Blood on the Sand Read Online Free Page B

him. ‘In Christ’s name, we can’t fight!’
    ‘You have us,’ Berenger said to the smiling face. At that moment, he hated his captor.

Berenger stood on the galley’s forecastle and watched as the oars dipped into the water and hauled the vessel away from the cog. The master of the galley had not been
lying. The galley had a projecting spike that had punctured the English vessel as easily as a knife slipping into an inflated bladder. As they withdrew, the cog seemed to settle in the water, like
a hound sprawling before a fire. Soon the entire deck was level with the waves, and then the seawater was crashing over and through her, and the masts leaned further and further from the vertical
until, as the galley pulled away and took the wind in her sails, the old cog rolled over and all Berenger could see was her rounded belly as she sank.
    A young, fair-haired shipman was standing not far away, and Berenger saw John of Essex put an arm about his shoulders as the lad began to sob. Strange how men could become so affectionate
towards what was a mere assemblage of cords, pegs and wood, he thought. But then he realised that he too had a sense of loss. Perhaps it was just that the ship represented home. With her sinking,
Berenger was as bereft as any of her sailors.
    ‘You are the master of the ship?’ the Genoese asked.
    ‘No, I am a fighting man. You killed the master – a bolt from a crossbow.’
    ‘The fortune of war, eh? Is a shame. I will say prayers for him.’ The man looked suitably solemn for a moment, but then a smile flashed and he looked more like a pirate than a
priest. ‘But first we must bring you to solid ground again, yes? You would like that?’
    Berenger nodded. He had never enjoyed working on ships. They were essential, of course, for travel from England to the King of France’s lands or beyond, but that didn’t mean he had
to like the experience. The sooner he had his feet on dry land, the happier he would be. He would feel safer.
    Not that it would necessarily be true, he knew as he looked about him. The Genoese were in the employ of the French. The King of France had paid them handsomely to come and sail for him. They
were simple mercenaries, he thought with disgust, available to the man with the largest purse. They had no sense of honour or duty.
    ‘Your men, they are thirsty?’ the Genoese asked. He was watching a shipman who had been pierced by a pair of bolts, and who sat, panting, at a companionway. ‘That man is in
great pain.’
    ‘A little drink would be received with gratitude,’ Berenger said. He could not help a grimace pass over his features.
    ‘You too are in pain?’
    ‘No, but I shall be. The French are not kind to captured prisoners,’ Berenger said.
    ‘I will not have my prisoners assaulted needlessly,’ the Genoese said dismissively.
    ‘Yes. For certain.’
    ‘I swear it, my friend.’ The Genoese waved a hand expansively over the vessel. ‘My name is Chrestien de Grimault. You are my guest and friend while you are on my ship, and
because you did not choose to fight on needlessly and cause the death or injury of my men, I honour you. While you are aboard the
Sainte Marie
you need not fear. My men will leave you in
peace. You can enjoy the journey, and when we deposit you on French soil, there will be a good bed and food. You will not be harmed. I swear this on my son’s life.’ The Genoese bowed
low.
    Berenger could not help but give a twisted smile.
    ‘I am grateful, Master, for the honour you do us,’ he said. ‘Where did you learn to speak English so well?’
    Chrestien stood upright again. ‘Ah, well, I have plied my trade all about the Mediterranean Sea, and there are many English who still live with the Knights of Malta and who populate the
harbours and ports. I have learned to enjoy the company of the English.’
    ‘Yet you take up arms with the French.’
    ‘Ah, my friend,’ Chrestien gave a shamefaced shake of his head. ‘That is sad,