Blood on the Sand

by Michael Jecks

  ‘Bring him to the hall, where I can tend to him. No – now!’ she added, as she saw his eyes move to the walls once again. John glared, but nodded to the other archer, and the two carried Berenger inside as she had commanded.

  ‘Look after him well,’ John said threateningly, but there was a series of shouts and cries from outside, and he ran out again.

  Marguerite looked down at Berenger and very slowly began to weep.

  ‘Do not die, M’sieur. Do not die.’

  At the first lull in the fighting, John of Essex pulled off his bascinet and wiped his sweaty hair away from his brow. It had been a hard series of skirmishes, with men storming the walls as well as the gates, in rushes. But their assaults were badly coordinated, and the men on the walls were able to beat them off. A score or more of the enemy were horribly incinerated when boiling oil was tipped over, scalding those it struck and then igniting and enveloping still more in the engulfing flames. The screams and shrieks of agony were so intense, so frightful, that for a moment both garrison and attackers stood back, appalled. But now the French were consumed by the urge to avenge their dead, and they redoubled their assaults.

  At the middle of the afternoon, both sides withdrew for a rest. The archers of John’s vintaine leaned against the battlements or slumped to the floor. There were two boys in his group: one sat blubbing in the corner by the tower, while the other, a younger boy, knelt on the walkway and stared about him, his eyes wide with shock. John was relieved to see a grizzled old archer pull the lad to him and hug him, rocking him gently.

  Some of the garrison were set to collecting bodies and hurling them over the walls, and then John went down to see how Fripper was.

  He liked Fripper. There was something about him that encouraged loyalty from his men. John had worked with others of supposedly more experience who did not inspire that kind of confidence. Fripper did. John had tried to analyse what it was about the man, but he could not isolate it. It was something to do with the way he gave men his trust but didn’t ask anything in return. He expected them to act as he wished, and his belief in them seemed to bear fruit.

  ‘How is he?’ he asked as he entered the chamber.

  Fripper was still lying on the trestle where John had left him, and while Marguerite had wiped and cleaned his face, there was still a lot of blood. John could see that he was very pale. Every so often he would shiver, and a hand would twitch.

  ‘What do you think?’ she said crossly. ‘He is lucky to be alive.’

  ‘He would be dead, were it not for the stable roof.’

  ‘He has had a blow to the head, but I do not think he will die.’

  ‘That’s a relief, anyway. Do you need anything from me to help you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then look to him well, mistress. We need him.’

  She nodded and turned back to her charge. John stood staring down at Fripper, and shook his head sadly. As he left the room, he almost barged straight into Tyler.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he demanded as Tyler stepped aside.

  ‘Me? In there. I’m parched.’

  ‘Get back to your post, Tyler, and don’t leave it again or I’ll have you flogged.’

  ‘You aren’t my vintener!’

  John recalled looking up and seeing Tyler’s face on the walkway after Berenger’s fall. He lifted his hands and shoved Tyler hard in the breast, sending him staggering backwards.

  ‘Hey! What are you doing?’

  ‘You want to argue about my right to command you? You want to dispute my authority? Or do you just want to get in there and finish the job?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I saw you up on the walkway when he fell. You were there, weren’t you? Be easy to make a man slip and fall, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I would never do that!’

  Grandarse suddenly appeared. Barging his way between the two, he physically separated them and glared from one to the other.

  ‘He says I pushed Fripper off the wall, but I didn’t! You were there, Grandarse, you saw what happened. He just slipped and fell,’ Tyler said desperately.

  ‘I saw him falling through the air, no more,’ Grandarse said, looking at John. ‘What did you see?’

  ‘Only his face as Frip fell,’ John said, and shoved at Tyler again. ‘I think this prickle did it on purpose.’

  ‘I didn’t even touch him, Grandarse!’

  Grandarse looked at Tyler. There was no sympathy in his eyes, but his voice was firm. ‘John, we can discuss this later, but for now we have a castle to defend. Tyler, go back to your vintaine on the wall. Do not leave your place again.’

