Blood on the Sand Read Online Free PDF Page A

but it is the way of things. Genoa is allied to France, so when the French King asked for our
help, we were duty bound to assist him.’ He shrugged, and the piratical expression returned to his eyes. ‘Especially since he pays us nine hundred florins a month for our
service.’
    His grin was infectious enough to make Berenger forget his misery for the present.
    ‘That is better, my friend. I will have wine brought so we may seal our friendship. There is no need for disputation amongst friends, is there? We are honourable combatants, and should
deal fairly with each other, no? Now, my friend: your name, I beg of you?’
    ‘My name is Berenger Fripper.’
    ‘Berenger? But surely you are a knight, with your warlike appearance and bold attire?’
    Berenger felt his mouth fall open. ‘No, I’m no knight, only a man-at-arms for a knight.’
    ‘You bear yourself well for a mere warrior, my friend. But no matter.
Wine! I will have wine here!
’ he called out. Then, turning back to Berenger, he added in a quieter tone,
‘I managed to raid a storehouse before setting sail, and have some very excellent barrels that I think had been destined for a bishop. It would have been a waste, to see such a good wine go
down a religious gullet!’
    He arrived as dusk was beginning to fall, a fellow of middling height with a round face and grey-blue eyes that sparkled. He was hooded and bent, walking like a man twenty
years his senior. For him, changing his gait was a matter of habit when he was walking out amongst the English. The Vidame was too used to concealment to walk normally here.
    The light was fading, and the shadows lengthening. It was his favourite time to go for a stroll. At night, men were on their guard, but in the twilight they took less notice of other people,
even strangers. For a spy, this was the best time to go abroad.
    Their meeting place was a grim little chamber off an alley in what had once been a suburb of the town. He cast an eye about the place as he entered. Old sacking mingled with the refuse of the
years, with broken spars, and bits and pieces of frayed rope. A rat’s corpse lay partially mummified beside a shred or two of rag. It was a shit-hole, basically. Not his first choice, but it
served.
    ‘What happened?’ he demanded as soon as the door was closed behind him.
    ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ the big man said immediately.
    ‘It never is
your
fault, is it, Bertucat?’ he said. ‘Not even when you go to a private assignation with me and get into a fight!’
    ‘There was an English archer eavesdropping on us. He tried to break in.’
    ‘An English archer? Bah! He would have been out for plunder, that’s all.’
    ‘Except he was with the same vintaine.’
    ‘What do you mean, the “same”?’
    ‘What do you think I mean? He serves with Berenger Fripper, the archer they call “Clip”.’
    ‘Do I care? If you were caught there it would have endangered me!’
    ‘You don’t like me, do you?’ Bertucat was a typical product of the streets about Marseilles. A brutish, dim-witted fool, with little to commend him but the size of his fists
and his fearlessness in a fight.
    ‘You have no idea what I like and what I don’t like. However, I do
not
like the thought of being hanged because you are too incompetent to finish things off! You should have
killed the man while you could.’
    ‘And have the vintaine come after his killer? They are loyal to each other in that band – you know that as well as me. Better to beat him up like the thieving scrote he is, and have
him thought to have been discovered while breaking in. This way we’re safe.’
    ‘I wonder.’
    ‘Why, Vidame? What is it? Worried about your own skin?’
    The Vidame heard the sneer. It was tempting to kill the man, but Bertucat was built like a cathedral, massively. He had a thick neck like a knight, and a head that was narrow, as if it had been
squeezed into a helmet that was too small. His eyes were brown and bovine,