Blood on the Sand Read online

  Berenger had come here to France with the intention of making money. Many years ago, his parents had died, and afterwards he had been taken in by the old King, Edward II, the present King’s father. Growing up in the court, shown how to behave as a chivalric man should, he had loved the King like a father. But then the nation rose against Edward II, and suddenly his life was turned topsy-turvy. His King, his lord, was captured and held in prison; he himself was taken and gaoled. Only later, when the disastrous reign of terror of the arch-traitor, Roger Mortimer, had ended was Berenger fully free at last. He travelled widely, and when he returned to England, he was held as a traitor himself. Only the intervention of King Edward III had saved him. The King’s son had shown him every courtesy, and perhaps then Berenger could have made something of his life. Maybe he could have settled and raised a family. But instead the lure of loot and pillage took hold of him. With no roots, no family, no land to hold him, he became a freebooter, fighting wherever there was a battle.

  Having learned about chivalry when he lived in the King’s court, he could have worked harder to become a knight himself, perhaps. But nothing had come of that. His life had progressed from one war to another – fighting those against whom he had no quarrel, purely to win the largesse of his master. At least in recent months he had been fighting with Sir John de Sully, but now Sir John was far away. Only Berenger and his men were here, and that felt awfully lonely. And he, Berenger, had absolutely no idea why he stood on this rolling deck facing a force of Genoese and French and about to join the slaughter once again.

  If he survived this, if he came out after the Siege of Calais whole, he vowed that he would find a different life. He would forswear war and battle, and with God’s help he would find a woman and settle down. He had said this many times before, but this time he would keep his word. That he swore.

  ‘Should we loose, Frip?’ Clip’s whining voice cut through his thoughts. ‘They’ll kill us all if we don’t fight.’

  Berenger felt a shudder pass through his frame – a surge of anger at these Genoese, at France and, yes, at his King, for sending him here, to this poxy boat, to die. The spell of terror was broken.

  ‘Archers, draw! Archers, loose!’ he bawled, and set his hand to his sword-hilt. ‘I don’t give a fuck who these arrogant bastards are, but they won’t take me without a fight!’

  He could see them clearly enough. Burly fighting men, all of them burned by the sea’s wind and sun, with dark hair set about swarthy features, wearing a mixture of plain clothing and mail, some with helmets or bascinets. Several were equipped with axes and polearms, while more stood at the rail brandishing swords or long knives.

  Aloft, he saw the bowmen, their crossbows spanned and ready. Before the English could loose their first arrows, three bolts slammed into his men. The sound, like gravel flung against wet cabbage, made Berenger’s belly roil. He hated that sound above all others. ‘GET THOSE CUNTS ON THE CROW’S NEST,’ he bellowed as he gripped his sword more firmly in his fist. It was a poor way to fight, this, with your hands cold and clammy, and damp from spray. No man could hold a weapon firmly in that kind of state.

  A sudden lurch and he heard a splintering noise from beneath his feet. The ship gave a great shuddering roll, and then her rolling was stopped, but the deck remained at an impossible angle. Berenger stayed attached to his rope, the loose end wrapped about his wrist, while his men began to slide along the deck. Clip grabbed at a stanchion as he passed, and gave his hand to John of Essex; Jack Fletcher was halted by the mast, and he managed to hang on to a sailor who passed by him on his back. All about the deck, sailors and warriors were clinging to each other and any spare ropes or stays, rather than fighting the enemy.

  Arrows flew over Berenger’s head; he saw one pass through a sailor’s body, to pierce the decking behind him while he shivered and cursed in pain. Another nicked Jack Fletcher’s skull and stabbed into the mast itself, and he looked up at the fletchings over his brow with an expression of shock mixed with fury. Dogbreath swung on a rope, cursing volubly when a bolt flew by and almost struck his hip. Turf was curled into a ball at the wale, his hands pressed together as he prayed.

  A man with a grapnel stood at the front of the galley, and Berenger lifted his sword to try to rally his men, but before he could do so, a calm, accented voice cut through the din.

  ‘English, do you think to die today, or would you prefer to live?’

