Blood on the Sand (33 page)

‘That is all,’ Berenger repeated to himself as he entered his hut.

‘Frip, I have some news,’ Clip said as he saw his vintener.

‘What now?’ Fripper said tiredly.

‘The clerk to Sir Peter tried to ambush me.’ Clip quickly told his story.

‘Shit! So Sir Peter’s tried to get me killed and now he’s started on you too,’ Berenger said.

‘Be fair. Clip
was
there to rob them,’ Jack laughed, and Berenger surprised himself by laughing too.

‘What did the knight want?’ the Earl asked.

Berenger’s amusement dissipated like morning mist. There was a barrel of ale at the far wall, and he went over and filled a drinking horn before sitting down on a bench and casting an eye
about the chamber. It was a rude hall, but it was at least theirs. His feet were sore from being perpetually wet, his mouth was gritty from mud and dust, and the place had so many leaks and
draughts, it was little better than sleeping in a field, but for the moment at least, it was home. He had no wish to leave it. Not if it meant riding over the countryside for miles, the target of
every French hunter of ransom or bounty money.

‘I’ll explain later. For now, fetch John of Essex, and bring me the rest of the vinteners. Tell them I need to talk through a special escapade with them. First, I’ve got to see
Grandarse. Where is he?’

‘In the tavern up at the harbour.’

‘I’ll be back as soon as I can. Get the vintaine together and have them wait for me here.’

The Vidame would see Clip would suffer for his assault! That pig’s turd wastrel had fought like the devil! If the Vidame had any authority, he would see Clip die slowly.
The King’s torturers would bring all their inventiveness to bear.

But just now there was a matter that gave him pause for thought. That man, Clip, was one of the vintaine under Fripper. If Fripper’s men were to escort Jean de Vervins – may his soul
rot in hell for all eternity! – the Vidame could not go with them. That little fight had ruined his opportunity of joining the party. Someone else must go and warn the people.

There was only one man he dared send. The spy.

Berenger found Grandarse standing in the inn. He had that beatific smile on his face that said he was not on his first drink of the day, nor his last. When Grandarse had an
opportunity, he would always stick with the rough ciders of any town. He reckoned they kept him regular in all things.

‘Eh, Fripper? Come in and try some of this. It’ll put hairs on your chest.’

‘No doubt,’ Berenger said. ‘Grandarse, I need to talk to you.’

‘Oh, aye? The captain needs to speak to me, does he? Come on, lad. There’s a quiet place over there.’

Grandarse led the way to a bench that consisted of a plank laid across two barrels and evicted the two men already drinking there. One wanted to dispute Grandarse’s right to throw them off
their table, but his companion recognised Grandarse and saw in Berenger a figure of alarming authority. It was the sight of his scar, Berenger told himself. It would always be a source of alarm to
those who didn’t know him.

‘Aye, so what is it, then?’ Grandarse said, planting himself on the board over a barrel and taking a long swig from his jug of cider.

Quickly Berenger explained about Jean and the idea of leading him and others across Flanders and down to the city of Laon. ‘I don’t trust the fellow, Grandarse,’ he
concluded.

‘Oh well, as to that, who would you trust, man? True, he’s a little shit who’d sell his mother for one groat and an evening’s whoring, but in this army there are many
more who’d do the same.’ His eye took on a reflective look. Berenger was sure that he was calculating the potential value of his own mother, were she still alive. Grandarse shook
himself, coming back to the present. ‘You mark my words, more men will be coming over here just for the money. What is the point of coming all this way just because your master decides
it’s time to win his spurs? Better to make sure you fight because someone’s going to reward you with wine, ale, food, and money – and the chance to spend it. Why should men slog
their guts out to work for a master and risk their lives, all for this notion of “service”, eh?’

‘I’ve been told to take some archers with me.’

