At the campfire later that evening, Berenger took in their faces as his vintaine all drank ale or wine, chewing at the gristle in their pottage. After the tribulations of the last days, of having been captured, held in a shit-infested dungeon, threatened with torture, blinding and death, he would have expected some to be affected. Yet now, listening to them, it was as though they had never been away.

‘Ach, will ye look at this?’ Clip demanded, holding up a nonspecific piece of flesh. ‘It’s just lights and tubes, this. No meat anywhere near it. However do you manage to cut away all the meat and keep only the garbage, eh?’

Archibald’s eyes twinkled like a cheery giant’s as he rumbled, ‘It is a natural skill for some of us, man.’

‘As a cook I think you’d make a good poisoner, Archibald,’ John of Essex said with a wince.

‘Oh, aye, I thought it was the job of the Frenchies to kill us, but any more of your food and we’ll all starve to death!’ Clip whined.

‘No one needs Frenchies to kill us when there is a professional gynour in the army,’ Jack said, upending his plate over the grass and emptying the remains.

‘I could have added more brimstone, I suppose. Perhaps there was not enough for your taste?’ their cook said genially. ‘You forget: my brain was designed for mixing powders until they can be placed carefully in a gonne’s mouth, rammed back, have a ball or arrow set on top, and ignited.’

‘Aye,’ Dogbreath muttered, eyeing his food resentfully. ‘Happen you should ram this down our throats and save us having to try to swallow it. My pigs had better than this when I was at home.’

‘Perhaps I will try that next time,’ Archibald said. ‘You see, I am good at making things that kill. Gynours like me are rare, you know. You should appreciate me more. Most gynours die young when their experiments grow more confident – and therefore slapdash. Not many live for long after experiencing the effects of too much serpentine powder at close quarters.’

Gonnes were weapons that Berenger still distrusted. It was hardly surprising that so many in the King’s army would make the sign of the Devil at Archibald’s back as he walked past. Many still held to the superstitious belief that the crack of thunder and flaring gouts of flame, so like to a dragon’s breath, were proof of the devices’ inherent evil.

Yet it was hard to dislike the man. Archibald went through life like a cheerful mastiff. He expected everyone to like him, and to a large extent, when he sat down with them and chatted on an evening over a horn or two of wine or ale – or his favourite, cider – they would find him an appealing soul with a breadth of knowledge and much sympathy for his fellow men.

It was that quality about him which had persuaded Berenger to deposit his only responsibility with Archibald some weeks ago. ‘How’s the Donkey, Gynour?’ he called.

‘Master Fripper, I hope I see you well?’ Archibald replied with a grave nod. ‘The boy is learning diligently, I thank you. He’s proof, were it needed, that the skills of a gynour can easily be mastered by a lad willing to serve his apprenticeship.’

‘He is well enough?’

‘Aye.’

‘And the girl and the new lad, young Georges?’

‘They too are well, Master.’

Berenger was relieved. He would not have admitted it to anyone, but he had grown fond of the boy and Béatrice. However, he was alarmed to learn that there was this new woman in the camp now. He shot her a look from under his brows. She looked harmless, but while she hugged and kissed her little boy as though she could hardly believe that he was truly there with her, and only by constant reminder could she ensure that he would not disappear, her eyes were constantly flitting from one man to another about the camp.

‘Are you well, maid?’ he asked when Béatrice came to his side and refilled his mazer with wine.

She nodded. Always in his presence she was cold and aloof. It was a shame, for she was a lovely woman. Still, it was a mistake for a man to have a woman when he was marching with the banners. Women were a distraction. And this one in particular, he knew, had an inner resolution and resentment that burned all who approached too closely.

‘No one offered you an insult while we were gone?’

She hesitated. ‘One knight, Sir Peter, makes me fear for my safety. He has no feeling, no heart. I watched him ride off, always coming back with prisoners, and it was as though they were sheep to him, to be impounded and slaughtered.’

‘That is how knights are, maid,’ he said with a smile. Later he would remember her words and have cause to think about the implications afresh.

Grandarse had walked in while they were talking, and now stood at his side. ‘What about you, Frip? How are you?’

‘Me? I’m fine.’ His attention was still on her, but then he realised that Grandarse was waiting for him to say more. Suddenly, he realised that he really was fine. In fact, he felt better than he had for many weeks.

