Blood on the Sand (23 page)

‘Ye won’t pass us.’

‘You do not realise your danger,’ Godefroi said with contempt.

‘There’s only one thing ye need worry about. I swear, if ye go into battle against us, ye will die. Our army is a match for anything to come out of Scotland.’

‘You should be measured for your coffin.’

Percy smiled easily. ‘We’ll see. After the battle, I’ll return home to me wife. Ye’ll be sad to see the Scottish crushed.’

The Archbishop held up his hand. ‘This is havering. God Himself with His saints will decide the battle. Just as He did at Crécy.’ He studied Godefroi for a moment. ‘You
will ride back to your main army with a message. I will send a herald with you, and you will deliver the herald to the King of Scotland. We shall await his answer.’

After the fellow had been hurried away, the Archbishop looked about him. ‘Well?’

Percy snorted. ‘Yon little prickle has scarcely more than the sense he was born wi’. But no matter. It’s enough. The lad confirmed what Jean de Vervins told us. We know the
size of the fight now.’

‘Aye,’ Neville agreed. ‘But we have to show we have the right of it.’

‘Yes,’ the Archbishop nodded. ‘We have to ask them to leave the country and cease in their depredations, otherwise we shall be forced to bring them to battle.’

Berenger felt his mouth falling open. ‘But why? Shouldn’t we just bring them to battle now?’

‘Och, we can no’ do that, Captain,’ Percy said. ‘This is the March. We have the right of it, but to go at ’em without the courtesies could make us look like we were
in the wrong.’

‘How can that be? They’re in England, stealing and killing!’

‘Don’t concern ye’sel’. This way’ll make it neat and proper, that’s all ye need to worry about.’

A herald arrived, and the Archbishop and Sir Henry gave him the form of words. In a moment or two he was out and running for a horse.

Percy turned to Berenger. ‘Ye did well to form the archers and hold back Douglas’s men.’

The Archbishop grunted. ‘And now we’ll all have to do as well. The army will march with the Sheriff of Yorkshire on the left flank, I will take the middle battle, and you, my Lord
Percy, will take the right. We will march to the town now, and when we find a suitable location, we will attack these sons of dogs. And may God grant us the victory we deserve against these
insolent invaders.’

Berenger left the pavilion shortly after that. Outside, he saw the herald pulling on gloves with a distracted air, while a groom of ten or eleven years hurried to fetch him a
horse. Berenger was sorry for the man. He could imagine what was passing through his mind. It was nothing to do with the actual message that he was to deliver – that would be memorised
already. No, it was the thought of the reception he might expect. The Scottish King had a reputation for chivalry and being honourable, but he was, when all was said and done, a warrior at the head
of some of the most barbaric fighters known to Christendom. It would be no surprise if some of the more hot-headed amongst them thought it would be amusing to send back their own message in
explicit form, by returning the herald’s head in a sack, or perhaps every part of his body disassembled in a barrel of salt.

‘Your horse, sir,’ the groom said, but when Berenger looked up, the boy was not bringing the herald’s mount. This was the mount for Godefroi.

The Frenchman stood with his mouth pressed into the vambrace protecting his forearm. The coolness of the metal against his damaged lips must have been soothing. Seeing Berenger, he drew his lips
away and stood haughtily.

‘I’m sorry about your teeth,’ Berenger said.

‘I will live, which is better than some can say,’ Godefroi replied. His voice was muffled from his damaged mouth, but he unbent so far as to duck his head as though in appreciation
of the comment, although his face did not ease its rigidity.

‘Why are you here?’ Berenger asked.

‘I am an esquire. It is my place to fight for my King no matter where he sends me.’

‘You were sent here, then? Were you on the ships?’

Godefroi glanced at him. ‘What ships?’

Berenger explained about the ships he had seen in the mouth of the river.

‘Ah, yes. We brought good French armour and swords for our Scottish friends. King David was glad of them,’ Godefroi said with a note of pride. ‘I was responsible for bringing
them and for asking King David to enter England.’

‘To distract King Edward and force him to send men back here.’

‘Of course. He will have to do so.’

‘I don’t think you understand the balance of power here,’ Berenger said.

He could not help but admire the martial spirit of this French esquire. Godefroi was very similar to young warriors the world over. He was so convinced of his own ability and strength that he
paid little attention to the merits of others. He was young and keen and he felt his cause was just – and since his cause was just, he thought his comrades would be as filled with
warrior-like ardour. But Berenger knew only too well that ardour alone was not enough. Supplies were important, and the support of companions, but the most important aspect for any army was the
training of its men. And England had been training for war every year since Edward III took his throne.

‘Balance of power?’ the Frenchman said scornfully. ‘We know more than you could imagine!’

‘You know what happened at Crécy?’

‘A rabble of Genoese bowmen failed us. They turned and ran, to their shame, and in so doing, they spoiled the charge of French chivalry so that many knights and men were injured or
killed.’

‘No. The Genoese were failed by their bowstrings. When their strings became wet, their bolts would not reach the English lines, but our bows could reach far beyond them. They were horribly
pricked by our arrows, and then ridden down by the front line of your knights. And those same knights were slain before they could strike a single blow.’

‘So you say. But the battle was a matter of good luck. We shall see who will win the battle for Durham.’

As the herald’s groom appeared, Godefroi mounted his horse and waited politely for the herald. Then the two rode off into the gathering gloom.

Berenger watched him go with a feeling of sadness. He rather liked the fellow, but he had a strong presentiment that he would not speak to the young esquire again.

‘I fucking knew it. They brought us all this way just to throw us in the front line again,’ Clip whinged.

‘Shut up, Clip,’ Jack said.

‘We’ll all get killed.’

‘Shut up, Clip.’ That was Saint Lawrence.

