Blood on the Sand

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Sweet Mother Mary, take pity on his poor soul,’ Grandarse prayed – and then pulled out his misericorde. He plunged it down into the man’s breast, stabbing the heart at the first attempt.

  ‘That’s that, then,’ he muttered, standing again. There was a fresh clamour from the walls, and he glanced up. At the back wall, away from the tower, he saw more French fighters. ‘Christ’s ballocks, but they’re tricksy bastards, these,’ he rasped. ‘John, fetch your vintaine and be quick! Tyler, help me move this poor devil.’

  Grandarse took the arms, Tyler the legs, and they half-carried, half-dragged the body through into the main hall. There they dropped it on the floor. Marguerite looked at Jean’s face, then up at Grandarse.

  ‘He’s not needing any help, mistress,’ he said. He was oddly affected to see how she looked at Berenger. Frip, you old git, he thought, you’d best pull through, for this one’s sake. The wench wants you in her bed rather than on your deathbed!

  Aloud, he grunted, ‘How is he?’

  ‘He is a lot of pain. I hope he will live.’

  ‘Aye, so do we all,’ Grandarse said.

  He led the way out of the main doors, and to the yard. At the stables, he beckoned Tyler to follow him. ‘See here,’ he said, pointing.

  Tyler stared at the mess on the floor. ‘Yes?’

  Grandarse had already drawn his dagger. Now he placed it at the back of Tyler’s skull, at the top of his neck. ‘I don’t like pricks who try to kill their superiors. Normally, I’d wait until there was a court and I could accuse you myself.’

  ‘I didn’t do it, Grandarse! I was staring out at the French – I didn’t even know he was there!’

  They were his last words.

  ‘Fripper’s a friend of mine, you see,’ Grandarse said as Tyler’s body twitched and shook. ‘And I won’t run the risk that you’ll escape punishment like you did before over the Donkey.’

  Berenger opened his eyes and felt the light stabbing through them and on into his brain. The agony was exquisite and he was forced to close them again.

  There was a curious movement all about him – a jolting and a jarring. When he attempted to sit up, a whole new range of pains assailed him on all sides. His back felt as if an entire army had used it for a kicking competition, while his head felt as though it was only loosely held to his neck and the slightest shock must force it free of its moorings.

  A crash, and he was bumped viciously, crying out. He could have wept at the pain.

  He was in a cart of some sort, that was plain. A cart that was taking him on a rough, poorly maintained road. And all about him, now he could concentrate, there was the sound of men on the march: boots tramping along, squeaks and rattles of pots and pans, of leather harnesses, the clink and jingle of chains and mail, and then he heard the voices too.

  ‘I tell you, we’ll be too late.’ That was Clip’s familiar drone. The vintaine was all on horseback again.

  ‘We have plenty of time.’ Berenger was glad to hear Jack’s voice. ‘It’s unlikely that the siege will be ended any time soon.’

  ‘What?’ That was the Pardoner. ‘It’s been months already, and you say it’s no nearer being ended?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know for sure, but it’s quite likely to be carrying on even now. We’ve only been down here a little while, and the main thing is, the King was determined to starve the Calesians out. He’s not going to go running in with his braies round his ankles. He’ll make sure it’s finished and on its knees and then he’ll assault it.’

  ‘Who,’ Berenger asked carefully, for enunciating each word was making the top of his head feel as though a man had stuck an auger into it and was slowly screwing it in, ‘has beaten me to a pulp? I want to know so I never insult him again. Where are we? What happened to the castle?’

  Jack’s face came into view. ‘How are you, Frip?’

  His face was pushed out of the way and Grandarse took his place. ‘Oh, so you’re awake, eh? About time, too. Talk about a bone-idle tart-tickler trying to escape all the hard work by pretending to be ill, eh?’

  ‘Is he recovering?’

  Berenger froze at the sound of that voice: Marguerite.

  ‘I’m well enough, Mistress,’ he said.

  ‘Be polite to her,’ Grandarse ordered. ‘She saved your life, man. Don’t you remember the fall?’

