Blood on the Sand (36 page)

There was a low rumble of denial.

‘Good. Now, archers! Onward!’

Gauvain de Bellemont had ridden hard and managed to reach Metz before dark on that same evening. First, he needed to rest, and then he would speak to his messenger about the
arrival of the English. After that he would hasten to Laon, so that the city could be prepared. Colin should be back by now, and he wanted to speak with the smith and make sure that the English
King’s reaction was favourable.

Colin Thommelin, a rough man with the build of a greyhound, was about thirty years old, with a face square as a block, small, suspicious eyes and a permanently sullen expression. It was an
embarrassment to acknowledge that he hailed from the same native city as Gauvain. But where Gauvain had moved to Metz in response to preferment from the Crown itself, Colin had moved there more
urgently as a result of a slaying after too many cups of wine. It was one of those everyday little matters: Colin had insulted a man, the man had remonstrated, knives were drawn with the courage
and enthusiasm of men well into their third pints of wine, and a little later there was more than wine spilled on the floor.

He had never conquered his aggressive nature. It was common enough with all men, it was true, but Colin Thommelin should have learned to control his rages and anger better, or conceal them
beneath a calmer exterior. The problem was, he had never learned common courtesy. He had lost his first wife, but he still had two sons, and he could have found a new woman to warm his bed, had he
displayed even a little commonsense. But the man lacked all charm. He was a
forgeron
, a smith of sorts, and that was what he would remain. A man who lived alone with his sons, who went to
the wineshop every evening and stayed while he had money; a man who had no ambition and no hopes of advancement.

And yet, the man had a use. He was, like Gauvain, from Laon, and he was the ideal messenger. Smiths could travel easily. That was why Gauvain had chosen him to take the letter that Gauvain had
painstakingly written out with his companions in treachery.

Treachery!
It was a harsh word. Connotations of fire and agony came with it. To be judged a traitor would result in the most painful of deaths, that was certain. Still, with Colin
delivering his letter, Laon would soon become English territory, and Gauvain could return to his ancestral home with the knowledge that his life would become secure. The English were always
generous with their payments to men who aided them, and no one could aid them more than he who gave them Laon and the cities of the region. Colin knew that he was barred from Laon while the city
remained under the suzerainty of King Philippe, but once it became English, he could appeal to King Edward for his conviction to be quashed. His only wish was to return to the city where he had
been born, and this was his means of achieving that.

Gauvain entered the city as the bells were pealing, and slowed at the sight of a party of watchmen marching along the roadway ahead of him. Idly, he followed them, walking his horse homewards.
He would go there first, and rinse the worst of the dust from his face, brush some of the mud from his hosen, and once he had partaken of a little food, he could go to speak with the other
merchants of the city and let them know that the English were on their way. There would be celebration at the news, he was sure. Everyone had been working to this end for so long, and now their
plans were coming to fruition.

A spark of anxiety flashed in his breast and he almost lost his footing in fear. A man laughed at him, telling him to mind his step on the loose cobbles, but it was not that which had made him
trip: he had distinctly heard one of the watchmen mention his name. Gauvain slowed and listened intently as the men continued. The sergeant of the watchmen was giving orders: they were to break
into the house of the lawyer, three men at the front, two at the back in case he tried to flee, and capture him.

‘You know what you have to do. That letter tells us what’s been happening here.’

It was only then that he saw the familiar shape of Colin Thommelin up there with the watchmen, and he suddenly realised that if Colin could gain his pardon from the English King by helping bring
about the delivery of Laon, he could expect at least a pardon from King Philippe for warning him about a plot to hand the city over to the English. So that was why his messenger had never reached
the English King. He had not tried to. Instead he had taken Gauvain’s letter to the French King.

‘Shit, shit, shit,’ he murmured to himself as he turned along a separate street. His horse was reluctant, and tried to jerk his head free of the reins to hurry to their home and a
manger of good hay, but Gauvain smacked his rump and spurred him until the recalcitrant beast complied.

‘I have to warn them,’ he said to himself, but that was a secondary consideration. Right now, he had to protect himself. He must escape.

He had a friend in Reims. That was where he would go. He would be safe there.

Riding beneath the gates of Laon, Berenger felt a fleeting horror and shuddered. It was an age-old terror of buildings looming overhead. Once more he saw in his mind’s
eye missiles being flung down at him from rooftops, rocks and arrows crashing and clattering all about him. He saw old friends, and witnessed them die once more. It was a momentary thing only, but
it was powerful. Fighting in towns was petrifying. In the open country, you saw your enemy form, you saw them prepare, you heard them attempt to put the fear of death into you as they roared their
battle cries and rattled weapons and shields long before they were ready to advance. Arrows, bolts, lances, all could be observed and avoided as best one could. But here, in a town, a man could
walk about the streets only to be seized from behind, or have a rock fall from a roof without warning. A man must be wary of all around him, before and behind, but everything above as well. And
riding under a city gate like this merely added to the sense of trepidation that infused his spirit.

‘Archers,
keep together
!’ he called over his shoulder as they entered the streets, and then, ‘Marguerite, stay close to me.’

There were people everywhere, and while they did not look entirely welcoming, nor did they look dangerous. No city liked to receive as guests a hundred or more soldiers, after all. Soldiers were
a threat at the best of times, and usually an impediment to business; even if these men were not here to cause trouble, their demands for food and drink would themselves be an annoyance, if not
worse. Yes, Berenger could all too easily understand the reluctance of the people here to greet their visitors with joy and open arms, but he was reassured by the lack of displays of anger or
rejection. Rather, he thought, the people here showed bemusement and surprise – and something else.

