‘Yes. I am from the city. My father was a goldsmith, but he never really got on with others in the trade, and so although I was apprenticed for some time, it wasn’t a job I felt comfortable with. It was the way he was treated, I suppose.’
‘What happened to you?’ Berenger said.
‘I was in London last year when the riots started. You remember that – when the apprentices went on the rampage? It was something to behold. I was with them, and it meant I got in with a crowd of rebellious fools. But the real fool was me. I trusted them, but my trust was misplaced. There were two or three ringleaders, and they had great ideas when they were drunk. Talked about all kinds of nonsense, including, I’m afraid, capturing the Mayor of London and tarring him because of his treatment of apprentices. But what I didn’t know was, one of the men coming up with these ideas was himself a paid employee of the Mayor. So when I agreed, I was arrested and thrown into the gaol at Newgate.’
‘I’ve heard of that,’ Jack said, nodding. ‘Not a good place.’
The Earl shuddered briefly. ‘There, you speak the truth. It was a hell-hole if ever there was one. And I was going to be forced to stay there a long time. I had lost my apprenticeship after that, so I volunteered to join the King’s army when I heard that I would be pardoned if I did. So here I am.’
‘You look as though you are too old to have been apprenticed recently,’ Jack said suspiciously.
‘At Newgate, you grow old very quickly,’ the Earl told him.
‘That doesn’t explain why you think you know so much about Scotland,’ Jack said.
‘All I know is, when we were at Calais, I heard someone talking about the French. There were rumours that they were supplying the Scots with armour and weapons in return for them attacking England. The Scots are always happy to fight, but they want to fight on their terms. This time, they want money and the chance to kick the English King while he’s away.’
‘You heard all this at Calais?’ Berenger said.
‘Everyone was talking about it. I’m surprised you didn’t hear.’
Jack and Berenger exchanged a look. Soldiers were always talking to each other, most often to complain and bicker, but occasionally one or two could pick up a nugget of decent information. Perhaps this was accurate.
‘I don’t know,’ Berenger sighed after a while. ‘I have a feeling that the ships may not even have been heading to Scotland. They were probably supply ships and the French wanted to replenish them to break the siege at Calais. For all we know, they may have attempted to get to the town while we’ve been travelling up here. That would be ironic.’
They reached Richmond the following day. Berenger and the men were eager to find a place to sit and rest while they waited for news of the French, but before they could take their ease, the Archbishop sent a man to them.
‘You are Berenger?’ he enquired. ‘The Archbishop has asked that you come to see him.’
Berenger left the men, telling Jack to see them quartered and fed, and followed the messenger. He found the Archbishop prowling in his tent like a great cat. He looked up with a scowl as Berenger entered, and then resumed his slow pacing.
There were four other men in the room: two knights and two clerks, one a personal secretary to the Archbishop, the other a harried-looking man who dealt with other administrative matters for the Archbishop. As usual with such a senior political figure, all the time while Berenger and the others were talking, a constant stream of men were passing in and out of the tent, bringing messages to the harassed clerk, who then passed some to the Archbishop for his approval. Berenger had to listen carefully. All present spoke in the harsh, guttural dialect of the north. To his ear, they sounded like the Scots themselves.
‘Vintener, these are Sir Henry Percy and Sir Ralph Neville. While I am Warden of the East March, my friends are commanders of the northern armies and responsible for the defence of the kingdom. You will tell them all you have said to me.’
Berenger quickly retold his story of the ships. Before he had finished, Percy was already talking. He was a heavy-set man of average height, with thick thighs and shoulders, as befitted a man who had spent his entire life battling with the Scots on the borders. His fair hair and pale grey eyes gave him the appearance of a genial nature, but that was belied by the sharpness of his tongue. The Percys had ruled Northumbria since the Conqueror’s time, protecting their lands from Scottish invasions too often to count. While some men were keen to avoid fights by paying the ‘black rents’ – money to ensure that their farms and estates would not be despoiled – the Percys preferred to take to their horses, sword in hand, and attack those who would seek to rob them. This Percy was cast in that mould.