‘What? You’re to go to an obscure little dump you’ve never heard of, to defend this prickle all the way, and then give him an armed guard in the place once you get him there?
You’ll need more than one vintaine. And how long will you stay there with the men? Will it be a day? A week? A month? You’ll have to have enough men to afford to lose a few. Go to a
city and try to occupy it, and you’ll soon find that half the place doesn’t want English soldiers there. The other half won’t mind them so long as they have money to chuck around,
but when the money runs out, they won’t want you either. So you’ll have some on your side at first, but when you’ve nothing left to bribe ’em with, they’ll all hate
you.’

‘God’s ballocks, it’s a mess,’ Berenger muttered.

‘Aye, but there’s potential too. There could be some lively little French maids in there, eh? A wriggling handful with a smile saying, “want a feel of my French fancy”!
Oh, aye, I could manage a little of that.’

‘What do you mean, you could
manage
it?’

‘What do you think I mean, Fripper, you empty-pated son of a dollypoll! I’ll come too. You can’t be trusted on a job like this. Nay, I’ll bring my centaine. You’ll
need at least seventy or eighty men to hold a city, and more to help in Flanders. Aye!’ He stood and belched, then grimaced for a moment. A thunderous noise heralded his breaking wind.
‘Aye, come on, Frip. Get a grip. We have men to find.’

When Fripper and Grandarse returned to the vintaine at Fripper’s hall, the place was almost full. Grandarse told Ed to run and bring four other vinteners, and when he had
returned with them, the room went quiet while Berenger outlined what he had already told Grandarse.

‘Keep all this to yourselves,’ he finished. ‘There are men in the camp who wouldn’t object to making a little money for themselves by selling this secret, even if they
were in on the journey themselves.’

‘You think one of my men would be thick enough to give away news like this when it could lead to him being ambushed and killed?’ said a wiry vintener from Lincoln called Paul.

‘I think most archers are so dim that if you whacked them in the head with a poleaxe you’d be hard pressed to hit a brain,’ Berenger said smartly. ‘However, there are
many who will assume that just because they have a few drinks in a tavern with someone, that fellow must be a comrade and reliable, when all the time their drinking companion might be more of a
friend to their enemy than to them.’

John of Essex snorted and leaned back against the wall. ‘Well, when do you want to leave?’

‘How many of you will come with us?’ Berenger asked, looking around at the men.

Paul grimaced. ‘What do we get out of it?’ he asked. ‘If I tell my lads that we’re going, when they know that this place is likely to collapse soon, they’ll tell me
to swyve a goat and refuse.’

Sitting next to John, a shorter man called Adam, who might have been Grandarse’s son from his belly and chins, agreed with this. ‘Speaking for mine, they’d be more likely to
tell me to swyve myself – and then threaten to cut my ballocks off. Why go riding off on a wild-goose chase when there’s all the plunder they could wish for right here, without any need
for getting frozen stiff and sleeping rough?’

Grandarse glowered around the room. ‘You think to tell them? You have less between your ears than I have in my arse!’

‘That’s likely true,’ Paul said, and the room burst into laughter as Grandarse patted his buttocks with an expression of benign contemplation and muttered, ‘You could be
right there, son!’

It was good, Berenger saw. The sudden humour had released some of the tension that had built up. Now the men relaxed a little.

‘We’re to be sent off in a couple of days, apparently to take messages to the new Duke of Flanders, but in reality we’ll be riding for the town of Laon because it seems that
the place is ripe to fall into English hands. That, at least, is what the King’s informant tells him.’

‘Who is this informant?’

‘You will learn later.’

‘And if we’re going to this town, Laon,’ said Adam, ‘will we be travelling secretly? I don’t like the thought that we’d be going into Flanders with the entire
countryside knowing what we’re up to. We’d be the target of every ransom-hunter in France – and most of the executioners.’

‘I agree,’ Grandarse said, standing and hoicking up his hosen, which had fallen below his belly once more. ‘And now, you idle gits, get your gear packed and ready. We’ll
leave as soon as we can. No sense in hangin’ around, eh?’

