Blood on the Sand (47 page)

Chrestien de Grimault shrugged. ‘It was my pleasure. It saved my honour.’

‘I am glad the arrow missed you on the deck of your galley,’ Berenger said.

‘It was the fortune of war. I was safe, while you have suffered greatly.’ The man toyed with his mazer. ‘I feel I should not drink more. I may be tempted to speak my mind, and
that is not always a good idea with an enemy.’

‘I don’t think we are enemies,’ Berenger said. He poured from the jug and refilled their cups. ‘We are just on opposite sides in a war. And I think it a foolish
dispute.’

‘It is not mine to defend.’

‘Nor mine. It is a battle between kings, and when such wars are declared, it is men like you and me who are made to suffer. Not many nobles lose their lives.’

Chrestien disagreed. ‘I had heard that the French nobility lost many men on the field at Crécy.’

‘Yes, but that was different. Usually it’s the poor foot-sloggers who get slain. And those who seek to protect people are often punished.’ For some reason, a picture of Jean de
Vervins’s face appeared in his mind. ‘A lot of men have lost everything in this war.’

‘True enough.’

Both were silent for a while, drinking companionably. Every so often, Berenger felt the Genoese’s eye upon him, but he thought it was merely the appraising glance of a man who wondered
what his fate would be. It was hard for someone who had been captured not to feel the concern:
what is going to happen to me?

‘You will be well looked after, I swear,’ he said at last. ‘You can remain here with my men, if you wish. I doubt anyone will want to keep you. You served your master, the
French King, well.’

‘I am only a mere mercenary, when all is said and done, my friend,’ Chrestien said. ‘But I thank you for your kindness. Hopefully there is no firebrand of a bishop amongst your
King’s host.’

Berenger thought of the Archbishop of York and the Bishop of Durham. ‘If you see one, keep well away,’ he advised.

The Genoese laughed, but his laugh was stilled as the door opened and Sir John de Sully entered.

‘Sir John,’ Berenger said, rising.

‘This is the Genoese? Good, you are to come with me. Fripper, you come too.’

‘Sir John, I have given this man my word that he will not be mistreated,’ Berenger said.

The knight stopped and looked at him. ‘That was foolish. If the King decides a different fate, what will you do then? Fight the King to free him? Would you fight
me
, Fripper? You
should not make promises you cannot fulfil.’

‘He saved my life, Sir John, and the lives of all my men. At the least we were to be blinded and have our fingers cut off. This man rescued us.’

‘He also attacked our fleet and almost sank the ship under you, and tried to take a secret message to the French King. He will receive his just reward.’

Berenger frowned. There was no reading the knight’s expression. It was carefully blank, as though Sir John was keeping his calmness with an effort. His eyes looked bright, perhaps with
anger, but Berenger had no choice; he walked with the knight and the Genoese through the streets until they reached the King’s hall, where Sir John spoke with the two men at the door, and led
the way inside.

‘Your Royal Highness,’ he said, bowing before the King.

King Edward III stood at a long table poring over papers with two clerks and the Bishop of Durham. All looked at Chrestien de Grimault with disapproval bordering on loathing.

‘You are the Genoese who was taking this message to the French King?’ the Bishop demanded.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, take it – and begone!’

Chrestien de Grimault stared at him, then at the letter. ‘Me? Take it?’

The King gave a thin smile. ‘Yes, man! I command you to take this letter and transport it to your King. I have ordered a horse to be readied for you. However, when you see the King, you
will also give him this note from me.’ He passed over a second sealed message. ‘And you will say to him these words:
I challenge you to come to the aid of your town
.’

‘Very well. I understand,’ Chrestien managed, taking both packets and thrusting them inside his shirt.

‘You had best take this too,’ the Bishop said. ‘A safe-conduct throughout the English lines. If you are stopped by our forces anywhere, this will protect you.’

Outside, Chrestien and Berenger stared at each other, and then burst out laughing. Within an hour, the Genoese was mounted on a fresh, fiery rounsey, and he looked down at Berenger, holding out
his hand. ‘Farewell, my friend. I swear, next time I see you, I will not try to sink you.’

‘I will probably try to sink you, though,’ Berenger joked.

Chrestien held onto his hand for a little longer. ‘Do not trust your companions entirely. Not all are what they seem.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Only this: there is a spy for the French King in your camp. One of your friends is determined to bring down your army.’

‘So you knew about Jean de Vervins? Well, he is safe enough now – he’s dead. But he spied for both sides. He was a most democratic spy!’ Berenger grinned.

‘No, not him, you fool. There is another, one who is close to you.’

‘He, too, is dead. Mark Tyler was not a very effective spy.’

‘I don’t know of him. The spy I speak of is back here in the camp – right now. And he is not only spying. There is a plot to kill your King!’

And with that, he let go, dug his heels into the rounsey’s flanks, and was off at a canter.

After his discussion with Chrestien, Berenger was perfectly convinced that there was a spy, and he knew he must not take any risks, especially if there was truly a plot to kill
the King. He would have to devise a means of learning the truth.

Before he did anything else, he sent Jack and Clip, the two men he knew and trusted best, to watch the house where Sir Peter and the Vidame were billeted. He sent the Donkey with them.
‘He’ll recognise the man. If that man comes out, follow him – and do not lose him, as you value your ballocks,’ he growled, and then went to seek his banneret.

‘Sir John, I think I have some news of importance.’

Sir John was just leaving his house, and now, striding along the road, he listened to all Berenger had to say of his suspicions and the evidence of the others. After some minutes, the knight
stopped in the street. ‘Say all that again, Frip.’

Berenger spoke at length, explaining about the boy’s evidence, then Béatrice’s, and finally spoke of Chrestien’s words.

‘So you think that there is a plot to kill the King?’

