‘Don’t worry about him,’ Béatrice said in an undertone as she introduced the vintaine. ‘Clip is all right, really. He has a kind heart, but he is a man.’
That, Marguerite knew, was the problem for her. She had lost everything, and now she was little better than a whore, fit only for slaking the desires of the men of the army. Looking about her now at the vintaine, she was struck with fear in the pit of her stomach. Here were men who could take her at any moment. All Frenchwomen had heard of the brutality of the English. These were soldiers who had taken nuns, raping them and murdering them for sport; they had stolen children and babies to satisfy their unnatural urges, and even slain and eaten their victims later, so she had heard. Well, if one of these sought to put his hands on her and climb between her thighs, she would cut off his cods!
‘You will be safe with these men,’ Béatrice said. ‘They will not harm you. Trust them. They have protected me.’
There was something in Béatrice’s manner that made Marguerite’s hackles rise. She was hiding something: perhaps she knew that the men were likely to rape Marguerite? There were tales of Frenchwomen becoming procuresses for the soldiers, finding and trapping other Frenchwomen in exchange for money or food. Perhaps Béatrice was one such? Unconsciously, she began to draw away. When Béatrice put her arm about her, she wanted to pull back and flee, but the other young woman would not let go.
‘All is well,’ Béatrice said gently. ‘Do not be afraid. Come – you must sit down. Now tell me – what were the names of your children again?’
Marguerite blinked, her fears distracted by the mention of her children. ‘What?’
‘The names of your children? No matter. The eldest – what was his name?’
‘Georges. My little Georges.’ Merely uttering the name made tears spring into her eyes again.
‘It is a very common name,’ Béatrice said.
‘His father was Georges, too, and his father before him. The family always said that it would survive for as long as there was a Georges in it.’ There was a catch in her throat as she added, choked, ‘And now all are dead.’
‘Mistress,’ Berenger said. His expression as he held her elbow was that of a man who had endured suffering enough. ‘Mistress, please. Join us and take a little food to break your fast. You look famished. Tell us your story.’
She submitted, taking a seat on a log that Dogbreath set for her, and then accepted a bowl of thin pottage and a spoon. With a hunk of rough bread to chew, she felt she had been given a feast.
‘I come from a small village to the south and west of here. It was a good place, but it was burned by the English and I was attacked. I was separated from my family, and could do nothing. I sought for them all over, but could find no sign.’
She heard young voices, and started up, but at the sight of the Donkey, she sank back again.
Dogbreath pulled a face. ‘Bastards! There’s been too much raping, from all I’ve heard.’
‘A certain amount is good for the men,’ John of Essex said.
‘But a lady like this? And what of her husband and children?’ Dogbreath demanded hotly.
‘It’s the natural way,’ Jack said. ‘Men who have been to war need recreations afterwards.’
‘I’d fight any poor churl who’d try to take her by force!’
‘Oh, aye?’ Clip said. ‘You’d best prepare yourself, then. There are about ten thousand men here who’d all do the same.’
‘Not us, though,’ Berenger said quickly, holding out his hand comfortingly when he saw her rising alarm.
Marguerite drank a little of her pottage, then looked about her. To her dismay, she realised that Béatrice had disappeared, and she was suddenly struck with the reality of her position. She was here, hemmed in on all sides by some twenty men, all of them fighters and most of them believing that rape and theft were natural. She cast about her, seeking a route by which to escape, panicked by the thought that she might be about to be assaulted – but then she saw Béatrice.
She was a halfbowshot away, with two boys. One was the lad Marguerite had seen a little while earlier, but there was another boy there, too. Béatrice was talking to him, and then she saw his face turn to her, and – sweet Mother Mary! He looked so like . . .