  The speaker was a dark-skinned man with a well-trimmed beard and white teeth that stood out in stark contrast to his oily black hair. His voice was serious, but his eyes were alive with humour.

  ‘Come, English, there is no need for us to kill you all. Surrender and you will be saved. Your ship is sinking already. Her hull is cracked like a dropped bowl. We could leave you to drown, but I don’t think you would like that.’

  Berenger gazed back at the tilted deck. There were three men dead – two men from his vintaine and a sailor – but as matters stood, the Genoese could pick them off one by one without effort if they wanted, and there was nothing he or the archers could do. Only four men looked as though they still had their bows: their arrows were lost. With the deck angled the way it was, there was no choice. They could not fight up the slippery slope of the deck and hope to achieve anything. They would be slaughtered before they had reached the wale.

  ‘Frip, if we live we can fight another day!’ Jack roared up at him. ‘In Christ’s name, we can’t fight!’

  ‘You have us,’ Berenger said to the smiling face. At that moment, he hated his captor.

  Berenger stood on the galley’s forecastle and watched as the oars dipped into the water and hauled the vessel away from the cog. The master of the galley had not been lying. The galley had a projecting spike that had punctured the English vessel as easily as a knife slipping into an inflated bladder. As they withdrew, the cog seemed to settle in the water, like a hound sprawling before a fire. Soon the entire deck was level with the waves, and then the seawater was crashing over and through her, and the masts leaned further and further from the vertical until, as the galley pulled away and took the wind in her sails, the old cog rolled over and all Berenger could see was her rounded belly as she sank.

  A young, fair-haired shipman was standing not far away, and Berenger saw John of Essex put an arm about his shoulders as the lad began to sob. Strange how men could become so affectionate towards what was a mere assemblage of cords, pegs and wood, he thought. But then he realised that he too had a sense of loss. Perhaps it was just that the ship represented home. With her sinking, Berenger was as bereft as any of her sailors.

  ‘You are the master of the ship?’ the Genoese asked.

  ‘No, I am a fighting man. You killed the master – a bolt from a crossbow.’

  ‘The fortune of war, eh? Is a shame. I will say prayers for him.’ The man looked suitably solemn for a moment, but then a smile flashed and he looked more like a pirate than a priest. ‘But first we must bring you to solid ground again, yes? You would like that?’

  Berenger nodded. He had never enjoyed working on ships. They were essential, of course, for travel from England to the King of France’s lands or beyond, but that didn’t mean he had to like the experience. The sooner he had his feet on dry land, the happier he would be. He would feel safer.

  Not that it would necessarily be true, he knew as he looked about him. The Genoese were in the employ of the French. The King of France had paid them handsomely to come and sail for him. They were simple mercenaries, he thought with disgust, available to the man with the largest purse. They had no sense of honour or duty.

  ‘Your men, they are thirsty?’ the Genoese asked. He was watching a shipman who had been pierced by a pair of bolts, and who sat, panting, at a companionway. ‘That man is in great pain.’

  ‘A little drink would be received with gratitude,’ Berenger said. He could not help a grimace pass over his features.

  ‘You too are in pain?’

  ‘No, but I shall be. The Fr
ench are not kind to captured prisoners,’ Berenger said.

  ‘I will not have my prisoners assaulted needlessly,’ the Genoese said dismissively.

  ‘Yes. For certain.’

  ‘I swear it, my friend.’ The Genoese waved a hand expansively over the vessel. ‘My name is Chrestien de Grimault. You are my guest and friend while you are on my ship, and because you did not choose to fight on needlessly and cause the death or injury of my men, I honour you. While you are aboard the Sainte Marie you need not fear. My men will leave you in peace. You can enjoy the journey, and when we deposit you on French soil, there will be a good bed and food. You will not be harmed. I swear this on my son’s life.’ The Genoese bowed low.

  Berenger could not help but give a twisted smile.

  ‘I am grateful, Master, for the honour you do us,’ he said. ‘Where did you learn to speak English so well?’

