Blood on the Sand

by Michael Jecks

  The knight stopped and looked at him. ‘That was foolish. If the King decides a different fate, what will you do then? Fight the King to free him? Would you fight me, Fripper? You should not make promises you cannot fulfil.’

  ‘He saved my life, Sir John, and the lives of all my men. At the least we were to be blinded and have our fingers cut off. This man rescued us.’

  ‘He also attacked our fleet and almost sank the ship under you, and tried to take a secret message to the French King. He will receive his just reward.’

  Berenger frowned. There was no reading the knight’s expression. It was carefully blank, as though Sir John was keeping his calmness with an effort. His eyes looked bright, perhaps with anger, but Berenger had no choice; he walked with the knight and the Genoese through the streets until they reached the King’s hall, where Sir John spoke with the two men at the door, and led the way inside.

  ‘Your Royal Highness,’ he said, bowing before the King.

  King Edward III stood at a long table poring over papers with two clerks and the Bishop of Durham. All looked at Chrestien de Grimault with disapproval bordering on loathing.

  ‘You are the Genoese who was taking this message to the French King?’ the Bishop demanded.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, take it – and begone!’

  Chrestien de Grimault stared at him, then at the letter. ‘Me? Take it?’

  The King gave a thin smile. ‘Yes, man! I command you to take this letter and transport it to your King. I have ordered a horse to be readied for you. However, when you see the King, you will also give him this note from me.’ He passed over a second sealed message. ‘And you will say to him these words: I challenge you to come to the aid of your town.’

  ‘Very well. I understand,’ Chrestien managed, taking both packets and thrusting them inside his shirt.

  ‘You had best take this too,’ the Bishop said. ‘A safe-conduct throughout the English lines. If you are stopped by our forces anywhere, this will protect you.’

  Outside, Chrestien and Berenger stared at each other, and then burst out laughing. Within an hour, the Genoese was mounted on a fresh, fiery rounsey, and he looked down at Berenger, holding out his hand. ‘Farewell, my friend. I swear, next time I see you, I will not try to sink you.’

  ‘I will probably try to sink you, though,’ Berenger joked.

  Chrestien held onto his hand for a little longer. ‘Do not trust your companions entirely. Not all are what they seem.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Only this: there is a spy for the French King in your camp. One of your friends is determined to bring down your army.’

  ‘So you knew about Jean de Vervins? Well, he is safe enough now – he’s dead. But he spied for both sides. He was a most democratic spy!’ Berenger grinned.

  ‘No, not him, you fool. There is another, one who is close to you.’

  ‘He, too, is dead. Mark Tyler was not a very effective spy.’

  ‘I don’t know of him. The spy I speak of is back here in the camp – right now. And he is not only spying. There is a plot to kill your King!’

  And with that, he let go, dug his heels into the rounsey’s flanks, and was off at a canter.

  After his discussion with Chrestien, Berenger was perfectly convinced that there was a spy, and he knew he must not take any risks, especially if there was truly a plot to kill the King. He would have to devise a means of learning the truth.

  Before he did anything else, he sent Jack and Clip, the two men he knew and trusted best, to watch the house where Sir Peter and the Vidame were billeted. He sent the Donkey with them. ‘He’ll recognise the man. If that man comes out, follow him – and do not lose him, as you value your ballocks,’ he growled, and then went to seek his banneret.

  ‘Sir John, I think I have some news of importance.’

  Sir John was just leaving his house, and now, striding along the road, he listened to all Berenger had to say of his suspicions and the evidence of the others. After some minutes, the knight stopped in the street. ‘Say all that again, Frip.’

  Berenger spoke at length, explaining about the boy’s evidence, then Béatrice’s, and finally spoke of Chrestien’s words.

  ‘So you think that there is a plot to kill the King?’

  ‘That is what the Genoese said.’

  ‘Shit! There are many who would love to stick a lance in the King’s heart. But he should be safe with his friends. The lords about him would never let him be harmed.’