  As Tyler left them, John spat at the ground. ‘He did it!’

  Grandarse suddenly span on him. ‘Don’t give me that ballocks, man.’ He thrust his face forward until John could feel the spittle hit his cheeks as Grandarse hissed, ‘We have a fuckin’ enemy outside those walls, you understand? They’re the enemy. Anyone in here is a friend because we need them all! Don’t you dare piss around and cost us another man on top of the ones we’ve already lost.’

  ‘But he might—’

  ‘I don’t give a farthing’s fuck what he may or may not have done. If it looks like he did something, we’ll sort that out later, once – once – we’ve escaped this place. You understand me? You go around causing trouble inside the castle and I’ll cut your throat meself!’

  Jean de Vervins heard them arguing from where he stood on the castle’s wall. And then he heard another sound – the braying of several horns, and some shouting. With a sudden excitement he ran to the battlements, hoping against hope that this could be another English force, come to raise their siege. It would be a miracle, were they to have heard of the plight of the men here, but perhaps the English King had realised that they were in great danger, and had decided to send them help?

  Then the hope was dashed from his face as he took in the flags. More men from Châlons, more from Laon, some from further afield, but all from those loyal to the French King. None were English.

  He felt despair hit him in his breast like a crossbow bolt. At last he truly understood the weakness of his position here. He looked out over the men before his gates. There was not a single one in whom he could place any trust. All were devoted to King Philippe. These were the men who wanted to see him dead.

  Taking his sword and thrusting it into its sheath, he walked through the little door to the winding staircase and went down to the hall.

  Once there, he fetched a large pot of wine and stood staring while Marguerite ministered to Berenger. ‘It would be easier if it were me lying there,’ he said. ‘At least then all in the castle would be safe. Once I am dead . . .’

  Marguerite threw him a harassed look. ‘We will all die.’

  ‘Perhaps. And now the Abbot has arrived, the Vidame will be here, too, I will be—’

  ‘The Vidame?’

  The boy’s squeak made both adults turn.

  Jean de Vervins eyed Georges curiously. ‘Alain de Châlons, the steward to the Abbot of Châlons, yes. And he’s sworn as my enemy because he is utterly devoted to King Philippe. Since I changed my allegiance, because of Philippe de Valois’s lack of faith and dishonour, I am now considered an enemy of Châlons too, and the Vidame would see me destroyed.’

  ‘But he is at Calais,’ the boy said, confused.

  ‘His master is outside, so I doubt it,’ Jean said. He sighed heavily as the clash of weapons came again from outside. ‘And now we must fight again.’

  Marguerite caught at her son as the men left the room.

  ‘Let go of me!’

  ‘What do you know of this man, the Vidame?’ she demanded.

  ‘Nothing! I do not know this man Alain.’

  ‘But you know something of the Vidame. You were shocked to hear he had arrived with the Abbot. Why did you think he was there at Calais?’

  He suddenly turned and spat, ‘What is it to you? You have forgotten my father already. You only have
eyes for your vintener! I hope he dies!’ And the boy fled from the room.

  After Grandarse’s words, John of Essex was determined to keep away from Mark Tyler, but he need not worry. Tyler was keeping well away from him.

  That night was clear and still, and the sentries saw nothing to cause alarm, but all through the dark hours the sound of construction could be heard. The rasp of saws, the thud of wooden pegs being hammered into planks, the squeak of wood forced into new positions.

  The following morning, as the sun rose over the hills, when John peered out over the plain, he saw that the French were constructing a large tower, from which they would be able to send crossbow bolts or arrows directly into the English castle. It was some distance away, and throughout the day, the English could gaze out and see it rising into the sky. Already a number of great tree trunks had been cut and trimmed, ready to slide beneath the tower so that it might roll forward on them towards the castle.

  ‘Shit!’ he heard one of his men mutter. ‘That’s going to screw us completely.’

  Sir John appeared at his side. He gazed out at the tower with a grim look in his eyes. ‘They are learning, aren’t they?’

  ‘It looks bad, sir,’ John of Essex said.

