Blood on the Sand

by Michael Jecks

  Certainly the English had not slowed in their advance, and last night they had sheltered, shivering, on the plain to the south of Durham. The weather was dry, but now, in the middle of October, it was so chilly as to leave a man quaking all night under his blanket. Berenger had woken feeling forty years older, trembling like a man in a fever until a cup of strong wine mixed with hot water managed to send some warmth to his extremities. Still, as he mounted his pony and stared about him at the mess that was an army on the march, he felt another shudder pass down his spine.

  It was a sight to send a thrill into the most unresponsive heart. All around him, men packed away their belongings, boys brought up the ponies while yeomen rubbed down and saw to the feeding of the men-at-arms’s beasts, warily attending to highly-strung destriers that would be more than keen to bite a groom. Campfires were extinguished with the last of the water from cooking pots, and men wandered about, chewing the rough breads made by the bakers overnight, as they threw on their baldrics or tugged at their warbelts. Archers checked the sheaves of arrows on the carts, some eyeing the sky for rain, before taking their bowstrings and pushing them into their shirts against their skin, or shoving them beneath their caps to keep them dry.

  The army was moving urgently now as the sun crept higher into the sky. The squeak and rattle of cart and wagon did not quite mask the sound of hooves and boots. On the men marched, all of them aware that they must soon go into battle.

  Most there were levies called to serve – both young and old. Percy had been gathering a force from his lands to take to Calais, but the men from Yorkshire and those from Neville’s lands were less young and eager, not quite so ready to be thrust into the front line of a battle gripping a lance and hoping that the point would rip into a destrier’s breast before the rider’s steel could reach them. That was no surprise to Berenger, for he had stood in the line himself often enough.

  ‘You all right, Frip?’

  ‘Captain Frip, Jack, if you don’t mind,’ he grinned. ‘Just looking at the men we’re fighting with.’

  ‘They’ll be fine.’ Jack cast an appraising eye over them himself. ‘These ones look hoary and hearty enough. And I’ll warrant that Sir Henry Percy knows how to place his men. After all, he was bright enough to promote you.’

  ‘I hope I don’t show myself incompetent,’ Berenger said, voicing a fear that was ever in his mind.

  ‘You won’t. We’ve done this before, Frip,’ Jack said sharply. ‘Just remember Crécy, and keep your head. We can’t afford to have our centener lose faith in himself.’

  Berenger gave a dry smile. Crécy had shown what Englishmen could do with their bows. Tearing apart the French cavalry charges before they could fully form and slaughtering them far away before any Englishmen could be hurt. ‘Hard to believe that was only a few weeks ago. Let’s hope this goes the same way.’

  ‘It will. We’ll pick the best piece of land and defend it.’

  ‘Aye.’ That was all they needed to do: so long as they reached the battleground before the Scots could take it and force the English to attack.

  But when they reached the most likely place for their defence, Berenger felt his heart drop.

  ‘Oh, shit, Frip,’ Jack said.

  On the hill before them, the Scots had already taken their place. The English would be forced to attack them.

  ‘Ballocks!’ Berenger said.

  ‘I telled ye – we’ll all be slaughtered,’ Clip called in a slightly quieter voice.

  ‘Fuck off, Clip!’ Jack growled.

  ‘Form battles!’

  Berenger remained on his horse while the footsoldiers nearby relinquished their mounts and passed the reins to the waiting boys. He had already told Jean de Vervins to stay back with the baggage. He had lost one charge already when the King’s messenger died. He would not lose this one. Each lad, whether nine or thirteen, took five or six mounts and scurried back to the rear of the battles where the wagons were all set out in a ring. The horses and ponies were brought inside the circle of wood, the boys standing with their beasts and waiting for the summons that would indicate a rapid advance and charge, or an ignominious flight.

  From his vantage point, Berenger could see the ground clearly. The Scots had drawn up into battle formation on the hill opposite, and the English were bellowing at their own men, pushing the recalcitrant troops into three battles across their own hill. Sir Henry Percy was pointing and speaking with his captains, while his deputy, Sir Gilbert Umfraville, stalked about the place roaring commands at the centeners and others.

