Blood on the Sand (45 page)

Béatrice experienced a wave of relief on the day the vintaine returned, but her joy was short-lived when Berenger was nowhere to be seen.

‘What is it?’ Ed demanded.

‘He is not there!’ It was only when she realised that Berenger
was
there, and sitting up in the cart that she recovered her equanimity.

‘No, he’s gone,’ Ed was insisting.

‘Who?’

‘Tyler – Mark of London, of course. Why, who did you think?’

She said nothing, only blushed, but suddenly the boy’s face hardened when he saw Berenger too. But then she was running to greet the vintener – and quickly forgot the expression on
his face.

It came back to her now though, as she approached Marguerite’s side, a look of mingled jealousy and hurt.

‘I am glad to see you back safely,’ she said.

‘I thank you,’ Marguerite replied, but there was no joy in her tone.

‘I have heard that you saved Berenger from death.’

‘I nursed him, but he has a hard head. It took little to save him, in truth. Only a little comforting.’

Béatrice forbore to ask how much comforting. ‘You seem concerned.’

The woman shot her a glance, and then she licked her lips. ‘Béatrice, you are a Frenchwoman. I am sure you are loyal to the men here, too, but you also have some feeling for our
people, don’t you?’

‘I have no people,’ Béatrice said flatly.

‘But I am your friend?’

‘Yes, you are my friend.’

‘I am worried about my son,’ Marguerite burst out. ‘He is a good boy, but he is keeping something from me. He is working hard with the archers, but how can I entice him to open
up to me?’

‘I have no children. I cannot advise.’

‘But you have Ed. He treats you as his mother.’

Béatrice shook her head. ‘No.’

Marguerite said nothing, but then her mouth formed a perfect ‘Oh’.

‘He is desperately jealous. Perhaps your Georges has also fallen in love?’

‘No, I feel sure it is something different.’

‘Then you must ask him, and do not stop until he explains.’

‘Béatrice, I am terrified of what his answer may be!’

‘You must. It is worse to wonder,’ Béatrice said. And then, with a great heave of resolution: ‘Speak to Berenger. See what he thinks. You can trust his
advice.’

Ed sat by the wall of the fort and stared out at the view. There was not much to look at here, only a series of braziers installed on the walls of the town. The people were
petrified that the English might attempt to take the place by force, he knew. That was why they had lights all along the walls, to make sure that there were no darkened routes by which the English
might cross and climb to overrun the place.

Béatrice was in love with Berenger. The truth was plain, and it hurt to know it, but at least now he could see it. She was a solid, unyielding woman, but she was comforting. He
couldn’t blame Berenger. Whenever Ed himself had been injured or merely alarmed, it was Béatrice who had come to give him sympathy and support. She was that sort of woman. But right at
this moment, it felt as though Ed had lost her. And without her, he was bereft.

There was a brief flare of light. Nothing much, but he thought it came from down at the water’s edge – not at the English shore, but on the Calesian side. He squinted in the dark,
trying to see something that could have caused the flash, but decided it must merely have been the light reflecting on the sea from a brazier up on the walls. And yet, when he looked at the walls
again, he realised that some of the lights were extinguished. There was a gap of some yards where no flares at all were lit. There was no movement, no indication of men. All was perfectly still,
dark and calm. There was nothing for him to grow excited about.

And yet . . .

He was young, he knew, but after living with the soldiers for so many months, some vestiges of their training must have been absorbed into his soul. The thought of waking Archibald filled him
with dread, for the gynour could be a terror when his sleep was disturbed, but that was less alarming than the thought that a force could have slipped over the Calesian wall and even now be
hurrying to the English fortress to slaughter the inhabitants. He knew what he must do.

Slowly and full of trepidation, he crossed to the rear of the fortress and called to Archibald. ‘Sir?’

‘What is it?’ the gynour demanded. ‘There’s something wrong – I can smell it.’