  ‘We’ve fought worse battles, and against worse odds. At least we have a castle to protect us,’ Sir John said.

  He soon walked away to discuss the men’s dispositions with Jean de Vervins. John of Essex watched him go with a feeling of loneliness. Having the knight beside him made him feel strong and safe.

  From a short way away, he heard Clip’s cheerful, ‘Well, that’s it. We’ll all get slaughtered when that thing gets here.’

  There was short squeak of pain. Then, ‘Ouch! Jack, why’d you do that?’

  ‘To shut you up, what else?’

  John stood watching.

  After he had been there a while, Jean de Vervins appeared at his side. ‘They are keen to take my castle,’ he said.

  John nodded. ‘You’ve upset the wrong people.’

  ‘I was once the French King’s favourite knight, you know. If he had only kept faith with me, I would still be his most loyal servant. But when he showed his contempt for me and transferred his affections to du Bos instead, I had no choice.’

  ‘I see,’ John said, but in fact he couldn’t. The man had broken his oath. John could understand a man taking money for his loyalty, but not discarding all ties. Still, a knight had to consider his honour, of course.

  ‘I have served your King honourably. If you return to him, tell him this.’

  ‘I will,’ John said.

  ‘You know, they will not stop until they have my head,’ Jean said.

  He stared out bleakly at the tower rising before his castle walls. It was a great undertaking. He could imagine the captains about it exhorting their men to ever greater efforts. The tower itself should save many French lives, after all. They had proved to themselves that the defenders were more than competent to slay many of them. All Jean de Vervins could think of right now was what his friend Gauvain had said. What was it? Something about making sure he was not captured alive. That their enemies would seek to give them the most unpleasant death imaginable, if they were caught.

  There was a thunderous roar, then drums beat and horns blared wildly once more.

  Jean drew his sword. ‘Here they come,’ he said wearily.

  Grandarse was at the far wall when the cry came, and he lumbered heavily, puffing and blowing, across the castle, up the steps, and up to the walls beside John and Jean. Jack took command of Frip’s men at the right, while John held the middle, and two other vintaines waited: one at the left, the other as a reserve. There were enough French from the garrison to cover the other walls, but this was where the main attack would fall.

  ‘Bows strung, boys!’ Grandarse called, looking sternly along his line. The men were all as ready as they would ever be, he saw. That younger fellow with the pale hair and red face, he had sweat dribbling out from his upper lip so badly he kept having to wipe it away. The Warwickshire man with the badly pox-scarred face near him was trembling as if this was his first action. Well, maybe it was at that. Frip’s men were all looking good, though. That damned villeiny-sayer, Clip, was looking out at the enemy and telling all who would listen that they would soon die; Dogbreath was shivering not from fear, but more in the manner of a hound that sees the hart and wants to be at it. Jack stood calmly enough, the Earl eyed the enemy with a kind of laconic bafflement, while the Pardoner glanced about fretfully, but not anxiously. And not far from him, Tyler stood staring at the men approaching with a kind of professional interest.

  ‘Bring up oil!’ Grandarse shouted. It might help. A lad fetched him a bucket of warmed oil left over from the earlier fight.

  The French tower was halfway up to them now. It stood a clear three yards taller than the castle’s walls, and at the front there was a drawbridge. Beneath, at the rear, men picked up the great rollers between four of them, and lumbered to the front, where they dropped them and made their way to the back again. There was a hold-up when they reached a rock that lay in their path. A section of men stood gaping at it and scratching their heads, until two peasants ran and fetched long levers and prised it from the ground. They manhandled it from the path of the tower, which began its forward movement once more, slowly travelling over the ground.

  ‘Archers, ready!’ Grandarse called.

  It was good to give the men something to think about, but the main thing here would not be the archers’ arrows, but the strength in their arms as they pitched attackers from their walls. It was going to be hard, Grandarse knew. He settled his bascinet on his head, tightening his grip on his sword with his right hand as he hitched up his hosen with his left. ‘Archers!’

