Blood on the Sand (49 page)

Berenger and Grandarse had discussed their plan of action some days ago when news of the French advance had been reported. It was plain enough that the French could not hope to beat the English
in the open, and would be very unlikely to attempt an assault on such well planned and executed defences. That would be too much to hope. But the French could be tempted to an area of apparent
weakness, and here, to the south and west of the English forces, there was a road in which the French charge could consolidate. Here, where the marshes widened, they might commit themselves.

Not that it would serve any purpose, other than to injure a few score of archers, perhaps. The fact was, behind Berenger and his men were more archers, and immediately behind them lay another
series of trenches that would disperse and destroy an attacking force. With archers on both flanks pouring shafts into them, the French would be annihilated. At least, that was the plan, were the
French to attack here.

As the sun passed its zenith and the heat grew uncomfortable, Clip muttered, ‘Are they not coming, then?’

Berenger grinned. As a weathervane to show the direction of the men’s thoughts, Clip was incomparable. Now he was feeling frustrated and irritable. That was all to the good. Men in that
frame of mind would fight if for no other reason than to vent their feelings.

He called to Clip, ‘We’re all thirsty, and as you’re the best scavenger, you can go and find us some ale. There’s bound to be some, somewhere.’

‘Yes, Frip.’

The vintener watched his man dart off up into the tangled mass of streets and lanes, little suspecting the outcome of that foray.

Clip knew of a good place to find wine, but as he walked along the main road, he sighted a familiar figure up ahead.

It was the outlaw who had attacked the vintaine on the way to Durham! He was not likely to forget that triangular face or gait in a hurry.

No, Clip would not forget that fellow, nor any of the others, in a hurry.

He was caught in a quandary, between the need for wine for the vintaine on the one hand, and the desire to follow this man and find out where he was going on the other.

Curiosity won the day. Taking care to remain invisible, he set off to stalk his prey.

Berenger was beginning to regret asking Clip to go and search out some wine. ‘I should have sent someone who’d just go to a tavern and come straight back,’ he
grumbled to Jack.

‘Which one of this vintaine could be trusted do that, Frip, without testing the drinks on his way?’

‘That’s not the point. I’ll skin the bastard when he shows his face, again. He should have returned an age ago.’

‘Yes,’ Jack agreed, and both stared back towards the town.

‘You don’t think the stupid deofol’s fallen into a latrine again, do you?’ Berenger said at last, only half-joking.

‘That would be too much to hope for,’ Jack said, but there was an optimistic gleam in his eye.

Aletaster suddenly called out: ‘Frip, something’s happening!’

All thoughts of Clip were instantly wiped from his mind as Berenger turned his attention back to the heights of Sangatte. There, riding down a narrow track, was a small party of Frenchmen.

‘
Shit!
Archers,
nock
!’

They watched the line of French men-at-arms descend the heights and assemble at the bottom.

‘They’re going to try to charge the bridge!’ Jack cried. His eyes were keener than Berenger’s.

Berenger’s face grew lighter as he said, ‘Good luck to ’em. They’ll find that a hard nut to crack!’

The French began to ride forward, while a thick knot of men on foot ran pell-mell after them. Soon a roaring came to them on the still air – the clamour of battle. From here, it was
astonishing to see how the arrows lifted and soared, then fell. It was like watching a black thundercloud on the horizon. More and more French were falling. Crazed, terrified horses, pricked with
so many arrows as to look like pin-cushions, were rearing and trampling the men all about them. Flailing hooves crushed many a French skull, and yet soon, brave French fighters had arrived at the
base of the tower at the bridge. With screams and shrieks, the English defenders threw themselves on the attackers, and died where they stood. More arrows flew, and Berenger saw the French fall as
well, until it was hard to see which side was which, nor which men were falling. It looked like a scene from Hell: men dealing death with swords, maces, axes, anything that came to hand,
accompanied all the time by the hideous whistle and slap of arrows dealing death to men and horses alike.

