Blood on the Sand

by Michael Jecks

  Grandarse’s foot missed the stirrup as he again tried to remount. ‘Christ’s ballocks!’

  ‘We will soon be gone from here,’ Berenger said trying to conceal his own concern.

  ‘I hope so.’

  Seeing a nervous watchman hurrying up the roadway, Berenger asked him, ‘How far are they?’

  ‘They will be here before noon,’ he said. He was a large man with protuberant eyes that looked close to tears, and a huge belly that put even Grandarse’s to shame. The mound of flesh under his chin wobbled as he spoke – the skin looked as smooth and soft as a baby’s.

  ‘Then, Sir John,’ Berenger said, ‘with your approval, I would send a vintaine of archers to engage the French. They can hold up the advance while we leave.’ When Sir John nodded, Berenger turned back to Jean de Vervins. ‘Where is this place?’

  Jean answered dully, ‘A castle, not terribly far. A day’s ride at most.’

  ‘And you are sure we will be welcomed?’ Sir John cut in.

  ‘Oh, yes. I can personally guarantee—’

  ‘How did the French hear about us so quickly?’ Sir John interrupted.

  Jean held out his hands, bewildered. ‘I have no idea. My friend was arranging matters for us here – a lawyer. I saw him in Berghes before we left, and he seemed confident that—’

  ‘Was there another who could have given away our plans?’ Sir John rasped. ‘We are clearly betrayed.’

  Berenger threw him a look. His suspicion of Sir Peter of Bromley was growing into a certainty: the man was a traitor, his act of changing allegiance merely a ploy to gain the trust of the English.

  ‘Gauvain is no fool! He gave a letter to an accomplice to take to the King at Calais.’

  ‘Yet no such letter arrived,’ Sir John noted.

  ‘He gave his letter to a fool who got lost,’ the burgess Alan said. He was fretting as he stood. ‘Friends, we should not be here. This must lead to a catastrophe. What will happen to my children? My wife? Oh, dear God!’

  ‘Shut up,’ Berenger said. He had a duty to his men, above all. ‘Jean, you said that the city would rise in our support. Now you say it will not?’

  Jean shook his head. ‘The plot was to begin to gather up all the supporters of King Philippe, and hold them. That way we would control the finances and military, but now all that is but a dream. The populace may help us, but if many refuse, well, we are lost.’

  Alan wailed, ‘We are lost! Lost!’

  Berenger said nothing, but John of Essex, who had already dismounted, took a cudgel and brought it down on the back of Alan’s head. Alan’s eyes rolled up and he crumpled. ‘Sorry, but he wasn’t adding anything to the discussion,’ John said.

  ‘We must ride to Bosmont. It is my own castle,’ Jean said. ‘We can hold that. Then people will come to us and support us under the flag of your King.’

  ‘Sir John, for my money we are too few,’ Grandarse said. He had managed to haul himself back into his saddle, and now sat there, red-faced and blowing. ‘With only a hundred men we can’t man a castle. We need food and drink to keep a stronghold for any length of time.’

  ‘You may be right, Grandarse, but we will need to look anyway. If we take over a castle here, it will force the French to contain us with a force that will otherwise go to Calais, so it will be worthwhile. Have the men prepare to move off. And now,’ the knight continued, ‘Jean, tell me all you can about this messenger of yours.’

  ‘He is a reliable friend, a lawyer named Gauvain de Bellemont. I have known him for years. Only a few days ago I met him in Berghes,’ Jean said with a frown. ‘He was about to leave then. Did they catch him? Has he been here yet?’

  ‘He may still be on the road,’ Simon said. ‘Perhaps he was held up?’

  ‘But the men of the King of France clearly know about your plot,’ said Simon de Metz, eyeing Alan’s protrate form, and glancing at John warily.

  Berenger noted that this was now Jean de Vervins’ plot, not Alan’s. Jean also noticed, from the filthy look he gave his confederate.

  ‘So, as we expected, news of our arrival has precipitated a reaction,’ Sir John said. He pulled down the corners of his mouth so that it appeared like a drawn bow. ‘It changes nothing,’ he concluded, ‘other than to increase the urgency of our actions.’

