Blood on the Sand (32 page)

Shit, the bastard’s one of the outlaws
, he thought and stopped dead in the lane. In order to create the appearance of nonchalance, he leaned against a post from which a pig’s
body was hanging, the hind legs spread wide while a butcher eviscerated the innards. A fleck of blood landed on Clip’s shoulder and he irritably flicked it away, glaring at the butcher, who
met his gaze with a shrug and made no attempt to stop spattering him with more gore.

Clip walked away, some ten paces behind the man he was following. To his surprise, the fellow paused, glanced about him and then darted into the alley, making his way to the yard where Clip had
been beaten up – where the Carlisle man had pushed him into the latrine. Making sure that no one was following him, Clip went warily up the narrow alley again, his ears straining for any
sound that could herald danger.

He stopped halfway along, still listening intently. Somewhere a door slammed, but he could see nothing ahead. He crept along a little further. Nothing again.

He reached the end and peeped out around the corner.

‘My son? Do you want something?’

A cleric was sitting on a simple wooden bench, his hands concealed inside the sleeves of a heavy robe like a friar’s, and he smiled affably as Clip entered the yard.

‘No, Father. I was just looking for a . . .’

The sudden movement warned him. Perhaps it was the effect of being attacked in here before, but his senses were screaming at him even as the man sprang out from behind him. He had been hiding in
a doorway, and as Clip spoke, he tried to cut him with his dagger.

Clip leaped to his right, and the blade sliced through the air. Pulling his own blade from its sheath, Clip saw that his attacker was the man with the mousy hair. He must have realised he was
being followed and slipped away as Clip entered the alleyway. Clip made a quick feint. The man’s footwork was neat, speedy, definite, as was his attack when it came. Clip blocked his forearm,
made a lightning stab into his knuckles and heard the man curse as Clip’s knife sheared through a tendon.

‘Want some more?’ Clip asked breathlessly.

There was a sudden step behind him and he moved, but not fast enough this time. A blow caught him on the left shoulder, and he whipped round to find the priest before him. Even in the midst of
battle, he was unwilling to kill a priest. However, his lips pursed with anger, he lashed out twice; both times, his fist smashed into the priest’s face. Then once more: this jab with stiff,
straight fingers to the man’s neck. The priest fell, gasping for breath, his nose broken, choking through the blood in his nostrils and the constriction at his throat.

Clip was already whirling as he fell, and thus avoided the stab that would have punctured his kidney. Crouched, he was ready to thrust or block again. His opponent, the man with mousy hair,
licked the blood on the back of his hand and eyed him doubtfully. Clip made a feint to the left, then stabbed immediately to the right, and the man retreated. Once more, a quick stabbing, and the
fellow drew back. This was too easy, Clip thought. He stabbed again, and the man suddenly lurched forward, knocked Clip’s knife aside and thrust at his neck. Clip jerked away, but the knife
nicked his ear even as the man’s fist slammed into Clip’s eye. He reached up and blocked the man’s fist with his forearm before the attacker could pull his hand back and cut his
throat, but even as he did so, the man threw his left fist straight into Clip’s nose. There was a crunch and Clip felt his balance wobble, but as he went backwards, he kicked up with all his
strength. His boot caught the man’s cods, and he gave a howl even as Clip stumbled over the priest, who was on all fours trying to rise. Clip glared at the priest and punched him again.

‘Fuck you! Stay down, Father!’

The priest collapsed, but Clip was up again, and now the man with the mousy hair was crouched, retching in a huddle of pain. Clip walked over to him and kicked him, once in the flank and once in
the head.

‘Try to waylay an archer, would you?’ he panted, and grabbed his chemise. He pulled the man to him and held his knife to the man’s eye, hissing, ‘I ought to blind
you!’ He studied his attacker carefully. ‘It
was
you! You were one of the bastards tried to kill us in England.’

‘I was only doing what
he
told me!’

‘Who?’

‘The priest there – Father Alain.’

Clip turned and stared at the priest. ‘Why?’ he demanded.

‘How the fuck should I know?’ the man said. He was trembling, his hands still on his cods as though preventing them from falling away.

Clip stared at him, then in a flash he snapped his head back and butted the man as hard as he could. He fell back and Clip dropped him. It was tempting to go and stab the priest there and then,
but Clip did still have scruples when it came to killing a man of God.

The outlaw saw Clip’s stern expression, and tried to push himself away, moving in an ungainly fashion. Blood was running from his left eyebrow where Clip’s butt had broken the skin,
and his eye was already swelling quickly.

Clip knelt at his side and pushed his knife up inside the man’s nose. ‘I don’t want to hear anything more about you trying to harm archers. In fact, if you dare to assault me
or any of my friends, I’ll hunt you down and cut your balls off – after I’ve marked you by cutting your nose here.’ He sawed gently until the blood ran down his blade.
‘You understand me?’

‘Yes.’

‘And if you hear anything about that prickle priest wanting to attack me again, you’ll let me know, won’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ Clip stood up and walked away, back to the alley. As he passed the priest’s body, he gave the man a hefty kick. ‘That’s for trying to waylay me, you
arsehole.’

Jean de Vervins watched as Berenger Fripper approached him, with Sir John de Sully following a pace or two behind. Fripper’s face was as black as the clouds on a thundery
day, and there was a set to his shoulders that spoke of approaching violence.

‘You want me to take you to Laon,’ he said tersely, ‘Why?’

Jean glanced at the knight behind him. ‘This is not to be discussed, Sir John. You know that.’

‘You’re talking to me, you French turd!’ Berenger snarled. ‘Answer my question!’

‘Sir John—’

‘It will save a lot of time if you do as he asks.’

‘This whole matter is intended to be confidential, Sir John. I have been given a task by your King because I have ideas that will hopefully bring this war to an end and to his
benefit.’

