Blood on the Sand (8 page)

‘Well?’ he demanded as Archibald stood, coif in hand, looking nervous.

‘Sir, have you heard about the vintaine?’

Sir John was a rural knight from Iddesleigh and Rookford. Whereas many knights were uninterested in their men, the banneret had shown himself keen to look after their interests during the long
campaign of recent weeks. His hair might be grizzled, but his eyes were as clear as they had been when he sat on his mount at Bannockburn thirty and more years ago now and witnessed the disaster
befall the English cavalry. It had affected him to see the men slaughtered so, and since then he had made every effort to protect his men. ‘What about them?’

Archibald told him the news. He knew Sir John would be upset to hear of the loss of so many of his men at one fell swoop – but the knight’s rage surprised even him.

‘Damn those pirates’ black souls to hell,’ Sir John swore bitterly, hurling his food from his table. He kicked his stool away and raked his fingers agitatedly through his hair.
‘Berenger Fripper is one of the most competent vinteners in the army. Christ’s bones, but we could do with more like him. You are sure of this?’

‘Another ship saw them being captured by a galley. They had little chance against that when it rammed them.’

The knight clenched his fist and was about to slam it onto his trestle table, when his esquire appeared.

‘Sir? I was roused by the commotion.’

‘Aye, I daresay you were, Richard. Have you heard this tale about the men with Fripper?’

‘That they have been captured or killed, yes.’

Richard Bakere had been Sir John’s esquire for six years now; he was a dependable, resilient fellow with a Norman’s face and bearing, but without the arrogance.

‘It’s the worst news of the campaign so far,’ Sir John said, and when Richard retrieved the stool, he sat down heavily. ‘Fripper was a good man.’

‘There is no hope of rescue?’ Richard asked.

‘The Devil only knows where they’ll have been taken. In a galley they could be in any of the river-mouths along the coast here. Were we to ride to their aid, we would not know where
to go. It would be futile.’

‘If they are lucky, their end will be quick,’ Archibald muttered.

‘Yes,’ Sir John agreed, then sighed. ‘I would it were another vintaine, though.’

Archibald nodded, standing quietly until the knight glanced up at him.

‘Well, Gynour? Is there more bad news you wish to impart?’

‘Sir John, I think I may be able to help with the reduction of the town.’

The knight’s attention was taken. ‘Oh? How so?’

Richard Bakere had picked up the platter from where the knight had knocked it over, and placed a roasted capon upon it. Sir John took a leg while Archibald spoke, but his eyes never left the
gynour’s face all the while. Archibald’s enthusiasm and excitement were almost palpable.

‘We are stuck outside the town. The town has excluded us from their harbour, so that their ships can enter the harbour and resupply the town, and there’s little we can do about it.
We cannot get to the north of the town to command the harbour because of their weapons on the Rysbank, and we cannot get scaling ladders to the walls to attack the town directly because of the
moat.’

‘So?’

‘I am thinking that we need to prevent ships from getting to the town in the first place.’

‘I don’t think anyone will disagree with that. You may have noticed that we have been attempting to do just that in recent weeks,’ Sir John said, his voice dripping with
sarcasm. ‘In fact, we have only just lost a number of men because we were trying to protect our own ships!’

‘But if we maintain a number of ships at sea to blockade the harbour, and then also position weapons to sink any that pass by the harbour mouth, we will be able to stop any supplies from
reaching the town. No supplies means no ability to fight. We can starve ’em out.’

‘And what sort of weapon would you install at the harbour mouth?’

‘We have nothing here at—’

‘Then you are wasting my time!’

‘I was going to add “but we do have one at home”. I have a great beast that could easily sweep any ship from the sea. It is in England, but if you can arrange for its
transport, I will do the rest.’

