Blood on the Sand (19 page)

‘Yes, my lord. The King’s message was being brought to you by a companion of mine, Andrew Retford, but I am afraid he was killed when my party was attacked.’

‘When was this?’

‘A day and a half ago. We were waylaid by two groups of men, but the last killed three of my vintaine, including Retford.’

The Archbishop took the small rolled vellum and read it quickly, a frown puckering his brows. ‘This says that French ships have sailed for Scotland, and that you saw them?’

‘I did, my lord.’

‘Then speak! When did you see them – where – how many were there? Tell me everything, and speak quickly! We have just heard that the Scots have broken over the border and are
heading towards Carlisle.’

Archibald worked at his gonne, cleaning the inner barrel with a lambswool swab soaked in oil. Standing in a muddy field waiting for something to happen, he was as content as a
man could be. He had known muddier fields and filthier weather. However, it was important to keep the two boys busy. Georges and Ed needed constant supervision when they hung around too close to
the powder, and when they had no work to do, he was worried about what they might get up to. An army was not a safe place for lads of their age.

His ruminations were interrupted by Sir John de Sully, who appeared with his esquire.

‘Master Gynour, I hope I see you well?’

‘Aye, I am well indeed, Sir Knight. Just seeing to my little toy here.’

‘You spoke to me of a larger beast that you could use.’

Archibald set down his swab and turned to face the knight. ‘Sir?’

‘We can send a ship to fetch it. When could you be ready to sail?’

‘Any time now, sir.’

Sir John nodded. ‘You will sail to fetch it and bring it back here to set it up at the harbour mouth and destroy all ships trying to force their way to the Calesian harbour.’

‘I’ll need more powder, too,’ Archibald said.

‘Bring all you require.’

‘One thing: I must have men here to guard the gonnes and the powder while I’m away.’

‘I will set guards myself,’ Sir John promised, and soon afterwards took his leave.

Archibald picked up his swab again, whistling happily. The knight was obviously one of those who held a superstitious fear of Archibald’s trade. No matter. He was confident of his own
unique expertise.

‘Donkey!’ he bawled as he swabbed.

Ed and his new friend appeared.

He would leave the boy behind, he thought. Béatrice would be able to look after the guns with Ed’s help. Especially now that Marguerite and Georges were here as well.

‘You may not realise it, you scruffy little churls, but you are looking at the man who could just be the saviour of the siege here. Me and my little toys will help to end it quickly
– and in our favour!’

‘We’ll all get killed,’ Clip droned. ‘Why is it always us at the sharp end?’

‘Shut it, Clip,’ Jack said.

‘It’s fine for ye to tell me to shut it, but what’ll happen when you’re in the front line with ten thousand hairy-arsed Scotch bastards running at you with their pikes
ready? Ye’ll change your tune then,’ Clip said with satisfaction.

‘If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’ll throw you at them to carry their points,’ Jack said nastily, ‘and then I won’t have to listen to your moaning and
maundering.’

‘Oh, aye. That’ll help you. And how will ye fight without me? It’s me has given you the backbone to fight,’ Clip boasted.

‘Sweet Mother of God,’ Jack said, rolling his eyes.

‘Give it a rest, Clip,’ the Aletaster put in. ‘You think we want to listen to your constant blather?’

Jack turned to him and gave him a cold look. ‘Have you stood in a line yet? In battle? Then keep your trap shut. Clip has fought more battles than you’ve . . .’ his face
twisted. ‘I was going to say, than you’ve had hot meals, or you’ve drunk ales, but neither would be true for a fat git like you, would it? Until you’ve held your place in
the line with the others and pricked your targets as they run at you, and fought them off with your axe or sword, you keep your gob shut and your thoughts to yourself.’

‘That’s right,’ Clip said happily, grinning malevolently at Aletaster.

‘
Shut up
, Clip!’ Jack said.

‘Why do I care? You’ll all get killed,’ Clip said.

Berenger grinned to himself as he jogged along. He had been given a fresh pony by the Bishop, and now he and the rest of his vintaine were riding to the muster at Richmond.

‘I can’t listen to Clip for another minute. If I hear that we’re all going to die one more time, I’ll kill him myself,’ Jack said savagely.

‘You’ll have push past me to get to him first,’ Berenger said.

‘What do you reckon to this, Frip?’ Jack asked a moment later.

‘What, the muster? The Scots have seen their chance. King Edward is wallowing in the mud about Calais, so King David thinks he can carve out a chunk of the North of England for himself.
It’ll be the same as the Scots always do: they’ll ride fast and steal all the cattle, sheep and plunder they can get their hands on, and then run before we can catch them.’

‘So you don’t think they’ll be in the mood for a fight?’

‘They haven’t wanted to fight us since Hallidon Hill, have they? No, they are in it for all they can snatch,’ Berenger said dismissively. ‘I’ve fought against them
before. They rarely risk an actual battle against us, because they know they’ll lose. They don’t possess the equipment and armour that we have.’

‘Aye, that’s true,’ Jack said with every appearance of satisfaction.

The Earl had been listening. Now he urged his pony forward to join in the conversation. ‘There is one aspect that gives me pause, I fear,’ he said. ‘The ships that you saw,
Vintener: I’ve heard it said that the French could have sent men to aid the Scots in an attack. If so, surely our King must draw his men away from Calais. He could not suffer an army to
trample over his northern marches.’

‘What do you know of the Scots and French?’ Jack scoffed. ‘You’re only a rich boy from London.’

‘How do you make that out?’ Earl asked.

‘Your accent, your behaviour, everything.’

‘You are from London, aren’t you?’ Berenger said.

‘Yes. I am from the city. My father was a goldsmith, but he never really got on with others in the trade, and so although I was apprenticed for some time, it wasn’t a job I felt
comfortable with. It was the way he was treated, I suppose.’

