The men were ordered and bullied into their lines, their captains fearful of a sudden attack while they were still preparing themselves. They formed their battles and took up positions over their hill, and when all were ready, an unearthly silence fell. Berenger walked to the front of the archers and stood there watching the Scots with narrowed eyes. He wished his sight was as sharp as it had been in his youth.

‘What are they doing, Jack?’

‘A few look like they’re arguing, perhaps demanding that they should be given the honour of being first to tackle us.’

They could see how small the English force was, but it was clear that the Scots were being restrained. Too many memories held them back: Dupplin Moor and Halidon Hill served to dampen the ardour of the leaders. They knew the effect of massed English archers on an attacking force.

Berenger nodded to himself. The Scots were in for a long wait if they wanted the English to attack first. He turned away – and then gaped. ‘Look!’ he said to Jack. ‘Have you ever seen so many flags?’

The great banners of the Archbishop, of the Percys, the Nevilles and Umfravilles, the flags of the Sheriff of Yorkshire and John Mowbray, stood fluttering in the breeze, but behind them were more. Flags and banners flew all over the English fighters. It made the army look twice or thrice its actual size, and as Berenger watched, his heart swelled with pride. This was a battle the English were going to win.

But only if the Scottish could be persuaded to attack. It was due to the strength of the English archers and their tactics, that no army could hope to attack without suffering massive losses. The downside of this advantage, also proved over many years, was that if the enemy refused to attack, the two armies could stand for hours or even days, without coming to blows. And then, overnight, the Scottish would depart the field, leaving the English feeling deprived of their victory.

As the two watched, a group of three priests appeared bearing a huge crucifix, which they carried to the front of the middle battle near the Bishop and his flag.

‘That’s better,’ Jack muttered sarcastically. ‘I like to think of dying under a cross – because some donkey-swyving arse of a priest has got in my way in the middle of a hand-to-hand fight, and tripped me at the wrong bloody moment!’

‘Ach, let’s get at these Scotties,’ Dogbreath said impatiently. ‘This waiting’s pointless. I want to get in there among them!’

‘You go up there, and they’ll kill you before you reach within fifty yards of them,’ John of Essex said.

‘We should take the fight to them,’ Dogbreath insisted. ‘This is cowardly, standing here and waiting like little virgins too nervous to lift our skirts.’

‘You can think what you like,’ the Earl said smoothly. ‘Personally I am happier here, waiting, than walking into their weapons.’

Tyler grimaced. ‘I don’t like the waiting either, but I’m happier to use my brain than run up there.’

‘You lot are all mad,’ Dogbreath said. ‘I want to get this over and done with.’

‘So do we all,’ Berenger said.

‘If they don’t move soon, we’ll have to make ’em,’ John of Essex said thoughtfully.

‘And how do you think we should do that?’ Tyler said with scorn dripping from every word.

‘Send some archers forward and loose a few arrows into the mass of them. That should persuade them to get a shift on. They’re just playing it safe up there like a bunch of silly cunts.’

‘We’ll wait until we have orders,’ Berenger said sharply, but he eyed John with a renewed respect. There was sense in what he suggested.

The Scots were playing music, with pipes and clarions blaring, and drummers beating their skins for all their worth, but the battles were not so well organised as the English ones, Berenger thought. With his eyesight it was hard to tell, but he fancied they were more densely arrayed. ‘Do they look as though they’re squeezed together?’ he said to Jack.

‘Yes – far too tightly,’ Jack responded. ‘I don’t think they’d survive long, were we to do as John suggests. A few arrows loosed into them would soon give them so much ginger, they’d have to charge. It wouldn’t take much.’

Berenger looked over to the left, where Sir Henry Percy and Umfraville stood sharing mazers of wine, and made a decision. ‘Earl, come here. You are to run to Sir Henry Percy and say I think we should send some archers ahead to try to tempt the Scots out of their positions. I want to take five vintaines within bowshot to see if we cannot persuade them to move. Go and tell him that. And hurry!’

The Earl nodded, and ran at a trot along the front of the army, while Berenger set to studying the Scots once more. He was sure he was right, and that the Scots had been packed so closely into their narrow position that it would prove enormously hard for them to swing their weapons.

‘Frip?’ Jack called softly, and Berenger turned to see that Earl was already back, beaming from ear to ear.

