Blood on the Sand

by Michael Jecks

  ‘What is going on?’ Berenger repeated. ‘Come, answer me!’

  ‘They caught a Scotsman. They’re questioning him.’

  Berenger stared at the man, and then, as another scream tore through the air, he rode on towards the sound. The two guards lifted their lances as though to prevent him, but the mass of the vintaine was with him, and the two were forced from their path.

  It was too late to do anything for the lad. From his face, he might have been only twenty, and from his build, he had been both fit and strong. Now, as Berenger reached him, the last breath rasped from his ravaged throat.

  The men at his bloodied torso shrugged and wiped their blades clean, pushing aside the strips of flesh they had flayed from his stomach and breast as they packed their bags.

  ‘What were you doing?’ Berenger demanded, and the two gave him a look much as a butcher would give an ox. One was sallow and older, clad in leather and linen, while the other looked a simple boy with a cast in one eye and a curious way of holding his head, as if he had been injured and never fully recovered.

  The older man said, ‘We were questioning him. He was one of the Scotch murderers and we were told to get all we could from him.’

  ‘Except he didn’t know anything,’ his partner said with a giggle.

  ‘And he told us that before we started!’ the other one smirked.

  Berenger felt his anger mount. He had seen death in many forms, but the sight of this body, lying broken and savaged like this, was worse than seeing a wild animal’s victim. He opened his mouth to curse the torturers both to Hell and beyond, but before he could do so, he heard his name being called.

  ‘Vintener Berenger, to me!’

  He turned to see Sir Henry Percy waving at him. Nothing loath, he left that ugly scene, and as he passed the vintaine, he muttered, ‘Jack, keep the men all together and wait for me.’

  ‘Yes, Frip.’

  Berenger kicked his pony into a trot. ‘My lord, did you know what they were doing there?’

  ‘The two executioners? Aye. We found a scout and had to learn what he knew.’ Henry Percy gave him a quick once-over. ‘Master Fripper, I know damn all about ye, but I do know of Sir John de Sully, and I trust him. I believe he is yer master?’

  ‘I serve Sir John, my lord, yes.’ Berenger was still shivering from the sight of the boy’s body. The way the men had torn the flesh from his body, the way . . .

  ‘Then I can trust ye. The fact is, most of the experienced men aren’t here, man. They are down at Calais with the King. He has taken the best of all fighters and commanders wi’ him, and we have been left with the dregs. Ye can see that for ye’self.’

  Berenger said nothing. Percy was gazing around with the eye of a professional warrior, assessing the men all about him. His tone was not that of a man complaining, but of a commander taking stock.

  ‘You fought under the King at this place called Crécy?’

  ‘Aye.’ Berenger took a deep breath and forced himself to listen.

  ‘How was it?’

  ‘We fought hard for our victory, but it was a powerful proof of the King’s strategy. We were greatly outnumbered.’

  ‘Where were you placed?’

  ‘On the left flank. He had archers and gonnes set out at either side, men-at-arms on foot between them. Before us all we had dug many pits to trip their mounts and make them stumble or fall, too.’

  ‘So the French charged the men, and were destroyed by the archers before they could come to blows?’

  ‘For the most part, yes. They only managed to reach us after the failure of many charges, and then they were hampered by the bodies as much as by our pits.’

  ‘Right. Ye know yer part. I’m giving ye a new post, man. My captain has fallen from his mount. The brute threw him and he’s broken his pate. Christ’s Saints may know whether he’ll heal, but I don’t! Pick yer best man and make him vintener. I’m making ye captain, and giving ye the command of the archers on my flank. Don’t make a ballocks of this, man. Ye hear me? We’ll either win a glorious victory here or be slaughtered, and be sure, these Scotch gits won’t help ye up if ye trip. I’ve been fighting wi’ them a’ my life, and they’ll cut their own hand off at the wrist, rather than help an Englishman.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ Berenger said. He looked about him, stunned. He had not expected to be given a new post. To be made captain was far beyond his expectations.

  ‘Like I said, man, don’t fuck this up! Now, get to yer men and . . .’

