Blood on the Sand (48 page)

‘A big man,’ Clip said. ‘Aye, with black hair like a Breton. He ran off down that way.’ He pointed to another alley at the farther end of the yard.

‘I see. What about the house? Has anyone checked for the Vidame in there?’

Jack shook his head. ‘We’ve looked already. He must have slipped away when this body was found.’

Berenger nodded. ‘No matter. We’ll need to keep an eye open for the clerk, but at least our vintaine is safe. There is no spy now.’

It was good to have put the question of the spies to bed, for the French had worked hard to gather as many men as possible, and now news of their massive army was spreading
even into Villeneuve-la-Hardie.

‘We’ll all get killed, you know,’ Clip said cheerfully.

‘If their King promises to kill you, perhaps the war will not have been in vain,’ the Earl declared.

‘You won’t think that when you’ve a French lance stuck up your arse.’

Jack grunted. ‘Just because they’ll try to hit your brain, Clip, doesn’t mean they’ll think all our brains are there.’

‘Oh, very witty, very clever. Just wait till you’re depending on my bow in the line to protect you!’

‘Dear Christ in Heaven, is this possible? Could we ever be forced to depend upon his skills?’ the Earl demanded, rolling his eyes to the heavens.

‘Oh, go swyve a goat!’ Clip spat.

Berenger grinned to himself. The men were clearly in a good temper. The bickering was their way of showing it. They were all alive, and being English, were never happier than when they were
insulting each other.

‘You all right, Jack?’ Berenger asked.

‘Oh, I’m fine.’

So was Berenger. Since Chrestien de Grimault had ridden away, and the Pardoner had been unmasked and was no longer a threat, he had found himself feeling a great deal more relaxed. There was no
sign of the Vidame. Sir Peter of Bromley was grim-faced and angry. He refused to believe that his own clerk had not been faithful to him when he had renounced his vows to King Philippe. Sir Peter
considered it a reflection on his own honour. Yet although men kept their eyes open for the spies, there was no sign of them, and Berenger thought it likely that the Vidame had simply fled from the
camp. The man knew his life was at risk, and had chosen to run. Killing Pardoner had been a last-minute decision to prevent any news of the Vidame from reaching the King’s ears. Pardoner
could have been tortured and given away details of what information had been passed on, and how. Berenger could understand the Vidame’s act, but the man’s ruthlessness shocked him.

Without having to worry about possible spies, he could concentrate on his men. And that was easier too, now that they had been given extra duties. The trenches had to be expanded to the south
and west, and all day the men were set toiling with picks and shovels. Every few days Berenger insisted that they should practise at the butts too, and the men would groan and grumble as he led
them to the sands near the seashore, where he had them set up a trio of butts and loose their arrows as quickly as they could at them. Those who missed had to buy drinks for the others that
evening, complaining bitterly.

But the lighthearted mood changed in early July, when it became known that the French were approaching.

‘Where from?’ the Earl demanded.

‘They are coming from Hesdin. That’s ten leagues south of here, I’m told,’ Berenger said.

‘Oh, so that won’t take them terribly long, then.’

‘Good. I can’t stand the sound of that racket much longer,’ the Aletaster grunted.

Some days before, in response to the urgent pleas of the commander of the town, the French had tried to break the blockade. Eight or nine huge barges full of food of all kinds had been sent,
escorted by a fleet of galleys and cogs. They had sailed to within a few miles of the town, but then the English fleet had caught them in the open sea. In a vicious sea battle the galleys were put
to flight and the barges captured. Not a single pot of water or loaf of bread made it past to the harbour at Calais.

That was the last straw. The town had nothing to eat, and what there was must be conserved for the fighting men. Useless mouths were an unwanted distraction at a time of need like this. Thus the
next day, the English horns had blared loud and clear as the gates opened.

‘Shit! They’re going to attack!’ Jack had said. The vintaine was taking its turn at the far right of the line facing the gates of the town, and now he grabbed for his bow,
sounding the alarm.

There was no need. Sir John ran to their side and stood with them as the men watched the unfolding tragedy.

From the gates there issued a thin stream of humanity. First came a woman, sobbing fit to burst, trailing three children. An ancient crone was immediately behind her, and then the rest poured
out. All the elderly, the children, the women; those too old, too young, too infirm, too diseased or too foolish to hold a weapon, were evicted. Any who had no man to protect them and speak for
them, were thrown from the gates in a knot of terror. They stood there, while armed men used lance butts or cudgels to force them through the door. One old man, struck about the head, collapsed in
the path of the gates, and the men-at-arms kicked him until his body rolled out of the way and they could slam and bar the gates again.

For a long while, the English stared at the townsfolk, and the townsfolk gazed back. Their shifts and tunics hung loosely from their frames like shrouds, and their features were drawn and marked
with starvation and terror. They were no longer the responsibility of the men in the town, but neither would the English take them in. Stuck in the town’s ditch, along with the ordure of the
inhabitants, they were now less than humans: they were of no value whatever to either side in the struggle for power. Even as a barrier, they were useless. Whereas a rampart of stakes and barrels
could hold men at bay, these frail figures could be slaughtered with more ease than so many sheep. Even sheep could run. These poor creatures, after months of deprivation and horror, could not even
manage that.

Some few of the women and children implored to be allowed past. They pleaded with piteous cries, but the men had their orders. To have this little crowd pass among them could lead to the risks
of disease spreading. Besides, it was better that the inhabitants should be reminded of their cruelty in turning from their own doors these people who had been their neighbours.

