Blood on the Sand (10 page)

‘He is well enough there,’ Grimault said, and cast a sly look at him.

If there were to be a battle, Berenger wanted at least one of his men there, beside the ship’s drum, so that he and his men could swiftly take control and turn matters to their own
benefit.

‘He doesn’t get ill.’

Grimault laughed. ‘If we call battle orders, he will be held comfortably, just as you will. You have no need of subterfuge on board my ship. You are our friends. This is a matter of honour
with us, you see. We rescued you – we will not wish to harm you.’

‘But you caught us.’

‘Yes. And I promised that you would come to no harm, did I not? That is why I was forced to liberate you. I was going to break in the cardinal’s door to remove you.’

Berenger scowled. ‘How did you know we were there? Didn’t you go to the gaol first?’

‘Yes, of course. But the gaoler had already shown us that you were no longer in the cell.’

‘It was good fortune for you to decide to rescue us on the very day the cardinal decided he would see us executed.’

‘Ah, perhaps there was some fortune in it.’

Berenger nodded with comprehension. ‘The gaoler was bribed to warn you, was he?’

‘No, of course not!’ Grimault said, scandalised. ‘I would not pay another man’s servant to break his own oaths. The gaoler was sworn to secrecy. However, his pot boy was
not. So, as soon as the gaoler was told, the pot boy came to find me, and naturally we then came to find you.’

‘But why?’

‘As I said: I promised no harm would come to you.’

‘So you chose to come and free us?’ Berenger didn’t believe the man. ‘You are a mercenary, paid by the French. Surely this will damage your reputation?’

‘Me? My friend, I own this ship! If the French cardinal wishes to complain to the King, he may do so. I will remind them that I fight under my terms, and if they do not like them, I
reserve the right to remove myself. I gave you my word as a man of honour, and that French priest would have dishonoured me. I will not allow that. Not after the last weeks.’

Berenger felt he understood a little better. ‘The battle?’

Grimault shot him a look. The smile faded now as he nodded. ‘Yes, I speak of Crécy. The French asked Genoa to help in the war against you English, and then, when they went ahead on
the battlefield at Crécy and were hopelessly outmatched against your English arrows, the French rode through them and cut them down. I am told that more were slaughtered by the French
cavalry than were slain by your companions.’

Two of his friends had been there, he said. One, Iacme, was only a boy, and had fought well for his French masters, but his reward had been an early death at the hands of a French man-at-arms.
Chrestien would find that hard to forgive or forget.

Berenger saw his hard expression and said gruffly, ‘I was there. I saw the French ride into them.’

Chrestien nodded grimly. ‘We know of this. All Genoa will have heard by now. It does not leave us filled with warmth and respect for our allies, to know that they slew so many of us. We
will be looking more to our own requirements in the future, rather than slavishly following the commands of the French.’

‘Will you come to the English side with your ship?’ Berenger asked hopefully. If he were to return to the sea, he would prefer not to have to endure another attack by a powerful
craft such as this.

‘No, because I have my contract. I will remain true to my word and uphold my honour. I will not overstep the bounds of common sense.’

John of Essex had joined them, and at this he frowned. ‘But you are free to go where you will?’

Chrestien nodded seriously. ‘Yes, my friend. But who would hire me or my ships if I gained a reputation for running? No man would want to give me a contract if I was considered a turncoat.
Nobody likes an unreliable soldier.’

He saw the look on Berenger’s face and laughed.

‘Come, Master Berenger, be happy! You are free, on a fast ship, heading homewards, alive and well. And if you fear seeing my flag on the horizon again – well, be merry! All you need
do is submit gracefully and at speed, and all will be well. Perhaps next time I will take you to another French commander, one in whom I have more confidence.’

‘There won’t be a next time,’ Berenger said. ‘By my faith, next time we meet at sea, I will catch
you
!’

Chrestien laughed again, but Berenger was frowning at the sea ahead.

‘Where are you taking us now?’

‘I cannot go too close to the English, for they will fire upon me and I would not have them injure my men. We shall aim for a place I know. From there it is less than ten miles to Calais.
You can walk that, I think, without difficulty.’

‘Certainly,’ Berenger said, but as he spoke, he glanced to the left and saw another vessel, a small fishing boat with two men labouring away. A flash caught his eye.

It was nothing: only a brief flash behind one of the men, but it was enough to pique his interest. ‘What is that?’

‘What?’ Grimault said mildly, but didn’t turn his head. He stared resolutely ahead.

Berenger peered through the slight heat haze. There was so much sparkling where the sun’s light bounced, it was like trying to stare into a mass of stars. He looked away, then back; he
rubbed his eyes and squeezed them tightly, and then, as the sea shifted and the boat dipped low in the water, he saw it: a mass of ships, tightly packed together in a river’s estuary.

He turned away, aware of the Genoese’s prattling. Those ships were massing for a purpose, and he was sure that it would bode ill for the English.

Béatrice returned from fetching food at the market at Villeneuve-la-Hardie, but did not speak to Archibald.

The old gynour had fixed her with a sympathetic eye when she returned three days ago. He understood her. Her despair was bitter, but if the vintaine was gone, it was gone. There was no point
swooning and complaining. So, as soon as she got back to his little camp by the guns, she set about making their supper.

