Blood on the Sand

by Michael Jecks

  He had never conquered his aggressive nature. It was common enough with all men, it was true, but Colin Thommelin should have learned to control his rages and anger better, or conceal them beneath a calmer exterior. The problem was, he had never learned common courtesy. He had lost his first wife, but he still had two sons, and he could have found a new woman to warm his bed, had he displayed even a little commonsense. But the man lacked all charm. He was a forgeron, a smith of sorts, and that was what he would remain. A man who lived alone with his sons, who went to the wineshop every evening and stayed while he had money; a man who had no ambition and no hopes of advancement.

  And yet, the man had a use. He was, like Gauvain, from Laon, and he was the ideal messenger. Smiths could travel easily. That was why Gauvain had chosen him to take the letter that Gauvain had painstakingly written out with his companions in treachery.

  Treachery! It was a harsh word. Connotations of fire and agony came with it. To be judged a traitor would result in the most painful of deaths, that was certain. Still, with Colin delivering his letter, Laon would soon become English territory, and Gauvain could return to his ancestral home with the knowledge that his life would become secure. The English were always generous with their payments to men who aided them, and no one could aid them more than he who gave them Laon and the cities of the region. Colin knew that he was barred from Laon while the city remained under the suzerainty of King Philippe, but once it became English, he could appeal to King Edward for his conviction to be quashed. His only wish was to return to the city where he had been born, and this was his means of achieving that.

  Gauvain entered the city as the bells were pealing, and slowed at the sight of a party of watchmen marching along the roadway ahead of him. Idly, he followed them, walking his horse homewards. He would go there first, and rinse the worst of the dust from his face, brush some of the mud from his hosen, and once he had partaken of a little food, he could go to speak with the other merchants of the city and let them know that the English were on their way. There would be celebration at the news, he was sure. Everyone had been working to this end for so long, and now their plans were coming to fruition.

  A spark of anxiety flashed in his breast and he almost lost his footing in fear. A man laughed at him, telling him to mind his step on the loose cobbles, but it was not that which had made him trip: he had distinctly heard one of the watchmen mention his name. Gauvain slowed and listened intently as the men continued. The sergeant of the watchmen was giving orders: they were to break into the house of the lawyer, three men at the front, two at the back in case he tried to flee, and capture him.

  ‘You know what you have to do. That letter tells us what’s been happening here.’

  It was only then that he saw the familiar shape of Colin Thommelin up there with the watchmen, and he suddenly realised that if Colin could gain his pardon from the English King by helping bring about the delivery of Laon, he could expect at least a pardon from King Philippe for warning him about a plot to hand the city over to the English. So that was why his messenger had never reached the English King. He had not tried to. Instead he had taken Gauvain’s letter to the French King.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit,’ he murmured to himself as he turned along a separate street. His horse was reluctant, and tried to jerk his head free of the reins to hurry to their home and a manger of good hay, but Gauvain smacked his rump and spurred him until the recalcitrant beast complied.

  ‘I have to warn them,’ he said to himself, but that was a secondary consideration. Right now, he had to protect himself. He must escape.

  He had a friend in Reims. That was where he would go. He would be safe there.

  Riding beneath the gates of Laon, Berenger felt a fleeting horror and shuddered. It was an age-old terror of buildings looming overhead. Once more he saw in his mind’s eye missiles being flung down at him from rooftops, rocks and arrows crashing and clattering all about him. He saw old friends, and witnessed them die once more. It was a momentary thing only, but it was powerful. Fighting in towns was petrifying. In the open country, you saw your enemy form, you saw them prepare, you heard them attempt to put the fear of death into you as they roared their battle cries and rattled weapons and shields long before they were ready to advance. Arrows, bolts, lances, all could be observed and avoided as best one could. But here, in a town, a man could walk about the streets only to be seized from behind, or have a rock fall from a roof without warning. A man must be wary of all around him, before and behind, but everything above as well. And riding under a city gate like this merely added to the sense of trepidation that infused his spirit.

