‘I fucking knew it. They brought us all this way just to throw us in the front line again,’ Clip whinged.

‘Shut up, Clip,’ Jack said.

‘We’ll all get killed.’

‘Shut up, Clip.’ That was Saint Lawrence.

‘I’m only young, me. I don’t need all this walking and fighting,’ Clip grumbled.

‘Clip?’ Aletaster said. ‘Shut up.’

‘I’m just telling the truth, that we’re all going to—’

‘Oi!’ The Pardoner stopped and stared at him. ‘If you don’t shut up, I’m going to sit on your head until you do. And I have a magnificent fart brewing, Clip: when I let rip, you’ll suffer, so bloody shut up!’

‘I was only saying.’

‘Shut up!’

Berenger had placed himself and his old vintaine near the middle of the archers on the right wing. He listened with half an ear, noting that his vintaine showed no signs of concern at the coming battle, while the newer men’s anxiety was apparent in their voices or their silence. For all present knew that battle was inevitable and inescapable.

He pulled off his dented helmet and rubbed the swelling on his scalp. It hurt like a bad burn, and although the local barber had offered to bleed him, he had refused. He needed all the concentration he could muster for the coming fight.

After the skirmish yesterday, the herald had been sent to the Scots, where he received a reply both curt and brief. Once the Scottish had heard from his French victim, King David would be sure to want to attack. The idea of taking on a force only one third or one quarter the size of his own would appeal to any warrior. Certainty of victory counted more than notions of chivalry. Chivalry was for knights – a series of rules so that the rich and brave could expect to buy back their lives, were they to be captured. Berenger had no doubts about his own fate if he was captured by the Scots. It would involve a blade and he would have his bleeding at last. Well, he reflected, it would at least take away the pain of his head wound.

Certainly the English had not slowed in their advance, and last night they had sheltered, shivering, on the plain to the south of Durham. The weather was dry, but now, in the middle of October, it was so chilly as to leave a man quaking all night under his blanket. Berenger had woken feeling forty years older, trembling like a man in a fever until a cup of strong wine mixed with hot water managed to send some warmth to his extremities. Still, as he mounted his pony and stared about him at the mess that was an army on the march, he felt another shudder pass down his spine.

It was a sight to send a thrill into the most unresponsive heart. All around him, men packed away their belongings, boys brought up the ponies while yeomen rubbed down and saw to the feeding of the men-at-arms’s beasts, warily attending to highly-strung destriers that would be more than keen to bite a groom. Campfires were extinguished with the last of the water from cooking pots, and men wandered about, chewing the rough breads made by the bakers overnight, as they threw on their baldrics or tugged at their warbelts. Archers checked the sheaves of arrows on the carts, some eyeing the sky for rain, before taking their bowstrings and pushing them into their shirts against their skin, or shoving them beneath their caps to keep them dry.

The army was moving urgently now as the sun crept higher into the sky. The squeak and rattle of cart and wagon did not quite mask the sound of hooves and boots. On the men marched, all of them aware that they must soon go into battle.

Most there were levies called to serve – both young and old. Percy had been gathering a force from his lands to take to Calais, but the men from Yorkshire and those from Neville’s lands were less young and eager, not quite so ready to be thrust into the front line of a battle gripping a lance and hoping that the point would rip into a destrier’s breast before the rider’s steel could reach them. That was no surprise to Berenger, for he had stood in the line himself often enough.

‘You all right, Frip?’

‘Captain Frip, Jack, if you don’t mind,’ he grinned. ‘Just looking at the men we’re fighting with.’

‘They’ll be fine.’ Jack cast an appraising eye over them himself. ‘These ones look hoary and hearty enough. And I’ll warrant that Sir Henry Percy knows how to place his men. After all, he was bright enough to promote you.’

‘I hope I don’t show myself incompetent,’ Berenger said, voicing a fear that was ever in his mind.

‘You won’t. We’ve done this before, Frip,’ Jack said sharply. ‘Just remember Crécy, and keep your head. We can’t afford to have our centener lose faith in himself.’

Berenger gave a dry smile. Crécy had shown what Englishmen could do with their bows. Tearing apart the French cavalry charges before they could fully form and slaughtering them far away before any Englishmen could be hurt. ‘Hard to believe that was only a few weeks ago. Let’s hope this goes the same way.’

