Blood on the Sand Read online

  The following morning, Berenger woke to find his entire vintaine asleep in the chamber. He rolled onto his back, scratching his armpits and staring at the roof while he gradually came awake. Last evening they had all gone to an inn over to the east, and some of the men had gone out to watch and gamble on a cock-fight that was held in a little arena by a stable. Oliver had lost heavily again, and Pardoner too. Not that they got much sympathy from the others. They were late back and Berenger set Clip to take the first watch.

  He had set Clip to the first watch!

  Rising, cursing, he went to the recumbent figure in the corner and gave it a kick, demanding, ‘Did you wake Jack to take over your watch?’

  ‘Jack was asleep,’ Clip yawned. ‘There wasn’t any point, anyway, Frip. What, do you think some Frenchie’s going to sidle up here, half a mile or more into the English lines, just to try to murder us in our beds?’

  It was tempting to kick him again – harder, this time – but the eyes of the others were all on him, and Berenger didn’t want them to see that he was rattled. He hissed, ‘Next time I give you an order, Clip, you had best obey to the letter, whether you like it or not, because if you don’t, I’ll see you flogged!’

  He took a dry crust of bread with him outside and sat on a low wall to eat it, staring glumly at the roadway before them.

  A short while later, Jack came outside and joined him. ‘It wasn’t Clip’s fault, Frip. You would have questioned an order like that yourself, you know it. What’s it all about? We’re in the middle of an army of twelve thousand or more. Why worry about our own sentries?’

  Berenger broke off a little more bread and offered it. Jack took it without enthusiasm, studying it for a moment before cramming it into his mouth.

  ‘You remember the night before last?’ Berenger said. ‘Grandarse came to warn me. Apparently, some think we bribed our way out from the French, using secrets instead of money.’

  ‘They’re fucking mad!’ Jack blurted out, spraying dried crumbs in all directions. ‘You mean some prick’s been saying we betrayed our own?’

  ‘And some of ’em would like to come and repay the kindness. So we all have to keep on our toes, Jack. If we don’t, any evening one or more of us is likely to walk into a blade.’

  ‘I understand,’ Jack said gravely.

  ‘What do you make of the newer guys?’

  ‘Christ’s ballocks, Frip, you expect me to comment on them before we’ve even seen a French horse running at them?’

  ‘We saw them on the ship.’

  ‘It’s hard to gauge. John of Essex was mad to get into things, as usual. He’s got even less brain than Donkey. Show him a fight and he’ll rush to get into the thick of it.’

  ‘The rest?’

  Jack puffed out his cheeks. ‘Dogbreath could be useful. He didn’t look scared and he tried to tangle with the first of them when they came at us. He was knocked down in the first mêlée. Aletaster, I didn’t see. Turf was throwing his guts up when the attack came, as usual. Pardoner didn’t look too clever – he seemed to get knocked down and he disappeared until the ship was crushed – and then he suddenly reappeared in time to be rescued and captured. I didn’t see Saint Lawrence or the others during the fight.’

  ‘So no obvious cowards or fools who could be dangerous?’

  ‘Not that I saw, no.’

  ‘Good. Then we’ll stick to them, but we’ll have to work them. You know what it’s like. Bored archers get sloppy. We need to get them to some butts or make our own. That’ll have the advantage of both testing their skills, honing them, and keeping us all away from any mad bastards who think we may be traitors.’

  ‘Right enough. Do you want me to get them ready now?’

  ‘Yes, I . . .’

  Berenger was interrupted by the appearance of Richard Bakere, Sir John de Sully’s esquire. ‘Sir John needs to see you, Fripper.’

  He nodded. ‘Jack, get on with it. Give them a good going-over. I want to know we can rely on them in a fight. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  When Berenger entered the room, he was surprised to see Grandarse standing at the corner of the chamber behind Sir John de Sully. Berenger felt his hackles rise in warning, but not because of those two. It was the others.