  Just then, a rider appeared, whipping at his horse as he thundered through the mists, and only when he was in the thick of the Archbishop’s army did he appear to notice the men. Berenger could see his startled expression as he took in the sight of the troops all about him – but then he looked at the Archbishop of York’s banner, and the banner of Ralph Neville, with its gules and a saltire argent, and the blue lion rampant for Henry Percy – and the rider seemed to sag in his saddle as he realised that he was at last safe.

  ‘My lords, the Scottish are approaching!’

  Within an hour, the army was formed into three battles, with archers on either flank, and the long columns began the last march.

  ‘It’s all right for the captains,’ Clip moaned. ‘Ye’ll have the pick o’ the plunder, won’t ye? We poor whoresons’ll get nothing but a knife in the guts.’

  ‘The poor man who stabs you will lose his blade, Clip,’ Berenger said. ‘You’re so full of bile and piss, your blood will eat away any metal before you could die. You’re safe from all danger, man.’

  ‘D’ye think so? Well, I think it’s more likely the lot of us will die. We’re all marching to our graves,’ Clip said cheerfully. ‘Aye, well, it’s been good to know ye, Frip. When I get to Heaven, I’ll look down on ye, and think, Aye, he was always a little chilly. Poor man’ll be warm enough now.’

  ‘I could have you flogged for insolence. Don’t forget I’m a captain now,’ Berenger laughed.

  ‘Oh, aye, a captain, eh? Remember you’ll have to organise all these losers now,’ Clip said sagely.

  John of Essex was looking about him. ‘There’s some handy fellows here,’ he said thoughtfully.

  ‘Do you think we can make enough of them into archers, though?’ Berenger mused. ‘Jack, you’re vintener here. Send men to speak with all the other vinteners and bring them to see me. I need to find out what sort of fighting men we have.’

  ‘Yes, Frip,’ he said, and hurried off.

  ‘Do we know where we are going?’ John of Essex asked.

  ‘It’s only a few miles to Durham. I think that’s where the Archbishop intends to meet with the Scots,’ Berenger said. ‘We’ll be there tomorrow, and then we’ll see what’s happening.’

  ‘What is the news of them?’ Jack asked.

  ‘We know the Scots spent four days taking Liddell when they slew Sir Walter Selby and his family, so they’re not in a hurry.’

  ‘Why? Usually the Scots will ride fast and steal what they can, won’t they?’ Jack said.

  ‘Yes,’ Jean de Vervins said. He had joined them and now stood nearby. ‘But this time they are not here for plunder and theft alone. They are trying to force the King to send troops away from Calais. Perhaps they think he will raise the siege? Even if he only sends a portion of his men, that would make it easier for the French to break the siege. The longer the Scottish take, the happier they’ll be. It will give time for King Edward to send more men.’

  ‘But when we were trying to tempt the French to attack us in France, we sped along in a fine hurry,’ Clip said.

  ‘We wanted to do as much damage as possible to show the French that they could not rely on their own King to defend them,’ Berenger said. ‘The faster we went, the clearer it became that their King must come and stop us. Here, the Scots want time for the news to spread so that King Edward must choose to split his forces.’

  ‘Will he?’ the Pardoner asked.

  Berenger glanced at him. ‘What do you think? When has our King wo
rried about distractions when he has his mind fixed on a goal?’

  ‘So the King will stay at Calais? He won’t come to protect the north? You mean we’re all there is to stop the Scots?’ John of Essex asked, aghast.

  ‘Never mind about the Scots,’ the Earl said, gazing around with distaste, ‘my concern is all the uncouth fellows on our side. This mass of stinking, hairy humanity is terrifying enough!’

  ‘So, you are enjoying your new duties?’ Jean de Vervins asked later.

  Having spent the last hours with the vinteners of the archers on the flank, Berenger was returning tired but reassured. This force would acquit themselves with honour, he thought. All were heading now to where the messenger had said the Scots would be found, while scouts were riding in all directions to track their enemy.