Berenger watched the men as they all shuffled to their feet and made their way to the door.

‘Well, ye bum-faced old bugger, what’s the matter now?’ Grandarse said. ‘I got them all on your side, didn’t I?’

‘Yes. But it doesn’t change the fact that I still don’t trust that Frenchman.’

Grandarse eyed him for a moment, then sat down again. ‘Listen, Frip, and listen well. This Frenchie, is he a fool? Is he moonstruck? Does he strike you as the sort of man who’d
willingly risk his own life for nothing?’

Berenger shook his head.

‘Then think on this, man. If it’s a gamble, and there’s a good reward in it, then he might take a chance. If it’s a good wager and the risks are small compared with the
winnings, then fine – but if it’s all t’other way round . . . aye, man, he wouldn’t do it. So, what you have to ask ye’self is, where’s his advantage in
betraying you? Does he think that the English are losing here? Does he think that the next time the French army meets us, they’ll slaughter us all? Could he think that, after the last few
years of English victories? No, so it’s not that. So perhaps you’re thinking he could betray you in Laon, and sell you to the French King, because you have such a great value? Or me?
Aye, man, the two of us together, now that would fetch him, what – a couple of pennies? Nay, there is no value in us, nor even in the sixty men we’ll have with us. However . . . if he
does win over this town, and because of that, the next town, or three, fall to our good King Edward – why then, he could count on an excellent profit! Perhaps he wouldn’t even have to
lie or cheat again, and he could retire to a nice little vill with his own manor, to while away his final days thinking about all the enemies he’s made and being visited by the ghosts of the
men he’s killed, until he’s gone fully mad, eh?’

‘I know. I just thought . . .’

‘Aye, Frip. That’s your problem. You keep on thinking, thinking, thinking. Don’t do it, man. Leave the brainwork to them as have the mental powers for it. In fact, leave it all
to me, eh?’

Grandarse stood and slapped Berenger on the back. ‘But for me to think properly,’ he said, hitching up his hosen again, ‘I do need to have sustenance. So I’ll let you buy
me a cup of sack or a quart of ale for giving you the benefit of my experience.’

Berenger nodded with a grin and joined the centener crossing the floor to the door. However, they had not yet reached it when Paul threw it open.

‘So, were you just blowing smoke in our eyes, Fripper?’

His tone was not unfriendly, but there was some edge to it.

‘What do you mean?’ Berenger said.

‘This horse-crap about going away secretly! I expected this sort of joke from you, Fripper, but not from you, Centener. You should trust your own vinteners.’

It was Grandarse’s turn to look blank. ‘Eh?’

‘This mission – to go to Flanders and then Laon. You could have told us we were to travel with the King!’

Packing their bags took hardly any time. All the archers were experienced in travelling and carrying as little as possible. Berenger had his satchel filled in short order, and
then it was only a case of rolling up his blanket and cloak, and shouldering them. He threw a quick glance about his room, and then went out.

‘You are leaving?’

He had not thought of the two women. Now, seeing Béatrice, he smiled and walked over to her. ‘Not for long. We’re being sent into Flanders,’ he said.

‘Is that all?’ Marguerite asked, looking anxious.

‘We will be back before long.’

‘What of us?’ Béatrice asked.

‘You will be safe with Archibald.’

‘I don’t want to be with him,’ Marguerite said, and to Berenger’s confusion, she began to weep.

‘What is the matter?’ he asked.

Béatrice gave him a scathing look. ‘What do you think? She is here, in an army of men who have murdered her husband and children, and now you are abandoning her here with only a
gynour to guard her. She is still not used to the noise of the gonnes and the smell of the powder.’

Berenger had not considered that. It was true – Béatrice was the daughter of a man who had made powder for gonnes, and she was used to it. But for another, like Marguerite, it was
not so easy. Even Berenger was uncomfortable, being around it. How much harder must it be for a woman like her? he asked himself.

‘What would you have me do?’ he asked Marguerite.