Blood on the Sand (37 page)

It was Jean who smilingly answered, ‘But of course! You will be their liberators.’

Berenger returned to his lodging with Grandarse, and both settled at the table silently as they broke their fast.

‘You too?’ Berenger said at last.

‘What?’ Grandarse said.

‘You’re not comfortable, are you?’

‘I don’t know what you mean, man. Never been happier in a billet.’

‘No, nor me,’ said Berenger, smiling up at Marguerite as she brought in loaves of bread and a board with a cheese.

They had almost finished their meal when the clamorous tolling of a bell made both leap from the table and rush outside.

Berenger stared first towards the church, then down the road, to where a bedraggled group of men were hurrying up the street as fast as their exhausted legs would carry them.

‘Shit, Grandarse! It’s Paul’s vintaine,’ Berenger breathed.

Their tale was soon told.

‘We were riding down the road only a couple of leagues from here, Sir John, when we rode straight into a sodding great force of militia. At least two thousand of them, I think. There was
no time to string our bows or anything. It was a straightforward ballocks of a mess! Before we knew it, three men were down, and Paul was one of the first, with a bolt through the head. It was all
we could do to pull the men out and get back here.’

‘Were they chasing you?’ Berenger asked.

‘They’re coming, yes, but they’re still over a league behind us, I think. We rode fast, but they have wagons and carts, and we slowed them anyway. I took the boys to a little
copse, and we used our arrows from there for a while.’

‘Good!’ Grandarse said. He looked to Sir John, who was standing absorbing the news.

‘You only lost three?’

‘Four in all, sir. And two won’t be fit to hold a bow or sword for a week or two.’

‘Right, Grandarse, you will need to appoint them a new vintener.’

The older man nodded. ‘I’ll put John of Essex in charge. He’s a good commander.’

‘Tell him not to bugger off on any more private ventures, then,’ Sir John rumbled.

‘Yes, sir.’

Jean de Vervins looked distraught. ‘How can we hope to hold this place?’

Sir John set his head on one side. ‘You asked us to come here, man! We are still a strong force.’

‘But against twenty to your one?’

‘We also have the townspeople,’ Sir John said.

Jean looked away. ‘Some, perhaps.’

The Earl and a few of the vintaine were listening. At that, he gave a hollow laugh. ‘
Some
? That does not exactly inspire confidence, does it, not when our lives are at
risk.’

‘Be quiet!’ Sir John snapped.

‘He’s right, Sir John,’ Pardoner said. ‘How can we be expected to guard the walls about this town? We’d be spread too thinly to guard even a quarter of the
walkways.’

‘Many of the citizens would no doubt come to our aid,’ Jean de Vervins said.

‘
Many
? What is that supposed to mean?’ Now it was Sir John interrogating Jean de Vervins. ‘Enough to guard a whole wall or two? Speak!’

‘I had hoped to have more time here, to persuade others to our cause,’ Jean de Vervins said, his voice thick. ‘But this has all happened so swiftly. We have had no opportunity
to speak to people. Some are already saying they should arrest you and your men, to save the city from the King’s vengeance.’

‘You asked us to travel all the way here and now you say we can do nothing?’ Berenger said angrily. ‘What is it you expect from us?’

‘If he’s right, we should get out of this poxy town and hurry back to Calais before that city falls and we lose all the pickings inside,’ Grandarse said.

‘Is that what you think?’ Berenger asked. ‘That we should flee?’

‘You cannot prevail here, if the population rises against us. They’ll know that if the army arrives, it’ll be only a matter of time before the city is taken,’ Jean de
Vervins said.

‘So, there is indeed little point in our remaining here,’ Sir John said.

‘For safety, I can give you another, more defensible place,’ Jean said slowly. The panic was leaving him. Yes, this city was impossible to hold with so few men, but there was always
his own little castle of Bosmont. He could take the English there, perhaps, and with these men hold the place. Otherwise, the first thing the French would do would be to capture it and he would
have lost his inheritance – and that would be a bitter pill indeed to swallow.

