Blood on the Sand (52 page)

There was a ripple of applause from his right, and he guessed that the King’s entourage was arriving. He would be there with his queen, the beautiful Philippa, and his earls and knights.
They would all surround him, just as they had every day while here – and more of them since the threat of assassination by the Vidame.

A sudden thought occurred to the vintener. In his mind’s eye, he saw the King’s household sitting up on the dais there. He pictured the men of his personal guard encircling him and
the Queen, but as Berenger considered it, he knew that the King would not be ringed about. To fence him in would be impossible on this day of all days. No, the King would be in plain view, surely,
staring along that road towards the gates of Calais. All his armoured knights and men-at-arms would form a thick semi-circle behind and around –
but not in front
.

Berenger had a sudden sinking feeling in his belly as the realisation hit him: if someone was determined to kill King Edward, this would be the ideal time. It would have to be a man who was
prepared to face the inevitable consequences, for he would be torn limb from limb for his act. But if the man was devoted to his own King, he might risk it. And Berenger had heard tell of the
ruthless determination of the Vidame . . .

The soldiers, he saw, were all grouped by vintaine and centaine, under the banners of their bannerets and captains. Any strangers in their midst would soon be noticed.

‘What is it, Frip?’ Jack asked, seeing his consternation.

‘I just have a bad feeling . . . I think the Vidame could be here. When the King arrives, he will be unguarded here, won’t he? As the people come out of the town, he will be on plain
view.’

‘Yes, but so what? These are all Englishmen.’

‘What if one wasn’t? A man up there on the horns of the army would have a perfect sight of the King.’

‘A good archer could do something, but this Vidame – I don’t know. Could he use a bow?’

‘He only needs one good flight, Jack. A man with a crossbow could do that from the walls of the town.’

Jack glanced over to the town, then back to the King. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Take the men and go and watch the tradesmen, the carters and tranters – the people who are not in the army itself, but who support it. Our man will be in there amongst them,
I’d lay my life on it.’

Jack nodded.

‘And Jack? Be careful. If I’m right, this fellow is more than determined. He is a fanatic.’

The Vidame smiled at his neighbour. There were so many men and women up here on the western flank that the noise and chattering was almost deafening. Still, that was good. No
one took any notice of the man who had climbed up a little above them all on the wagon’s seat.

It was the perfect position. He had a clear field of view to the King some eighty yards away. Edward was just coming into sight now, his fair hair and long beard making him stand out amongst the
people all around. The Vidame took a long, deep breath. The King was talking to the men about him, including that fool Sir Peter of Bromley – surely one of the most gullible idiots ever born.
It was his sudden change of allegiance that had made the Vidame’s task so easy. All he need do was remain one of the knight’s loyal following, and suddenly he became another trusted
member of King Edward’s household.

But now he had a more crucial task to perform. He, Alain de Châlons – the Vidame – was to be the man who liberated France from the cruel yoke of English rapacity. Once this
King was dead, that would be an end to things. The English must leave France afterwards – and with empty hands.

At his feet was the bow, ready spanned, with a bolt in place. All he need do was remove the blanket covering it, pick it up, aim and loose, and France’s sufferings would be avenged. All
those children and women and their men. The irreparable, intolerable damage done to so many noble families, the thieving and robbery – all avenged.

The King was seated now. Although the Vidame could see his head clearly, it was too far to trust the bolt to aim true. Until the King rose, he must wait. Otherwise there was a risk that he might
hit a knight or man-at-arms in front of the King. He didn’t want to have a close shot, he wanted to make sure of his enemy, of his country’s enemy. He must wait and be patient. His time
would come.

There was a great cry, and he turned to see the gates to Calais opening properly for the first time in almost a year. They creaked wider and wider, and at last six men became visible. From the
town there came no sound. It was as if the opening gates sucked the noise from the English too, for as the six began to pace forwards, the English also fell silent.

He could see them clearly. Six gaunt, wraith-like figures, stepping forward with courage, their chins held up, while inside each must have quailed. They had no idea whether their personal
sacrifices would help their people. It was possible – nay, likely – that the English soldiery would rush into their town and rape their wives and their children, killing all who stood
in their path. The English had done it all before. There was no reason to think that the King would be more merciful here.

Mercy. That was a curious term to use when thinking of a King. Today, Edward had insisted that the six most important men in the town should appear like this, clad only in shirts, wearing ropes
about their necks. They all knew their end would come today. They made a brave show, however, padding barefoot across the wreckage and mess of the road, all the way to the King’s
pavilion.

It was enough to bring tears to the Vidame’s eyes. One man at least he knew: Jean de Vienne, the Constable of Calais, was a brave man, known for his courage in the face of the enemy.
Rarely had the Constable confronted so implacable an enemy, however.

The King, the Vidame saw, remained seated. Men moved before him and all around him, blocking the spy’s view of Edward as everyone craned their necks to see the six victims approach.

A herald stepped forward and took the keys from Jean de Vienne. He and the other five citizens prostrated themselves in the dirt of the road. The Vidame had an anxious moment, thinking that the
English might show compassion and release the prisoners, but then he saw the King signal, and two men-at-arms came forward. These were the executioners.

There was an altercation on the dais: knights bowed to the King and spoke, urgently, one holding out a hand to the killers at Jean de Vienne’s side, and then the Queen joined them, and
bent before her husband. The Vidame swore under his breath. There was no clear view. All these men, and the Queen, were blocking his view of his target.

And then they moved away, and the King stood, his arms high, turning so that all might see him. His voice could be heard, and everyone in that great arena was silent, straining to catch his
words, as the Vidame crouched, pulled away the blanket and withdrew his crossbow. He peered, and he could see the King quite clearly. Lifting his crossbow, he smiled as his finger found the large
slide that fitted a slot in the nut and prevented accidental discharge.