  The tower had five men already at the top. Grandarse shuddered. Once, he had ridden in the top of a storming tower like that one as it was manoeuvred across a field. The memory of standing so high above ground while it shook and rattled over the grass was not one he would ever forget. ‘Aim for the men atop! Nock! Draw! Loose!’

  He saw all five disappear as thirty arrows were discharged into them, but then it was a case of having every arrow count.

  ‘Hit the men with the logs!’ he bellowed, and at once two of the four were felled. One collapsed in the tower’s path, and as the tower rumbled forward, it pushed the logs until they rolled over his lower body as though there was no obstruction. As the man screeched in agony, the logs kept moving, and Grandarse had a brief view of a smear on the grass where his legs and groin should have been.

  ‘Archers, loose when you have a target!’ Sir John was roaring, and Grandarse nodded approvingly.

  ‘Prepare to defend the walls!’ he bawled in turn, and saw the tower’s bridge gradually moving. When it was near enough, the bridge would fall on the castle’s wall, and men would rush over it.

  The bridge fell with a sudden thump, and one Englishman was crushed beneath it. Grandarse had no time to guess who it was, but instead bounded to the front as the first Frenchmen began to pelt over it. A pair of arrows took the first man down, another took the second man, but then the French were over it like beggars running for a monastery’s alms. Two reached the wall, then five, then more, and all the while more were coming.

  Jean de Vervins was at the forefront all the time, his sword swinging with mighty power, and men fell before him. Jack wielded a hatchet to great effect, and John swung his sword with abandon, almost taking the head off the archer beside him with one over-enthusiastic swipe. Grandarse was at the front, bringing his sword down on the head of a lunatic Frenchman who tried to push him over. He fell, more stunned than injured, but the man beside Grandarse stabbed him quickly in the face and neck as their mêlée moved back and forth over the wall.

  A man had managed to grab a lance, and now he used it to push at the Frenchmen on the bridge, while archers over at the left of the wall kept up a merciless barrage of arrows.

  Grandarse saw an opportunity, a
nd hefted the bucket. With a heave, he hurled it at the bridge, and it broke on the doorway above as more men rushed through, some dying before they had crossed the pathway.

  ‘Fire!’ he roared, and as soon as a torch was kindled and brought, he flung it at the oiled patch. In a moment, the oil had caught light, and the bridge itself became a fiery vision of Hell. Men were less enthusiastic about launching themselves onto it and crossing over to the castle.

  The English moved some paces away to catch their breath, and even as they did so, a second series of shouts came from the tower as the structure began to flower with flames.

  A man stood in the doorway and tried to jump across, but he was killed before he had taken a pace. Then a trio of crossbowmen appeared on the tower’s uppermost level again, and they loosed before the English could react. Grandarse felt the waft of the feathers pass his face, and experienced a strange elation as he realised it had missed him. And then he heard the cough and turned to see Jean de Vervins staring at the bolt’s fletchings protruding from his breast.

  ‘Help me!’ Grandarse yelled to the two men nearby. ‘Tyler, you come with me. John, you too,’ he said, and the three picked up Jean and helped him down the steps as best they could, leaving Sir John to command the defence.

  Jean was coughing and choking as they took him across the yard, but before they had reached the doorway, he waved his hands and gulped convulsively: ‘Down, let me down! I suffocate!’

  Grandarse looked desperately around, but there was nowhere, not even a bench, on which to sit him, so the three set him down on the ground as gently as they could.

  The bolt that had hit him had penetrated his breast, and the point protruded from his back near his spine. John of Essex looked up at Grandarse and silently shook his head.

  ‘I know.’ Grandarse looked compassionately at the dying man. ‘Jean, there is no priest here to give you the words as they should, but if you have anything to confess, I can say the Pater Noster for you.’

  Jean looked up at him and shook his head. A cough sent him into a spasm of agony, and a gush of blood ran from his mouth and nostrils; he curled up, suffocating as the blood filled his lungs. He wanted to say he was pleased to have escaped Gauvain’s fate, but as he tried to speak, the blood was thick in his throat, and he could only gasp and fight for breath.