Blood on the Sand (16 page)

He spat accurately at a stick, making it jump. With a satisfied belch, he hoicked his belt northwards again and went on: ‘Aye, Frip, I’ve seen it often enough. Best, usually, just to
keep your head down when this kind of ballocks is going on. Leave politics and all that shite to the arses who can actually win power for themselves. For you an’ me, it’s enough to know
that at the end of the day, you’re still around with a pot of ale in your fist, a good meal inside you, and a strumpet to fondle. Because the alternative means rotting under the ground, and
that’s not much fun, is it?’

‘No.’

‘So ride like the Devil for the north and show you’ll do all you can to serve the King by protecting his interests, and then hurry back so you can prove you’re not interested
in running away. Up and back, swift as you can.’

‘Grandarse, did you see the messenger we’re to protect?’

‘The boy? Yes.’

‘Why such a youngster? Who is he?’

‘You’ll need to find out for yourself. I don’t know. But you’d best make sure the little prickle makes it back here safely, too.’

‘Yes,’ Berenger said. But even as he spoke, his mind was moving in a different direction. ‘Grandarse, there is another way to look at all this.’

‘Is there? What? How?’

‘What if Sir Peter was secretly intending to lead the King into an impossible position, perhaps even into a trap, so that he could turn his coat to the French and act the traitor? Perhaps
he would try to alienate the King from his own troops. He might begin by sowing discord and disaffection with me and my men. Tarnish our reputation with the King. He must know the King respects us.
If he could damage us and make us seem treacherous . . .’

Grandarse scoffed at that. ‘You think one vintener is going to harm the army? Surely you don’t reckon you’ve such a strong reputation that your death or humiliation will affect
the course of the siege?’

‘No, of course not, but if he could sow enough discord within different vintaines here, he might bring about dissatisfaction with the leadership of the army – and that in itself
could lead to barons deciding to desert the King. Whatever he says about me or the men, he could well be saying about others too. He could even imply that venerable centeners were as guilty,
couldn’t he?’

Grandarse stopped and stared. ‘That booger!’ He gazed into the distance with a frown creasing his brow. ‘Look, Frip, you give the Scotch bastards hell, and come back safe. And
whatever you do, don’t lose that poxy git of a messenger.’

As the little ship made its creaking, complaining way over the water towards England, it was hard to concentrate, between Clip’s loud grousing and Turf’s regular
retching over the side.

Berenger watched the messenger.

Master Retford had a nobleman’s natural arrogance in the way he stood slightly apart, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, while the other clutched at a rope, but his youth was clear
in the way that his head snapped around at every sudden noise. When a rope parted with a crack like one of Archibald’s gonnes, the boy looked as though he might have broken a bone in his
neck, his skull revolved so speedily. No, the arrogance was a show. This lad was scared: perhaps because he was taking part in his first major task for his lord and King? Or was it because he had
been warned that the mission on which he was engaged was dangerous, and the men with him could be traitors? Either way, Berenger knew he would have to be careful.

When they were almost halfway across the Channel, he walked across to the messenger and said, ‘Master Retford. A word.’

‘Yes?’

The lad was no older than fifteen – sixteen at a pinch. For all his attempts at youthful cockiness, the eyes told a different story. His attention moved from Berenger to Jack and the
others and back again. There was an anxious set to his brows, and his fingers seemed to clasp the rope with a drowning sailor’s grip, but he still managed to curl his lip as though he was as
ashamed to be confronted by a mere churl as any nobleman would be.

Berenger led him to the prow, where they would have some privacy. ‘If I’m to get you safely to the north, I need to know a little about you. Are you trained in how to use
that?’ he asked, nodding to the boy’s sword, which hung close to the little message pouch.

‘I’ve had a good education,’ Retford said defensively.

‘But can you use a sword?’

‘Yes.’

‘On horseback?’

‘I don’t think . . .’ he began haughtily, then caught sight of Berenger’s steady gaze and reconsidered. ‘Yes, I can,’ he said.

‘Good. And you are used to riding long distance?’

‘Of course.’

‘How far in a day?’

‘Often twenty miles.’

‘A King’s messenger will manage thirty-five in a day, same as a messenger on foot. We won’t have time for niceties. If we’re to get the message to Durham in time to
prevent the Scots from launching their attack and laying all the north of England to waste, we’ll have to travel as fast as possible. That means sore buttocks and thighs and riding for fifty
miles a day, if we can. I want to get to Durham in six days – that is my aim.’

‘I can do it.’

‘I hope so, boy.’

Retford bridled, as Berenger had intended. ‘I am no
boy
!’ he hissed. ‘I am a
Nuncius
, a Messenger to the King! You will treat me with respect!’

His hand strayed to the little leather message pouch again as though he expected to have to defend it from Berenger.

Berenger rolled with the ship as the prow pointed down into a trough. As it emerged, the deck was flooded with water for a moment, and he felt his boots slip on the wet decking.

‘Until you show me what you’re made of, you’ll be
Boy
to me. I’m your senior by more than double your age, and I will not take orders from you. You, on the other
hand, will do everything I tell you, because if you do not, you may bring danger to my men. I am responsible for seventeen men here, all told, and I won’t have their security put at risk
because of your foolishness. Their safety means more to me than yours, because they and I have fought many times together, and I know they’ll risk their lives to protect me. That demands my
respect. You, on the other hand, are simply a boy with a message to deliver. Well, my men and I can deliver your message
with
or
without
you. You are dead weight, until you prove
otherwise. I daresay you were born to a free man, and you were taken on by the King’s Household some time ago when they needed a runner to deliver orders for the baker to make more loaves, or
the huntsman to prepare the hounds for the King’s pleasure. And now you have your more important message to deliver. That is fine, but do not mistake – or overestimate – your
significance in this.’