  Berenger held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary. He saw again Dunkirk and the two English sailors’ bodies kicking and thrashing as they slowly had the life throttled from them, and if he could, he would have happily taken his dagger and plunged it into the Frenchman’s breast there and then. ‘You’re fortunate to be alive now,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t lift a finger to help you if I could avoid it.’

  ‘Such a sad position to be in – to want to see a man dead, and to be forced to keep him alive,’ Jean de Vervins chuckled to himself. ‘But make no mistake. When you were told to keep me alive, it was for a worthwhile reason. I will be valued above all the men in this army if I succeed. Indeed, your King would value me above all the lands about here.’

  ‘You? What service can you give our King?’ Berenger scoffed.

  ‘You would be surprised. There are opportunities for a man like me.’ Jean de Vervins leaned back in his saddle and surveyed the road ahead. ‘Look at all this land here. It is verdant, yes? With animals, with good husbandry, with men, it will bring in a fortune. But allow war to rear its head, such as now – and look about you! Where are the peasants? All have fled, taking their belongings, their cattle and sheep with them. And as a result, this land is valueless, because the peasants are not here to work it. So, war destroys not only all in its path, its rumour alone destroys.’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘I am working against the French. Wherever the French expect to have income, I will help destroy it. With no money for the peasants and townspeople, there is no tax. With no tax, the French King has no income, and with no income he has no army, no friends, no supporters – rien! All that, I provide for your King. So that, when he wishes, he will be able to march about the whole of France as his own Kingdom. I will give that to him.’

  ‘You’re talking ballocks,’ Berenger told him, but there was something about the easy confidence of the Frenchman that inspired belief.

  ‘No, my friend. Within a few months I should have conspired to give your King at least one city, and such a blow to the French Crown that the King himself must be toppled.’

  ‘Why?’ Berenger asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said: why? Why do you do this. Is it only the money?’

  For a moment Berenger saw an expression of hatred fly across the Frenchman’s face.

  ‘Never mind why. It is enough that I do it. My duty is to provide cities for your King, and your duty is to guard me so that I may do so swiftly and without trouble.’ He spurred his pony and rode on.

  Berenger looked after him thoughtfully. He had seen that expression. Fleeting though it had been, he was certain that it had not been directed towards the English or the French.

  It was a very personal self-loathing.

  It was infuriating that she continued to treat him like a foolish child – or worse, like a younger brother.

  Ed the Donkey felt particularly aggrieved that day, not because he had been given too much work to do, which was his usual complaint when Archibald was about, but because Béatrice had told him to go and ‘play’ with Georges. Play! As though he was nothing more than a child. After the last month, she should realise that he was a man, a fighter in a man’s world. He had seen men killed on the battlefield, he had seen Jack and others use their long misericorde daggers, the ‘mercies’, to put injured men out of their pain – yet she still looked upon him as a mere boy.

  ‘Have I upset you?’ Georges said. He had that look of anxiety and fear again.

  ‘No. I just wish she understood that I’m not a kid like you,’ Ed said without thinking.

  He wished he could take back his words as soon as he spoke. Georges’ eyes brimmed, and his lip began to quiver as Ed’s words sunk in. Guilt made Ed vicious.

  ‘See? I can’t even speak to you without you bursting into tears. Cry baby!’

  Georges turned away, and Ed tried to catch his shoulder, to apologise, to say something kinder and more sympathetic – but the younger boy snatched his shoulder away.

  And then he stopped. Ed saw him looking at someone in the crowd. A man was standing there, a cleric, who smiled at them and came over. He gazed from one boy to the other with eyes that seemed all-knowing. ‘My sons, this is not the time or place for a quarrel. Come, shake hands, and promise me that you will be bosom companions. If boys like you cannot be friends, what hope is there for the rest of the world?’

  Ed took the hand he proffered, and kissed the ring. Georges did the same, with more eagerness.

  ‘That is good, my young friends. I shall pray for you and watch over you both,’ the cleric promised.

  ‘Up, you lazy, whoring sons of dogs! Stop dreaming about your sluts at home – you have work to do. Up!’