  ‘But you don’t understand,’ Simon said. ‘Our city here is not ready! The walls are in disrepair, the populace has not been fully brought over to our side. We must have you send for the rest of your army immediately. We need a much greater force to protect us. Bring us into your King’s Peace and save us!’

  ‘I understand your concern,’ Sir John said, ‘but our King is fully engaged at Calais. He will not dissipate his forces into little packets here and there. If you are to keep this city and protect it, you must rely on your own abilities and skills. We shall ride to Jean’s castle.’

  ‘You will desert us?’

  Sir John stared at the man. ‘If we stay here, you will die. Our presence will cause a battle, and if we are forced, we will fight to the last man. Do you think your city can cope with that? No? Then you had best ride with us if you do not wish to be captured by your King.’

  Gauvain de Bellemont had ridden hard all the way to Rheims and now, under the protection of his new clothing, he felt invisible as he walked about the city. He stood now in the great square before the cathedral, and stared up at the building filled with a sense of confusion at the latest turn of events.

  It was bizarre. The act of treachery in which he had indulged would certainly lead to his destruction. All he had built in a lifetime of study and sheer hard effort, was now lost. His family, his properties in Laon and Metz, his treasure, all were gone. It was hard indeed to believe that he had suffered such a catastrophe, but there it was: he would be fortunate to escape with his life and the clothes on his back.

  A woman stopped him. ‘Excuse me, Brother. Please, I must speak my confession.’

  ‘Madam, I am sorry,’ he said, trying to hold his frustration at bay. This was the third woman today, in God’s name! Was the entire female population of Rheims so sexually incontinent that they must confess their sins to any passing man?

  ‘Brother, I am desperate for your help.’

  ‘Woman, please, go to your priest.’

  ‘But he knows me! The shame! Brother, you must hear me.’

  A watchman was observing them with interest and unconcealed amusement. Gauvain set his teeth. ‘Yes, of course. But where can we go?’

  ‘We can sit by that wall,’ she said, pointing to a bench. ‘No one will interrupt us when they see me talking to you.’

  ‘Very well,’ he said moodily. It was his own fault. The idea of putting on a Carmelite’s robes had seemed inspired at the time. Only now did he see the disadvantages.

  They went and sat, and she began to speak. At first, Gauvain’s attention was split as he tried to keep an eye on the watchman, but surreptitiously, for fear of exciting the man’s interest.

  ‘So, Brother, I was drinking with my brother-in-law and sister, and although I knew it was a terrible thing, I was horribly drunk and all excited, and when Hélène passed out, well, I had to ease the itching in my groin, so I went to Jacques, and . . . and . . . what I did then was . . .’ and she whispered in his ear.

  Gauvain snapped his head away, threw back his hood and stared at her. ‘Woman, that is disgraceful!’

  ‘Hush,’ she entreated. ‘That is why I had to ask you to listen to my—’

  ‘Christ’s bones!’ he cried. ‘You think I want to listen to this sort of filth? My God, you are a shameless slut – a wanton of the worst sort. Words do not do justice to . . .’

  He fell silent as he became aware that not only the woman, but the others all about him in the street, especially the watchman, were observing him and hanging on to every word.

  ‘You should, er . . .’ What kind of penance should he give her? To have done that to her brother-in-law, while her own sister was vomiting and drowning in
her sleep . . . the woman was a disgrace. But he had no idea how to give her a punishment. What form should it take? A hundred pater nosters, two hundred? A thousand? And the watchman was staring at him now, a doubtful expression on his face.

  ‘Begone! You are innocent in this,’ he tried desperately. ‘Go to your priest and tell him that you were tempted by a devil and that he must pray for you.’

  ‘But you are a monk, Brother, and if I tell him this story, he will be always on at me to go and swyve him. I know what he’s like!’

  ‘You must go,’ Gauvain hissed, but already it was too late.

  The watchman, his suspicions fully roused, was purposefully making his way across the square towards the couple. Panicked, Gauvain shoved at her and she fell on her rump with a squawk. There was a moment’s hush, as though the whole world was holding its breath, and then Gauvain began to run, the robes flapping wildly about his ankles, until he was forced to lift them, like a woman hurrying after a mislaid child.