He saw with pleasure that as he spoke the vintener seemed to swell like a pigeon about to issue a challenge. He must be used to being bested by men with greater wit. Besides, the archer was in
no condition to argue or attempt to berate him. The fellow was in a terrible state. Everyone had heard about his fever. Coming on top of his wounds, it was scarcely surprising that he should look
so emaciated and enfeebled.

Jean was just considering shouting at him, when he was surprised by the foul little man springing forward and giving him a sudden blow that all but knocked him over.

‘I
said
I want to know what you’re doing!’

Jean felt his anger rising like water boiling in a pan. Lowering his head like a bull about to charge, he stepped forward, placing his hands on Berenger’s chest – but the archer
lifted his hands between Jean’s and knocked them effortlessly aside. Berenger’s leg went behind Jean’s, and the heel of his hand slammed into the point of the Frenchman’s
chin. Jean felt the swift tearing at the hinges of his jaw, then the click as his teeth met, and his head was thrust back. He was bent backwards over Berenger’s leg. Teetering, he was forced
to grip hold of Berenger’s belt, spluttering with anger.

The vintener was glaring down at him. ‘What are you doing in Laon? This is the last time I’ll ask. If you don’t tell me, I will not go, and I will not release any of my archers
to join you either. So
speak
!’

Jean tried to pull himself up, but the archer unhooked his fingers and let him fall.

‘Sir John? I demand that you force this man to release me and stop his interrogation!’ Jean snapped.

‘Oh, I have no control over the good vintener,’ Sir John said, and he idly whistled a gavotte.

Jean de Vervins stood up and brushed himself down. ‘I am distressed to think that my honourable attempt to help you could be so completely misinterpreted,’ he said through gritted
teeth. He wondered whether he could draw his knife and throw it into the archer’s shoulder. Or perhaps just attack him and give him an equal scar on the other side of his face? It was more
likely that the man would best him, though. Jean reminded himself that he had been considering how puny the man looked after his illness. It was always a mistake to underestimate an enemy.

‘I know Laon,’ he said. ‘I know many men there – merchants, burgesses, barons – all are weary of the war. They have seen English might at first hand. Is there a
noble family in the whole of France which has not lost a father, a brother, a son? Your men rampage over the country, killing and burning, and the people are heartily sick of it. It would take
little for the populace to rise against King Philippe. After all, what does he do for his subjects? He fights the English on land and at sea and loses, or he sits back and does not fight, and
watches you walk away with everything. The people have had enough. Now, if I were to go and speak to the local inhabitants there, and perhaps say to them that they could rely on the English not
only to come and protect the city, but also pay for the pleasure of their comradeship, that would bring about a better resolution of affairs. If Laon cedes, a city right on the edge of the
Île de la Cité and Champagne, what would that do to the resolve of other towns? And if you had just succeeded in bringing the Duke of Flanders into King Edward’s circle of
friends and allies, what then could we not achieve? It would mean a whole series of cities taken from the French King. Take away his cities and you take away much of his money. Without money he
cannot maintain an army or indulge his whims to engage in war.’

‘You know local people, you say?’

‘I have many influential friends in that region of France.’

‘Why are you prepared to do this, then?’

Jean fell silent. He eyed the archer, wondering. There had been a time, when they had first met, when he would have trusted this man, but now Berenger was shown to be too full of his own
importance. As though a mere archer – albeit a vintener or even a captain – could begin to comprehend the scope and majesty of Jean’s plans.

‘Well? I’m waiting. Why?’

‘I have good reasons. My
own
reasons.’

‘
What
reasons?’

Jean de Vervins felt his own rage rising. ‘King Philippe, the Valois, embarrassed me.
Me!
I was his most loyal vassal, but he betrayed me. I fought for him and served him well, but
he repaid me with dishonour. You understand? I was fighting in a tournament, and when my opponent unhorsed me, the King gave him all I own. Not only my horse and armour, but he wished to take my
castle too. I will not accept a theft that beggars me, just to enhance the prospects of a silk-clad popinjay! So I say,
fuck
Henri du Bos, and
fuck
King Philippe de Valois! If they
want my castle, they will need to take my life first!’

He stared fiercely at Berenger, his eyes brimming with tears. Perhaps it was that, rather than his story, which convinced the archer. Suddenly the vintener nodded as though to himself, and put
out his hand to grip that of Jean de Vervins.

‘Good,’ Berenger said simply. ‘We’ll need to prepare, then.’

Berenger was in a foul mood as he stalked away from Sir John, the knight’s last words still echoing in his ears.

‘I know you don’t like him. I don’t trust him further than I can throw him myself, but be that as it may, we have a duty to do all we can in the King’s cause. With the
Flemish cities on our side, this move could have a great impact on the conduct of the war. It is worth our while to exploit any plans Jean brings to us.’

‘He is a traitor,’ Berenger scowled. ‘I saw a Frenchman in the battle near Durham who recognised him – and I am sure that he had been feeding information to the Scottish.
If he will betray his own, how do we know he won’t betray us?’ It was true that the Frenchman had saved his life, but that was not enough to silence his fears.

‘As to that,’ Sir John said heavily, ‘it comes down to money. The man is insatiable for gold. If we provide it, he will remain loyal.’

Berenger snorted. He had heard of such men before. ‘We know what Jesus thought of those who were dedicated to money. Would you
buy
a mercenary to serve under you? Would you
pay
a man to stay here under arms because he had a contract?’

‘I detest mercenaries, Frip, and under normal circumstances. I would have nothing to do with them. However, these are not normal circumstances. These are truly exceptional times, and we
needs must bend with the wind or we will be broken. The King respects this Jean de Vervins, so we must do all we can to assist him. That is all.’