The Donkey was only grateful that he hadn’t already been beaten. ‘Sir, they have put out some lights at the fortress and now I can’t see anything.’

‘Show me.’

They returned to the wall and the two peered out.

‘You’re right,’ Archibald said. ‘They’ve shut out some of their lights. Why would they do that, I wonder?’

‘I thought they could be crossing to attack us here.’

Archibald’s eyes flitted over the water. There was no sign of men crossing the water, and yet . . . ‘There, boy! Can you see that?’

‘What?’ the Donkey said, but Archibald was already turning and bellowing.

‘
Boats!
Boats from Calais escaping! Guards!’

Archibald scrambled to the top of the wall, thinking hard. What could the guards do? Nothing – it was too late. Yet he had his gonnes here. And what was more, he had time
to use them.

Archibald grabbed the lamb’swool swab and ran to the mouth of the nearest gonne. He rammed it into the barrel, turning it to remove any dampness from the cool evening air. Then he hurried
back and snatched up the powder measure. Wrenching the top from one of the powder barrels, he scooped up a good quantity. Curtly telling Donkey to put the lid back on, he went to the gonne and
carefully loaded it. Then he took a bag of stones and pushed it into the barrel. Ramming it with the stave of the powder measure, he ensured that the bag was well seated before hurrying to the
firing hole. There was some charcloth in his tinderbox, and he struck flint and his knife to make a spark, blowing gently on the cloth as it caught the spark and began to smoulder.

‘Get back, boy!’ he roared to Ed. ‘Stay out there and you may lose your head!’

Over the barrel, he took a long spike and cleared the vent hole, then tipped out a little fine powder from his neck-flask. He took the match and stick, and blew on his charcloth until it was
glowing nicely, and set that to the match, blowing steadily but gently until the match was red and spitting – and then he rammed it into the vent. There was a
whoomph
, a flash of
blinding yellow-red light, and then a fizzing cone of smoke and flame leaped up from the vent as, with an earth-jarring roar, the gonne fired. It lighted the whole area of sea, including the two
small boats which were rowing as quickly as they could away from Calais.

Through the clouds this fleeting glimpse was enough. Now the English camp was all astir, and cries and horn blasts at the waterside showed that the boats had been spotted.

‘Boy,’ Archibald said, his big bearded face grinning from ear to ear, ‘there is nothing so satisfying as waking an entire army before dawn!’

‘Yes, Gynour.’

‘But don’t make a habit of it, eh? I can be real grouchy without my sleep – and you can see how dangerous that is!’

Berenger was deeply asleep when the sudden roar of the gonne woke him as well as the others in the vintaine.

‘What the f . . .’ he cried as he jerked awake, reaching for his sword.

Grandarse burst into their room, his eyes wild, a long dagger in his fist, hair all awry. ‘Did you hear that? Fripper, the bastards have attacked us! They must have the Devil himself on
their side to make that racket! Did ye hear the—’

‘Grandarse, in Christ’s name be silent!’ Berenger halted the flow. ‘What did you actually see?’

‘See?’ Grandarse suddenly realised the kind of figure he must cut as he looked down at his bare bony legs and shirted breast. He stuck his chin out aggressively in case anyone wanted
to laugh at him, but before he could make a comment, Jack ran in.

‘Frip, there are two boats trying to escape!’

Berenger raised a hand to stop him. ‘Do we have any idea who’s in them?’

‘No.’

‘That explosion: was it from the town?’

‘No, it was bloody Archibald again. He was firing at the boats, I reckon.’

‘Did he hit them?’

Jack gave him a withering look. ‘What do you think?’

‘Oh. I see.’

‘So the boats are getting away, Frip.’

