Blood on the Sand (34 page)

‘Take me with you. You will have need of a boy like mine. Take us both, and we will help you.’

Berenger scowled at the ground. ‘I don’t know that you will be safe with us. Surely you would be better off here?’

Béatrice snapped, ‘Are you taking the Donkey?’

‘Well, no. He’s Archibald’s servant now, and—’

‘So who will you have as your boy for the vintaine?’

‘I suppose we’ll take Georges, but—’

‘So you will take this woman’s son, but leave her behind? After all the others in her family have died?’

Berenger opened and closed his mouth three times while he tried to get his mind around this latest conundrum. ‘You think we should take her as well?’

Béatrice flung her hair back, scorn in her eyes. She forbore to respond.

‘Yes, of course we should take her as well,’ Berenger amended. He looked from one woman to the other with the hunted look of a man who knew he had lost. ‘Yes, well. If that is
what you wish, Marguerite? Yes. Of course.’

Then he walked away, trying not to hurry.

The town was full as the English army rode in through the main gate.

Berenger was on the flank with his vintaine, riding to the rear of Sir John de Sully and his esquire, behind the fluttering banner that was now, after months of campaigning, showing distinct
signs of wear.

The army had been instructed to polish all their armour and smarten their appearance as best as they might, before their arrival here at Berghes, in the south-west of Flanders, and for the most
part the men had succeeded. They all gleamed in the sunlight. Even the white tunics had been beaten and pummelled into cleanliness, and the men looked fierce and warrior-like as they marched along
the roadway. Berenger could feel almost proud of the martial air they struck.

King Edward had brought a large contingent with him. From where Berenger sat, the men snaked around the roadway behind him. There must have been a thousand men or more, he guessed, with two
hundred men-at-arms, the rest mounted archers. A very strong force for a king visiting a potential ally, but this ally had proved reluctant. The camp followers straggled behind, but he had kept
Marguerite and her son up with the archers. He felt happier keeping them in view. As he glanced at her, she caught his eye. He saw her sudden smile, and looked away quickly. He had too much to do
to allow himself to be distracted by a trim figure in a skirt, he told himself.

On the way here, Jean de Vervins had explained much about this visit. Apparently, since the death of the Count of Flanders’s father on the field of Crécy, there had been extensive
efforts to bring the boy to heel.

‘At first, it was the French King. Philippe wants Flanders to renew its pact with France and the French Crown. They need the towns and cities, rebellious though they be. And our King wants
Flanders too. He travelled to meet with the Flemings late last year, in October, and the burghers agreed to formalise a treaty with England. To confirm that, our King has offered his own daughter
to seal the pact. And the young Count has agreed, but yet he prevaricates about dates, and who should be present, and whether it’s legal yet, and any other reason he can bring to
mind.’

‘Why is he being so difficult?’ Clip asked.

Jean gave him a long, hard stare. ‘Did you not hear how his father died? Would you marry into the family that had caused the death of your father?’

‘That is one thing,’ Sir John said, overhearing them, ‘and the other is, this is a young lad. He’s what – fifteen, sixteen? I dare say he’s wary of marrying
any woman he hasn’t seen. I would have been at his age. And what does he get from it? An alliance with King Edward is not to be sniffed at, but a fellow of his age is entitled to be somewhat
callow.’

Jean looked at Berenger and shrugged expressively.

‘You don’t think so?’ Berenger asked.

‘His father was held at the court by his people because they had so much power over him. Now, if this lad agrees to a contract with our King, he will still remain under their power. The
French King might help the Count to squash those who would hold him back. Philippe knows the quality of the people, and also knows where the Count’s own loyalties lie. I wonder whether the
boy is reluctant not from his age but because he knows where the true power lies.’

‘How do you know all this?’ Jack demanded.

‘I am keen on the study of politics in my own lands,’ Jean said. ‘I have an interest, you understand?’

‘Perhaps,’ Jack said.

And now they were here, in the heart of the town where the Count was waiting for them. If Jean de Vervins was correct, there was little reason to be anxious. The young Count might be reluctant,
but all his advisers and most of his people were enthusiastic supporters of the English rather than their French overlord. At the mere thought of a potential fight, Berenger felt the dull ache in
his shoulder again. His scar was healed perfectly now, but his shoulder appeared to have acquired the ability to warn him when rain threatened or when the wind was about to change. He felt as
though it could also act as an advance warning against riotous crowds. True, all about him he could see people smiling, waving and shouting support, but he had seen crowds change mood in an
instant. The London mob was only one example. Every city and town had its own mad gangs.

The King rode at the front of the army. From here, Berenger could see how his hair moved, bright and golden, like the mane of a lion, and he rode slowly, with the precise stateliness of a lion,
too. Like a lion, he was the lord of all he surveyed. He had beaten the French King and the greatest army in Christendom, and even now his army laid siege to a strategically crucial town with
impunity while the French King cowered and permitted the English to do whatever they wanted in what he called ‘his’ lands. The appearance of Edward III demonstrated his might, his
honour and his prowess. He was a man whom none would dare refuse. How could they, when he held the power of life and death in his royal hands?

At the doors of a great hall, which Berenger later learned was the main guildhall for the town, stood a large crowd of finely dressed townspeople. Silks and expensively embroidered clothes
showed the wealth not only of the individuals, but of the town as well. Flags hung from upper windows, and more fluttered from lance-points in the hands of the militia in the streets. It was a
scene of enormous grandeur and of civic pride. The town was revelling in the honour done to them today.

