Still weeping, Béatrice ran along the main road towards the town, and then out to the English harbour to the east.
There was a constant shouting, the rumble of great rocks being rolled into the slings of the vast wooden siege machines, and the occasional slither and crack as an engine was released. When that happened, the mighty weight of rock in the counterbalance suddenly jerked downwards, sending the sling-arm up into the air and freeing the rock from its sling, to hurtle through the sky and pound at the walls or buildings of the town.
She had no eyes for that. Her attention was fixed on the sea that was visible from here. The water was filled with galleys and cogs of all shapes and sizes, but there was no sign of their ship and nothing to show what had happened to Berenger and his men. They had disappeared as effectively as if the sea had swallowed them up.
‘Out of the way, you silly bitch!’ a stevedore shouted at her, trundling a heavy cart.
She was blocking the only path from the stores to the ships, she realised, but she still spat a pithy curse at him before turning and marching away.
It was strange to feel this desolation about the vintener and his men. She had hardly known them any time, and most of them were not the kind of people she would have looked at before the recent catastrophes . . . but since the disaster of her father’s arrest and execution, and then her persecution by the local villagers, she had grown more and more dependent on Berenger Fripper and his men. She had come to respect them – almost to trust them.
And now they were taken, swept away from her as effectively as the figures on a chessboard, hurled from their places by an angry, Godlike hand. Their disappearance served only to highlight her own loneliness and despair.
Seeing another man bearing down on her, carrying a heavy bale of cloth on his head and already beginning to swear, she turned and slowly tramped along the road.
She had no idea where she was going. Her feet bore her away from the harbour and the ships, and out towards the west, where the heights of Sangatte loomed. The road took her over a little bridge, and past the reeds that marked the marshes. All the land about here was boggy. She hated it. It reeked of putrefying vegetation. Yet it had one advantage: no army could pass on this stretch of land. Only the two roads, one heading south, the other holding to the coast, could take much traffic. It was a miracle that the town itself had been constructed. Where had they found the stone for the walls – and who could have realised that this was the one site where they could build? Waves crashed at the shore to her right, and she stared out to sea again, wondering how her friends of the vintaine fared. They could already be dead.
The sound of approaching hooves stirred her from her reverie in time to see a small company of horsemen led by a knight. She looked up into a face that could have been carved from the same stone as the walls that protected Calais. It was the face of a man who could happily exterminate a whole race, if there were profit in it.
Only a few weeks ago she had felt the same. She could gladly have seen all her own countrymen executed, for their deliberate killing of her father, and for the way that she herself had been harried and threatened with rape. Yet now she was coming to feel sympathy for the people who lived about here. They struggled and strove like many others, but they were forced to suffer the depredations of men such as this: a knight with no compassion. Men like this were worse than the bestial men-at-arms who slew for pleasure: men of this sort had no pleasure in their souls – possibly no feelings at all.
She had heard of this man before. Sir Peter of Bromley, once Sir Pierre d’Agen, was a knight banneret in the pay of the English King. Once he had been known as a most honoured knight in the service of King Philippe of France, but he had fallen out of favour, and had come to serve the English against his own King.
It was said that Sir Peter’s heart was made of steel as hard and unbending as his helm. He exulted in killing not because he held any particular hatred for his opponent, but because he saw death as efficient. There was no sympathy in him for his victims, only the constant urge to wage war effectively for his new master. And if that meant peasants must die, so be it.
He glanced at her, and as his eyes raked her body, she shuddered. It was like being licked by snakes.
She was tempted to keep walking. To leave this camp, as Archibald had intimated – but if she were to leave, where could she go? She had no friends, no family, no nation.
She was lost.
Berenger would never forget the screams of that young sailor as he was dragged away. His companion uttered a few choice curses, mentioning the parentage of the man-at-arms and others as he went, but he was at least able to walk. The other was beshitten before he was out of the door.
‘I swore that these men, and those sailors, would all be safe,’ Chrestien de Grimault said again.
His voice was quiet, but Berenger could hear the anger bubbling. He looked at the Genoese with sudden interest.
‘You overplayed your authority, then,’ the Comte de Roucy said flatly. ‘You had no right to offer any terms. These are pirates and will be treated as such.’
‘Count, I would not have men think I would go back on my word!’
‘Then, as I said, in future be more careful about what you promise.’
The Cardinal chuckled. ‘Of course, if you are nervous about what they might think of your honour, they will soon have other things to occupy their minds.’
As he spoke, Berenger saw Jean de Vervins’ eyes pass over the prisoners. When those eyes turned to him, Berenger felt an overwhelming hatred and loathing fill him. There was no feeling in the Frenchman’s eyes, he thought. No compassion, no emotion of any sort. He might have been peering at a turd on the street. And then Berenger saw a sudden flicker. It was tiny – a twitch almost – and yet Berenger could have sworn that the man was winking at him. The moment passed, Jean de Vervins’ gaze moved on, and Berenger was left standing bewildered, wondering whether he had seen that or merely imagined it.
Chrestien de Grimault laughed lightly. ‘So you are saying that my promise will be ignored, then? That is good. A man likes to know how he stands. You will happily leave me to be dishonoured?’
