Blood on the Sand

by Michael Jecks

  Berenger nodded. ‘So we can catch him. Good.’

  ‘No.’ The man closed his eyes with exasperation. ‘Is this boat smaller than that? No. It’s bigger. That means it goes down further in the water, which means that if that craft is beached, so will we be. Sooner. So we will leave that arse to his own devices and continue on this course.’

  ‘That other boat’s heading more out to sea,’ Berenger said warily, not wanting to display more ignorance.

  ‘Aye, he is. But he’s too small to want to stay out. And where’s he off to? London? He’s an enemy of ours, so he has to come back in to the coast at some point. And that means he’ll have to cut in towards us. So we’ll have him.’

  Berenger nodded. As he did, he looked at the boat that was in danger of being caught on the sands. Surely it was a decoy? he thought. The little craft was deliberately heading towards the sands because the sailor wanted to tempt Berenger’s craft after it, and see it beached, while the other boat escaped.

  But as he gazed at it, he saw that the vessel was changing direction. Now, rather than remaining over the shallow sands where it would be trapped, it was moving out towards the main channel again.

  ‘Hold!’ he said. There was something familiar about the figure in the boat. ‘Jack, the man in the boat there – do you recognise him?’

  ‘He looks like the Genoese.’

  ‘Chrestien de Grimault,’ Berenger murmured. Then, ‘Master, we will go after this little boat. I had thought that the other ship was more important, but now I think our Genoese friend is the more likely to be our correct target.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Hold to this course, and we shall have every opportunity to catch both, will we not?’ Jack said.

  ‘Aye.’

  They continued on. For once, none of the archers threw up, even though the boat was rolling and diving quite alarmingly as the tide pulled away. The ship kept as close to the shore as the master deemed safe, and all the way they kept their eyes on the vessel with Chrestien de Grimault on board.

  ‘Frip! Look out there!’ Clip said.

  The other little boat was coming closer and closer now, and for a wild moment Berenger thought it would come and ram their craft, but at the last second it turned, a little more than a bowshot away.

  ‘He’s trying to tempt you out after him,’ the master grunted.

  ‘I think so,’ Berenger agreed. ‘Are there sandbanks out there?’

  ‘Not that I can see. Doesn’t mean anything, though. There could be, but the water is not breaking on an obvious one.’

  They were approaching the Genoese’s vessel now; his little boat had no escape route available. At last, Berenger saw Chrestien de Grimault stand and hurl something into the sea. ‘Mark that, Jack!’ he called. ‘It’s something valuable, I’ll wager!’

  ‘And how do I mark it, Frip?’ Jack lifted his hands with bemusement. ‘You want me to go and paint the sea? Stick an arrow in it?’

  ‘No, but remember the shore, and take a line from a building or trees. Master shipman, would you be able to mark that spot?’

  ‘Aye, but what of it?’

  ‘You said that the tide was on the way out, didn’t you? In a couple of hours, we should be able to find what he threw in.’

  They were only half a bowshot from the little boat when Berenger called to the Genoese to surrender. ‘There is no point in dispute, my friend,’ he said. ‘You know you cannot escape, and to fight would be futile, so agree to submit and I’ll hold to your oath to us. You will be safe, I swear.’

  Chrestien de Grimault sat in the stern with two French shipmen who looked petrified to be confronted by the English. Only Clip had an arrow nocked, but he held his bow in the nonchalant way that told better than words that his shaft could leave his weapon and strike down a man in one second flat.

  Chrestien de Grimault stood and bowed, holding Berenger’s gaze. ‘It would seem that you have the better of this encounter.’

  ‘Come aboard and we shall discuss matters more easily.’

  ‘Of course.’

  It took little time to bring the two boats together, and while willing hands held the captured vessel, the three prisoners climbed aboard easily, as only men used to the sea could, while a shipman of the English crew took the painter and lashed the other boat to their own.

  Chrestien de Grimault stood with an expression of sardonic enquiry. ‘I suppose I shall be bound and beaten now?’

