Blood on the Sand

by Michael Jecks

  ‘They’ll be silent soon enough,’ Berenger said grimly.

  Later that day, when he saw Marguerite back at the camp, he strode to her and, without speaking, wrapped his arms about her, burying his head in her shoulder. She stiffened at first, but gradually, as he made no other move, she relaxed a little, and finally put her arms about him.

  All he could see and hear were the women with their children begging and screaming for help from the moat outside the town. He knew in his heart that he would never forget that sound.

  From the trenches and the main parts of the town of Villeneuve-la-Hardie, they could be seen up on the heights of Sangatte: row upon row of French horsemen, their flags and pennants fluttering gloriously in the wind. And in response, all over Calais the townspeople cheered and blew loud blasts on their horns. Fires were lit on the walls to celebrate the arrival of the French King with a force that could sweep the English invaders from his path.

  ‘Shit! Archers!’ Grandarse bellowed as the English horns blew to arms. ‘Fripper, John, all vinteners to me: now!’

  Berenger and the others heard the call amidst the din, and he left the vintaine under Jack’s command. ‘Just don’t let Clip fall into another cesspool while we get things moving,’ he snarled, and hared off, glancing every so often up at the cliffs.

  There were at least a hundred of them. Men clad all in armour, with the mail sparkling like diamonds in the sunlight. Above them fluttered a multitude of flags and pennons, with the great flag of St Denis, the Oriflamme gleaming scarlet, distinct in the clear air.

  ‘Christ’s ballocks,’ Grandarse said when Berenger joined him and the rest of the men, ‘where have you been, Frip? Having a wank? Never mind that now. The French army is here, as you can see. We need to array as planned.’

  ‘How far away is the French army now?’

  ‘I’m told that the scouts have seen a camp three leagues from here. They are building a camp to rival ours, perhaps! There are enough of them. Frip, take your men up to the southern point of the camp. If anyone tries to force their way past, hit them hard. You’ve commanded a wing of archers – well, I’m giving you responsibility for half the centaine today. Take horses with you so you can ride back if it looks like you’ll be overwhelmed. And don’t take any risks. The lives of your archers are worth more than their knights’.’

  ‘I’ll tell them that. I’m sure they never knew you cared.’

  ‘Don’t be a thick, shit-arsed cock-quean, Fripper! An archer can kill three knights in a charge, so of course I bloody care about them! John, you and Alan and Roger will take your men and join Fripper’s, and you will take your orders from him until you hear different. Now move your mother-swyving backsides and protect the south!’

  Berenger and the others didn’t need to be told twice. He explained where to meet him, and then raced off to find his pack. With that slung over his shoulder, he ran back to where his men were waiting.

  ‘Clip, Earl, Aletaster, Oliver – each of you go and fetch four horses and bring them down to us. We may need to escape quickly where we’re going. The rest of you, follow me. Where’s our cart? Good! Georges, you can be responsible for that. We will need all the arrows we can get.’

  He hurried down the clear, straight road to the south. At every intersection he glanced back at the heights, but there was no apparent movement. That was a relief. Berenger knew the French would think very carefully before attacking, after their catastrophic charges at Crécy. This meant that the English had a little more time to prepare themselves.

  At the southern point, he called a halt to their mad rush and ordered the archers to attack the ground with their picks and shovels. They had brought stakes and he wanted them planted all over the land before them. Some set to digging holes, at least one foot deep and a foot square as they had at Crécy, to disrupt any charges by the French, but the sandy soil here was less capable of obliging. Still, it kept the men busy. While they were doing that, he stood on a hillock and gazed about him.