  They were not alone. To one side was the slim, elegant figure of Peter of Bromley, the man Berenger knew had been called Pierre d’Agen, with his clerk, Alain de Châlons, and a man-at-arms. Peter of Bromley was just one of many men who had appeared here in the King’s army seeking wealth, power, or simply revenge for actions taken by the French, but the sight of him set Berenger’s teeth on edge. A man who would turn traitor was likely to find it easy to do so again.

  The warlike Bishop of Durham, Thomas Hatfield, was in the room too, with a serious expression on his face, and at his side was the barrel-chested figure of the Earl of Warwick.

  Christ Jesus, Berenger thought to himself. What have I done now?

  The Earl peered at him. ‘Fripper, we have been listening to reports. Last night, I had a scouting party ride out towards the estuary where you said you saw the ships.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There’s nothing there,’ he said. ‘They’re all gone – if they were there in the first place.’

  The vintener thought about it. His eyesight was poor, but he couldn’t have mistaken those massive shapes, nor the tall masts towering over the trees. ‘They were there. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘In that case, someone got a warning to them. The question is, will they appear here soon, and when they do, will they merely replenish the town, or will they come to attack us?’

  ‘They will not be able to assault our positions here on the coast,’ Sir John said firmly. The bishop was nodding as he spoke, and Peter of Bromley inclined his head in agreement. ‘They must be coming to supply the town.’

  ‘Then we must be ready for them,’ the Earl said. ‘I have commanded the ships to stand off a little from the coast and when they see the enemy, to attack them at once.’

  Berenger was frowning. ‘My Lord, do you know when the scouts found the estuary empty – at what hour of the night?’

  The Earl turned and an esquire stepped across the room from his post at the wall, bending and whispering in the Earl’s ear. ‘Apparently it was the second watch of the night. Why?’

  Berenger made a quick calculation. ‘Even with the still evening, the ships must surely be visible from the coast now if they are coming. They were only five or six leagues from here. If they were to draw out to sea, they must still be visible from shore.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘If no one can see them, either they have taken a most extended route to get here, or they are not coming here at all.’

  ‘You think perhaps they could have gone to hide?’

  Berenger frowned, and then remembered the stocky figure with the ginger hair in the cardinal’s hall. David, he had been called.

  ‘My lord, what if they were not intending to come here? Perhaps they are sailing to land French fighters somewhere else?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Scotland! They mean to invade the north through Scotland with their allies, to create a diversion that must call the King’s men back home to protect the kingdom!’

  Jack watched the men with a sense of glum resignation. ‘Archers, nock your arrows!’

  There was a disjointed ripple along the line as men reached for their arrows. Some had them in quivers, two had them thrust into their belts, while Dogbreath had shoved three into the ground before him, snapping one shaft as he did so. He turned to Jack with a shamefaced grimace, the nock and fletchings in his hand, the splinter with the point stuck in the ground. ‘I think there’s a rock down there.’

  ‘Be more bloody careful, you horse’s arse! Those arrows are all that will protect you and the rest of us from the French army when it comes,’ Jack snarled.

  After some fumbling, most managed to get their arrows fitted to their bowstrings.

  ‘Archers,
draw!’

  There was a creaking, groaning sound as all the bows along the line were bent, the archers pulling the great strings back until they touched their ears, aiming high at full draw, the yew and strings complaining under the massive tension.

  ‘Archers, loose!’

  The thrumming of so many bows was like a sudden gale passing through a forest: a susurration of death.

  Jack sighed and walked along the line to where Pardoner stood hopping on one leg, his right hand gripping his left wrist, an expression of the keenest agony on his face. Saint Lawrence stood laughing nearby.

  ‘I told you to wear a bracer, didn’t I?’ Jack said.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant, I couldn’t find it when we came out today.’

  Jack took his hand and studied his arm. From elbow to wrist the string had scraped all along the soft flesh, leaving a red-raw bruise in its tracks; already blood was spiking from tiny rips in the flesh. ‘You’ll live,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t carry on, sir,’ the man said, fighting back the tears. ‘It hurts.’

  ‘Welcome to the pleasures of a soldier’s life,’ Jack said unsympathetically. ‘You’ll go back later, when you’ve actually hit a target.’