‘That is what the Genoese said.’

‘Shit! There are many who would love to stick a lance in the King’s heart. But he should be safe with his friends. The lords about him would never let him be harmed.’

‘What if there was a traitor amongst them? We already have the example of Jean de Vervins – apparently King Philippe’s most loyal vassal, turned to treachery because of a
slight, whether real or imagined. And we know that the knight Peter of Bromley is employing as clerk a man who is gathering information about the King. What if Sir Peter himself is less than
reliable?’

‘You capture the clerk and bring him to me. We’ll have him tortured until we find your man. Meanwhile, I shall keep a close eye on Sir Peter. But keep this quiet. We don’t want
to cause unnecessary concern in the camp. I shall tell the King and his son, but for the rest, keep this within our circle. If there is to be treachery, we may yet work it to our
advantage.’

Berenger agreed, although the thought of torture made him feel sick. After all, a man could be tortured and forced to tell everything, but unless the torturer was expert, his victim would just
lie to stop the agony.

He marched quickly back to his camp. One of his men was a traitor.

But which? His sick feeling increased.

The Vidame was about to go and meet Sir Peter at the King’s hall; he sent Bertucat outside to check that the road was safe for them.

‘Vidame,’ the big man said a moment later when he returned, a frown on his face. ‘There are two men from the vintaine outside.’

‘Is our man one of them?’ the Vidame asked, stepping across to the glassless side-window and peering through this. Clip he recognised at once. Jack, he did not see at first. The man
had an ability to conceal himself in a small crowd. ‘Oh.’

‘Do you want me to go and attack them?’

‘No, my friend. These are not thieves and bullies from the street, but trained and competent fighters. If you attack one, you will be assailed by both. No, I think it is time for us to
leave.’

It was an annoyance. Still, their information had been useful. The attitude of the men, the news of ship numbers, the position of the gonnes and weapons of war, all should aid King
Philippe’s efforts. And now it was time to escape.

He took a strip of paper and a reed, and quickly wrote a note. ‘Take this and put it in the cart. When you have done that, come back here and wait. Our man will soon appear. When he does,
you will know what to do.’

Clip had been astonished to see where the Vidame was living.
That’s my yard!
he thought to himself, peering up the alleyway. He saw a man flit past the far end of
the alley, and was tempted to go and check it. And then he remembered his last visit, when the mousy-haired man had attacked him, and he recalled the priest who was with him. ‘Oh,’ he
mouthed slowly.

‘Was it the man we’re hunting?’ Jack demanded.

‘Eh? How can I tell?’

‘Then go and look, but come back if it isn’t,’ Jack said.

While they spoke, the door opened and a tall, dark man appeared, glanced up and down the road, and then strode off up the lane.

‘Didn’t he come out earlier?’ Jack said, but Clip was already gone.

Jack watched the man, but he was not the one he had been told to find, and a knight’s house could have many servants. He sniffed, folded his arms, and leaned more comfortably against the
wall. He’d wait to see the Vidame.

Clip was soon back. ‘Well?’

‘By the time I got there, the yard was empty.’

‘Right. We’d best wait here, then.’

The spy had not expected to find a note. He’d thought that things were going to calm down once he had returned from the siege at Bosmont. He had done enough, surely, when
he had shoved Berenger off the roof, risking his own life in the process?

But the note was there, with the scrawl that meant he was required urgently to see the Vidame. He wandered idly from the camp as though off to seek a cup of wine, and then picked up the pace
when he was out of sight of the rest of the vintaine.

He had his own route to the Vidame’s rooms. Up along the main street, then north and west until he came to a narrow alley between two sheds. He could stand here with a perfect view from
the northern street to the southern, and today there was no one about. Nobody paid him any attention, so he continued on his path.

The alley took him parallel to the main east-west thoroughfares, and then he was at the courtyard behind the Vidame’s house. It was the safest route to reach the place unseen.

Striding across the court, he made his way to the kitchen door and was about to knock, when a hand came around his mouth, the thumb over his nose.

Bertucat hissed in his ear, ‘Sorry, but they’re getting close to you. We can’t let you talk.’

Panicked, the spy tried to pull away, his hands scrabbling at Bertucat’s wrist to release his nostrils, but then he felt the steel enter his back . . . and as he trembled in his death
throes, all he could think of was the face of the Vidame, smiling so patiently as he always did. Alain de Châlons, the Vidame, the prized spymaster of the King of France.

Lying on his back in the dirt, that was the picture left in his mind: the smile of the Vidame. If he could, the spy would have cursed him, with his dying breath.

Bertucat dragged his body to a heap of garbage and scattered some planks and rocks about the corpse, but then he heard steps and shouts, and quickly ran off through the alleys, away from the
scene.

He’d never liked the spy. You couldn’t trust a man who would betray his comrades.

Berenger hurried to Sir Peter’s house as soon as he received the message. Upon arrival, he found Jack waiting.

‘Up here, Frip,’ he said, unsmiling.

They walked up Clip’s narrow alley to the yard behind, and there they found Clip. He was crouched beside a body.

‘Who is it?’ Berenger said, but he knew already. He recognised the clothes and the shock of reddish-brown hair.

Jack said, ‘He came up here while we were out at the front. Clip saw him and followed, but it was too late. He must have come here through one of the alleys out at the back, and soon as he
did, he was stabbed. Look: he got it three times in the back.’

‘Turn him over,’ Berenger said. It was hardly necessary, but he wanted to see the features of the man who had done so much to harm the army.

The dull eyes of the Pardoner were strangely sad in death. They seemed to peer over Berenger’s shoulder: he felt a shiver run down his spine at the sight.

‘Well, that answers one question, then,’ he said roughly. ‘We know who our spy was. Did you see who stabbed him?’