  The land here was perfect for the English defence. A marsh covered the whole area from the feet of the Sangatte cliffs, and thence east. To the south of Berenger’s men, there was one road that led up from Guines, and the road from the heights of Sangatte wandered from the hills up towards the beaches of the coast, and then over the one usable bridge at Nieulay. That was on a line due west of Berenger and the men, where they stood near the little church of St Peter at the crossroads leading up to Calais. But all those roads were ideal for the English: narrow, sliding into the marshes on either side. Any army attempting to move along those roads would be at the mercy of the English. Especially since the English had brought all their spare ships to lie just off the coast. These too were filled with archers. The road to the Nieulay Bridge would run along a line of archers who could hit a horse at eighty yards and more. If the French wanted to ride line abreast to charge the English, that too was impossible. The English had set up pallisades on the beaches to disrupt any assault. The bridge itself was protected by a tower, and behind this and all the other defences stood thousands of men under Henry of Lancaster, with more artillery.

  Berenger and Grandarse had discussed their plan of action some days ago when news of the French advance had been reported. It was plain enough that the French could not hope to beat the English in the open, and would be very unlikely to attempt an assault on such well planned and executed defences. That would be too much to hope. But the French could be tempted to an area of apparent weakness, and here, to the south and west of the English forces, there was a road in which the French charge could consolidate. Here, where the marshes widened, they might commit themselves.

  Not that it would serve any purpose, other than to injure a few score of archers, perhaps. The fact was, behind Berenger and his men were more archers, and immediately behind them lay another series of trenches that would disperse and destroy an attacking force. With archers on both flanks pouring shafts into them, the French would be annihilated. At least, that was the plan, were the French to attack here.

  As the sun passed its zenith and the heat grew uncomfortable, Clip muttered, ‘Are they not coming, then?’

  Berenger grinned. As a weathervane to show the direction of the men’s thoughts, Clip was incomparable. Now he was feeling frustrated and irritable. That was all to the good. Men in that frame of mind would fight if for no other reason than to vent their feelings.

  He called to Clip, ‘We’re all thirsty, and as you’re the best scavenger, you can go and find us some ale. There’s bound to be some, somewhere.’

  ‘Yes, Frip.’

  The vintener watched his man dart off up into the tangled mass of streets and lanes, little suspecting the outcome of that foray.

  Clip knew of a good place to find wine, but as he walked along the main road, he sighted a familiar figure up ahead.

  It was the outlaw who had attacked the vintaine on the way to Durham! He was not likely to forget that triangular face or gait in a hurry.

  No, Clip would not forget that fellow, nor any of the others, in a hurry.

  He was caught in a quandary, between the need for wine for the vintaine on the one hand, and the desire to follow this man and find out where he was going on the other.

  Curiosity won the day. Taking care to remain invisible, he set off to stalk his prey.

  Berenger was beginning to regret asking Clip to go and search out some wine. ‘I should have sent someone who’d just go to a tavern and come straight back,’ he grumbled to Jack.

  ‘Which one of this vintaine could be trusted do that, Frip, without testing the drinks on his way?’

  ‘That’s not the point. I’ll skin the bastard when he shows his face, again. He should have returned an age ago.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jack agreed, and both stared back towards the town.

  ‘You don’t think the stupid deofol’s fallen into a latrine again, do you?’ Berenger said at last, only half-joking.

  ‘That would be too much to hope for,’ Jac
k said, but there was an optimistic gleam in his eye.

  Aletaster suddenly called out: ‘Frip, something’s happening!’

  All thoughts of Clip were instantly wiped from his mind as Berenger turned his attention back to the heights of Sangatte. There, riding down a narrow track, was a small party of Frenchmen.

  ‘Shit! Archers, nock!’

  They watched the line of French men-at-arms descend the heights and assemble at the bottom.

  ‘They’re going to try to charge the bridge!’ Jack cried. His eyes were keener than Berenger’s.

  Berenger’s face grew lighter as he said, ‘Good luck to ’em. They’ll find that a hard nut to crack!’

