Blood on the Sand

by Michael Jecks

  Sir Peter de Bromley had seen his clerk standing on the wagon, and at that moment he realised the truth of the accusations against the Vidame. Into his mind flashed the confrontation with Sir John de Sully, the contempt in the face of Berenger and the others. There was but one way to prove his devotion. He leaped into the path of the bolt even as it flew straight at him. He had time to move, but he chose to hold his ground, protecting his King to the end. He was hit by it: in an instant it penetrated his eye, and he fell to the ground, already dead.

  ‘Get him out of the way, quick!’ Sir John hissed, and with the help of two others, he pulled the man’s body out of sight.

  Meanwhile the King remained on his feet, proclaiming that, because of the heartfelt pleas of his wife, he would allow all the citizens to go free. The army cheered and one of the six faltered and almost fell and had to be supported by his neighbours, and two of the six were weeping with relief as Sir John glanced down at Sir Peter’s body.

  ‘You poor bastard. You knew your servant was a traitor, didn’t you? And this was your only way to pay for that knowledge.’

  ‘Are you sure, Frip?’ Grandarse said again.

  Berenger grunted. The two were standing outside the tavern in the market of Calais, and now that the town was theirs, and the main properties were all requisitioned by the King and given or rented to the men of his army, the memories of the last few days were fading.

  They had been confronted by a hideous sight when they first entered the town and walked the streets. Berenger had been in with the first contingent of men, and he had been struck by the strange, sour smell about the place. The unhealthy, dying men and women gave off an odour that was like vinegar, both pungent and rancid. No one here had been able to bathe for months, and none had eaten properly either, in all that time. At every doorway or window, Berenger saw gaunt, grey faces, with lips that had tightened so that they could scarcely cover teeth. The people’s eyes were dull, almost like the dead, and hunger had made their bellies swell.

  Even more than that, the most truly dreadful thing was the lack of sound: a kind of tainted deathly hush absorbed Calais. There were no birds, no dogs, no cats, no horses. All had been consumed. Only these corpses remained: the walking dead, awaiting their entrance to Hell.

  Berenger had looked about him, appalled, as the townsfolk were ordered to leave their houses. They were to be pushed from the gates and forced to leave. He wanted to give food to them all, but there was nothing he could do. He was powerless.

  Later, after that first day, he had spent time with Marguerite. Not talking, just sitting with her. Georges was a short way away, playing with Ed, and Berenger watched them for a long time.

  ‘Are you well?’ she asked after a while.

  He was still for a moment, then said, ‘In the last year, I’ve been hit by a crossbow bolt, hammers, swords and fists. All I have to show for it are wounds, and the loyalty of my men. I have no woman, no home, no children to leave my money to, nor anyone to mourn me when I am dead. Marguerite, I am bone weary of death and killing. Woman, if I give up fighting, I would settle in a town like this. I’d want to fill it with happiness. I’d want to trade and make money, and fill bellies, and give alms to help the weak. Would you want to help me, if I give you a home and a home for your boy?’

  ‘You mean you want a concubine, or a servant?’ she asked lightly.

  ‘No, Marguerite, I want a wife. Would you accept me?’

  She studied his face for a long moment. Somewhere, it was possible, she had a husband and children. But with the English controlling such a broad swathe of land, finding them would be all but impossible. A woman without husband, without family, was mere prey to the men all about France. Already the stories of rapes and murders committed by English troops, whether they were English, Welsh, Irish, Flemish, Gascon or other, were circulating all around the country. Bored soldiers, some of them French, had deserted their armies and were taking over villages in their search for plunder and sex. No one, man or woman, was safe in the countryside.

  At least this Berenger had shown her kindness, Marguerite thought. He had helped her when she had been lonely; he had fed her boy, had given them both the protection of his vintaine – and had made no demands on her. She had never felt threatened by him.

  She looked back towards the land away from the sea. There she could clearly see the heights of Sangatte. That was where the French King had set his camp. He had done less for his people than this Berenger had done for her alone.

  Berenger spoke now. ‘I know you are confused. If your husband turns up, I’ll understand if you want to leave me. But for now, while the land’s so dangerous, I can at least give you and your son a home. I can look after you both.’

  She nodded, her eyes still fixed on the distant hills. They represented freedom – and death. If there was the faintest hope that her husband was alive still, she should go and try to find him. And of course she wanted to find her children. But what was the point? They could be anywhere – if they were still alive. The chances of her finding them were remote. It was more likely that she would meet her own death on the roads.

  Taking a deep breath, she wrenched her gaze away and met Berenger’s steady stare. ‘If I learn my family is alive, I will leave you. You have to know that. I gave my husband my word.’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect anything else, woman,’ Berenger said.

