A shouted command, and suddenly crossbow bolts were coming at the English. Two archers were hit and collapsed, while another had a bolt through his thigh. He kept on loosing his arrows, but Berenger could see he was weakened. Later they realised his artery had been severed, and he died of blood loss.
Berenger grabbed a polearm and began to use it to keep French sailors away from the grapnels, before leaping up onto the wale. At his side he saw Sir John jump lightly into the enemy vessel and begin to attack the French with his sword. With three sweeps of his blade, Sir John had cut down two men, and now already Jack was at Berenger’s side with an axe and poleaxe, and Clip was near, loosing more arrows and dropping more Frenchmen. There came a bellow, and a Frenchman darted forward to loose a crossbow bolt. All the men instinctively turned, and as they did so, two more French shipmen pelted forward and hacked away the remaining grapnel ropes. Now there was only Sir John, Berenger and five men left on the ship, and the whole ship’s company of Frenchmen began to press upon them urgently, striving to force them into the prow itself, where the boarders’ movements could be restricted and they could be picked off one by one. A crossbow bolt flew into the face of one of the archers – Berenger didn’t have time to look down to see who it had hit – and then they were rushed. The French came at them en masse, and that was when Berenger was struck on the left shoulder, making him cry out. Once more, his arm fell dead at his side. For a while he thought it was a sword blow that had cut off all sensation, but then the feeling returned with a vengeance, and he had to grit his teeth against the pain.
They fought on, weary but determined, as the French tried to force them into the sea, or at least just kill them all. And then, when Berenger felt sure that he was at the uttermost limits of his own strength, there came a juddering crunch in the timbers at his feet, and he was almost thrown to the deck. And joy of joys, suddenly he saw that it was their shipmaster with his humble little fishing boat, and the deck rang to the clatter of English armour as the men sprang over the sides and attacked the French from behind.
Yes, it had been a success against that one ship. That was itself good. But the rest of the ships had got past and revictualled the town.
‘We cannot go on like this!’ Sir John said as they disembarked.
‘We could mount siege engines to sink their ships, sir,’ Jack suggested.
‘Archibald would be happy to test his gonnes against them,’ Berenger put in. ‘Although whether he would hit them at any distance is another matter.’
‘Don’t ever let him hear you question his machines,’ Sir John joked, but then continued more seriously, ‘This siege is sapping our army. With all those ships getting through, we’ll be here another three months at least – all through December, January and February. My armour will have rusted to dust in that time.’
‘What else can we do?’
‘Break this damn siege!’ Sir John grated, and in the grey morning light, he stalked away in the direction of the King’s pavilion.
Sir John de Sully looked exhausted already when Berenger saw him the next morning. The knight had been up all night, first with Berenger’s archers and then on the ship, and his efforts had taken their toll.
The vintaine itself was weary, after sending flight after flight of arrows into the ships sailing into the harbour, but today they had a little respite. They stood on the shore and watched while Archibald’s gonnes thundered and roared – and achieved spectacularly little. Sir John, furious to see so many ships making their way for the harbour, had commandeered another small vessel and tried to get to them to sink some, but it was already too late. He had spent all the early hours trying to clamber from one ship to another, but beyond gaining a fresh scar on his right cheek, his attempts had all failed.
‘You should rest, Sir John,’ Berenger said. ‘You look worn out.’
‘Nonsense. Never felt better.’
Berenger grinned to himself. Sir John was unfailingly cheerful – a trait that could never be underestimated in an army.
‘How about you?’ Sir John asked kindly.
Berenger gave a dry smile and flexed his arm.
Earlier in the summer, he had taken a crossbow bolt in the flesh of his upper torso, and the muscles had never fully healed, and then during the vicious fighting outside Durham, the maul which had struck him hit near the same place. Fortunately, he had been wearing his padded jack, and that, along with the mail on top and the tippet of his bascinet, had deflected much of the force of the blow. Even so, it was a cruel injury. Sometimes he thought it hurt more than the wound on his face.
‘I feel as if a horse has kicked me,’ he said.