  He walked back to his post at the side of the line of archers, calling, ‘Archers, nock!’

  ‘With this lot, we’ll all get slaughtered,’ Clip said at his side.

  ‘I don’t need any of your cheery comments, thank you,’ Jack growled. ‘Archers, draw!’

  ‘Leave them. Go on, leave them there a while. See which one can hold his bow,’ Clip pleaded.

  ‘Archers, loose!’

  ‘You’re allowed a little fun, Jack.’

  Jack sighed at the sight of an arrow all but buried in the soil only a matter of fifteen paces from the line. ‘Who was that?’

  Horn lifted a tentative hand.

  ‘Go and cut it loose. Don’t try to pull it out of the ground; you’ll snap the shaft, Horn. You have to dig out the grass along its length and lift it out,’ Jack explained. ‘Break it and you’ll have to pay for it.’

  ‘Have any of them hit anything?’ Clip asked.

  ‘Dogbreath there is not so bad. The rest have hit a lot of field.’

  Clip watched the next couple of flights, his face a study of gloom. ‘Any chance of moving to a new vintaine?’

  Clip walked back while Jack was still exercising his charges at the range, but as he walked, his eyes were narrowed in crafty thought. He was not needed for anything today, and that meant he had time to try scrounging what he could.

  Just before they had been pushed onto the ship and sent to help the convoy, he had been out scavenging and, while investigating a little alleyway, trying to capture a chicken or two, someone had knocked him down. This assault by some unknown civilian offended his sense of justice. To have his head broken when he hadn’t even taken anything (yet) was not only grossly unfair, but it also left him with a strong sense that there must be something more valuable to protect than mere chickens. Some soldiers had pillaged wealthy manors and churches in this area. Perhaps there was a little store of gold or silver in a house near that alley? It was worth further investigation, if no one was about.

  Without thinking, his feet had already bent their way towards the interesting alley.

  As he went, he noticed two men walking along in front of him. One was a large man, tall, with massive hands and legs like small oaks. The other was just some scruffy tatterdemalion with a triangular-shaped face, mousy hair and blue, deep-set eyes. He met Clip’s look, but didn’t appear to recognise him, and he didn’t know the other man either, so as they passed on, he carried on his way without any intimation of danger.

  Clip reached the alley and stood nonchalantly, leaning against a post at the entrance, idly picking his nose. Inspecting the results on his finger, he looked around him sidelong making sure that no one had seen him, before sucking the contents off his finger and sidling into the alleyway.

  The moment he was in the alley, the light was shut out as if a candle had been snuffed. He walked on silently, his attention focused on the bright patch at the end. A chicken wandered into view, unconcernedly pecking at the ground, and he took that as a sign that all was clear. Chickens, in his experience, tended to try to fly away at the least provocation – even the sight of a man usually. He slipped further on, until he reached the very end. He tentatively peered around the corner of the wall. Nobody. He stood silently, scarcely breathing as he strained his ears for any sounds in the vicinity, but there was nothing. All was well.

  He stepped out into the yard, but then his heart stopped. The chickens fled squawking, and he found himself confronted by a man. He was broad, like a miller, and had hands like hams.

  ‘Who are you? What do you want here?’ the man demanded in a thick Carlisle accent. He was carrying a set of gardening tools, and he dropped them as Clip turned and bolted. Clip would have made it too, as he tried to say later, were it not for the Devil’s own chicken that ran under his feet and made him stumble and fall. And then he felt a huge fist on the back of his neck, lifting him like a doll and shaking him.

  ‘You thinking of stealing one of our chicks, were you? I reckon you need a damn good thrashing to stop you from ever coming back here, eh? Right, little man, let’s see if a dip will cure you of thievery!’ the man snarled.

  Clip was relieved to hear that. A dip in the water wouldn’t be too bad.

  When he was finally allowed to leave the room, Berenger stood outside and took a deep breath.