  ‘Master, you treated us well when you had us at your mercy,’ Berenger said. ‘I will not see you abused. These two, are they soldiers?’

  ‘These?’ Chrestien gave them a short glance. ‘No, they are merely seamen who were told to take me away from the town.’

  ‘Where were they taking you?’ Berenger asked.

  The Genoese shrugged. ‘You could torture them and find out, so there is no point in my maintaining secrecy. I was to travel as swiftly as possible to Hesdin, where the King of France is gathering an army, so I understand, to break this siege. He has the greatest army ever collected together in one place.’

  ‘And what were you to say to him?’

  Chrestien gave another low bow. ‘I apologise. It was all in a note, and when I saw that my honour was in danger, and that you must capture me, I committed the message to the deep. It will rest there until the end of time.’

  He smiled charmingly.

  Berenger smiled in return. ‘That is good. So the message is lost, you think? It will never be brought again to the view of men?’

  ‘Perhaps a whale could eat it and spit it out on the shore,’ Chrestien chuckled.

  ‘Or a whale could drink the water from the sea and expose the beach beneath the waves?’ Berenger hazarded. ‘Or, the tide could flow out . . .’

  Chrestien’s face suddenly fell.

  In the end it took them three hours, while the tide withdrew and the level of the water reduced. Their boat was far too large to stay inshore, and so Berenger sent Jack and a shipman in the captured boat to go and find the item hurled in the water. One of the Frenchmen happily admitted to seeing the Genoese throwing a small hatchet into the waters, and wondered what could have prompted him to do such a strange thing. Chrestien looked daggers at this admission, but said nothing.

  Berenger left the crew staring out and watching Jack as the latter searched, floundering about in the shallow water.

  ‘Georges, come here,’ Berenger said.

  ‘Yes, Vintener?’

  Berenger walked to the stern and sat so that he was at eye-level with Georges’s eyes. ‘I know about the clerk,’ he said. ‘He has been telling you to spy on us. Is that not true?’

  The boy’s head turned this way and that, with panic marking every line. It hurt Berenger to see his terror; it was like watching his own son being bound in a noose.

  ‘Boy! Look at me.’

  ‘My mother would die if you put me to the law!’

  ‘Georges, listen. I will not hurt you or your mother,’ Berenger said softly. ‘Your mother has shown me kindness from the first moment I met her. I will not repay her by arresting her son.’

  ‘You won’t?’

  ‘No. But you have to tell me all you know about this Vidame and what he seeks.’

  ‘I know nothing. He asked me to take messages to him, that is all.’

  ‘Messages from whom?’

  ‘Someone in the vintaine. I don’t know who.’

  Berenger felt his mouth drop open. ‘In my vintaine? Let me get this straight: so a man has been giving you information for the Vidame?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What sort of information?’

  ‘Mostly about the army, where we are going, what you are to do.’

  ‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’

  ‘No! I know nothing else.’

  ‘How did you receive information to give to the Vidame?’

  ‘It was written on a little shred of parchment and pushed into a knot hole on the cart. I pulled it out and to
ok it with me.’

  ‘I see. And you have no idea who put the parchment there?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Berenger nodded. He could guess, though. ‘I think your messages are over now. The man who was sending them also tried to kill me. Mark Tyler is dead, and with him dies our spy. Do not worry.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  As he spoke, Jack finally gave a cry of delight and lifted aloft a hatchet with an oilskin packet bound about it with thongs, Chrestien said nothing, but gave a slight frown and turned his back on Jack.

  ‘You have done well to tell me this,’ Berenger told Georges.

  ‘But what if I find another note?’

  ‘Well, if that happens, you would have to bring it to me. Understand?’

  ‘Yes.’ Then: ‘Fripper, I’m so s—’

  Berenger cut him off with a curt wave of his hand and walked to the prow. He had little doubt of Tyler’s guilt. He could still remember the sight of the man’s grin as he looked up from his fall from the castle wall. Tyler had spied, then tried to kill Berenger before getting himself slain. It was all very neat, he thought, and a huge relief to think that the spy was dead.