  The French began to ride forward, while a thick knot of men on foot ran pell-mell after them. Soon a roaring came to them on the still air – the clamour of battle. From here, it was astonishing to see how the arrows lifted and soared, then fell. It was like watching a black thundercloud on the horizon. More and more French were falling. Crazed, terrified horses, pricked with so many arrows as to look like pin-cushions, were rearing and trampling the men all about them. Flailing hooves crushed many a French skull, and yet soon, brave French fighters had arrived at the base of the tower at the bridge. With screams and shrieks, the English defenders threw themselves on the attackers, and died where they stood. More arrows flew, and Berenger saw the French fall as well, until it was hard to see which side was which, nor which men were falling. It looked like a scene from Hell: men dealing death with swords, maces, axes, anything that came to hand, accompanied all the time by the hideous whistle and slap of arrows dealing death to men and horses alike.

  A group of men appeared with ladders, and these were thrown up at the tower’s sides.

  ‘They’re a bit more bloody handy with a ladder than our gits,’ Grandarse noted sourly. He had appeared as the first ladders hit the tower.

  There was no doubting it: the tower was quickly lost. Soon there were new flags flying at the top, and the process of cleaning the building was undertaken with ease as bodies were flung from the top.

  ‘Right, lads,’ Grandarse said, hoicking up his belt and staring ahead grimly. ‘Our turn now. Let’s show these limp-wristed donkey-fuckers what English soldiers can do!’

  In the town, Clip had followed the man slowly along the main thoroughfare until the fellow came to an alehouse; here, he pushed past other early-morning drinkers and soon was back outside again, holding a pottery horn and a jug. He set the jug on a table and drained his horn, immediately refilling it. Clip sidled into a doorway as men hurried past, and he heard horns blowing and shouts. Turning his head, he could tell that the noise was all coming from the west, not from where his own vintaine was waiting. There was the crack and boom of the gonnes going off, and he shuddered. Even after all this time he hated the sound of Archibald’s horrible pots of war. Then he put the thought to one side, absentmindedly breaking off a piece of his hard cheese and chewing.

  A soldier’s life was mostly made up of shit jobs and bastard duties, he reckoned. The worst of it was, you never knew when it was going to go to the Devil. Well, for now, no one was aiming a bolt at him or trying to see what colour his liver was by opening him with a knife, and for that, he was more than content.

  Berenger roared at the others to prepare. At the bridge, a company of French horsemen had gathered, and now they began to canter towards the vintener and the archers.

  ‘They are scouting the land! We must hold our lines here!’ Berenger shouted, and was almost deafened by Grandarse’s exhortations to hold their positions.

  ‘Nock your arrows!’ Berenger said, and he was pleased to hear the swish of the missiles being taken from their quivers almost simultaneously. He nocked his own, and stood, the tab letting his fingers feel the string.

  The men were approaching fast, and would soon be upon the archers. It was a shame that the stakes and holes had all been dug facing south, Berenger thought, before he shouted, ‘Archers, draw!’

  He could see the horses building up their speed now; the lance-points were lowering, some gleaming with that wicked, oily sheen that spoke of dead men’s blood. Closer, closer . . .

  ‘Loose!’

  A shudder ran down his arm, and he saw his own arrow fly true – and miss. It slipped over the shoulder of the lead rider, but then it went on and into the face of the man behind. He disappeared, a fine spray of blood in the air where he had been, and then the archers were drawing and loosing as quickly as they could.

  ‘Men on foot!’ Grandarse bellowed, and Berenger saw the French infantry running behind the horsemen. He let slip one more arrow, sending it into the breast of a destrier that crumpled, its legs folding beneath it as it galloped, throwing its rider and rolling in a jangle of metal and legs, making the horse behind try to slow, and then attempt a leap. Two arrows struck it in mid-air, and it fell squealing, rolling onto its back and waving its legs in the air, crushing its rider, who remained in the saddle.

  A lance almost spitted Berenger, but he dodged aside just in time, and heard a gurgle and choking from behind him. A moment later, the body of an archer was at his feet, a hideous rent in his breast where the lance had ripped into him. He was still mouthing words but nothing would come as he tried in vain to staunch the blood flowing from his chest. The odour of faeces came to Berenger even as the man’s face sagged and his hands slipped to either side, his head lolling with his eyes half-shut.

