Blood on the Sand

by Michael Jecks

  ‘A knight?’ Berenger scoffed. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Why not? I’ve as much brain as most of them.’

  ‘You’re the son of a tanner, and you think you can get your hands on a knighthood?’

  ‘Others have. All I need do is show myself bold enough. I’ll do it.’

  Berenger wondered about that. The man had ambition, but ambition was never enough. This fellow had a lot to live down already. Berenger knew that until recently, he too had been the vintener of a small party – before his sudden fall from grace. If others could have had their way, this adventure-seeking tanner’s son would even now be gracing the King’s three-legged hangman’s tree outside Villeneuve-la-Hardie.

  ‘I reckon you should keep yourself quiet and unnoticed,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’ The fellow bridled.

  Berenger looked at him. ‘You were found guilty of riding out for personal profit when the orders were to remain with the army. You’ve already lost your rank and position – you’d be well advised to keep yourself inconspicuous.’

  ‘I wasn’t riding for my own purse,’ John of Essex said, and his face took on the obstinate expression Berenger was coming to recognise. ‘I thought I saw men in the farmstead, and I was right. They waylaid us.’

  ‘And so you were put in my charge and then we were all pushed up the gangplank to this old tub.’

  ‘That’s hardly my fault.’

  Berenger looked at him. ‘Is it not? Perhaps someone in a position of power took a dislike to you and your actions.’

  ‘We rode into a small hamlet, got attacked and rode back. What is there in that to make someone want to punish me?’

  Berenger frowned as he considered the boat now on their starboard side. It was a swift-moving galley, and it overhauled the rest of the convoy. At the prow was a man with long, mousy hair blowing in the breeze. ‘Who is that?’

  ‘Sir Peter of Bromley. Haven’t you heard of him? He used to be named Sir Pierre d’Agen, but he fell out with the French King. Something to do with the King’s latest favourite wanting some lands, and Sir Peter’s being the best available. So, to satisfy his friend, King Philip gave away Sir Peter’s lands and lost a loyal subject. Stupid prick!’

  A shorter man clad in a cleric’s gown with a fringe of almost-black hair went to Sir Peter’s side and whispered in his ear.

  Berenger watched as Sir Peter’s vessel overtook them at speed. The galley was soon far beyond them, racing on towards France as though flying over the waves.

  It was after midday, and Berenger was breaking his fast with a chicken leg and quart of ale, when he heard Dogbreath calling to him.

  ‘Fripper, are they with us?’

  Grumbling to himself about his poor eyesight, Berenger strained his eyes, peering in the direction Dogbreath was pointing. There were some hulls there, he felt sure, but a long way off. ‘What do you see?’ he said to Saint Lawrence, but the tall, fair recruit shook his head. His eyes were no better than Berenger’s.

  ‘Can’t you see?’

  ‘Yes, you fool’ Berenger snapped, ‘but I want to know what you—’

  His words were suddenly drowned by the shipman at the masthead, who bawled down at the deck, ‘GENOESE! Galleys to port!’

  All at once, the ship came alive. Shipmen ran up the ratlines to the yard and began to let out more sail, while the ship’s company rushed to their stations. Berenger and John of Essex made their way to the rail as the ship began to wallow, then with a creaking and cracking of ropes and timbers, she lurched to the larboard and began to hurtle through the waves. Their passage became more urgent, with a thrumming of ropes as the wind howled through them. Men temporarily forgot the slow agonies of their sickness as the ship strained like a greyhound at the leash. But she was an old, arthritic greyhound.

  ‘Oh, God’s ballocks!’ Clip groaned.

  Berenger followed the direction of his gaze and saw a galley ram the side of a great cog. Arrows were flying, and there was a loud crash and burst of flame as the galley fired a small gonne. Amidst the thick, roiling smoke, Berenger saw a number of shipmen thrown aside. One man was flung over the wale into the sea. Then the galley reversed, and the cog immediately began to sink down in the water.

