Blood on the Sand (51 page)

They had been there, waiting, for four long days after the two French Cardinals had negotiated a truce. Four days of sleeping in the trenches and at the barricades at the
front, all the time wondering when the talking would stop and they would be sent off to fight once more. Four restless, uncomfortable days and cold, damp evenings, with poor food and worse
drink.

It was the same two Cardinals who had tried, unsuccessfully, to negotiate peace all those miles before, just after they had taken Caen: Cardinal Pietro, who said he was from Piacenza, and
Cardinal Roger, who looked to Berenger as though he had chewed on a diet of underripe sloes. The tracks at either side of his nose were deeply graven into his flesh like razor scars, and his
posture was stiff, like a man holding in his anger with difficulty. Pietro looked more like a man who was dog tired after too much travel and too little sleep.

The two Cardinals rode to the bridge at Nieulay and waited, asking to speak with men of suitable rank. After some time, they were offered safe passage and, without glancing to either side, they
went to present their messages.

Sir John was nearby and saw Berenger’s eyes following the Cardinals.

‘Fripper, go with them and make sure they aren’t robbed again.’

The last time the Cardinals had arrived, some Welsh knifemen had stolen their horses and money. Berenger nodded to his knight and ran off after the two.

It was a curious group, more because of the way the English soldiery reacted than because of the two Cardinals themselves, who were only too aware of the contempt in which they were held. On all
sides, English archers and men-at-arms watched, and while some guffawed or taunted the visitors, for the most part the men viewed the Cardinals in much the same way that they would have viewed a
traitor. Berenger thought again about Bertucat. He had stabbed him quickly in the heart, and there was almost a look of gratitude in the big man’s eyes as his soul passed away. It was one
good deed Berenger had managed in a life of warfare: the alternative was always there in the back of his mind – the body of the young Scotsman outside Durham and the strips of flesh cut from
his breast and limbs lying all about the butcher’s floor where the executioners had let it fall.

The Cardinals were greeted with intense mistrust. On the other occasions when these two had appeared, it was always to argue that the English should swallow the insults doled out to them by the
French and return all their winnings. It was to the credit of King Edward that he would not listen to such villainy. He believed he had come to France to correct a terrible wrong. His right to
inherit France had been wrested from him by Philippe de Valois and his allies, who took the Crown, ignoring King Edward’s claim through his mother by taking the outrageous step of changing
the law to deny the ancient right of inheritance through the female line.

And while declaring that he had no ambitions to control England, King Philippe had drawn up plans to invade. The English had found them while searching through the records of Caen: detailed
agreements with the people of Normandy for ships, men and weaponry, stipulating how the spoils would be divided. Since King Edward’s publication of these discoveries at every church in the
country, the English had learned to distrust French protestations of innocence. Many black looks showed the feelings of the troopers towards these Cardinals who always tried to defend the French
Crown.

Berenger stood with the two men as they were presented to the Earls of Lancaster and Northamptonshire. They asked for a truce so that negotiations could begin.

This was granted. The English had great pavilions erected just inside their lines, and both sides sent earls, lords and knights to discuss terms. But while the French accepted that Calais was
lost, they demanded that all the inhabitants should be released with all their goods and chattels intact and protected. They repeated the offers made before, of returning Aquitaine to the English
Crown, but only as it had been held before, as a fief of the French Crown.

The talking went on throughout the four days, and at the end of the first day Berenger was already bored to madness with the whole affair. The French were haggling over a few goods and dickering
about Aquitaine, but it was like a gambler offering bets
after
a race. They knew their bolt was shot: they had nothing with which to negotiate. For all the bombast and arrogance of the Dukes
of Athens and Bourbon, and the others with them, it was plain that the offer of Aquitaine would never be acceptable. The English could retake it whenever they wished, and no English King, after
trouncing French military might at the field of Crécy, would be ready to surrender all those victories in order to submit to a French King for lands held by right for centuries. But nor
would the French delegation agree to allow the lands to pass to the English without acknowledgement of the French claims to overlordship. That would be a humiliation too far.

Berenger heard that the French were finished on the fourth day and felt a certain relief as he took his whetstone from about his neck, picked up his sword, and began to sweep the stone along the
blade. The sound was soothing.

Next morning, 31 July, a fresh delegation arrived, demanding that the English should come out of their defensive position and instead fight the French on land chosen by both sides.

‘Shit, Frip – the King won’t agree, will he?’ Jack whispered as news filtered down to them of the proposal.

‘He cannot with honour refuse,’ the Earl said. His brows rose in contemplation. ‘A knight must always respond to a challenge, or he will lose face. To stay hidden behind our
defences when invited to an equal battle, that would be the act of a coward. Do you think our King a coward?’

‘Aye, well, we’ll all be killed if we go out there,’ Clip said cheerily.

‘Shut up, Clip,’ Jack said.

‘What’ll we do then? Pick a place best suited for the French?’ Aletaster asked.

Berenger shook his head. ‘The terms offered are, that four knights from either side should agree on a field of battle, and that safe conduct will be offered to all on the march. Meanwhile,
the town will remain unvictualled and effectively ours.’

‘What’s to stop the bastard French from sending a strong force here to push through our men and liberate the town?’ Dogbreath demanded. ‘They’ll divide our forces
in two, and then cut us down separately. Everyone knows you can’t trust the French!’

The answer to that came sooner than anyone had expected.

The following evening, Berenger was called over by Grandarse.

‘Fripper, what’s that?’

High on the castle’s topmost tower, a series of flames were showing.

