Henry Percy and Ralph Neville had been fascinated by the French youth when Berenger managed to bring him to them.

‘Set him down there,’ Neville said when Berenger reached him.

The boy had miraculously been missed by the arrows plunging into that small field in the mist, but with the blood and snot smearing his face he looked in a worse state than many of the men who had died.

‘What is your name?’ the Archbishop asked in French. All the nobles and most of the clerks were perfectly familiar with the language. He stood before a trestle table on which many papers lay. ‘You know that we can find out all we wish about you. Better to tell us now without forcing us to extract the information.’

‘I am Godefroi de Valmet,’ he answered after a moment. ‘I come from near Laon.’

‘I know the land there,’ the Archbishop said pleasantly. ‘It is good country for wine.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘What were you doing riding up on us? Did you mean to attack us?’

‘No, my lord. I was riding with William Douglas. We were on our way back to the main army after a reconnaissance.’

‘Can you find your way to the main army?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it commanded by the King of Scotland – David Bruce?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where does he intend to attack next?’

A flare of animation lit the lad’s face. ‘He rides to Durham to take it. He has a huge army: two thousand knights and fifteen thousand footsoldiers!’

‘So many?’ Percy said, but there was no wonder in his tone, only satisfaction. ‘This will be a victory worth recording, then.’

Godefroi stared at him. ‘You cannot win! You have only a fraction of his men. Yours are all about Calais.’ This last with a blaze of enthusiasm.

‘Aye, well, we will show ye what English blood and bone can do,’ the Earl said imperturbably.

‘You will have to call men from Calais if you want to save your land. We are come to lay waste all the country as far as London.’

‘Ye won’t pass us.’

‘You do not realise your danger,’ Godefroi said with contempt.

‘There’s only one thing ye need worry about. I swear, if ye go into battle against us, ye will die. Our army is a match for anything to come out of Scotland.’

‘You should be measured for your coffin.’

Percy smiled easily. ‘We’ll see. After the battle, I’ll return home to me wife. Ye’ll be sad to see the Scottish crushed.’

The Archbishop held up his hand. ‘This is havering. God Himself with His saints will decide the battle. Just as He did at Crécy.’ He studied Godefroi for a moment. ‘You will ride back to your main army with a message. I will send a herald with you, and you will deliver the herald to the King of Scotland. We shall await his answer.’

After the fellow had been hurried away, the Archbishop looked about him. ‘Well?’

Percy snorted. ‘Yon little prickle has scarcely more than the sense he was born wi’. But no matter. It’s enough. The lad confirmed what Jean de Vervins told us. We know the size of the fight now.’

‘Aye,’ Neville agreed. ‘But we have to show we have the right of it.’

‘Yes,’ the Archbishop nodded. ‘We have to ask them to leave the country and cease in their depredations, otherwise we shall be forced to bring them to battle.’

Berenger felt his mouth falling open. ‘But why? Shouldn’t we just bring them to battle now?’

‘Och, we can no’ do that, Captain,’ Percy said. ‘This is the March. We have the right of it, but to go at ’em without the courtesies could make us look like we were in the wrong.’

‘How can that be? They’re in England, stealing and killing!’

‘Don’t concern ye’sel’. This way’ll make it neat and proper, that’s all ye need to worry about.’

A herald arrived, and the Archbishop and Sir Henry gave him the form of words. In a moment or two he was out and running for a horse.

Percy turned to Berenger. ‘Ye did well to form the archers and hold back Douglas’s men.’

The Archbishop grunted. ‘And now we’ll all have to do as well. The army will march with the Sheriff of Yorkshire on the left flank, I will take the middle battle, and you, my Lord Percy, will take the right. We will march to the town now, and when we find a suitable location, we will attack these sons of dogs. And may God grant us the victory we deserve against these insolent invaders.’

Berenger left the pavilion shortly after that. Outside, he saw the herald pulling on gloves with a distracted air, while a groom of ten or eleven years hurried to fetch him a horse. Berenger was sorry for the man. He could imagine what was passing through his mind. It was nothing to do with the actual message that he was to deliver – that would be memorised already. No, it was the thought of the reception he might expect. The Scottish King had a reputation for chivalry and being honourable, but he was, when all was said and done, a warrior at the head of some of the most barbaric fighters known to Christendom. It would be no surprise if some of the more hot-headed amongst them thought it would be amusing to send back their own message in explicit form, by returning the herald’s head in a sack, or perhaps every part of his body disassembled in a barrel of salt.

‘Your horse, sir,’ the groom said, but when Berenger looked up, the boy was not bringing the herald’s mount. This was the mount for Godefroi.

The Frenchman stood with his mouth pressed into the vambrace protecting his forearm. The coolness of the metal against his damaged lips must have been soothing. Seeing Berenger, he drew his lips away and stood haughtily.

‘I’m sorry about your teeth,’ Berenger said.

‘I will live, which is better than some can say,’ Godefroi replied. His voice was muffled from his damaged mouth, but he unbent so far as to duck his head as though in appreciation of the comment, although his face did not ease its rigidity.

‘Why are you here?’ Berenger asked.

‘I am an esquire. It is my place to fight for my King no matter where he sends me.’

‘You were sent here, then? Were you on the ships?’

Godefroi glanced at him. ‘What ships?’

Berenger explained about the ships he had seen in the mouth of the river.

‘Ah, yes. We brought good French armour and swords for our Scottish friends. King David was glad of them,’ Godefroi said with a note of pride. ‘I was responsible for bringing them and for asking King David to enter England.’

‘To distract King Edward and force him to send men back here.’

‘Of course. He will have to do so.’

‘I don’t think you understand the balance of power here,’ Berenger said.

He could not help but admire the martial spirit of this French esquire. Godefroi was very similar to young warriors the world over. He was so convinced of his own ability and strength that he paid little attention to the merits of others. He was young and keen and he felt his cause was just – and since his cause was just, he thought his comrades would be as filled with warrior-like ardour. But Berenger knew only too well that ardour alone was not enough. Supplies were important, and the support of companions, but the most important aspect for any army was the training of its men. And England had been training for war every year since Edward III took his throne.

‘Balance of power?’ the Frenchman said scornfully. ‘We know more than you could imagine!’

‘You know what happened at Crécy?’

‘A rabble of Genoese bowmen failed us. They turned and ran, to their shame, and in so doing, they spoiled the charge of French chivalry so that many knights and men were injured or killed.’

‘No. The Genoese were failed by their bowstrings. When their strings became wet, their bolts would not reach the English lines, but our bows could reach far beyond them. They were horribly pricked by our arrows, and then ridden down by the front line of your knights. And those same knights were slain before they could strike a single blow.’

‘So you say. But the battle was a matter of good luck. We shall see who will win the battle for Durham.’

As the herald’s groom appeared, Godefroi mounted his horse and waited politely for the herald. Then the two rode off into the gathering gloom.

Berenger watched him go with a feeling of sadness. He rather liked the fellow, but he had a strong presentiment that he would not speak to the young esquire again.