‘At least you have been persuaded to keep your helm on your head,’ Sir John said.
‘Yes, sir. After this Scottish cut, I felt my luck was running out. Besides, a helm is less annoying in this temperature. It’s much worse in the middle of the summer, when you can scarcely breathe with it on.’
‘Aye. True enough.’ Sir John was gazing back out to sea. Now that the sun was thinly penetrating the heavy clouds that lowered overhead, the battlefield of the night before could be seen clearly.
‘What now, Sir John?’
‘We have to do more to stop ships entering the harbour. Archibald swore his gonnes would stop them, but they are as much use as throwing shit at the French. They achieve sod all!’
‘He does his best.’
‘Well, his best is not good enough. We need to come up with something else.’
He was exhausted, but it had been exciting to see the battle, Ed thought. He had been at the gonnes with Archibald when the ships had appeared, but once the vintaine was sent to a ship to pursue the French craft, Georges had been left behind. The younger boy and Ed took the opportunity to run to Archibald’s emplacement and see the gonnes fire.
Archibald had made a comfortable fort on the northernmost tip of the east shore, and the two gonnes were resting on great oaken trestles, pointing directly over the entrance to the Calesian harbour, towards the Rysbank. There, Calesians with crossbows and small gonnes tried to blast at him, but since he could call on a vintaine or more of archers to guard him, he and Béatrice could work without fear of being hit. The crossbowmen were not foolish enough to put themselves to the challenge when so many archers could rain down missiles on their heads.
The roar and flame of the gonnes discharging was enough to send Georges squeaking and weeping to the back of the bunker at first. The two shots were so loud, he thought his ears must be destroyed. A gout of flame, and then the slamming concussion hit, as he saw the enormous blue-black smoke launching towards the ships in the harbour. He felt a mixture of horror, terror and exultation all rolled into one.
Ed saw his initial shock, and put his arms about him. After witnessing ten or more discharges, he gently pulled Georges away from the cannonade.
It was then that he saw the cleric. The man was standing nearby, his rosary in his hand and an expression of deep sadness in his eyes. Ed was sure that the man hadn’t noticed the two boys, but he felt Georges stiffen momentarily and then he shot a quick look at Ed, as if wondering whether he too had seen the man. But Ed took no notice. There were clerics and soldiers all over the town of Villeneuve-la-Hardie.
One more made little difference, so he thought. But when they had moved away and left the gonnes some way behind, he was aware of Georges turning and staring back towards the man again. But when Ed looked, the cleric was gone.
Weeks passed, but the determination of the English to break the deadlock was never stronger. After the last convoy had managed to break into Calais with their supplies, it was clear that the town would be able to survive well beyond Christmas and into March 1347. But even with the new town being built all around Calais, none of the English wanted to remain there longer than necessary.
The members of the vintaine were as cheery and enthusiastic as only English soldiers can be.
‘Look, Frip, the poxy water’s frozen again,’ Oliver called.
Even Jack chuckled at that. Then, ‘Oliver, why are you bothering our captain with that? You know he’s an ideas man. He can’t deal with detail.’
‘Because I’m fed up with being stuck in this shit-hole and want to get back to England, to a real alehouse with English ale that hasn’t gone sour or salty being brought over here.’
‘You should be grateful. It takes away the taste of the rotten meat,’ the Pardoner said.
‘We’ll break the town before long,’ Berenger said.
‘How?’ the Pardoner said rudely. ‘Are we to cut the ice into the shape of rocks and use the stone-throwers to fling them over the walls so we may freeze the townspeople to death?’
‘No,’ Berenger said. ‘For some weeks there’s been a plan to assemble ships here – I’m told they’re on their way. We’ll have more than fifty fishing boats and all with ladders pegged to their decks. The King’s had all the carpenters he could find in the South of England working on them for the last month, apparently. With luck, when they arrive we’ll be able to scale those walls and take the town.’
‘Scale those walls, eh?’ Jack turned and stared in the direction of the town, where the great walls reared high over the shacks of Villeneuve-la-Hardie. ‘They’re the best walls of any town in France, they say.’