  Berenger strolled about the archers. Most were already awake and stowing their blankets, donning satchels and hats, scratching armpits and groins, and the air was full of the sound of men coughing, hawking, spitting, cursing, groaning and occasionally barking orders.

  There was a small cask of wine in the cart provided for the vintaine’s use. While the smell of the oat cakes cooking rose, Berenger filled a wooden mazer and he went to squat near the men.

  ‘You still come to talk to your old companions, then, Frip?’ Tyler said. He was sitting on a saddle on the ground, whittling with his knife at a long stick.

  ‘Captain Fripper to you, Archer!’ Berenger said coldly, then grinned. ‘Jack, how are the new ones getting on?’

  ‘They all got a decent night’s sleep. I made sure they woke in good time, too, so they should be fine.’

  ‘Right. I’ve been thinking. When we go into the line, I will be in the middle of the archers, but I’d like you to take the vintaine out towards the far flank. Listen out for my orders and repeat them as loudly as you can so that the archers all about us hear. With luck, we’ll be able to give commands efficiently enough.’

  ‘How do you think we should dispose the new men?’

  ‘I’d keep them at the front until we see how they respond. The last thing we need is to have some fool release his bow into our front rank just because he let his nerves get on top of him. Better to keep them for’ard and have them shoot directly at the enemy. We know our old hands will be able to control themselves and their arrows. We need to keep them safe.’

  ‘Aye.’

  Berenger didn’t add, but he knew Jack was thinking it too: having the new recruits in the front would provide a protective wall of weaker fighters when the hand-to-hand struggles began. The experienced archers would be protected for a while by the novices. It was better to sacrifice a number of those than valuable, battle-hardened warriors.

  A fine mist was wisping about the trees as the men finally kicked over the morning fires and prepared to march. A horn blew, then two more, and men began to mount their beasts and prepare for the morning’s journey.

  ‘Where to now, Frip?’ Jack called.

  Berenger was sitting beside Jean de Vervins once more. He waved a hand as the columns of men began to trudge onwards. ‘Where do you think? To Durham!’ he called.

  The mist was thickening nearer the river, and as they passed by that morning, Berenger grew worried in case the men at the back decided
to run away. Desertion was always a problem for any army, but for a force like this, when the weather gave such a perfect cover, many would be tempted to flee. No one could be thought a fool for trying to make a run for it and escape death. Berenger trotted back a short distance and cast a look over his shoulder. He could see a winding line of men on foot and on horseback, plodding onwards with their heads down for the most part, but now and again he saw a man whose gaze had strayed to the bushes and trees and who, when Berenger caught his eye, shamefacedly looked away.

  Muttering a curse under his breath, Berenger rode back along the line of archers to where Jack sat uncomfortably on his pony. He had never been a natural rider.

  ‘Jack, bring the vintaine with you. I want you at the rear of the column.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Too much risk of losing men in this weather,’ Berenger said.

  Jean de Vervins had overheard. ‘You don’t trust your own men, Captain?’ he sneered. ‘What does that say for the courage of the English soldier?’

  Berenger didn’t answer that, but commanded, ‘You stay here, Vervins – right here in the line,’ wheeled his pony about, and led the way.

  They pulled the vintaine out of the line and trotted back to the rear, where they reformed. ‘Keep an eye on your own men, Jack,’ Berenger added quietly. ‘We don’t want to lose any of them either.’

  ‘You can leave them with me,’ Jack said.

  ‘I’d best get back to that damned Frenchman,’ Berenger said reluctantly. He already missed his own vintaine. Having command of the whole mass of archers on this side of the army was a shocking promotion for him. Back here with his own, it felt as though he had returned to the cradle of his family. Least of all did he want to spend time with that repellent fool Jean de Vervins.

  ‘Go on, Frip. Godspeed!’ Jack chuckled.

  Berenger cursed him mildly, and was about to spur his pony, when he heard something behind him. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Nothing, Frip.’

  ‘I heard harness, I’m sure,’ Berenger said. ‘Some fuckwit deserter’s wandered right back into the column.’