Blood on the Sand

by Michael Jecks

  The two ships edged closer and closer. On board the barge, Berenger could see that the shipmaster was attempting to hurtle past the English cog before those on board had recovered enough to try to board his vessel. If he was fast, he might succeed. But then the two ships met with a loud squeal of protesting oak, and the English archers needed no instruction. Without a single command being given, they sprang onto the lower decks of the barge. A spirited resistance was mounted by the sailors, and Berenger saw Clip and Jack loose arrows at two strong and determined shipmen at the prow, killing them both; at the tiller, the old grizzled shipmaster laid about him so incautiously with a heavy falchion that one archer lost his hand. That was when Berenger leaped at him, his own sword striking down at the man’s sword and bearing it to the ground. He then stood on the blade while he punched the older man about the face. The first blow was hardly heeded, while the second simply made the man blink – but Berenger’s third punch was aimed at the side of the fellow’s head, and he reeled like a rabbit hit by a slingstone, before collapsing.

  The shipmaster of their cog was still at his poop. Berenger shouted to him: ‘Would you come over to this ship? Yours must surely sink!’

  ‘This old bitch? You know how much it’d cost me to replace her? No, she won’t sink – she wouldn’t dare!’ the fellow replied. ‘I’ll get her back to harbour.’

  Slowly, the great cog turned back and began to limp her way towards the shore, while the hardy crew ran about the decks under the shipman’s orders. Berenger hoped they would make it back safely.

  At present, he had other things to concern him.

  Jack pulled at his shoulder. ‘Frip!’

  Looking round, Baldwin saw that the galley had executed a neat turn and was now pointing at them once more. He saw the oars begin to rise and fall again, and then the vessel was bearing down on them.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Jack said.

  Clip was staring at the galley with a frown on his face. ‘That bastard’s really got it in for us! Shit for brains!’ And he began to hurl insults at the men on the ship, waving his bow in the air with a rage so pure it was hard for Berenger to know whether to laugh or sympathise.

  In the event, it was Dogbreath who said, ‘Do you not think it would be better to try to kill the bastard, rather than waste your breath shouting at him?’

  It was a call to commonsense, and the archers began to loose their arrows swiftly into the ship. At first, it appeared that their efforts were going unrewarded, but this time the galley had a greater distance to cover, and every yard of the way, a hundred arrows plummeted from the sky. Many struck the great sail, after which they travelled on and caused injuries to those beneath. Some lanced down and pinned the rowers to their benches. The drum itself suddenly gave a deep boom, then went silent, and Berenger wondered whether they had hit the drummer or the skin of the great instrument. There came more cries, and he saw that the oars now rose and dipped irregularly; a series of oars had ceased to move, but floated in the water.

  ‘More arrows!’ he cried. ‘We could take the galley! Can we catch it?’ This to the shipman who had been left with them while their cog returned to shore. The man on the tiller peered ahead at the galley, but even as he stared, the galley turned and headed towards the harbour at Calais. The man looked back at Berenger and shook his head.

  ‘Frip! Frip – look!’ Jack shouted suddenly, and Berenger whirled round to see the man at the poopdeck of the galley. It was the Genoese again.

  ‘That fucking donkey turd! Not content with stealing our first ship, now he’s sunk another under us and wants to take our barge too!’ Clip spat. He drew his bow and let fly at an extreme angle. Clip had always been a natural archer, with an eye for distance that was unmatched by most, and Berenger watched the arrow’s flight with a mingled desire to see the cocky Genoese shipman pierced, and a reluctance to see him harmed. It was, after all, this man who had set them free from their captivity.

  He was pleased to see the Genoese spring back as the arrow struck, quivering, impaling itself into the planking within a few paces of the man.

  Grandarse was puffing and blowing at his side. ‘Clip, man, next time, wait a minute and let a grown-up use his sodding bow rather than wasting an arrow.’

  ‘It was the wind caught me arrow as I released – didn’t you feel the gust?’

  ‘Mayhap it was the wind from your bowels, Clip,’ the Earl drawled.

