Berenger had seen worse prisons. Years ago he had been kept in a noisome dungeon that was perpetually damp. Sitting down made a man’s hosen sodden from the ordure. This, in contrast, was a goodly-sized chamber with dry walls and straw on the floor. Two leather buckets were provided for the men, and while they were not enough to cope with the needs of all thirty men, at least they did not have to make a mess on the floor at first. All had been entangled with chains. Manacles and ankle-shackles hindered their movements.

‘What do we do now, Frip?’ Jack asked.

He had walked over to Berenger, and now squatted in front of his vintener. The other men drew near, shuffling closer, as best they could. Tyler, John of Essex, Clip and the rest formed an anxious semicircle about him. Berenger eyed them all. They deserved better than this.

‘There’s nothing we can do at present,’ he said. ‘We just have to keep quiet and hope that the French won’t mistreat us.’

Clip nodded mutely, and chewed at a nail. The unaccustomed silence of the wizened, beggarly-featured man was eloquent proof of his inner turmoil. It was rare indeed that he would not declare the vintaine lost and doomed. His assertion that all would shortly die was an irritating fixture in the men’s lives, and this curious silence from him was as shocking as a sudden death-rattle in a man’s throat.

‘Lads, we’ll get out of here,’ Berenger said with a certainty he didn’t feel. ‘The French won’t want to upset our King more than they have to.’

‘Yes, Frip,’ Jack said flatly, and the men drifted away, none of them exchanging so much as a glance, as they selected areas to sit and think over their position.

Berenger stared at his hands. He had them clasped in his lap, and now he willed them apart, but for some reason he could not move them. They were linked as though bound with invisible thongs. He felt a heaviness in his soul. Looking about him in the darkened interior of this chamber, he could see his men and the shipmen from the cog, all still and quiet, apart from one or two who stared about them distractedly as though looking for a means of escape.

They all knew the reality. The English had been here in France for weeks, trying to bring the French to battle by means of dampnum – war by horror. They had waged war on the peasants and the poor, burning, raping, looting and murdering over a broad front in order to prove the French King’s inability to honour his duty of protection towards his people. The aim was to entice the French into King Edward III’s Peace and make them reject their own feeble King. Tens of thousands had been robbed, ransomed or slain since the English had landed at St-Vaast-La-Hougue, and any Frenchman would want to take his revenge. If the roles were reversed, if this were Portsmouth or Southampton, and Frenchmen were captured after raiding in England, Berenger knew exactly how the enemy would be punished. They would be tortured to within an inch of their souls’ release, allowed to recover, and then tortured again before finally being executed slowly and painfully in front of a jeering crowd. And he expected exactly that kind of treatment.

His hands were shaking with his rising panic. In his breast he could feel the muscles tightening. Fear was engulfing him. He knew how the French executed people. In his mind’s eye he could see the crowd before him as he was led to the wheel and bound to it, while the executioner spat and laughed at him, his collection of sticks and iron bars ready. He would break all Berenger’s bones one by one. Fires would be lighted nearby to heat the metal brands to scorch and burn him; pincers would be arrayed to flay him alive . . . the horror of a vengeful death with all its concomitant cruelty.

‘Frip – you all right?’ John of Essex said quietly at his side. ‘We can get out of this, you know.’

‘I . . . I am well,’ he managed.

‘Be calm – for them, Frip. Be strong,’ John whispered.

Berenger stared at him, and would have answered, but just then there was a rattle of bolts and the sound of a key in the lock, and the door swung open.

Béatrice was in the camp when she heard that there had been a battle at sea. She would never forget that day. Her morning had started calm and happy, with her helping the Donkey to look after their oxen, chatting and laughing with him and Georges, his new friend. There were always a thousand and one things to do. Ed was keen to help, but he would keep getting under her feet, and whenever she looked at him, he would duck away. She was perplexed. He did not try to leave her, so he didn’t seem annoyed or angry, and yet there was that curious shyness. Perhaps he was merely upset because the vintaine had gone away, and he thought he should have gone with them.

From then, her morning soured. Béatrice wanted to get on with things, and the Donkey kept dawdling. And then she suddenly realised what was wrong. She had been standing and stretching her arms after bending for a long time collecting some nuts, and had turned to see him staring at her breasts. Letting her arms fall immediately, she felt the blood drain from her face. She did not see Ed the Donkey, the young lad of whom she was fond. Instead she saw only a man exhibiting the same lascivious desire as all those who had tried to rape her over the last, traumatic weeks.

‘What is it? You think you are old enough to bed me, boy?’ she snapped.

He coloured a violent puce, span around and fled. Instantly she was struck with shame. Ed was no lustful man desiring her body, but a child on the cusp of manhood, a boy confused about his urges.

‘Ed!’ she called, full of remorse, but it was too late. He was already gone. Georges gave her a black look and flew off in pursuit of his friend, while Béatrice stood, cursing her quick temper. She had made many mistakes in her life, but few as foolish as this, she thought. The poor boy had only snatched a glimpse of her body through her clothes. It was her fault, surely, for giving him the opportunity to view her in that light. She should have been more careful. After the last months she knew how dangerous it was to tempt men.

Perhaps Archibald was right, she thought. Perhaps she ought to leave the camp and go away, far away, and find another place to live. Here, she was a constant source of dissension. Wherever she went she brought arguments and fights. If she could even disturb poor Donkey, it was time to look elsewhere.

There was one man with whom she felt content to discuss the matter. Berenger Fripper. He would be rational and sensible, she knew. She could trust his judgement. When he was back, she would take him aside and ask his advice.

With that, she made sure that the oxen were tethered securely, and then made her way back to their camp.

Archibald was already there, and had seated himself on an old wine cask before the fire. He scowled at the flames thoughtfully, nodding his head occasionally as if to some inner argument only he could hear.

‘Archibald! Archibald!’

‘What’s the matter with the boy now?’ the gynour grumbled as the Donkey came pelting down the road, Georges close behind him like his personal spaniel.

Béatrice laughed to herself to see the old fellow looking so put out. ‘Donkey, what is it?’ she called.

Ed glanced at her shamefacedly, but came to a halt before Archibald. Suddenly, his eyes filled with tears. ‘It’s the vintaine!’ he choked. ‘They’ve been taken. All of them!’