‘It will. We’ll pick the best piece of land and defend it.’

‘Aye.’ That was all they needed to do: so long as they reached the battleground before the Scots could take it and force the English to attack.

But when they reached the most likely place for their defence, Berenger felt his heart drop.

‘Oh, shit, Frip,’ Jack said.

On the hill before them, the Scots had already taken their place. The English would be forced to attack them.

‘Ballocks!’ Berenger said.

‘I telled ye – we’ll all be slaughtered,’ Clip called in a slightly quieter voice.

‘Fuck off, Clip!’ Jack growled.

‘Form battles!’

Berenger remained on his horse while the footsoldiers nearby relinquished their mounts and passed the reins to the waiting boys. He had already told Jean de Vervins to stay back with the baggage. He had lost one charge already when the King’s messenger died. He would not lose this one. Each lad, whether nine or thirteen, took five or six mounts and scurried back to the rear of the battles where the wagons were all set out in a ring. The horses and ponies were brought inside the circle of wood, the boys standing with their beasts and waiting for the summons that would indicate a rapid advance and charge, or an ignominious flight.

From his vantage point, Berenger could see the ground clearly. The Scots had drawn up into battle formation on the hill opposite, and the English were bellowing at their own men, pushing the recalcitrant troops into three battles across their own hill. Sir Henry Percy was pointing and speaking with his captains, while his deputy, Sir Gilbert Umfraville, stalked about the place roaring commands at the centeners and others.

These men were all veterans of the fighting along the Marches – Northumbrians with calculating expressions tightening their faces as they watched the Scots, fingering their weapons with the manner of men long-used to war.

It struck Berenger suddenly that these men were not like him. He had taken to fighting when he was a young man, and then it was in order to support his King. But his King, Edward II, had been deposed by the arch-traitor, Roger Mortimer, and sent into captivity. Afterwards, Berenger had helped take the man who had been King to Avignon, and then joined him on the long journey to Italy. On his return, he was accused of treachery, and it was only the sudden overthrow of Mortimer’s tyranny that saved him. Since then, he had been a warrior, always seeking the next battle to bring in a little more money. Perhaps if he had settled down, he would have been able to escape this life, but he had never found a woman with whom he could make a home and a new life. There had never been the opportunity.

These men were different. They were farmers, peasants, smiths, carpenters, tradesmen of all kinds, and yet they were English enough to grasp a sword or axe when their lives or homes were at risk. All over Northumbria, men like this worked hard to make a life for themselves and their children, and every so often the Scots would invade and slaughter, and rob, and rape and burn, until there was nothing left. This land was emptying not only because of death, but because the men who lived there were weary of constantly striving to keep their enemies at bay. And now these same men were here with their weapons in their fists, determined to keep what was theirs, and to punish those who sought to take it from them by force.

Berenger had a sudden sense of awe for these hardy, valiant men.

Summoning the vinteners, he gave them their dispositions. The archers would extend beyond and forward of each side of the three main battles of fighting men, like horns on either side of a bull’s head, so that they could loose arrows forwards or, as battle was joined, into the flanks of approaching Scots. The vinteners all appeared to understand his commands, and he formed a healthy regard for them as they all marched back to their men. They knew their jobs here.

Back at the line, he saw three priests galloping towards the army. A rider stopped with Sir Henry Percy, and began to expostulate, pointing back the way he had come. Berenger could see, in the distance, the great mass of Durham Cathedral, and for a moment he wondered whether the priests were calling on the army to fall back that way. He prayed, if that was their aim, that the Archbishop and other commanders would pay no heed. The worst disaster for any army was to fall back; it would inevitably be slaughtered while running.

Yet a short while later, the rider rode away, and there were more horns winded and shouting. Slowly, under Umfraville’s command, the army began to march on.

‘Frip, we have to move!’ Jack was calling.

The vintaine was all about him now. Their cart, full of bow staves and sheaves of arrows wrapped in canvas bundles, each carefully separated to protect their fragile fletchings, was being pulled by three men now that their donkey had been taken back to the ringed camp of wagons, and as Umfraville stood pointing and shouting, the archers began to move along the brow of the hill. Berenger soon saw why.