He had served too many kings and warriors to worry about what might have happened. There was no profit in might-have-beens. He was here only for the gold. Once, he would have told himself it was a matter of honour, of chivalry, but when a man had hacked at another, while screaming hatred at his dying face, spittle flying, and then gone to slaughter even more men, there was little chivalry left in a fellow’s soul. Berenger sometimes wondered whether there ever had been. He did ask himself whether war and killing was all he would ever achieve. War, to his mind, was a necessary evil – sometimes – and it kept him in bread and ale, but he disliked hearing men elevate it to an art. It was killing. Any butcher could do it.

‘You did well to escape the French,’ Grandarse commented.

‘We wouldn’t have done so without the help of the Genoese.’

‘Tell me about him again.’

Berenger shrugged. ‘Short man, dark hair. Called himself Chrestien de Grimault. He seemed to have the authority of a whore when he was on his boat. Knew his men would do anything he told them. I suppose it’s the mantle of command that a shipmaster draws around himself. A shipman has to possess a commanding presence to maintain order on a ship in a storm, and this man had it in buckets.’

‘Or perhaps he was a man with a lot of authority,’ Grandarse chuckled. He took his seat on a stool and leaned back against the wall, drawing his belt down below his paunch so it didn’t cut into his belly. ‘You want to know what I’ve heard? I’ve heard he’s the captain of the French fleet – the most important Genoese in the whole of France. And he let you go.’

Berenger heard the slight note of enquiry. ‘What of it? He said his honour was stained by the treatment they were threatening to use on us.’

‘But it’s odd that the French should have let you get away so easily. Perhaps they wanted you to think you were escaping?’

‘Nah. They had no thought of that,’ Berenger said flatly. ‘You didn’t see the bodies of the two shipmen they killed.’ He shuddered at the memory.

‘Well, what other reason could there be? Some might reckon it was a case of “you give us something and we’ll let you go” – got me?’

Grandarse was peering at him, the picture of genial good nature, but Berenger saw his eyes glitter. He was watching to see how Berenger would react.

‘We told them nothing. Nothing at all. It was because we refused that we were about to be taken away to be blinded,’ he said.

‘Good! Good. I’m glad to hear it. Then there’s nothing for us to worry about. Because if one of your men had given away the layout of our camp, the French might realise that we are weak in some areas. They might consider it possible that they could send ships into Calais and ballocks up our siege. They could come and attack us at any time, couldn’t they?’

He rose and stared down at Berenger. ‘I don’t believe that sort of thing, Frip – you know that. But others may. You keep the men alert, just in case. We don’t want any accidents happening to your men here during the siege.’

Berenger nodded as Grandarse left the group, waddling and giving cheery farewells to the rest of the men, but some yards away, Berenger saw him turn and cast a glance his way before disappearing into the night.

There were two things Grandarse would not tolerate: any man who smacked of bad luck who could bring danger to the centaine, and a man who would betray his comrades. Either would be sure to die quickly in the dark of an alley or a low alehouse.

Berenger considered for a moment, then allocated men to keep watch through the night. Although they grumbled, he was insistent.

‘I am glad you returned safely,’ the Vidame said.

His spy drained his cup of wine and poured another. There was a shake in his hand as he measured out his drink. He pointedly ignored the Vidame’s empty mazer. ‘I am not only glad, I am astonished.’

They were in a large tavern, with many English archers and warriors drinking and singing, but at the rear of the chamber they had relative peace. Speaking in low voices, so no one could overhear them, both kept watching the crowds for a curious person who might speak of their meeting.

‘What is so surprising?’

‘They were going to kill me, Vidame! How ironic would that be? To be slain by my own people, merely for want of a sign that I should be protected.’

‘Is that why you wished to see me?’

‘You think I would entrust such a message to a boy?’

‘I would hope not. Calm yourself, man.’

The spy stared about him. ‘This life is growing too difficult, Vidame. I’m as keen as any to help the King’s efforts, but not at the risk of having my own neck stretched.’

‘You forget yourself, my friend. The important thing here is the defence of France and the kingdom. Individuals will die, it is certain, but that is sometimes necessary for the good of all.’

‘Those are fine words,’ the spy said, ‘when spoken by the man who takes fewest risks.’

The Vidame smiled and looked at the spy. ‘Do you really have so little faith? By my actions I shall be forced to suffer the worst torments the English can contrive.’

‘Very well.’

‘You do not believe me?’

