but even as Berenger thought he might surrender to him, a scream came from his left. He saw a group of knights with maces, axes and war-hammers leap forward and beat at the nearer Scotsmen. And then, in their midst, he saw a man-at-arms with a sword. It was Jean de Vervins.

  Berenger wanted to go and remonstrate for his breaking into the battle, but even as he considered ordering the Frenchman back, he realised that Godefroi had seen Jean too. The two gazed at each other, Jean’s face turning a ghastly white. He looked utterly benumbed to see his countryman on the opposing side of the army.

  A bellow went up, and Berenger saw a Northumbrian knight suddenly hurl himself through the circle and grab at the Scottish King. King David punched him in the mouth so hard Berenger saw the blood fly, but it was to no avail. The knight lowered his head to protect himself from the King’s assault, and bore him to the ground. There were howls of rage and delight on all sides, but the King was hustled away by four men-at-arms, and the Scottish realised that their cause was utterly lost. The English pressed forward on three sides now, and Berenger felt himself shoved aside as Sir Henry Percy and Umfraville and their bodyguards beat their way forward.

  ‘No!’ Berenger cried, but it was too late. The young Frenchman was clubbed in the face by a mailed fist and fell instantly. Berenger wanted to go to him, but before he could do so, he saw an English spiked war-hammer fall. The pole-axe impaled the Frenchman’s skull, and Berenger saw his eyes widen and fix as the knight wrested it free, jerking the dead youth’s head this way and that to remove it. Then the tide of the battle passed on and forward, and there were no more French or Scottish alive anywhere near.

  Berenger went to the body and knelt beside it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said hoarsely, but he could feel the guilt pressing on him even so. He should have saved this boy. He could have saved the boy, if he had been a little faster.

  That was when Berenger Fripper, captain of the army of the north, vintener in the King’s host, began to weep, hating the battle, this war, these men, but most of all, hating himself.

  He had no idea how long he remained there, kneeling on the damp grass.

  The blare of a horn jerked him from his reverie. From his position beside the Frenchman, Berenger could not see the sudden charge of the English, nor the way that the Scottish broke and ran, but he could feel the difference in the line as the dwindled English battle stopped pushing and cheered. There was a renewed series of horn blasts and bellowed orders from throats already parched and raw from rasping out commands, and horses were brought up: great destriers, the chargers of the men-at-arms, which stood pawing at the ground, tossing their heads at the reek of blood and death.

  All about him on the field, men were pulling off their helmets and rubbing sweat-soaked hair. Knights, esquires, men-at-arms, freemen and peasants had laboured on this field harder than most would work in a week. Arms were sore and muscles tightened with over-use, and men sagged or slumped to the ground as the realisation struck that their efforts had won them the victory. Already Clip and some other archers were ransacking the bodies, snatching a ring here, a bracelet there, a dagger or a jewelled belt. Occasionally the injured owner would feebly demur, but then the pillagers would give a quick jab with a dagger and the objections would soon cease.

  Feeling like an old man, Berenger rose to his feet and gazed about him.

  Over at the left flank, the Scots had already fled the field, and the only men still refusing to submit were the middle of the Scottish battle. This group was fighting still as they retreated in good order, even after the loss of their King and commanders. The depleted force gathered together more tightly, but that only made them an easier target for the bowmen who still had their weapons and some arrows. Boys were darting in amongst the dead and wounded, collecting all the undamaged arrows they could find and passing them to the archers.

  Back at the wagons, the first knights and esquires were already mounted and making their way forward at an easy canter. Berenger saw the horse of Umfraville taking a wall like a light rounsey with a child on its back, rather than an armour-clad beast bearing a knight encased in steel. Umfraville rode with his lance high, until he approached a Scot, when the lance-point dipped to spear the man. The lance rose with the horse’s momentum, the squealing body also rising high, only to be flicked aside as the horseman cantered on. It was as though the horse and rider were a machine, working as steadily and stolidly as a watermill, regardless of the body that squirmed and wriggled in its wake as a moorstone millwheel. Then he was on the Scottish battle, and even as he rammed his way through, three other men-at-arms, then a fourth and a fifth, then still more, poured into the Scottish line, stabbing, slashing, their mounts trampling, kicking and biting.

  That was the last Berenger saw. He looked down at the Frenchman again and sank to the very depths of despair. He was aware of an exquisite hatred for the Scots. If it were not for their intolerable greed and unjustified disputes, all this could have been avoided. Thousands lay dead here, and to what purpose? It was senseless savagery.

  He saw a small group of Scots running around, away from the horses. Some were running straight at the English, disorientated after the battle, confused by terror.

  ‘What are you doing? Are you mad!’ Berenger cried. He was surprised how weak his voice sounded to his own ears, but then they were ringing still to the clash of weapons and bellowing voices.

  ‘Let me take them,’ Jack said. He had appeared at Berenger’s side and the vintener stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, but then he understood.

  ‘It looks worse than it feels. I’ll be fine, Jack.’