‘I’m only young, me. I don’t need all this walking and fighting,’ Clip grumbled.

‘Clip?’ Aletaster said. ‘Shut up.’

‘I’m just telling the truth, that we’re all going to—’

‘Oi!’ The Pardoner stopped and stared at him. ‘If you don’t shut up, I’m going to sit on your head until you do. And I have a magnificent fart brewing, Clip: when I
let rip, you’ll suffer, so bloody shut up!’

‘I was only saying.’

‘Shut up!’

Berenger had placed himself and his old vintaine near the middle of the archers on the right wing. He listened with half an ear, noting that his vintaine showed no signs of concern at the coming
battle, while the newer men’s anxiety was apparent in their voices or their silence. For all present knew that battle was inevitable and inescapable.

He pulled off his dented helmet and rubbed the swelling on his scalp. It hurt like a bad burn, and although the local barber had offered to bleed him, he had refused. He needed all the
concentration he could muster for the coming fight.

After the skirmish yesterday, the herald had been sent to the Scots, where he received a reply both curt and brief. Once the Scottish had heard from his French victim, King David would be sure
to want to attack. The idea of taking on a force only one third or one quarter the size of his own would appeal to any warrior. Certainty of victory counted more than notions of chivalry. Chivalry
was for knights – a series of rules so that the rich and brave could expect to buy back their lives, were they to be captured. Berenger had no doubts about his own fate if he was captured by
the Scots. It would involve a blade and he would have his bleeding at last. Well, he reflected, it would at least take away the pain of his head wound.

Certainly the English had not slowed in their advance, and last night they had sheltered, shivering, on the plain to the south of Durham. The weather was dry, but now, in the middle of October,
it was so chilly as to leave a man quaking all night under his blanket. Berenger had woken feeling forty years older, trembling like a man in a fever until a cup of strong wine mixed with hot water
managed to send some warmth to his extremities. Still, as he mounted his pony and stared about him at the mess that was an army on the march, he felt another shudder pass down his spine.

It was a sight to send a thrill into the most unresponsive heart. All around him, men packed away their belongings, boys brought up the ponies while yeomen rubbed down and saw to the feeding of
the men-at-arms’s beasts, warily attending to highly-strung destriers that would be more than keen to bite a groom. Campfires were extinguished with the last of the water from cooking pots,
and men wandered about, chewing the rough breads made by the bakers overnight, as they threw on their baldrics or tugged at their warbelts. Archers checked the sheaves of arrows on the carts, some
eyeing the sky for rain, before taking their bowstrings and pushing them into their shirts against their skin, or shoving them beneath their caps to keep them dry.

The army was moving urgently now as the sun crept higher into the sky. The squeak and rattle of cart and wagon did not quite mask the sound of hooves and boots. On the men marched, all of them
aware that they must soon go into battle.

Most there were levies called to serve – both young and old. Percy had been gathering a force from his lands to take to Calais, but the men from Yorkshire and those from Neville’s
lands were less young and eager, not quite so ready to be thrust into the front line of a battle gripping a lance and hoping that the point would rip into a destrier’s breast before the
rider’s steel could reach them. That was no surprise to Berenger, for he had stood in the line himself often enough.

‘You all right, Frip?’

‘Captain Frip, Jack, if you don’t mind,’ he grinned. ‘Just looking at the men we’re fighting with.’

‘They’ll be fine.’ Jack cast an appraising eye over them himself. ‘These ones look hoary and hearty enough. And I’ll warrant that Sir Henry Percy knows how to place
his men. After all, he was bright enough to promote you.’

‘I hope I don’t show myself incompetent,’ Berenger said, voicing a fear that was ever in his mind.

‘You won’t. We’ve done this before, Frip,’ Jack said sharply. ‘Just remember Crécy, and keep your head. We can’t afford to have our centener lose faith
in himself.’

Berenger gave a dry smile. Crécy had shown what Englishmen could do with their bows. Tearing apart the French cavalry charges before they could fully form and slaughtering them far away
before any Englishmen could be hurt. ‘Hard to believe that was only a few weeks ago. Let’s hope this goes the same way.’

‘It will. We’ll pick the best piece of land and defend it.’

‘Aye.’ That was all they needed to do: so long as they reached the battleground before the Scots could take it and force the English to attack.

But when they reached the most likely place for their defence, Berenger felt his heart drop.

‘Oh,
shit
, Frip,’ Jack said.

On the hill before them, the Scots had already taken their place. The English would be forced to attack them.

‘Ballocks!’ Berenger said.

‘I telled ye – we’ll all be slaughtered,’ Clip called in a slightly quieter voice.

‘Fuck
off
, Clip!’ Jack growled.

‘Form battles!’

Berenger remained on his horse while the footsoldiers nearby relinquished their mounts and passed the reins to the waiting boys. He had already told Jean de Vervins to stay back with the
baggage. He had lost one charge already when the King’s messenger died. He would not lose this one. Each lad, whether nine or thirteen, took five or six mounts and scurried back to the rear
of the battles where the wagons were all set out in a ring. The horses and ponies were brought inside the circle of wood, the boys standing with their beasts and waiting for the summons that would
indicate a rapid advance and charge, or an ignominious flight.

From his vantage point, Berenger could see the ground clearly. The Scots had drawn up into battle formation on the hill opposite, and the English were bellowing at their own men, pushing the
recalcitrant troops into three battles across their own hill. Sir Henry Percy was pointing and speaking with his captains, while his deputy, Sir Gilbert Umfraville, stalked about the place roaring
commands at the centeners and others.

These men were all veterans of the fighting along the Marches – Northumbrians with calculating expressions tightening their faces as they watched the Scots, fingering their weapons with
the manner of men long-used to war.