‘So you tell us that the French may have sent ships to Scotland. Why so? To tell them to assault us, to pay for them to attack, or to provide them with equipment to help them attack?’
‘I would consider all three most likely.’ This was Neville, a man some ten years older than Percy. He had brown hair turning grizzled, and a square, rugged face. His beard was thick, and he scratched at it as he spoke like a man unused to the feel. ‘The French no doubt demanded that their allies should attack at once.’
‘The King will not wish to send back even a portion of his men, no matter what,’ Percy said.
‘Of course not!’ the Archbishop exclaimed. ‘And nor should he.’
‘It would help to know what the Bruce intends,’ Neville said.
‘He intends to bring about bloody disaster on the North of England,’ Percy said with disgust. ‘He would see it laid waste. He’s already ravaged all the farms from Durham to the March. No freeman will go there now – not with the risk of losing wealth, cattle and life.’
‘Then we must gather our strongest force and make our way to meet him,’ the Archbishop said heavily.
‘Aye, but we needs must gain information. How many men does he have, how does he array his fighters, are they fed and healthy, do they have enough horses and ponies . . .’
The Archbishop was approached by his clerk and bent his head to listen as the clerk spoke quickly. ‘I see. Sir Henry, Sir Ralph: we have an informant! A man has just arrived and has asked to speak with us. He may be able to help us.’
‘Bring him in,’ Sir Henry said.
A short while later, the tent’s flap was opened and Berenger grasped his sword as he recognised the smiling face of Jean de Vervins.
‘He’s French!’ Berenger blurted out.
‘This man,’ the Archbishop said, ‘has come over with the ships you saw. He can tell us all about the ships, the Frenchmen with the ships, and the weapons. And he can tell us all the Scottish dispositions.’
Ed was glad to be left behind. There were some new guards set about the place, mostly foolish men who ruffled Ed’s hair and embarrassed him by joking about his age and height whenever they had the chance, but so long as Béatrice didn’t see, he didn’t care.
He was enjoying his time with Georges, although the boy was oddly quiet on occasion. Well, Ed had lost a father and family when the French attacked his town, so he could understand how his friend might feel. Georges was lucky that he and his mother had been reunited. There were plenty of lads who had lost their families and never found them again, and many whose families had all been killed.
Not that Ed was overly worried by Georges. He spent most of his time helping Béatrice. He carried the heavier buckets for her, he lit the fire for her, he inserted himself between her and the barrels when they must be moved, anticipating her every move so as to save her efforts. And when he was not working with her, he shot sly glances at her. He loved the line of her throat when she sat at her ease, the way that the sunlight played about her eyelashes, the little dent in the left of her brow where a scar marred the perfect symmetry, the swelling of her breasts – oh, how he would like to rest his head there! But his love for her – and he knew it was love – was not mere foolishness or lust. It was almost religious. He revered her in the way a priest adores the Bless
ed Virgin. She was, to him, feminine perfection. And he wanted to possess her.
Georges had no idea. He was too young, and Ed dare not confide in him, but he was sure that Marguerite had noticed his infatuation. She smiled at him in a sad manner, as though thinking that he could never aspire to Béatrice, but Ed knew differently. He could win her heart – he would! One day, she would recognise his love for what it truly was: the wholesome affection of a mature lover. And on that day, she would come to him.
‘Donkey? Are you awake?’ Georges called to him.
Startled, Ed felt embarrased when the two women looked over to him. He reddened in an instant, before grumpily going over to Georges and almost snarling, ‘What?’
His friend stared at him. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Look, you wouldn’t understand,’ Ed said, but then, glancing at Béatrice again, he felt he could not keep his secret any longer. He had to tell someone, or he would burst. ‘Look, it’s just that . . .’
‘What’s that slimy little fucker doing here?’ John of Essex demanded. ‘We ought to rip his balls off as a reminder of our time in Calais!’
