Blood on the Sand Read Online Free PDF

but only in the sense of being like an angry bull’s.
    However, Bertucat was useful. His unthinking belligerence made the Vidame feel safer. For now.
    ‘What is your news?’ the Vidame asked.
    ‘I wanted to make sure you had heard about the vintaine.’
    ‘What of it?’
    ‘They have all been captured. Their ship was taken.’
    ‘What of our friend?’
    ‘He was on the ship. Either he’s dead or he’s a prisoner too.’
    The Vidame swore. ‘If he is slain, it will take many months to get another man of his calibre into the English camp.’
    ‘I could do his work.’
    ‘You?’ The Vidame was so surprised, he nearly laughed out loud.
    It had taken him many weeks to find the right person to act as his spy. Bertucat could not appreciate what it was like, living with the enemy all day long, trying to show friendship to men who
were destroying the country like a plague. For such a spy, it was a deadly co-existence. The man had to have had two personalities, two nationalities, two lives. One was that of an Englishman keen
on plunder and slaughter, the other was a loyal servant of King Philippe, searching for any means to undermine the English army’s attempts to ravage poor France.
    Only one man he had ever met could act the part convincingly. The man in question had a French mother, an English father, and had spent his life in both camps; because of this, the
Vidame’s spy was perfect. He was able to wear his Englishness like a cloak, to put on or take off at will.
    Bertucat, by contrast, was a brainless thug, who wouldn’t last two minutes. No, the Vidame had to pray that his spy was returned safe and well.
    It was early in the morning when the galley negotiated the harbour of the little port of Dunkirk.
    ‘And so, my friends, here we must soon part,’ Chrestien said.
    Berenger and the others were held on the forecastle under the suspicious gaze of several heavily armed Genoese. In the crow’s nest, four men with spanned crossbows kept a close watch too,
not that Berenger or the others felt any urge to attempt an escape. There was no point. They could see all the galley’s men, over two hundred rowers and shipmen. Those were appalling odds for
the ship’s surviving sailors, thirty-odd at best.
    Berenger smiled at Chrestien. ‘I am glad to have met you. You are a kindly captor.’
    ‘And you, my friend, are a most gracious guest,’ Chrestien replied. He walked to the wale and stared out at the port in the early-morning light. ‘I wish circumstances could
have been better when we met. I would have enjoyed your company, had we the time to meet over a mess of food. Perhaps we shall still have an opportunity to share a meal? I will raise it with the
keeper of prisoners here in the town. There is much about you I should like to learn.’
    ‘There is little to learn about me,’ Berenger said. ‘I am only a fighter in the King’s host.’
    ‘No, there is more to you than that,’ Chrestien said, waving a finger with his eyes narrowed. ‘You have been trained in chivalry, that is clear.’
    ‘Well, when we are given into the custody of the keeper of prisoners, I fear we shall not meet again,’ Berenger said with regret.
    ‘Nonsense! A good keeper will not begrudge us a conversation or two,’ Chrestien said heartily. He clapped Berenger on the back. ‘I shall visit you on the morrow. I must first
see to my stores and supplies, and prepare the
Sainte Marie
for sea, but as soon as I may, I shall come and we shall find the best inn in the town and enjoy a good meal and some intelligent
conversation.’
    Berenger smiled but he doubted that the French would be willing to release him.
    ‘Frip, what now?’ Clip called.
    ‘We are to be taken to a gaol where we shall be held,’ he said without turning.
    ‘A gaol, eh? Well, you know what’ll happen, don’t you?’
    ‘Clip?’ Jack Fletcher called.
    ‘Aye?’
    ‘Don’t say it. Just shut up.’

Berenger had seen worse prisons. Years ago he had