Marguerite felt a lightness invade her skull as though she was about to swoon, and rose to her feet, swaying, staring, the pottage falling from her grasp. She heard the bowl strike a stone and shatter, and her mind called to her to look down, but it was impossible to avert her eyes from that little boy, the fellow with the tousled hair, who stood gaping, as though he recognised her but dare not believe his own eyes. And then he was running towards her, and she tottered forward a couple of paces and crouched, arms held wide, her eyes blurring with tears as he slammed into her, his arms about her neck, hers clutching him fiercely, desperate not to let him go, her eyes tight shut for fear that when she opened them and looked, she would find that this was another boy, not her Georges, not her son . . . but it was, and her life was suddenly transformed.
‘Holy Mother, thank you! Thank you!’ she whispered and then succumbed to tears of joy.
At the campfire later that evening, Berenger took in their faces as his vintaine all drank ale or wine, chewing at the gristle in their pottage. After the tribulations of the last days, of having been captured, held in a shit-infested dungeon, threatened with torture, blinding and death, he would have expected some to be affected. Yet now, listening to them, it was as though they had never been away.
‘Ach, will ye look at this?’ Clip demanded, holding up a nonspecific piece of flesh. ‘It’s just lights and tubes, this. No meat anywhere near it. However do you manage to cut away all the meat and keep only the garbage, eh?’
Archibald’s eyes twinkled like a cheery giant’s as he rumbled, ‘It is a natural skill for some of us, man.’
‘As a cook I think you’d make a good poisoner, Archibald,’ John of Essex said with a wince.
‘Oh, aye, I thought it was the job of the Frenchies to kill us, but any more of your food and we’ll all starve to death!’ Clip whined.
‘No one needs Frenchies to kill us when there is a professional gynour in the army,’ Jack said, upending his plate over the grass and emptying the remains.
‘I could have added more brimstone, I suppose. Perhaps there was not enough for your taste?’ their cook said genially. ‘You forget: my brain was designed for mixing powders until they can be placed carefully in a gonne’s mouth, rammed back, have a ball or arrow set on top, and ignited.’
‘Aye,’ Dogbreath muttered, eyeing his food resentfully. ‘Happen you should ram this down our throats and save us having to try to swallow it. My pigs had better than this when I was at home.’
‘Perhaps I will try that next time,’ Archibald said. ‘You see, I am good at making things that kill. Gynours like me are rare, you know. You should appreciate me more. Most gynours die young when their experiments grow more confident – and therefore slapdash. Not many live for long after experiencing the effects of too much serpentine powder at close quarters.’
Gonnes were weapons that Berenger still distrusted. It was hardly surprising that so many in the King’s army would make the sign of the Devil at Archibald’s back as he walked past. Many still held to the superstitious belief that the crack of thunder and flaring gouts of flame, so like to a dragon’s breath, were proof of the devices’ inherent evil.
Yet it was hard to dislike the man. Archibald went through life like a cheerful mastiff. He expected everyone to like him, and to a large extent, when he sat down with them and chatted on an evening over a horn or two of wine or ale – or his favourite, cider – they would find him an appealing soul with a breadth of knowledge and much sympathy for his fellow men.
It was that quality about him which had persuaded Berenger to deposit his only responsibility with Archibald some weeks ago. ‘How’s the Donkey, Gynour?’ he called.
‘Master Fripper, I hope I see you well?’ Archibald rep
lied with a grave nod. ‘The boy is learning diligently, I thank you. He’s proof, were it needed, that the skills of a gynour can easily be mastered by a lad willing to serve his apprenticeship.’
‘He is well enough?’
‘Aye.’
‘And the girl and the new lad, young Georges?’
‘They too are well, Master.’
Berenger was relieved. He would not have admitted it to anyone, but he had grown fond of the boy and Béatrice. However, he was alarmed to learn that there was this new woman in the camp now. He shot her a look from under his brows. She looked harmless, but while she hugged and kissed her little boy as though she could hardly believe that he was truly there with her, and only by constant reminder could she ensure that he would not disappear, her eyes were constantly flitting from one man to another about the camp.
‘Are you well, maid?’ he asked when Béatrice came to his side and refilled his mazer with wine.
