Blood on the Sand (26 page)

‘Silence?’ Jack guffawed. ‘That’ll be the day.’ Then: ‘Hold!’

They heard a bellow, a cheer, and then a rumble announced a change in the battle.

Jack was on his feet in an instant. ‘Archers,
quick!
’

He pulled out his sword again and set off towards the line. The fighting men were swaying, pushing, shoving, hacking and stabbing with vigour still, but as Berenger looked, he could see that
they were advancing. The Scots must be giving way, for the lines were unmistakably moving forward, and as the men thrust and shoved, the carnage became more clear. On the ground, littered thickly,
severed limbs and dreadfully slashed and damaged bodies had stained the ground red with gore.

‘
Push!
’ Jack gave a mighty roar, and he and the others took their place behind the lines, shoulders to the back of the men before them, legs straining, boots slipping and
sliding on the blood-wet grass.

Berenger spotted a leather bottle. He grasped it, pulled the stopper free and took a deep draught of water. It was warm and brackish, and tasted of the pitch used to seal the leather, but it was
the most wonderful drink he had ever taken. It flowed through his frame like an elixir, bringing refreshment to tired muscles and renewed life to his mind. His face hurt so badly, it felt as though
a mule had kicked him, but the stinging was somewhat abated as he stood, swayed a little, shivered, and then set off towards the fighting line.

‘Wait! Frip, Jack said you—’

‘Fuck Jack and fuck the Scottish,’ Berenger said bluntly and threw himself at the line of struggling men. ‘Archers! Archers, one, two,
heave!
One, two,
heave!
’ he snarled. It hurt like hell. He almost expected to feel his head explode with the effort, but the call was taken up by other men. A man glanced over his shoulder, saw
Berenger’s bloody, ravaged face behind him, and blenched at the sight, before pushing onwards with gusto, probably more to get away from the demonic-looking archer behind him than from any
desire to rush back into the fray.

The tide was turning now. Berenger was not the only man to see that. The archers, reinforced by the Northumbrian levies, were taking the ground. The Scots had been fighting at the same place for
an age, and now those who were uninjured were weary to death of the constant ferocious assault. Weakened by lost troops, they were bone-tired, thirsty and growing desperate. It was clear that they
were being forced backwards, and while they knew that they must endure, it is one thing for a man to
know
he must continue, and another to persuade fatigued arms to lift a heavy weapon and
strike for the thousandth time, or to tell legs to hold position when a solid, teeming mass of enemies are hell-bent on driving you off with regular ramming movements.

At first, one or two men fell back, some too whipped even to defend themselves as the English blades stabbed down into their bodies, while others began to withdraw; and with every man who turned
and ran, the line was weakened as though it had been depleted by ten. It took one man running to dismay five or six others from near his position, and when twos and threes began to turn and flee,
more and more felt that their cause was lost.

And then their army broke en masse, and the remaining Scottish fled as one. Tripping and stumbling, they raced over the fields which they had crossed so enthusiastically only an hour or two
before, passing the dead bodies of the men who had been picked off by the English archers, some throwing down their swords that they might run the faster, others falling flat and leaping up and
bounding away like the deer of the Scottish hills, filled with the terror of men who sought to escape the fate that pursued them.

The English archers sank to their knees as the enemy before them ran, but Berenger remained on his feet, the sense of elation intoxicating him like strong wine.

Looking to his left, however, he saw what the others had not: the battle in the centre was as vicious and dangerous as their own had been a moment or two before. ‘Archers! Archers,
nock
your arrows!
’ he bawled, feeling the life flooding back into his body as the thrill of continued battle ignited in his soul.

There was a scurrying of men hunting for weapons. Most had dropped their bows in the madness and now they picked up any stave they could find undamaged amongst the bodies littering the ground. A
few found arrows: Berenger saw Jack and another vintener sending boys hurrying back to fetch sheaves from the carts.

‘Archers,
loose at the enemy
!’ Berenger shouted, pointing.

Singly, then in groups, arrows rose into the air and curled lazily down towards the scrambling, fighting mass. A full fifty to eighty each minute, lifting and then falling, looking no more
dangerous than drops of rain splashing down on the men, but these drops were deadly, bearing sharpened steel points designed to puncture the strongest armour and pin a man to the ground.

‘Archers,
to me!
’ Berenger cried at last, when the arrows had done their work. It was time to finish things.

He had found another sword – his own he had lost in the mêlée – and lifted it high. There was a slither of steel as the rest of the archers drew their own weapons again;
he waved his sword once and plunged forward, towards the Scots.

There was about sixty yards to cover, and Berenger ran as fast as he could, hearing only the rattle and curse of the men fighting and dying. Behind him, screaming and shrieking like so many
banshees, came his archers and the rest of the Northumbrians, and as they approached, Berenger saw the Scots nearest turn haggard faces to this new threat. Then with a high, keening ululation,
Dogbreath pelted past him, eyes wide and staring, a sword gripped in each hand, mouth wide in a demonic rictus. He was first to hit the Scottish.

The archers crashed into the line with a breaking clatter like storm waves striking a pebbled shore, their axes and mauls beating at the Scots. Berenger found himself at the point of a dagger of
men that had stabbed deep into the Scottish flank, and now he was holding his sword two-handed and dealing death with a raging determination he had never known before. He swung and chopped, lopping
off a hand, then thrusting at a face and feeling it give as the blade pierced bone and slid on inwards. His blood pounded and roared until he could hear nothing else.

There was no exhaustion now, only the will to finish this butchery as soon as possible.