‘Oh, God’s ballocks, I suppose we’ll have to try to catch them, then.’ Berenger grimaced and pulled on a cloak against the cold. ‘Jack, I want the whole vintaine
– with grappling hooks and axes. No need for everyone to bring bows – just you, Clip, Oliver and Dogbreath. Georges, you too,’ he added. He watched the boy as he pulled on a jack.
There was nothing in his behaviour to show that he was in any way a betrayer of the men. Berenger found Archibald’s words hard to believe. But the gynour was convinced – that much was
clear.

They were soon at the waterside climbing into a large boat with a small sail and five oars each side. Berenger looked down at it with a feeling of revulsion. This was the sort of vessel that
would buck and roll with every little slap of a wave against the hull, he thought, but it was the fastest craft big enough to hold his men. He climbed into it reluctantly, holding his sword against
his side, and stood near the mast. The master cast off, with many muttered comments about ‘Fucking archers, think they rule the bleeding harbour . . .’ and were soon rowing steadily
along the channel in pursuit of the two little ships.

Berenger could see the sails far away on the horizon, and felt certain that they would never catch them. Still, the master appeared convinced that with his little boat they could overhaul their
quarry.

‘It’s a matter of the length of the craft, the size of the sail, and the width of the hull. With this little darling, I can catch about anything in half a morning,’ he said. He
had sparse grey hair and the kind of thin skin that looked as if it would tear like parchment, but there was a confidence and solidity to him as he stood at the tiller that spoke of years of
experience. ‘Look at ’em, eh? Someone in that one to port has had some experience, but the boat to starboard? He’s going to be in trouble soon.’

‘Why?’

‘Because,’ the mariner said, glancing up at his sail and nodding to himself as if pleased, ‘that boat is straying too close to the shore. The sands are very shallow here
– and the tide’s on the turn.’

Berenger shrugged with confusion. ‘Which means?’

The shipman made a comment under his breath that sounded like ‘land monkeys’, and then pointed. ‘See the sand there? It shelves shallowly. That means the water under the boat
is not deep. As the tide moves away, the water will leave him on the sands and he’ll be stuck until the tide comes in again.’

Berenger nodded. ‘So we can catch him. Good.’

‘No.’ The man closed his eyes with exasperation. ‘Is this boat smaller than that? No. It’s bigger. That means it goes down further in the water, which means that if
that
craft is beached, so will we be. Sooner. So we will leave that arse to his own devices and continue on this course.’

‘That other boat’s heading more out to sea,’ Berenger said warily, not wanting to display more ignorance.

‘Aye, he is. But he’s too small to want to stay out. And where’s he off to? London? He’s an enemy of ours, so he has to come back in to the coast at some point. And that
means he’ll have to cut in towards us. So we’ll have him.’

Berenger nodded. As he did, he looked at the boat that was in danger of being caught on the sands. Surely it was a decoy? he thought. The little craft was deliberately heading towards the sands
because the sailor wanted to tempt Berenger’s craft after it, and see it beached, while the other boat escaped.

But as he gazed at it, he saw that the vessel was changing direction. Now, rather than remaining over the shallow sands where it would be trapped, it was moving out towards the main channel
again.

‘Hold!’ he said. There was something familiar about the figure in the boat. ‘Jack, the man in the boat there – do you recognise him?’

‘He looks like the Genoese.’

‘Chrestien de Grimault,’ Berenger murmured. Then, ‘Master, we will go after this little boat. I had thought that the other ship was more important, but now I think our Genoese
friend is the more likely to be our correct target.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Hold to this course, and we shall have every opportunity to catch both, will we not?’ Jack said.

‘Aye.’

They continued on. For once, none of the archers threw up, even though the boat was rolling and diving quite alarmingly as the tide pulled away. The ship kept as close to the shore as the master
deemed safe, and all the way they kept their eyes on the vessel with Chrestien de Grimault on board.

‘Frip! Look out there!’ Clip said.

The other little boat was coming closer and closer now, and for a wild moment Berenger thought it would come and ram their craft, but at the last second it turned, a little more than a bowshot
away.

‘He’s trying to tempt you out after him,’ the master grunted.