Blood on the Sand (42 page)

Jean de Vervins heard them arguing from where he stood on the castle’s wall. And then he heard another sound – the braying of several horns, and some shouting. With
a sudden excitement he ran to the battlements, hoping against hope that this could be another English force, come to raise their siege. It would be a miracle, were they to have heard of the plight
of the men here, but perhaps the English King had realised that they were in great danger, and had decided to send them help?

Then the hope was dashed from his face as he took in the flags. More men from Châlons, more from Laon, some from further afield, but all from those loyal to the French King. None were
English.

He felt despair hit him in his breast like a crossbow bolt. At last he truly understood the weakness of his position here. He looked out over the men before his gates. There was not a single one
in whom he could place any trust. All were devoted to King Philippe. These were the men who wanted to see him dead.

Taking his sword and thrusting it into its sheath, he walked through the little door to the winding staircase and went down to the hall.

Once there, he fetched a large pot of wine and stood staring while Marguerite ministered to Berenger. ‘It would be easier if it were me lying there,’ he said. ‘At least then
all in the castle would be safe. Once I am dead . . .’

Marguerite threw him a harassed look. ‘We will all die.’

‘Perhaps. And now the Abbot has arrived, the Vidame will be here, too, I will be—’

‘The Vidame?’

The boy’s squeak made both adults turn.

Jean de Vervins eyed Georges curiously. ‘Alain de Châlons, the steward to the Abbot of Châlons, yes. And he’s sworn as my enemy because he is utterly devoted to King
Philippe. Since I changed my allegiance, because of Philippe de Valois’s lack of faith and dishonour, I am now considered an enemy of Châlons too, and the Vidame would see me
destroyed.’

‘But he is at Calais,’ the boy said, confused.

‘His master is outside, so I doubt it,’ Jean said. He sighed heavily as the clash of weapons came again from outside. ‘And now we must fight again.’

Marguerite caught at her son as the men left the room.

‘Let go of me!’

‘What do you know of this man, the Vidame?’ she demanded.

‘Nothing! I do not know this man Alain.’

‘But you know something of the Vidame. You were shocked to hear he had arrived with the Abbot. Why did you think he was there at Calais?’

He suddenly turned and spat, ‘What is it to you? You have forgotten my father already. You only have eyes for your vintener! I hope he dies!’ And the boy fled from the room.

After Grandarse’s words, John of Essex was determined to keep away from Mark Tyler, but he need not worry. Tyler was keeping well away from him.

That night was clear and still, and the sentries saw nothing to cause alarm, but all through the dark hours the sound of construction could be heard. The rasp of saws, the thud of wooden pegs
being hammered into planks, the squeak of wood forced into new positions.

The following morning, as the sun rose over the hills, when John peered out over the plain, he saw that the French were constructing a large tower, from which they would be able to send crossbow
bolts or arrows directly into the English castle. It was some distance away, and throughout the day, the English could gaze out and see it rising into the sky. Already a number of great tree trunks
had been cut and trimmed, ready to slide beneath the tower so that it might roll forward on them towards the castle.

‘Shit!’ he heard one of his men mutter. ‘That’s going to screw us completely.’

Sir John appeared at his side. He gazed out at the tower with a grim look in his eyes. ‘They are learning, aren’t they?’

‘It looks bad, sir,’ John of Essex said.

‘We’ve fought worse battles, and against worse odds. At least we have a castle to protect us,’ Sir John said.

He soon walked away to discuss the men’s dispositions with Jean de Vervins. John of Essex watched him go with a feeling of loneliness. Having the knight beside him made him feel strong and
safe.

From a short way away, he heard Clip’s cheerful, ‘Well, that’s it. We’ll all get slaughtered when that thing gets here.’

There was short squeak of pain. Then, ‘Ouch! Jack, why’d you do that?’

‘To shut you up, what else?’

John stood watching.

After he had been there a while, Jean de Vervins appeared at his side. ‘They are keen to take my castle,’ he said.

John nodded. ‘You’ve upset the wrong people.’

‘I was once the French King’s favourite knight, you know. If he had only kept faith with me, I would still be his most loyal servant. But when he showed his contempt for me and
transferred his affections to du Bos instead, I had no choice.’

‘I see,’ John said, but in fact he couldn’t. The man had broken his oath. John could understand a man taking money for his loyalty, but not discarding all ties. Still, a knight
had to consider his honour, of course.

‘I have served your King honourably. If you return to him, tell him this.’

‘I will,’ John said.

‘You know, they will not stop until they have my head,’ Jean said.

He stared out bleakly at the tower rising before his castle walls. It was a great undertaking. He could imagine the captains about it exhorting their men to ever greater efforts. The tower
itself should save many French lives, after all. They had proved to themselves that the defenders were more than competent to slay many of them. All Jean de Vervins could think of right now was
what his friend Gauvain had said. What was it? Something about making sure he was not captured alive. That their enemies would seek to give them the most unpleasant death imaginable, if they were
caught.

There was a thunderous roar, then drums beat and horns blared wildly once more.

Jean drew his sword. ‘Here they come,’ he said wearily.

