Blood on the Sand

by Michael Jecks

  Berenger heard that the French were finished on the fourth day and felt a certain relief as he took his whetstone from about his neck, picked up his sword, and began to sweep the stone along the blade. The sound was soothing.

  Next morning, 31 July, a fresh delegation arrived, demanding that the English should come out of their defensive position and instead fight the French on land chosen by both sides.

  ‘Shit, Frip – the King won’t agree, will he?’ Jack whispered as news filtered down to them of the proposal.

  ‘He cannot with honour refuse,’ the Earl said. His brows rose in contemplation. ‘A knight must always respond to a challenge, or he will lose face. To stay hidden behind our defences when invited to an equal battle, that would be the act of a coward. Do you think our King a coward?’

  ‘Aye, well, we’ll all be killed if we go out there,’ Clip said cheerily.

  ‘Shut up, Clip,’ Jack said.

  ‘What’ll we do then? Pick a place best suited for the French?’ Aletaster asked.

  Berenger shook his head. ‘The terms offered are, that four knights from either side should agree on a field of battle, and that safe conduct will be offered to all on the march. Meanwhile, the town will remain unvictualled and effectively ours.’

  ‘What’s to stop the bastard French from sending a strong force here to push through our men and liberate the town?’ Dogbreath demanded. ‘They’ll divide our forces in two, and then cut us down separately. Everyone knows you can’t trust the French!’

  The answer to that came sooner than anyone had expected.

  The following evening, Berenger was called over by Grandarse.

  ‘Fripper, what’s that?’

  High on the castle’s topmost tower, a series of flames were showing.

  ‘They’re signalling to the French,’ Berenger said.

  ‘Shite, man! What are they saying?’

  ‘Grandarse, do you have lard for brains? How the hell should I know?’

  ‘You should show your centener more respect,’ Grandarse grumbled, yanking his hosen upwards. He stared grimly at the castle walls. ‘Well, we’ll know soon enough.’

  And they did. Before the second watch of the night, shouts and horns jerked Berenger from his sleep. Climbing to his feet, he rubbed his eyes bemusedly. ‘What is it?’

  Jack, a few yards away, said, ‘I don’t know, Frip, but I think we’ve seen ’em off.’

  ‘What?’

  All along the hills of Sangatte, an orange glow was visible, and the thick billows of smoke above could mean only one thing.

  Clip began to dance and sing: ‘They’ve fucking given up, Frip! They’re burning their tents and stores behind them and fucking well fucking off! We’re bleeding safe!’

  Berenger wandered the streets that night filled with a vague sense of expection. English fighters were raucously, triumphantly drunk and made their feelings known to one and all. The massive French army that had appeared and given all of them such great fear was gone, and that was cause for celebration, just as much as it was a source of despair for the people inside the town.

  The wretched folk who had been evicted from Calais lay slumped or curled where they had starved to death near the gates, but now those who had pushed them from the town were preparing themselves for their own deaths. Few, if any, had thought that their own King could betray them so unchivalrously. Philippe had deserted them, even after their long battle to protect his town for him, and now a constant wailing and keening could be heard from behind the walls.

  Berenger hated that sound. It grated on nerves that were already raw after so many months waiting for the fall of the place. He wasn’t alone, he knew. Most of the men felt the same. But it was only when he was approaching the vintaine’s camp again that he realised how deeply the noise was affecting the others. He suddenly came across Marguerite, standing stock still in the roadway, her eyes full of tragedy as she listened to the cries of despair.

  ‘They know they must die,’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s likely,’ he admitted. People died all the time, of course, and while it was sad when it was a friend or comrade, the death of others was less striking. He had seen so many deaths – from those of the first wave of fighters after their landing and during the long march to Crécy, to men like the young French esquire, like Tyler and Jean de Vervins. All of them were missed, he supposed, by someone.

  ‘What if my children are in there?’ Marguerite said, and her face crumpled like an old sack, making her look worn and haggard.

  He had not thought about her and how she must miss her family in many weeks. Her family was broken up, and she had no idea whether her other children were alive or dead. She had maintained a dignified manner all along, but now, listening to the howls of the folk of Calais, she could keep up the pretence no longer. She was terrified that her children were slain, and her husband too.

  Berenger put his arms about her, resting his cheek on her head, making shushing noises and trying to calm her as she sobbed. And he found that his heart was swelling with something like sympathy. He swallowed the lump that had risen in his throat.

  ‘It’s all right, maid. I’ll look after you,’ he found himself saying. ‘You’ll be safe with me.’

  Calais surrendered.

  The town had no option but to capitulate. Later, they learned that the signals on the castle’s tower were to tell the French King that the town had nothing left, and that unless he came to save them, the people must surrender. Without the means to save them, the French army had packed and left, rather than witness the shameful loss of another town.

  A messenger came and asked the English for terms, and Sir Walter Manny went to the town’s walls. At the gates, he told them that King Edward would give them no terms: they had held out for almost a year, much to his anger, and they could not expect mercy at this stage. The English King would take what he wanted, and he would kill or ransom anyone he chose. Those were his terms.