She felt sad when she saw young Donkey. He sat huddled, not looking at her, behaving as she would expect a five year old might. Georges tried to tempt him into playing, but Donkey just snapped
at him and turned his back. And she understood. He was orphaned, like her. He was young, with fire in his groin like a man, but he had no understanding about the urges that were overwhelming him.
Perhaps she should let him have her. They were all outcasts. She had no good name to lose: she was an unwanted Frenchwoman, good only for a quick fuck before slitting her throat. Ed too was
worthless, a mere drudge to fetch and carry, of no value whatever, while Archibald was viewed askance because he was in league with the Devil. All knew that: the whiff of brimstone followed him
wherever he went. Only those who associated with the Devil could cause those hideous explosions that slaughtered so many. Men had seen him, it was said, at the Battle at Crécy, fighting with
the strength of ten when the French threatened to overrun his gonne. No Christian could have done that. He had slaughtered more than a hundred men, it was rumoured.

It was all so much stuff and nonsense. She had been there with him. He did kill a few men, it was certain, but not as many as the archers with their deadly missiles. Compared with them,
Archibald was harmless. But no matter: the men looked at him with their superstitions confirmed and enhanced.

‘Do you think we’ll see Fripper again?’ Ed asked, stirring her from her thoughts.

‘No,’ she said starkly. It was better to deal with harsh truths than try to hide them beneath a coating of sugar. ‘The French took them, and will kill them.’ She felt a
tear start as she said this, and dashed it away angrily. The vintaine was not her family, it was merely a number of misfits and rogues, she thought – and then instantly chided herself.
Berenger and his men were better than that. Well, most of them, certainly.

‘It’s not fair!’ he burst out.

She felt her sympathy evaporate. ‘Fair? What is fair? I have lost my father, my family, and also my own people! Now we lose the only men I could trust as well, and you say this too is not
fair. What is fairness in life? I don’t know!’

‘I didn’t mean, I didn’t . . .’

‘You didn’t think, did you? You lose something and you think the world will end. For me, the world has ended already. Oh, go away! Go and see if you can find Archibald. Leave me
alone!’

She marched off to the cart as Donkey hung his head and mooched away after Archibald, followed by his young companion, Georges. She was about to pour herself a second mazer of wine when she
heard strange noises. Peering down the road, she saw a wagon appear, behind which, men and women were being dragged. There were no children.

All about the wagon, men in a mixture of ill-fitting leather and mail prodded and pushed the wailing women and silent, bitter men with the butt-ends of their lances and staffs. The noise
continued unabated.

‘Will you lot shut up!’ the captain cried. ‘You think the whole town wants to hear you moaning?’

‘Who are these?’ Béatrice asked as he drew level with her. He was a man of middle height, with thick, wavy brown hair and eyes that had a gleam of kindness in them, she
noticed.

‘These? Fine French fillies for our men to enjoy,’ the man said with a wolfish leer as he gazed down at her, picturing the delights within her dress.

Reviewing her initial impression of him, she stared pointedly at his face.

He noticed and reddened slightly, clearing his throat. Perhaps he was not so bad, after all.

She said, ‘What of the men?’

‘Them? They’re all from the same place,’ the man said. ‘Bloody rebels who’d dare take up knives and swords against their King. They don’t seem to realise that
our Edward is their legitimate ruler. They think they can still argue and reject him, as though he has not been anointed. Well, they’ll learn respect.’

‘Where are you taking them?’

‘The men to the gaol, the women to the brothel.’

She watched as the wagon lumbered on, rattling and crashing along the unpaved roadway, and the sobs and cries of the prisoners could be heard clearly even over that racket.

While she watched, she became aware of someone passing close to her. This woman was older, perhaps thirty – it was hard to tell, since the lines were so deeply graven on her face and brow
– and she walked like one in a daze. She was handsome rather than pretty, but had the kind of elegance that came from good parentage. Her face was oval, and her blue eyes slanted and
doe-like, but her thick reddish-gold hair was slathered with mud and muck, and she walked as though the mere action of placing one foot before another was enough in itself to confirm her position
in the world.

‘Mistress?’ Béatrice said hesitantly as the woman passed. She was fascinated by her, and wondered where she had come from. She fell into step beside her. ‘Are you
thirsty? Hungry? You want something to eat?’

‘No.’

The voice seemed to come from a long way away, and when Béatrice glanced down, she saw that the woman had no shoes of any sort, but was padding along gently because her feet were swollen
and bloody.

‘Mistress, you should come and wash your feet. Come with me.’

She took the woman to Archibald’s encampment, and there she bathed the woman’s feet in a bowl Archibald used for mixing his experiments. He was scandalised at first, but when he
caught a glimpse of Béatrice’s face, he said nothing, merely standing aside and sending Ed for more food.

Later, Béatrice coaxed the woman into speaking. She was called, she said, Marguerite.

‘My village is destroyed. My husband is dead and I hope my children escaped, but I do not know where they have gone. I have walked up here to try to find them. Have you seen them? They are
Georges, Henri and Alice. Georges is the oldest at eleven, while Alice is only five. Henri is eight. My husband and I . . . we lost so many babies in between the three. So many. And now,’ she
added, her voice trailing away, ‘I have lost these too . . .’

She sat on a log, and the tears began to run down her cheeks, but she made no sound. She was too weary to sob or cry.

Archibald had returned as she began to talk, and he silently fetched the woman a mazer of strong red wine. Now, hearing the name Georges, he started. He was about to open his mouth, when
Béatrice hushed him with a look. It was the sort of look that could pin a man to a tree at thirty paces.

It was possible that Ed’s friend was her son, but the chances of this being the same boy were remote. Georges was a not uncommon name. It would be terrible to raise her hopes, only then to
dash them.

‘How long ago did you lose them?’

‘Two weeks. I have been searching for them, and I’ve not stopped looking. I do love them, you see,’ she said, looking at Béatrice as though seeking reassurance. ‘I
do love them.’

Béatrice could say nothing. She put her arms about the woman as her own tears flowed. The woman wept for her children and her husband, but Béatrice wept for her, for her children,
for her village, and for herself and all France.