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, 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, 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.’