Blood on the Sand (43 page)

Grandarse looked desperately around, but there was nowhere, not even a bench, on which to sit him, so the three set him down on the ground as gently as they could.

The bolt that had hit him had penetrated his breast, and the point protruded from his back near his spine. John of Essex looked up at Grandarse and silently shook his head.

‘I know.’ Grandarse looked compassionately at the dying man. ‘Jean, there is no priest here to give you the words as they should, but if you have anything to confess, I can say
the
Pater Noster
for you.’

Jean looked up at him and shook his head. A cough sent him into a spasm of agony, and a gush of blood ran from his mouth and nostrils; he curled up, suffocating as the blood filled his lungs. He
wanted to say he was pleased to have escaped Gauvain’s fate, but as he tried to speak, the blood was thick in his throat, and he could only gasp and fight for breath.

‘Sweet Mother Mary, take pity on his poor soul,’ Grandarse prayed – and then pulled out his misericorde. He plunged it down into the man’s breast, stabbing the heart at
the first attempt.

‘That’s that, then,’ he muttered, standing again. There was a fresh clamour from the walls, and he glanced up. At the back wall, away from the tower, he saw more French
fighters. ‘Christ’s ballocks, but they’re tricksy bastards, these,’ he rasped. ‘John, fetch your vintaine and be quick! Tyler, help me move this poor devil.’

Grandarse took the arms, Tyler the legs, and they half-carried, half-dragged the body through into the main hall. There they dropped it on the floor. Marguerite looked at Jean’s face, then
up at Grandarse.

‘He’s not needing any help, mistress,’ he said. He was oddly affected to see how she looked at Berenger.
Frip, you old git,
he thought,
you’d best pull through,
for this one’s sake. The wench wants you in her bed rather than on your deathbed!

Aloud, he grunted, ‘How is he?’

‘He is a lot of pain. I hope he will live.’

‘Aye, so do we all,’ Grandarse said.

He led the way out of the main doors, and to the yard. At the stables, he beckoned Tyler to follow him. ‘See here,’ he said, pointing.

Tyler stared at the mess on the floor. ‘Yes?’

Grandarse had already drawn his dagger. Now he placed it at the back of Tyler’s skull, at the top of his neck. ‘I don’t like pricks who try to kill their superiors. Normally,
I’d wait until there was a court and I could accuse you myself.’

‘I didn’t do it, Grandarse! I was staring out at the French – I didn’t even know he was there!’

They were his last words.

‘Fripper’s a friend of mine, you see,’ Grandarse said as Tyler’s body twitched and shook. ‘And I won’t run the risk that you’ll escape punishment like
you did before over the Donkey.’

Berenger opened his eyes and felt the light stabbing through them and on into his brain. The agony was exquisite and he was forced to close them again.

There was a curious movement all about him – a jolting and a jarring. When he attempted to sit up, a whole new range of pains assailed him on all sides. His back felt as if an entire army
had used it for a kicking competition, while his head felt as though it was only loosely held to his neck and the slightest shock must force it free of its moorings.

A crash, and he was bumped viciously, crying out. He could have wept at the pain.

He was in a cart of some sort, that was plain. A cart that was taking him on a rough, poorly maintained road. And all about him, now he could concentrate, there was the sound of men on the
march: boots tramping along, squeaks and rattles of pots and pans, of leather harnesses, the clink and jingle of chains and mail, and then he heard the voices too.

‘I tell you, we’ll be too late.’ That was Clip’s familiar drone. The vintaine was all on horseback again.

‘We have plenty of time.’ Berenger was glad to hear Jack’s voice. ‘It’s unlikely that the siege will be ended any time soon.’

‘What?’ That was the Pardoner. ‘It’s been months already, and you say it’s no nearer being ended?’

‘Well, I don’t know for sure, but it’s quite likely to be carrying on even now. We’ve only been down here a little while, and the main thing is, the King was determined
to starve the Calesians out. He’s not going to go running in with his braies round his ankles. He’ll make sure it’s finished and on its knees and
then
he’ll assault
it.’

