They halted at Barnard’s Castle, a mingling of men, carts, ponies and horses. Knights bellowed at esquires, esquires shouted at yeomen, and everyone shouted at the boys.

To Berenger it looked like a miserable kind of place. He was used to the lush greenery of the south, but here all looked bleak and grey, with flurries of fog moving all about as if it was a city of wraiths. The superstitious notion was enough to trigger a physical reaction: a shiver ran down his back. He pushed the idea to the back of his mind. The vintaine had more to worry about than some figment of imagination. There were real soldiers out there, somewhere ahead of them. And from all he had heard, it was a large force the Scottish had sent.

As he rode onwards, Berenger frowned to hear a shrill cry. It came from behind a low wall, and he turned to investigate, but a couple of men-at-arms blocked his path.

‘I’m a vintener with the army,’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’

The older of the two, a man of around thirty with a thin face that carried a woeful expression, said, ‘We’ve been told to keep people away, sir.’

‘What is going on?’ Berenger repeated. ‘Come, answer me!’

‘They caught a Scotsman. They’re questioning him.’

Berenger stared at the man, and then, as another scream tore through the air, he rode on towards the sound. The two guards lifted their lances as though to prevent him, but the mass of the vintaine was with him, and the two were forced from their path.

It was too late to do anything for the lad. From his face, he might have been only twenty, and from his build, he had been both fit and strong. Now, as Berenger reached him, the last breath rasped from his ravaged throat.

The men at his bloodied torso shrugged and wiped their blades clean, pushing aside the strips of flesh they had flayed from his stomach and breast as they packed their bags.

‘What were you doing?’ Berenger demanded, and the two gave him a look much as a butcher would give an ox. One was sallow and older, clad in leather and linen, while the other looked a simple boy with a cast in one eye and a curious way of holding his head, as if he had been injured and never fully recovered.

The older man said, ‘We were questioning him. He was one of the Scotch murderers and we were told to get all we could from him.’

‘Except he didn’t know anything,’ his partner said with a giggle.

‘And he told us that before we started!’ the other one smirked.

Berenger felt his anger mount. He had seen death in many forms, but the sight of this body, lying broken and savaged like this, was worse than seeing a wild animal’s victim. He opened his mouth to curse the torturers both to Hell and beyond, but before he could do so, he heard his name being called.

‘Vintener Berenger, to me!’

He turned to see Sir Henry Percy waving at him. Nothing loath, he left that ugly scene, and as he passed the vintaine, he muttered, ‘Jack, keep the men all together and wait for me.’

‘Yes, Frip.’

Berenger kicked his pony into a trot. ‘My lord, did you know what they were doing there?’

‘The two executioners? Aye. We found a scout and had to learn what he knew.’ Henry Percy gave him a quick once-over. ‘Master Fripper, I know damn all about ye, but I do know of Sir John de Sully, and I trust him. I believe he is yer master?’

‘I serve Sir John, my lord, yes.’ Berenger was still shivering from the sight of the boy’s body. The way the men had torn the flesh from his body, the way . . .

‘Then I can trust ye. The fact is, most of the experienced men aren’t here, man. They are down at Calais with the King. He has taken the best of all fighters and commanders wi’ him, and we have been left with the dregs. Ye can see that for ye’self.’

Berenger said nothing. Percy was gazing around with the eye of a professional warrior, assessing the men all about him. His tone was not that of a man complaining, but of a commander taking stock.

‘You fought under the King at this place called Crécy?’

‘Aye.’ Berenger took a deep breath and forced himself to listen.

‘How was it?’

‘We fought hard for our victory, but it was a powerful proof of the King’s strategy. We were greatly outnumbered.’

‘Where were you placed?’

‘On the left flank. He had archers and gonnes set out at either side, men-at-arms on foot between them. Before us all we had dug many pits to trip their mounts and make them stumble or fall, too.’

‘So the French charged the men, and were destroyed by the archers before they could come to blows?’

‘For the most part, yes. They only managed to reach us after the failure of many charges, and then they were hampered by the bodies as much as by our pits.’

‘Right. Ye know yer part. I’m giving ye a new post, man. My captain has fallen from his mount. The brute threw him and he’s broken his pate. Christ’s Saints may know whether he’ll heal, but I don’t! Pick yer best man and make him vintener. I’m making ye captain, and giving ye the command of the archers on my flank. Don’t make a ballocks of this, man. Ye hear me? We’ll either win a glorious victory here or be slaughtered, and be sure, these Scotch gits won’t help ye up if ye trip. I’ve been fighting wi’ them a’ my life, and they’ll cut their own hand off at the wrist, rather than help an Englishman.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ Berenger said. He looked about him, stunned. He had not expected to be given a new post. To be made captain was far beyond his expectations.

‘Like I said, man, don’t fuck this up! Now, get to yer men and . . .’

Just then, a rider appeared, whipping at his horse as he thundered through the mists, and only when he was in the thick of the Archbishop’s army did he appear to notice the men. Berenger could see his startled expression as he took in the sight of the troops all about him – but then he looked at the Archbishop of York’s banner, and the banner of Ralph Neville, with its gules and a saltire argent, and the blue lion rampant for Henry Percy – and the rider seemed to sag in his saddle as he realised that he was at last safe.

‘My lords, the Scottish are approaching!’

Within an hour, the army was formed into three battles, with archers on either flank, and the long columns began the last march.

‘It’s all right for the captains,’ Clip moaned. ‘Ye’ll have the pick o’ the plunder, won’t ye? We poor whoresons’ll get nothing but a knife in the guts.’