‘Your honour is your concern,’ the Count said. Then he turned and stared at the shipman, and his voice became low, malevolent. ‘If you Genoese had fought better at Crécy, perhaps we would not now be fighting the English. We would have driven them – and these men – into the sea. So the cowardice of your compatriots has left us in this sorry condition, and these English archers are only alive because of them.’
‘My compatriots fought bravely, until they were slaughtered by fools who knew little about warfare and less about their allies,’ Chrestien de Grimault said tightly. ‘They could not fight the English with their bows, because the strings were wetted by the rain, while the English were killing them with thousands of arrows at every step. And their reward for running this terrible risk? They were repaid by your knights slaughtering them and trampling their bodies into the mud!’
The Count climbed to his feet and hissed, ‘You dare speak of them in the same breath as those brave knights? I should teach you the meaning of honour and dignity at the point of my sword!’
‘I would be happy to comply. My brave Genoese metal can show you the meaning of—’
‘Enough! Count, Master Grimault! This matter is closed,’ the Cardinal snapped. ‘The battle is over, and there is nothing we can do now to bring back the poor dead souls from the field. Take these prisoners away. We shall see to them when we have erected a suitable structure on which to punish them.’
Berenger and the others found themselves being shoved unceremoniously towards the door through which the two sailors had recently been taken. The door gave out onto a staircase of stone, which led down to a paved yard. Pushed and beaten, they were forced towards a gateway in the encircling wall. From here they could see the church and, before it, a large tree. As they were taken out, they saw two men throwing ropes up to where a boy had climbed on
to a strong branch. He caught the ropes and passed them over two projecting limbs of the tree, letting the other ends fall to the ground. Enthusiastic townspeople took hold of them.
The young sailor was gibbering, kneeling and pleading with his hands clasped, while his companion glared at him with contempt. As Berenger and the others approached, their guards stopped so that they could enjoy the spectacle.
Ignoring the weeping, petrified sailor, men grabbed the other man and set the rope about his throat. Then four men hauled him up into the air. His legs kicking wildly, eyes bulging, the sailor slowly throttled, trying with every jerk and lunge of his legs to snap his own neck and bring about a quicker end. But he could not. He was still thrashing, ever more feebly, as the French, joking with each other, tied the second rope about the kneeling man and lifted him still higher, laughing and running away as the man’s legs flicked ordure over the crowds with each spasmodic kick.
At the sight Berenger felt sick in his belly. This was not justice, but from the gleeful response of the crowds, he knew that he could expect nothing better when it was his turn to stand on a platform and be blinded and crippled with the others. There would be no sympathy here for the men who had inspired so much fear and loathing throughout France.
A blow in the small of his back almost drove him to his knees, but he stumbled onwards, his thoughts directed at escape.
‘Not here, my friend.’
He looked around and found himself staring at Jean de Vervins. ‘What?’
‘You will have no easy escape here.’
Berenger had the unpleasant certainty that this man had read his mind. ‘Who are you?’
‘Me? A mere country-living knight, used to life far from the King’s court,’ Jean de Vervins said with a quiet melancholy. ‘I am nothing. But you: you think you can drive a path through all these guards? No, for that you will need a miracle, yes?’ Jean smiled sadly, turned, and was gone.
‘A miracle,’ Berenger said to himself. ‘That’s all. Just a fucking miracle.’
Sir John de Sully was standing eating his lunch when the gynour appeared in his doorway. Like his archers, Sir John had no chair, only a worn three-legged stool filched from a house on their march, although he was five-and-sixty years old, and had enough wounds to prove that he had never run from a battle.
‘Well?’ he demanded as Archibald stood, coif in hand, looking nervous.
‘Sir, have you heard about the vintaine?’
Sir John was a rural knight from Iddesleigh and Rookford. Whereas many knights were uninterested in their men, the banneret had shown himself keen to look after their interests during the long campaign of recent weeks. His hair might be grizzled, but his eyes were as clear as they had been when he sat on his mount at Bannockburn thirty and more years ago now and witnessed the disaster befall the English cavalry. It had affected him to see the men slaughtered so, and since then he had made every effort to protect his men. ‘What about them?’
Archibald told him the news. He knew Sir John would be upset to hear of the loss of so many of his men at one fell swoop – but the knight’s rage surprised even him.
‘Damn those pirates’ black souls to hell,’ Sir John swore bitterly, hurling his food from his table. He kicked his stool away and raked his fingers agitatedly through his hair. ‘Berenger Fripper is one of the most competent vinteners in the army. Christ’s bones, but we could do with more like him. You are sure of this?’
‘Another ship saw them being captured by a galley. They had little chance against that when it rammed them.’
The knight clenched his fist and was about to slam it onto his trestle table, when his esquire appeared.
‘Sir? I was roused by the commotion.’
‘Aye, I daresay you were, Richard. Have you heard this tale about the men with Fripper?’
‘That they have been captured or killed, yes.’
Richard Bakere had been Sir John’s esquire for six years now; he was a dependable, resilient fellow with a Norman’s face and bearing, but without the arrogance.