  His comrade nodded, and then, as the Scots came closer, Berenger tried to call to them, to have them drop their weapons and submit. One man, he saw, heard his words, but instead of agreeing, the fellow bared his teeth and rushed at Berenger with an axe held high overhead. Four arrows slammed into his breast and throat, and he was almost lifted from his feet by the terrible power of the clothyards.

  ‘Enough!’ Berenger cried, but too late. The arrows flew fast, and before Berenger could stop them, all the Scots were sprawled on the ground, so full of arrows they looked like nothing so much as so many hedgehogs.

  ‘Are you all right, Frip?’ Jack said.

  His concern was plain. ‘I am fine. Fine.’

  ‘Well, God has blessed us, Frip. We have a great victory today. Are you sure . . .’

  ‘Go. There are men to be put out of their suffering.’

  Jack nodded. John of Essex was a short distance away. He looked at their vintener. ‘I’ll go
, Jack. You stay with Frip.’

  ‘No. Both of you go. I’ll be fine.’

  The rest of the day was spent in despatching the wounded while the knights and other men-at-arms chased the remains of the Scottish army over the fields, in and out of the walls and ditches, and up almost as far as the March itself.

  But Berenger took no part in the hunt or the pillage. He found a wagon with a pot of wine on it, and sat with it until Jack found him, and took him, singing a sad song, to see the physician.

  Berenger looked about him as Jack helped him towards the barber. The field was covered in bodies, and the grass had the oily, scarlet sheen of congealing blood. As they approached the makeshift camp beside the wagons, he saw the Frenchman’s body. It was already almost naked. The armour had been stripped from him, his weapons taken, and even his shirt and braies were gone. Only a neckerchief remained about his throat. Berenger’s eyes remained on him as he was led past the wagons and over to a trestle table where the worst of the wounded were being seen to by Gyles of Healey, or ‘Tooth Butcher’, as the men knew him.

  ‘Shit, man, you picked your fight with the wrong fellow,’ he said, his face twisted in concern at the rip in Berenger’s face.

  ‘Yes. Can you fix me up?’

  Wordlessly, Tooth Butcher took his arm and made him sit on a stool while he hunkered down, his fists on his thighs as he stared at Berenger thoughtfully. ‘Aye, I can make it a bit better, but it won’t be easy. You’ll owe me after this,’ he said at last.

  He went to his leather bag and dug around inside it. There were several tools there. He brought out some pincers, two shears for cutting hair, some pliers for extracting teeth, and then a roll of canvas. Bringing it to the table, he unrolled it and contemplated the array of needles. ‘Now, I’m no saddler, laddy, but my needlework has been said to be as good as the best harness-maker in London.’

  ‘Who said that?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Me.’

  Berenger left the barber a half-hour later. The fellow took regular swigs from a leather jug while he worked, but Berenger was past caring, and shared the strong ale. He had a feeling that if one of them stayed sober the after-effects would be less traumatic, but since he was already full of wine, the thought did not linger. Soon his face felt as though it had been skinned and rasped with a file, and perhaps burned with red-hot brands. On the way back to his men, he was vague about the direction and had to rely on Jack’s patient ministrations to return him safely.

  The archers had gathered over to the right of the main battlefield, away from the blood-slaked area where only a few hours ago they had scrambled and fought. Now they were sitting in distinct groups. Berenger walked among them, muttering a word or two of encouragement, resting his hand on the shoulder of a boy who sat huddled, his knees gripped tightly with both arms, his head all but concealed behind their ramparts, eyes wide and unblinking with shock. There were always those who could not cope with the foulness of battle, Berenger knew, but that boy’s expression hit him harder than most. It reminded him of the fear on the face of Godefroi when he died. There was something unutterably sad about the death of youth or the shattering of youthful spirits.

  With Jack aiding him, he uttered words of praise or support as he saw fit until they reached his own vintaine.

  ‘I looked after you well enough before,’ Dogbreath said, peering at his face. ‘I didn’t hardly need to bother, did I?’

  ‘Aye, well, they tried, Frip, eh?’ Clip said. He had a dirty cloth wrapped about his shoulder, through which the blood was already seeping. ‘Yes, they tried to kill us, but our luck hasn’t run out yet.’

  ‘Your luck never will,’ the Earl said. ‘The Devil himself doesn’t want you.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Dogbreath said. ‘He thinks you’d bring the tone of the place down.’

  John of Essex chuckled along with the rest as Clip swore at the pair of them, but then looked at Fripper. ‘What do we do now, Captain? Do we stay here to support the Archbishop and his men?’

  ‘No. We have to return to the siege,’ Jack said. ‘We have a duty to be there.’

  ‘Aye, we should be first at the plunder,’ Oliver said. He licked his lips. ‘Furs, gold, silver, women and wine, eh? What more could a soldier want?’

  ‘We’ll be getting none of that,’ the Pardoner said. ‘We’ve been away too long.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ Jack argued. ‘If we are there for the end of the siege, we will have the right to our share.’