‘My friend, you do not need to worry,’ Jean de Vervins said. He had gained in confidence, the nearer they came to the city. ‘We are safe here. Trust me, this is my city. These
are my people. As soon as my friend arrives, we shall declare our change of allegiance, and then watch the other cities in this area fall to our King!’

‘Aye, that’s right excellent to hear,’ Grandarse said. He was puffing and panting after the unwelcome exercise. ‘But do you think before anything else we could talk about
where we’ll be staying? I could do with a chance to shut my eyes and have something to fill my belly before I do anything else.’

‘No. First we see to the horses, Centener, and then we think about ourselves,’ Sir John said disapprovingly. ‘Master Jean, I want stabling for all the mounts, and I want it
close together. I don’t wish to see them spread all over the city. We must be able to get to them in a hurry, if need be. Our own accommodation must be together and close to the mounts as
well.’

‘I am sure it will be ready.’

‘Who should be welcoming us?’ Sir John said.

‘If we continue on this road, we shall soon be at the cathedral. I expect we shall be met there,’ Jean said.

The city was built on top of a ridge, and with the massive cathedral towering over the whole area, it was a strongly defensible position, Berenger reckoned. ‘If there are even a few
hundred men prepared to secure these walls, we’ll be safe,’ he said to Sir John.

‘Yes. Even a matter of a few hundred,’ he agreed, but there was a flat tone to his voice as he looked about him, gauging and assessing as he went.

It took but a short while to push their way through the crowds thronging the streets. It appeared that they had chosen the very same route as all the other people in the city that day, but soon
they reached the mighty bulk of the cathedral with its two enormous towers.

‘How does it stay standing?’ the Earl remarked, gazing up at it.

‘You think God would let it fall?’ the Aletaster said.

The Pardoner sneered, ‘You haven’t heard of all the cathedrals in England where the spires fell?’

‘Perhaps this is God’s country, then,’ the Aletaster countered.

Berenger didn’t speak. He had seen too much death, murder and horror in the last year to think that there could be anything about this country that God liked.

‘Where are your friends, Jean?’ he said. There was no apparent threat, but he didn’t like the fact that they were still out in the open with a vast crowd of people. ‘You
said they’d be here.’

‘And here they are,’ Jean said with a touch of smugness. He waved his hand and Berenger saw three portly gentlemen hurrying towards them. ‘My good friends, burgesses all:
Simon, Paul and Alan. My friends! I am overjoyed to see you! Have you all in place? Did the messenger arriver?’

‘But I thought he would be with you?’ the first said.

‘No, he was sent before us,’ Jean de Vervins said, and for the first time Berenger saw a slight crease at his brow as though he was concerned. This was surprising news to him.

‘You think the man could have been waylaid?’ Berenger asked.

Jean de Vervins shook his head. ‘He was only a lowly fellow. No one would give him a second glance.’

‘Unlike your warriorlike party! You have been travelling long. We should bring your men into the hall and feed them,’ the merchant added, eyeing the mud-spatters on the men’s
hosen and tunics.

‘There you speak good sense!’ Grandarse exclaimed. ‘Where is the stabling? And then, lead me to the table, my friend!’

The English archers were all treated to a good meal that evening. Even Tyler, who could usually be guaranteed to complain about any billet, was quiet in the face of the feast
provided. And since more men had been expected, the quantity was more than enough.

‘How many are there of you?’ one of the townspeople, a man with lank fair hair and greenish eyes, asked Berenger as he helped himself from another mess of thickened pottage.

‘Archers, five vintaines, so about a hundred men all told,’ Berenger said.

‘One hundred? Is that all?’ the man said, his face falling.

‘Have you seen what one hundred English archers can do in three minutes?’ John of Essex demanded. ‘All releasing four or five arrows in each minute, covering a field with
arrows that can pierce any steel?’

‘So many?’

‘And more,’ John said smugly.

‘But if there were a thousand men attacking each side of our town,’ the man said with a frown, ‘you would have five and twenty to each wall, and your hundred would look
sparse.’

‘We don’t lose our battles,’ John said.

‘Good,’ the man said, but as he turned away, Berenger saw his concerned expression.

He was right. One hundred men to protect a town this size was far too few.

After even a cursory glance at the walls, it was clear that this city held a magnificent position over the surrounding countryside. Even a determined attack by well-trained
English forces would find this one a hard nut to crack, Berenger told himself. The land fell away from the walls, which were massive, and the town had an excellent view over all the lands
hereabouts.

‘Any French force would come from those directions?’ Berenger asked, pointing to the roads south and west.

A merchant, Simon de Metz, had joined Sir John, Grandarse and Berenger at the wall. Simon answered: ‘Yes. Most probable is the western road.’

‘Do you have any idea how many men will gather to attack us?’

Jean and Simon exchanged a glance. Again, it was Simon who responded. ‘No, I do not know.’

‘So we don’t have any idea whether it’ll be the full force of the French army or a posse?’

‘No, we do not know,’ Jean said. ‘But so long as we can count on the people here, we should be safe enough.’

It was their first full morning. Most of the archers had fallen on their mats last night, the instant the drink ceased to flow, and many were mooching about the city now, suffering the effects
of last night’s indulgence. Meanwhile, Berenger and Grandarse felt the need to check the town’s existing defences. Sir John had already sent a vintaine to the west in order to sweep
around to the south, patrolling the countryside in search of forward parties from a French force, just in case.

‘The walls are strong for the most part,’ Sir John said, ‘but
there
and
there
are patches of disrepair. How about the population? Are the people for
us?’