Berenger and the other captives were shoved and clubbed forward by the town’s militia. This gaggle of disreputable brutes had no discernible uniforms, not even the town’s crest. To Berenger’s jaundiced eye, they looked like men who had been pulled from the fields about the town that very morning and selected for their ability to drive cattle. Either that, or they had been emptied, like dregs, from the lowest dungeon in the town. The one closest to Berenger had a thick beard and a wall eye, but that didn’t stop him from aiming blows regularly at the vintener as they marched.

Not that their bullying produced a reaction from the English. The archers and sailors bent under the buffets, and apart from Tyler yelping, there was little sound from them, only the constant rattle of the chains at wrists and ankles. Dogbreath ignored every blow with the stoicism of a saint who can see heaven opening before him. Saint Lawrence ducked, but with his height he was hit more than most. Clip was struck over the head with a ferocity that made his legs crumple beneath him, but Jack Fletcher and John of Essex were near enough to grab an arm each and, ducking from the blows now aimed at themselves, they hurried Clip forwards. He tried to pick his feet up, first one boot then the other, but with the length of chain securing his ankles, he could not bring either foot forward far enough to take his weight, and at the speed with which they were propelling him, he could not move both together. Eventually he gave up and allowed his boots to scuff along, dragging in the dirt.

The room into which they were brought was a broad hall with a stone-flagged floor. On the walls hung great tapestries with biblical scenes displayed, while to the left was a vast, unglazed window that gave out onto a view over the harbour itself. From there Berenger could see the sleek lines of three galleys at their moorings, while barrels of food and drink were brought alongside and stored aboard. It was a sight to tear at a man’s heartstrings, to see the possibility of escape so near to hand, yet with no means to achieve it.

There were two long tables set out, and on each were piles of parchments and scrolls, while a small army of clerks scurried about, as busy as rats in a bakery. However, it was not this excited bustle that caught Berenger’s attention, it was the five men standing before him.

Two looked like well-fed merchants. One of the pair was a little under five and a half feet tall, with pleasant features under mousy-coloured hair. He looked like a man who was prone to laughter and conviviality, but Berenger saw that he had the thick neck of a warrior used to wearing a steel helm. His shoulders too had the breadth of a man who wielded a lance. He was someone to watch, the vintener decided.

The second merchant had pale brown hair, and a harder expression on his flabby face. Taller than the first, this man was clearly no fighter. He had a paunch like a London banker, and his neck was thick only because of the rolls of fat. As soon as the men entered, he fixed Berenger with a gimlet eye. There would be no compassion from that quarter, Berenger could tell. This fellow wore the look of a man presented with the thief who had taken his purse.

A little apart from these two stood a cardinal, a man with bright, birdlike eyes in a face that smiled all the time – and yet there was no answering smile in those eyes. He was, Berenger thought, the most dangerous of all three men. Nearby was a ginger-haired, bearded man with a ruddy complexion. He stood square and powerful, watching the English with hatred on his face.

The fifth man was a soldier through and through. He was as short as the first merchant, but his hair was thick and fair, offsetting his square, uncompromising face. His shoulders were broad and muscled from holding a lance and sword. On his tunic he bore arms, and Berenger wondered what they indicated. Whether he was an esquire or a knight, the vintener could not guess.

The slimmer, more affable-looking man spoke first. ‘You say that these are the devils who have wreaked such havoc? Why they look no more dangerous than drowned rats!’

‘Silence, Jean de Vervins,’ the man-at-arms said. He eyed the prisoners without emotion.

‘I caught them in the Channel,’ the Genoese said. He had followed in behind them all, and now stood at the side, eyeing them contemplatively. When he caught Berenger’s eye, he winked.

‘They look like the scum they are,’ the ginger man said. Berenger was startled to hear the Scottish accent. He had heard that many Scots fought for the King of France, but he had never met one here before.

‘You are English pirates,’ the man-at-arms stated. He spoke strongly accented French, and Berenger thought the dialect sounded familiar. Perhaps it was from the north, not far from Calais? ‘You are found to have attacked our lawful traffic on the sea. What do you have to say for yourselves?’

‘We are subjects of King Edward III,’ Berenger said in the same language. His hands shook as he ducked his head nervously. ‘We have not attacked any ships. We were there to guard the King’s fleet.’

‘Only because your vessel was too feeble to withstand a fight,’ the man commented.

The fellow called Jean de Vervins cast a glance around the assembled prisoners and shook his head. ‘Count, is it not astonishing? These are the fabled archers – those who are thought to strike fear into the hearts of all France? I find this hard to believe. They look like ordinary peasants to me.’

