He was woken early the next morning and was already up when Sir Henry Percy came to see the men. One of the new recruits had died in the night, and Berenger was looking down at the lad as the priest spoke the viaticum over his body and muttered his way through the Pater Noster.

‘Captain, I hope I find ye well? Yer face shows you were at the forefront of the battle.’

‘We were. My men fought well,’ Berenger said. He wanted to say, they fought like barbarian savages, but what would be the point?

‘We destroyed their army, captured their King, killed or captured some French knights fighting with them, and took Douglas, three Earls and more than fifty other barons and knights. Hah! We were chasing them all the way to Corbridge. Damn their souls, but they could run!’

Berenger nodded wearily. ‘Does that mean that they are defeated for long? Will they recover their strength soon?’

‘Nay, man. They are a spent force now. We’ll have guaranteed ten years of peace on the Marches. They’ll take that long to replace all the men we’ve killed. What of your men?’

‘Among the archers, our losses were few. I lost some in this vintaine, but in general our losses were light.’

‘Ye’ve had a bad battle though, man. I can see that.’

In truth, the baron himself looked thoroughly unwell. He was pale-faced, and although his joy at the victory could not be mistaken, he coughed a great deal and his head hung low. Berenger thought he looked very haggard, like a peasant who has worked long hours in the fields, or like a man about to suffer from a fever.

‘My battle was not so bad as that which others suffered,’ Berenger said.

‘Well, ye’ve earned a rest.’

‘We must return to the King,’ Berenger said. ‘I swore that I would bring news of the French to you, and that I did, but the King will need to know what has happened here.’

‘Then I’ll wish you Godspeed, Master Fripper. For my money, you’ve earned the rank of captain in the battle yesterday. You did well to rally the archers after the first arrows stung the Scots into retaliation. Without that effort, they could have overrun us all, or the Scots could have waited and forced us to try our luck against them. That could have been disastrous.’

‘Sir Henry, the young Frenchman who was slain in the ring around their King . . .’ Berenger started, but then he didn’t know how to finish. What could he say? The poor boy was too young, he wanted to surrender, he wanted to return to France to woo a woman or two, to grow old with his grandchildren on his knees, a loving wife at his side?

‘The youngster? Aye. I saw him. It was a shame to see the young scamp killed, but that is war.’

‘Sir, would it be possible to pay for a stone for his funeral?’

Sir Henry looked at him for a moment. ‘This was the same youth ye caught in the rearguard action the day before the fight, was it not? Aye, man, I’ll gladly put some money together for a stone. I feel sorry to see a fine, proud fellow like that die so young.’

‘I thank you, Sir Henry.’

‘And now, man, ye should get some rest. Ye look as though ye’ll need it.’

Jack asked quickly, ‘Sir, will Fripper be taking all his vintaine back to the south?’

‘Well, man, my Lord Neville was to send three thousand to the siege. It seems his men are not badly required up here now. I see no reason why Fripper here and his vintaine shouldn’t go with them. And if Fripper is content, I’ll give order that he’s to be the captain of the archers. Would that content ye?’

Fripper tried to smile, but the scabs of his wound made him wince. ‘That would indeed, my lord.’

The journey was long and uncomfortable, but Fripper and the men made their way in stages until they had passed the great wen of London and could catch a ship to France.

He stood on the quayside at Calais with the first groups of archers, listening to their banter.

‘Doesn’t look as if they’ve stirred their stumps, does it?’ Clip said. ‘The minute we left, they must’ve put their feet up and had a rest.’

‘You would expect them to have broken into the town by now?’ the Earl asked languidly.

‘I feared they might. I want me share of the winnings. What, would ye have the bastards get in and snare all the best prizes?’

‘There aren’t likely to be too many prizes here,’ Jack said. ‘The best things will have been moved before the full blockade worked. The gold and silver would have been boxed and sent by galley to be placed in safekeeping. The furs and rich silks may still be there, a few of them, but the rest?’ He threw his cupped hands up as though tossing handfuls of flour. ‘Poufft! Gone!’

‘What would you do now, then?’ Clip said, unwilling to surrender his dreams, but always ready to learn from another seasoned campaigner.

‘Me, I’d leave this eyesore and work my way down the rivers towards the richer little towns. You could take a town with a small force, and rule it like a lord. That would be fine work. To have a little place all of your own, tax all the people, maybe set up your own tolls outside the town, and take a share of the money from travellers passing by.’

‘And have the French King breathing down your neck inside a week?’ the Earl said with disdain. ‘I can think of faster ways of having my neck stretched, but not many.’

‘Are you as big a fool as you look, then?’ John of Essex asked. ‘You think the French King has men to spare just now, with his main town on the coast being held ransom? And if it were not just me, but four or five groups of men had the same idea, we could take over a county, perhaps. Capture a bigger town and the area all about it, and form alliances with the men in other towns. Man, it would be easy!’