It was time. He would make history. Today, he, Alain de Châlons, would slay a King.

He lifted the crossbow, steadied himself, and as he pulled the curved release, something hit his knees, and he went over.

Dogbreath had spotted the man up on the wagon as the men walked from the gates towards the King. He was a nondescript fellow in brown jack and broad-brimmed hat, standing well
above the rest of the men. And then Dogbreath saw him bend and pull something from his feet. When he rose, Dogbreath saw the bow.

He ran. It was twenty yards, and that meant twenty paces, but it felt like a mile, it seemed to take him so long. And then he was at the back of the cart. He leaped into it, and his feet kicked
out as soon as he was on it, straight into the back of the man’s knees. The would-be assassin crumpled with a yelp, and Dogbreath was on him in an instant. A scream and a bellow showed that
others had heard the fight, and now men came to try to separate them. Dogbreath pushed the crossbow aside and butted the man in the face, kicking up with his knee against his cods. The Vidame
defended himself as best he could, punching and slapping at his enemy while Dogbreath renewed his assaults. A lucky kick caught him in the belly, and he was for a moment winded, long enough for the
Vidame to grab his bow once more, but then he realised it was loosed already. The bolt had flown. He was still staring at it dumbly when Jack’s sword slammed down on his head. The pommel of
steel hit his skull like a mace, and Alain de Châlons fell without a word.

In the group about the dais, Sir John de Sully listened as the King ordered that all the six should have their heads cut off. There was a general acceptance, but it was not
wholehearted approval, rather a sense of resignation that a King could do as he wished. Few liked the decision. These men had behaved with honour. To kill them was considered over-harsh.

Several dropped to their knees and begged for the lives of the six, but the King’s face remained stern. Only when his own wife knelt and pleaded with him did he unbend.

But as the Queen stood again, Sir John heard a cry from the crowds, and a premonition of disaster made him push forward just as a bolt flew. The King was standing now, a perfect target for any
man with a bow and a string, but there were others there who saw the danger too. As Sir John tried to reach his King, a group of men-at-arms surged forward – but one man shoved them all to
one side.

Sir Peter de Bromley had seen his clerk standing on the wagon, and at that moment he realised the truth of the accusations against the Vidame. Into his mind flashed the confrontation with Sir
John de Sully, the contempt in the face of Berenger and the others. There was but one way to prove his devotion. He leaped into the path of the bolt even as it flew straight at him. He had time to
move, but he chose to hold his ground, protecting his King to the end. He was hit by it: in an instant it penetrated his eye, and he fell to the ground, already dead.

‘Get him out of the way, quick!’ Sir John hissed, and with the help of two others, he pulled the man’s body out of sight.

Meanwhile the King remained on his feet, proclaiming that, because of the heartfelt pleas of his wife, he would allow all the citizens to go free. The army cheered and one of the six faltered
and almost fell and had to be supported by his neighbours, and two of the six were weeping with relief as Sir John glanced down at Sir Peter’s body.

‘You poor bastard. You knew your servant was a traitor, didn’t you? And this was your only way to pay for that knowledge.’

‘Are you sure, Frip?’ Grandarse said again.

Berenger grunted. The two were standing outside the tavern in the market of Calais, and now that the town was theirs, and the main properties were all requisitioned by the King and given or
rented to the men of his army, the memories of the last few days were fading.

They had been confronted by a hideous sight when they first entered the town and walked the streets. Berenger had been in with the first contingent of men, and he had been struck by the strange,
sour smell about the place. The unhealthy, dying men and women gave off an odour that was like vinegar, both pungent and rancid. No one here had been able to bathe for months, and none had eaten
properly either, in all that time. At every doorway or window, Berenger saw gaunt, grey faces, with lips that had tightened so that they could scarcely cover teeth. The people’s eyes were
dull, almost like the dead, and hunger had made their bellies swell.

Even more than that, the most truly dreadful thing was the lack of sound: a kind of tainted deathly hush absorbed Calais. There were no birds, no dogs, no cats, no horses. All had been consumed.
Only these corpses remained: the walking dead, awaiting their entrance to Hell.

Berenger had looked about him, appalled, as the townsfolk were ordered to leave their houses. They were to be pushed from the gates and forced to leave. He wanted to give food to them all, but
there was nothing he could do. He was powerless.

Later, after that first day, he had spent time with Marguerite. Not talking, just sitting with her. Georges was a short way away, playing with Ed, and Berenger watched them for a long time.

‘Are you well?’ she asked after a while.

He was still for a moment, then said, ‘In the last year, I’ve been hit by a crossbow bolt, hammers, swords and fists. All I have to show for it are wounds, and the loyalty of my men.
I have no woman, no home, no children to leave my money to, nor anyone to mourn me when I am dead. Marguerite, I am bone weary of death and killing. Woman, if I give up fighting, I would settle in
a town like this. I’d want to fill it with happiness. I’d want to trade and make money, and fill bellies, and give alms to help the weak. Would you want to help me, if I give you a home
and a home for your boy?’

‘You mean you want a concubine, or a servant?’ she asked lightly.

‘No, Marguerite, I want a wife. Would you accept me?’

She studied his face for a long moment. Somewhere, it was possible, she had a husband and children. But with the English controlling such a broad swathe of land, finding them would be all but
impossible. A woman without husband, without family, was mere prey to the men all about France. Already the stories of rapes and murders committed by English troops, whether they were English,
Welsh, Irish, Flemish, Gascon or other, were circulating all around the country. Bored soldiers, some of them French, had deserted their armies and were taking over villages in their search for
plunder and sex. No one, man or woman, was safe in the countryside.