Blood on the Sand

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Phew, that was rare. Not many have the King himself come to send them off,’ Berenger heard Dogbreath say.

  ‘Aye, rare enough,’ Clip said, adding, ‘but it would be even better if he’d given us a reward for agreeing to help in this way.’

  ‘Ye’re always looking to your next profit,’ Aletaster said with disgust. ‘There are some things that have their own reward.’

  ‘Have their own . . .’ Clip’s face was a picture of mingled bafflement and disgust. ‘Give me one example of a reward that is worth starving and dying for? You can keep it. Me, I’ll stick to the clink of cash in my purse and a full belly every time.’

  ‘Besides,’ Pardoner said, ‘why would the King come here to speak with us unless it was to emphasise how important and dangerous this message is?’

  There was a sudden hush at that. Men who, until that moment, had thought only of the wenches and ales between the south coast and Durham, were thinking of all the threats that lay on the open road.

  Berenger interrupted their musings. ‘There are risks to ordinary travellers, my friends. We, however, are an armed vintaine. How many are likely to try to assault us or block our path? Wherever we go, we shall be the more fearsome and daunting. Have no concerns about footpads or those who would like to break your pates. They will walk warily around you.’

  He was about to add more, when the messenger himself arrived. He was a slender fellow of perhaps fifteen years, with drab hair worn a little long. Although he had not shaved, like all the other men there, he had only a light fuzz of beard at his jawbone and chin, because he was so young. His pale, greenish eyes travelled over the vintaine with what looked like disdain. He arrived in the company of Sir Peter of Bromley with his clerk and three men-at-arms, as though he did not trust Berenger and the vintaine. His clerk stood and watched Berenger with a frown, as though studying an insect’s incomprehensible activities. Sir Peter, for his part, had a fixed glare, as if disgusted that a man of the vintener’s mean standing could be permitted to enjoy any status in the army. It was easy to see that he believed Berenger to be a traitor.

  He really doesn’t like me, Berenger thought to himself. The feeling was mutual.

  Berenger shot a look at Sir John, but the knight affected not to notice as Sir Peter approached.

  ‘Sir John, God protect you! This is Master Retford.’

  ‘Glad I am to meet him,’ Sir John said, but his tone told Berenger that he didn’t mean it. His feelings seemed reciprocated. Sir Peter hardly looked at him, and the glance he gave Berener now was so haughty that the vintener had a strong urge to hit him.

  Sir John noticed his expression and Berenger saw a smile chase fleetingly across his face. ‘If I may address the vintaine? Thank you. Men, this is Andrew Retford. He is a King’s Messenger, and you will guard him with your lives. His message is vital. The whole kingdom’s future could rest upon the delivery of it.’

  The boy put his left hand on the little message pouch that hung just above the hilt of his sword. It looked as though he was trying to keep tight hold of it and protect it from the coarse group of men set to guard him.

  The vintaine looked collectively from Sir Peter to Retford. They were not impressed.

  Sir John saw the reception and intervened. ‘Men, this lad has to get to Durham. It’ll be eight days’ travel to get him there. Perhaps you could cover the distance faster. You will have the King’s permission to hire mounts on the way at his expense. However, the main point is, you must deliver this boy and his message safely and bring them back here to Calais with any news. Is that clear?’

  Berenger glared at Jack and Clip until the two reluctantly nodded and grunted agreement. With them giving their assent, the rest of the vintaine gave their own approval.

  ‘Good,’ said Sir John. He then turned and gazed at Sir Peter expectantly, as though politely dismissing him. Sir Peter took the hint, bowing and patting Andrew Retford on the upper arm before striding away with his men towards the camp.

  ‘Master Retford, I wish you Godspeed,’ Sir John said. ‘You may wish to acquaint yourself with the rest of the vintaine?’

  The lad nodded, but Berenger thought to himself that the fellow looked like a rabbit surrounded by the hounds, unsure which way to turn. His eyes went first to the disappearing back of Sir Peter, before returning to Sir John. And although he walked in the direction of the vintaine, he didn’t join them, but stood instead staring out to sea.