She nodded. Always in his presence she was cold and aloof. It was a shame, for she was a lovely woman. Still, it was a mistake for a man to have a woman when he was marching with the banners. Women were a distraction. And this one in particular, he knew, had an inner resolution and resentment that burned all who approached too closely.
‘No one offered you an insult while we were gone?’
She hesitated. ‘One knight, Sir Peter, makes me fear for my safety. He has no feeling, no heart. I watched him ride off, always coming back with prisoners, and it was as though they were sheep to him, to be impounded and slaughtered.’
‘That is how knights are, maid,’ he said with a smile. Later he would remember her words and have cause to think about the implications afresh.
Grandarse had walked in while they were talking, and now stood at his side. ‘What about you, Frip? How are you?’
‘Me? I’m fine.’ His attention was still on her, but then he realised that Grandarse was waiting for him to say more. Suddenly, he realised that he really was fine. In fact, he felt better than he had for many weeks.
He had served too many kings and warriors to worry about what might have happened. There was no profit in might-have-beens. He was here only for the gold. Once, he would have told himself it was a matter of honour, of chivalry, but when a man had hacked at another, while screaming hatred at his dying face, spittle flying, and then gone to slaughter even more men, there was little chivalry left in a fellow’s soul. Berenger sometimes wondered whether there ever had been. He did ask himself whether war and killing was all he would ever achieve. War, to his mind, was a necessary evil – sometimes – and it kept him in bread and ale, but he disliked hearing men elevate it to an art. It was killing. Any butcher could do it.
‘You did well to escape the French,’ Grandarse commented.
‘We wouldn’t have done so without the help of the Genoese.’
‘Tell me about him again.’
Berenger shrugged. ‘Short man, dark hair. Called himself Chrestien de Grimault. He seemed to have the authority of a whore when he was on his boat. Knew his men would do anything he told them. I suppose it’s the mantle of command that a shipmaster draws around himself. A shipman has to possess a commanding presence to maintain order on a ship in a storm, and this man had it in buckets.’
‘Or perhaps he was a man with a lot of authority,’ Grandarse chuckled. He took his seat on a stool and leaned back against the wall, drawing his belt down below his paunch so it didn’t cut into his belly. ‘You want to know what I’ve heard? I’ve heard he’s the captain of the French fleet – the most important Genoese in the whole of France. And he let you go.’
Berenger heard the slight note of enquiry. ‘What of it? He said his honour was stained by the treatment they were threatening to use on us.’
‘But it’s odd that the French should have let you get away so easily. Perhaps they wanted you to think you were escaping?’
‘Nah. They had no thought of that,’ Berenger said flatly. ‘You didn’t see the bodies of the two shipmen they killed.’ He shuddered at the memory.
‘Well, what other reason could there be? Some might reckon it was a case of “you give us something and we’ll let you go” – got me?’
Grandarse was peering at him, the picture of genial good nature, but Berenger saw his eyes glitter. He was watching to see how Berenger would react.
‘We told them nothing. Nothing at all. It was because we refused that we were about to be taken away to be blinded,’ he said.
‘Good! Good. I’m glad to hear it. Then there’s nothing for us to worry about. Because if one of your men had given away the layout of our camp, the French might realise that we are weak in some areas. They might consider it possible that they could send ships into Calais and ballocks up our siege. They could come and attack us at any time, couldn’t they?’
He rose and stared down at Berenger. ‘I don’t believe that sort of thing, Frip – you know that. But others may. You keep the men alert, just in case. We don’t want any accidents happening to your men here during the siege.’
Berenger nodded as Grandarse left the group, waddling and giving cheery farewells to the rest of the men, but some yards away, Berenger saw him turn and cast a glance his way before disappearing into the night.
There were two things Grandarse would not tolerate: any man who smacked of bad luck who could bring danger to the centaine, and a man who would betray his comrades. Either would be sure to die quickly in the dark of an alley or a low alehouse.
