Béatrice returned from fetching food at the market at Villeneuve-la-Hardie, but did not speak to Archibald.

The old gynour had fixed her with a sympathetic eye when she returned three days ago. He understood her. Her despair was bitter, but if the vintaine was gone, it was gone. There was no point swooning and complaining. So, as soon as she got back to his little camp by the guns, she set about making their supper.

She felt sad when she saw young Donkey. He sat huddled, not looking at her, behaving as she would expect a five year old might. Georges tried to tempt him into playing, but Donkey just snapped at him and turned his back. And she understood. He was orphaned, like her. He was young, with fire in his groin like a man, but he had no understanding about the urges that were overwhelming him. Perhaps she should let him have her. They were all outcasts. She had no good name to lose: she was an unwanted Frenchwoman, good only for a quick fuck before slitting her throat. Ed too was worthless, a mere drudge to fetch and carry, of no value whatever, while Archibald was viewed askance because he was in league with the Devil. All knew that: the whiff of brimstone followed him wherever he went. Only those who associated with the Devil could cause those hideous explosions that slaughtered so many. Men had seen him, it was said, at the Battle at Crécy, fighting with the strength of ten when the French threatened to overrun his gonne. No Christian could have done that. He had slaughtered more than a hundred men, it was rumoured.

It was all so much stuff and nonsense. She had been there with him. He did kill a few men, it was certain, but not as many as the archers with their deadly missiles. Compared with them, Archibald was harmless. But no matter: the men looked at him with their superstitions confirmed and enhanced.

‘Do you think we’ll see Fripper again?’ Ed asked, stirring her from her thoughts.

‘No,’ she said starkly. It was better to deal with harsh truths than try to hide them beneath a coating of sugar. ‘The French took them, and will kill them.’ She felt a tear start as she said this, and dashed it away angrily. The vintaine was not her family, it was merely a number of misfits and rogues, she thought – and then instantly chided herself. Berenger and his men were better than that. Well, most of them, certainly.

‘It’s not fair!’ he burst out.

She felt her sympathy evaporate. ‘Fair? What is fair? I have lost my father, my family, and also my own people! Now we lose the only men I could trust as well, and you say this too is not fair. What is fairness in life? I don’t know!’

‘I didn’t mean, I didn’t . . .’

‘You didn’t think, did you? You lose something and you think the world will end. For me, the world has ended already. Oh, go away! Go and see if you can find Archibald. Leave me alone!’

She marched off to the cart as Donkey hung his head and mooched away after Archibald, followed by his young companion, Georges. She was about to pour herself a second mazer of wine when she heard strange noises. Peering down the road, she saw a wagon appear, behind which, men and women were being dragged. There were no children.

All about the wagon, men in a mixture of ill-fitting leather and mail prodded and pushed the wailing women and silent, bitter men with the butt-ends of their lances and staffs. The noise continued unabated.

‘Will you lot shut up!’ the captain cried. ‘You think the whole town wants to hear you moaning?’

‘Who are these?’ Béatrice asked as he drew level with her. He was a man of middle height, with thick, wavy brown hair and eyes that had a gleam of kindness in them, she noticed.

‘These? Fine French fillies for our men to enjoy,’ the man said with a wolfish leer as he gazed down at her, picturing the delights within her dress.

Reviewing her initial impression of him, she stared pointedly at his face.

He noticed and reddened slightly, clearing his throat. Perhaps he was not so bad, after all.

She said, ‘What of the men?’

‘Them? They’re all from the same place,’ the man said. ‘Bloody rebels who’d dare take up knives and swords against their King. They don’t seem to realise that our Edward is their legitimate ruler. They think they can still argue and reject him, as though he has not been anointed. Well, they’ll learn respect.’

‘Where are you taking them?’

‘The men to the gaol, the women to the brothel.’

She watched as the wagon lumbered on, rattling and crashing along the unpaved roadway, and the sobs and cries of the prisoners could be heard clearly even over that racket.

While she watched, she became aware of someone passing close to her. This woman was older, perhaps thirty – it was hard to tell, since the lines were so deeply graven on her face and brow – and she walked like one in a daze. She was handsome rather than pretty, but had the kind of elegance that came from good parentage. Her face was oval, and her blue eyes slanted and doe-like, but her thick reddish-gold hair was slathered with mud and muck, and she walked as though the mere action of placing one foot before another was enough in itself to confirm her position in the world.

‘Mistress?’ Béatrice said hesitantly as the woman passed. She was fascinated by her, and wondered where she had come from. She fell into step beside her. ‘Are you thirsty? Hungry? You want something to eat?’

‘No.’

The voice seemed to come from a long way away, and when Béatrice glanced down, she saw that the woman had no shoes of any sort, but was padding along gently because her feet were swollen and bloody.

‘Mistress, you should come and wash your feet. Come with me.’

She took the woman to Archibald’s encampment, and there she bathed the woman’s feet in a bowl Archibald used for mixing his experiments. He was scandalised at first, but when he caught a glimpse of Béatrice’s face, he said nothing, merely standing aside and sending Ed for more food.

Later, Béatrice coaxed the woman into speaking. She was called, she said, Marguerite.

‘My village is destroyed. My husband is dead and I hope my children escaped, but I do not know where they have gone. I have walked up here to try to find them. Have you seen them? They are Georges, Henri and Alice. Georges is the oldest at eleven, while Alice is only five. Henri is eight. My husband and I . . . we lost so many babies in between the three. So many. And now,’ she added, her voice trailing away, ‘I have lost these too . . .’

She sat on a log, and the tears began to run down her cheeks, but she made no sound. She was too weary to sob or cry.

Archibald had returned as she began to talk, and he silently fetched the woman a mazer of strong red wine. Now, hearing the name Georges, he started. He was about to open his mouth, when Béatrice hushed him with a look. It was the sort of look that could pin a man to a tree at thirty paces.

It was possible that Ed’s friend was her son, but the chances of this being the same boy were remote. Georges was a not uncommon name. It would be terrible to raise her hopes, only then to dash them.

‘How long ago did you lose them?’

‘Two weeks. I have been searching for them, and I’ve not stopped looking. I do love them, you see,’ she said, looking at Béatrice as though seeking reassurance. ‘I do love them.’

Béatrice could say nothing. She put her arms about the woman as her own tears flowed. The woman wept for her children and her husband, but Béatrice wept for her, for her children, for her village, and for herself and all France.