The cardinal had a high, sing-song tone as though he was singing the Vespers. ‘Perhaps these are some of the new recruits who have yet to see battle, my lord?’

Jean de Vervins said, ‘No, they have the appearance of men who have been campaigning for months. Look at their clothing, their faces. These are not recent-comers to the fray. These are men who have been living well on French soil for some months.’

‘You think so?’

‘Why, yes. And we should make use of them.’

‘And, how do you propose we do that?’ the man-at-arms said with a disdainful sneer.

‘As an example, of course, Count. We know that many consider these English to be infused with the powers of the Devil. I say, keep these near at hand to prove that the famous archers are in truth mere clod-hoppers,’ Jean de Vervins said, his eyes passing over Dogbreath with every sign of revulsion. ‘Can you imagine any man being fearful of such as these?’

‘No, we must use them as an example to all who would seek to harm poor France,’ the merchant with the hard eyes said. ‘Put them to work, improving the defences of our town against their own kind. By their own efforts they can keep us secure.’

‘At the expense of the guards necessary to watch over them?’ the man-at-arms commented. Berenger had noticed that the man called Jean de Vervins had referred to him as ‘Count’. ‘No. Better by far that we should punish them and throw them from the walls. We have no need of extra mouths to feed, especially when those mouths will require fighting men to guard them.’

‘You would not release them to continue their depredations?’ Jean de Vervins declared, and his companion nodded briskly.

‘No. We would not wish to have them free to rejoin the English. Kill them one at a time. A daily celebration. We could start with that one,’ the merchant said, pointing at Berenger.

Jean de Vervins shook his head. ‘Surely we should begin with a common archer and save the captain until last.’

Then the cardinal spoke. He had a calm, contemplative manner, with a faint crease in his forehead as though considering his words carefully. ‘No, I think not. I would blind them all and cut off the fingers they use to work their bows, and then send them to find their way back to their friends. Perhaps we would allow one of them to keep an eye so he might lead them. A display of our contempt for them would not go amiss.’

The Count drew his mouth into a thoughtful moue. ‘Very well. It may encourage the other English to reconsider their actions.’

Chrestien de Grimault took a pace forward. ‘I explained to you that I swore to these men that they would be well looked after if they surrendered to me. Not that they would be tortured or executed.’

‘Then you spoke without thinking of your rights, Genoan,’ the man-at-arms said.

‘My Lord Comte de Roucy, I would not wish it thought that I would give my word in a careless manner without honour.’

‘Then be more careful with your words in future.’

‘Nor would I have it thought that I was so ill-regarded by you and your King that my requests for clemency would go disregarded.’

‘In that case, petition the King. However, even if he were to listen to your pleas with sympathy, you would find all dead before you received your answer,’ the count said bluntly.

Chrestien de Grimault nodded, his eyes hooded. He didn’t so much as glance in Berenger’s direction. That was when Berenger knew they were lost.

The Cardinal let his eyes range over the prisoners as the Genoese was stilled. ‘Then I shall arrange for a platform to be constructed outside the church. The people can witness the punishment of these men there. It will take a day or perhaps two before we have it completed. Then we can turn them all from the town’s gate to wander where they will.’

‘Yes,’ the Comte de Roucy said, ‘but first we need to make an example for the townspeople so that they know we shall defend them against these English fiends. We shall pick two for immediate illustration of our determination to punish all English invaders.’

‘My lord Count, my lord Cardinal,’ Jean de Vervins said strongly, ‘surely you would be better served to wait until the King has heard the Genoese’s request? It will not harm your case to offer a period for reflection. Then, when the King has made known his view, you can be assured of not going against his will. I would—’

‘You are no longer in favour, Sieur Jean. These peasants are my prisoners to do with as I will. I would not delay their execution even if they were lords and eligible for ransom. No! I will see them die and let all the English know that this is what they can expect!’

Berenger felt a flash of anger on hearing this, and he tried to step forward, but a lance-butt struck his belly and he fell back, gasping. His fear left him as he clutched his belly, glaring at the guard who had hit him. He had an urge to spring and hit the man, but before he could act, two Frenchmen behind him had set their swords to him.

‘Him and him,’ the man-at-arms said, languidly indicating the young, fair-haired sailor who had wept to see his ship sink, and another, older mariner. The two were separated from the rest by lances and clubs. ‘These we shall hang now. As for the rest, take them to the dungeons. When we have time, we shall see to them.’

The younger shipman began to wail on hearing this. Crying out as he saw the others being led back the way they had come, but Berenger had no time to spare for his panic. His own mind was working doubly quickly. There must be some means of escape from here, if he could but find it.