  It left Berenger wondering, So why does Sir Peter wish me to guard this messenger in particular? And why has he brought the lad here himself?

  He could think of no solution to these questions.

  After Sir Peter’s group had walked away, the Vidame went and waited for his spy.

  It was hard to live as an intelligence gatherer, mingling with those who were his enemy, but the spy appeared to contain himself with skill. He had professed to detest all English, but he had so bound his hatred within him that, to see him, a man would believe him to be entirely devoted to the King of England. His true feelings were kept under the tightest of reins.

  ‘You know your part.’

  The spy eyed him. ‘This is my life at risk. I will be as careful as I can be.’

  ‘It is not only your life, friend.’

  ‘Vidame, your risks are as nothing compared with mine. If you are uncovered, you will receive a quick decapitation. Me? I’ll suffer all the torments of hell a vengeful vintaine can think up. And they will be most inventive.’

  ‘You know to be cautious, then. Good.’

  ‘You look to yourself.’

  The Vidame held his anger in check. There was no point in losing his temper with the spy. He did, as he said, run the higher risks.

  ‘Godspeed. I wish you safe passage. And remember your orders.’

  At the third hour of the day, when the men filed past him to the plank that gave access to the ship, Berenger realised that Grandarse had appeared at his side. Sir John saw him and took his arrival as proof that it was time for him to leave.

  ‘Godspeed, Vintener. I will be praying for your safe return,’ the knight said. ‘And right swiftly, too.’

  ‘I’ll hope to be back very quickly, sir, thank you.’

  He watched as Sir John walked away between the barrels and bales left on the harbour, dodging the stevedores as they tramped back and forth, the heavy sacks and baskets bowing them so they could scarcely lift their heads to see before them. ‘Well?’ he said to Grandarse.

  ‘I heard today you were set upon, Frip. It’s a bad business when a man can’t walk to his home.’

  ‘We found out who they were,’ Berenger said.

  ‘I know. Interesting that the men were from Sir Peter.’

  ‘Do you think he has something against me?’

  Grandarse looked at him owlishly. ‘How so?’

  ‘The men who attacked me swore they were from Sir Peter. It is plain as the beard on your chin what is going through his mind. He has started to raise the idea that there could be a spy. Do you think he really believes there’s a traitor in the vintaine?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Grandarse asked slowly.

  ‘I think it’s a load of ballocks! Look at my boys: Clip, Jack, the others. Apart from the eight new lads we’ve had to take on board, the vintaine has been fighting for the King for longer than that pretty popinjay Peter! Why in God’s name should we listen to what he says or thinks?’

  ‘Because, Frip, you moon-addled gull, the man has the ear of the King and his son. What Peter of Bromley thinks today, the King will be thinking tomorrow. It’s the way of these royals: they make their choices about advisers, and you won’t change them. If Peter of Bromley is pissing sweet nothings about some hairy-arsed vintener who’s got a traitor in his ranks, the King will believe him. Oh, he may try to ignore it for a day or so, and then he’ll try to find arguments against it, but with a man like Sir Peter, persistent and consistent, the King won’t be able to argue too long. Confusion and focus.’


  ‘What?’ Berenger said.

  ‘Aye, Frip, I may be an old fart, but I know some things you never learned for all your cleverness. Like: if you’re a king, you have people mithering at you all day long. You have peasants pleading for alms, merchants haggling for custom, priests demanding plots of land for new churches or abbeys, pleaders asking you to look at their poor clients’ claims – and advisers advising. All through the day. You get a moment or two for every decision. Is it any wonder you start to rely on the men you think you can trust? Is it any surprise that so many decisions could be better made by a poxed whore from the Winchester stews?’

  He spat accurately at a stick, making it jump. With a satisfied belch, he hoicked his belt northwards again and went on: ‘Aye, Frip, I’ve seen it often enough. Best, usually, just to keep your head down when this kind of ballocks is going on. Leave politics and all that shite to the arses who can actually win power for themselves. For you an’ me, it’s enough to know that at the end of the day, you’re still around with a pot of ale in your fist, a good meal inside you, and a strumpet to fondle. Because the alternative means rotting under the ground, and that’s not much fun, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So ride like the Devil for the north and show you’ll do all you can to serve the King by protecting his interests, and then hurry back so you can prove you’re not interested in running away. Up and back, swift as you can.’