Berenger considered for a moment, then allocated men to keep watch through the night. Although they grumbled, he was insistent.
‘I am glad you returned safely,’ the Vidame said.
His spy drained his cup of wine and poured another. There was a shake in his hand as he measured out his drink. He pointedly ignored the Vidame’s empty mazer. ‘I am not only glad, I am astonished.’
They were in a large tavern, with many English archers and warriors drinking and singing, but at the rear of the chamber they had relative peace. Speaking in low voices, so no one could overhear them, both kept watching the crowds for a curious person who might speak of their meeting.
‘What is so surprising?’
‘They were going to kill me, Vidame! How ironic would that be? To be slain by my own people, merely for want of a sign that I should be protected.’
‘Is that why you wished to see me?’
‘You think I would entrust such a message to a boy?’
‘I would hope not. Calm yourself, man.’
The spy stared about him. ‘This life is growing too difficult, Vidame. I’m as keen as any to help the King’s efforts, but not at the risk of having my own neck stretched.’
‘You forget yourself, my friend. The important thing here is the defence of France and the kingdom. Individuals will die, it is certain, but that is sometimes necessary for the good of all.’
‘Those are fine words,’ the spy said, ‘when spoken by the man who takes fewest risks.’
The Vidame smiled and looked at the spy. ‘Do you really have so little faith? By my actions I shall be forced to suffer the worst torments the English can contrive.’
‘Very well.’
‘You do not believe me?’
‘I trust you, Vidame. Where would the world be without trust?’ the other added bitterly.
‘It seems certain that the man from Essex knows nothing that could implicate you. I think we may leave him alone. But watch him. At the first sign of danger, let me know and I will have Bertucat kill him. However, for now I think it is better to leave him to his own devices. We have other things to consider.’
His voice dropped as he spoke. ‘It is not only the man from Essex. Your vintener is astute – more than I had considered. He saw the fleet and warned his knight; now, I think, he looks upon our messenger with suspicion. Soon he may cast his suspicions upon you.’
‘Fripper? He suspects nothing. He is just worried for the men under him.’
‘If he suspects
you, he would soon be able to make you talk. I do not want to be implicated,’ the Vidame said.
‘You will be safe.’
‘And then again, the business on which you are employed would suffer if you were captured. We need your talents. We need to know where the blow should fall.’
‘First the army needs to come here. The King must bring his host and attack. I will point to the best place for the assault.’
‘Good. But the vintener still troubles me. It would be a good thing, were he to die.’
‘How? By me? It would be difficult to insert a knife into his back while the vintaine watches!’
‘When he sleeps?’
‘You do not know the man. He is wary of everyone, as he should be.’
‘I understand. However, our messenger has been noticed by him, and we cannot afford to lose the boy.’
‘Very well.’
‘The English will send a messenger to the north, to warn them of the French ships taking men and arms to the Scottish. With luck the Scottish will rampage about the North of England and visit retribution for the damage done by the English over here. The sooner the messenger gets there, the sooner the English will be prepared. We must have the messenger delayed.’
‘I do not understand.’
‘Your vintaine will be sent to guard the messenger. I will have Bertucat go to speak with certain friends. There are some here who have friends in England who would not be averse to earning a purse of gold by delaying the embassy, or even killing a man. Look to attacks from other men, and take advantage, if you may.’
‘Can you be sure my vintaine will be sent?’
The Vidame leaned back, chuckling quietly. ‘The vintaine that miraculously survived capture by the French? The vintaine that managed to win over a Genoese mercenary and take a ride on his ship? The vintener who saw the ships in the estuary and discovered the risk of French ships travelling to Scotland? Which other vintaine would be sent?’
‘But the escape was come about by simple good fortune!’
‘Yes – but others begin to doubt that. Now many know that the escape of the vintaine was aided by the Genoese. Would it not be amusing if, when I have finished dripping poison into the right ears, many believe this Fripper to be in league with the French himself? We could use our own crimes against him!’
Blood on the Sand Page 8