  ‘If you accept that, then before God, I declare I believe I am widowed, and as a widow, I will take you, Master Berenger Fripper. I will have you to be mine, to have and to hold from this day until death take me.’

  ‘And I will have you, Marguerite. You will be my wife, and I will be a good husband to you, and father to your son,’ Berenger vowed. And as he said it, he felt a certain lightness steal over him. It was a sign, he felt sure, of God’s approval at last.

  And with God’s help the English would turn this little port into a great trading city in support of the English in France.

  Archibald had seen her shortly afterwards, as the news was given to the vintaine.

  ‘I have to tell you lot something,’ Berenger announced, and Archibald thought how different he looked – how relaxed. The gynour had never seen him looking so at peace before.

  ‘What is it, Frip?’ Jack called.

  ‘Aye, we’re all to be sent on some wild-goose chase so the Frenchies can try to kill us,’ Clip said darkly. ‘We’ll all die, you mark my words.’

  ‘Shut up, Clip,’ Dogbreath said.

  ‘It’s not that. The fact is, I am to stay here in Calais. I will marry.’ Berenger looked thoroughly embarrassed now. His head hung.

  ‘Marry, Frip?’ This was the Earl. ‘Do you think she will be able to make an honest man of you, then?’

  ‘Yes: marry. I’ll be settling down with Marguerite and her boy, and I intend to bring up more small Frippers while I’m about it. My name is Fripper. I may as well live up to the title and deal in your second-hand clothes. Well, obviously not yours, Dogbreath,’ he added.

  Dogbreath looked down at his stained and worn clothes and shrugged, while the other men laughed and hooted.

  ‘So, I’ll wed her.’

  ‘Have ye not done it yet?’ Grandarse called. ‘She’ll be changing her mind while you fuck about, you great lummox.’

  ‘I’m to do it today. Sir John has already given us a house for my service, and the King is keen for any who will, to come and live in the new town.’

  ‘Aye, well,’ Clip said, ‘as to that, I think there may be other towns.’

  Archibald left them, and walked to where Béatrice stood a little way away. ‘Are you well, woman?’

  ‘Of course. Why would I not be?’

  ‘Your face just then, I thought . . .’

  ‘There is nothing to think.’

  Ed was watching. Now he stood. ‘We will be fine. Master, you will teach me all you can about gonnes, and Béatrice can teach me about powder, and in time I’ll become a master gynour too, and we can ask our own
price from any man who can afford us!’

  ‘Yes, and life will be easy,’ Archibald said, ruffling his hair, but even as he said it, he saw the expression in Béatrice’s eyes, and felt his heart melt with pity at the sight of her despair and jealousy.

  Grandarse toasted the couple in style, and then returned to his favourite tavern. There, he drank a hornful of wine to them again, before reflecting on the last year.

  It had been a hard campaign. Many men had died and would still die. Disease, wounds, all had their own effect. And yet, as he sat here now, he wondered what the value had been for him. There was no more money in his purse, no riches to dangle from his saddle, not even a new, valuable horse. The campaign had been a way of filling in time between his birth and his grave.

  He had made many decisions, some good, some dreadful. He had killed many men, sometimes for a good reason, but more often for bad ones. Mark Tyler, who had seemed the obvious culprit to have attempted to kill Fripper was now shown to have been innocent. Well, no matter, Grandarse had done what he had done in the best interests of the centaine and Berenger’s vintaine. If he had been mistaken, so be it. Any man could make errors.

  ‘Barman!’ he bellowed, and refilled his horn.

  ‘Bah – fuck him!’ he declared, and drank again. There were many good men whom he had killed. He wouldn’t worry about a one such as Tyler. Besides, it might well have been Tyler who tripped Berenger at the castle.

  ‘What will you do, Jack?’ Clip asked.

  ‘Me? I suppose I’ll go home. Work for a bit, get bored, and join a company out here again.’

  ‘I’ll get home,’ Oliver said, ‘and see who my wife’s been screwing, then take his money at the point of my knife.’

  ‘Me, I’ll go and set up a tavern in London,’ the Earl said. Meditatively chewing a straw, he smiled. ‘I’ll have the prettiest little geese in there, all good, buxom little wenches, the sort who’ll take a man’s mind off war, famine or the law for a couple of pennies. And I’ll serve fine ales, and wines, and even some of this burned wine they give you out here. Aye, and all my friends from this vintaine will be welcome.’

  ‘Oh, aye?’ Clip said.

  ‘I said friends, Clip.’

  John of Essex was passing. ‘So it’s true? Fripper’s going to settle?’

  ‘Yes. What of you?’

  ‘Me? I think I’ll go on. There are opportunities in other parts of France, so they say. A great company is being formed. Once our King has peace, there’ll be little enough excitement for us, after all. I’ll take a new name, I think, and see what I can do.’