‘Who,’ Berenger asked carefully, for enunciating each word was making the top of his head feel as though a man had stuck an auger into it and was slowly screwing it in, ‘has
beaten me to a pulp? I want to know so I never insult him again. Where are we? What happened to the castle?’

Jack’s face came into view. ‘How are you, Frip?’

His face was pushed out of the way and Grandarse took his place. ‘Oh, so you’re awake, eh? About time, too. Talk about a bone-idle tart-tickler trying to escape all the hard work by
pretending to be ill, eh?’

‘Is he recovering?’

Berenger froze at the sound of that voice: Marguerite.

‘I’m well enough, Mistress,’ he said.

‘Be polite to her,’ Grandarse ordered. ‘She saved your life, man. Don’t you remember the fall?’

He could remember it now. He had come to consciousness a few times lying in the hall, but that all seemed a long time ago, and his memory was hazy, as though he was trying to catch glimpses of
his history through a befogged glass. ‘I remember you washing my face,’ he murmured to her.

She smiled and her hand, just for a moment, clasped his, before releasing it. He was confused – alarmed too, truth be told. But she was as kind as she was handsome. He tried to smile back
at her. Now he remembered more: the clatter and clash of battle, screams, the sight of a body on the floor . . . ‘Jean de Vervins is dead?’

‘He was hit by a bolt, poor bastard. Drowned in his own blood. So we offered to talk to the French and they agreed to a truce. They let us leave the place with our weapons, so here we are.
They were happy to be rid of us without any more dead, and we were happy just to get away in one piece. I don’t think we would have survived, had we stayed there longer.’

‘And Jean? What happened to his body?’

Grandarse’s face was grim. ‘They had to make an example of him. Leave a sign to others. They hanged him from the gatehouse.’

‘Poor Jean,’ Berenger said.

‘Could have been worse. He could have been alive,’ Grandarse pointed out.

Berenger managed a thin smile. ‘True.’

‘No. Don’t worry yourself about him. He’s happy now, hopefully,’ Grandarse said, and then added with a leer, glancing at Marguerite, ‘And anyway, you have to
concentrate on getting yourself healthy again so that you can lay siege to your woman’s honour.’

‘Grandarse, don’t—’

‘Time enough to warn me later,’ Grandarse chuckled.

‘What will happen to the castle? Are the local people taking it over?’

‘Not now it’s been the home of a traitor. The people of Laon are taking the place apart stone by stone. There’ll be some fine houses built around Bosmont before long, with all
that good stone becoming available. The local sheep-shaggers will have the best houses in France.’

‘So where do we go now?’

‘We, my fine friend, are on our way to Calais, at long last. I’m hoping that when we get there, we’ll discover that it’s still standing and that we’re needed to
help take it by storm. And then, with a little more luck, we’ll be able to take a goodly share of all the plunder and put our feet up for a while!’

He gave a great guffaw and began singing a bawdy tavern song about a miller’s wife and her sexual needs being fulfilled after meeting a lively pair of Northumbrians.

Berenger turned onto his side and winced with pain, but he was not thinking of his back and bruises. He was thinking about that day when he had fallen from the wall. He could distinctly recall
the floor on the wall’s walkway. It had been clear of all obstacles, and yet when he took that fateful step, something had tripped him. Something like a bow, out-thrust deliberately to make
him overbalance – because someone wanted him out of the way. And only one man had consistently been his enemy.

‘Where is Tyler?’ he asked.

Grandarse didn’t even look down. ‘Him?’ he said casually. ‘Oh, he died during the last attack.’

For once the weather was warm and dry, and Berenger sat on the bench outside the tavern drinking and soaking up the sun.

His head had recovered, and the bruises and scrapes seemed to be healing well, as was the scar on his face. Only his shoulder, where the maul had struck him, was still giving him problems. It
would regularly ache as the weather changed, or when there was the threat of a storm. He swung his arm, trying to release some of the tension, but nothing seemed to do it any good, apart from a
large quantity of ale.

