Berenger felt himself being lifted and rolled out of the way, and when he could at last look around groggily, he saw that the battle was continuing. At his side, Jack and Turf were panting.

Jack snapped, ‘Keep him here, Turf. Don’t let him go anywhere!’ and then he sprang back to the hacking, frenzied mass of fighting men.

Berenger could see that where there had been a thick group of English archers, now there was a much thinner line, spread more widely. He could see their backs, with many figures wearing tan, russet or green jacks quilted against sword blows, while a few wore steel helms or mail. There was a continual clatter of metal striking metal, of shrieks and screams of agony, or of fierce joy, and the rumble of voices bellowing at each other. He looked on as a man walked backwards from the line, only to stumble and fall and lie still. Another turned, and Berenger saw the hole in his brow as he toppled softly to the ground, eyes wide. Three Scots appeared in the gap where the two had been, but they suddenly fell, pierced by several arrows, and the gap became sealed with more Englishmen. And then there were more men arriving, rushing to the aid of the archers: fighters from Northumbria with grim, resolute expressions, men who had fought the Scots before for the security of their ancient lands, and who now took up arms again with fierce determination to remove the threat of raids once and for all.

Exhausted archers fell back as their places in the line were taken by fresher, keener fighters. The weary men strolled a short distance away to fall down and pant after their exertions.

Jack was one of the last of the vintaine to return to Berenger’s side. He peered at his captain with an air of concern, but then shook his head. ‘Your looks aren’t improved.’

‘And there was me thinking that a rakish scar would bring the wenches flocking to me.’

‘Aye, well, at least it covers the worst of your ugly mug,’ Jack said.

Turf, meanwhile, was gaping at the seething mass of fighting men with a look of near panic.

‘You all right, mate?’ Jack said, not unkindly.

‘Saint Lawrence is dead. I was trying to fight, but being small I couldn’t quite reach, and this sword came at me, and he grabbed me and pulled me to safety, but then a sword hit him on the head and he fell.’ Turf’s voice broke. ‘He was smiling at me when he died. I couldn’t do anything to save him . . .’

Jack suddenly slapped Turf hard on the cheek. The sound was loud enough to make several of the other archers turn and stare, but Jack kept his eyes on the short archer, hissing, ‘Keep that to yourself. There are many other good men here who’ve died. You won’t help any of them by blubbering like a girl. For fuck’s sake, get a grip!’

‘Yes, Vintener.’ The man was instantly calmer.

Jack looked about him. ‘How many casualties?’

‘I’m here,’ Dogbreath called.

‘I’m all right,’ the Pardoner said.

The Earl held up his hand and nodded, as did Oliver and the others.

Clip was his usual bitter self. ‘I was out there, stuck in the front, and none of you bastards bothered to come and get me, did you? Oh, no. It’s all very well to look to me when you need something, but when I’m in danger, you’ll all leave me alone to suffer in silence and—’

‘Silence?’ Jack guffawed. ‘That’ll be the day.’ Then: ‘Hold!’

They heard a bellow, a cheer, and then a rumble announced a change in the battle.

Jack was on his feet in an instant. ‘Archers, quick!’

He pulled out his sword again and set off towards the line. The fighting men were swaying, pushing, shoving, hacking and stabbing with vigour still, but as Berenger looked, he could see that they were advancing. The Scots must be giving way, for the lines were unmistakably moving forward, and as the men thrust and shoved, the carnage became more clear. On the ground, littered thickly, severed limbs and dreadfully slashed and damaged bodies had stained the ground red with gore.

‘Push!’ Jack gave a mighty roar, and he and the others took their place behind the lines, shoulders to the back of the men before them, legs straining, boots slipping and sliding on the blood-wet grass.

Berenger spotted a leather bottle. He grasped it, pulled the stopper free and took a deep draught of water. It was warm and brackish, and tasted of the pitch used to seal the leather, but it was the most wonderful drink he had ever taken. It flowed through his frame like an elixir, bringing refreshment to tired muscles and renewed life to his mind. His face hurt so badly, it felt as though a mule had kicked him, but the stinging was somewhat abated as he stood, swayed a little, shivered, and then set off towards the fighting line.

‘Wait! Frip, Jack said you—’

‘Fuck Jack and fuck the Scottish,’ Berenger said bluntly and threw himself at the line of struggling men. ‘Archers! Archers, one, two, heave! One, two, heave!’ he snarled. It hurt like hell. He almost expected to feel his head explode with the effort, but the call was taken up by other men. A man glanced over his shoulder, saw Berenger’s bloody, ravaged face behind him, and blenched at the sight, before pushing onwards with gusto, probably more to get away from the demonic-looking archer behind him than from any desire to rush back into the fray.

The tide was turning now. Berenger was not the only man to see that. The archers, reinforced by the Northumbrian levies, were taking the ground. The Scots had been fighting at the same place for an age, and now those who were uninjured were weary to death of the constant ferocious assault. Weakened by lost troops, they were bone-tired, thirsty and growing desperate. It was clear that they were being forced backwards, and while they knew that they must endure, it is one thing for a man to know he must continue, and another to persuade fatigued arms to lift a heavy weapon and strike for the thousandth time, or to tell legs to hold position when a solid, teeming mass of enemies are hell-bent on driving you off with regular ramming movements.