  ‘What if there was a traitor amongst them? We already have the example of Jean de Vervins – apparently King Philippe’s most loyal vassal, turned to treachery because of a slight, whether real or imagined. And we know that the knight Peter of Bromley is employing as clerk a man who is gathering information about the King. What if Sir Peter himself is less than reliable?’

  ‘You capture the clerk and bring him to me. We’ll have him tortured until we find your man. Meanwhile, I shall keep a close eye on Sir Peter. But keep this quiet. We don’t want to cause unnecessary concern in the camp. I shall tell the King and his son, but for the rest, keep this within our circle. If there is to be treachery, we may yet work it to our advantage.’

  Berenger agreed, although the thought of torture made him feel sick. After all, a man could be tortured and forced to tell everything, but unless the torturer was expert, his victim would just lie to stop the agony.

  He marched quickly back to his camp. One of his men was a traitor.

  But which? His sick feeling increased.

  The Vidame was about to go and meet Sir Peter at the King’s hall; he sent Bertucat outside to check that the road was safe for them.

  ‘Vidame,’ the big man said a moment later when he returned, a frown on his face. ‘There are two men from the vintaine outside.’

  ‘Is our man one of them?’ the Vidame asked, stepping across to the glassless side-window and peering through this. Clip he recognised at once. Jack, he did not see at first. The man had an ability to conceal himself in a small crowd. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Do you want me to go and attack them?’

  ‘No, my friend. These are not thieves and bullies from the street, but trained and competent fighters. If you attack one, you will be assailed by both. No, I think it is time for us to leave.’

  It was an annoyance. Still, their information had been useful. The attitude of the men, the news of ship numbers, the position of the gonnes and weapons of war, all should aid King Philippe’s efforts. And now it was time to escape.

  He took a strip of paper and a reed, and quickly wrote a note. ‘Take this and put it in the cart. When you have done that, come back here and wait. Our man will soon appear. When he does, you will know what to do.’

  Clip had been astonished to see where the Vidame was living. That’s my yard! he thought to himself, peering up the alleyway. He saw a man flit past the far end of the alley, and was tempted to go and check it. And then he remembered his last visit, when the mousy-haired man had attacked him, and he recalled the priest who was with him. ‘Oh,’ he mouthed slowly.

  ‘Was it the man we’re hunting?’ Jack demanded.

  ‘Eh? How can I tell?’

  ‘Then go and look, but come back if it isn’t,’ Jack said.

  While they spoke, the door opened and a tall, dark man appeared, glanced up and down the road, and then strode off up the lane.

  ‘Didn’t he come out earlier?’ Jack said, but Clip was already gone.

  Jack watched the man, but he was not the one he had been told to find, and a knight’s house could have many servants. He sniffed, folded his arms, and leaned more comfortably against the wall. He’d wait to see the Vidame.

  Clip was soon back. ‘Well?’

  ‘By the time I got there, the yard was empty.’

  ‘Right. We’d best wait here, then.’

  The spy had not expected to find a note. He’d thought that things were going to calm down once he had returned from the siege at Bosmo
nt. He had done enough, surely, when he had shoved Berenger off the roof, risking his own life in the process?

  But the note was there, with the scrawl that meant he was required urgently to see the Vidame. He wandered idly from the camp as though off to seek a cup of wine, and then picked up the pace when he was out of sight of the rest of the vintaine.

  He had his own route to the Vidame’s rooms. Up along the main street, then north and west until he came to a narrow alley between two sheds. He could stand here with a perfect view from the northern street to the southern, and today there was no one about. Nobody paid him any attention, so he continued on his path.

  The alley took him parallel to the main east-west thoroughfares, and then he was at the courtyard behind the Vidame’s house. It was the safest route to reach the place unseen.

  Striding across the court, he made his way to the kitchen door and was about to knock, when a hand came around his mouth, the thumb over his nose.

  Bertucat hissed in his ear, ‘Sorry, but they’re getting close to you. We can’t let you talk.’

  Panicked, the spy tried to pull away, his hands scrabbling at Bertucat’s wrist to release his nostrils, but then he felt the steel enter his back . . . and as he trembled in his death throes, all he could think of was the face of the Vidame, smiling so patiently as he always did. Alain de Châlons, the Vidame, the prized spymaster of the King of France.