‘They’re signalling to the French,’ Berenger said.

‘Shite, man! What are they saying?’

‘Grandarse, do you have lard for brains? How the hell should I know?’

‘You should show your centener more respect,’ Grandarse grumbled, yanking his hosen upwards. He stared grimly at the castle walls. ‘Well, we’ll know soon
enough.’

And they did. Before the second watch of the night, shouts and horns jerked Berenger from his sleep. Climbing to his feet, he rubbed his eyes bemusedly. ‘What is it?’

Jack, a few yards away, said, ‘I don’t know, Frip, but I think we’ve seen ’em off.’

‘What?’

All along the hills of Sangatte, an orange glow was visible, and the thick billows of smoke above could mean only one thing.

Clip began to dance and sing: ‘They’ve fucking given up, Frip! They’re burning their tents and stores behind them and fucking well fucking off! We’re bleeding
safe!’

Berenger wandered the streets that night filled with a vague sense of expection. English fighters were raucously, triumphantly drunk and made their feelings known to one and
all. The massive French army that had appeared and given all of them such great fear was gone, and that was cause for celebration, just as much as it was a source of despair for the people inside
the town.

The wretched folk who had been evicted from Calais lay slumped or curled where they had starved to death near the gates, but now those who had pushed them from the town were preparing themselves
for their own deaths. Few, if any, had thought that their own King could betray them so unchivalrously. Philippe had deserted them, even after their long battle to protect his town for him, and now
a constant wailing and keening could be heard from behind the walls.

Berenger hated that sound. It grated on nerves that were already raw after so many months waiting for the fall of the place. He wasn’t alone, he knew. Most of the men felt the same. But it
was only when he was approaching the vintaine’s camp again that he realised how deeply the noise was affecting the others. He suddenly came across Marguerite, standing stock still in the
roadway, her eyes full of tragedy as she listened to the cries of despair.

‘They know they must die,’ she whispered.

‘It’s likely,’ he admitted. People died all the time, of course, and while it was sad when it was a friend or comrade, the death of others was less striking. He had seen so
many deaths – from those of the first wave of fighters after their landing and during the long march to Crécy, to men like the young French esquire, like Tyler and Jean de Vervins. All
of them were missed, he supposed, by someone.

‘What if my children are in there?’ Marguerite said, and her face crumpled like an old sack, making her look worn and haggard.

He had not thought about her and how she must miss her family in many weeks. Her family was broken up, and she had no idea whether her other children were alive or dead. She had maintained a
dignified manner all along, but now, listening to the howls of the folk of Calais, she could keep up the pretence no longer. She was terrified that her children were slain, and her husband too.

Berenger put his arms about her, resting his cheek on her head, making shushing noises and trying to calm her as she sobbed. And he found that his heart was swelling with something like
sympathy. He swallowed the lump that had risen in his throat.

‘It’s all right, maid. I’ll look after you,’ he found himself saying. ‘You’ll be safe with me.’

Calais surrendered.

The town had no option but to capitulate. Later, they learned that the signals on the castle’s tower were to tell the French King that the town had nothing left, and that unless he came to
save them, the people must surrender. Without the means to save them, the French army had packed and left, rather than witness the shameful loss of another town.

A messenger came and asked the English for terms, and Sir Walter Manny went to the town’s walls. At the gates, he told them that King Edward would give them no terms: they had held out for
almost a year, much to his anger, and they could not expect mercy at this stage. The English King would take what he wanted, and he would kill or ransom anyone he chose.
Those
were his
terms.

Berenger heard Sir Walter as he shouted up at the walls: ‘This siege has cost our King too much, in money and in lives, for him to offer you clemency.’

The answer came from Jean de Vienne: ‘We have only served our King loyally as knights and squires and men-at-arms. Would you punish us for our fealty? You would do the same in our place,
Sir Walter.’

It was a heartfelt plea, and one which struck a chord amongst many of the men standing listening outside the walls. Berenger could admire the man’s words. They were chosen to go right to
the heart of any warrior. After all, many there had the same thought: if the town were to be punished for holding true to the values of chivalry, and the men killed for obeying the orders of their
King, then any man who stood to protect his own town under his King could be executed. More than one man eyed his companion and saw similar reasoning passing through his mind.

Eventually the answer was given. The English King would allow all to keep their lives, although he would arrest and ransom any whom he saw fit. However, the town must send him the six most
important people, all with ropes about their necks, and bearing the keys of the town, to be at the King’s mercy.

‘You’ll be there, Frip,’ Sir John said.

Berenger nodded. He had an odd feeling that this would finally prove to be the end of their long campaign. It would be good to see the last act of this great play.

It was, so Berenger had heard, the third of August that morning. There was nothing auspicious about the day. Just a moderate morning, with a few high clouds in a bright sky. It
was not overwarm, even in the sun. The summer was waning already.

Berenger stood at the westernmost edge of the English workings with the rest of his vintaine. Before them, they could see the pavilion under which King Edward and his entourage would gather,
while leftwards the road passed up through the terrible debris of war, to the gates of the town. Soon, he knew, the town would send out their sacrifices to meet the King’s justice. A dais had
been erected under the pavilion, and on it were two thrones.

Mass for the men was finished, and the whole of the English army had been mustered. Rank upon rank, at least two tens of thousands of archers, knights, men-at-arms, long-haired Welsh knifemen,
fair Hainaulters and Flemings, and even camp-followers. Women thronged the edges, and Berenger spotted Archibald and Béatrice standing near a group of carters and tradesmen. Everyone who had
been involved with the army for the last year was present.