  Another galley crushed the whole of a fishing boat. The vessel collapsed like a felt hat struck by a hammer. It was there one moment, and then the prow rose up to the sky, while the rear was smashed aside, and in an instant both parts were sunk. The galley did not falter, but continued on towards their own ship.

  ‘They’ll take us next,’ John of Essex said grimly.

  At Villeneuve-la-Hardie, Archibald the gynour was up early that morning. He had been unable to sleep. Mares had troubled him as he tossed and turned under his blanket. In the end, he had got up and spent the remainder of the night sorting through his stores of powder and shot, testing the barrels for damage or leaks, and sifting powder to ensure all was still dry.

  ‘You look tired,’ Béatrice said when he returned to the camp late in the morning. There was, he thought, a slight edge of concern to her voice – almost as though she cared for him. He smiled at that thought. She had suffered so much in recent weeks, it would be a miracle if she ever felt able to trust a man again.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ he admitted. ‘It was Fripper’s fault, though. He spoke to me about the ships that keep making their way to the harbour to supply the town, and it gave me pause to wonder: will you be safe here, if I go away for a few hours?’

  ‘I will see to my safety.’

  ‘See to the boy as well, eh? I wouldn’t wish for the Donkey to be harmed while I am away.’

  ‘I will guard him too.’

  ‘Good.’

  He left soon after, walking up the north-bearing roadway, turning right, and continuing on to the city walls.

  The town of Calais was itself held within a long rectangle of walls. To the north the city looked to the sea but on three other sides, the walls gave onto scrubby land with a miserable grey soil that looked insufficient to support any plants, and yet it brought forth a variety of trees and shrubs, while the fields further east looked productive. However here, near the walls, the land was wretchedly boggy. There was hardly any need to dig a moat. Even the trenches dug by the English were soon filling with water. Yet there was a wide, double moat, too, that curved from the east side along the south, and part-way up the western side.

  Along the northern stretch of wall, and then curving slightly before continuing west, was the river that fed the estuary where the harbour lay. There was another moat here, as well as a long dyke. More defences protected the castle at the north-western corner of the town.

  Archibald sighed as he took in the sight of the castle. It was tempting to think that he could pound it into dust, but alas, even the most massive gonne he possessed would do no more than scratch that rock. It was impregnable – as were most of the town’s walls. For him to reach the town with his powder and shot was possible, but it would be at the last gasp. In truth, old technology would serve better. Large wooden catapults and stone-throwers would do more damage.

  However, there was still work for his machines. This was what his dreams had told him.

  To the north, for example, was the Rysbank. There, if he could position his gonnes safely, he would be able to command the entrance to the harbour. True, right now the Rysbank was protected by French defenders, but they could be driven off or into the sea.

  It was a thought. Aye, it was a good thought.

  ‘They’re going to take us. We’ll all be killed,’ Clip whined.

  ‘Shut up, Clip,’ Jack said.

  Dogbreath was eyeing the ship with a glower. ‘There’s no way I’ll be captured by a poxed Genoese son of a whore!’

  ‘They won’t take us,’ Berenger said. ‘Not while we remain here fighting.’

  ‘Frip? They’re getting closer,’ Mark Tyler said.

  Berenger cast a look over his shoulder. The sea obscured the other vessel for a moment,
but then it reappeared, the prow pointing to the heavens as it breasted the wave, and then started the long, gut-churning, swooping dive. It was definitely pursuing them.

  ‘It’s a fucking galley, Tyler. What do you expect?’ he rasped.

  Tyler flicked his lank, straw-coloured hair back from his brow. He was a tall fellow, with dark eyes that looked out of place in his pale face. Berenger had known him only a matter of weeks, but didn’t trust the man at all. He had been involved in plundering a religious house, and Berenger preferred to keep to secular enemies. He saw little need to provoke God Himself.

  Berenger glanced about him at the ship, his eyes narrowed against the stinging spray. He was weary after the last hours of rocking to and fro with the planks shifting under his feet, and felt like a man ten years his senior. Every muscle and joint ached, and his bowels felt weak, as though he was suffering from a fever, as well as the vomit that constantly threatened to gush like the spume from the wave-tops.