‘Yes, but even the best walls can be taken by a few determined men,’ Fripper said.
‘So long as we’re here to protect them,’ Clip said. ‘You wouldn’t get me up a ladder on a ship.’
‘The ladders won’t all be on the ships, I expect,’ Berenger said. The thought of using a boat as a base for a ladder did not appeal to him either. ‘But once we’re in the town, all this nonsense will cease. The French can come and knock on our door for a change.’
‘Aye,’ Clip said. He pulled a face. ‘So long as they don’t seal us in there like we’re trying to do with them!’
Clip need not have worried.
Berenger was grim-faced as he passed along the line of his archers. The Donkey was at the cart again, helping to show young Georges what was needed. Berenger wanted to give them a smile as he passed, but he couldn’t. His face felt like it was on fire, and he could only wear a fixed glower. It felt as if he had a scalding flame licking all the way from his ear to his nose and beyond, and he felt close to screaming because of it. The pain was constant, nagging at him no matter what he did all day. It kept his expression harsh and unrelenting, and he regretted it when he saw Georges recoil, but there was no time to spare for a young lad’s finer feelings.
‘Frip?’ Grandarse called as Berenger approached.
The older man was leaning against a wooden pavise, drinking from a massive leathern jug. ‘Are ye ready, Frip? By God’s tears, if this works, we’ll be in the town this very evening!’
‘If it works,’ Berenger grunted. He had little enthusiasm for the idea.
‘Don’t look like that, man! Anyone’d think you were being sent up there on your own to take the town’s defences,’ Grandarse chuckled, then his smile vanished and he bellowed at a hapless archer chatting to a companion, ‘Hoi – you! String your bow! You won’t do much good from here without a stave to send missiles against those French bastards, will you, you idle git!’ Turning to Berenger again, he confided, ’You’ve got to keep on top of these daft beggars. Most of them would prefer to be in a tavern than earning their spurs.’ He took another long pull at his jug.
‘Yes,’ Berenger agreed, but in truth he was barely listening. He felt peculiar. His face was tormenting him, the wound pulsing and thundering with every step he took or word he spoke, and meanwhile his shoulder was thudding dully. The maul-strike had not been strong enough to damage any bones, but the muscles from his collar bone to his shoulderblade had been mashed and his left arm was still all but useless.
‘Show a little enthusiasm, man,’ Grandarse said, this time with an edge of seriousness. ‘Remember, you’re the leader. Your men need to see you happy and confident, or didn’t I teach you anything?’
‘Yes, Grandarse,’ Berenger said. ‘You told me to shine like the sun before your men, and then fart in their faces.’
‘Aye, well, the farting you do later, when it seems safer. But keep ’em lean, keep ’em mean, keep ’em keen – that’s the way. Just like a guard dog. Ah, they’re going.’
At the sound of horns being blown, ships appeared, sailing around the point and into the waters between the Rysbank and the town. In the foremost vessel, Sir John de Sully stood with his banner flying: a series of bars gules on an ermine shield, the little black marks showing clearly. They came on, steadily, over the next half-hour of the sun. Berenger could see the change in shadows as the ships began to approach their target.
As his eyes followed them, he caught sight of Sir Peter. The knight stood watching him from further down the bank, his clerk at his side, two men-at-arms from his household just behind. Sir Peter made no attempt to conceal his surveillance.
Grandarse roared: ‘Archers, nock!’
The ships were sailing slowly but steadily, and then, as they came opposite Berenger and his archers, the vessels turned towards the walls of the town.
‘Archers, draw!’
Berenger turned his attention back to the town. All along the line of the wall, there were shouts and screams as the ships dropped anchor and lashed themselves to the shore or to ships alongside, and then the first of the scaling ladders were hoisted and rattled to the side of the mighty walls.
‘LOOSE!’