Sir John put the bones on his plate and studied the gynour. He knew that Archibald was a keen exponent of his new gonnes. Personally, Sir John was unconvinced by them. At Crécy he had
seen one blow up, taking an entire team of gynours with it. Bits and pieces of the men were found later, reeking of brimstone as though the Devil himself had passed by and despatched them. Yet the
gonnes had done significant damage occasionally, for instance when a sack of balls had hit a full charge of men-at-arms, and the knight knew that a man of war should never turn up the opportunity
of learning new methods of attack. If this could help, then it might be worth pursuing.

‘Where exactly is this gonne of yours?’ he asked, leaning forward.

Berenger saw that escape was impossible.

They were held for three days before they were taken out again. Three days of sitting in their own muck. No one came to empty their buckets, so they overflowed after the first night. The men
tried to dam the worst of it with the meagre supplies of straw that lay about the place, but it seeped through, and all of them had it impregnated in their clothing after the second night.

The stench, the lack of light, the manacles and chains they wore – all conspired to sap Berenger’s will. Their surrender had been shameful enough for English archers, but now,
languishing in this cell, he felt emasculated. As he looked about the faces of his men, he could see that most had given up all hope. Some, like Clip, sat sourly contemplating the ground before
them, muttering vile oaths against the fate that had brought them here, while others stared up at the single barred hole in the wall, through which the light entered to illuminate one corner of the
puddle of muck on the floor. Jack Fletcher sat with his back to the wall, gazing at Berenger as though with hope. Dogbreath was one of the only men who looked unconcerned. He squatted on his
haunches, throwing pebbles at a spider that was scrabbling up the wall.

Berenger looked away from Fletcher.
Hope!
There was no hope for them. They couldn’t expect to escape from a place like this, not with the whole of the French army about them.

When he was young, Berenger had lost his parents. The barons had detested King Edward II’s adviser and friend, Sir Hugh le Despenser, and bands of men-at-arms had invaded Despenser lands
up and down the country, burning, looting and killing. Berenger’s parents were slaughtered in the first wave, his father for his loyalty to Sir Hugh, and his mother too. After that, life had
lost all meaning and purpose. Berenger could remember it clearly. Only when the King himself heard of his plight and took him into his household did Berenger grow free of despair. He was young,
after all. With exercise and work, boys can cope with most disasters.

‘Frip?’ Jack Fletcher called softly. ‘What do we do?’

‘Wait,’ Berenger said. ‘What more
can
we do?’

Clip spat into the pool of ordure and whined, ‘They’re going to take our eyes! Take our fucking eyes!’

‘Shut up, Clip,’ Berenger said wearily.

‘So, do we just submit to them? They killed the other two, didn’t they?’ Jack said. ‘Shall we just go quietly like lambs to the slaughterman?’

‘If you have a better idea, tell me!’ Berenger snapped.

It was Tyler who spoke up. ‘We have to give them something. Tell them something they want to know.’

‘Like what?’ Clip sneered. ‘Where to get a chest of gold? Where to find wine and food? They have all they need already, you prickle!’

‘Then we tell them about the army. How many men there are, where they’ll—’

‘You want to give away the army?’ Dogbreath demanded with a low growl, shifting as if preparing to spring on Tyler. Berenger held up a hand to stop any risk of a fight breaking
out.

‘No, but if it’s something that could help them without harming our friends . . .’ Tyler began, but John of Essex cut across him.

‘If it’d save our skins, you mean. You’d give away your mother’s soul if it’d save you a little pain, wouldn’t you?’

‘I’d gladly—’

‘
Enough!
’ Berenger said, standing up. ‘We’ll give away nothing. Do you really think there’s anything you could tell them that would save you? We’re
English archers. They hate us for every French nobleman’s life we’ve taken. They don’t want to negotiate with us. You heard them! They want to make an example of us. There’s
nothing we can do to stop them.’

Then, just as if the gaoler had been listening, there came the sound of boots marching along the corridor outside. Jack and Clip stood, and Berenger glared across at John of Essex, as though
daring him to argue. John said nothing. His head hung low; he was the picture of dejection.