  ‘I’ve had enough of this shit,’ he swore, and began to make his way over the treacherous deck to the shipmaster.

  A loose coil of rope, slippery planks, the sudden thunder of a fresh wave striking the hull . . . and Berenger was thrown from his feet. On his backside, he slid over the tilting deck and almost slammed into the wall of timbers on the farther side, but before he could do so, a hand grasped his jerkin, and he was drawn to a halt. He shivered as he looked at the sea in front of him. He had been that close to drowning, he knew. Wanting to thank his rescuer, he stared around at his saviour.

  ‘Glad I’m here now, are you?’ Tyler enquired.

  Berenger jerked himself free of Tyler’s hand and clasped a rope, hauling himself upright. ‘Keep off me!’

  ‘No gratitude?’ Tyler said sarcastically and returned to watching their pursuer.

  No, Berenger said to himself, no gratitude, no friendship. Only suspicion and disgust.

  Back at Calais, Ed the Donkey stood huddled in a cloak near Archibald’s wagon, grumpily surveying the grey seas.

  Ed felt lonely. Twelve years old, he had been orphaned years before. He had come here to France to take his revenge, but the life of a soldier had proved more dangerous than he could have anticipated, and now he stood here staring out towards England and home.

  Not that he had a home any more. The only home he knew was the one here, with Béatrice and Archibald the gynour.

  At first he had thought the big man was terrifying: he reeked of the Devil. That was the smell Ed associated with Archibald – brimstone, the odour of Hell.

  All the other soldiers tried to avoid Archibald: none of them liked the smell that followed him. Men made signs against the Evil One when he had passed, and even after a battle, Archibald found it difficult to acquire food. At Crécy, Ed had seen how Archibald’s great gonnes had ripped into the ranks of French men-at-arms – and had also seen how a mis-prepared gonne could detonate and slaughter all the gynours about it. Archibald had fought with all the zeal of a Christian that day. And recently Ed had grown fond of the old man.

  It was not Archibald himself who made him feel more comfortable with his place at the gynour’s side, though. It was the constant presence of Béatrice.

  Ed had no sister. His parents died when French pirates appeared and destroyed his town. The young lad saw his father die, and his mother was raped and murdered. Béatrice felt like a mix of the older sister he’d never had and his mother. She was beautiful, and kind, and very understanding. He simply adored her.

  He suddenly heard a little sound and his head snapped around. It came from over by a wagon. He stared hard. In the semi-darkness, it was hard to see much, but he was sure he could see a sack moving. It was the bag in which they kept their stores of oats. Not many people liked oats, but Archibald and Berenger had it in their heads that oats were a useful food for the men.

  Ed reckoned a dog must have got into their stores. The movement was too large for a rat, surely? A rat that size would be bigger than a cat. He had no wish to confront a giant rat, he told himself. At first he shouted and threw a stick, then a small rock. A yelp came, but it sounded human rather than canine.

  Ed hurried to the stores, and found a small boy rubbing his head. He turned wide, terrified eyes to Ed, but then saw how small Ed was. Standing, he was almost Ed’s height.

  ‘Keep away from our food!’ Ed spat.

  ‘I’ll take what I need,’ the boy responded truculently.

  ‘You’ll have to fight me first!’

  ‘Reckon you can stop me?’

  Ed had no desire to fight anyone, but he would rather fight than see Archibald’s food pinched, and some thieving scrote of a vintener’s boy was not going to walk away scot free. ‘Yes!’

  The boy was painfully thin. He looked as though he hadn’t eaten in days.

  ‘You’re French?’ Ed demanded. Ed had lost his family to the French, but in the last two weeks of fighting, he had come to appreciate that not all French were evil, in the same way that not all English soldiers were saints. And this was only a young lad. With the condescension of an older boy for one at least a full year younger, Ed dismissed him as a threat.

  ‘Yes! This is my land!’ the boy declared.

  Ed shrugged. ‘But it’s my food, and you won’t take it without permission. Still, if you’re hungry I have bread. Do you want some?’