Grandarse was at the far wall when the cry came, and he lumbered heavily, puffing and blowing, across the castle, up the steps, and up to the walls beside John and Jean. Jack
took command of Frip’s men at the right, while John held the middle, and two other vintaines waited: one at the left, the other as a reserve. There were enough French from the garrison to
cover the other walls, but this was where the main attack would fall.

‘Bows strung, boys!’ Grandarse called, looking sternly along his line. The men were all as ready as they would ever be, he saw. That younger fellow with the pale hair and red face,
he had sweat dribbling out from his upper lip so badly he kept having to wipe it away. The Warwickshire man with the badly pox-scarred face near him was trembling as if this was his first action.
Well, maybe it was at that. Frip’s men were all looking good, though. That damned villeiny-sayer, Clip, was looking out at the enemy and telling all who would listen that they would soon die;
Dogbreath was shivering not from fear, but more in the manner of a hound that sees the hart and wants to be at it. Jack stood calmly enough, the Earl eyed the enemy with a kind of laconic
bafflement, while the Pardoner glanced about fretfully, but not anxiously. And not far from him, Tyler stood staring at the men approaching with a kind of professional interest.

‘Bring up oil!’ Grandarse shouted. It might help. A lad fetched him a bucket of warmed oil left over from the earlier fight.

The French tower was halfway up to them now. It stood a clear three yards taller than the castle’s walls, and at the front there was a drawbridge. Beneath, at the rear, men picked up the
great rollers between four of them, and lumbered to the front, where they dropped them and made their way to the back again. There was a hold-up when they reached a rock that lay in their path. A
section of men stood gaping at it and scratching their heads, until two peasants ran and fetched long levers and prised it from the ground. They manhandled it from the path of the tower, which
began its forward movement once more, slowly travelling over the ground.

‘Archers,
ready!
’ Grandarse called.

It was good to give the men something to think about, but the main thing here would not be the archers’ arrows, but the strength in their arms as they pitched attackers from their walls.
It was going to be hard, Grandarse knew. He settled his bascinet on his head, tightening his grip on his sword with his right hand as he hitched up his hosen with his left.
‘Archers!’

The tower had five men already at the top. Grandarse shuddered. Once, he had ridden in the top of a storming tower like that one as it was manoeuvred across a field. The memory of standing so
high above ground while it shook and rattled over the grass was not one he would ever forget. ‘Aim for the men atop!
Nock! Draw! Loose!
’

He saw all five disappear as thirty arrows were discharged into them, but then it was a case of having every arrow count.

‘Hit the men with the logs!’ he bellowed, and at once two of the four were felled. One collapsed in the tower’s path, and as the tower rumbled forward, it pushed the logs until
they rolled over his lower body as though there was no obstruction. As the man screeched in agony, the logs kept moving, and Grandarse had a brief view of a smear on the grass where his legs and
groin should have been.

‘Archers,
loose when you have a target
!’ Sir John was roaring, and Grandarse nodded approvingly.

‘Prepare to defend the walls!’ he bawled in turn, and saw the tower’s bridge gradually moving. When it was near enough, the bridge would fall on the castle’s wall, and
men would rush over it.

The bridge fell with a sudden thump, and one Englishman was crushed beneath it. Grandarse had no time to guess who it was, but instead bounded to the front as the first Frenchmen began to pelt
over it. A pair of arrows took the first man down, another took the second man, but then the French were over it like beggars running for a monastery’s alms. Two reached the wall, then five,
then more, and all the while more were coming.

Jean de Vervins was at the forefront all the time, his sword swinging with mighty power, and men fell before him. Jack wielded a hatchet to great effect, and John swung his sword with abandon,
almost taking the head off the archer beside him with one over-enthusiastic swipe. Grandarse was at the front, bringing his sword down on the head of a lunatic Frenchman who tried to push him over.
He fell, more stunned than injured, but the man beside Grandarse stabbed him quickly in the face and neck as their mêlée moved back and forth over the wall.

A man had managed to grab a lance, and now he used it to push at the Frenchmen on the bridge, while archers over at the left of the wall kept up a merciless barrage of arrows.

Grandarse saw an opportunity, and hefted the bucket. With a heave, he hurled it at the bridge, and it broke on the doorway above as more men rushed through, some dying before they had crossed
the pathway.

‘Fire!’ he roared, and as soon as a torch was kindled and brought, he flung it at the oiled patch. In a moment, the oil had caught light, and the bridge itself became a fiery vision
of Hell. Men were less enthusiastic about launching themselves onto it and crossing over to the castle.

The English moved some paces away to catch their breath, and even as they did so, a second series of shouts came from the tower as the structure began to flower with flames.

A man stood in the doorway and tried to jump across, but he was killed before he had taken a pace. Then a trio of crossbowmen appeared on the tower’s uppermost level again, and they loosed
before the English could react. Grandarse felt the waft of the feathers pass his face, and experienced a strange elation as he realised it had missed him. And then he heard the cough and turned to
see Jean de Vervins staring at the bolt’s fletchings protruding from his breast.

‘Help me!’ Grandarse yelled to the two men nearby. ‘Tyler, you come with me. John, you too,’ he said, and the three picked up Jean and helped him down
the steps as best they could, leaving Sir John to command the defence.

Jean was coughing and choking as they took him across the yard, but before they had reached the doorway, he waved his hands and gulped convulsively: ‘Down, let me down! I
suffocate!’