  That was one of those moments when he really should have held his tongue. After all, the ships could well have been moved further away. Perhaps the French officers had realised the dangers inherent in trying to break the English blockade, and had pulled the ships away, so that they could be kept safe. But even as he tried to tell himself this, he disagreed.

  The French ships were definitely heading somewhere else. Bishop Thomas knew as well as Berenger where they were going. It was clear in his eyes when he spoke: complete conviction – Scotland. Still, Berenger should have kept quiet. If people already suspected that he might be in league with the enemy and if he appeared to be in possession of inside information, they would wonder where he had got it from. It was but a short step from that to thinking that he must be a traitor. And in this vast encampment, a man such as himself could be made to disappear all too easily.

  Berenger pushed himself away from the shed and walked into the road. It was muddy and befouled with excrement from dogs, horses and men, and he tried to avoid the worst of it as he made his way down the street towards the chambers where his own vintaine was billeted.

  The road narrowed, and as he stepped around a large pile of ox dung and over a puddle of urine, he heard a sudden movement behind him.

  There was a short splash, and Berenger span on his heel to find a large man confronting him. Berenger’s quick glance took in the knife held low to gut him, the dark eyes scowling in a thickly bearded face – and the vintener scarcely had time to register the man’s quick look to Berenger’s right before instinct made him spring away, just missing the leaden hammer on a long shaft that had been aimed at his head by another man.

  He grabbed for his sword, too late remembering that he hadn’t put it on in his hurry to respond to Sir John de Sully’s summons, and hastily backed away from the two men. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.

  ‘We’re Englishmen,’ the darkly bearded man said. His companion, of slighter build and fairer-complexioned, sniggered at that.

  ‘So am I!’

  The man made a feint and tried to punch Berenger, before grinning. ‘But you took money from the French. Everyone has heard about it. So we’re going to kill you.’

  Berenger said nothing, but watched the two narrowly. There was a moment’s calm as he moved backwards and the two paced after him, all three crouching, two ready to spring, one prepared to defend himself. As if on a signal, the hammer swung at Berenger’s head again, and as it flew at him, making
Berenger duck hurriedly, the bearded man slipped his knife out and up, trying to snag Berenger’s gut. He missed, and Berenger slapped at the blade with his hand, but then the maul was driving back towards him, aimed at his shoulder, and he had to jerk away even as the steel slashed at him once more.

  The lead came close again, but Berenger sprang forward. He grasped the maul’s shaft with both hands and twisted, jerking the man across his front. The knife-thrust intended for him found its mark in his opponent’s flank, and the man gave a short cry as he struggled with Berenger for control of the hammer. Berenger was not going to let go. That would mean death. He crooked his elbow and slammed it into the face of his enemy, jabbing it at his eyes and nose, hoping to connect and hurt the fellow, but nothing seemed to work. Instead he concentrated on keeping the man’s body between himself and the knifeman, until he felt the hammer man lurch slightly: his foot had slipped on a stone. Berenger let him fall, then jerked the hammer forward with all his strength. The maul caught the bearded man full in the face and he staggered back, dropping his knife as the blood flooded his vision. Berenger let the hammer fall on the back of the other man’s head as he crouched on all fours in the ordure of the street. The hammer connected with a dull thud, and the man toppled senseless into the filth.

  The other was wiping at his nose, which was smashed and flattened across his face. He spat a gobbet of blood at Berenger, and then turned and fled.

  Berenger stood a moment, panting as the thrill ran through his body and then left him, leaving him feeling as weak as a deflated bladder. Then, after a moment’s pause, he reached down to the hammer man and rolled him over. ‘Don’t want you drowning before we’ve asked you some questions, do we?’ he said breathlessly.

  Berenger heaved the figure to the edge of the street and left him, slumped and snoring slackly while he hurried on his way. He kept the maul, letting it swing experimentally as he trotted along, until he reached the shed where his vintaine was based – but there was no one there. After a moment or two, he found Archibald by the gonnes, and having secured his help, he returned to the street. The man was still there, and Berenger waited at his side until John, Jack and Dogbreath arrived with the Earl, summoned by Archibald’s boy, Ed the Donkey.