‘He said, “Sting the bastards till they get off their backsides and do something,” Fripper.’

Berenger looked at the distant men and grinned. ‘About fucking time!’

Calling to his commanders, Berenger explained their plan before hurrying back to his old vintaine. He wanted to leave from the ranks of his friends. He took with him a third of the archers from the wing, grabbing a bow from a cart as he went. It was a good, heavy yew bow, with a slight knot near the grip, but nothing to worry him, and he strung it quickly before snatching up a sheave of arrows and throwing it over his shoulder.

‘Archers! We’re going to within bowshot to tease the Scotch bastards to leave their hill. We have to approach, sting them hard and fast until they howl, and then run back to our lines. Do you understand?’ he shouted.

Jack thrust a fist clutching a bow skywards and the archers gave a roar of approval, although Pardoner and Oliver in particular appeared less enthusiastic than others.

Berenger felt his blood roil like fire as he roared: ‘Archers! Forward!’

There was no cover here, no hope of moving without being seen. Berenger strode purposefully onward, without glancing around. All he cared about was the group of Scots before him. He could make out the fluttering of flags, but could not tell what symbols they held.

‘What do you reckon, Jack?’ he asked as they passed maybe eighty yards.

‘A little further, Frip. We want the men to be able to see their quarry.’

‘Good. Give it another twenty paces.’

‘That’ll do fine.’

Berenger felt the old tingle in his breast as he stood there, confronting the enemy ahead.

From here he could see them, if indistinctly with his poor sight. Row upon row of scruffy men, their weapons ready, some waving them in the air, others crouching low, fists clenched, to roar defiance like wild beasts. Some with bascinets, some with simple steel caps, many with mail twinkling in the sunshine, while others appeared to be wearing little more than quilted jacks and felt hats. They exuded a ferocious mixture of bloodlust and excitement, with men thrilling at the thought of destroying another English army. Too many had heard of the disaster of Bannockburn. It was before Berenger’s fighting time, back in 1314, but it was a battle that still rang down the decades: a story of victory and glory to all Scots, and one of disaster and horror to the English. The Scots had tried to emulate that battle ever since, but the English had learned from their mistakes and now they could hold their place against the Scottish on any battlefield. Today, so long as they could acquire the tactical advantage of the land, and could wait until the Scots attacked, the English should win. Their archers would make sure of that.

‘That’s the idea, anyway,’ he muttered, and then held up his fist, shouting: ‘Hold!’ He turned to Jack. ‘What do you think?’

‘We’re near enough to see their eyes!’ Clip said and spat. ‘What, do you want to get near enough we can count their teeth?’

There came a sudden roar. Berenger looked up. Over at the other flank, the archers from Yorkshire were already engaging with the Scots. He could see them bend their bows, leaning back, letting their arrows fly high, high overhead, so that they must plummet down into the midst of the Scottish horde.

‘Archers! Archers, nock!’ he bellowed. ‘Jack, if we don’t make them fear our sting, they’ll rush at us all the sooner! Archers, draw! Archers, loose!’

He felt it again, that wonderful thrumming that ran through his entire body, from his loins to his shoulders, as the bow came to life. Drawing a mighty bow gave a man a sense of power unlike anything else Berenger had experienced. It was almost like the thrill of sex, one moment the anguish of muscles straining to hold a string at full stretch, each part of his body as taut as the bones within, and then the exquisite release, when for a second every particle of his body was relaxed, and he could see his arrow soaring away and then plummeting down into the mass of the enemy. Not men, just an amorphous collection of bone and muscle and blood, all baying for him and his men.

Jack was already bellowing the commands. Berenger saw him draw, the other bows straining in unison, the arrows pointing up, ready, then the ripple as the bows straightened once more, hurling their long missiles up and away towards the men on the hill.

Five flights they loosed, then one more, and Berenger saw gaps opening up in the Scottish lines. He saw the little puffs of blood as arrows slammed into bodies, the rage building as the men stood impotent while death rained upon them, and he saw that rage growing, fed by the resentment and horror of death dealt at such a distance, until at last the cup of their endurance was overflowing. That was when the Scottish began to run straight for him and the others.