‘I am only here to help,’ Jean de Vervins said. His slim features wore that cheerful smile again, the one that made Berenger want to punch him.
‘You only ever wanted to make money out of people,’ Jack said coldly. ‘Don’t think we’ll trust you.’
‘I don’t care whether you do or not. The main thing is that the Archbishop values my assistance. I have proved myself to be very useful.’
‘Oh? And what have you been doing then?’
‘Since seeing you in Calais, my friends, I journeyed with the ships you saw and I have been living with the Scottish. They appreciate the help of people, after all. They know that all France is on their side.’
‘And that means you too, eh?’ John of Essex thundered. He leaped to his feet and would have thrown himself at the smiling Frenchman, had not Jack and the Earl grabbed him and held him back. ‘Let me get to him! He would have seen us executed, damn his soul!’
‘That is true. But now, you see, we need to work together. You may not like me, but I can at least help you and the others,’ Jean said. ‘My information is very important.’
‘More to the point,’ Berenger told his men, ‘we have orders to protect him. I don’t like it any more than you do, Jack, but the Archbishop is convinced that this man is going to be useful to the campaign.’
‘Did you tell him what this prick tried to do to us?’
Berenger didn’t answer. There was no need. He had expostulated at length when he had been told to protect Jean de Vervins, but all to no avail. ‘They don’t give a damn. As far as they’re concerned, the only thing that matters is that Jean survives until the battle – and there will be one. We’re to pack and leave as soon as possible.’
‘I’ll rip his head off his scrawny shoulders,’ John of Essex snarled. ‘What? You want us to protect this piece of shit?’
‘We have no choice, do we, Frip?’ Jack asked.
Berenger sighed, shaking his head. ‘No choice at all, no. The bastard has us by the short and curlies. After the death of Retford, we can’t take any risks. You hurt Jean, or let someone else hurt him, John, and I’ll personally castrate you. We can’t lose him as well.’
‘Well, that’s just wonderful!’ Clip said. He had been listening carefully as the others argued. Now he tipped his head to one side and eyed Jean with distaste. ‘So in order to save ourselves from an accusation of spying, we have to protect a spy.’
‘Ah, but at least I am a spy for you. I am on your side,’ Jean beamed.
‘At the moment,’ Berenger said grimly. ‘But if I think you’ve turned to work for the French against us again, I’ll cut your head off before John can get to you.’
They were mounted and riding again that same afternoon. The muster had quickly gathered together all the spare men from Cumberland, Lancashire and Northumberland, although the men from Yorkshire had not reached them yet. The Archbishop was keen to get moving as soon as possible, and he sent messages to the Yorkshiremen to march straight to Durham and meet him there. It was at Durham, Berenger learned, that the English were determined to stop the Scots.
‘They have already despoiled the lands all the way to Carlisle, where the populace have paid the Scots their black rent,’ Jean de Vervins told him.
One of Lord Neville’s men was riding nearby. Hearing this, the lanky youth with a shock of brown hair laughed. ‘The men of Carlisle told them to fuck off and leave them alone!’
Jean de Vervins nodded, but without humour. ‘Before that, they laid siege to Liddell Strength for three days. Sir Walter Selby was there, and on the fourth day, they took the place. King David has always hated Sir Walter, because he promised to serve the Scots but then reneged and submitted to King Edward II, our King’s father. Since our King took the throne, Sir Walter’s remained utterly loyal.’
‘But the Scots took the place?’ Jack asked.
‘They destroyed it. King David had the two sons of Sir Walter brought before him and had them strangled in front of their father, before killing him too – unshriven.’ He said slowly, ‘I was there. I saw this.’
‘Whatever he’s done, he’ll pay for it,’ Berenger said, ‘just as I will, and you too, Jean. But to kill his boys and then him – that speaks of a cruelty beyond belief.’
A short time later, Jean spurred his horse to go and speak with another vintaine of men, and Jack leaned over to Berenger.
‘That man Jean brought this news to the Bishop? He is a spy for England now?’