  Berenger heard Sir Walter as he shouted up at the walls: ‘This siege has cost our King too much, in money and in lives, for him to offer you clemency.’

  The answer came from Jean de Vienne: ‘We have only served our King loyally as knights and squires and men-at-arms. Would you punish us for our fealty? You would do the same in our place, Sir Walter.’

  It was a heartfelt plea, and one which struck a chord amongst many of the men standing listening outside the walls. Berenger could admire the man’s words. They were chosen to go right to the heart of any warrior. After all, many there had the same thought: if the town were to be punished for holding true to the values of chivalry, and the men killed for obeying the orders of their King, then any man who stood to protect his own town under his King could be executed. More than one man eyed his companion and saw similar reasoning passing through his mind.

  Eventually the answer was given. The English King would allow all to keep their lives, although he would arrest and ransom any whom he saw fit. However, the town must send him the six most important people, all with ropes about their necks, and bearing the keys of the town, to be at the King’s mercy.

  ‘You’ll be there, Frip,’ Sir John said.

  Berenger nodded. He had an odd feeling that this would finally prove to be the end of their long campaign. It would be good to see the last act of this great play.

  It was, so Berenger had heard, the third of August that morning. There was nothing auspicious about the day. Just a moderate morning, with a few high clouds in a bright sky. It was not overwarm, even in the sun. The summer was waning already.

  Berenger stood at the westernmost edge of the English workings with the rest of his vintaine. Before them, they could see the pavilion under which King Edward and his entourage would gather, while leftwards the road passed up through the terrible debris of war, to the gates of the town. Soon, he knew, the town would send out their sacrifices to meet the King’s justice. A dais had been erected under the pavilion, and on it were two thrones.

  Mass
for the men was finished, and the whole of the English army had been mustered. Rank upon rank, at least two tens of thousands of archers, knights, men-at-arms, long-haired Welsh knifemen, fair Hainaulters and Flemings, and even camp-followers. Women thronged the edges, and Berenger spotted Archibald and Béatrice standing near a group of carters and tradesmen. Everyone who had been involved with the army for the last year was present.

  There was a ripple of applause from his right, and he guessed that the King’s entourage was arriving. He would be there with his queen, the beautiful Philippa, and his earls and knights. They would all surround him, just as they had every day while here – and more of them since the threat of assassination by the Vidame.

  A sudden thought occurred to the vintener. In his mind’s eye, he saw the King’s household sitting up on the dais there. He pictured the men of his personal guard encircling him and the Queen, but as Berenger considered it, he knew that the King would not be ringed about. To fence him in would be impossible on this day of all days. No, the King would be in plain view, surely, staring along that road towards the gates of Calais. All his armoured knights and men-at-arms would form a thick semi-circle behind and around – but not in front.

  Berenger had a sudden sinking feeling in his belly as the realisation hit him: if someone was determined to kill King Edward, this would be the ideal time. It would have to be a man who was prepared to face the inevitable consequences, for he would be torn limb from limb for his act. But if the man was devoted to his own King, he might risk it. And Berenger had heard tell of the ruthless determination of the Vidame . . .

  The soldiers, he saw, were all grouped by vintaine and centaine, under the banners of their bannerets and captains. Any strangers in their midst would soon be noticed.

  ‘What is it, Frip?’ Jack asked, seeing his consternation.

  ‘I just have a bad feeling . . . I think the Vidame could be here. When the King arrives, he will be unguarded here, won’t he? As the people come out of the town, he will be on plain view.’

  ‘Yes, but so what? These are all Englishmen.’

  ‘What if one wasn’t? A man up there on the horns of the army would have a perfect sight of the King.’

  ‘A good archer could do something, but this Vidame – I don’t know. Could he use a bow?’

  ‘He only needs one good flight, Jack. A man with a crossbow could do that from the walls of the town.’

  Jack glanced over to the town, then back to the King. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Take the men and go and watch the tradesmen, the carters and tranters – the people who are not in the army itself, but who support it. Our man will be in there amongst them, I’d lay my life on it.’

  Jack nodded.

  ‘And Jack? Be careful. If I’m right, this fellow is more than determined. He is a fanatic.’

  The Vidame smiled at his neighbour. There were so many men and women up here on the western flank that the noise and chattering was almost deafening. Still, that was good. No one took any notice of the man who had climbed up a little above them all on the wagon’s seat.

  It was the perfect position. He had a clear field of view to the King some eighty yards away. Edward was just coming into sight now, his fair hair and long beard making him stand out amongst the people all around. The Vidame took a long, deep breath. The King was talking to the men about him, including that fool Sir Peter of Bromley – surely one of the most gullible idiots ever born. It was his sudden change of allegiance that had made the Vidame’s task so easy. All he need do was remain one of the knight’s loyal following, and suddenly he became another trusted member of King Edward’s household.

  But now he had a more crucial task to perform. He, Alain de Châlons – the Vidame – was to be the man who liberated France from the cruel yoke of English rapacity. Once this King was dead, that would be an end to things. The English must leave France afterwards – and with empty hands.

