Blood on the Sand (11 page)

The raiding party they met initially wanted to run them through for practice, but when Berenger and Jack bellowed out their names and confirmed that Grandarse was their captain
and Sir John de Sully their banneret, the esquires, who had been seeking a little excitement, ruefully raised their spear-points and trotted away in search of more exciting targets.

It was in the middle of the afternoon when they were finally brought to Sir John. They had slept one night on the galley before Chrestien de Grimault set them down on a sandy shore a scant three
leagues from the town of Calais. From there they could see the smoke from the fires rising and drifting out to sea from the English camp. It took them only a little time to reach their
comrades.

‘We all thought you had died at sea. Many saw the battle,’ Sir John de Sully said. He was standing at his table, a smile twisting his mouth while he chewed on an apple. ‘Your
return was unexpected, but naturally it’s a delight to have you back here safe.’

‘We thought we were going to die,’ Berenger said. He stood before the knight with his hands in his belt, a new one that he had taken from a stall outside before anyone could stop
him. Next, he wanted a sword again, and a knife. Walking about without a weapon left him feeling distinctly vulnerable.

‘Your ship sank?’

Berenger grunted. ‘The galley rammed us. We didn’t stand a chance.’

‘And you were captured?’

Berenger told the whole story, and the knight nodded, asking questions occasionally, laughing out loud at the tale of the vintaine’s escape, but when Berenger spoke of the fleet in the
river, he grew quiet. ‘And you are sure of this?’

‘Yes, Sir John. I saw them quite clearly. My eyes aren’t very good, but I couldn’t mistake them. The sun kept glinting on weapons, too. They were not galleys, but merchant cogs
in the main. I couldn’t count them all.’

‘That’s surely not possible, though,’ Sir John said with a frown. ‘We have had raids launched out towards the east several times. The King is determined to keep himself
warned about threats, so he has had parties sent on chevauchée, riding out in all directions to see if there are any French forces about. The only men we have found so far have been down to
the east and south, but nothing in the estuaries or rivers. He has instructed us to hunt down all enemy ships. We do not wish the Calesians to gain any aid, be it food or reinforcements.’

Berenger considered. ‘Perhaps these ships were missed? They were further away, and could only be viewed from the sea, I think. From land they would be hard to reach because of the mudflats
and dangerous sands about that part of the coast.’

‘I am sure you are right. Did they seem ready to sail?’

‘I couldn’t be sure – I’m no seaman – but I don’t see why they wouldn’t be.’

‘They must be there to break the siege. Perhaps they mean to sail to Calais with supplies,’ Sir John mused. He sat and stroked his bearded chin. ‘If they do, we must meet them
and stop them. The last thing we want is for supplies to reach the garrison now. That could extend the siege for weeks – or even months!’

Berenger nodded, but from his perspective his work was done. He had passed on his news. ‘I must find us all some food, sir. And I must re-arm myself and the men.’

‘You all had your arms taken? That’s a bad show. Do you have any money for new weaponry?’

‘No, sir. But we’re owed our pay.’

Sir John stood and went to the door, shouting to his esquire: ‘Richard! Come here! Find that useless knave of a clerk and tell him I want money for the vintaine. They need new weapons and
armour – and clothes too, from the look and smell of them,’ he added with a pointed glance at Berenger’s stained jerkin and hosen. ‘The old ones need washing . . . or
burning.’

Marguerite was alarmed at first when the vintaine returned.

As soon as she saw him, she thought Berenger a grim-faced man who carried himself as if he bore the weight of all his command on his shoulders. The man Jack also rarely smiled, while the others
seemed to smile a good deal too much, until Berenger barked at them to leave her alone. Only the ugly one with the horrible breath behaved with anything like civility, rising and offering her a
share of his food. The other scrawny one, who she later learned was named Clip, spent his time staring at her body as if he could see through her every item of clothing to her body beneath. It made
her feel as though cockroaches were walking all over her flesh.

