Blood on the Sand Read Online Free Page A

different life. He would forswear war and battle, and with God’s help he would find a
woman and settle down. He had said this many times before, but this time he would keep his word. That he swore.
    ‘Should we loose, Frip?’ Clip’s whining voice cut through his thoughts. ‘They’ll kill us all if we don’t fight.’
    Berenger felt a shudder pass through his frame – a surge of anger at these Genoese, at France and, yes, at his King, for sending him here, to this poxy boat, to die. The spell of terror
was broken.
    ‘Archers,
draw
! Archers,
loose
!’ he bawled, and set his hand to his sword-hilt. ‘I don’t give a fuck who these arrogant bastards are, but they won’t
take me without a fight!’
    He could see them clearly enough. Burly fighting men, all of them burned by the sea’s wind and sun, with dark hair set about swarthy features, wearing a mixture of plain clothing and mail,
some with helmets or bascinets. Several were equipped with axes and polearms, while more stood at the rail brandishing swords or long knives.
    Aloft, he saw the bowmen, their crossbows spanned and ready. Before the English could loose their first arrows, three bolts slammed into his men. The sound, like gravel flung against wet
cabbage, made Berenger’s belly roil. He hated that sound above all others. ‘GET THOSE CUNTS ON THE CROW’S NEST,’ he bellowed as he gripped his sword more firmly in his fist.
It was a poor way to fight, this, with your hands cold and clammy, and damp from spray. No man could hold a weapon firmly in that kind of state.
    A sudden lurch and he heard a splintering noise from beneath his feet. The ship gave a great shuddering roll, and then her rolling was stopped, but the deck remained at an impossible angle.
Berenger stayed attached to his rope, the loose end wrapped about his wrist, while his men began to slide along the deck. Clip grabbed at a stanchion as he passed, and gave his hand to John of
Essex; Jack Fletcher was halted by the mast, and he managed to hang on to a sailor who passed by him on his back. All about the deck, sailors and warriors were clinging to each other and any spare
ropes or stays, rather than fighting the enemy.
    Arrows flew over Berenger’s head; he saw one pass through a sailor’s body, to pierce the decking behind him while he shivered and cursed in pain. Another nicked Jack Fletcher’s
skull and stabbed into the mast itself, and he looked up at the fletchings over his brow with an expression of shock mixed with fury. Dogbreath swung on a rope, cursing volubly when a bolt flew by
and almost struck his hip. Turf was curled into a ball at the wale, his hands pressed together as he prayed.
    A man with a grapnel stood at the front of the galley, and Berenger lifted his sword to try to rally his men, but before he could do so, a calm, accented voice cut through the din.
    ‘English, do you think to die today, or would you prefer to live?’
    The speaker was a dark-skinned man with a well-trimmed beard and white teeth that stood out in stark contrast to his oily black hair. His voice was serious, but his eyes were alive with
humour.
    ‘Come, English, there is no need for us to kill you all. Surrender and you will be saved. Your ship is sinking already. Her hull is cracked like a dropped bowl. We could leave you to
drown, but I don’t think you would like that.’
    Berenger gazed back at the tilted deck. There were three men dead – two men from his vintaine and a sailor – but as matters stood, the Genoese could pick them off one by one without
effort if they wanted, and there was nothing he or the archers could do. Only four men looked as though they still had their bows: their arrows were lost. With the deck angled the way it was, there
was no choice. They could not fight up the slippery slope of the deck and hope to achieve anything. They would be slaughtered before they had reached the wale.
    ‘Frip, if we live we can fight another day!’ Jack roared up at