  He could remember it now. He had come to consciousness a few times lying in the hall, but that all seemed a long time ago, and his memory was hazy, as though he was trying to catch glimpses of his history through a befogged glass. ‘I remember you washing my face,’ he murmured to her.

  She smiled and her hand, just for a moment, clasped his, before releasing it. He was confused – alarmed too, truth be told. But she was as kind as she was handsome. He tried to smile back at her. Now he remembered more: the clatter and clash of battle, screams, the sight of a body on the floor . . . ‘Jean de Vervins is dead?’

  ‘He was hit by a bolt, poor bastard. Drowned in his own blood. So we offered to talk to the French and they agreed to a truce. They let us leave the place with our weapons, so here we are. They were happy to be rid of us without any more dead, and we were happy just to get away in one piece. I don’t think we would have survived, had we stayed there longer.’

  ‘And Jean? What happened to his body?’

  Grandarse’s face was grim. ‘They had to make an example of him. Leave a sign to others. They hanged him from the gatehouse.’

  ‘Poor Jean,’ Berenger said.

  ‘Could have been worse. He could have been alive,’ Grandarse pointed out.

  Berenger managed a thin smile. ‘True.’

  ‘No. Don’t worry yourself about him. He’s happy now, hopefully,’ Grandarse said, and then added with a leer, glancing at Marguerite, ‘And anyway, you have to concentrate on getting yourself healthy again so that you can lay siege to your woman’s honour.’

  ‘Grandarse, don’t—’

  ‘Time enough to warn me later,’ Grandarse chuckled.

  ‘What will happen to the castle? Are the local people taking it over?’

  ‘Not now it’s been the home of a traitor. The people of Laon are taking the place apart stone by stone. There’ll be some fine houses built around Bosmont before long, with all that good stone becoming available. The local sheep-shaggers will have the best houses in France.’

  ‘So where do we go now?’

  ‘We, my fine friend, are on our way to Calais, at long last. I’m hoping that when we get there, we’ll discover that it’s still standing and that we’re needed to help take it by storm. And then, with a little more luck, we’ll be able to take a goodly share of all the plunder and put our feet up for a while!’

  He gave a great guffaw and began singing a bawdy tavern song about a miller’s wife and her sexual needs being fulfilled after meeting a lively pair of Northumbrians.

  Berenger turned onto his side and winced with pain, but he was not thinking of his back and bruises. He was thinking about that day when he had fallen from the wall. He could distinctly recall the floor on the wall’s walkway. It had been clear of all obstacles, and yet when he took that fateful step, something had tripped him. Something like a bow, out-thrust deliberately to make him overbalance – because someone wanted him out of the way. And only one man had consistently been his enemy.

  ‘Where is Tyler?’ he asked.

  Grandarse didn’t even look down. ‘Him?’ he said casually. ‘Oh, he died during the last attack.’

  For once the weather was warm and dry, and Berenger sat on the bench outside the tavern drinking and soaking up the sun.

  His head had recovered, and the bruises and scrapes seemed to be healing well, as was the scar on his face. Only his shoulder, where the maul had struck him, was still giving him problems. It would regularly ache as the weather changed, or when there was the threat of a storm. He swung his arm, trying to release some of the tension, but nothing seemed to do it any good, apart from a large quantity of ale.
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  ‘You’re looking terrible,’ Archibald said. He had come around the corner of the building, and now stood staring down at Berenger with a genial sympathy creasing his crow’s feet.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Berenger said. ‘I’ve never felt better.’

  ‘Yes. Of course,’ Archibald said, sitting at his side. He took hold of Berenger’s jug and drank deeply. ‘Hmm. Not as good as a cider, but tasty.’

  ‘Did you leave me any?’

  ‘Of course. A little. Hoi! Maid, two more quarts of this ale, if you please,’ he called to the serving wench. ‘With a face like hers she must be a marvellous servant, for she was not hired for her looks.’

  ‘What, you came to discuss the merits of a woman’s appearance?’

  ‘No, I came to chat about treachery and spies.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘What do you think? Our young Donkey has a moderately good brain on his shoulders. He spotted a man who was regularly watching my gonnes. I didn’t think much of it at first, but then I noticed that he liked to observe the English camp at different times of the day. And when Béatrice followed him, she learned that he is the clerk to Sir Peter of Bromley. Some call him Vidame, as they would call the steward of an abbey.’