  ‘Grandarse, did you see the messenger we’re to protect?’

  ‘The boy? Yes.’

  ‘Why such a youngster? Who is he?’

  ‘You’ll need to find out for yourself. I don’t know. But you’d best make sure the little prickle makes it back here safely, too.’

  ‘Yes,’ Berenger said. But even as he spoke, his mind was moving in a different direction. ‘Grandarse, there is another way to look at all this.’

  ‘Is there? What? How?’

  ‘What if Sir Peter was secretly intending to lead the King into an impossible position, perhaps even into a trap, so that he could turn his coat to the French and act the traitor? Perhaps he would try to alienate the King from his own troops. He might begin by sowing discord and disaffection with me and my men. Tarnish our reputation with the King. He must know the King respects us. If he could damage us and make us seem treacherous . . .’

  Grandarse scoffed at that. ‘You think one vintener is going to harm the army? Surely you don’t reckon you’ve such a strong reputation that your death or humiliation will affect the course of the siege?’

  ‘No, of course not, but if he could sow enough discord within different vintaines here, he might bring about dissatisfaction with the leadership of the army – and that in itself could lead to barons deciding to desert the King. Whatever he says about me or the men, he could well be saying about others too. He could even imply that venerable centeners were as guilty, couldn’t he?’

  Grandarse stopped and stared. ‘That booger!’ He gazed into the distance with a frown creasing his brow. ‘Look, Frip, you give the Scotch bastards hell, and come back safe. And whatever you do, don’t lose that poxy git of a messenger.’

  As the little ship made its creaking, complaining way over the water towards England, it was hard to concentrate, between Clip’s loud grousing and Turf’s regular retching over the side.

  Berenger watched the messenger.

  Master Retford had a nobleman’s natural arrogance in the way he stood slightly apart, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, while the other clutched at a rope, but his youth was clear in the way that his head snapped around at every sudden noise. When a rope parted with a crack like one of Archibald’s gonnes, the boy looked as though he might have broken a bone in his neck, his skull revolved so speedily. No, the arrogance was a show. This lad was scared: perhaps because he was taking part in his first major task for his lord and King? Or was it because he had been warned that the mission on which he was engaged was dangerous, and the men with him could be traitors? Either way, Berenger knew he would have to be careful.

  When they were almost halfway across the Channel, he walked across to the messenger and said, ‘Master Retford. A word.’

  ‘Yes?’

  The lad was no older than fifteen – sixteen at a pinch. For all his attempts at youthful cockiness, the eyes told a different story. His attention moved from Berenger to Jack and the others and back again. There was an anxious set to his brows, and his fingers seemed to clasp the rope with a drowning sailor’s grip, but he still managed to curl his lip as though he was as ashamed to be confronted by a mere churl as any nobleman would be.

  Berenger led him to the prow, where they would have some privacy. ‘If I’m to get you safely to the north, I need to know a little about you. Are you trained in how to use that?’ he asked, nodding to the boy’s sword, which hung close to the little message pouch.

  ‘I’ve had a good education,’ Retford said defensively.

  ‘But can you use a sword?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘On horseback?’

  ‘I don’t think . . .’ he began haughtily, then caught sight of Berenger’s steady gaze and reconsidered. ‘Yes, I can,’ he said.

  ‘Good. And you are used to riding long distance?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How far in a day?’

  ‘Often twenty miles.’

  ‘A King’s messenger will manage thirty-five in a day, same as a messenger on foot. We won’t have time for niceties. If we’re to get the message to Durham in time to prevent the Scots from launching their attack and laying all the north of England to waste, we’ll have to travel as fast as possible. That means sore buttocks and thighs and riding for fifty miles a day, if we can. I want to get to Durham in six days – that is my aim.’

  ‘I can do it.’

  ‘I hope so, boy.’

  Retford bridled, as Berenger had intended. ‘I am no boy!’ he hissed. ‘I am a Nuncius, a Messenger to the King! You will treat me with respect!’

