Blood on the Sand (30 page)

‘Frip?’ Grandarse called as Berenger approached.

The older man was leaning against a wooden pavise, drinking from a massive leathern jug. ‘Are ye ready, Frip? By God’s tears, if this works, we’ll be in the town this very
evening!’

‘
If
it works,’ Berenger grunted. He had little enthusiasm for the idea.

‘Don’t look like that, man! Anyone’d think you were being sent up there on your own to take the town’s defences,’ Grandarse chuckled, then his smile vanished and he
bellowed at a hapless archer chatting to a companion, ‘Hoi – you! String your bow! You won’t do much good from here without a stave to send missiles against those French bastards,
will you, you idle git!’ Turning to Berenger again, he confided, ’You’ve got to keep on top of these daft beggars. Most of them would prefer to be in a tavern than earning their
spurs.’ He took another long pull at his jug.

‘Yes,’ Berenger agreed, but in truth he was barely listening. He felt peculiar. His face was tormenting him, the wound pulsing and thundering with every step he took or word he
spoke, and meanwhile his shoulder was thudding dully. The maul-strike had not been strong enough to damage any bones, but the muscles from his collar bone to his shoulderblade had been mashed and
his left arm was still all but useless.

‘Show a little enthusiasm, man,’ Grandarse said, this time with an edge of seriousness. ‘Remember, you’re the leader. Your men need to see you happy and confident, or
didn’t I teach you anything?’

‘Yes, Grandarse,’ Berenger said. ‘You told me to shine like the sun before your men, and then fart in their faces.’

‘Aye, well, the farting you do later, when it seems safer. But keep ’em lean, keep ’em mean, keep ’em keen – that’s the way. Just like a guard dog. Ah,
they’re going.’

At the sound of horns being blown, ships appeared, sailing around the point and into the waters between the Rysbank and the town. In the foremost vessel, Sir John de Sully stood with his banner
flying: a series of bars gules on an ermine shield, the little black marks showing clearly. They came on, steadily, over the next half-hour of the sun. Berenger could see the change in shadows as
the ships began to approach their target.

As his eyes followed them, he caught sight of Sir Peter. The knight stood watching him from further down the bank, his clerk at his side, two men-at-arms from his household just behind. Sir
Peter made no attempt to conceal his surveillance.

Grandarse roared: ‘Archers,
nock
!’

The ships were sailing slowly but steadily, and then, as they came opposite Berenger and his archers, the vessels turned towards the walls of the town.

‘Archers,
draw
!’

Berenger turned his attention back to the town. All along the line of the wall, there were shouts and screams as the ships dropped anchor and lashed themselves to the shore or to ships
alongside, and then the first of the scaling ladders were hoisted and rattled to the side of the mighty walls.

‘
LOOSE!
’

The arrows sped to the walls as the first heads appeared. Some ducked away, but two or three were struck. Then Englishmen were clambering up the ladders as the vessels beneath them moved in the
water, rocking on the waves. Over to the left Berenger saw a ladder begin to slide sideways, the men at its top clinging on for dear life as it continued, gathering speed. It crashed into the
neighbouring ladder, and the two went over together, the men clattering on the rocks while their ships bucked beneath them. It made Berenger’s belly roil to see so many men dying so
needlessly.

Sir John was halfway up his ladder when a rock hurled by a Frenchman struck the head of the man above him. That man immediately dropped, and when he struck Sir John, the knight’s legs were
ripped from the rungs. He fell, but only a few steps – but above him now, three rungs of the ladder were gone. The heavy rock had smashed them in passing. Sir John had to clamber back down to
the ship, unable to use that ladder now, but he was soon organising his men, and passed to the next ship in the line, which was bound to his own. Yet before he could reach that ladder, boiling oil
had been poured from the walls, and a flaming torch was dropped after it. Instantly great black clouds of smoke were rising from the ship, and struggle though the men might, they could do nothing
against the flames. The ship was evacuated.

Sir John de Sully coughed and spluttered as a thick fog of smoke smothered him. He could feel the filthy smuts in his eyes and clogging his lungs as he chopped at the ropes
holding this ship to the others. It was vital that they took this ship away before it could spread fire to the others. While some ladders had been taken out of the ships and set to rest on the
rocky shore beneath the wall, much of the space was filled with huge boulders and rocks that made siting a ladder safely quite impossible. The men scrambled about, but most had to rely on the ships
to give them the platform they needed.

He rushed to the next ship and the men helped heave the burning vessel away. Overhead he heard the shouts and commands of the French, but that was soon overwhelmed by the sudden whistling of
hundreds of arrows passing together. It was like a massive flight of swans, he thought, but then he was at the next ship and clambering up the slick rungs. A man above slipped and landed on top of
him, and he fell a second time, winded, staring up at the men on the walls. One, he saw, was sticking two fingers up at him. The French would routinely cut the fingers from an archer’s hand,
but Sir John neither noticed, nor cared. All he knew was that his backside hurt abominably, and that his mouth tasted of soot.

Grabbing his sword, he stood and glared about him. Men were still trying to climb, but the French had the upper hand. One man, he saw, at the far side of the ships, was smothered in boiling oil,
and for some moments he ran about the ship, shrieking in anguish as the oil flayed the flesh from his body. A merciful comrade slew him with a blow from a poleaxe. Just then, more oil was ignited
in a great roaring
whoosh
of flame that Sir John could feel from where he stood. He had to turn and cover his face.

‘It’s no good!’ he bellowed. ‘Stop the attack! Shipmasters, unbind the ships and weigh anchor! We can do no more here!’