A group of men appeared with ladders, and these were thrown up at the tower’s sides.

‘They’re a bit more bloody handy with a ladder than our gits,’ Grandarse noted sourly. He had appeared as the first ladders hit the tower.

There was no doubting it: the tower was quickly lost. Soon there were new flags flying at the top, and the process of cleaning the building was undertaken with ease as bodies were flung from the
top.

‘Right, lads,’ Grandarse said, hoicking up his belt and staring ahead grimly. ‘Our turn now. Let’s show these limp-wristed donkey-fuckers what English soldiers can
do!’

In the town, Clip had followed the man slowly along the main thoroughfare until the fellow came to an alehouse; here, he pushed past other early-morning drinkers and soon was
back outside again, holding a pottery horn and a jug. He set the jug on a table and drained his horn, immediately refilling it. Clip sidled into a doorway as men hurried past, and he heard horns
blowing and shouts. Turning his head, he could tell that the noise was all coming from the west, not from where his own vintaine was waiting. There was the crack and boom of the gonnes going off,
and he shuddered. Even after all this time he hated the sound of Archibald’s horrible pots of war. Then he put the thought to one side, absentmindedly breaking off a piece of his hard cheese
and chewing.

A soldier’s life was mostly made up of shit jobs and bastard duties, he reckoned. The worst of it was, you never knew when it was going to go to the Devil. Well, for now, no one was aiming
a bolt at him or trying to see what colour his liver was by opening him with a knife, and for that, he was more than content.

Berenger roared at the others to prepare. At the bridge, a company of French horsemen had gathered, and now they began to canter towards the vintener and the archers.

‘They are scouting the land! We must hold our lines here!’ Berenger shouted, and was almost deafened by Grandarse’s exhortations to hold their positions.

‘Nock your arrows!’ Berenger said, and he was pleased to hear the swish of the missiles being taken from their quivers almost simultaneously. He nocked his own, and stood, the tab
letting his fingers feel the string.

The men were approaching fast, and would soon be upon the archers. It was a shame that the stakes and holes had all been dug facing south, Berenger thought, before he shouted, ‘Archers,
draw
!’

He could see the horses building up their speed now; the lance-points were lowering, some gleaming with that wicked, oily sheen that spoke of dead men’s blood. Closer, closer . . .

‘Loose!’

A shudder ran down his arm, and he saw his own arrow fly true – and miss. It slipped over the shoulder of the lead rider, but then it went on and into the face of the man behind. He
disappeared, a fine spray of blood in the air where he had been, and then the archers were drawing and loosing as quickly as they could.

‘Men on foot!’ Grandarse bellowed, and Berenger saw the French infantry running behind the horsemen. He let slip one more arrow, sending it into the breast of a destrier that
crumpled, its legs folding beneath it as it galloped, throwing its rider and rolling in a jangle of metal and legs, making the horse behind try to slow, and then attempt a leap. Two arrows struck
it in mid-air, and it fell squealing, rolling onto its back and waving its legs in the air, crushing its rider, who remained in the saddle.

A lance almost spitted Berenger, but he dodged aside just in time, and heard a gurgle and choking from behind him. A moment later, the body of an archer was at his feet, a hideous rent in his
breast where the lance had ripped into him. He was still mouthing words but nothing would come as he tried in vain to staunch the blood flowing from his chest. The odour of faeces came to Berenger
even as the man’s face sagged and his hands slipped to either side, his head lolling with his eyes half-shut.