  ‘Archers, keep together!’ he called over his shoulder as they entered the streets, and then, ‘Marguerite, stay close to me.’

  There were people everywhere, and while they did not look entirely welcoming, nor did they look dangerous. No city liked to receive as guests a hundred or more soldiers, after all. Soldiers were a threat at the best of times, and usually an impediment to business; even if these men were not here to cause trouble, their demands for food and drink would themselves be an annoyance, if not worse. Yes, Berenger could all too easily understand the reluctance of the people here to greet their visitors with joy and open arms, but he was reassured by the lack of displays of anger or rejection. Rather, he thought, the people here showed bemusement and surprise – and something else.

  ‘My friend, you do not need to worry,’ Jean de Vervins said. He had gained in confidence, the nearer they came to the city. ‘We are safe here. Trust me, this is my city. These are my people. As soon as my friend arrives, we shall declare our change of allegiance, and then watch the other cities in this area fall to our King!’

  ‘Aye, that’s right excellent to hear,’ Grandarse said. He was puffing and panting after the unwelcome exercise. ‘But do you think before anything else we could talk about where we’ll be staying? I could do with a chance to shut my eyes and have something to fill my belly before I do anything else.’

  ‘No. First we see to the horses, Centener, and then we think about ourselves,’ Sir John said disapprovingly. ‘Master Jean, I want stabling for all the mounts, and I want it close together. I don’t wish to see them spread all over the city. We must be able to get to them in a hurry, if need be. Our own accommodation must be together and close to the mounts as well.’

  ‘I am sure it will be ready.’

  ‘Who should be welcoming us?’ Sir John said.

  ‘If we continue on this road, we shall soon be at the cathedral. I expect we shall be met there,’ Jean said.

  The city was built on top of a ridge, and with the massive cathedral towering over the whole area, it was a strongly defensible position, Berenger reckoned. ‘If there are even a few hundred men prepared to secure these walls, we’ll be safe,’ he said to Sir John.

  ‘Yes. Even a matter of a few hundred,’ he agreed, but there was a flat tone to his voice as he looked about him, gauging and assessing as he went.

  It took but a short while to push their way through the crowds thronging the streets. It appeared that they had chosen the very same route as all the other people in the city that day, but soon they reached the mighty bulk of the cathedral with its two enormous towers.

  ‘How does it stay standing?’ the Earl remarked, gazing up at it.

  ‘You think God would let it fall?’ the Aletaster said.

  The Pardoner sneered, ‘You haven’t heard of all the cathedrals in England where the spires fell?’

  ‘Perhaps this is God’s country, then,’ the Aletaster countered.

  Berenger didn’t speak. He had seen too much death, murder and horror in the last year to think that there could be anything about this country that God liked.

  ‘Where are your friends, Jean?’ he said. There was no apparent threat, but he didn’t like the fact that they were still out in the open with a vast crowd of people. ‘You said they’d be here.’

  ‘And here they are,’ Jean said with a touch of smugne
ss. He waved his hand and Berenger saw three portly gentlemen hurrying towards them. ‘My good friends, burgesses all: Simon, Paul and Alan. My friends! I am overjoyed to see you! Have you all in place? Did the messenger arriver?’

  ‘But I thought he would be with you?’ the first said.

  ‘No, he was sent before us,’ Jean de Vervins said, and for the first time Berenger saw a slight crease at his brow as though he was concerned. This was surprising news to him.

  ‘You think the man could have been waylaid?’ Berenger asked.

  Jean de Vervins shook his head. ‘He was only a lowly fellow. No one would give him a second glance.’

  ‘Unlike your warriorlike party! You have been travelling long. We should bring your men into the hall and feed them,’ the merchant added, eyeing the mud-spatters on the men’s hosen and tunics.

  ‘There you speak good sense!’ Grandarse exclaimed. ‘Where is the stabling? And then, lead me to the table, my friend!’