  There was a street, and he dodged down it. The crowd parted as he flew past as though inspired by some celestial hand to make way for this Man of God. A loose cobble almost made him tumble to the ground, but then he was back on his feet and hurtling on again, the blood pounding in his temples, the air rasping in his throat, aware of light-headedness and a sense of near suffocation as he tried to breathe faster and faster with this unaccustomed exercise. He could feel the strain in his chest as he began to labour up a slight incline.

  Risking a glance over his shoulder, he saw that his pursuer was flagging. Thank God, Gauvain thought, and turned back round – just in time to see the cart being thrust into his path from a side-alley.

  He could not hope to stop. Holding out his hands, he tried to halt his onward rush, but the cart’s movement prevented his manoeuvre from working. One fist missed the cart altogether, while the other was caught on a plank, and he felt the splinters stabbing viciously into his palm. Then his hip struck the wheel, and the wheel ran over his foot, and then he was spinning and the cart carried on, but he was falling and looking up at the cart, and his head struck the ground with a crack that made him think he must have broken his pate, and for a moment or two the world lost focus and he was only aware of the pain in his flank and hand and head.

  But a moment later, the angry and reddened face of the watchman appeared, and as the man’s sword rested on his belly to hold him there while his pursuer panted and coughed, Gauvain suddenly realised again how grim was his peril. He tried to rise, but a boot caught his chin, and he fell back, spitting out a tooth and groaning with the pain and the grief.

  It was a relief for Berenger when he and the other men finally left the city.

  His ride under the gatehouse was once more filled with the anticipation of danger; at any moment, he expected to find that the gates before them were shutting, those behind already bolted against them, trapping them – and that the citizens were all overhead on the inner walls, ready to rain down rocks and arrows on them. To his enormous relief, none of this happened. The people of Laon were as worried about the presence of the English as they were about being besieged by the French. It was the inevitable horror of the labouring classes throughout the centuries. Soldiers came and went, but the poor folk were always the lambs, doomed to be fleeced and slaughtered – no matter who the enemy.

  As soon as they had made the decision to leave, two men were despatched to tell the outlying vintaines to prepare to depart. They had hurried back in short order, with the news that there was no sign of an army approaching yet, but that meant nothing. When the French did arrive, the English needed to be well away from here.

  ‘It’s really not far, Sir John,’ Jean was saying as they left the curving walls of Laon and took the road east. ‘We ride five leagues east, then another five north – and then we will be there. It’s a good castle, you’ll see. Strong, well-positioned, and sufficiently distant from here for us to feel secure, eh?’

  Grandarse was riding a few horse-lengths behind Berenger, watching and listening. ‘Aye, Frip. D’ye see what I said, eh? Right dangerous mess, this. We’d have been better staying at Calais. Still, once we’ve made it to Jean’s castle, we can see what pickings there are about the place. Maybe a little manor or two to visit, and some plate and silver to take away with us? That would serve us well.’

  ‘The main thing is to patrol the countryside,’ John of Essex said. ‘We must know when the French are getting within a few leagues so we can be ready for them.’ He had joined Berenger, and his vintaine was riding in a parallel column alongside Berenger’s.

  ‘Aye, that would help,’ Grandarse said, but Berenger could see from the look in his eye what he was thinking: it would be safer still to be as far from Bosmont and Jean de Vervins as possible when the French did arrive. No English archer was welcome in France, especially not since Crécy, when so many noble lives had ended at the point of an English arrow.

  ‘Look at them,’ Mark Tyler said disgustedly, pointing to the huddle of merchants riding a little to their left. ‘What good will any of them be, Frip, when we get to the castle? They can hardly hold a staff, let alone a sword.’

  ‘They may show some courage,’ Berenger said shortly. ‘As matters stand, we couldn’t leave them at Laon. They would be killed for certain. Better to keep them with us.’

  ‘Why?’ Tyler grumbled. ‘So they can eat our food?’

  ‘I was thinking more because we can find out where they keep their money,’ Grandarse said comfortably.

