Blood on the Sand

by Michael Jecks

  ‘God’s ballocks, it’s a mess,’ Berenger muttered.

  ‘Aye, but there’s potential too. There could be some lively little French maids in there, eh? A wriggling handful with a smile saying, “want a feel of my French fancy”! Oh, aye, I could manage a little of that.’

  ‘What do you mean, you could manage it?’

  ‘What do you think I mean, Fripper, you empty-pated son of a dollypoll! I’ll come too. You can’t be trusted on a job like this. Nay, I’ll bring my centaine. You’ll need at least seventy or eighty men to hold a city, and more to help in Flanders. Aye!’ He stood and belched, then grimaced for a moment. A thunderous noise heralded his breaking wind. ‘Aye, come on, Frip. Get a grip. We have men to find.’

  When Fripper and Grandarse returned to the vintaine at Fripper’s hall, the place was almost full. Grandarse told Ed to run and bring four other vinteners, and when he had returned with them, the room went quiet while Berenger outlined what he had already told Grandarse.

  ‘Keep all this to yourselves,’ he finished. ‘There are men in the camp who wouldn’t object to making a little money for themselves by selling this secret, even if they were in on the journey themselves.’

  ‘You think one of my men would be thick enough to give away news like this when it could lead to him being ambushed and killed?’ said a wiry vintener from Lincoln called Paul.

  ‘I think most archers are so dim that if you whacked them in the head with a poleaxe you’d be hard pressed to hit a brain,’ Berenger said smartly. ‘However, there are many who will assume that just because they have a few drinks in a tavern with someone, that fellow must be a comrade and reliable, when all the time their drinking companion might be more of a friend to their enemy than to them.’

  John of Essex snorted and leaned back against the wall. ‘Well, when do you want to leave?’

  ‘How many of you will come with us?’ Berenger asked, looking around at the men.

  Paul grimaced. ‘What do we get out of it?’ he asked. ‘If I tell my lads that we’re going, when they know that this place is likely to collapse soon, they’ll tell me to swyve a goat and refuse.’

  Sitting next to John, a shorter man called Adam, who might have been Grandarse’s son from his belly and chins, agreed with this. ‘Speaking for mine, they’d be more likely to tell me to swyve myself – and then threaten to cut my ballocks off. Why go riding off on a wild-goose chase when there’s all the plunder they could wish for right here, without any need for getting frozen stiff and sleeping rough?’

  Grandarse glowered around the room. ‘You think to tell them? You have less between your ears than I have in my arse!’

  ‘That’s likely true,’ Paul said, and the room burst into laughter as Grandarse patted his buttocks with an expression of benign contemplation and muttered, ‘You could be right there, son!’

  It was good, Berenger saw. The sudden humour had released some of the tension that had built up. Now the men relaxed a little.

  ‘We’re to be sent off in a couple of days, apparently to take messages to the new Duke of Flanders, but in reality we’ll be riding for the town of Laon because it seems that the place is ripe to fall into English hands. That, at least, is what the King’s informant tells him.’

  ‘Who is this informant?’

  ‘You will learn later.’

  ‘And if we’re going to this town, Laon,’ said Adam, ‘will we be travelling secretly? I don’t like the thought that we’d be going into Flanders with the entire countryside knowing what we’re up to. We’d be the target of every ransom-hunter in France – and most of the executioners.’

  ‘I agree,’ Grandarse said, standing and hoicking up his hosen, which had fallen below his belly once more. ‘And now, you idle gits, get your gear packed and ready. We’ll leave as soon as we can. No sense in hangin’ around, eh?’

  Berenger watched the men as they all shuffled to their feet and made their way to the door.

  ‘Well, ye bum-faced old bugger, what’s the matter now?’ Grandarse said. ‘I got them all on your side, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes. But it doesn’t change the fact that I still don’t trust that Frenchman.’

  Grandarse eyed him for a moment, then sat down again. ‘Listen, Frip, and listen well. This Frenchie, is he a fool? Is he moonstruck? Does he strike you as the sort of man who’d willingly risk his own life for nothing?’