  Clip sneered, ‘New name, eh? John not good enough?’

  ‘No, I think I need a new surname. After all, if I’m to be a great military captain, I will need a new name to strike fear into the hearts of my enemies. I think I’ll call myself “Hawkwood” in future. John Hawkwood has a good ring to it.’

  ‘Hawkwood? A name any man will forget in a week,’ Clip sniggered.

  ‘My name will be remembered for a century,’ John reproached him. ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘He won’t,’ Dogbreath said.

  Six months later

  Berenger sat on his bench outside his door and watched the men and women passing by.

  He was content. His wife was growing large with child, and although they were not foolish young people, maddened with love, they were comfortable. Marguerite was a great asset, with her happy smile and infectious laugh, and in the months since her arrival at Calais, much of her bleak discontent has gone. She was learning to be merry again, now that she was married and safe once more.

  Her son still had moments during which he would stare at Berenger as though blaming him alone for all the misfortunes that had occurred since the arrival of the English, but occasionally now he would laugh and smile, too. Like others who had survived the atrocities of the English invasion, he was discovering that life under the rule of a kindly English King could be pleasant and secure.

  And Berenger himself was pleased to learn that he could rebuild his life. He was happy here, with an ale in his hand, knowing that behind him there was another barrel to be broached, and that in his shop there were clothes of all sorts ready for sale.

  In the months since the capture of Calais, much had changed. All the old inhabitants, apart from a few, had been evicted and their houses taken over by colonists approved by the King. Some priority was given to those, like Berenger, who had fought hard for the town. They were deserving of reward, but also were best placed to defend the new-won lands. The campaign and siege had taken all the efforts of England, and now it was time to make the most of the territory. Men were coming from all over England to trade with the rest of France, and many French could see the advantage in coming to sell their wares. While the French King might fulminate and scheme, his people were realists and wanted peace with profit.

  Today, sitting in the early spring sunshine, his cloak wrapped tightly about him, Berenger Fripper saw a tall figure striding along the road towards him. He frowned, but then his face broke into a smile.

  ‘Sir John!’

  The knight grinned in return, and stood before him. ‘You are looking very pleased with yourself, Master Fripper.’

  Berenger patted his belly. ‘I am learning the joys of regular feeding and a bed under a roof,’ he said. ‘I could grow to like this life.’

  ‘So, were I to invite you to join me . . .’

  ‘No. There is no inducement you could offer that would be sufficient.’

  ‘Then I am glad to have no suitable employment for you,’ Sir John chuckled. At Berenger’s invitation, he took a seat beside his vintener and accepted his offer of a large cup of ale. Marguerite appeared, wiping her hands on her apron and gave him a suspicious look, as though suspecting he had an ulterior motive in appearing just now. On seeing her concern, Sir John said kindly, ‘No, mistress, I am not here to take your husband from you. I am simply passing by on my way home to England. It’s time I saw more of Iddesleigh and Rookford – and my wife too.’

  They sat talking for half the morning, as old comrades will.

  ‘Have you heard of John of Essex?’ Sir John said. ‘Since he’s taken up his new name, he is earning a reputation for courage and ability.’

  ‘He always had both. Does Grandarse thrive?’

  ‘As well as a man ever will whose diet consists of sack, cider and ale,’ Sir John said sardonically.

  Berenger laughed out loud. ‘At least he is consistent.’

  ‘Aye. And meanwhile, Calais continues safely.’

  ‘Yes, Sir John.’

  The knight sipped his ale. ‘Mm, this is good. You have heard that Lord Neville has put up a cross to celebrate your victory outside Durham? The place will forever be known as Neville’s Cross from now on. A place of great importance.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Berenger said. All he could see, when he thought of that battle, were the faces of Godefroi and the Scotsman dying after his torture. He would spend the rest of his life trying to forget them.

  ‘Well, my friend, be careful and God go with you,’ Sir John said, rising.

  ‘Godspeed, Sir John.’

  ‘And if you are ever in need, you must write to me. There will always be a place in my entourage for a man such as you.’

  ‘I am grateful for the honour, my lord, but I am happy here. I intend to avoid war and death.’

  ‘Sometimes death comes to us. Have you heard the rumours? There is a pestilence affecting people in the south of France.’

  ‘I had heard of a disease,’ Berenger said, ‘but that is far from here.’

  ‘Apparently it approaches us. I hear that it is now at Caen.’

  Berenger shrugged. ‘We are safe enough here. We are miles from it.’

  He watched, smiling, as the knight strode away.

  ‘Why do you smile, husband?’ Marguerite asked.

  ‘Oh, just a silly story. The knight fears a mighty pestilence. As though it could affect a great town like this,’ Ber
enger laughed, and then stopped.

  An icy shiver ran down his back, as though God Himself was giving him due warning.