Fair enough, Berenger thought to himself. It was how he felt, too. What a wretched way to end their days.

Berenger had thought that they were to be taken straight to the place set aside for their public humiliation, but to his surprise, when the guards took them out into the open
air, they did not force them along the roads to the church, but down a dark alleyway and along a wider street to a small door in a great wall. Once through this, they found themselves in a broad
courtyard paved with cobbles. They were led up some stairs to a large hall, and in here they found themselves confronted by the same cardinal who had selected their punishment, talking to the same
red-headed Scot whom Berenger had seen on that first day.

‘You should be gone, Sir David,’ the prelate said. ‘Godspeed, my son.’

‘Thank you, my Lord.’ Sir David bowed to the cardinal, kissed the prelate’s ring and, with a disgusted look at the prisoners, left the room.

‘Now! Is there one among you who speaks French well enough to communicate?’ the cardinal asked. He was standing at a large fireplace as he spoke, curling his lip at the sight and
smell of them.

Berenger could understand why. They all had the same pale, drawn features and eyes that glittered with an unhealthy feverishness, and their clothes stank of the midden.

‘We all speak French,’ he said.

‘Then know this, all of you: you will
all
be forced to suffer,’ the cardinal said. ‘You have committed grave acts against the Peace of the King, and for that, the
penalty is usually death. You are fortunate enough to have won his lenience, and for that you will live, but only after . . .’

‘You have had our eyes put out and hacked off our string-fingers,’ Berenger said.

‘So you did hear what I commanded the other day.’ The cardinal eyed him dispassionately. ‘Your men will all be blinded. If you help me, you can be the one to keep an
eye.’

‘How can I help you?’

‘If you tell me the disposition of the men about Calais, that will help. And any news of the army.’

Berenger frowned. ‘The disposition of the men? Calais is under siege and our army is strong. What more could I tell you?’

‘Which men stand where. Which noblemen lead the forces there. We will win this battle, Englishman. With God on our side, we cannot fail. But I would see it ended sooner so that fewer women
and children are hurt or slain. You English trample the poor folk of France underfoot like a peasant stamping on ants, but as the peasant will regret it when he disturbs the nest, you will regret
your impudence in coming here to challenge the right of the King of France to command his people. If you wish to keep your sight, I may be able to help you.’

‘We will tell you,’ Tyler blurted out. ‘Ask us! We can help you with any questions you have, and—’

With a loud rattle of the chain at his wrists, Jack’s hands slammed into his belly and Tyler collapsed in a heap on the floor, gasping and retching. Two guards set upon Jack immediately,
beating him with their clubs, and soon he too went down, writhing as they kicked at him.

‘Tell them to stop or you’ll have nothing from me,’ Berenger snarled.

The cardinal raised his hand and the assault stopped as suddenly as it had begun. ‘So? Will you help me?’

‘If you swear that we will all be treated equally. None of us to be blinded.’

‘No.’

‘Then we will not help you.’

The cardinal nodded, then pointed to Tyler, lying on the floor huddled about the pain of his belly. ‘Raise him and bring him here.’

Berenger felt alarm surging. ‘Leave him, he’s only a—’

‘Someone silence this fool!’ A blow to the back of Berenger’s head made him fall to his knees, and he tumbled onto all fours, heaving. The cardinal stood over him. ‘I
gave you your chance. You will not help me, so you will be blinded like the rest. If this man helps me, he may keep an eye.’ The cardinal smiled. ‘You should be kind to him, if you want
him to guide you back to your heretic friends!’

Berenger managed to swallow the bile that threatened, and sat back on his haunches. As soon as he did so, a guard shoved his staff at Berenger’s breast, the blow forceful enough to slam
him backwards. While he rolled over to scramble to his feet, Tyler was helped towards the fire by a guard, and stood with his head downcast as the cardinal sipped from a gilded goblet of wine.