Béatrice felt a violent stabbing pain just below her ribcage, as though her inner being had fractured. ‘Did none escape?’ she said hoarsely.

‘They were taken, all of them. Some were slain and thrown from the boat,’ Ed said. ‘I don’t know who.’

‘What will they do?’ Béatrice asked Archibald.

He grimaced and said heavily, ‘What would any leader do to men such as these? Kill them at once. Hack off their heads so they’ll pose no risk in the future. Or, if he wants to make a point, he could mutilate them and set them free to live forever as a reminder of French revenge.’

‘No! You don’t really think they would do that?’ Béatrice wailed. To think that Berenger could be dead or scarred for life was appalling.

Archibald looked at her. His face was torn by grief. ‘I know it’s foul, maid, but that’s the way of things. God willing, they will return. If they don’t, He chose to punish them and we will need to say prayers for them. But there is nothing more we can do.’

‘You just don’t care! You are a callous old man!’ she said, and turned and ran from his camp, leaving Archibald surprised and Ed gaping.

Still weeping, Béatrice ran along the main road towards the town, and then out to the English harbour to the east.

There was a constant shouting, the rumble of great rocks being rolled into the slings of the vast wooden siege machines, and the occasional slither and crack as an engine was released. When that happened, the mighty weight of rock in the counterbalance suddenly jerked downwards, sending the sling-arm up into the air and freeing the rock from its sling, to hurtle through the sky and pound at the walls or buildings of the town.

She had no eyes for that. Her attention was fixed on the sea that was visible from here. The water was filled with galleys and cogs of all shapes and sizes, but there was no sign of their ship and nothing to show what had happened to Berenger and his men. They had disappeared as effectively as if the sea had swallowed them up.

‘Out of the way, you silly bitch!’ a stevedore shouted at her, trundling a heavy cart.

She was blocking the only path from the stores to the ships, she realised, but she still spat a pithy curse at him before turning and marching away.

It was strange to feel this desolation about the vintener and his men. She had hardly known them any time, and most of them were not the kind of people she would have looked at before the recent catastrophes . . . but since the disaster of her father’s arrest and execution, and then her persecution by the local villagers, she had grown more and more dependent on Berenger Fripper and his men. She had come to respect them – almost to trust them.

And now they were taken, swept away from her as effectively as the figures on a chessboard, hurled from their places by an angry, Godlike hand. Their disappearance served only to highlight her own loneliness and despair.

Seeing another man bearing down on her, carrying a heavy bale of cloth on his head and already beginning to swear, she turned and slowly tramped along the road.

She had no idea where she was going. Her feet bore her away from the harbour and the ships, and out towards the west, where the heights of Sangatte loomed. The road took her over a little bridge, and past the reeds that marked the marshes. All the land about here was boggy. She hated it. It reeked of putrefying vegetation. Yet it had one advantage: no army could pass on this stretch of land. Only the two roads, one heading south, the other holding to the coast, could take much traffic. It was a miracle that the town itself had been constructed. Where had they found the stone for the walls – and who could have realised that this was the one site where they could build? Waves crashed at the shore to her right, and she stared out to sea again, wondering how her friends of the vintaine fared. They could already be dead.

The sound of approaching hooves stirred her from her reverie in time to see a small company of horsemen led by a knight. She looked up into a face that could have been carved from the same stone as the walls that protected Calais. It was the face of a man who could happily exterminate a whole race, if there were profit in it.

Only a few weeks ago she had felt the same. She could gladly have seen all her own countrymen executed, for their deliberate killing of her father, and for the way that she herself had been harried and threatened with rape. Yet now she was coming to feel sympathy for the people who lived about here. They struggled and strove like many others, but they were forced to suffer the depredations of men such as this: a knight with no compassion. Men like this were worse than the bestial men-at-arms who slew for pleasure: men of this sort had no pleasure in their souls – possibly no feelings at all.

She had heard of this man before. Sir Peter of Bromley, once Sir Pierre d’Agen, was a knight banneret in the pay of the English King. Once he had been known as a most honoured knight in the service of King Philippe of France, but he had fallen out of favour, and had come to serve the English against his own King.

It was said that Sir Peter’s heart was made of steel as hard and unbending as his helm. He exulted in killing not because he held any particular hatred for his opponent, but because he saw death as efficient. There was no sympathy in him for his victims, only the constant urge to wage war effectively for his new master. And if that meant peasants must die, so be it.

He glanced at her, and as his eyes raked her body, she shuddered. It was like being licked by snakes.

She was tempted to keep walking. To leave this camp, as Archibald had intimated – but if she were to leave, where could she go? She had no friends, no family, no nation.

She was lost.