  His hand strayed to the little leather message pouch again as though he expected to have to defend it from Berenger.

  Berenger rolled with the ship as the prow pointed down into a trough. As it emerged, the deck was flooded with water for a moment, and he felt his boots slip on the wet decking.

  ‘Until you show me what you’re made of, you’ll be Boy to me. I’m your senior by more than double your age, and I will not take orders from you. You, on the other hand, will do everything I tell you, because if you do not, you may bring danger to my men. I am responsible for seventeen men here, all told, and I won’t have their security put at risk because of your foolishness. Their safety means more to me than yours, because they and I have fought many times together, and I know they’ll risk their lives to protect me. That demands my respect. You, on the other hand, are simply a boy with a message to deliver. Well, my men and I can deliver your message with or without you. You are dead weight, until you prove otherwise. I daresay you were born to a free man, and you were taken on by the King’s Household some time ago when they needed a runner to deliver orders for the baker to make more loaves, or the huntsman to prepare the hounds for the King’s pleasure. And now you have your more important message to deliver. That is fine, but do not mistake – or overestimate – your significance in this.’

  He turned and was about to leave when the boy spoke.

  ‘I have been warned about you. Your threats don’t scare me, Master Fripper! Just remember, I have my sword at the ready at all times. If you try to kill me, you will live to regret it. My Lord Peter of Bromley will know whom to blame if any hurt comes to me.’

  Berenger eyed him musingly. ‘Boy, if you bring danger to me or my men, I will slay you myself, orders or no. Apart from that, I will guard you well enough. We aren’t footpads here.’

  ‘For certain,’ the boy sneered, peering at the vintaine. Pardoner and Oliver had joined Turf at the wale and the three could be heard groaning and spitting even over the noise of the waves slapping
at the hull. ‘No felons in your vintaine.’

  Later, as he rolled himself in his blanket to sleep, already halfway to London, Berenger remembered that look and his words. It almost sounded as though the lad knew something about the men that he didn’t. Of course, the boy could have meant Berenger himself. That would explain Sir Peter’s look, too, if he felt that Berenger was a traitor. It would explain the two men trying to waylay and kill him, too.

  But it could also relate to the older members of the vintaine; if any were a traitor, Berenger would be willing to wager that it was Tyler. Mark Tyler, who had stirred up enough trouble for four men in the last month, and who had been willing to trade his person for news of the army in Dunkirk. Certainly Retford’s look and tone told of a conviction that someone in the vintaine was guilty of treachery or some other heinous crime.

  Berenger wondered whether Tyler’s behaviour could have blinded him to another’s evildoing. In his mind, he reviewed the men. Saint Lawrence was clearly incapable of committing a crime, as was the Pardoner. For his money, he considered that Horn, Turf and Wren were similarly unlikely felons. The Earl, Dogbreath and Aletaster were more likely. He would say that any one of them could have been a felon. As for the older members of his vintaine . . . well, Clip was more trouble than a gaggle of whores. Come to that, Oliver or any of the others could have given offence. Especially adventurers like John of Essex.

  It wasn’t surprising. When the King decided to send his largest ever army into France, he had collected together all the men he could find. Some were volunteers, but many were the dregs of society, men who had crimes to hide from, men who had committed adultery, runaway priests and monks, pimps, tricksters, draw-latches, robbers and cut-purses. It took all kinds of men to fill an army. And some, of course, were convicted felons who had been offered a pardon for their service. The fact that Andrew Retford had thought about things showed good sense, in that he appreciated the risks of such companions.

  Then Berenger reconsidered. Perhaps it showed nothing of Retford’s thinking, but more about Sir Peter’s. If the knight wanted to harm the reputation of Berenger’s vintaine, it would be easy to instil in Retford a belief that the other men with him were guilty of unimaginable crimes. If Retford survived and made it back, he could boast about his skill and guile in fooling the men of the vintaine who were out to destroy him; if he did not return to Sir Peter, the knight could easily allow it to be known that he had never trusted the vintaine from the outset. Either way, doubt and suspicion would lurk wherever the vintaine were to go. More men, like the two who had set upon Berenger, would be sure to try their luck. There would be nowhere safe for them.