‘Don’t worry about him,’ Béatrice said in an undertone as she introduced the vintaine. ‘Clip is all right, really. He has a kind heart, but he is a man.’

That, Marguerite knew, was the problem for her. She had lost everything, and now she was little better than a whore, fit only for slaking the desires of the men of the army. Looking about her
now at the vintaine, she was struck with fear in the pit of her stomach. Here were men who could take her at any moment. All Frenchwomen had heard of the brutality of the English. These were
soldiers who had taken nuns, raping them and murdering them for sport; they had stolen children and babies to satisfy their unnatural urges, and even slain and eaten their victims later, so she had
heard. Well, if one of these sought to put his hands on her and climb between her thighs, she would cut off his cods!

‘You will be safe with these men,’ Béatrice said. ‘They will not harm you. Trust them. They have protected me.’

There was something in Béatrice’s manner that made Marguerite’s hackles rise. She was hiding something: perhaps she knew that the men were likely to rape Marguerite? There
were tales of Frenchwomen becoming procuresses for the soldiers, finding and trapping other Frenchwomen in exchange for money or food. Perhaps Béatrice was one such? Unconsciously, she began
to draw away. When Béatrice put her arm about her, she wanted to pull back and flee, but the other young woman would not let go.

‘All is well,’ Béatrice said gently. ‘Do not be afraid. Come – you must sit down. Now tell me – what were the names of your children again?’

Marguerite blinked, her fears distracted by the mention of her children. ‘What?’

‘The names of your children? No matter. The eldest – what was his name?’

‘Georges. My little Georges.’ Merely uttering the name made tears spring into her eyes again.

‘It is a very common name,’ Béatrice said.

‘His father was Georges, too, and his father before him. The family always said that it would survive for as long as there was a Georges in it.’ There was a catch in her throat as
she added, choked, ‘And now all are dead.’

‘Mistress,’ Berenger said. His expression as he held her elbow was that of a man who had endured suffering enough. ‘Mistress, please. Join us and take a little food to break
your fast. You look famished. Tell us your story.’

She submitted, taking a seat on a log that Dogbreath set for her, and then accepted a bowl of thin pottage and a spoon. With a hunk of rough bread to chew, she felt she had been given a
feast.

‘I come from a small village to the south and west of here. It was a good place, but it was burned by the English and I was attacked. I was separated from my family, and could do nothing.
I sought for them all over, but could find no sign.’

She heard young voices, and started up, but at the sight of the Donkey, she sank back again.

Dogbreath pulled a face. ‘Bastards! There’s been too much raping, from all I’ve heard.’

‘A certain amount is good for the men,’ John of Essex said.

‘But a lady like this? And what of her husband and children?’ Dogbreath demanded hotly.

‘It’s the natural way,’ Jack said. ‘Men who have been to war need recreations afterwards.’

‘I’d fight any poor churl who’d try to take her by force!’

‘Oh, aye?’ Clip said. ‘You’d best prepare yourself, then. There are about ten thousand men here who’d all do the same.’

‘Not us, though,’ Berenger said quickly, holding out his hand comfortingly when he saw her rising alarm.

Marguerite drank a little of her pottage, then looked about her. To her dismay, she realised that Béatrice had disappeared, and she was suddenly struck with the reality of her position.
She was here, hemmed in on all sides by some twenty men, all of them fighters and most of them believing that rape and theft were natural. She cast about her, seeking a route by which to escape,
panicked by the thought that she might be about to be assaulted – but then she saw Béatrice.

She was a halfbowshot away, with two boys. One was the lad Marguerite had seen a little while earlier, but there was another boy there, too. Béatrice was talking to him, and then she saw
his face turn to her, and – sweet Mother Mary! He looked so like . . .