  At his feet was the bow, ready spanned, with a bolt in place. All he need do was remove the blanket covering it, pick it up, aim and loose, and France’s sufferings would be avenged. All those children and women and their men. The irreparable, intolerable damage done to so many noble families, the thieving and robbery – all avenged.

  The King was seated now. Although the Vidame could see his head clearly, it was too far to trust the bolt to aim true. Until the King rose, he must wait. Otherwise there was a risk that he might hit a knight or man-at-arms in front of the King. He didn’t want to have a close shot, he wanted to make sure of his enemy, of his country’s enemy. He must wait and be patient. His time would come.

  There was a great cry, and he turned to see the gates to Calais opening properly for the first time in almost a year. They creaked wider and wider, and at last six men became visible. From the town there came no sound. It was as if the opening gates sucked the noise from the English too, for as the six began to pace forwards, the English also fell silent.

  He could see them clearly. Six gaunt, wraith-like figures, stepping forward with courage, their chins held up, while inside each must have quailed. They had no idea whether their personal sacrifices would help their people. It was possible – nay, likely – that the English soldiery would rush into their town and rape their wives and their children, killing all who stood in their path. The English had done it all before. There was no reason to think that the King would be more merciful here.

  Mercy. That was a curious term to use when thinking of a King. Today, Edward had insisted that the six most important men in the town should appear like this, clad only in shirts, wearing ropes about their necks. They all knew their end would come today. They made a brave show, however, padding barefoot across the wreckage and mess of the road, all the way to the King’s pavilion.

  It was enough to bring tears to the Vidame’s eyes. One man at least he knew: Jean de Vienne, the Constable of Calais, was a brave man, known for his courage in the face of the enemy. Rarely had the Constable confronted so implacable an enemy, however.

  The King, the Vidame saw, remained seated. Men moved before him and all around him, blocking the spy’s view of Edward as everyone craned their necks to see the six victims approach.

  A herald stepped forward and took the keys from Jean de Vienne. He and the other five citizens prostrated themselves in the dirt of the road. The Vidame had an anxious moment, thinking that the English might show compassion and release the prisoners, but then he saw the King signal, and two men-at-arms came forward. These were the executioners.

  There was an altercation on the dais: knights bowed to the King and spoke, urgently, one holding out a hand to the killers at Jean de Vienne’s side, and then the Queen joined them, and bent before her husband. The Vidame swore under his breath. There was no clear view. All these men, and the Queen, were blocking his view of his target.

  And then they moved away, and the King stood, his arms high, turning so that all might see him. His voice could be heard, and everyone in that great arena was silent, straining to catch his words, as the Vidame crouched, pulled away the blanket and withdrew his crossbow. He peered, and he could see the King quite clearly. Lifting his crossbow, he smiled as his finger found the large slide that fitted a slot in the nut and prevented accidental discharge.

  It was time. He would make history. Today, he, Alain de Châlons, would slay a King.

  He lifted the crossbow, steadied himself, and as he pulled the curved release, something hit his knees, and he went over.

  Dogbreath had spotted the man up on the wagon as the men walked from the gates towards the King. He was a nondescript fellow in brown jack and broad-brimmed hat, standing well above the rest of the men. And then Dogbreath saw him bend and pull something from his feet. When he rose, Dogbreath saw the bow.

  He ran. It was twenty yards, and that meant twenty paces, but it felt like a mile, it seemed to take him so long. And then he was at the back of the cart. He leaped into it, and his feet kicked out as soon as he was on it, straight i
nto the back of the man’s knees. The would-be assassin crumpled with a yelp, and Dogbreath was on him in an instant. A scream and a bellow showed that others had heard the fight, and now men came to try to separate them. Dogbreath pushed the crossbow aside and butted the man in the face, kicking up with his knee against his cods. The Vidame defended himself as best he could, punching and slapping at his enemy while Dogbreath renewed his assaults. A lucky kick caught him in the belly, and he was for a moment winded, long enough for the Vidame to grab his bow once more, but then he realised it was loosed already. The bolt had flown. He was still staring at it dumbly when Jack’s sword slammed down on his head. The pommel of steel hit his skull like a mace, and Alain de Châlons fell without a word.

  In the group about the dais, Sir John de Sully listened as the King ordered that all the six should have their heads cut off. There was a general acceptance, but it was not wholehearted approval, rather a sense of resignation that a King could do as he wished. Few liked the decision. These men had behaved with honour. To kill them was considered over-harsh.

  Several dropped to their knees and begged for the lives of the six, but the King’s face remained stern. Only when his own wife knelt and pleaded with him did he unbend.

  But as the Queen stood again, Sir John heard a cry from the crowds, and a premonition of disaster made him push forward just as a bolt flew. The King was standing now, a perfect target for any man with a bow and a string, but there were others there who saw the danger too. As Sir John tried to reach his King, a group of men-at-arms surged forward – but one man shoved them all to one side.