‘Yes, there is a place we can go to, and then the English army can come to our aid, with good fortune.’

Grandarse was seated on his mount by the time Berenger arrived in the main square with Marguerite straggling behind him. ‘Make sure your boy is on his cart,’
Berenger told her curtly and went about the men, checking they had their equipment ready for a swift departure.

Sir John was already wheeling his horse about, his esquire Richard faithfully responding and bringing his own horse into position as though the two men were preparing to mount a charge
immediately.

Berenger felt the mood of the men about him, and suddenly he realised that the city itself wasn’t threatening towards the archers; rather, the population felt threatened by the arrival of
the English. They must know that the presence of English archers would surely precipitate a tumultuous reaction.

Grandarse suddenly dropped from his saddle and hurtled into a wine-shop. He was soon out, bearing a heavy goatskin. His horse was reluctant and peevish, and retreated before him. ‘Come
here, you old sow,’ he shouted.

Marguerite was back in a moment, her eyes wide with terror.

‘Is the boy with the cart?’ Berenger asked her.

‘Fuck!’ Grandarse said as he struggled to get back into his saddle, while his horse moved skittishly.

‘Yes,’ she answered.

‘You look alarmed, maid,’ he observed.

‘The people . . . two of them spat at me,’ she said, her eyes welling. ‘They said I was a traitor and would be punished.’

Grandarse’s foot missed the stirrup as he again tried to remount. ‘Christ’s ballocks!’

‘We will soon be gone from here,’ Berenger said trying to conceal his own concern.

‘I hope so.’

Seeing a nervous watchman hurrying up the roadway, Berenger asked him, ‘How far are they?’

‘They will be here before noon,’ he said. He was a large man with protuberant eyes that looked close to tears, and a huge belly that put even Grandarse’s to shame. The mound of
flesh under his chin wobbled as he spoke – the skin looked as smooth and soft as a baby’s.

‘Then, Sir John,’ Berenger said, ‘with your approval, I would send a vintaine of archers to engage the French. They can hold up the advance while we leave.’ When Sir John
nodded, Berenger turned back to Jean de Vervins. ‘Where is this place?’

Jean answered dully, ‘A castle, not terribly far. A day’s ride at most.’

‘And you are sure we will be welcomed?’ Sir John cut in.

‘Oh, yes. I can personally guarantee—’

‘How did the French hear about us so quickly?’ Sir John interrupted.

Jean held out his hands, bewildered. ‘I have no idea. My friend was arranging matters for us here – a lawyer. I saw him in Berghes before we left, and he seemed confident
that—’

‘Was there another who could have given away our plans?’ Sir John rasped. ‘We are clearly betrayed.’

Berenger threw him a look. His suspicion of Sir Peter of Bromley was growing into a certainty: the man was a traitor, his act of changing allegiance merely a ploy to gain the trust of the
English.

‘Gauvain is no fool! He gave a letter to an accomplice to take to the King at Calais.’

‘Yet no such letter arrived,’ Sir John noted.

‘He gave his letter to a fool who got lost,’ the burgess Alan said. He was fretting as he stood. ‘Friends, we should not be here. This must lead to a catastrophe. What will
happen to my children? My wife? Oh, dear God!’

‘Shut up,’ Berenger said. He had a duty to his men, above all. ‘Jean, you said that the city would rise in our support. Now you say it will not?’

Jean shook his head. ‘The plot was to begin to gather up all the supporters of King Philippe, and hold them. That way we would control the finances and military, but now all that is but a
dream. The populace may help us, but if many refuse, well, we are lost.’

Alan wailed, ‘We are lost! Lost!’

Berenger said nothing, but John of Essex, who had already dismounted, took a cudgel and brought it down on the back of Alan’s head. Alan’s eyes rolled up and he crumpled.
‘Sorry, but he wasn’t adding anything to the discussion,’ John said.

‘We must ride to Bosmont. It is my own castle,’ Jean said. ‘We can hold that. Then people will come to us and support us under the flag of your King.’