He had to shout the command three times, and then blow a blast on his horn to get the attention of the shipmen and fighters, but at last they heard and the attack was called off, to the hilarity
and jeers of the guards on the walls. He could hear them shouting abuse, and it was enough to make him want to turn back. Perhaps if they were to concentrate all their energies on one small section
of the wall, take archers to focus on the wall at either side and keep defenders at bay, perhaps then they could take that small part, and use it as a bridgehead, bringing up more and more men . .
.

No. That too must fail, he thought. There was nothing they could do. It had to be a case of slowly starving out the garrison and population of the town. There was no other way.

Berenger allowed his bow to drop. This fight was over. But then, as he turned away, he saw that Sir Peter was still standing and observing him.

It made the vintener feel deeply unsettled.

All through December and January the assaults continued. King Edward III was hungry for victory and needed to lance this boil. Although Berenger agreed with Sir John about the
strategy of starving the inhabitants, it was clear that there would be no relaxation in the constant attempts to take the town by force.

More and more men poured into Villeneuve-la-Hardie, and not only soldiers. To support the artillery, large numbers of carpenters were brought across the Channel, and they began to construct more
stone-throwing machines, while Archibald was delighted to be given ten more monstrous gonnes, and as many barrels of powder as he could store. His serpentine was carefully placed away from any risk
of moisture damaging it, and the gonnes kept up a steady, if unmelodious cacophony. It all added to the unreality of the situation.

Jean de Vervins walked about the town with a growing feeling of impatience. To his mind, this siege was pointless. There were far better things for him to be doing.

Ever since the day that his King had humiliated him at the field outside Paris, allowing Henri du Bos to vanquish him with an unfair attack, Jean de Vervins had been desperate for revenge. He
had broken away from his home, from his former loyalties, from all that had defined him – and now he was doubly a traitor. Not only had his French King not comprehended the depth of his rage
at the humiliation, Jean de Vervins had covered his tracks so cleverly that the fact of his treachery had not been noticed. Using him to pass messages to King David in Scotland had cost the Scots
their lives, their army, their future. All because of him, Jean de Vervins. And next he would begin to bring the battle home to the King of France. He would bring the battle to Paris, or near
enough to cause despair at the royal court.

All he needed was to hear from his friend Gauvain de Bellemont about progress at Laon. As soon as the merchants and town’s guilds were prepared, Jean would be able to bring a small force
and take the town. After that, all the towns of Champagne and the lands up to the Flemings would convert and take oaths to support England. No one trusted the French King to be able to defend them
now.

How
could
they trust him after the military disaster of Crécy?

Berenger thought Jean de Vervins was a mere turncoat, a man determined to win payment for his loyalty: a
mercenary
. He was much more than that. Jean was the man who could bring about the
ruination of the kingdom of Philippe de Valois.

Jean was unique.

It was in the night that the fever took him. Berenger had enjoyed a good meal of pottage with some salted beef, and was sitting back with a horn filled with cider, when the
first sensations of something being not right began to assail him. He blamed the meal. Salted beef was heavy on the belly, and it was quite a hot food for a man who was naturally a little
melancholy, as a physician had once told him. He wished now that they still had the services of the leech who had joined them on their journey to Crécy, and who had nursed so many of the
vintaine back to full strength on that march when wounds threatened to carry them away; however, he had left before they reached Crécy. His skills had been seen and appreciated by the Earl
of Warwick, and with the offer of a vastly better purse, he had reluctantly left them.

But now Berenger felt he could really have done with the man’s expertise. He decided to take to his palliasse.

Later, he could recall certain things. But of the following week, he would only ever have a sketchy memory. He had lain, so they told him, in a muck sweat, shivering and complaining while the
scar on his face glowed like a branding iron in the forge. It took all the efforts of two women to keep him cool and quiet, and even when the fever was over, he was left feeling like a piece of
metal after the smith has pummelled it on his anvil.

Later he remembered only snatches of those days. He knew he had looked up and seen the Devil overhead, and tried to beat at him with his hands; he remembered the two women’s faces looking
down at his with such sweetness in their eyes that it made him want to weep; he woke once and saw Marguerite sitting at his side, her head resting on the wall, her face pale, her mouth hanging
slackly open, and he thought she must have died, but then he realised she was only sleeping. When he did finally waken fully, he could see from Marguerite’s pallor that she must have spent
many hours in that room with him, washing, feeding and soothing him. As he looked at her, she stirred, and her eyes opened and met his. For a moment, he saw in her eyes a pure joy, as though his
recovery was the greatest gift she had received, and then she slowly rose. She was exhausted, her feet leaden, her every movement slow as she walked to him and helped him drink a little. Then she
bent and touched his brow with her lips, like a mother kissing her child. It was only fleeting, and then she was gone. It was a relief to him to see her go to her own palliasse, lie down on it and
fall into a deep, natural sleep.

Berenger watched her. Her breast rose and fell and she rolled, her head cradled on her arm, breathing quietly. She looked as beautiful as the Madonna, and he felt a quickening of his heart, but
he closed his eyes and turned away. She was married; he was a soldier. Life was complicated enough.

Grandarse came when Berenger was recovered, and told him how the siege had progressed while he was laid up.

After more attempts to assault the walls, the English had surrendered to reality and decided that it would be better to fully surround the town instead, and starve the people of Calais into
submission. The first stage of this strategy was to remove the Rysbank, a long bank that protected both the harbour and the town itself from attack. The English were determined to take this, and
several assaults had been launched, all so far to no avail. However, with the arrival of the dire winter weather, that was less of a concern. The French would be unable to supply the town until
spring at the earliest. The Channel was vile in such weather, and the English themselves had to rely upon supplies being brought overland from the Fleming territories.