  The English archers were all treated to a good meal that evening. Even Tyler, who could usually be guaranteed to complain about any billet, was quiet in the face of the feast provided. And since more men had been expected, the quantity was more than enough.

  ‘How many are there of you?’ one of the townspeople, a man with lank fair hair and greenish eyes, asked Berenger as he helped himself from another mess of thickened pottage.

  ‘Archers, five vintaines, so about a hundred men all told,’ Berenger said.

  ‘One hundred? Is that all?’ the man said, his face falling.

  ‘Have you seen what one hundred English archers can do in three minutes?’ John of Essex demanded. ‘All releasing four or five arrows in each minute, covering a field with arrows that can pierce any steel?’

  ‘So many?’

  ‘And more,’ John said smugly.

  ‘But if there were a thousand men attacking each side of our town,’ the man said with a frown, ‘you would have five and twenty to each wall, and your hundred would look sparse.’

  ‘We don’t lose our battles,’ John said.

  ‘Good,’ the man said, but as he turned away, Berenger saw his concerned expression.

  He was right. One hundred men to protect a town this size was far too few.

  After even a cursory glance at the walls, it was clear that this city held a magnificent position over the surrounding countryside. Even a determined attack by well-trained English forces would find this one a hard nut to crack, Berenger told himself. The land fell away from the walls, which were massive, and the town had an excellent view over all the lands hereabouts.

  ‘Any French force would come from those directions?’ Berenger asked, pointing to the roads south and west.

  A merchant, Simon de Metz, had joined Sir John, Grandarse and Berenger at the wall. Simon answered: ‘Yes. Most probable is the western road.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how many men will gather to attack us?’

  Jean and Simon exchanged a glance. Again, it was Simon who responded. ‘No, I do not know.’

  ‘So we don’t have any idea whether it’ll be the full force of the French army or a posse?’

  ‘No, we do not know,’ Jean said. ‘But so long as we can count on the people here, we should be safe enough.’

  It was their first full morning. Most of the archers had fallen on their mats last night, the instant the drink ceased to flow, and many were mooching about the city now, suffering the effects of last night’s indulgence. Meanwhile, Berenger and Grandarse felt the need to check the town’s existing defences. Sir John had already sent a vintaine to the west in order to sweep around to the south, patrolling the countryside in search of forward parties from a French force, just in case.

  ‘The walls are strong for the most part,’ Sir John said, ‘but there and there are patches of disrepair. How about the population? Are the people for us?’

  It was Jean who smilingly answered, ‘But of course! You will be their liberators.’

  Berenger returned to his lodging with Grandarse, and both settled at the table silently as they broke their fast.

  ‘You too?’ Berenger said at last.

  ‘What?’ Grandarse said.

  ‘You’re not comfortable, are you?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, man. Never been happier in a billet.’

  ‘No, nor me,’ said Berenger, smiling up at Marguerite as she brought in loaves of bread and a board with a cheese.

  They had almost finished their meal when the clamorous tolling of a bell made both leap from the table and rush outside.

  Berenger stared first towards the church, then down the road, to where a bedraggled group of men were hurrying up the street as fast as their exhausted legs would carry them.

  ‘Shit, Grandarse! It’s Paul’s vintaine,’ Berenger breathed.

  Their tale was soon told.

  ‘We were riding down the road only a couple of leagues from here, Sir John, when we rode straight into a sodding great force of militia. At least two thousand of them, I think. There was no time to string our bows or anything. It was a straightforward ballocks of a mess! Before we knew it, three men were down, and Paul was one of the first, with a bolt through the head. It was all we could do to pull the men out and get back here.’

  ‘Were they chasing you?’ Berenger asked.

  ‘They’re coming, yes, but they’re still over a league behind us, I think. We rode fast, but they have wagons and carts, and we slowed them anyway. I took the boys to a little copse, and we used our arrows from there for a while.’