‘It’s the worst news of the campaign so far,’ Sir John said, and when Richard retrieved the stool, he sat down heavily. ‘Fripper was a good man.’
‘There is no hope of rescue?’ Richard asked.
‘The Devil only knows where they’ll have been taken. In a galley they could be in any of the river-mouths along the coast here. Were we to ride to their aid, we would not know where to go. It would be futile.’
‘If they are lucky, their end will be quick,’ Archibald muttered.
‘Yes,’ Sir John agreed, then sighed. ‘I would it were another vintaine, though.’
Archibald nodded, standing quietly until the knight glanced up at him.
‘Well, Gynour? Is there more bad news you wish to impart?’
‘Sir John, I think I may be able to help with the reduction of the town.’
The knight’s attention was taken. ‘Oh? How so?’
Richard Bakere had picked up the platter from where the knight had knocked it over, and placed a roasted capon upon it. Sir John took a leg while Archibald spoke, but his eyes never left the gynour’s face all the while. Archibald’s enthusiasm and excitement were almost palpable.
‘We are stuck outside the town. The town has excluded us from their harbour, so that their ships can enter the harbour and resupply the town, and there’s little we can do about it. We cannot get to the north of the town to command the harbour because of their weapons on the Rysbank, and we cannot get scaling ladders to the walls to attack the town directly because of the moat.’
‘So?’
‘I am thinking that we need to prevent ships from getting to the town in the first place.’
‘I don’t think anyone will disagree with that. You may have noticed that we have been attempting to do just that in recent weeks,’ Sir John said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘In fact, we have only just lost a number of men because we were trying to protect our own ships!’
‘But if we maintain a number of ships at sea to blockade the harbour, and then also position weapons to sink any that pass by the harbour mouth, we will be able to stop any supplies from reaching the town. No supplies means no ability to fight. We can starve ’em out.’
‘And what sort of weapon would you install at the harbour mouth?’
‘We have nothing here at—’
‘Then you are wasting my time!’
‘I was going to add “but we do have one at home”. I have a great beast that could easily sweep any ship from the sea. It is in England, but if you can arrange for its transport, I will do the rest.’
Sir John put the bones on his plate and studied the gynour. He knew that Archibald was a keen exponent of his new gonnes. Personally, Sir John was unconvinced by them. At Crécy he had seen one blow up, taking an entire team of gynours with it. Bits and pieces of the men were found later, reeking of brimstone as though the Devil himself had passed by and despatched them. Yet the gonnes had done significant damage occasionally, for instance when a sack of balls had hit a full charge of men-at-arms, and the knight knew that a man of war should never turn up the opportunity of learning new methods of attack. If this could help, then it might be worth pursuing.
‘Where exactly is this gonne of yours?’ he asked, leaning forward.
Berenger saw that escape was impossible.
They were held for three days before they were taken out again. Three days of sitting in their own muck. No one came to empty their buckets, so they overflowed after the first night. The men tried to dam the worst of it with the meagre supplies of straw that lay about the place, but it seeped through, and all of them had it impregnated in their clothing after the second night.
The stench, the lack of light, the manacles and chains they wore – all conspired to sap Berenger’s will. Their surrender had been shameful enough for English archers, but now, languishing in this cell, he felt emasculated. As he looked about the faces of his men, he could see that most had given up
all hope. Some, like Clip, sat sourly contemplating the ground before them, muttering vile oaths against the fate that had brought them here, while others stared up at the single barred hole in the wall, through which the light entered to illuminate one corner of the puddle of muck on the floor. Jack Fletcher sat with his back to the wall, gazing at Berenger as though with hope. Dogbreath was one of the only men who looked unconcerned. He squatted on his haunches, throwing pebbles at a spider that was scrabbling up the wall.
Berenger looked away from Fletcher. Hope! There was no hope for them. They couldn’t expect to escape from a place like this, not with the whole of the French army about them.
When he was young, Berenger had lost his parents. The barons had detested King Edward II’s adviser and friend, Sir Hugh le Despenser, and bands of men-at-arms had invaded Despenser lands up and down the country, burning, looting and killing. Berenger’s parents were slaughtered in the first wave, his father for his loyalty to Sir Hugh, and his mother too. After that, life had lost all meaning and purpose. Berenger could remember it clearly. Only when the King himself heard of his plight and took him into his household did Berenger grow free of despair. He was young, after all. With exercise and work, boys can cope with most disasters.
‘Frip?’ Jack Fletcher called softly. ‘What do we do?’
‘Wait,’ Berenger said. ‘What more can we do?’
Clip spat into the pool of ordure and whined, ‘They’re going to take our eyes! Take our fucking eyes!’
‘Shut up, Clip,’ Berenger said wearily.
‘So, do we just submit to them? They killed the other two, didn’t they?’ Jack said. ‘Shall we just go quietly like lambs to the slaughterman?’
‘If you have a better idea, tell me!’ Berenger snapped.
It was Tyler who spoke up. ‘We have to give them something. Tell them something they want to know.’
‘Like what?’ Clip sneered. ‘Where to get a chest of gold? Where to find wine and food? They have all they need already, you prickle!’
Blood on the Sand Page 5