‘The poor man who stabs you will lose his blade, Clip,’ Berenger said. ‘You’re so full of bile and piss, your blood will eat away any metal before you could die. You’re safe from all danger, man.’

‘D’ye think so? Well, I think it’s more likely the lot of us will die. We’re all marching to our graves,’ Clip said cheerfully. ‘Aye, well, it’s been good to know ye, Frip. When I get to Heaven, I’ll look down on ye, and think, Aye, he was always a little chilly. Poor man’ll be warm enough now.’

‘I could have you flogged for insolence. Don’t forget I’m a captain now,’ Berenger laughed.

‘Oh, aye, a captain, eh? Remember you’ll have to organise all these losers now,’ Clip said sagely.

John of Essex was looking about him. ‘There’s some handy fellows here,’ he said thoughtfully.

‘Do you think we can make enough of them into archers, though?’ Berenger mused. ‘Jack, you’re vintener here. Send men to speak with all the other vinteners and bring them to see me. I need to find out what sort of fighting men we have.’

‘Yes, Frip,’ he said, and hurried off.

‘Do we know where we are going?’ John of Essex asked.

‘It’s only a few miles to Durham. I think that’s where the Archbishop intends to meet with the Scots,’ Berenger said. ‘We’ll be there tomorrow, and then we’ll see what’s happening.’

‘What is the news of them?’ Jack asked.

‘We know the Scots spent four days taking Liddell when they slew Sir Walter Selby and his family, so they’re not in a hurry.’

‘Why? Usually the Scots will ride fast and steal what they can, won’t they?’ Jack said.

‘Yes,’ Jean de Vervins said. He had joined them and now stood nearby. ‘But this time they are not here for plunder and theft alone. They are trying to force the King to send troops away from Calais. Perhaps they think he will raise the siege? Even if he only sends a portion of his men, that would make it easier for the French to break the siege. The longer the Scottish take, the happier they’ll be. It will give time for King Edward to send more men.’

‘But when we were trying to tempt the French to attack us in France, we sped along in a fine hurry,’ Clip said.

‘We wanted to do as much damage as possible to show the French that they could not rely on their own King to defend them,’ Berenger said. ‘The faster we went, the clearer it became that their King must come and stop us. Here, the Scots want time for the news to spread so that King Edward must choose to split his forces.’

‘Will he?’ the Pardoner asked.

Berenger glanced at him. ‘What do you think? When has our King worried about distractions when he has his mind fixed on a goal?’

‘So the King will stay at Calais? He won’t come to protect the north? You mean we’re all there is to stop the Scots?’ John of Essex asked, aghast.

‘Never mind about the Scots,’ the Earl said, gazing around with distaste, ‘my concern is all the uncouth fellows on our side. This mass of stinking, hairy humanity is terrifying enough!’

‘So, you are enjoying your new duties?’ Jean de Vervins asked later.

Having spent the last hours with the vinteners of the archers on the flank, Berenger was returning tired but reassured. This force would acquit themselves with honour, he thought. All were heading now to where the messenger had said the Scots would be found, while scouts were riding in all directions to track their enemy.

Berenger held his gaze for a moment longer than necessary. He saw again Dunkirk and the two English sailors’ bodies kicking and thrashing as they slowly had the life throttled from them, and if he could, he would have happily taken his dagger and plunged it into the Frenchman’s breast there and then. ‘You’re fortunate to be alive now,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t lift a finger to help you if I could avoid it.’

‘Such a sad position to be in – to want to see a man dead, and to be forced to keep him alive,’ Jean de Vervins chuckled to himself. ‘But make no mistake. When you were told to keep me alive, it was for a worthwhile reason. I will be valued above all the men in this army if I succeed. Indeed, your King would value me above all the lands about here.’

‘You? What service can you give our King?’ Berenger scoffed.

‘You would be surprised. There are opportunities for a man like me.’ Jean de Vervins leaned back in his saddle and surveyed the road ahead. ‘Look at all this land here. It is verdant, yes? With animals, with good husbandry, with men, it will bring in a fortune. But allow war to rear its head, such as now – and look about you! Where are the peasants? All have fled, taking their belongings, their cattle and sheep with them. And as a result, this land is valueless, because the peasants are not here to work it. So, war destroys not only all in its path, its rumour alone destroys.’

‘What of it?’

‘I am working against the French. Wherever the French expect to have income, I will help destroy it. With no money for the peasants and townspeople, there is no tax. With no tax, the French King has no income, and with no income he has no army, no friends, no supporters – rien! All that, I provide for your King. So that, when he wishes, he will be able to march about the whole of France as his own Kingdom. I will give that to him.’

‘You’re talking ballocks,’ Berenger told him, but there was something about the easy confidence of the Frenchman that inspired belief.

‘No, my friend. Within a few months I should have conspired to give your King at least one city, and such a blow to the French Crown that the King himself must be toppled.’

‘Why?’ Berenger asked.

‘What?’

‘I said: why? Why do you do this. Is it only the money?’

For a moment Berenger saw an expression of hatred fly across the Frenchman’s face.

‘Never mind why. It is enough that I do it. My duty is to provide cities for your King, and your duty is to guard me so that I may do so swiftly and without trouble.’ He spurred his pony and rode on.

Berenger looked after him thoughtfully. He had seen that expression. Fleeting though it had been, he was certain that it had not been directed towards the English or the French.

It was a very personal self-loathing.