  These men were all veterans of the fighting along the Marches – Northumbrians with calculating expressions tightening their faces as they watched the Scots, fingering their weapons with the manner of men long-used to war.

  It struck Berenger suddenly that these men were not like him. He had taken to fighting when he was a young man, and then it was in order to support his King. But his King, Edward II, had been deposed by the arch-traitor, Roger Mortimer, and sent into captivity. Afterwards, Berenger had helped take the man who had been King to Avignon, and then joined him on the long journey to Italy. On his return, he was accused of treachery, and it was only the sudden overthrow of Mortimer’s tyranny that saved him. Since then, he had been a warrior, always seeking the next battle to bring in a little more money. Perhaps if he had settled down, he would have been able to escape this life, but he had never found a woman with whom he could make a home and a new life. There had never been the opportunity.

  These men were different. They were farmers, peasants, smiths, carpenters, tradesmen of all kinds, and yet they were English enough to grasp a sword or axe when their lives or homes were at risk. All over Northumbria, men like this worked hard to make a life for themselves and their children, and every so often the Scots would invade and slaughter, and rob, and rape and burn, until there was nothing left. This land was emptying not only because of death, but because the men who lived there were weary of constantly striving to keep their enemies at bay. And now these same men were here with their weapons in their fists, determined to keep what was theirs, and to punish those who sought to take it from them by force.

  Berenger had a sudden sense of awe for these hardy, valiant men.

  Summoning the vinteners, he gave them their dispositions. The archers would extend beyond and forward of each side of the three main battles of fighting men, like horns on either side of a bull’s head, so that they could loose arrows forwards or, as battle was joined, into the flanks of approaching Scots. The vinteners all appeared to understand his commands, and he formed a healthy regard for them as they all marched back to their men. They knew their jobs here.

  Back at the line, he saw three priests galloping towards the army. A rider stopped with Sir Henry Percy, and began to expostulate, pointing back the way he had come. Berenger could see, in the distance, the great mass of Durham Cathedral, and for a moment he wondered whether the priests were calling on the army to fall back that way. He prayed, if that was their aim, that the Archbishop and other commanders would pay no heed. The worst disaster for any army was to fall back; it would inevitably be slaughtered while running.

  Yet a short while later, the rider rode away, and there were more horns winded and shouting. Slowly, under Umfraville’s command, the army began to march on.

  ‘Frip, we have to move!’ Jack was calling.

  The vintaine was all about him now. Their cart, full of bow staves and sheaves of arrows wrapped in canvas bundles, each carefully separated to protect their fragile fletchings, was being pulled by three men now that their donkey had been taken back to the ringed camp of wagons, and as Umfraville stood pointing and shouting, the archers began to move along the brow of the hill. Berenger soon saw why.

  On the shoulder of the hill, the English had an unimpeded view of the Scottish dispositions. The enemy were formed in a similar three-battle formation, but where the English had space for all their men, the Scottish were constrained into a smaller area. On their own s
ide, Berenger saw that the English site was protected by a pair of deep valleys, one at either side, that would prevent any attack other than directly up the slope before them. Meanwhile, opposite, the Scots had taken a position with stone walls and ditches. Any assault from there would be broken. It would be like Halidon Hill again, Berenger thought to himself exultantly.

  He dropped from his pony and passed the reins to a waiting boy before walking to the front of the archers.

  ‘You all right, Frip?’ Jack asked.

  Berenger stood staring over the ground before them. The Scots were waiting at the hilltop. Faintly on the wind Berenger thought he could hear their taunts and jeers, and every so often blades waved and flashed in the sun. It was nothing. The usual ranting to build their spirits while they waited for the real onslaught to begin.

  ‘We’ll all die,’ Clip said.

  Jack said nothing, but his open hand smacked hard across the scrawny archer’s pate.

  ‘Ow! What was that for?’ Clip demanded angrily, a hand to his head.