‘I trust you, Vidame. Where would the world be without trust?’ the other added bitterly.

‘It seems certain that the man from Essex knows nothing that could implicate you. I think we may leave him alone. But watch him. At the first sign of danger, let me know and I will have Bertucat kill him. However, for now I think it is better to leave him to his own devices. We have other things to consider.’

His voice dropped as he spoke. ‘It is not only the man from Essex. Your vintener is astute – more than I had considered. He saw the fleet and warned his knight; now, I think, he looks upon our messenger with suspicion. Soon he may cast his suspicions upon you.’

‘Fripper? He suspects nothing. He is just worried for the men under him.’

‘If he suspects you, he would soon be able to make you talk. I do not want to be implicated,’ the Vidame said.

‘You will be safe.’

‘And then again, the business on which you are employed would suffer if you were captured. We need your talents. We need to know where the blow should fall.’

‘First the army needs to come here. The King must bring his host and attack. I will point to the best place for the assault.’

‘Good. But the vintener still troubles me. It would be a good thing, were he to die.’

‘How? By me? It would be difficult to insert a knife into his back while the vintaine watches!’

‘When he sleeps?’

‘You do not know the man. He is wary of everyone, as he should be.’

‘I understand. However, our messenger has been noticed by him, and we cannot afford to lose the boy.’

‘Very well.’

‘The English will send a messenger to the north, to warn them of the French ships taking men and arms to the Scottish. With luck the Scottish will rampage about the North of England and visit retribution for the damage done by the English over here. The sooner the messenger gets there, the sooner the English will be prepared. We must have the messenger delayed.’

‘I do not understand.’

‘Your vintaine will be sent to guard the messenger. I will have Bertucat go to speak with certain friends. There are some here who have friends in England who would not be averse to earning a purse of gold by delaying the embassy, or even killing a man. Look to attacks from other men, and take advantage, if you may.’

‘Can you be sure my vintaine will be sent?’

The Vidame leaned back, chuckling quietly. ‘The vintaine that miraculously survived capture by the French? The vintaine that managed to win over a Genoese mercenary and take a ride on his ship? The vintener who saw the ships in the estuary and discovered the risk of French ships travelling to Scotland? Which other vintaine would be sent?’

‘But the escape was come about by simple good fortune!’

‘Yes – but others begin to doubt that. Now many know that the escape of the vintaine was aided by the Genoese. Would it not be amusing if, when I have finished dripping poison into the right ears, many believe this Fripper to be in league with the French himself? We could use our own crimes against him!’

The following morning, Berenger woke to find his entire vintaine asleep in the chamber. He rolled onto his back, scratching his armpits and staring at the roof while he gradually came awake. Last evening they had all gone to an inn over to the east, and some of the men had gone out to watch and gamble on a cock-fight that was held in a little arena by a stable. Oliver had lost heavily again, and Pardoner too. Not that they got much sympathy from the others. They were late back and Berenger set Clip to take the first watch.

He had set Clip to the first watch!

Rising, cursing, he went to the recumbent figure in the corner and gave it a kick, demanding, ‘Did you wake Jack to take over your watch?’

‘Jack was asleep,’ Clip yawned. ‘There wasn’t any point, anyway, Frip. What, do you think some Frenchie’s going to sidle up here, half a mile or more into the English lines, just to try to murder us in our beds?’

It was tempting to kick him again – harder, this time – but the eyes of the others were all on him, and Berenger didn’t want them to see that he was rattled. He hissed, ‘Next time I give you an order, Clip, you had best obey to the letter, whether you like it or not, because if you don’t, I’ll see you flogged!’

He took a dry crust of bread with him outside and sat on a low wall to eat it, staring glumly at the roadway before them.

A short while later, Jack came outside and joined him. ‘It wasn’t Clip’s fault, Frip. You would have questioned an order like that yourself, you know it. What’s it all about? We’re in the middle of an army of twelve thousand or more. Why worry about our own sentries?’

Berenger broke off a little more bread and offered it. Jack took it without enthusiasm, studying it for a moment before cramming it into his mouth.

‘You remember the night before last?’ Berenger said. ‘Grandarse came to warn me. Apparently, some think we bribed our way out from the French, using secrets instead of money.’

‘They’re fucking mad!’ Jack blurted out, spraying dried crumbs in all directions. ‘You mean some prick’s been saying we betrayed our own?’