‘Sir John, for my money we are too few,’ Grandarse said. He had managed to haul himself back into his saddle, and now sat there, red-faced and blowing. ‘With only a hundred men
we can’t man a castle. We need food and drink to keep a stronghold for any length of time.’

‘You may be right, Grandarse, but we will need to look anyway. If we take over a castle here, it will force the French to contain us with a force that will otherwise go to Calais, so it
will be worthwhile. Have the men prepare to move off. And now,’ the knight continued, ‘Jean, tell me all you can about this messenger of yours.’

‘He is a reliable friend, a lawyer named Gauvain de Bellemont. I have known him for years. Only a few days ago I met him in Berghes,’ Jean said with a frown. ‘He was about to
leave then. Did they catch him? Has he been here yet?’

‘He may still be on the road,’ Simon said. ‘Perhaps he was held up?’

‘But the men of the King of France clearly know about your plot,’ said Simon de Metz, eyeing Alan’s protrate form, and glancing at John warily.

Berenger noted that this was now Jean de Vervins’ plot, not Alan’s. Jean also noticed, from the filthy look he gave his confederate.

‘So, as we expected, news of our arrival has precipitated a reaction,’ Sir John said. He pulled down the corners of his mouth so that it appeared like a drawn bow. ‘It changes
nothing,’ he concluded, ‘other than to increase the urgency of our actions.’

‘But you don’t understand,’ Simon said. ‘Our city here is not ready! The walls are in disrepair, the populace has not been fully brought over to our side. We must have
you send for the rest of your army immediately. We need a much greater force to protect us. Bring us into your King’s Peace and save us!’

‘I understand your concern,’ Sir John said, ‘but our King is fully engaged at Calais. He will not dissipate his forces into little packets here and there. If you are to keep
this city and protect it, you must rely on your own abilities and skills. We shall ride to Jean’s castle.’

‘You will desert us?’

Sir John stared at the man. ‘If we stay here, you will die. Our presence will cause a battle, and if we are forced, we will fight to the last man. Do you think your city can cope with
that? No? Then you had best ride with us if you do not wish to be captured by your King.’

Gauvain de Bellemont had ridden hard all the way to Rheims and now, under the protection of his new clothing, he felt invisible as he walked about the city. He stood now in the
great square before the cathedral, and stared up at the building filled with a sense of confusion at the latest turn of events.

It was bizarre. The act of treachery in which he had indulged would certainly lead to his destruction. All he had built in a lifetime of study and sheer hard effort, was now lost. His family,
his properties in Laon and Metz, his treasure, all were gone. It was hard indeed to believe that he had suffered such a catastrophe, but there it was: he would be fortunate to escape with his life
and the clothes on his back.

A woman stopped him. ‘Excuse me, Brother. Please, I must speak my confession.’

‘Madam, I am sorry,’ he said, trying to hold his frustration at bay. This was the third woman today, in God’s name! Was the entire female population of Rheims so sexually
incontinent that they must confess their sins to any passing man?

‘Brother, I am desperate for your help.’

‘Woman, please, go to your priest.’

‘But he knows me! The shame! Brother, you
must
hear me.’

A watchman was observing them with interest and unconcealed amusement. Gauvain set his teeth. ‘Yes, of course. But where can we go?’

‘We can sit by that wall,’ she said, pointing to a bench. ‘No one will interrupt us when they see me talking to you.’

‘Very well,’ he said moodily. It was his own fault. The idea of putting on a Carmelite’s robes had seemed inspired at the time. Only now did he see the disadvantages.

They went and sat, and she began to speak. At first, Gauvain’s attention was split as he tried to keep an eye on the watchman, but surreptitiously, for fear of exciting the man’s
interest.

‘So, Brother, I was drinking with my brother-in-law and sister, and although I knew it was a terrible thing, I was horribly drunk and all excited, and when Hélène passed out,
well, I had to ease the itching in my groin, so I went to Jacques, and . . . and . . . what I did then was . . .’ and she whispered in his ear.