Blood on the Sand (20 page)

Ed was glad to be left behind. There were some new guards set about the place, mostly foolish men who ruffled Ed’s hair and embarrassed him by joking about his age and
height whenever they had the chance, but so long as Béatrice didn’t see, he didn’t care.

He was enjoying his time with Georges, although the boy was oddly quiet on occasion. Well, Ed had lost a father and family when the French attacked his town, so he could understand how his
friend might feel. Georges was lucky that he and his mother had been reunited. There were plenty of lads who had lost their families and never found them again, and many whose families had all been
killed.

Not that Ed was overly worried by Georges. He spent most of his time helping Béatrice. He carried the heavier buckets for her, he lit the fire for her, he inserted himself between her and
the barrels when they must be moved, anticipating her every move so as to save her efforts. And when he was not working with her, he shot sly glances at her. He loved the line of her throat when
she sat at her ease, the way that the sunlight played about her eyelashes, the little dent in the left of her brow where a scar marred the perfect symmetry, the swelling of her breasts – oh,
how he would like to rest his head there! But his love for her – and he knew it was love – was not mere foolishness or lust. It was almost religious. He revered her in the way a priest
adores the Blessed Virgin. She was, to him, feminine perfection. And he wanted to possess her.

Georges had no idea. He was too young, and Ed dare not confide in him, but he was sure that Marguerite had noticed his infatuation. She smiled at him in a sad manner, as though thinking that he
could never aspire to Béatrice, but Ed knew differently. He could win her heart – he
would
! One day, she would recognise his love for what it truly was: the wholesome affection
of a mature lover. And on that day, she would come to him.

‘Donkey? Are you awake?’ Georges called to him.

Startled, Ed felt embarrased when the two women looked over to him. He reddened in an instant, before grumpily going over to Georges and almost snarling, ‘What?’

His friend stared at him. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Look, you wouldn’t understand,’ Ed said, but then, glancing at Béatrice again, he felt he could not keep his secret any longer. He had to tell someone, or he would
burst. ‘Look, it’s just that . . .’

‘What’s that slimy little fucker doing here?’ John of Essex demanded. ‘We ought to rip his balls off as a reminder of our time in Calais!’

‘I am only here to help,’ Jean de Vervins said. His slim features wore that cheerful smile again, the one that made Berenger want to punch him.

‘You only ever wanted to make money out of people,’ Jack said coldly. ‘Don’t think we’ll trust you.’

‘I don’t care whether you do or not. The main thing is that the Archbishop values my assistance. I have proved myself to be very useful.’

‘Oh? And what have you been doing then?’

‘Since seeing you in Calais, my friends, I journeyed with the ships you saw and I have been living with the Scottish. They appreciate the help of people, after all. They know that all
France is on their side.’

‘And that means you too, eh?’ John of Essex thundered. He leaped to his feet and would have thrown himself at the smiling Frenchman, had not Jack and the Earl grabbed him and held
him back. ‘Let me get to him! He would have seen us executed, damn his soul!’

‘That is true. But now, you see, we need to work together. You may not like me, but I can at least help you and the others,’ Jean said. ‘My information is very
important.’

‘More to the point,’ Berenger told his men, ‘we have orders to protect him. I don’t like it any more than you do, Jack, but the Archbishop is convinced that this man is
going to be useful to the campaign.’

‘Did you tell him what this prick tried to do to us?’

Berenger didn’t answer. There was no need. He had expostulated at length when he had been told to protect Jean de Vervins, but all to no avail. ‘They don’t give a damn. As far
as they’re concerned, the only thing that matters is that Jean survives until the battle – and there will be one. We’re to pack and leave as soon as possible.’

‘I’ll rip his head off his scrawny shoulders,’ John of Essex snarled. ‘What? You want us to protect this piece of shit?’

‘We have no choice, do we, Frip?’ Jack asked.

Berenger sighed, shaking his head. ‘No choice at all, no. The bastard has us by the short and curlies. After the death of Retford, we can’t take any risks. You hurt Jean, or let
someone else hurt him, John, and I’ll personally castrate you. We can’t lose him as well.’

‘Well, that’s just wonderful!’ Clip said. He had been listening carefully as the others argued. Now he tipped his head to one side and eyed Jean with distaste. ‘So in
order to save ourselves from an accusation of spying, we have to protect a spy.’

‘Ah, but at least I am a spy for you. I am on your side,’ Jean beamed.

‘At the moment,’ Berenger said grimly. ‘But if I think you’ve turned to work for the French against us again, I’ll cut your head off before John can get to
you.’

They were mounted and riding again that same afternoon. The muster had quickly gathered together all the spare men from Cumberland, Lancashire and Northumberland, although the
men from Yorkshire had not reached them yet. The Archbishop was keen to get moving as soon as possible, and he sent messages to the Yorkshiremen to march straight to Durham and meet him there. It
was at Durham, Berenger learned, that the English were determined to stop the Scots.

‘They have already despoiled the lands all the way to Carlisle, where the populace have paid the Scots their black rent,’ Jean de Vervins told him.

One of Lord Neville’s men was riding nearby. Hearing this, the lanky youth with a shock of brown hair laughed. ‘The men of Carlisle told them to fuck off and leave them
alone!’

Jean de Vervins nodded, but without humour. ‘Before that, they laid siege to Liddell Strength for three days. Sir Walter Selby was there, and on the fourth day, they took the place. King
David has always hated Sir Walter, because he promised to serve the Scots but then reneged and submitted to King Edward II, our King’s father. Since our King took the throne, Sir
Walter’s remained utterly loyal.’

‘But the Scots took the place?’ Jack asked.

‘They destroyed it. King David had the two sons of Sir Walter brought before him and had them strangled in front of their father, before killing him too – unshriven.’ He said
slowly, ‘I was there. I saw this.’