  ‘And I was thinking that the King might be unhappy, were we to mislay his allies,’ Berenger said.

  ‘He won’t miss allies who failed to achieve the one thing he wanted,’ John commented.

  ‘He’ll miss any who have money and who could prove useful in the future. Look at Jean de Vervins himself,’ Berenger said. ‘He’s hardly the sort of man I’d expect our King to take to, but he seems to have wormed his way into the King’s favour. Not that it will necessarily continue when our King sees that he’s failed to bring in Laon. Still, he could work to the King’s benefit, if we can keep this castle of Bosmont secure and him with it.’

  Grandarse eyed him doubtfully. ‘You think so?’

  John of Essex was gazing about them as they rode, staring at the verdant pastures and the crops just appearing through the crust of the soil. They were passing a hamlet now, and in it were several pleasant houses and farm buildings. Horses and cattle grazed, and there was a bleating from over a hedge that spoke of lambs.

  ‘Someone will have to go to the King, to bring him up to date with developments,’ he said. ‘Not I, though. I’ll be staying here as long as I can.’

  Berenger sighed as he recognised John’s expression: it was that of an English soldier who could smell, all about him, the sweet odour of plunder.

  Archibald finished ramming the ball up the barrel, and threw himself over the parapet behind his safety ramp. In front he had caused some pavises to be built – large shields of wood so that he was safe from bolts and arrows aimed at him from the town’s walls as he worked his gonne. The clatter and thud of missiles hitting the pavises had grown to be a constant background noise, rather like the clatter of hail against a shingled roof.

  He aimed along the length of the barrel, then used a heavy, lead-filled wooden maul to hit the breech.

  ‘You need to clobber that harder, if you want it to hit something, don’t you?’ a sentry asked. He was new here, and hadn’t worked with Archibald for long.

  Archibald threw a meaningful look at Ed. Even the boy had not been as slow as this. ‘I clobber it hard to move it. As I hit it, the barrel turns,’ he said. One day, he would have to give some thought to an easier way of shifting the barrel. Perhaps putting it on a wheel, instead of a sledge or raft? He could have it on a trailer, but the massive shock of the detonation would shatter any wagon at the first shot.

  ‘That’ll do it,’ he said to Ed. The Donkey was hardly listening, he saw. Instead, he was peering over the parapet to
wards the flats west of the town. ‘Hey – Donkey! Shift yourself!’

  The boy scurried down to the wooden boards at the bottom and ran to the brazier at the farther end of their trench. Here he grabbed the long coil of string Archibald had made, and thrust its end into the fire. The match blackened and singed, and Ed blew on it to keep it glowing, while Archibald tipped powder from the flask about his throat into the little hole. He stoppered his flask and reached for the match. ‘Stand back!’ he shouted, and shoved it down.

  Béatrice, watching from the powder store, saw the high, inverted cone of smoke as the first powder sizzled in the vent, but then there was the brief pause – the tremble, almost – and the roar as the gonne belched out its flames in a thunderous cacophony.

  Archibald danced around at the breech end, shouting, ‘Did I hit it? Did I hit it?’ as the smoke rolled greasily around. Gradually, as it cleared, and he could see again, he was struck by the sight of a cog bucketing in the sea at the harbourside. As he watched, he saw a new hole in its planking, and the cog began to move more sluggishly in the water, gradually tilting, while shipmen ran aloft on the ropes to try to release the sails, but all to no avail.

  ‘Look at that!’ Archibald cried triumphantly. The unmistakable sounds of rending wood came over the water as the vessel’s planks and beams began to break apart, torn asunder by the weight of the cargo inside.

  But Donkey wasn’t watching. His attention was still fixed on the other bank of the river.

  ‘What on earth is it, boy?’

  ‘It’s that priest again. He’s spying on us, as he was before.’

  Archibald poked his head over the parapet and stared. ‘Then we must do something about him, mustn’t we?’

  The little castle of Bosmont rose on its own modest hillock in the bend of the River Serre. Standing on the eastern edge of the river, it loomed over them as they approached. Berenger considered it as they trotted up the narrow pathway.