  Jack ignored him. ‘Frip, do you want us to lead forward?’

  ‘Yes. Take a few paces in advance of the three battles,’ he agreed. ‘The archers must form two blades, one at either side. Then, when the Scots run at the men-at-arms, our storm of arrows will lance into them. We shall keep them assailed from both sides.’

  ‘They’re all dismounted,’ Aletaster said.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’m really scared,’ Pardoner said.

  Berenger glanced at them. The fat man was sweating. Two streams ran from under his hat down each temple and formed greasy drips at his chin; Pardoner had a wide-eyed, terrified expression and he shivered like a mare with a wound.

  ‘It’s normal,’ Berenger said cheerfully. ‘We fight on foot, the same as our ancestors did. There’s no point in a knight mounting and charging the enemy, not when it’s the Scots and they have their lances. They’ll set the butts of their weapons in the ground, and any horse riding into them will be impaled before the knight can strike a blow.’

  Aletaster nodded doubtfully.

  ‘Aye,’ Clip sniggered, ‘and it means the lazy bastards can’t just run away, either. They’re here with us, whether they like it or not.’

  ‘You always have to bring things down to your level, don’t you?’ the Earl murmured.

  Saint Lawrence gave a short laugh. ‘It’s all he knows. When you’re in the gutter, all you can see is arses above you!’

  Berenger smiled to himself. If even the newer fellows were capable of joking at Clip’s expense, it boded well for their ability in a battle.

  ‘Are you all well?’ he called.

  There was a chorus of more or less positive cries. Pardoner scowled and fingered his blade. Dogbreath was sucking at a tooth, while John of Essex ran his fingers through his hair, staring over the battles to their left, then peering ahead, evaluating, assessing and calculating. Berenger had the impression that John of Essex would soon be a military commander again, so long as he learned to control his warlike ardour. He was quick to see an opportunity, and he could read the land, too.

  ‘Keep it careful, Jack,’ he said quietly. ‘Place the newer ones to the front, and let the old lags keep them in line when necessary, and for God’s sake muzzle Clip, if you bloody can. If I hear him say he’s going to die today just once more . . . I’m likely to run him through myself!’

  He was about to return to the middle of the horn of archers, when he suddenly noticed a face and glared. ‘What are you doing here, Jean?’

  Jean de Vervins smiled and pulled off his bascinet, the tippet of mail lifting off with it. ‘God give you a good day, Master Fripper.’

  ‘I said, what are you doing here?’

  ‘I will stand here in the line. What, would you have me wait at the wagons with the children and the women? If I am to die, I will die here with a weapon in my hand, fighting alongside the brave men who dare challenge this invasion.’

  ‘You were to be kept out of harm’s way,’ Berenger rasped. ‘Jack, get someone to take him to the rear where he can’t get under our feet.’

  ‘Do you want to protect me, or ensure that I’m not a danger to you?’ Jean de Vervins asked mildly.

  ‘I want you out of the way. Now!’ Berenger said. ‘I was grateful to you and to Dogbreath when you saved me, but I cannot have you here. If I am worrying about you, it will impair my judgement.’ He was about to hurry to the middle of the line, when Tyler called out to him.

  ‘Do you want a messenger? It makes sense for you to have someone who can take your orders to your men up and down the line.’

  Berenger gave him a long stare. ‘The day I trust you is the day I deserve to be hanged.’

  He detailed Clip and the Earl to take the Frenchman away.

  The men were ordered and bullied into their lines, their captains fearful of a sudden attack while they were still preparing themselves. They formed their battles and took up positions over their hill, and when all were ready, an unearthly silence fell. Berenger walked to the front of the archers and stood there watching the Scots with narrowed eyes. He wished his sight was as sharp as it had been in his youth.

  ‘What are they doing, Jack?’

  ‘A few look like they’re arguing, perhaps demanding that they should be given the honour of being first to tackle us.’