The arrows sped to the walls as the first heads appeared. Some ducked away, but two or three were struck. Then Englishmen were clambering up the ladders as the vessels beneath them moved in the water, rocking on the waves. Over to the left Berenger saw a ladder begin to slide sideways, the men at its top clinging on for dear life as it continued, gathering speed. It crashed into the neighbouring ladder, and the two went over together, the men clattering on the rocks while their ships bucked beneath them. It made Berenger’s belly roil to see so many men dying so needlessly.
Sir John was halfway up his ladder when a rock hurled by a Frenchman struck the head of the man above him. That man immediately dropped, and when he struck Sir John, the knight’s legs were ripped from the rungs. He fell, but only a few steps – but above him now, three rungs of the ladder were gone. The heavy rock had smashed them in passing. Sir John had to clamber back down to the ship, unable to use that ladder now, but he was soon organising his men, and passed to the next ship in the line, which was bound to his own. Yet before he could reach that ladder, boiling oil had been poured from the walls, and a flaming torch was dropped after it. Instantly great black clouds of smoke were rising from the ship, and struggle though the men might, they could do nothing against the flames. The ship was evacuated.
Sir John de Sully coughed and spluttered as a thick fog of smoke smothered him. He could feel the filthy smuts in his eyes and clogging his lungs as he chopped at the ropes holding this ship to the others. It was vital that they took this ship away before it could spread fire to the others. While some ladders had been taken out of the ships and set to rest on the rocky shore beneath the wall, much of the space was filled with huge boulders and rocks that made siting a ladder safely quite impossible. The men scrambled about, but most had to rely on the ships to give them the platform they needed.
He rushed to the next ship and the men helped heave the burning vessel away. Overhead he heard the shouts and commands of the French, but that was soon overwhelmed by the sudden whistling of hundreds of arrows passing together. It was like a massive flight of swans, he thought, but then he was at the next ship and clambering up the slick rungs. A man above slipped and landed on top of him, and he fell a second time, winded, staring up at the men on the walls. One, he saw, was sticking two fingers up at him. The French would routinely cut the fingers from an archer’s hand, but Sir John neither
noticed, nor cared. All he knew was that his backside hurt abominably, and that his mouth tasted of soot.
Grabbing his sword, he stood and glared about him. Men were still trying to climb, but the French had the upper hand. One man, he saw, at the far side of the ships, was smothered in boiling oil, and for some moments he ran about the ship, shrieking in anguish as the oil flayed the flesh from his body. A merciful comrade slew him with a blow from a poleaxe. Just then, more oil was ignited in a great roaring whoosh of flame that Sir John could feel from where he stood. He had to turn and cover his face.
‘It’s no good!’ he bellowed. ‘Stop the attack! Shipmasters, unbind the ships and weigh anchor! We can do no more here!’
He had to shout the command three times, and then blow a blast on his horn to get the attention of the shipmen and fighters, but at last they heard and the attack was called off, to the hilarity and jeers of the guards on the walls. He could hear them shouting abuse, and it was enough to make him want to turn back. Perhaps if they were to concentrate all their energies on one small section of the wall, take archers to focus on the wall at either side and keep defenders at bay, perhaps then they could take that small part, and use it as a bridgehead, bringing up more and more men . . .
No. That too must fail, he thought. There was nothing they could do. It had to be a case of slowly starving out the garrison and population of the town. There was no other way.
Berenger allowed his bow to drop. This fight was over. But then, as he turned away, he saw that Sir Peter was still standing and observing him.
It made the vintener feel deeply unsettled.
All through December and January the assaults continued. King Edward III was hungry for victory and needed to lance this boil. Although Berenger agreed with Sir John about the strategy of starving the inhabitants, it was clear that there would be no relaxation in the constant attempts to take the town by force.
More and more men poured into Villeneuve-la-Hardie, and not only soldiers. To support the artillery, large numbers of carpenters were brought across the Channel, and they began to construct more stone-throwing machines, while Archibald was delighted to be given ten more monstrous gonnes, and as many barrels of powder as he could store. His serpentine was carefully placed away from any risk of moisture damaging it, and the gonnes kept up a steady, if unmelodious cacophony. It all added to the unreality of the situation.
Blood on the Sand Page 21