‘And some of ’em would like to come and repay the kindness. So we all have to keep on our toes, Jack. If we don’t, any evening one or more of us is likely to walk into a blade.’

‘I understand,’ Jack said gravely.

‘What do you make of the newer guys?’

‘Christ’s ballocks, Frip, you expect me to comment on them before we’ve even seen a French horse running at them?’

‘We saw them on the ship.’

‘It’s hard to gauge. John of Essex was mad to get into things, as usual. He’s got even less brain than Donkey. Show him a fight and he’ll rush to get into the thick of it.’

‘The rest?’

Jack puffed out his cheeks. ‘Dogbreath could be useful. He didn’t look scared and he tried to tangle with the first of them when they came at us. He was knocked down in the first mêlée. Aletaster, I didn’t see. Turf was throwing his guts up when the attack came, as usual. Pardoner didn’t look too clever – he seemed to get knocked down and he disappeared until the ship was crushed – and then he suddenly reappeared in time to be rescued and captured. I didn’t see Saint Lawrence or the others during the fight.’

‘So no obvious cowards or fools who could be dangerous?’

‘Not that I saw, no.’

‘Good. Then we’ll stick to them, but we’ll have to work them. You know what it’s like. Bored archers get sloppy. We need to get them to some butts or make our own. That’ll have the advantage of both testing their skills, honing them, and keeping us all away from any mad bastards who think we may be traitors.’

‘Right enough. Do you want me to get them ready now?’

‘Yes, I . . .’

Berenger was interrupted by the appearance of Richard Bakere, Sir John de Sully’s esquire. ‘Sir John needs to see you, Fripper.’

He nodded. ‘Jack, get on with it. Give them a good going-over. I want to know we can rely on them in a fight. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

When Berenger entered the room, he was surprised to see Grandarse standing at the corner of the chamber behind Sir John de Sully. Berenger felt his hackles rise in warning, but not because of those two. It was the others.

They were not alone. To one side was the slim, elegant figure of Peter of Bromley, the man Berenger knew had been called Pierre d’Agen, with his clerk, Alain de Châlons, and a man-at-arms. Peter of Bromley was just one of many men who had appeared here in the King’s army seeking wealth, power, or simply revenge for actions taken by the French, but the sight of him set Berenger’s teeth on edge. A man who would turn traitor was likely to find it easy to do so again.

The warlike Bishop of Durham, Thomas Hatfield, was in the room too, with a serious expression on his face, and at his side was the barrel-chested figure of the Earl of Warwick.

Christ Jesus, Berenger thought to himself. What have I done now?

The Earl peered at him. ‘Fripper, we have been listening to reports. Last night, I had a scouting party ride out towards the estuary where you said you saw the ships.’

‘Yes?’

‘There’s nothing there,’ he said. ‘They’re all gone – if they were there in the first place.’

The vintener thought about it. His eyesight was poor, but he couldn’t have mistaken those massive shapes, nor the tall masts towering over the trees. ‘They were there. I’m sure of it.’

‘In that case, someone got a warning to them. The question is, will they appear here soon, and when they do, will they merely replenish the town, or will they come to attack us?’

‘They will not be able to assault our positions here on the coast,’ Sir John said firmly. The bishop was nodding as he spoke, and Peter of Bromley inclined his head in agreement. ‘They must be coming to supply the town.’

‘Then we must be ready for them,’ the Earl said. ‘I have commanded the ships to stand off a little from the coast and when they see the enemy, to attack them at once.’

Berenger was frowning. ‘My Lord, do you know when the scouts found the estuary empty – at what hour of the night?’

The Earl turned and an esquire stepped across the room from his post at the wall, bending and whispering in the Earl’s ear. ‘Apparently it was the second watch of the night. Why?’

Berenger made a quick calculation. ‘Even with the still evening, the ships must surely be visible from the coast now if they are coming. They were only five or six leagues from here. If they were to draw out to sea, they must still be visible from shore.’

‘So?’

‘If no one can see them, either they have taken a most extended route to get here, or they are not coming here at all.’

‘You think perhaps they could have gone to hide?’

Berenger frowned, and then remembered the stocky figure with the ginger hair in the cardinal’s hall. David, he had been called.

‘My lord, what if they were not intending to come here? Perhaps they are sailing to land French fighters somewhere else?’

‘Such as?’

‘Scotland! They mean to invade the north through Scotland with their allies, to create a diversion that must call the King’s men back home to protect the kingdom!’