Jean de Vervins was nearby, and now he joined in the discussion. ‘There are indeed rich towns in France. You are correct, my friend. Look at Champagne, for example. There are magnificent places there. Many. I would think of one such as Laon. That would be worth some effort.’ He spoke with a curious twist to his mouth, as though he had seen a joke that was hidden to all the others.

‘What do you know of such places?’ Berenger demanded.

‘I know all the Champagne area. I was born there, and I’ve spent many happy hours riding about the land,’ Jean de Vervins smiled.

‘When we were fighting up at Durham, I saw you in the middle battle. You were there, fighting, although you’d been told to stay back.’

‘Yes. The fighting was already mostly done, and I thought that since the men had been striving so hard for three hours of the day, I with my fresh arms and unweary muscles could do some good.’

‘The French fellow saw you – the youth called Godefroi whom we caught. He recognised you – why?’

‘You mean the man we caught after I saved your life, Vintener?’

‘That doesn’t answer my question.’

Jean’s eyes narrowed, and his expression reminded Berenger of a man who was hooding his thoughts.

‘Do you know who Godefroi was?’ Berenger persisted.

‘Yes. He was a messenger for the French King, up in the north to exhort the Scottish to fight. I was on the same ship as him, travelling to Scotland.’

‘He was a messenger?’

‘Of course. He was to give messages to the Scottish, and then fight with them to encourage them in their campaign. According to the French, my own task was the same. If one of us were to die, the other would survive, you see.’

‘And you succeeded?’

‘My interest lay in delaying the army so it would do less damage. I believe I succeeded. You know the little tower in Northumberland – Selby’s? Well, Selby had sworn fealty to King David some years ago and it made the King angry to see him so content in his English castle. So I suggested that the insult to his honour should be razed, just as the castle should be laid waste.’

‘Godefroi was convinced that there was no chance the English would hold back the Scottish invaders,’ Berenger stated. ‘Why would he have been so certain of that?’

‘Perhaps he merely considered that with King Edward here in France along with all his army, the Archbishop and his allies could not hope to hold the March against such a strong foe as the Scottish.’

‘And perhaps he had been misled by someone.’

‘What do you mean?’ Jean enquired mildly.

Berenger wasn’t sure himself. The idea that this man Jean de Vervins could have been a spy for the English was curious enough, but was it any more preposterous to think that he could have been serving both sides? Or that he could have served one side, but appeared to serve both? Perhaps he had convinced the French and Scots that he was on their side, while in reality he was helping to destroy them?

It sickened Berenger. He thought of Godefroi’s face again, seeing that moment when the pole-axe broke into the boy’s skull and his eyes died, as though his soul was no more than a candle-flame to be snuffed. It was one thing to know that a man had died in a fair battle, but quite another to think that he had died because he had believed in a lie told by a man pretending to be a friend who was in reality determined to see his destruction.

‘I serve your King,’ Jean de Vervins said, and this time he smiled.

Berenger could happily have smashed that smile with his gauntleted fist.

The Vidame was definitely not expecting to see the huge figure of Bertucat approaching him openly in the town, and he felt his anger flare.

‘I have to speak to you,’ Bertucat mumbled, and was gone.

The Vidame caught up with him further into Villeneuve-la-Hardie within sight of Calais’ walls. The artillery was loosing stones at the walls in a steady barrage, the huge wooden structures swinging around, the slings releasing their vast weights into the sky, tumbling and spinning lazily until they slammed into the walls with a hideous impact. If a piece were to hit a man, some were large enough to cut him in half. As it was, the smaller pieces could inflict severe injuries.

‘What is it?’ the Vidame hissed as he came closer. He was tempted to pull out his knife and stab the fat man where he stood.

‘Jean de Vervins,’ Bertucat said flatly.

‘What of him?’

‘He was on the ships going to Scotland to help advise them of our King’s support. I’ve been waiting at the docks to learn what happened. It’s not good news.’

‘Tell me!’

‘I overheard some of the messengers coming back. There has been a great victory – our allies were crushed. There will be no more support from Scotland. The English even captured their King. He’s been hurried away to a safe prison.’

The Vidame felt as if he was holding his breath at this appalling news. He wondered whether God truly had moved to support the English. They seemed invulnerable. He had a sudden sense of impending disaster. France, it seemed, was deserted. She was alone, desperate and bereft, while the English stamped on her and trampled her into the mud.

‘There’s more,’ Bertucat said. ‘Your spy has returned and says he must speak to you. It is urgent. He said he has seen Jean de Vervins.’

‘Good. Did Jean have any news?’

‘You don’t understand me. He saw Jean because Jean is a traitor. Jean de Vervins has become an agent of the English.’

The Vidame’s voice shook. ‘My God!’

Turning, he stared at the walls of the town. They looked impregnable, but even as he watched, a rock struck the parapet of the nearest wall and knocked off two castellations. It looked like the beginning of the end for the town. For the first time, the Vidame began to suspect that Calais might fall. And if Calais, why not Rouen, or even Paris?

The Vidame felt weak and lonely. If Jean de Vervins had double-crossed them, whom could he trust?