Suddenly there was a clear space before him, and he saw that many Scottish lords had formed a defensive ring about one man – their King. A banner fluttered overhead, and he saw that it
held the lion of Scotland. He trampled bodies underfoot as he approached, and saw before him, as part of the ring, the Frenchman with the mashed face who had been sent back to the Scots with the
herald. The lad stared at him with stark horror in his eyes. This was his first battle, and he had seen too many die already.

His face and his horror cut through Berenger’s exultation. He felt drained, as though the whole weight of the fighting had suddenly struck him with full force. His head was a ponderous
weight, as though his brain was turned to lead, and he let his sword-point drop.

The boy seemed to understand him, or so Berenger thought. A wakening gratitude came into his eyes, but even as Berenger thought he might surrender to him, a scream came from his left. He saw a
group of knights with maces, axes and war-hammers leap forward and beat at the nearer Scotsmen. And then, in their midst, he saw a man-at-arms with a sword. It was Jean de Vervins.

Berenger wanted to go and remonstrate for his breaking into the battle, but even as he considered ordering the Frenchman back, he realised that Godefroi had seen Jean too. The two gazed at each
other, Jean’s face turning a ghastly white. He looked utterly benumbed to see his countryman on the opposing side of the army.

A bellow went up, and Berenger saw a Northumbrian knight suddenly hurl himself through the circle and grab at the Scottish King. King David punched him in the mouth so hard Berenger saw the
blood fly, but it was to no avail. The knight lowered his head to protect himself from the King’s assault, and bore him to the ground. There were howls of rage and delight on all sides, but
the King was hustled away by four men-at-arms, and the Scottish realised that their cause was utterly lost. The English pressed forward on three sides now, and Berenger felt himself shoved aside as
Sir Henry Percy and Umfraville and their bodyguards beat their way forward.

‘
No!
’ Berenger cried, but it was too late. The young Frenchman was clubbed in the face by a mailed fist and fell instantly. Berenger wanted to go to him, but before he could
do so, he saw an English spiked war-hammer fall. The pole-axe impaled the Frenchman’s skull, and Berenger saw his eyes widen and fix as the knight wrested it free, jerking the dead
youth’s head this way and that to remove it. Then the tide of the battle passed on and forward, and there were no more French or Scottish alive anywhere near.

Berenger went to the body and knelt beside it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said hoarsely, but he could feel the guilt pressing on him even so. He should have saved this boy. He
could
have saved the boy, if he had been a little faster.

That was when Berenger Fripper, captain of the army of the north, vintener in the King’s host, began to weep, hating the battle, this war, these men, but most of all, hating himself.

He had no idea how long he remained there, kneeling on the damp grass.

The blare of a horn jerked him from his reverie. From his position beside the Frenchman, Berenger could not see the sudden charge of the English, nor the way that the Scottish broke and ran, but
he could feel the difference in the line as the dwindled English battle stopped pushing and cheered. There was a renewed series of horn blasts and bellowed orders from throats already parched and
raw from rasping out commands, and horses were brought up: great destriers, the chargers of the men-at-arms, which stood pawing at the ground, tossing their heads at the reek of blood and
death.

All about him on the field, men were pulling off their helmets and rubbing sweat-soaked hair. Knights, esquires, men-at-arms, freemen and peasants had laboured on this field harder than most
would work in a week. Arms were sore and muscles tightened with over-use, and men sagged or slumped to the ground as the realisation struck that their efforts had won them the victory. Already Clip
and some other archers were ransacking the bodies, snatching a ring here, a bracelet there, a dagger or a jewelled belt. Occasionally the injured owner would feebly demur, but then the pillagers
would give a quick jab with a dagger and the objections would soon cease.

Feeling like an old man, Berenger rose to his feet and gazed about him.

Over at the left flank, the Scots had already fled the field, and the only men still refusing to submit were the middle of the Scottish battle. This group was fighting still as they retreated in
good order, even after the loss of their King and commanders. The depleted force gathered together more tightly, but that only made them an easier target for the bowmen who still had their weapons
and some arrows. Boys were darting in amongst the dead and wounded, collecting all the undamaged arrows they could find and passing them to the archers.

Back at the wagons, the first knights and esquires were already mounted and making their way forward at an easy canter. Berenger saw the horse of Umfraville taking a wall like a light rounsey
with a child on its back, rather than an armour-clad beast bearing a knight encased in steel. Umfraville rode with his lance high, until he approached a Scot, when the lance-point dipped to spear
the man. The lance rose with the horse’s momentum, the squealing body also rising high, only to be flicked aside as the horseman cantered on. It was as though the horse and rider were a
machine, working as steadily and stolidly as a watermill, regardless of the body that squirmed and wriggled in its wake as a moorstone millwheel. Then he was on the Scottish battle, and even as he
rammed his way through, three other men-at-arms, then a fourth and a fifth, then still more, poured into the Scottish line, stabbing, slashing, their mounts trampling, kicking and biting.

That was the last Berenger saw. He looked down at the Frenchman again and sank to the very depths of despair. He was aware of an exquisite hatred for the Scots. If it were not for their
intolerable greed and unjustified disputes, all this could have been avoided. Thousands lay dead here, and to what purpose? It was senseless savagery.

He saw a small group of Scots running around, away from the horses. Some were running straight at the English, disorientated after the battle, confused by terror.

‘What are you doing? Are you mad!’ Berenger cried. He was surprised how weak his voice sounded to his own ears, but then they were ringing still to the clash of weapons and bellowing
voices.

‘Let me take them,’ Jack said. He had appeared at Berenger’s side and the vintener stared at him uncomprehendingly for a moment, but then he understood.