‘That is what he says. Perhaps he always was.’
John of Essex, who was close by, said, ‘I would never trust a spy. After all, who can tell when a man of dishonour is likely to change and spy for your enemies again?’
The noise of the men marching, the plodding steps of the ponies and hobelars, the squeaking and jingling of accoutrements and harnesses, of thousands of swords rattling in cheap sheaths, the clinking of mail coats and armour, built to a cacophony in Berenger’s ears as he and his vintaine jerked and rolled towards Durham. All the way, the vintener was thinking of Jean de Vervins. The man was dangerous, he knew, but there was no way of telling just how dangerous. He had no loyalty to the Scottish, so far as Berenger knew, but he was born to a family in France, and surely he must feel some loyalty to his King?
After witnessing the depredations of the English army in France, it was very unlikely that any Frenchman would change his allegiance. All along their route to Paris and thence up to Crécy, the English had burned, looted, pillaged and raped. Even a Frenchman with water for blood would find it boiling to see the damage the English had inflicted. It was hard enough for Berenger. Whenever he saw a dead child or woman, he’d think it could have been his daughter, his son, his wife lying there in the dirt, surrounded by the charred timbers of a home. He was glad on those occasions that he had never married, never fathered his own children. If he was French, he would not allow a day to pass before joining the French King’s armies to avenge those sights. Was it really possible that Jean could view the slaughter and devastation with equanimity? Perhaps he sought only to line his pockets? After all, a man who delivered his own countrymen and their allies to the King should be handsomely paid. But assuredly, a treacherous mercenary like that would find judgement in the afterlife.
‘You do not like me, do you?’ Jean said now, seeing Berenger’s eye light upon him.
‘It’s not my place to like or dislike you. I have been ordered to protect you.’
‘You should be glad of my aid. I saved you in France, you know.’
‘I saw you. I heard you. What was it you said? We needed a miracle to escape?’
‘And I provided it. I spoke with Chrestien de Grimault and showed him how he could recover his honour by saving you and the others. It was, I think, a flash of genius.’
‘It had more to do with the man’s chivalry. He was honourable. He wouldn’t change si
des for money.’
‘You think so?’ Jean chuckled softly, but then his tone hardened. ‘My friend, this is a matter of war, not honour. Do you think there is honour when you are looking at a butchered family? When you see a mother, raped and slaughtered before her husband and sons? When a man has to witness three, four, five men raping his daughter? No, there is no honour in war – not for peasants and free men. Only death. Chrestien is a mercenary like me. He takes his ships wherever the money is best, and he delivers victory to the men who pay him. Occasionally he sees fit to take a different path to his rewards. That is what he did for you. But do not make a mistake. We are all the same.’
‘I am not!’ Berenger spat. ‘I fight for my King!’
‘Would you be here, if you were not permitted to take plunder? Would you be here if you did not see a way to make more money in six weeks than you would make in a year?’ Jean de Vervins sneered. ‘No, you are no different from me. And you know it.’
They halted at Barnard’s Castle, a mingling of men, carts, ponies and horses. Knights bellowed at esquires, esquires shouted at yeomen, and everyone shouted at the boys.
To Berenger it looked like a miserable kind of place. He was used to the lush greenery of the south, but here all looked bleak and grey, with flurries of fog moving all about as if it was a city of wraiths. The superstitious notion was enough to trigger a physical reaction: a shiver ran down his back. He pushed the idea to the back of his mind. The vintaine had more to worry about than some figment of imagination. There were real soldiers out there, somewhere ahead of them. And from all he had heard, it was a large force the Scottish had sent.
As he rode onwards, Berenger frowned to hear a shrill cry. It came from behind a low wall, and he turned to investigate, but a couple of men-at-arms blocked his path.
‘I’m a vintener with the army,’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’
The older of the two, a man of around thirty with a thin face that carried a woeful expression, said, ‘We’ve been told to keep people away, sir.’
Blood on the Sand Page 14