  There was no time to mourn. Only time to nock an arrow, draw, and send it into the mass of running, screaming men. He saw one hit in the head, who was knocked backwards so far he almost appeared to go horizontal before slamming to the ground. Another, who had a shaft run straight through his torso, appeared not to notice, but ran on at the English with a face filled with hatred and loathing, an axe held over his head. He brought it down with such force on the bascinet of the first Englishman he met that when he lifted it again, the bascinet of the now-dead archer was stuck to the axehead. Behind him, a man ran with eyes wide and filled with utter dread. In his shoulder, two arrows protruded; he could not use his right arm, nor dare he turn and flee, for that would be immediate death. Instead he ran on and on in among the English, ramming with his shield, hoping perhaps to make it past them and out to the lands beyond.

  Two walls of men meeting men: Frenchmen running and panting, Englishmen grunting as they bore the brunt of the enemy slamming into them. A moment of tension, of terror, and then Berenger found himself borne backwards by the concussion of all the bodies. There was a feeling of dislocation, and then his feet found the ground again, and he screamed, ‘Archers, stand!’ as he gripped his sword and held it high, before bringing it down onto the head of a man who was trying to stab Aletaster.

  Aletaster stood with his sword in his hands, staring at the body at his feet. Berenger clubbed him over the shoulder, saying hoarsely, ‘He’s dead – they aren’t! Protect yourself, you prick!’ and then he had to duck as a polearm whirled past his head. He stabbed, thrusting hard and feeling something yield: a leather jack. He twisted the blade, jerking it downwards quickly, hearing a scream but ignoring it, lifting his blade to stop another sword sending his slithering down to the hand at the hilt, forcing it up and out of the way before headbutting the owner, feeling the satisfying crunch as his brow hit a man’s nose and crushed it, then raising his knee and feeling a sudden pain as he hit a metal codpiece, and punching with his spare hand, before bringing his sword down again and feeling it slice into the man’s throat . . . pushing him aside as the blood sprayed, and stabbing at another man’s face – but the man wasn’t there any more, and suddenly there was no one left to fight, and he stood, panting with exertion, the scar on his face blazing like a bolt of red-hot iron, and his arms dangling as he watched for the next wave of men.

  But for now, they were done.

  Berenger was helping Aletaster to move a French body from the road when Clip arrived, leading a donkey and cart.

  ‘You took your time!’ Berenger shouted
angrily. ‘Last time you were this late, I said—’

  ‘And I heard you, Frip,’ Clip interrupted, ‘but can I talk to you a while?’

  Berenger glanced over the donkey cart. On the bed were two barrels, and from the scent that wafted towards him, he could make out the odour of apples. ‘Cider’ll please Grandarse, anyway,’ he muttered as he followed Clip a short way off, to where they would not be overheard. ‘What is it?’

  ‘While I was in town, I happened to see a man I recognised. You remember the time I came back with a black eye? The man who did that was a big bastard. I remember him. Well, I saw him today.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he was with another man. One of the outlaws who attacked us on the way to Durham.’

  ‘What? But . . .’

  ‘It was the same man, Frip. Pale brown hair, sort of mousy-coloured but smelling of week-dead ferret, and a triangular face with blue eyes almost buried, they’re set so deep. He was there, talking to the big bastard from Sir Peter’s house.’

  ‘There are many outlaws who’ve been pardoned if they’ve come here.’

  ‘Aye, but this one I remember from before. I saw him here before we went to England.’

  ‘Some men have travelled back,’ Berenger said slowly.

  ‘No, Frip. That outlaw was there to lead the others to attack us – I guess to get us into trouble with the commanders by slowing our journey to Scotland. That’s what I think. And the fact he was with the other proves it.’