  Berenger shook his head.

  ‘Then think on this, man. If it’s a gamble, and there’s a good reward in it, then he might take a chance. If it’s a good wager and the risks are small compared with the winnings, then fine – but if it’s all t’other way round . . . aye, man, he wouldn’t do it. So, what you have to ask ye’self is, where’s his advantage in betraying you? Does he think that the English are losing here? Does he think that the next time the French army meets us, they’ll slaughter us all? Could he think that, after the last few years of English victories? No, so it’s not that. So perhaps you’re thinking he could betray you in Laon, and sell you to the French King, because you have such a great value? Or me? Aye, man, the two of us together, now that would fetch him, what – a couple of pennies? Nay, there is no value in us, nor even in the sixty men we’ll have with us. However . . . if he does win over this town, and because of that, the next town, or three, fall to our good King Edward – why then, he could count on an excellent profit! Perhaps he wouldn’t even have to lie or cheat again, and he could retire to a nice little vill with his own manor, to while away his final days thinking about all the enemies he’s made and being visited by the ghosts of the men he’s killed, until he’s gone fully mad, eh?’

  ‘I know. I just thought . . .’

  ‘Aye, Frip. That’s your problem. You keep on thinking, thinking, thinking. Don’t do it, man. Leave the brainwork to them as have the mental powers for it. In fact, leave it all to me, eh?’

  Grandarse stood and slapped Berenger on the back. ‘But for me to think properly,’ he said, hitching up his hosen again, ‘I do need to have sustenance. So I’ll let you buy me a cup of sack or a quart of ale for giving you the benefit of my experience.’

  Berenger nodded with a grin and joined the centener crossing the floor to the door. However, they had not yet reached it when Paul threw it open.

  ‘So, were you just blowing smoke in our eyes, Fripper?’

  His tone was not unfriendly, but there was some edge to it.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Berenger said.

  ‘This horse-crap about going away secretly! I expected this sort of joke from you, Fripper, but not from you, Centener. You should trust your own vinteners.’

  It was Grandarse’s turn to look blank. ‘Eh?’

  ‘This mission – to go to Flanders and then Laon. You could have told us we were to travel with the King!’

  Packing their bags took hardly any time. All the archers were experienced in travelling and carrying as little as possible. Berenger had his satchel filled in short order, and then it was only a case of rolling up his blanket and cloak, and shouldering them. He threw a quick glance about his room, and then went out.

  ‘You are leaving?’

  He had not thought of the two women. Now, seeing Béatrice, he smiled and walked over to her. ‘Not for long. We’re being sent into Flanders,’ he said.

  ‘Is that all?’ Marguerite asked, looking anxious.

  ‘We will be back before long.’

  ‘What of us?’ Béatrice asked.

  ‘You will be safe with Archibald.’

  ‘I don’t want to be with him,’ Marguerite said, and to Berenger’s confusion, she began to weep.

  ‘What is the matter?’ he asked.

  Béatrice gave him a scathing look. ‘What do you think? She is here, in an army of men who have murdered her husband and children, and now you are abandoning her here with only a gynour to guard her. She is still not used to the noise of the gonnes and the smell of the powder.’

  Berenger had not considered that. It was tru
e – Béatrice was the daughter of a man who had made powder for gonnes, and she was used to it. But for another, like Marguerite, it was not so easy. Even Berenger was uncomfortable, being around it. How much harder must it be for a woman like her? he asked himself.

  ‘What would you have me do?’ he asked Marguerite.

  ‘Take me with you. You will have need of a boy like mine. Take us both, and we will help you.’

  Berenger scowled at the ground. ‘I don’t know that you will be safe with us. Surely you would be better off here?’

  Béatrice snapped, ‘Are you taking the Donkey?’

  ‘Well, no. He’s Archibald’s servant now, and—’

  ‘So who will you have as your boy for the vintaine?’