  Chrestien stood upright again. ‘Ah, well, I have plied my trade all about the Mediterranean Sea, and there are many English who still live with the Knights of Malta and who populate the harbours and ports. I have learned to enjoy the company of the English.’

  ‘Yet you take up arms with the French.’

  ‘Ah, my friend,’ Chrestien gave a shamefaced shake of his head. ‘That is sad, but it is the way of things. Genoa is allied to France, so when the French King asked for our help, we were duty bound to assist him.’ He shrugged, and the piratical expression returned to his eyes. ‘Especially since he pays us nine hundred florins a month for our service.’

  His grin was infectious enough to make Berenger forget his misery for the present.

  ‘That is better, my friend. I will have wine brought so we may seal our friendship. There is no need for disputation amongst friends, is there? We are honourable combatants, and should deal fairly with each other, no? Now, my friend: your name, I beg of you?’

  ‘My name is Berenger Fripper.’

  ‘Berenger? But surely you are a knight, with your warlike appearance and bold attire?’

  Berenger felt his mouth fall open. ‘No, I’m no knight, only a man-at-arms for a knight.’

  ‘You bear yourself well for a mere warrior, my friend. But no matter. Wine! I will have wine here!’ he called out. Then, turning back to Berenger, he added in a quieter tone, ‘I managed to raid a storehouse before setting sail, and have some very excellent barrels that I think had been destined for a bishop. It would have been a waste, to see such a good wine go down a religious gullet!’

  He arrived as dusk was beginning to fall, a fellow of middling height with a round face and grey-blue eyes that sparkled. He was hooded and bent, walking like a man twenty years his senior. For him, changing his gait was a matter of habit when he was walking out amongst the English. The Vidame was too used to concealment to walk normally here.

  The light was fading, and the shadows lengthening. It was his favourite time to go for a stroll. At night, men were on their guard, but in the twilight they took less notice of other people, even strangers. For a spy, this was the best time to go abroad.

  Their meeting place was a grim little chamber off an alley in what had once been a suburb of the town. He cast an eye about the place as he entered. Old sacking mingled with the refuse of the years, with broken spars, and bits and pieces of frayed rope. A rat’s corpse lay partially mummified beside a shred or two of rag. It was a shit-hole, basically. Not his first choice, but it served.

  ‘What happened?’ he demanded as soon as the door was closed behind him.

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ the big man said immediately.

  ‘It never is your fault, is it, Bertucat?’ he said. ‘Not even when you go to a private assignation with me and get into a fight!’

  ‘There was an English archer eavesdropping on us. He tried to break in.’

  ‘An English archer? Bah! He would have been out for plunder, that’s all.’

  ‘Except he was with the same vintaine.’

  ‘What do you mean, the “same”?’

  ‘What do you think I mean? He serves with Berenger Fripper, the archer they call “Clip”.’

  ‘Do I care? If you were caught there it would have endangered me!’

  ‘You don’t like me, do you?’ Bertucat was a typical product of the streets about Marseilles. A brutish, dim-witted fool, with little to commend him but the size of his fists and his fearlessness in a fight.

  ‘You have no idea what I like and what I don’t like. However, I do not like the thought of being hanged because you are too incompetent to finish things off! You should have killed the man while you could.’

  ‘And have the vintaine come after his killer? They are loyal to each other in that band – you know that as well as me. Better to beat him up like the thieving scrote he is, and have him thought to have been discovered while breaking in. This way we’re safe.’

  ‘I wonder.’

  ‘Why, Vidame? What is it? Worried about your own skin?’

  The Vidame heard the sneer. It was tempting to kill the man, but Bertucat was built like a cathedral, massively. He had a thick neck like a knight, and a head that was narrow, as if it had been squeezed into a helmet that was too small. His eyes were brown and bovine, but only in the sense of being like an angry bull’s.

  However, Bertucat was useful. His unthinking belligerence made the Vidame feel safer. For now.

  ‘What is your news?’ the Vidame asked.

  ‘I wanted to make sure you had heard about the vintaine.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘They have all been captured. Their ship was taken.’

  ‘What of our friend?’