There was no time to mourn. Only time to nock an arrow, draw, and send it into the mass of running, screaming men. He saw one hit in the head, who was knocked backwards so far he almost appeared
to go horizontal before slamming to the ground. Another, who had a shaft run straight through his torso, appeared not to notice, but ran on at the English with a face filled with hatred and
loathing, an axe held over his head. He brought it down with such force on the bascinet of the first Englishman he met that when he lifted it again, the bascinet of the now-dead archer was stuck to
the axehead. Behind him, a man ran with eyes wide and filled with utter dread. In his shoulder, two arrows protruded; he could not use his right arm, nor dare he turn and flee, for that would be
immediate death. Instead he ran on and on in among the English, ramming with his shield, hoping perhaps to make it past them and out to the lands beyond.

Two walls of men meeting men: Frenchmen running and panting, Englishmen grunting as they bore the brunt of the enemy slamming into them. A moment of tension, of terror, and then Berenger found
himself borne backwards by the concussion of all the bodies. There was a feeling of dislocation, and then his feet found the ground again, and he screamed, ‘Archers,
stand
!’ as
he gripped his sword and held it high, before bringing it down onto the head of a man who was trying to stab Aletaster.

Aletaster stood with his sword in his hands, staring at the body at his feet. Berenger clubbed him over the shoulder, saying hoarsely, ‘
He’s
dead –
they
aren’t! Protect yourself, you prick!’ and then he had to duck as a polearm whirled past his head. He stabbed, thrusting hard and feeling something yield: a leather jack. He twisted the
blade, jerking it downwards quickly, hearing a scream but ignoring it, lifting his blade to stop another sword sending his slithering down to the hand at the hilt, forcing it up and out of the way
before headbutting the owner, feeling the satisfying crunch as his brow hit a man’s nose and crushed it, then raising his knee and feeling a sudden pain as he hit a metal codpiece, and
punching with his spare hand, before bringing his sword down again and feeling it slice into the man’s throat . . . pushing him aside as the blood sprayed, and stabbing at another man’s
face – but the man wasn’t there any more, and suddenly there was no one left to fight, and he stood, panting with exertion, the scar on his face blazing like a bolt of red-hot iron, and
his arms dangling as he watched for the next wave of men.

But for now, they were done.

Berenger was helping Aletaster to move a French body from the road when Clip arrived, leading a donkey and cart.

‘You took your time!’ Berenger shouted angrily. ‘Last time you were this late, I said—’

‘And I heard you, Frip,’ Clip interrupted, ‘but can I talk to you a while?’

Berenger glanced over the donkey cart. On the bed were two barrels, and from the scent that wafted towards him, he could make out the odour of apples. ‘Cider’ll please Grandarse,
anyway,’ he muttered as he followed Clip a short way off, to where they would not be overheard. ‘What is it?’

‘While I was in town, I happened to see a man I recognised. You remember the time I came back with a black eye? The man who did that was a big bastard. I remember him. Well, I saw him
today.’

‘And?’

‘And he was with another man. One of the outlaws who attacked us on the way to Durham.’

‘What? But . . .’

‘It was the same man, Frip. Pale brown hair, sort of mousy-coloured but smelling of week-dead ferret, and a triangular face with blue eyes almost buried, they’re set so deep. He was
there, talking to the big bastard from Sir Peter’s house.’

‘There are many outlaws who’ve been pardoned if they’ve come here.’

‘Aye, but this one I remember from before. I saw him here
before
we went to England.’

‘Some men have travelled back,’ Berenger said slowly.

‘No, Frip. That outlaw was there to lead the others to attack us – I guess to get us into trouble with the commanders by slowing our journey to Scotland. That’s what I think.
And the fact he was with the other proves it.’

‘It shows that the two know each other, nothing more than that,’ Berenger said, but he knew it was too much of a coincidence for that. ‘Did you hear what they were talking
about?’

‘I didn’t dare get too close. The outlaw and I had a talk a while ago, and—’

‘You saw him before and didn’t think to tell me?’ Berenger growled.

‘Frip, he was in the yard and jumped on me, right? I really thought I was going to get killed. That was the day I had the black eye, remember? Anyway, if I’d got too close he’d
have recognised me, so I kept back, but they were muttering.’