  ‘Good!’ Grandarse said. He looked to Sir John, who was standing absorbing the news.

  ‘You only lost three?’

  ‘Four in all, sir. And two won’t be fit to hold a bow or sword for a week or two.’

  ‘Right, Grandarse, you will need to appoint them a new vintener.’

  The older man nodded. ‘I’ll put John of Essex in charge. He’s a good commander.’

  ‘Tell him not to bugger off on any more private ventures, then,’ Sir John rumbled.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Jean de Vervins looked distraught. ‘How can we hope to hold this place?’

  Sir John set his head on one side. ‘You asked us to come here, man! We are still a strong force.’

  ‘But against twenty to your one?’

  ‘We also have the townspeople,’ Sir John said.

  Jean looked away. ‘Some, perhaps.’

  The Earl and a few of the vintaine were listening. At that, he gave a hollow laugh. ‘Some? That does not exactly inspire confidence, does it, not when our lives are at risk.’

  ‘Be quiet!’ Sir John snapped.

  ‘He’s right, Sir John,’ Pardoner said. ‘How can we be expected to guard the walls about this town? We’d be spread too thinly to guard even a quarter of the walkways.’

  ‘Many of the citizens would no doubt come to our aid,’ Jean de Vervins said.

  ‘Many? What is that supposed to mean?’ Now it was Sir John interrogating Jean de Vervins. ‘Enough to guard a whole wall or two? Speak!’

  ‘I had hoped to have more time here, to persuade others to our cause,’ Jean de Vervins said, his voice thick. ‘But this has all happened so swiftly. We have had no opportunity to speak to people. Some are already saying they should arrest you and your men, to save the city from the King’s vengeance.’

  ‘You asked us to travel all the way here and now you say we can do nothing?’ Berenger said angrily. ‘What is it you expect from us?’

  ‘If he’s right, we should get out of this poxy town and hurry back to Calais before that city falls and we lose all the pickings inside,’ Grandarse said.

  ‘Is that what you think?’ Berenger asked. ‘That we should flee?’

  ‘You cannot prevail here, if the population rises against us. They’ll know that if the army arrives, it’ll be only a matter of time before the city is taken,’ Jean de Vervins said.

  ‘So, there is indeed little point in our remaining here,�
� Sir John said.

  ‘For safety, I can give you another, more defensible place,’ Jean said slowly. The panic was leaving him. Yes, this city was impossible to hold with so few men, but there was always his own little castle of Bosmont. He could take the English there, perhaps, and with these men hold the place. Otherwise, the first thing the French would do would be to capture it and he would have lost his inheritance – and that would be a bitter pill indeed to swallow.

  ‘Yes, there is a place we can go to, and then the English army can come to our aid, with good fortune.’

  Grandarse was seated on his mount by the time Berenger arrived in the main square with Marguerite straggling behind him. ‘Make sure your boy is on his cart,’ Berenger told her curtly and went about the men, checking they had their equipment ready for a swift departure.

  Sir John was already wheeling his horse about, his esquire Richard faithfully responding and bringing his own horse into position as though the two men were preparing to mount a charge immediately.

  Berenger felt the mood of the men about him, and suddenly he realised that the city itself wasn’t threatening towards the archers; rather, the population felt threatened by the arrival of the English. They must know that the presence of English archers would surely precipitate a tumultuous reaction.

  Grandarse suddenly dropped from his saddle and hurtled into a wine-shop. He was soon out, bearing a heavy goatskin. His horse was reluctant and peevish, and retreated before him. ‘Come here, you old sow,’ he shouted.

  Marguerite was back in a moment, her eyes wide with terror.

  ‘Is the boy with the cart?’ Berenger asked her.

  ‘Fuck!’ Grandarse said as he struggled to get back into his saddle, while his horse moved skittishly.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered.

  ‘You look alarmed, maid,’ he observed.

  ‘The people . . . two of them spat at me,’ she said, her eyes welling. ‘They said I was a traitor and would be punished.’