  ‘He was on the ship. Either he’s dead or he’s a prisoner too.’

  The Vidame swore. ‘If he is slain, it will take many months to get another man of his calibre into the English camp.’

  ‘I could do his work.’

  ‘You?’ The Vidame was so surprised, he nearly laughed out loud.

  It had taken him many weeks to find the right person to act as his spy. Bertucat could not appreciate what it was like, living with the enemy all day long, trying to show friendship to men who were destroying the country like a plague. For such a spy, it was a deadly co-existence. The man had to have had two personalities, two nationalities, two lives. One was that of an Englishman keen on plunder and slaughter, the other was a loyal servant of King Philippe, searching for any means to undermine the English army’s attempts to ravage poor France.

  Only one man he had ever met could act the part convincingly. The man in question had a French mother, an English father, and had spent his life in both camps; because of this, the Vidame’s spy was perfect. He was able to wear his Englishness like a cloak, to put on or take off at will.

  Bertucat, by contrast, was a brainless thug, who wouldn’t last two minutes. No, the Vidame had to pray that his spy was returned safe and well.

  It was early in the morning when the galley negotiated the harbour of the little port of Dunkirk.

  ‘And so, my friends, here we must soon part,’ Chrestien said.

  Berenger and the others were held on the forecastle under the suspicious gaze of several heavily armed Genoese. In the crow’s nest, four men with spanned crossbows kept a close watch too, not that Berenger or the others felt any urge to attempt an escape. There was no point. They could see all the galley’s men, over two hundred rowers and shipmen. Those were appalling odds for the ship’s surviving sailors, thirty-odd at best.

  Berenger smiled at Chrestien. ‘I am glad to have met you. You are a kindly captor.’

  ‘And you, my friend, are a most gracious guest,’ Chrestien replied. He walked to the wale and stared out at the port in the early-morning light. ‘I wish circumstances could have been better when we met. I would have enjoyed your company, had we the time to meet over a mess of food. Perhaps we shall still have an opportunity to share a meal? I will raise it with the keeper of prisoners here in the town. There is much about you I should like to learn.’

 
‘There is little to learn about me,’ Berenger said. ‘I am only a fighter in the King’s host.’

  ‘No, there is more to you than that,’ Chrestien said, waving a finger with his eyes narrowed. ‘You have been trained in chivalry, that is clear.’

  ‘Well, when we are given into the custody of the keeper of prisoners, I fear we shall not meet again,’ Berenger said with regret.

  ‘Nonsense! A good keeper will not begrudge us a conversation or two,’ Chrestien said heartily. He clapped Berenger on the back. ‘I shall visit you on the morrow. I must first see to my stores and supplies, and prepare the Sainte Marie for sea, but as soon as I may, I shall come and we shall find the best inn in the town and enjoy a good meal and some intelligent conversation.’

  Berenger smiled but he doubted that the French would be willing to release him.

  ‘Frip, what now?’ Clip called.

  ‘We are to be taken to a gaol where we shall be held,’ he said without turning.

  ‘A gaol, eh? Well, you know what’ll happen, don’t you?’

  ‘Clip?’ Jack Fletcher called.

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Don’t say it. Just shut up.’

  Berenger had seen worse prisons. Years ago he had been kept in a noisome dungeon that was perpetually damp. Sitting down made a man’s hosen sodden from the ordure. This, in contrast, was a goodly-sized chamber with dry walls and straw on the floor. Two leather buckets were provided for the men, and while they were not enough to cope with the needs of all thirty men, at least they did not have to make a mess on the floor at first. All had been entangled with chains. Manacles and ankle-shackles hindered their movements.

  ‘What do we do now, Frip?’ Jack asked.

  He had walked over to Berenger, and now squatted in front of his vintener. The other men drew near, shuffling closer, as best they could. Tyler, John of Essex, Clip and the rest formed an anxious semicircle about him. Berenger eyed them all. They deserved better than this.

  ‘There’s nothing we can do at present,’ he said. ‘We just have to keep quiet and hope that the French won’t mistreat us.’