  ‘Hey, you want a taste of my fist? I’ll take you on any day, you . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ the Earl enquired mildly.

  ‘You overgrown, illegitimate son of a poxed Winchester goose!’

  ‘Overgrown? Perhaps. Son of a whore? Perhaps that too, I confess. But illegitimate? Yes, my friend. But I was born that way, I’m not a self-made bastard like you!’

  Clip went quite pale with anger, and stood rigid, at a loss for words. Berenger glanced at Jack and both surreptitiously moved nearer. However, a few seconds passed and then Clip gave a grin, conceding, ‘You’re not all bad, Earl.’

  ‘I agree with you there.’

  ‘We can be friends.’

  ‘There you test me.’

  There was a sudden roar from behind them.

  ‘There’s another vessel over there!’ Grandarse bellowed at the top of his voice, pointing. ‘Come on – let’s see if we can catch ourselves a ship!’

  Archibald sat outside on his gonne’s barrel and stared up at the sun. With a small barrel of ale on the earth wall behind him, and a pewter goblet in his hand, life was sweet. The ale he had won in a game of Nine Men’s Morris, but the goblet, which had been liberated from a house on the way to Calais, had become his yesterday in exchange for a small charge of black powder encased in a wrap of parchment, sealed with pig’s fat. Later that evening, he had heard of a near riot in a house in the town when a somewhat morose captain, who was disliked by most of his men, had been dining with a woman, and for some reason his fire had exploded when the two were growing affectionate. Archibald saw no need to investigate. His ale was tasty, all the better for being served in a noble vessel such as this, and he sighed with content. It was all good.

  The smell, however, was not. The town over there, across the little dribble of water, had a right stench coming off it. He had been near towns with bad odours in the past – for instance, who could forget Exeter in the high summer, when the reek from the tanners over to the west spread all over the city, enough to make a man’s eyes water . . . This was different, though. The smell had a bittersweet tang that caught in the throat like vomit. At least most of the time it was pleasant enough here. The wind tended to blow away from the little fort. And now, with the evening sun behind him lighting the town’s walls with a glorious golden hue, he could almost have felt himself to be back in England instead of here, and no longer at war. The stone looked like the golden rocks used in places like Evesham. That had been a lovely town, he remembered, and sighed.

  He passed a pleasant evening. Rested, he ate a good meal and went to his palliasse at the rear of the fort, secure in the knowledge that the Donkey was keeping watch. A little while after sunset, he was deeply asleep.

  Béatrice experienced a wave of relief on the day the vintaine returned, but her joy was short-lived when Berenger was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘What is it?’ Ed demanded.

  ‘He is not there!’ It was only when she realised that Berenger was there, and sitting up in the cart that she recovered her equanimity.

  ‘No, he’s gone,’ Ed was insisting.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Tyler – Mark of London, of course. Why, who did you think?’

  She said nothing, only blushed, but suddenly the boy’s face hardened when he saw Berenger too. But then she was running to greet the vintener – and quickly forgot the expression on his face.

  It came back to her now though, as she approached Marguerite’s side, a look of mingled jealousy and hurt.

  ‘I am glad to see you back safely,’ she said.

  ‘I
thank you,’ Marguerite replied, but there was no joy in her tone.

  ‘I have heard that you saved Berenger from death.’

  ‘I nursed him, but he has a hard head. It took little to save him, in truth. Only a little comforting.’

  Béatrice forbore to ask how much comforting. ‘You seem concerned.’

  The woman shot her a glance, and then she licked her lips. ‘Béatrice, you are a Frenchwoman. I am sure you are loyal to the men here, too, but you also have some feeling for our people, don’t you?’

  ‘I have no people,’ Béatrice said flatly.

  ‘But I am your friend?’

  ‘Yes, you are my friend.’

  ‘I am worried about my son,’ Marguerite burst out. ‘He is a good boy, but he is keeping something from me. He is working hard with the archers, but how can I entice him to open up to me?’

  ‘I have no children. I cannot advise.’

  ‘But you have Ed. He treats you as his mother.’