  The boy eyed the hunk of bread Ed produced with all the ravenous desperation of a cur, then stared up at Ed’s face as though suspecting there to be a trick in this act of generosity.

  ‘I’ve been hungry, too,’ Ed said gruffly by way of explanation. ‘Come. Eat! What is your name?’

  ‘Georges,’ his visitor said, edging nearer to the bread.

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘My family lived in a town. You have destroyed it. We have nothing left, and I have lost my family.’

  ‘I lost my family years ago,’ Ed said. He held the loaf lower, ducking his head. ‘Come, eat.’

  The boy darted forward, snatched the bread and darted away a few yards, stuffing the food into his mouth as quickly as he could. He looked like a squirrel desperately filling its mouth before a predator could arrive.

  ‘You want some drink?’ Ed asked.

  Georges nodded, and Ed fetched him a mazer of wine. The boy drained it in one, coughing at the strength of it. Ed refilled the mazer and the boy took it back, sipping more carefully now.

  ‘You’ll be safe here,’ Ed said. ‘The men here are kind. They looked after me, too.’

  Georges watched him doubtfully, but then nodded. As if by that one action he had passed responsibility for his well-being to Ed, he immediately wrapped himself up in Ed’s blanket, lay down and was soon fast asleep.

  Tyler. Bleeding Tyler, Berenger thought to himself.

  There were always men like Tyler in any army. The stranger who stood at the outer edge of the men; the man who held the secrets of his past close to his chest; the odd one who wouldn’t join in wholeheartedly. The one whom none of the others trusted entirely. John of Essex was bad enough, but he was predictable and, while dangerous, could be understood. Tyler was another sort of man entirely.

  All the men in Berenger’s vintaine had their own secrets. Any group of twenty men would have one or two whose secrets were close-guarded for good reason. In King Edward III’s army, more than a few had been career outlaws and thieves. There were draw-latches, robbers and murderers in every centaine mingling freely with the honest fighters who had been brought by their lords or tempted by the promise of booty.

  Many of them were pardoned felons. The King had need of more men to swell the ranks of his archers and infantry, which had been depleted in the short, vicious campaign that had taken the army down to the walls of Paris and back to Calais; therefore any man who could wield a sword or bow was welcome. For every man who could be counted on, who was reliable, there was another who was viewed askance by those who knew him, suspecting that his shifty manner meant he had something to hide.


  And Berenger was convinced that Tyler was such a man.

  ‘You all right, Vintener?’ John of Essex called.

  Berenger grunted, his attention returning to the galley behind them. It was gaining far too quickly. ‘Shipman! How long till we reach the port?’ he bellowed.

  The ship’s master, a dour old fisherman with a round face framed by grey whiskers and the expression of a man who had bitten by accident into a sloe, curled his lip as he peered over Berenger’s shoulder at their pursuer. ‘If he keeps on like that, us’ll never reach the port, boy.’

  ‘They’re preparing!’

  The shipman’s cries from the crow’s nest came down to the decks during a brief lull in the storm, and for a moment, Fripper was startled to hear the voice coming from so high up. Then the deck pitched once more and he was forced to clutch at a rope. Staring back at their pursuers, he saw the enemy gathering at the forecastle. They were only a matter of yards away now.

  ‘Vintaine!’ he yelled. ‘String your bows!’

  Usually, before he went into battle, Fripper would find a strange peace washing over him, his breath coming more calmly. As a young man, he had known only terror, his heart beating faster, his armpits and hands growing clammy with sweat at the realisation that he was about to risk his life once more, but with age, that had deadened. Now there was only the sense of a task to be undertaken. Nothing more. It was just a job.

  Not this time, however. Today, his fear was smothering him. Fighting on ships felt unnatural at the best of times. He had done so before, but on ships bound together, so that it was like fighting on land. To the vintener, the risk of drowning was more alarming than the thought of a stab to the heart or being hit by a crossbow bolt.

  He was terrified, and the realisation sucked at his will. Clinging to his rope as the galley crawled ever closer, he could not muster the energy to draw his sword.