  ‘Many men wander around the town and stop to watch what is happening about our army.’

  ‘Ah, but not many try to inveigle young fellows to watch for them, to listen for chatter, and then to report back to them.’

  ‘This man has done so?’

  ‘Yes. And I do not know what to do about him.’

  ‘Perhaps you have mistaken him?’

  ‘He tried to entice the Donkey into working for him. It is to the lad’s credit that he refused. But Donkey suspects . . .’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘The other boy with you: Georges. Donkey reckons he has been running messages and giving him details of your men and what you have been doing.’

  ‘He will have learned nothing to help the French, then,’ Berenger said dryly.

  ‘Perhaps not. But it is something to consider, when speaking in his presence.’

  ‘Yes,’ Berenger said. ‘I suppose it is.’

  It was to be a hard battle.

  Three nights of rest were all Berenger would be permitted once they reached Calais once more. Three nights, and then the vintaine was called to arms once more. A mighty French convoy was on the way to relieve the town.

  ‘Eh?’ Grandarse rumbled as he pulled his bascinet on over his head. ‘They must be starving indeed in that place now, with no new food since late last year. Down to eating their boots and rats, I’d think. Aye, but that’s a crappy way to die, of starvation. We’re doing better up here, lads, eh? If we were still at the castle at Bosmont, we’d be in a similar plight. Bugger that.’

  ‘Somehow I don’t think you’re cut out to starve to death, Grandarse,’ Berenger said, his tone mild.

  ‘Aye, that’s the truth. I’m the sort of man who needs a little sustenance.’

  ‘You’ve had more than a little in your lifetime. Your belly is a testament to how you worship at the altar of Bacchus and—’

  ‘Are you taking the piss?’ Grandarse growled. ‘I don’t want to have to thump you when you haven’t fully recovered from falling off that wall, man, but I will if I have to knock some sense into your thick skull!’

  ‘We’re supposed to be on board,’ Berenger said. ‘Archers, follow me!’ and he led the men away from the fuming Grandarse to the quay and onto their vessel, a heavy fishing boat.

  The vintener had visited Tooth Butcher again, and the barber had taken a long look at him, before drinking a large jug of ale and saying, ‘You daft bastard, you. Look at you! All that bruising, it’s a miracle you can still walk. Next time, take the stairs rather than trying to fly.’

  Still, for all the humour taken at his expense, the fact that he appeared not to have broken any bones was a great relief. He still felt dreadfully sore, but at least there was no long-term damage, as far as the barber could tell. He volunteered to take some blood, but Berenger was so sore already that he refused to consider it.

  They were out at sea for most of the morning. The French fleet had been waiting in the mouth of the Seine: ten large cogs and a barge filled with the food so desperately needed by the people of Calais. These were guarded by ten galleys and a number of armed merchantmen – some fifty-one ships all told. This was the fleet that the English were to destroy.

  Berenger felt the ship come alive as he stood on the forecastle. At the quayside, she was a mere shell of pieces of wood and rope, but once she had been shoved away bodily from the land, she became something else. At first, while she was tugged out into the open, she rolled and lurched like a drunken sow who’d got to the ale slops, but as the shipmen ran about aloft, releasing sails and then reefing them in to the commands of the shipmaster, she righted herself and became like a hawk observing its prey. As she slowly moved off into the main channel, more sail was let out, and she stiffened and strained, her tension apparent to all about the vessel.

  For Berenger, it was a thrill to feel the deck begin its rhythmic progress, rising and falling regularly. There was a crack and some creaking, that had more than one landsman whirl his head around, thinking a spar had snapped and the ship must sink, but it was only a wooden stanchion settling itself as the ropes gripped more tightly. Berenger smiled to himself as he saw first the Pardoner, then Aletaster run to the rails and empty their bellies. Aletaster didn’t think, and his vomit was thrown back into his face by the wind, which was the cause of much hilarity amongst the rest of the vintaine, apart from two men who suddenly grew very thoughtful as the stench travelled amongst them. One was later to be seen leaning over the wale himself.