  ‘Well, what is it?’ he called as Jack clambered back aboard the ship.

  ‘A letter,’ Jack said with glee.

  ‘You will not be able to read it,’ Chrestien said immediately. The water will have ruined it.’

  But he was wrong. The letter was all too clear.

  Sir John de Sully listened as the letter was read out.

  He was in the King’s hall, and King Edward was pacing the chamber while reading through the note that Berenger and the men had rescued from the water. As he read, the King chuckled.

  ‘Good gentlemen,’ he announced, ‘this is really excellent! Our men have managed to intercept a message being delivered to King Philippe. It is sent under the seal of the Commander, Jean de Vienne. Listen to this: “Right dear, dread Lord” – well, he’s not to be feared so much, is he? “Know that, although the men are all full of courage, the town is yet in dire need”. Yes, I dare say it is. He writes that they need wheat and wine and meat, ha! And that they have been eating all the dogs and cats for want of real food. There are no more horses either. He tells his King that there is nothing left but human flesh to eat!’

  He broke off, then continued more pensively: ‘He writes that unless they receive some help soon, they will have no option but to resort to a final attack. They will sally forth and try to fight their way through the English lines. Well, they are welcome to have a go! They do not think that they can survive such an assault, clearly, but we should regard it as a warning in any case. Tell the archers at the gates to be vigilant, and ensure that the men-at-arms know that there could be an attempt to break free. I would not want a sudden assault by half-starved wraiths to take them by surprise!’

  The King set the letter down and cast his gaze over the men with him. Sir John de Sully took a moment to study them too. Here in this chamber were gathered all the most powerful men of England – barons, knights and esquires – and all were listening intently.

  Sir Walter Manny sucked at his teeth. ‘What will you do, now you know the condition of the men in the town?’

  ‘What should I do?’

  The Earl of Warwick gave a low snigger. ‘For my part, it seems obvious: I would say that we should attack with all force. You have gathered more than twenty thousand men here. It would be a shame not to use them. We can batter their walls with your artillery – the stone-throwing machines will do good work there – and when we make a breach, storm it.’

  ‘Sir Walter?’ the King asked.

  Sir Walter Manny smiled to himself, and then spoke reflectively. ‘It seems to me that you hold in your hand the key to all you want, sir.’

  ‘Is that so? Then how can we use it?’ an esquire asked with a satirical tone. There was some laughter in the room, but when the King held up his hand, it ceased on an instant.

  ‘Speak, Sir Walter.’

  ‘Sir, you have worked towards this end: that you might draw the French to attack you in order that you might crush their army. You worked for years to achieve that at Tournai and Sluys, and you succeeded at Crécy. But now, even though you have shown the valour of your arms and have destroyed the majority of the French army, still many men will think that your achievements are caused by mere good fortune, not by design or skill. However, if you could force the French King to come and meet you again, and you could destroy a second army of his, then you would be acclaimed as the most powerful, puissant king in all Christendom. Who could deny your authority?’

  ‘So?’ Warwick asked truculently. ‘How can we bring him to battle again?’

  Manny indicated the letter. ‘How can any King ignore a letter of that nature? The writer pleads with his sovereign for support and aid, does he not? If the King of France will not respond to the heartfelt plea of his most loyal, devoted servant, who can doubt that his entire kingdom is equally at risk? And if that is the truth, then there is no peace in his realm, and every man needs must shift for his own safety.’

  The Earl nodded and smiled broadly. ‘Yes! You must release that letter. Let it be broadcast all over the land so that everyone knows the French King can do nothing to protect his own realm. He’ll have to come to defend Calais or lose his crown.’