  ‘Do ye remember so little?’ Clip said. ‘When we took all those cities in France on the way to Crécy, we were the ones sent on to guard and keep watch, while all those who did nothing for the battle helped themselves. It’ll be the same this time, you hearken to my words: we’ll do all the work, and they’ll send us to the hardest places, and then some other bastards will take the credit and the profit.’

  ‘Well, Fripper?’ John of Essex said again. ‘What will we do?’

  Berenger closed his eyes against the hideous pain of his cheek and nose. It burned, as though someone had branded his face. The stitching pulled as he tried to speak.

  ‘Tonight I will take some more wine, and then, if I can, I will sleep,’ he mumbled. And, he added to himself, I will try to forget.

  He was woken early the next morning and was already up when Sir Henry Percy came to see the men. One of the new recruits had died in the night, and Berenger was looking down at the lad as the priest spoke the viaticum over his body and muttered his way through the Pater Noster.

  ‘Captain, I hope I find ye well? Yer face shows you were at the forefront of the battle.’

  ‘We were. My men fought well,’ Berenger said. He wanted to say, they fought like barbarian savages, but what would be the point?

  ‘We destroyed their army, captured their King, killed or captured some French knights fighting with them, and took Douglas, three Earls and more than fifty other barons and knights. Hah! We were chasing them all the way to Corbridge. Damn their souls, but they could run!’

  Berenger nodded wearily. ‘Does that mean that they are defeated for long? Will they recover their strength soon?’

  ‘Nay, man. They are a spent force now. We’ll have guaranteed ten years of peace on the Marches. They’ll take that long to replace all the men we’ve killed. What of your men?’

  ‘Among the archers, our losses were few. I lost some in this vintaine, but in general our losses were light.’

  ‘Ye’ve had a bad battle though, man. I can see that.’

  In truth, the baron himself looked thoroughly unwell. He was pale-faced, and although his joy at the victory could not be mistaken, he coughed a great deal and his head hung low. Berenger thought he looked very haggard, like a peasant who has worked long hours in the fields, or like a man about to suffer from a fever.

  ‘My battle was not so bad as that which others suffered,’ Berenger said.

  ‘Well, ye’ve earned a rest.’

  ‘We must return to the King,’ Berenger said. ‘I swore that I would bring news of the French to you, and that I did, but the King will need to know what has happened here.’

  ‘Then I’ll wish you Godspeed, Master Fripper. For my money, you’ve earned the rank of captain in the battle yesterday. You did well to rally the archers after the first arrows stung the Scots into retaliation. Without that effort, they could have overrun us all, or the Scots could have waited and forced us to try our luck against them. That could have been disastrous.’

  ‘Sir Henry, the young Frenchman who was slain in the ring around their King . . .’ Berenger started, but then he didn’t know how to finish. What could he say? The poor boy was too young, he wanted to surrender, he wanted to return to France to woo a woman or two, to grow old with his grandchildren on his knees, a loving wife at his side?

  ‘The youngster? Aye. I saw him. It was a shame to see the young scamp killed, but that is war.’

  ‘Sir, would it be possible to pay for a stone for his funeral?’

&nbs
p; Sir Henry looked at him for a moment. ‘This was the same youth ye caught in the rearguard action the day before the fight, was it not? Aye, man, I’ll gladly put some money together for a stone. I feel sorry to see a fine, proud fellow like that die so young.’

  ‘I thank you, Sir Henry.’

  ‘And now, man, ye should get some rest. Ye look as though ye’ll need it.’

  Jack asked quickly, ‘Sir, will Fripper be taking all his vintaine back to the south?’

  ‘Well, man, my Lord Neville was to send three thousand to the siege. It seems his men are not badly required up here now. I see no reason why Fripper here and his vintaine shouldn’t go with them. And if Fripper is content, I’ll give order that he’s to be the captain of the archers. Would that content ye?’

  Fripper tried to smile, but the scabs of his wound made him wince. ‘That would indeed, my lord.’

  The journey was long and uncomfortable, but Fripper and the men made their way in stages until they had passed the great wen of London and could catch a ship to France.

  He stood on the quayside at Calais with the first groups of archers, listening to their banter.

  ‘Doesn’t look as if they’ve stirred their stumps, does it?’ Clip said. ‘The minute we left, they must’ve put their feet up and had a rest.’

  ‘You would expect them to have broken into the town by now?’ the Earl asked languidly.

  ‘I feared they might. I want me share of the winnings. What, would ye have the bastards get in and snare all the best prizes?’

  ‘There aren’t likely to be too many prizes here,’ Jack said. ‘The best things will have been moved before the full blockade worked. The gold and silver would have been boxed and sent by galley to be placed in safekeeping. The furs and rich silks may still be there, a few of them, but the rest?’ He threw his cupped hands up as though tossing handfuls of flour. ‘Poufft! Gone!’