The King rode up to the hall and inclined his head. That was when Berenger saw the Count of Flanders: a lad of middle height, with a sharp eye and proud demeanour. The youth was not unhandsome.
He bowed while the people twittered and tittered, yet Berenger noted that there was no submission in his eyes. And then, while the crowds applauded, Berenger noticed the Count moving perceptibly
away from his group of advisers, as though he wanted nothing to do with them. Soon the King, with his senior knights, with Sir John and others, dismounted and went to be greeted by their hosts, who
escorted them into the building.

Berenger saw a scruffy street urchin who appeared at the edge of the crowds and stared at the men, before throwing a look over his shoulder. Following the direction of his gaze, Berenger saw a
cloaked figure pointing and jerking his head. The boy went up to Jean de Vervins even as Berenger felt for his dagger, but all the boy did was to reach up and whisper something in the
Frenchman’s ear.

Jean de Vervins immediately wheeled around and strode away.

‘What’s going on? Where are you going?’ Berenger demanded, but the man was already gone.

The town was much like a provincial French town, Jean de Vervins thought as he hurried down a street. Narrow lanes, wooden buildings jutting out overhead, blocking off much of
the light, the occasional board to indicate a special trade conducted within, and plenty of smells: those to tempt a jaded palate, those to tease the senses, and more than a few to repel.

Outside a butcher’s, surrounded by squabbling curs, a boy was cleaning some ox-bowels and flinging the faeces into the kennel that ran down the middle of the street. Next door, the
tavern-keeper was loudly berating the boy and his master for befouling the entrance to his tavern, but it was clearly a dispute that had lasted for many years. The boy took no notice, and when the
tavern’s host made a threatening movement as though to go and clip him about the head, the butcher appeared in his doorway, a long, bloody knife in his hand which he whetted with a stone tied
to a thong about his neck. He said nothing, but the other man turned and stamped back to his tavern.

Jean stood and studied the lanes. He could see a cloaked figure in a doorway. With his belly feeling strangely empty, he went to the tavern and followed the tavern-keeper inside.

Within it was dark and gloomy, not the kind of drinking hall that would usually appeal to Jean, who was fastidious in his eating and drinking habits, but it smelled well enough of fresh straw.
He felt it to be tolerable.

‘A pint of wine,’ he said to the host, who stood behind a simple bar, glowering at the world. ‘Your neighbour is a man of little civic pride,’ he added conversationally
as the man reached to a barrel and opened the tap into a jug.

‘That fellow possesses the brains of an ox. He’s a brute and a bully.’

‘Such men are all too common in these uncertain times,’ Jean sighed, gratefully taking the wine.

‘You are not from this town,’ the tavern-keeper said.

‘No, I come from further east, originally.’

‘It is said that the King of France will soon have to give up his overlordship of Flanders. What do you think?’

‘I think that the French will hold on to whatever they think they can,’ Jean said diplomatically. ‘But the English King has a mighty army, and a reputation for skill at
warfare. I would not gamble on the French.’

‘But France has the mightiest army in all . . .’

‘
Had
. And only in terms of numbers. King Philippe has many knights and barons, dukes and counts, but how many fighting men? After all, you Flemings showed the world at Courtrai that
men with pikes and lances can beat even the most determined horsemen. England has knights, but King Edward’s knights fight alongside their men, on foot. I have seen them. They are
terrible.’

‘You are with them now?’

‘No!’ Jean laughed. ‘I joined their party because it was sensible to travel with so mighty a band, rather than put myself at the risk of footpads and outlaws, but I am not a
part of them. I travel on southwards to the land of my fathers.’

As he spoke, the tall, cloaked figure appeared in the doorway. The man pulled off his outer garments. Beneath, he was a cadaverous-looking fellow in the dark attire of a pleader at court. He
gazed about the room before making his way to the bar, nodding to the tavern-keeper. ‘A pot of wine, friend. I would gladly wash away the dust and dirt of the road. Jean, it is . .
.’

Jean shot him a look, and his friend subsided. ‘Messire, would you like to sit? My arse is sore from the miles here from Calais.’

His new companion assented and they were soon sitting at a bench, and speaking quietly so that the tavern-keeper might not hear them.

‘How go things?’ Jean asked.

His friend, Gauvain de Bellemont, sipped the wine and grimaced. ‘I hate cheap rotgut. My belly turns to acid when I drink this sort of piss.’

‘And?’ Jean asked with poisonous politeness.

‘It all appears to be going in our favour. I have spoken with the town’s leading merchants, and they are supporting the move. The feeling is that good King Philippe has lost his
grip. No one can forgive him for refusing to join battle with the English. All those frightful campaigns that King Edward led over French soil, polluting it with the blood of nuns and of monks,
slaughtering all who crossed his path, all those terrible chevauchées, and not
once
did our King dare to make a move to stop him! Is it any surprise that waves of sedition are even
now lapping at the walls of major towns? And then to lose at Crécy! It was the most catastrophic disaster ever to strike France. And all because of King Philippe.’

‘What about the town’s watch and the garrison?’ Jean wanted to know.

His friend sat back contemplatively, replying, ‘They will do as they are told. For the most part, they are all local men, and will obey the town’s council. If the guild goes with us,
the people will too.’

‘What now, then?’

‘I have a messenger,’ Gauvain said, sipping and grimacing once more. ‘He took the message to the English King as soon as he could. He arrived at Calais a day or two
ago.’

Jean de Vervins gave a fleeting scowl. ‘I have heard nothing of a messenger yet. I have prepared the way, but I expected your man to arrive sooner than this. It is cutting the cake a
little too finely. You are sure he left on time?’

‘I was there when he left. He was grumpy about the journey, but he understood the urgency. You should have no concern on that. Still, if you prepared for his message, the timing is less
important. Are men to be sent to Laon?’