  ‘I suppose we’ll take Georges, but—’

  ‘So you will take this woman’s son, but leave her behind? After all the others in her family have died?’

  Berenger opened and closed his mouth three times while he tried to get his mind around this latest conundrum. ‘You think we should take her as well?’

  Béatrice flung her hair back, scorn in her eyes. She forbore to respond.

  ‘Yes, of course we should take her as well,’ Berenger amended. He looked from one woman to the other with the hunted look of a man who knew he had lost. ‘Yes, well. If that is what you wish, Marguerite? Yes. Of course.’

  Then he walked away, trying not to hurry.

  The town was full as the English army rode in through the main gate.

  Berenger was on the flank with his vintaine, riding to the rear of Sir John de Sully and his esquire, behind the fluttering banner that was now, after months of campaigning, showing distinct signs of wear.

  The army had been instructed to polish all their armour and smarten their appearance as best as they might, before their arrival here at Berghes, in the south-west of Flanders, and for the most part the men had succeeded. They all gleamed in the sunlight. Even the white tunics had been beaten and pummelled into cleanliness, and the men looked fierce and warrior-like as they marched along the roadway. Berenger could feel almost proud of the martial air they struck.

  King Edward had brought a large contingent with him. From where Berenger sat, the men snaked around the roadway behind him. There must have been a thousand men or more, he guessed, with two hundred men-at-arms, the rest mounted archers. A very strong force for a king visiting a potential ally, but this ally had proved reluctant. The camp followers straggled behind, but he had kept Marguerite and her son up with the archers. He felt happier keeping them in view. As he glanced at her, she caught his eye. He saw her sudden smile, and looked away quickly. He had too much to do to allow himself to be distracted by a trim figure in a skirt, he told himself.

  On the way here, Jean de Vervins had explained much about this visit. Apparently, since the death of the Count of Flanders’s father on the field of Crécy, there had been extensive efforts to bring the boy to heel.

  ‘At first, it was the French King. Philippe wants Flanders to renew its pact with France and the French Crown. They need the towns and cities, rebellious though they be. And our King wants Flanders too. He travelled to meet with the Flemings late last year, in October, and the burghers agreed to formalise a treaty with England. To confirm that, our King has offered his own daughter to seal the pact. And the young Count has agreed, but yet he prevaricates about dates, and who should be present, and whether it’s legal yet, and any other reason he can bring to mind.’

  ‘Why is he being so difficult?’ Clip asked.

  Jean gave him a long, hard stare. ‘Did you not hear how his father died? Would you marry into the family that had caused the death of your father?’

  ‘That is one thing,’ Sir John said, overhearing them, ‘and the other is, this is a young lad. He’s what – fifteen, sixteen? I dare say he’s wary of marrying any woman he hasn’t seen. I would have been at his age. And what does he get from it? An alliance with King Edward is not to be sniffed at, but a fellow of his age is entitled to be somewhat callow.’

  Jean looked at Berenger and shrugged expressively.

  ‘You don’t think so?’ Berenger asked.

  ‘His father was held at the court by his people because they had so much power over him. Now, if this lad agrees to a contract with our King, he will still remain under their power. The French King might help the Count to squash those who would hold him back. Philippe knows the quality of the people, and also knows where the Count’s own loyalties lie. I wonder whether the boy is reluctant not from his age but because he knows where the true power lies.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ Jack demanded.

  ‘I am keen on the study of politics in my own lands,’ Jean said. ‘I have an interest, you understand?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Jack said.

  And now they were here, in the heart of the town where the Count was waiting for them. If Jean de Vervins was correct, there was little reason to be anxious. The young Count might be reluctant, but all his advisers and most of his people were enthusiastic supporters of the English rather than their French overlord. At the mere thought of a potential fight, Berenger felt the dull ache in his shoulder again. His scar was healed perfectly now, but his shoulder appeared to have acquired the ability to warn him when rain threatened or when the wind was about to change. He felt as though it could also act as an advance warning against riotous crowds. True, all about him he could see people smiling, waving and shouting support, but he had seen crowds change mood in an instant. The London mob was only one example. Every city and town had its own mad gangs.