‘You’re looking terrible,’ Archibald said. He had come around the corner of the building, and now stood staring down at Berenger with a genial sympathy creasing his
crow’s feet.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Berenger said. ‘I’ve never felt better.’

‘Yes. Of course,’ Archibald said, sitting at his side. He took hold of Berenger’s jug and drank deeply. ‘Hmm. Not as good as a cider, but tasty.’

‘Did you leave me any?’

‘Of course. A little.
Hoi!
Maid, two more quarts of this ale, if you please,’ he called to the serving wench. ‘With a face like hers she must be a marvellous servant,
for she was not hired for her looks.’

‘What, you came to discuss the merits of a woman’s appearance?’

‘No, I came to chat about treachery and spies.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘What do you think? Our young Donkey has a moderately good brain on his shoulders. He spotted a man who was regularly watching my gonnes. I didn’t think much of it at first, but then
I noticed that he liked to observe the English camp at different times of the day. And when Béatrice followed him, she learned that he is the clerk to Sir Peter of Bromley. Some call him
Vidame, as they would call the steward of an abbey.’

‘Many men wander around the town and stop to watch what is happening about our army.’

‘Ah, but not many try to inveigle young fellows to watch for them, to listen for chatter, and then to report back to them.’

‘This man has done so?’

‘Yes. And I do not know what to do about him.’

‘Perhaps you have mistaken him?’

‘He tried to entice the Donkey into working for him. It is to the lad’s credit that he refused. But Donkey suspects . . .’

‘Tell me.’

‘The other boy with you: Georges. Donkey reckons he has been running messages and giving him details of your men and what you have been doing.’

‘He will have learned nothing to help the French, then,’ Berenger said dryly.

‘Perhaps not. But it is something to consider, when speaking in his presence.’

‘Yes,’ Berenger said. ‘I suppose it is.’

It was to be a hard battle.

Three nights of rest were all Berenger would be permitted once they reached Calais once more. Three nights, and then the vintaine was called to arms once more. A mighty French convoy was on the
way to relieve the town.

‘Eh?’ Grandarse rumbled as he pulled his bascinet on over his head. ‘They must be starving indeed in that place now, with no new food since late last year. Down to eating their
boots and rats, I’d think. Aye, but that’s a crappy way to die, of starvation. We’re doing better up here, lads, eh? If we were still at the castle at Bosmont, we’d be in a
similar plight. Bugger that.’

‘Somehow I don’t think you’re cut out to starve to death, Grandarse,’ Berenger said, his tone mild.

‘Aye, that’s the truth. I’m the sort of man who needs a little sustenance.’

‘You’ve had more than a little in your lifetime. Your belly is a testament to how you worship at the altar of Bacchus and—’

‘Are you taking the piss?’ Grandarse growled. ‘I don’t want to have to thump you when you haven’t fully recovered from falling off that wall, man, but I will if I
have to knock some sense into your thick skull!’

‘We’re supposed to be on board,’ Berenger said. ‘Archers,
follow me
!’ and he led the men away from the fuming Grandarse to the quay and onto their vessel, a
heavy fishing boat.

The vintener had visited Tooth Butcher again, and the barber had taken a long look at him, before drinking a large jug of ale and saying, ‘You daft bastard, you. Look at you! All that
bruising, it’s a miracle you can still walk. Next time, take the stairs rather than trying to fly.’

Still, for all the humour taken at his expense, the fact that he appeared not to have broken any bones was a great relief. He still felt dreadfully sore, but at least there was no long-term
damage, as far as the barber could tell. He volunteered to take some blood, but Berenger was so sore already that he refused to consider it.

They were out at sea for most of the morning. The French fleet had been waiting in the mouth of the Seine: ten large cogs and a barge filled with the food so desperately needed by the people of
Calais. These were guarded by ten galleys and a number of armed merchantmen – some fifty-one ships all told. This was the fleet that the English were to destroy.