  Béatrice shook her head. ‘No.’

  Marguerite said nothing, but then her mouth formed a perfect ‘Oh’.

  ‘He is desperately jealous. Perhaps your Georges has also fallen in love?’

  ‘No, I feel sure it is something different.’

  ‘Then you must ask him, and do not stop until he explains.’

  ‘Béatrice, I am terrified of what his answer may be!’

  ‘You must. It is worse to wonder,’ Béatrice said. And then, with a great heave of resolution: ‘Speak to Berenger. See what he thinks. You can trust his advice.’

  Ed sat by the wall of the fort and stared out at the view. There was not much to look at here, only a series of braziers installed on the walls of the town. The people were petrified that the English might attempt to take the place by force, he knew. That was why they had lights all along the walls, to make sure that there were no darkened routes by which the English might cross and climb to overrun the place.

  Béatrice was in love with Berenger. The truth was plain, and it hurt to know it, but at least now he could see it. She was a solid, unyielding woman, but she was comforting. He couldn’t blame Berenger. Whenever Ed himself had been injured or merely alarmed, it was Béatrice who had come to give him sympathy and support. She was that sort of woman. But right at this moment, it felt as though Ed had lost her. And without her, he was bereft.

  There was a brief flare of light. Nothing much, but he thought it came from down at the water’s edge – not at the English shore, but on the Calesian side. He squinted in the dark, trying to see something that could have caused the flash, but decided it must merely have been the light reflecting on the sea from a brazier up on the walls. And yet, when he looked at the walls again, he realised that some of the lights were extinguished. There was a gap of some yards where no flares at all were lit. There was no movement, no indication of men. All was perfectly still, dark and calm. There was nothing for him to grow excited about.

  And yet . . .

  He was young, he knew, but after living with the soldiers for so many months, some vestiges of their training must have been absorbed into his soul. The thought of waking Archibald filled him with dread, for the gynour could be a terror when his sleep was disturbed, but that was less alarming than the thought that a force could have slipped over the Calesian wall and even now be hurrying to the English fortress to slaughter the inhabitants. He knew what he must do.

  Slowly and full of trepidation, he crossed to the rear of the fortress and called to Archibald. ‘Sir?’

  ‘What is it?’ the gynour demanded. ‘There’s something wrong – I can smell it.’

  The Donkey was only grateful that he hadn’t already been beaten. ‘Sir, they have put out some lights at the fortress and now I can’t see anything.’

  ‘Show me.’

  They returned to the wall and the two peered out.

  ‘You’re right,’ Archibald said. ‘They’ve shut out some of their lights. Why would they do that, I wonder?’

  ‘I thought they could be crossing to attack us here.’

  Archibald’s eyes flitted over the water. There was no sign of men crossing the water, and yet . . . ‘There, boy! Can you see that?’

  ‘What?’ the Donkey said, but Archibald was already turning and bellowing.

  ‘Boats! Boats from Calais escaping! Guards!’

  Archibald scrambled to the top of the wall, thinking hard. What could the guards do? Nothing – it was too late. Yet he had his gonnes here. And what was more, he had time to use them.

  Archibald grabbed the lamb’swool swab and ran to the mouth of the nearest gonne. He rammed it into the barrel, turning it to remove any dampness from the cool evening air. Then he hurried back and snatched up the powder measure. Wrenching the top from one of the powder barrels, he scooped up a good quantity. Curtly telling Donkey to put the lid back on, he went to the gonne and carefully loaded it. Then he took a bag of stones and pushed it into the barrel. Ramming it with the stave of the powder measure, he ensured that the bag was well seated before hurrying to the firing hole. There was some charcloth in his tinderbox, and he struck flint and his knife to make a spark, blowing gently on the cloth as it caught the spark and began to smoulder.

  ‘Get back, boy!’ he roared to Ed. ‘Stay out there and you may lose your head!’