‘Whatever he’s done, he’ll pay for it,’ Berenger said, ‘just as I will, and you too, Jean. But to kill his boys and then him – that speaks of a cruelty beyond
belief.’

A short time later, Jean spurred his horse to go and speak with another vintaine of men, and Jack leaned over to Berenger.

‘That man Jean brought this news to the Bishop? He is a spy for England now?’

‘That is what he says. Perhaps he always was.’

John of Essex, who was close by, said, ‘I would never trust a spy. After all, who can tell when a man of dishonour is likely to change and spy for your enemies again?’

The noise of the men marching, the plodding steps of the ponies and hobelars, the squeaking and jingling of accoutrements and harnesses, of thousands of swords rattling in
cheap sheaths, the clinking of mail coats and armour, built to a cacophony in Berenger’s ears as he and his vintaine jerked and rolled towards Durham. All the way, the vintener was thinking
of Jean de Vervins. The man was dangerous, he knew, but there was no way of telling just how dangerous. He had no loyalty to the Scottish, so far as Berenger knew, but he was born to a family in
France, and surely he must feel
some
loyalty to his King?

After witnessing the depredations of the English army in France, it was very unlikely that any Frenchman would change his allegiance. All along their route to Paris and thence up to
Crécy, the English had burned, looted, pillaged and raped. Even a Frenchman with water for blood would find it boiling to see the damage the English had inflicted. It was hard enough for
Berenger. Whenever he saw a dead child or woman, he’d think it could have been his daughter, his son, his wife lying there in the dirt, surrounded by the charred timbers of a home. He was
glad on those occasions that he had never married, never fathered his own children. If he was French, he would not allow a day to pass before joining the French King’s armies to avenge those
sights. Was it really possible that Jean could view the slaughter and devastation with equanimity? Perhaps he sought only to line his pockets? After all, a man who delivered his own countrymen and
their allies to the King should be handsomely paid. But assuredly, a treacherous mercenary like that would find judgement in the afterlife.

‘You do not like me, do you?’ Jean said now, seeing Berenger’s eye light upon him.

‘It’s not my place to like or dislike you. I have been ordered to protect you.’

‘You should be glad of my aid. I saved you in France, you know.’

‘I saw you. I heard you. What was it you said? We needed a miracle to escape?’

‘And I provided it. I spoke with Chrestien de Grimault and showed him how he could recover his honour by saving you and the others. It was, I think, a flash of genius.’

‘It had more to do with the man’s chivalry. He was honourable. He wouldn’t change sides for money.’

‘You think so?’ Jean chuckled softly, but then his tone hardened. ‘My friend, this is a matter of war, not honour. Do you think there is honour when you are looking at a
butchered family? When you see a mother, raped and slaughtered before her husband and sons? When a man has to witness three, four, five men raping his daughter? No, there is no honour in war
– not for peasants and free men. Only death. Chrestien is a mercenary like me. He takes his ships wherever the money is best, and he delivers victory to the men who pay him. Occasionally he
sees fit to take a different path to his rewards. That is what he did for you. But do not make a mistake. We are all the same.’

‘I am
not
!’ Berenger spat. ‘I fight for my King!’

‘Would you be here, if you were not permitted to take plunder? Would you be here if you did not see a way to make more money in six weeks than you would make in a year?’ Jean de
Vervins sneered. ‘No, you are no different from me. And you know it.’

They halted at Barnard’s Castle, a mingling of men, carts, ponies and horses. Knights bellowed at esquires, esquires shouted at yeomen, and everyone shouted at the
boys.

To Berenger it looked like a miserable kind of place. He was used to the lush greenery of the south, but here all looked bleak and grey, with flurries of fog moving all about as if it was a city
of wraiths. The superstitious notion was enough to trigger a physical reaction: a shiver ran down his back. He pushed the idea to the back of his mind. The vintaine had more to worry about than
some figment of imagination. There were real soldiers out there, somewhere ahead of them. And from all he had heard, it was a large force the Scottish had sent.

As he rode onwards, Berenger frowned to hear a shrill cry. It came from behind a low wall, and he turned to investigate, but a couple of men-at-arms blocked his path.

‘I’m a vintener with the army,’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’

The older of the two, a man of around thirty with a thin face that carried a woeful expression, said, ‘We’ve been told to keep people away, sir.’

‘What is going on?’ Berenger repeated. ‘Come, answer me!’

‘They caught a Scotsman. They’re questioning him.’

Berenger stared at the man, and then, as another scream tore through the air, he rode on towards the sound. The two guards lifted their lances as though to prevent him, but the mass of the
vintaine was with him, and the two were forced from their path.

It was too late to do anything for the lad. From his face, he might have been only twenty, and from his build, he had been both fit and strong. Now, as Berenger reached him, the last breath
rasped from his ravaged throat.

The men at his bloodied torso shrugged and wiped their blades clean, pushing aside the strips of flesh they had flayed from his stomach and breast as they packed their bags.

‘What were you doing?’ Berenger demanded, and the two gave him a look much as a butcher would give an ox. One was sallow and older, clad in leather and linen, while the other looked
a simple boy with a cast in one eye and a curious way of holding his head, as if he had been injured and never fully recovered.

The older man said, ‘We were questioning him. He was one of the Scotch murderers and we were told to get all we could from him.’

‘Except he didn’t know anything,’ his partner said with a giggle.

‘And he told us that before we started!’ the other one smirked.

Berenger felt his anger mount. He had seen death in many forms, but the sight of this body, lying broken and savaged like this, was worse than seeing a wild animal’s victim. He opened his
mouth to curse the torturers both to Hell and beyond, but before he could do so, he heard his name being called.