On the shoulder of the hill, the English had an unimpeded view of the Scottish dispositions. The enemy were formed in a similar three-battle formation, but where the English had space for all their men, the Scottish were constrained into a smaller area. On their own side, Berenger saw that the English site was protected by a pair of deep valleys, one at either side, that would prevent any attack other than directly up the slope before them. Meanwhile, opposite, the Scots had taken a position with stone walls and ditches. Any assault from there would be broken. It would be like Halidon Hill again, Berenger thought to himself exultantly.

He dropped from his pony and passed the reins to a waiting boy before walking to the front of the archers.

‘You all right, Frip?’ Jack asked.

Berenger stood staring over the ground before them. The Scots were waiting at the hilltop. Faintly on the wind Berenger thought he could hear their taunts and jeers, and every so often blades waved and flashed in the sun. It was nothing. The usual ranting to build their spirits while they waited for the real onslaught to begin.

‘We’ll all die,’ Clip said.

Jack said nothing, but his open hand smacked hard across the scrawny archer’s pate.

‘Ow! What was that for?’ Clip demanded angrily, a hand to his head.

Jack ignored him. ‘Frip, do you want us to lead forward?’

‘Yes. Take a few paces in advance of the three battles,’ he agreed. ‘The archers must form two blades, one at either side. Then, when the Scots run at the men-at-arms, our storm of arrows will lance into them. We shall keep them assailed from both sides.’

‘They’re all dismounted,’ Aletaster said.

‘I’m sorry, but I’m really scared,’ Pardoner said.

Berenger glanced at them. The fat man was sweating. Two streams ran from under his hat down each temple and formed greasy drips at his chin; Pardoner had a wide-eyed, terrified expression and he shivered like a mare with a wound.

‘It’s normal,’ Berenger said cheerfully. ‘We fight on foot, the same as our ancestors did. There’s no point in a knight mounting and charging the enemy, not when it’s the Scots and they have their lances. They’ll set the butts of their weapons in the ground, and any horse riding into them will be impaled before the knight can strike a blow.’

Aletaster nodded doubtfully.

‘Aye,’ Clip sniggered, ‘and it means the lazy bastards can’t just run away, either. They’re here with us, whether they like it or not.’

‘You always have to bring things down to your level, don’t you?’ the Earl murmured.

Saint Lawrence gave a short laugh. ‘It’s all he knows. When you’re in the gutter, all you can see is arses above you!’

Berenger smiled to himself. If even the newer fellows were capable of joking at Clip’s expense, it boded well for their ability in a battle.

‘Are you all well?’ he called.

There was a chorus of more or less positive cries. Pardoner scowled and fingered his blade. Dogbreath was sucking at a tooth, while John of Essex ran his fingers through his hair, staring over the battles to their left, then peering ahead, evaluating, assessing and calculating. Berenger had the impression that John of Essex would soon be a military commander again, so long as he learned to control his warlike ardour. He was quick to see an opportunity, and he could read the land, too.

‘Keep it careful, Jack,’ he said quietly. ‘Place the newer ones to the front, and let the old lags keep them in line when necessary, and for God’s sake muzzle Clip, if you bloody can. If I hear him say he’s going to die today just once more . . . I’m likely to run him through myself!’

He was about to return to the middle of the horn of archers, when he suddenly noticed a face and glared. ‘What are you doing here, Jean?’

Jean de Vervins smiled and pulled off his bascinet, the tippet of mail lifting off with it. ‘God give you a good day, Master Fripper.’

‘I said, what are you doing here?’

‘I will stand here in the line. What, would you have me wait at the wagons with the children and the women? If I am to die, I will die here with a weapon in my hand, fighting alongside the brave men who dare challenge this invasion.’

‘You were to be kept out of harm’s way,’ Berenger rasped. ‘Jack, get someone to take him to the rear where he can’t get under our feet.’

‘Do you want to protect me, or ensure that I’m not a danger to you?’ Jean de Vervins asked mildly.

‘I want you out of the way. Now!’ Berenger said. ‘I was grateful to you and to Dogbreath when you saved me, but I cannot have you here. If I am worrying about you, it will impair my judgement.’ He was about to hurry to the middle of the line, when Tyler called out to him.

‘Do you want a messenger? It makes sense for you to have someone who can take your orders to your men up and down the line.’

Berenger gave him a long stare. ‘The day I trust you is the day I deserve to be hanged.’

He detailed Clip and the Earl to take the Frenchman away.