  ‘And how will you have all the churches announce this?’ Manny enquired mildly. ‘It would be difficult, for each will be looking over his shoulder to see what the French King will say or do to them. Better, sir, to merely reseal the letter. Let it go to the French King with your own appended note. Offer him the challenge. Tell him that his people are starving and dying, and that they beg for his aid. Tell him that if he doesn’t come to protect his people, he is no King. Tell him you sit here, outside his town, and await his arrival. Tell him all those things, and allow that news to be spread, and you will find that he dare not evade a second battle. And with a second Crécy, his reign will be ended.’

  Sir John spoke up in favour of Sir Walter. ‘Your Majesty, I firmly agree. I believe Sir Walter has struck at the heart of the matter with his advice. If the French King comes – and is destroyed – he is finished; if he does not come, he will be derided by all and his reputation will lie in the mud, in tatters. Yes, send the letter on with your own seal, and we shall soon see him lose his kingdom!’

  The King gazed at the other men in the room with a stern expression on his face, and then he suddenly broke into a guffaw of laughter.

  ‘Bring me my seal and wax!’

  Chrestien de Grimault sipped cautiously at the wine. ‘It is not so bad,’ he conceded.

  ‘Better than the water the French gave us, you think?’ Berenger said.

  ‘I think I am grateful for any small mercy, my friend,’ Chrestien de Grimault said. He peered at Berenger. ‘That scar,’ he added, touching his own nose. ‘You did not have that when I set you free from my ship. Was that fighting about the town here?’

  ‘No, I gained this in my own country.’ Berenger explained about the battle to keep the Scots at bay. ‘I had thought I would die, when the fever took hold,’ he said soberly. ‘Yet here we both are, and still alive.’

  ‘It is a miracle when one considers how many others have died,’ the Genoese sighed. ‘There are some who are not so honourable.’

  ‘Why did you help us to escape?’

  ‘I said at the time: I had given you my word that I would treat you as comrades. I promised you your lives. There was no need to execute you. I despised that decision, so I bethought myself that I would set you free.’

  ‘We were most grateful for your help.’

  Chrestien de Grimault shrugged. ‘It was my pleasure. It saved my honour.’

  ‘I am glad the arrow missed you on the deck of your galley,’ Berenger said.

  ‘It was the fortune of war. I was safe, while you have suffered greatly.’ The man toyed with his mazer. ‘I feel I should not drink more. I may be tempted to speak my min
d, and that is not always a good idea with an enemy.’

  ‘I don’t think we are enemies,’ Berenger said. He poured from the jug and refilled their cups. ‘We are just on opposite sides in a war. And I think it a foolish dispute.’

  ‘It is not mine to defend.’

  ‘Nor mine. It is a battle between kings, and when such wars are declared, it is men like you and me who are made to suffer. Not many nobles lose their lives.’

  Chrestien disagreed. ‘I had heard that the French nobility lost many men on the field at Crécy.’

  ‘Yes, but that was different. Usually it’s the poor foot-sloggers who get slain. And those who seek to protect people are often punished.’ For some reason, a picture of Jean de Vervins’s face appeared in his mind. ‘A lot of men have lost everything in this war.’

  ‘True enough.’

  Both were silent for a while, drinking companionably. Every so often, Berenger felt the Genoese’s eye upon him, but he thought it was merely the appraising glance of a man who wondered what his fate would be. It was hard for someone who had been captured not to feel the concern: what is going to happen to me?

  ‘You will be well looked after, I swear,’ he said at last. ‘You can remain here with my men, if you wish. I doubt anyone will want to keep you. You served your master, the French King, well.’

  ‘I am only a mere mercenary, when all is said and done, my friend,’ Chrestien said. ‘But I thank you for your kindness. Hopefully there is no firebrand of a bishop amongst your King’s host.’

  Berenger thought of the Archbishop of York and the Bishop of Durham. ‘If you see one, keep well away,’ he advised.

  The Genoese laughed, but his laugh was stilled as the door opened and Sir John de Sully entered.

  ‘Sir John,’ Berenger said, rising.

  ‘This is the Genoese? Good, you are to come with me. Fripper, you come too.’

  ‘Sir John, I have given this man my word that he will not be mistreated,’ Berenger said.