Packing their bags took hardly any time. All the archers were experienced in travelling and carrying as little as possible. Berenger had his satchel filled in short order, and then it was only a case of rolling up his blanket and cloak, and shouldering them. He threw a quick glance about his room, and then went out.

‘You are leaving?’

He had not thought of the two women. Now, seeing Béatrice, he smiled and walked over to her. ‘Not for long. We’re being sent into Flanders,’ he said.

‘Is that all?’ Marguerite asked, looking anxious.

‘We will be back before long.’

‘What of us?’ Béatrice asked.

‘You will be safe with Archibald.’

‘I don’t want to be with him,’ Marguerite said, and to Berenger’s confusion, she began to weep.

‘What is the matter?’ he asked.

Béatrice gave him a scathing look. ‘What do you think? She is here, in an army of men who have murdered her husband and children, and now you are abandoning her here with only a gynour to guard her. She is still not used to the noise of the gonnes and the smell of the powder.’

Berenger had not considered that. It was true – Béatrice was the daughter of a man who had made powder for gonnes, and she was used to it. But for another, like Marguerite, it was not so easy. Even Berenger was uncomfortable, being around it. How much harder must it be for a woman like her? he asked himself.

‘What would you have me do?’ he asked Marguerite.

‘Take me with you. You will have need of a boy like mine. Take us both, and we will help you.’

Berenger scowled at the ground. ‘I don’t know that you will be safe with us. Surely you would be better off here?’

Béatrice snapped, ‘Are you taking the Donkey?’

‘Well, no. He’s Archibald’s servant now, and—’

‘So who will you have as your boy for the vintaine?’

‘I suppose we’ll take Georges, but—’

‘So you will take this woman’s son, but leave her behind? After all the others in her family have died?’

Berenger opened and closed his mouth three times while he tried to get his mind around this latest conundrum. ‘You think we should take her as well?’

Béatrice flung her hair back, scorn in her eyes. She forbore to respond.

‘Yes, of course we should take her as well,’ Berenger amended. He looked from one woman to the other with the hunted look of a man who knew he had lost. ‘Yes, well. If that is what you wish, Marguerite? Yes. Of course.’

Then he walked away, trying not to hurry.

The town was full as the English army rode in through the main gate.

Berenger was on the flank with his vintaine, riding to the rear of Sir John de Sully and his esquire, behind the fluttering banner that was now, after months of campaigning, showing distinct signs of wear.

The army had been instructed to polish all their armour and smarten their appearance as best as they might, before their arrival here at Berghes, in the south-west of Flanders, and for the most part the men had succeeded. They all gleamed in the sunlight. Even the white tunics had been beaten and pummelled into cleanliness, and the men looked fierce and warrior-like as they marched along the roadway. Berenger could feel almost proud of the martial air they struck.

King Edward had brought a large contingent with him. From where Berenger sat, the men snaked around the roadway behind him. There must have been a thousand men or more, he guessed, with two hundred men-at-arms, the rest mounted archers. A very strong force for a king visiting a potential ally, but this ally had proved reluctant. The camp followers straggled behind, but he had kept Marguerite and her son up with the archers. He felt happier keeping them in view. As he glanced at her, she caught his eye. He saw her sudden smile, and looked away quickly. He had too much to do to allow himself to be distracted by a trim figure in a skirt, he told himself.

On the way here, Jean de Vervins had explained much about this visit. Apparently, since the death of the Count of Flanders’s father on the field of Crécy, there had been extensive efforts to bring the boy to heel.

‘At first, it was the French King. Philippe wants Flanders to renew its pact with France and the French Crown. They need the towns and cities, rebellious though they be. And our King wants Flanders too. He travelled to meet with the Flemings late last year, in October, and the burghers agreed to formalise a treaty with England. To confirm that, our King has offered his own daughter to seal the pact. And the young Count has agreed, but yet he prevaricates about dates, and who should be present, and whether it’s legal yet, and any other reason he can bring to mind.’

‘Why is he being so difficult?’ Clip asked.

Jean gave him a long, hard stare. ‘Did you not hear how his father died? Would you marry into the family that had caused the death of your father?’

‘That is one thing,’ Sir John said, overhearing them, ‘and the other is, this is a young lad. He’s what – fifteen, sixteen? I dare say he’s wary of marrying any woman he hasn’t seen. I would have been at his age. And what does he get from it? An alliance with King Edward is not to be sniffed at, but a fellow of his age is entitled to be somewhat callow.’

Jean looked at Berenger and shrugged expressively.

‘You don’t think so?’ Berenger asked.

‘His father was held at the court by his people because they had so much power over him. Now, if this lad agrees to a contract with our King, he will still remain under their power. The French King might help the Count to squash those who would hold him back. Philippe knows the quality of the people, and also knows where the Count’s own loyalties lie. I wonder whether the boy is reluctant not from his age but because he knows where the true power lies.’

‘How do you know all this?’ Jack demanded.

‘I am keen on the study of politics in my own lands,’ Jean said. ‘I have an interest, you understand?’

‘Perhaps,’ Jack said.

And now they were here, in the heart of the town where the Count was waiting for them. If Jean de Vervins was correct, there was little reason to be anxious. The young Count might be reluctant, but all his advisers and most of his people were enthusiastic supporters of the English rather than their French overlord. At the mere thought of a potential fight, Berenger felt the dull ache in his shoulder again. His scar was healed perfectly now, but his shoulder appeared to have acquired the ability to warn him when rain threatened or when the wind was about to change. He felt as though it could also act as an advance warning against riotous crowds. True, all about him he could see people smiling, waving and shouting support, but he had seen crowds change mood in an instant. The London mob was only one example. Every city and town had its own mad gangs.

The King rode at the front of the army. From here, Berenger could see how his hair moved, bright and golden, like the mane of a lion, and he rode slowly, with the precise stateliness of a lion, too. Like a lion, he was the lord of all he surveyed. He had beaten the French King and the greatest army in Christendom, and even now his army laid siege to a strategically crucial town with impunity while the French King cowered and permitted the English to do whatever they wanted in what he called ‘his’ lands. The appearance of Edward III demonstrated his might, his honour and his prowess. He was a man whom none would dare refuse. How could they, when he held the power of life and death in his royal hands?

At the doors of a great hall, which Berenger later learned was the main guildhall for the town, stood a large crowd of finely dressed townspeople. Silks and expensively embroidered clothes showed the wealth not only of the individuals, but of the town as well. Flags hung from upper windows, and more fluttered from lance-points in the hands of the militia in the streets. It was a scene of enormous grandeur and of civic pride. The town was revelling in the honour done to them today.

The King rode up to the hall and inclined his head. That was when Berenger saw the Count of Flanders: a lad of middle height, with a sharp eye and proud demeanour. The youth was not unhandsome. He bowed while the people twittered and tittered, yet Berenger noted that there was no submission in his eyes. And then, while the crowds applauded, Berenger noticed the Count moving perceptibly away from his group of advisers, as though he wanted nothing to do with them. Soon the King, with his senior knights, with Sir John and others, dismounted and went to be greeted by their hosts, who escorted them into the building.

Berenger saw a scruffy street urchin who appeared at the edge of the crowds and stared at the men, before throwing a look over his shoulder. Following the direction of his gaze, Berenger saw a cloaked figure pointing and jerking his head. The boy went up to Jean de Vervins even as Berenger felt for his dagger, but all the boy did was to reach up and whisper something in the Frenchman’s ear.

Jean de Vervins immediately wheeled around and strode away.

‘What’s going on? Where are you going?’ Berenger demanded, but the man was already gone.