  Lying on his back in the dirt, that was the picture left in his mind: the smile of the Vidame. If he could, the spy would have cursed him, with his dying breath.

  Bertucat dragged his body to a heap of garbage and scattered some planks and rocks about the corpse, but then he heard steps and shouts, and quickly ran off through the alleys, away from the scene.

  He’d never liked the spy. You couldn’t trust a man who would betray his comrades.

  Berenger hurried to Sir Peter’s house as soon as he received the message. Upon arrival, he found Jack waiting.

  ‘Up here, Frip,’ he said, unsmiling.

  They walked up Clip’s narrow alley to the yard behind, and there they found Clip. He was crouched beside a body.

  ‘Who is it?’ Berenger said, but he knew already. He recognised the clothes and the shock of reddish-brown hair.

  Jack said, ‘He came up here while we were out at the front. Clip saw him and followed, but it was too late. He must have come here through one of the alleys out at the back, and soon as he did, he was stabbed. Look: he got it three times in the back.’

  ‘Turn him over,’ Berenger said. It was hardly necessary, but he wanted to see the features of the man who had done so much to harm the army.

  The dull eyes of the Pardoner were strangely sad in death. They seemed to peer over Berenger’s shoulder: he felt a shiver run down his spine at the sight.

  ‘Well, that answers one question, then,’ he said roughly. ‘We know who our spy was. Did you see who stabbed him?’

  ‘A big man,’ Clip said. ‘Aye, with black hair like a Breton. He ran off down that way.’ He pointed to another alley at the farther end of the yard.

  ‘I see. What about the house? Has anyone checked for the Vidame in there?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘We’ve looked already. He must have slipped away when this body was found.’

  Berenger nodded. ‘No matter. We’ll need to keep an eye open for the clerk, but at least our vintaine is safe. There is no spy now.’

  It was good to have put the question of the spies to bed, for the French had worked hard to gather as many men as possible, and now news of their massive army was spreading even into Villeneuve-la-Hardie.

  ‘We’ll all get killed, you know,’ Clip said cheerfully.

  ‘If their King promises to kill you, perhaps the war will not have been in vain,’ the Earl declared.

  ‘You won’t think that when you’ve a French lance stuck up your arse.’

  Jack grunted. ‘Just because they’ll try to hit your brain, Clip, doesn’t mean they’ll think all our brains are there.’

  ‘Oh, very witty, very clever. Just wait till you’re depending on my bow in the line to protect you!’

  ‘Dear Christ in Heaven, is this possible? Could we ever be forced to depend upon his skills?’ the Earl demanded, rolling his eyes to the heavens.

  ‘Oh, go swyve a goat!’ Clip spat.

  Berenger grinned to himself. The men were clearly in a good temper. The bickering was their way of showing it. They were all alive, and being English, were never happier than when they were insulting each other.

  ‘You all right, Jack?’ Berenger asked.

  ‘Oh, I’m fine.’

  So was Berenger. Since Chrestien de Grimault had ridden away, and the Pardoner had been unmasked and was no longer a threat, he had found himself feeling a great deal more relaxed. There was no sign of the Vidame. Sir Peter of Bromley was grim-faced and angry. He refused to believe that his own clerk had not been faithful to him when he had renounced his vows to King Philippe. Sir Peter considered it a reflection on his own honour. Yet although men kept their eyes open for the spies, there was no sign of them, and Berenger thought it likely that the Vidame had simply fled from the camp. The man knew his life was at risk, and had chosen to run. Killing Pardoner had been a last-minute decision to prevent any news of the Vidame from reaching the King’s ears. Pardoner could have been tortured and given away details of what information had been passed on, and how. Berenger could understand the Vidame’s act, but the man’s ruthlessness shocked him.

  Without having to worry about possible spies, he could concentrate on his men. And that was easier too, now that they had been given extra duties. The trenches had to be expanded to the south and west, and all day the men were set toiling with picks and shovels. Every few days Berenger insisted that they should practise at the butts too, and the men would groan and grumble as he led them to the sands near the seashore, where he had them set up a trio of butts and loose their arrows as quickly as they could at them. Those who missed had to buy drinks for the others that evening, complaining bitterly.