  Over the barrel, he took a long spike and cleared the vent hole, then tipped out a little fine powder from his neck-flask. He took the match and stick, and blew on his charcloth until it was glowing nicely, and set that to the match, blowing steadily but gently until the match was red and spitting – and then he rammed it into the vent. There was a whoomph, a flash of blinding yellow-red light, and then a fizzing cone of smoke and flame leaped up from the vent as, with an earth-jarring roar, the gonne fired. It lighted the whole area of sea, including the two small boats which were rowing as quickly as they could away from Calais.

  Through the clouds this fleeting glimpse was enough. Now the English camp was all astir, and cries and horn blasts at the waterside showed that the boats had been spotted.

  ‘Boy,’ Archibald said, his big bearded face grinning from ear to ear, ‘there is nothing so satisfying as waking an entire army before dawn!’

  ‘Yes, Gynour.’

  ‘But don’t make a habit of it, eh? I can be real grouchy without my sleep – and you can see how dangerous that is!’

  Berenger was deeply asleep when the sudden roar of the gonne woke him as well as the others in the vintaine.

  ‘What the f . . .’ he cried as he jerked awake, reaching for his sword.

  Grandarse burst into their room, his eyes wild, a long dagger in his fist, hair all awry. ‘Did you hear that? Fripper, the bastards have attacked us! They must have the Devil himself on their side to make that racket! Did ye hear the—’

  ‘Grandarse, in Christ’s name be silent!’ Berenger halted the flow. ‘What did you actually see?’

  ‘See?’ Grandarse suddenly realised the kind of figure he must cut as he looked down at his bare bony legs and shirted breast. He stuck his chin out aggressively in case anyone wanted to laugh at him, but before he could make a comment, Jack ran in.

  ‘Frip, there are two boats trying to escape!’

  Berenger raised a hand to stop him. ‘Do we have any idea who’s in them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That explosion: was it from the town?’

  ‘No, it was bloody Archibald again. He was firing at the boats, I reckon.’

  ‘Did he hit them?’

  Jack gave him a withering look. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Oh. I see.’

  ‘So the boats are getting away, Frip.’

  ‘Oh, God’s ballocks, I suppose we’ll have to try to catch them, then.’ Berenger grimaced and pulled on a cloak against the cold. ‘Jack, I want the whole vintaine – with grappling hooks and axes. No need for everyone to bring bows – just you, Clip, Oliver and Dogbreath. Georges, you too,’ he added. He watched the boy as he pulled on a jack
. There was nothing in his behaviour to show that he was in any way a betrayer of the men. Berenger found Archibald’s words hard to believe. But the gynour was convinced – that much was clear.

  They were soon at the waterside climbing into a large boat with a small sail and five oars each side. Berenger looked down at it with a feeling of revulsion. This was the sort of vessel that would buck and roll with every little slap of a wave against the hull, he thought, but it was the fastest craft big enough to hold his men. He climbed into it reluctantly, holding his sword against his side, and stood near the mast. The master cast off, with many muttered comments about ‘Fucking archers, think they rule the bleeding harbour . . .’ and were soon rowing steadily along the channel in pursuit of the two little ships.

  Berenger could see the sails far away on the horizon, and felt certain that they would never catch them. Still, the master appeared convinced that with his little boat they could overhaul their quarry.

  ‘It’s a matter of the length of the craft, the size of the sail, and the width of the hull. With this little darling, I can catch about anything in half a morning,’ he said. He had sparse grey hair and the kind of thin skin that looked as if it would tear like parchment, but there was a confidence and solidity to him as he stood at the tiller that spoke of years of experience. ‘Look at ’em, eh? Someone in that one to port has had some experience, but the boat to starboard? He’s going to be in trouble soon.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because,’ the mariner said, glancing up at his sail and nodding to himself as if pleased, ‘that boat is straying too close to the shore. The sands are very shallow here – and the tide’s on the turn.’

  Berenger shrugged with confusion. ‘Which means?’

  The shipman made a comment under his breath that sounded like ‘land monkeys’, and then pointed. ‘See the sand there? It shelves shallowly. That means the water under the boat is not deep. As the tide moves away, the water will leave him on the sands and he’ll be stuck until the tide comes in again.’