He turned and was about to leave when the boy spoke.

‘I have been warned about you. Your threats don’t scare me, Master Fripper! Just remember, I have my sword at the ready at all times. If you try to kill me, you will live to regret
it. My Lord Peter of Bromley will know whom to blame if any hurt comes to me.’

Berenger eyed him musingly. ‘Boy, if you bring danger to me or my men, I will slay you myself, orders or no. Apart from that, I will guard you well enough. We aren’t footpads
here.’

‘For certain,’ the boy sneered, peering at the vintaine. Pardoner and Oliver had joined Turf at the wale and the three could be heard groaning and spitting even over the noise of the
waves slapping at the hull. ‘No felons in your vintaine.’

Later, as he rolled himself in his blanket to sleep, already halfway to London, Berenger remembered that look and his words. It almost sounded as though the lad knew something
about the men that he didn’t. Of course, the boy could have meant Berenger himself. That would explain Sir Peter’s look, too, if he felt that Berenger was a traitor. It would explain
the two men trying to waylay and kill him, too.

But it could also relate to the older members of the vintaine; if any were a traitor, Berenger would be willing to wager that it was Tyler. Mark Tyler, who had stirred up enough trouble for four
men in the last month, and who had been willing to trade his person for news of the army in Dunkirk. Certainly Retford’s look and tone told of a conviction that someone in the vintaine was
guilty of treachery or some other heinous crime.

Berenger wondered whether Tyler’s behaviour could have blinded him to another’s evildoing. In his mind, he reviewed the men. Saint Lawrence was clearly incapable of committing a
crime, as was the Pardoner. For his money, he considered that Horn, Turf and Wren were similarly unlikely felons. The Earl, Dogbreath and Aletaster were more likely. He would say that any one of
them could have been a felon. As for the older members of his vintaine . . . well, Clip was more trouble than a gaggle of whores. Come to that, Oliver or any of the others could have given offence.
Especially adventurers like John of Essex.

It wasn’t surprising. When the King decided to send his largest ever army into France, he had collected together all the men he could find. Some were volunteers, but many were the dregs of
society, men who had crimes to hide from, men who had committed adultery, runaway priests and monks, pimps, tricksters, draw-latches, robbers and cut-purses. It took all kinds of men to fill an
army. And some, of course, were convicted felons who had been offered a pardon for their service. The fact that Andrew Retford had thought about things showed good sense, in that he appreciated the
risks of such companions.

Then Berenger reconsidered. Perhaps it showed nothing of Retford’s thinking, but more about Sir Peter’s. If the knight wanted to harm the reputation of Berenger’s vintaine, it
would be easy to instil in Retford a belief that the other men with him were guilty of unimaginable crimes. If Retford survived and made it back, he could boast about his skill and guile in fooling
the men of the vintaine who were out to destroy him; if he did not return to Sir Peter, the knight could easily allow it to be known that he had never trusted the vintaine from the outset. Either
way, doubt and suspicion would lurk wherever the vintaine were to go. More men, like the two who had set upon Berenger, would be sure to try their luck. There would be nowhere safe for them.

If only he knew why Sir Peter had decided to mistrust them!

He curled up, trying to push his misgivings away. Surely the good knight Sir Peter was only doing the best he could for the King. He was the King’s friend, after all. And the King was no
fool. Had he not recently trounced the French armies at Sluys and Tournai, at Crécy, and even now at Calais? King Edward III was an astute warrior and judge of men. If he were not, he would
hardly have gathered about him the strongest, brightest and boldest men in all the kingdom.

Even a king might make a mistake, Berenger reminded himself. He had enormous regard for his monarch, but the King was still only a man.

Berenger would be on his guard, but more importantly, he would keep on guard for Retford too.

Four days later Clip’s nasal whine woke Berenger. ‘Get on, Jack!’

‘I’m only saying,’ Jack said in his imperturbable manner. ‘It’s clear as day to me.’

‘Ye’ve got to be joking, man. This – a holiday? My arse is as flat as that oatcake!’

‘You’re too scrawny to complain about a flat backside,’ Jack said.

The Earl was lounging with an elbow resting on a tree. ‘Perhaps all this riding is a little hard, but I prefer it to running the risk of a lance in my belly.’

‘A good point,’ Jack said. He flipped his oat cake over to cook the other side on the stone by the fire.

It had been a principle of Berenger’s from early on to see to it that the men had oat cakes to break their fast of a morning. During the wars in Scotland he had seen how each Scotsman
would carry a small bag of oatmeal and mix this with a little water to make their cakes to eat each evening. But for him, it was more important that a soldier had something to keep him walking all
day, and a couple of oaten cakes were filling on an empty belly.

‘When I think of a holiday,’ Clip said wistfully, ‘I think of the hog roasting in the great hall, and good salads, and the wenches all dancing like wayward sluts, and the ale
tasting of strong malt and flavoured with honey, and the bonfire outside, and dancing out there as the stars glitter overhead, while men wander off with their sweethearts and . . .’

Jack’s ribald laugh interrupted him. ‘What? Go on – what then?’

‘You with a sweetheart! How much did she cost, Clip? Did you pay for the night or only by the spurt? She’d have cost you less that way by far!’

‘Damn your soul, Jack Fletcher, you ruin anything!’

‘Never a good story though, Clip. Go on – make up some more!’

Clip ostentatiously turned his back on his comrade and spoke to Saint Lawrence and Turf. Horn, Dogbreath and Aletaster all appeared as he spoke.

‘It was a lovely manor, when I was a boy. The famine had passed through the year before I was born, and took both my brothers as well as many of the other youngsters in the vill, but at
least it meant that there was food for all. I had a happy childhood there.’ A chuckle from Jack made him spit: ‘At least I knew my parents!’