  They could see how small the English force was, but it was clear that the Scots were being restrained. Too many memories held them back: Dupplin Moor and Halidon Hill served to dampen the ardour of the leaders. They knew the effect of massed English archers on an attacking force.

  Berenger nodded to himself. The Scots were in for a long wait if they wanted the English to attack first. He turned away – and then gaped. ‘Look!’ he said to Jack. ‘Have you ever seen so many flags?’

  The great banners of the Archbishop, of the Percys, the Nevilles and Umfravilles, the flags of the Sheriff of Yorkshire and John Mowbray, stood fluttering in the breeze, but behind them were more. Flags and banners flew all over the English fighters. It made the army look twice or thrice its actual size, and as Berenger watched, his heart swelled with pride. This was a battle the English were going to win.

  But only if the Scottish could be persuaded to attack. It was due to the strength of the English archers and their tactics, that no army could hope to attack without suffering massive losses. The downside of this advantage, also proved over many years, was that if the enemy refused to attack, the two armies could stand for hours or even days, without coming to blows. And then, overnight, the Scottish would depart the field, leaving the English feeling deprived of their victory.

  As the two watched, a group of three priests appeared bearing a huge crucifix, which they carried to the front of the middle battle near the Bishop and his flag.

  ‘That’s better,’ Jack muttered sarcastically. ‘I like to think of dying under a cross – because some donkey-swyving arse of a priest has got in my way in the middle of a hand-to-hand fight, and tripped me at the wrong bloody moment!’

  ‘Ach, let’s get at these Scotties,’ Dogbreath said impatiently. ‘This waiting’s pointless. I want to get in there among them!’

  ‘You go up there, and they’ll kill you before you reach within fifty yards of them,’ John of Essex said.

  ‘We should take the fight to them,’ Dogbreath insisted. ‘This is cowardly, standing here and waiting like little virgins too nervous to lift our skirts.’

  ‘You can think what you like,’ the Earl said smoothly. ‘Personally I am happier here, waiting, than walking into their weapons.’

  Tyler grimaced. ‘I don’t like the waiting either, but I’m happier to use my brain than run up there.’

  ‘You lot are all mad,’ Dogbreath said. ‘I want to get this over and done with.’

  ‘So do we all,’ Berenger said.

  ‘If they don’t move soon, we’ll have to make ’em,’ John of Essex said thoughtfully.

  ‘And how do you think we should do that?’
Tyler said with scorn dripping from every word.

  ‘Send some archers forward and loose a few arrows into the mass of them. That should persuade them to get a shift on. They’re just playing it safe up there like a bunch of silly cunts.’

  ‘We’ll wait until we have orders,’ Berenger said sharply, but he eyed John with a renewed respect. There was sense in what he suggested.

  The Scots were playing music, with pipes and clarions blaring, and drummers beating their skins for all their worth, but the battles were not so well organised as the English ones, Berenger thought. With his eyesight it was hard to tell, but he fancied they were more densely arrayed. ‘Do they look as though they’re squeezed together?’ he said to Jack.

  ‘Yes – far too tightly,’ Jack responded. ‘I don’t think they’d survive long, were we to do as John suggests. A few arrows loosed into them would soon give them so much ginger, they’d have to charge. It wouldn’t take much.’

  Berenger looked over to the left, where Sir Henry Percy and Umfraville stood sharing mazers of wine, and made a decision. ‘Earl, come here. You are to run to Sir Henry Percy and say I think we should send some archers ahead to try to tempt the Scots out of their positions. I want to take five vintaines within bowshot to see if we cannot persuade them to move. Go and tell him that. And hurry!’

  The Earl nodded, and ran at a trot along the front of the army, while Berenger set to studying the Scots once more. He was sure he was right, and that the Scots had been packed so closely into their narrow position that it would prove enormously hard for them to swing their weapons.

  ‘Frip?’ Jack called softly, and Berenger turned to see that Earl was already back, beaming from ear to ear.

  ‘He said, “Sting the bastards till they get off their backsides and do something,” Fripper.’

  Berenger looked at the distant men and grinned. ‘About fucking time!’