Marguerite felt a lightness invade her skull as though she was about to swoon, and rose to her feet, swaying, staring, the pottage falling from her grasp. She heard the bowl strike a stone and
shatter, and her mind called to her to look down, but it was impossible to avert her eyes from that little boy, the fellow with the tousled hair, who stood gaping, as though he recognised her but
dare not believe his own eyes. And then he was running towards her, and she tottered forward a couple of paces and crouched, arms held wide, her eyes blurring with tears as he slammed into her, his
arms about her neck, hers clutching him fiercely, desperate not to let him go, her eyes tight shut for fear that when she opened them and looked, she would find that this was another boy, not her
Georges, not her son . . . but it was, and her life was suddenly transformed.

‘Holy Mother, thank you! Thank you!’ she whispered and then succumbed to tears of joy.

At the campfire later that evening, Berenger took in their faces as his vintaine all drank ale or wine, chewing at the gristle in their pottage. After the tribulations of the
last days, of having been captured, held in a shit-infested dungeon, threatened with torture, blinding and death, he would have expected some to be affected. Yet now, listening to them, it was as
though they had never been away.

‘Ach, will ye look at this?’ Clip demanded, holding up a nonspecific piece of flesh. ‘It’s just lights and tubes, this. No meat anywhere near it. However do you manage to
cut away all the meat and keep only the garbage, eh?’

Archibald’s eyes twinkled like a cheery giant’s as he rumbled, ‘It is a natural skill for some of us, man.’

‘As a cook I think you’d make a good poisoner, Archibald,’ John of Essex said with a wince.

‘Oh, aye, I thought it was the job of the Frenchies to kill us, but any more of your food and we’ll all starve to death!’ Clip whined.

‘No one needs Frenchies to kill us when there is a professional gynour in the army,’ Jack said, upending his plate over the grass and emptying the remains.

‘I could have added more brimstone, I suppose. Perhaps there was not enough for your taste?’ their cook said genially. ‘You forget: my brain was designed for mixing powders
until they can be placed carefully in a gonne’s mouth, rammed back, have a ball or arrow set on top, and ignited.’

‘Aye,’ Dogbreath muttered, eyeing his food resentfully. ‘Happen you should ram this down our throats and save us having to try to swallow it. My pigs had better than this when
I was at home.’

‘Perhaps I will try that next time,’ Archibald said. ‘You see, I am good at making things that kill. Gynours like me are rare, you know. You should appreciate me more. Most
gynours die young when their experiments grow more confident – and therefore slapdash. Not many live for long after experiencing the effects of too much serpentine powder at close
quarters.’

Gonnes were weapons that Berenger still distrusted. It was hardly surprising that so many in the King’s army would make the sign of the Devil at Archibald’s back as he walked past.
Many still held to the superstitious belief that the crack of thunder and flaring gouts of flame, so like to a dragon’s breath, were proof of the devices’ inherent evil.

Yet it was hard to dislike the man. Archibald went through life like a cheerful mastiff. He expected everyone to like him, and to a large extent, when he sat down with them and chatted on an
evening over a horn or two of wine or ale – or his favourite, cider – they would find him an appealing soul with a breadth of knowledge and much sympathy for his fellow men.

It was that quality about him which had persuaded Berenger to deposit his only responsibility with Archibald some weeks ago. ‘How’s the Donkey, Gynour?’ he called.

‘Master Fripper, I hope I see you well?’ Archibald replied with a grave nod. ‘The boy is learning diligently, I thank you. He’s proof, were it needed, that the skills of
a gynour can easily be mastered by a lad willing to serve his apprenticeship.’

‘He is well enough?’

‘Aye.’

‘And the girl and the new lad, young Georges?’

‘They too are well, Master.’

Berenger was relieved. He would not have admitted it to anyone, but he had grown fond of the boy and Béatrice. However, he was alarmed to learn that there was this new woman in the camp
now. He shot her a look from under his brows. She looked harmless, but while she hugged and kissed her little boy as though she could hardly believe that he was truly there with her, and only by
constant reminder could she ensure that he would not disappear, her eyes were constantly flitting from one man to another about the camp.