‘Archers, nock . . . draw . . . aim . . . and loose!’ Jack cried, and then Berenger bellowed his own order: ‘Back! Back! Back to the lines!’ and they were hurtling, pell-mell, over loose stones and slippery grass, running for their lives, running as they had never run before, more than one dropping his arrows and bow in the mad flight, not stopping until they had reached the safety of the lines . . . and at last they heard the friendly bawling of the centener Berenger had left in charge, and they saw the bows bending, the arrows rising, and with a whistle and a hum they flew overhead before pelting into the bodies of the Scottish pursuers.

Berenger stopped, panting, to watch as the rest of his command returned to their posts, and nocked an arrow in readiness while he gazed at the Scots, choosing a target. There was a man in heavy armour, he saw, and he drew his bow fully, aiming carefully – and loosed. The arrow flew perfectly true, and he heard it strike with a sound like a hammer on an anvil. The man stopped in midflight, his head dropping uncomprehendingly before two more arrows struck him, and then he was seen no more as the Scottish ran over and past him.

‘Loose at will!’ Berenger cried, and he drew and released as quickly as he could, the blood thundering in his ears as the Scottish came nearer and nearer, until there was no point, and he drew his sword, waving it over his head: ‘Archers, draw steel!’ He sprang at the first screaming madman – a black-haired rogue with the face of a felon – who swung a sword at Berenger’s head. He slipped to the side, blocking with his bow, and the string parted with the sound of a gonne firing, but then the man had pushed past him and was stabbing and slashing in all directions. Blood spattered into the air, and Berenger felt it hit his brow and cheeks, and he thought it might be Jack – but then he saw Saint Lawrence stagger away with a great gash in his face that laid it open to the bone . . . and then John of Essex was there, and he blocked the Scot’s next wild cut with a blade that rose and turned, and as it turned, the point slipped through the Scot’s defence and slashed into the soft flesh under his arm. John stood still, watching his enemy, and then he pressed hard, once, and the blade slid into the man’s breast.

‘Frip! Behind you!’ someone shouted.

Berenger turned and saw the mass of Scots running at him. He just had time to clamber to his feet, throw away the shattered remains of his bow, and grip his sword in both hands when the first screaming hordes crashed into the line of archers.

He was clutched at the back and flank by other archers, all gripping swords or long knives, and they clung together as the Scottish tried to shove them over. Every Englishman had an enraged Scottish face before him, and as great mauls, maces and axes whirled and crashed into them, there was no escape for anyone here. It was a brutal fight, but simple. Kill or be killed.

Berenger bellowed to his men. ‘One! Two! Push! One! Two! Push!’ and they thrust forward with each command, trying to unsettle the Scots and force some over, if they could. He could see nothing but the face or two faces in front of him. Beside him, above him, behind him: nothing existed. His entire universe was before him and beneath him; a claustrophobic existence of foul breath, of blood, of shit. He stabbed, slashed, felt his blade strike something, someone, felt the spatter of warmth, and pushed on again; the line began to give, and he pushed more forcefully, bellowing. He saw a man go down before him, and stamped with all his might on the fellow’s body, desperate to prevent a sword opening his entrails from beneath. A blow was aimed at him, and he caught a reek of foul breath, and instantly it brought Dogbreath to mind, but then he had another face in front of him, and this time he couldn’t protect himself from the blade that crossed wildly in front of him, and he felt it hit his cheek, dragging hideously across his face to his nose. He jerked his head aside before it could stab his eye, and lashed out madly with his sword, which hit his attacker in the mouth. He wrenched it, ripped it aside, and the man’s face disappeared. Berenger bent his head, snorted, hawked, spat blood, stamped down again, ducked as a war hammer came near, felt the shaft crash into his shoulder – the head miraculously missing him – and felt his left arm fall dead with the shock. He punched forward with his sword and the blade caught something, but now his vision was blurred with blood from his opened cheek, and he had to wipe it, but he couldn’t lift his left hand, and he dared not use his right.

He swung and stabbed, ducking as he became aware of weapons heading towards him. His world, their world, was all here. There was nothing outside the pain, the stench, the fear, the horror: no sun, no sky, no pleasure, no joy, no love, no comradeship – only the unrelenting reality of death.

A shriek, a stumbling shove, and he was down, scrambling to be out of the line where any man could kill him in an instant, thinking him to be a foe. He scurried between legs like a rat running from the dogs, but then he collapsed. He was too exhausted to continue. With the blood running down his chin, he sank to the ground.

Death would have been a mercy.