  The King rode at the front of the army. From here, Berenger could see how his hair moved, bright and golden, like the mane of a lion, and he rode slowly, with the precise stateliness of a lion, too. Like a lion, he was the lord of all he surveyed. He had beaten the French King and the greatest army in Christendom, and even now his army laid siege to a strategically crucial town with impunity while the French King cowered and permitted the English to do whatever they wanted in what he called ‘his’ lands. The appearance of Edward III demonstrated his might, his honour and his prowess. He was a man whom none would dare refuse. How could they, when he held the power of life and death in his royal hands?

  At the doors of a great hall, which Berenger later learned was the main guildhall for the town, stood a large crowd of finely dressed townspeople. Silks and expensively embroidered clothes showed the wealth not only of the individuals, but of the town as well. Flags hung from upper windows, and more fluttered from lance-points in the hands of the militia in the streets. It was a scene of enormous grandeur and of civic pride. The town was revelling in the honour done to them today.

  The King rode up to the hall and inclined his head. That was when Berenger saw the Count of Flanders: a lad of middle height, with a sharp eye and proud demeanour. The youth was not unhandsome. He bowed while the people twittered and tittered, yet Berenger noted that there was no submission in his eyes. And then, while the crowds applauded, Berenger noticed the Count moving perceptibly away from his group of advisers, as though he wanted nothing to do with them. Soon the King, with his senior knights, with Sir John and others, dismounted and went to be greeted by their hosts, who escorted them into the building.

  Berenger saw a scruffy street urchin who appeared at the edge of the crowds and stared at the men, before throwing a look over his shoulder. Following the direction of his gaze, Berenger saw a cloaked figure pointing and jerking his head. The boy went up to Jean de Vervins even as Berenger felt for his dagger, but all the boy did was to reach up and whisper something in the Frenchman’s ear.

  Jean de Vervins immediately wheeled around and strode away.

  ‘What’s going on? Where are you going?’ Berenger demanded, but the man was already gone.

  The town was much like a provincial French town, Jean de Vervins thought as he hurried down a street. Narrow lanes, wooden buildings jutting out overhead, blocking off much of the light, the occasional board to indicate a speci
al trade conducted within, and plenty of smells: those to tempt a jaded palate, those to tease the senses, and more than a few to repel.

  Outside a butcher’s, surrounded by squabbling curs, a boy was cleaning some ox-bowels and flinging the faeces into the kennel that ran down the middle of the street. Next door, the tavern-keeper was loudly berating the boy and his master for befouling the entrance to his tavern, but it was clearly a dispute that had lasted for many years. The boy took no notice, and when the tavern’s host made a threatening movement as though to go and clip him about the head, the butcher appeared in his doorway, a long, bloody knife in his hand which he whetted with a stone tied to a thong about his neck. He said nothing, but the other man turned and stamped back to his tavern.

  Jean stood and studied the lanes. He could see a cloaked figure in a doorway. With his belly feeling strangely empty, he went to the tavern and followed the tavern-keeper inside.

  Within it was dark and gloomy, not the kind of drinking hall that would usually appeal to Jean, who was fastidious in his eating and drinking habits, but it smelled well enough of fresh straw. He felt it to be tolerable.

  ‘A pint of wine,’ he said to the host, who stood behind a simple bar, glowering at the world. ‘Your neighbour is a man of little civic pride,’ he added conversationally as the man reached to a barrel and opened the tap into a jug.

  ‘That fellow possesses the brains of an ox. He’s a brute and a bully.’

  ‘Such men are all too common in these uncertain times,’ Jean sighed, gratefully taking the wine.

  ‘You are not from this town,’ the tavern-keeper said.

  ‘No, I come from further east, originally.’

  ‘It is said that the King of France will soon have to give up his overlordship of Flanders. What do you think?’