  But the lighthearted mood changed in early July, when it became known that the French were approaching.

  ‘Where from?’ the Earl demanded.

  ‘They are coming from Hesdin. That’s ten leagues south of here, I’m told,’ Berenger said.

  ‘Oh, so that won’t take them terribly long, then.’

  ‘Good. I can’t stand the sound of that racket much longer,’ the Aletaster grunted.

  Some days before, in response to the urgent pleas of the commander of the town, the French had tried to break the blockade. Eight or nine huge barges full of food of all kinds had been sent, escorted by a fleet of galleys and cogs. They had sailed to within a few miles of the town, but then the English fleet had caught them in the open sea. In a vicious sea battle the galleys were put to flight and the barges captured. Not a single pot of water or loaf of bread made it past to the harbour at Calais.

  That was the last straw. The town had nothing to eat, and what there was must be conserved for the fighting men. Useless mouths were an unwanted distraction at a time of need like this. Thus the next day, the English horns had blared loud and clear as the gates opened.

  ‘Shit! They’re going to attack!’ Jack had said. The vintaine was taking its turn at the far right of the line facing the gates of the town, and now he grabbed for his bow, sounding the alarm.

  There was no need. Sir John ran to their side and stood with them as the men watched the unfolding tragedy.

  From the gates there issued a thin stream of humanity. First came a woman, sobbing fit to burst, trailing three children. An ancient crone was immediately behind her, and then the rest poured out. All the elderly, the children, the women; those too old, too young, too infirm, too diseased or too foolish to hold a weapon, were evicted. Any who had no man to protect them and speak for them, were thrown from the gates in a knot of terror. They stood there, while armed men used lance butts or cudgels to force them through the doo
r. One old man, struck about the head, collapsed in the path of the gates, and the men-at-arms kicked him until his body rolled out of the way and they could slam and bar the gates again.

  For a long while, the English stared at the townsfolk, and the townsfolk gazed back. Their shifts and tunics hung loosely from their frames like shrouds, and their features were drawn and marked with starvation and terror. They were no longer the responsibility of the men in the town, but neither would the English take them in. Stuck in the town’s ditch, along with the ordure of the inhabitants, they were now less than humans: they were of no value whatever to either side in the struggle for power. Even as a barrier, they were useless. Whereas a rampart of stakes and barrels could hold men at bay, these frail figures could be slaughtered with more ease than so many sheep. Even sheep could run. These poor creatures, after months of deprivation and horror, could not even manage that.

  Some few of the women and children implored to be allowed past. They pleaded with piteous cries, but the men had their orders. To have this little crowd pass among them could lead to the risks of disease spreading. Besides, it was better that the inhabitants should be reminded of their cruelty in turning from their own doors these people who had been their neighbours.

  The vintaine stared. They had seen all the horrors of war, and most had participated, but there was something so pathetic in that crowd of people, that even the hardened killers amongst the English felt pangs.

  ‘That’s just miserable, turfing them out,’ Dogbreath said.

  ‘Can’t we let them come past? They do no one any good just standing there,’ the Earl asked plaintively.

  ‘Leave them. They’re not our responsibility,’ Sir John said flatly.

  ‘I wouldn’t see them starve before my eyes,’ Jack muttered.

  ‘Aye, well, ye’ll be dead ye’self soon enough,’ Clip said, but the whining edge to his voice was stilled, as though even he felt compassion.

  It was the same night that the sobbing and weeping started in earnest. Later, Berenger heard that one of the children had died, and his mother could not bear her grief but kept up her keening all night. The next day, a grandmother took over, wailing over the corpse of her daughter, and from her the baton was passed to another, and then yet another. There were no words for the suffering of the five hundred at the gates of Calais, and there were no words to describe the pity and the shame felt by the men of the vintaine. They were forced to stand and watch as the people begged for water, for food, for anything. And like torturers, they stood back and watched as the people faded, their weeping and despair growing quieter as the sparks of life were gradually extinguished.