‘What happened to you?’ Berenger said.

‘I was in London last year when the riots started. You remember that – when the apprentices went on the rampage? It was something to behold. I was with them, and it meant I got in
with a crowd of rebellious fools. But the real fool was me. I trusted them, but my trust was misplaced. There were two or three ringleaders, and they had great ideas when they were drunk. Talked
about all kinds of nonsense, including, I’m afraid, capturing the Mayor of London and tarring him because of his treatment of apprentices. But what I didn’t know was, one of the men
coming up with these ideas was himself a paid employee of the Mayor. So when I agreed, I was arrested and thrown into the gaol at Newgate.’

‘I’ve heard of that,’ Jack said, nodding. ‘Not a good place.’

The Earl shuddered briefly. ‘There, you speak the truth. It was a hell-hole if ever there was one. And I was going to be forced to stay there a long time. I had lost my apprenticeship
after that, so I volunteered to join the King’s army when I heard that I would be pardoned if I did. So here I am.’

‘You look as though you are too old to have been apprenticed recently,’ Jack said suspiciously.

‘At Newgate, you grow old very quickly,’ the Earl told him.

‘That doesn’t explain why you think you know so much about Scotland,’ Jack said.

‘All I know is, when we were at Calais, I heard someone talking about the French. There were rumours that they were supplying the Scots with armour and weapons in return for them attacking
England. The Scots are always happy to fight, but they want to fight on their terms. This time, they want money and the chance to kick the English King while he’s away.’

‘You heard all this at Calais?’ Berenger said.

‘Everyone was talking about it. I’m surprised you didn’t hear.’

Jack and Berenger exchanged a look. Soldiers were always talking to each other, most often to complain and bicker, but occasionally one or two could pick up a nugget of decent information.
Perhaps this was accurate.

‘I don’t know,’ Berenger sighed after a while. ‘I have a feeling that the ships may not even have been heading to Scotland. They were probably supply ships and the French
wanted to replenish them to break the siege at Calais. For all we know, they may have attempted to get to the town while we’ve been travelling up here. That would be ironic.’

They reached Richmond the following day. Berenger and the men were eager to find a place to sit and rest while they waited for news of the French, but before they could take
their ease, the Archbishop sent a man to them.

‘You are Berenger?’ he enquired. ‘The Archbishop has asked that you come to see him.’

Berenger left the men, telling Jack to see them quartered and fed, and followed the messenger. He found the Archbishop prowling in his tent like a great cat. He looked up with a scowl as
Berenger entered, and then resumed his slow pacing.

There were four other men in the room: two knights and two clerks, one a personal secretary to the Archbishop, the other a harried-looking man who dealt with other administrative matters for the
Archbishop. As usual with such a senior political figure, all the time while Berenger and the others were talking, a constant stream of men were passing in and out of the tent, bringing messages to
the harassed clerk, who then passed some to the Archbishop for his approval. Berenger had to listen carefully. All present spoke in the harsh, guttural dialect of the north. To his ear, they
sounded like the Scots themselves.

‘Vintener, these are Sir Henry Percy and Sir Ralph Neville. While I am Warden of the East March, my friends are commanders of the northern armies and responsible for the defence of the
kingdom. You will tell them all you have said to me.’

Berenger quickly retold his story of the ships. Before he had finished, Percy was already talking. He was a heavy-set man of average height, with thick thighs and shoulders, as befitted a man
who had spent his entire life battling with the Scots on the borders. His fair hair and pale grey eyes gave him the appearance of a genial nature, but that was belied by the sharpness of his
tongue. The Percys had ruled Northumbria since the Conqueror’s time, protecting their lands from Scottish invasions too often to count. While some men were keen to avoid fights by paying the
‘black rents’ – money to ensure that their farms and estates would not be despoiled – the Percys preferred to take to their horses, sword in hand, and attack those who would
seek to rob them. This Percy was cast in that mould.

‘So you tell us that the French may have sent ships to Scotland. Why so? To tell them to assault us, to pay for them to attack, or to provide them with equipment to help them
attack?’

‘I would consider all three most likely.’ This was Neville, a man some ten years older than Percy. He had brown hair turning grizzled, and a square, rugged face. His beard was thick,
and he scratched at it as he spoke like a man unused to the feel. ‘The French no doubt demanded that their allies should attack at once.’

‘The King will not wish to send back even a portion of his men, no matter what,’ Percy said.

‘Of course not!’ the Archbishop exclaimed. ‘And nor should he.’

‘It would help to know what the Bruce intends,’ Neville said.

‘He intends to bring about bloody disaster on the North of England,’ Percy said with disgust. ‘He would see it laid waste. He’s already ravaged all the farms from Durham
to the March. No freeman will go there now – not with the risk of losing wealth, cattle and life.’

‘Then we must gather our strongest force and make our way to meet him,’ the Archbishop said heavily.

‘Aye, but we needs must gain information. How many men does he have, how does he array his fighters, are they fed and healthy, do they have enough horses and ponies . . .’

The Archbishop was approached by his clerk and bent his head to listen as the clerk spoke quickly. ‘I see. Sir Henry, Sir Ralph: we have an informant! A man has just arrived and has asked
to speak with us. He may be able to help us.’

‘Bring him in,’ Sir Henry said.

A short while later, the tent’s flap was opened and Berenger grasped his sword as he recognised the smiling face of Jean de Vervins.

‘He’s French!’ Berenger blurted out.

‘This man,’ the Archbishop said, ‘has come over with the ships you saw. He can tell us all about the ships, the Frenchmen with the ships, and the weapons.
And
he can
tell us all the Scottish dispositions.’