The vintaine stared. They had seen all the horrors of war, and most had participated, but there was something so pathetic in that crowd of people, that even the hardened killers amongst the
English felt pangs.

‘That’s just miserable, turfing them out,’ Dogbreath said.

‘Can’t we let them come past? They do no one any good just standing there,’ the Earl asked plaintively.

‘Leave them. They’re not our responsibility,’ Sir John said flatly.

‘I wouldn’t see them starve before my eyes,’ Jack muttered.

‘Aye, well, ye’ll be dead ye’self soon enough,’ Clip said, but the whining edge to his voice was stilled, as though even he felt compassion.

It was the same night that the sobbing and weeping started in earnest. Later, Berenger heard that one of the children had died, and his mother could not bear her grief but kept up her keening
all night. The next day, a grandmother took over, wailing over the corpse of her daughter, and from her the baton was passed to another, and then yet another. There were no words for the suffering
of the five hundred at the gates of Calais, and there were no words to describe the pity and the shame felt by the men of the vintaine. They were forced to stand and watch as the people begged for
water, for food, for anything. And like torturers, they stood back and watched as the people faded, their weeping and despair growing quieter as the sparks of life were gradually extinguished.

‘They’ll be silent soon enough,’ Berenger said grimly.

Later that day, when he saw Marguerite back at the camp, he strode to her and, without speaking, wrapped his arms about her, burying his head in her shoulder. She stiffened at first, but
gradually, as he made no other move, she relaxed a little, and finally put her arms about him.

All he could see and hear were the women with their children begging and screaming for help from the moat outside the town. He knew in his heart that he would never forget that sound.

From the trenches and the main parts of the town of Villeneuve-la-Hardie, they could be seen up on the heights of Sangatte: row upon row of French horsemen, their flags and
pennants fluttering gloriously in the wind. And in response, all over Calais the townspeople cheered and blew loud blasts on their horns. Fires were lit on the walls to celebrate the arrival of the
French King with a force that could sweep the English invaders from his path.

‘
Shit!
Archers!’ Grandarse bellowed as the English horns blew to arms. ‘Fripper, John, all vinteners to me:
now
!’

Berenger and the others heard the call amidst the din, and he left the vintaine under Jack’s command. ‘Just don’t let Clip fall into another cesspool while we get things
moving,’ he snarled, and hared off, glancing every so often up at the cliffs.

There were at least a hundred of them. Men clad all in armour, with the mail sparkling like diamonds in the sunlight. Above them fluttered a multitude of flags and pennons, with the great flag
of St Denis, the Oriflamme gleaming scarlet, distinct in the clear air.

‘Christ’s ballocks,’ Grandarse said when Berenger joined him and the rest of the men, ‘where have you been, Frip? Having a wank? Never mind that now. The French army is
here, as you can see. We need to array as planned.’

‘How far away is the French army now?’

‘I’m told that the scouts have seen a camp three leagues from here. They are building a camp to rival ours, perhaps! There are enough of them. Frip, take your men up to the southern
point of the camp. If anyone tries to force their way past, hit them hard. You’ve commanded a wing of archers – well, I’m giving you responsibility for half the centaine today.
Take horses with you so you can ride back if it looks like you’ll be overwhelmed. And don’t take any risks. The lives of your archers are worth more than their
knights’.’

‘I’ll tell them that. I’m sure they never knew you cared.’

‘Don’t be a thick, shit-arsed cock-quean, Fripper! An archer can kill three knights in a charge, so of course I bloody care about them! John, you and Alan and Roger will take your
men and join Fripper’s, and you will take your orders from him until you hear different. Now move your mother-swyving backsides and protect the south!’

Berenger and the others didn’t need to be told twice. He explained where to meet him, and then raced off to find his pack. With that slung over his shoulder, he ran back to where his men
were waiting.

‘Clip, Earl, Aletaster, Oliver – each of you go and fetch four horses and bring them down to us. We may need to escape quickly where we’re going. The rest of you, follow me.
Where’s our cart? Good! Georges, you can be responsible for that. We will need all the arrows we can get.’

He hurried down the clear, straight road to the south. At every intersection he glanced back at the heights, but there was no apparent movement. That was a relief. Berenger knew the French would
think very carefully before attacking, after their catastrophic charges at Crécy. This meant that the English had a little more time to prepare themselves.

At the southern point, he called a halt to their mad rush and ordered the archers to attack the ground with their picks and shovels. They had brought stakes and he wanted them planted all over
the land before them. Some set to digging holes, at least one foot deep and a foot square as they had at Crécy, to disrupt any charges by the French, but the sandy soil here was less capable
of obliging. Still, it kept the men busy. While they were doing that, he stood on a hillock and gazed about him.

The land here was perfect for the English defence. A marsh covered the whole area from the feet of the Sangatte cliffs, and thence east. To the south of Berenger’s men, there was one road
that led up from Guines, and the road from the heights of Sangatte wandered from the hills up towards the beaches of the coast, and then over the one usable bridge at Nieulay. That was on a line
due west of Berenger and the men, where they stood near the little church of St Peter at the crossroads leading up to Calais. But all those roads were ideal for the English: narrow, sliding into
the marshes on either side. Any army attempting to move along those roads would be at the mercy of the English. Especially since the English had brought all their spare ships to lie just off the
coast. These too were filled with archers. The road to the Nieulay Bridge would run along a line of archers who could hit a horse at eighty yards and more. If the French wanted to ride line abreast
to charge the English, that too was impossible. The English had set up pallisades on the beaches to disrupt any assault. The bridge itself was protected by a tower, and behind this and all the
other defences stood thousands of men under Henry of Lancaster, with more artillery.