  Their ships were all moving swiftly enough, and it seemed no time at all before they could see the lines of the convoy up ahead.

  Berenger moved to the prow and stared ahead. With his awful eyesight it was hard to make anything out, but soon he could see a series of masts. There were so many it looked like a small forest coming ever closer. He gave the order to string their bows, and the men set to, one timing his efforts badly and tumbling as the ship rolled, sliding down the deck to the jeers of his companions.

  All the archers had quivers and stacks of arrows in sheaves at their feet. They were as ready as they could be.

  ‘Is this my bow?’ Clip complained. ‘It’s got a knot in it.’

  ‘Like the one that should be about your neck,’ Dogbreath said.

  The Aletaster glanced over. ‘Yes, it’s yours.’

  ‘It doesn’t look right.’

  The Earl looked down at it. ‘Clip, it is a bow!’ he said. ‘How much more bow-like could it look?’

  ‘On mine the heart wood was darker than this,’ Clip protested. ‘Look at this: it’s all light-coloured, like a good honey.’

  ‘Does it pull? Yes. Does it loose arrows? Yes. It’s adequate for its function and purpose,’ the Earl said.

  ‘It’s not mine, though. Mine doesn’t have this knot. How can you use a bow like this? The wood will go right where that knot is. It’ll snap.’

  ‘Clip,’ Berenger said, ‘shut up. You have a bow. It will do the job.’

  ‘Ach, I don’t know why I bother. We’ll all be killed anyway. Whoever thought of fighting on board a ship must have been mad . . . or just hated sailors.’

  ‘Or moaning English archers,’ Berenger said. ‘Now shut up.’

  They were moving at a good pace now, and the distance between them and the French fleet was shrinking.

  Up at the rear of the ship, Grandarse was bellowing orders. He stood like a Viking, his head encased in steel, his belly protruding beneath its covering of mail. ‘Archers! We will sail into their midst and bring to action the nearest ship we can. Is that clear? When I give the order, I want all archers to loose at the same time. Now, hold to your positions!’

  Berenger heard the shipmaster snap a command. A change in motion warned
them that the ship was altering direction slightly, and now they were pointing straight at a barge. Her red sail was billowing, but with the weight of her cargo, she still lumbered along slowly.

  ‘Archers, the barge is ours! Get ready!’ Grandarse bawled, and all the ship’s company stared ahead at the vessel. She was sluggish and low in the water, but her crew were doing all they could to coax a little more speed from her. They were inching closer and closer, the barge attempting to turn away slightly north, while the English cog tried to head her off.

  Then Berenger was startled by a shriek from aloft: ‘’Ware! Galley on the larboard side!’

  Turning, Berenger saw a sleek vessel plunging through the waves towards them. It had a great ram beneath the sharp prow, and he could see the rows of oars rising and dipping as it advanced. He bawled, ‘ARCHERS! ARCHERS, NOCK! ARCHERS, DRAW! ARCHERS, LOOSE!’

  There was a flurry of whistles, and the arrows leaped into the air, all so close together that Berenger saw some strike others in mid-air, righting themselves and plunging together with all the others.

  ‘Archers, nock! Archers, draw! Archers, pick your targets! Loose!’

  A second stream of long arrows sped on their way; by now, the English cog was turning, but too slowly . . . and then the two ships struck. All could hear the impact of the ram splintering the cog’s hull. And then the enemy vessel was drawing away, the rowers tugging their galley from the stricken cog before she could begin to sink and snag the ram, pulling the galley down with her. Berenger wanted to send grapnels onto her so that he and his men could clamber aboard and try to take her to replace their own ship, but the collision had knocked all the archers off their feet, and there was no time to recover themselves and hurl their ropes.

  Screams and cries spoke of men trapped beneath the deck as the English cog began to fill with water, but then the ship, wallowing badly, turned her prow a last time, and Berenger saw what the shipmaster had noticed. A second English ship had tried to take the barge, which had turned back towards the archers. ‘Grapnels and anything else – get that ship!’ he screamed, reaching for the nearest coil of rope.