At first, one or two men fell back, some too whipped even to defend themselves as the English blades stabbed down into their bodies, while others began to withdraw; and with every man who turned and ran, the line was weakened as though it had been depleted by ten. It took one man running to dismay five or six others from near his position, and when twos and threes began to turn and flee, more and more felt that their cause was lost.

And then their army broke en masse, and the remaining Scottish fled as one. Tripping and stumbling, they raced over the fields which they had crossed so enthusiastically only an hour or two before, passing the dead bodies of the men who had been picked off by the English archers, some throwing down their swords that they might run the faster, others falling flat and leaping up and bounding away like the deer of the Scottish hills, filled with the terror of men who sought to escape the fate that pursued them.

The English archers sank to their knees as the enemy before them ran, but Berenger remained on his feet, the sense of elation intoxicating him like strong wine.

Looking to his left, however, he saw what the others had not: the battle in the centre was as vicious and dangerous as their own had been a moment or two before. ‘Archers! Archers, nock your arrows!’ he bawled, feeling the life flooding back into his body as the thrill of continued battle ignited in his soul.

There was a scurrying of men hunting for weapons. Most had dropped their bows in the madness and now they picked up any stave they could find undamaged amongst the bodies littering the ground. A few found arrows: Berenger saw Jack and another vintener sending boys hurrying back to fetch sheaves from the carts.

‘Archers, loose at the enemy!’ Berenger shouted, pointing.

Singly, then in groups, arrows rose into the air and curled lazily down towards the scrambling, fighting mass. A full fifty to eighty each minute, lifting and then falling, looking no more dangerous than drops of rain splashing down on the men, but these drops were deadly, bearing sharpened steel points designed to puncture the strongest armour and pin a man to the ground.

‘Archers, to me!’ Berenger cried at last, when the arrows had done their work. It was time to finish things.

He had found another sword – his own he had lost in the mêlée – and lifted it high. There was a slither of steel as the rest of the archers drew their own weapons again; he waved his sword once and plunged forward, towards the Scots.

There was about sixty yards to cover, and Berenger ran as fast as he could, hearing only the rattle and curse of the men fighting and dying. Behind him, screaming and shrieking like so many banshees, came his archers and the rest of the Northumbrians, and as they approached, Berenger saw the Scots nearest turn haggard faces to this new threat. Then with a high, keening ululation, Dogbreath pelted past him, eyes wide and staring, a sword gripped in each hand, mouth wide in a demonic rictus. He was first to hit the Scottish.

The archers crashed into the line with a breaking clatter like storm waves striking a pebbled shore, their axes and mauls beating at the Scots. Berenger found himself at the point of a dagger of men that had stabbed deep into the Scottish flank, and now he was holding his sword two-handed and dealing death with a raging determination he had never known before. He swung and chopped, lopping off a hand, then thrusting at a face and feeling it give as the blade pierced bone and slid on inwards. His blood pounded and roared until he could hear nothing else.

There was no exhaustion now, only the will to finish this butchery as soon as possible.

Suddenly there was a clear space before him, and he saw that many Scottish lords had formed a defensive ring about one man – their King. A banner fluttered overhead, and he saw that it held the lion of Scotland. He trampled bodies underfoot as he approached, and saw before him, as part of the ring, the Frenchman with the mashed face who had been sent back to the Scots with the herald. The lad stared at him with stark horror in his eyes. This was his first battle, and he had seen too many die already.

His face and his horror cut through Berenger’s exultation. He felt drained, as though the whole weight of the fighting had suddenly struck him with full force. His head was a ponderous weight, as though his brain was turned to lead, and he let his sword-point drop.

The boy seemed to understand him, or so Berenger thought. A wakening gratitude came into his eyes, but even as Berenger thought he might surrender to him, a scream came from his left. He saw a group of knights with maces, axes and war-hammers leap forward and beat at the nearer Scotsmen. And then, in their midst, he saw a man-at-arms with a sword. It was Jean de Vervins.

Berenger wanted to go and remonstrate for his breaking into the battle, but even as he considered ordering the Frenchman back, he realised that Godefroi had seen Jean too. The two gazed at each other, Jean’s face turning a ghastly white. He looked utterly benumbed to see his countryman on the opposing side of the army.

A bellow went up, and Berenger saw a Northumbrian knight suddenly hurl himself through the circle and grab at the Scottish King. King David punched him in the mouth so hard Berenger saw the blood fly, but it was to no avail. The knight lowered his head to protect himself from the King’s assault, and bore him to the ground. There were howls of rage and delight on all sides, but the King was hustled away by four men-at-arms, and the Scottish realised that their cause was utterly lost. The English pressed forward on three sides now, and Berenger felt himself shoved aside as Sir Henry Percy and Umfraville and their bodyguards beat their way forward.

‘No!’ Berenger cried, but it was too late. The young Frenchman was clubbed in the face by a mailed fist and fell instantly. Berenger wanted to go to him, but before he could do so, he saw an English spiked war-hammer fall. The pole-axe impaled the Frenchman’s skull, and Berenger saw his eyes widen and fix as the knight wrested it free, jerking the dead youth’s head this way and that to remove it. Then the tide of the battle passed on and forward, and there were no more French or Scottish alive anywhere near.

Berenger went to the body and knelt beside it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said hoarsely, but he could feel the guilt pressing on him even so. He should have saved this boy. He could have saved the boy, if he had been a little faster.

That was when Berenger Fripper, captain of the army of the north, vintener in the King’s host, began to weep, hating the battle, this war, these men, but most of all, hating himself.