The town was much like a provincial French town, Jean de Vervins thought as he hurried down a street. Narrow lanes, wooden buildings jutting out overhead, blocking off much of the light, the occasional board to indicate a special trade conducted within, and plenty of smells: those to tempt a jaded palate, those to tease the senses, and more than a few to repel.

Outside a butcher’s, surrounded by squabbling curs, a boy was cleaning some ox-bowels and flinging the faeces into the kennel that ran down the middle of the street. Next door, the tavern-keeper was loudly berating the boy and his master for befouling the entrance to his tavern, but it was clearly a dispute that had lasted for many years. The boy took no notice, and when the tavern’s host made a threatening movement as though to go and clip him about the head, the butcher appeared in his doorway, a long, bloody knife in his hand which he whetted with a stone tied to a thong about his neck. He said nothing, but the other man turned and stamped back to his tavern.

Jean stood and studied the lanes. He could see a cloaked figure in a doorway. With his belly feeling strangely empty, he went to the tavern and followed the tavern-keeper inside.

Within it was dark and gloomy, not the kind of drinking hall that would usually appeal to Jean, who was fastidious in his eating and drinking habits, but it smelled well enough of fresh straw. He felt it to be tolerable.

‘A pint of wine,’ he said to the host, who stood behind a simple bar, glowering at the world. ‘Your neighbour is a man of little civic pride,’ he added conversationally as the man reached to a barrel and opened the tap into a jug.

‘That fellow possesses the brains of an ox. He’s a brute and a bully.’

‘Such men are all too common in these uncertain times,’ Jean sighed, gratefully taking the wine.

‘You are not from this town,’ the tavern-keeper said.

‘No, I come from further east, originally.’

‘It is said that the King of France will soon have to give up his overlordship of Flanders. What do you think?’

‘I think that the French will hold on to whatever they think they can,’ Jean said diplomatically. ‘But the English King has a mighty army, and a reputation for skill at warfare. I would not gamble on the French.’

‘But France has the mightiest army in all . . .’

‘Had. And only in terms of numbers. King Philippe has many knights and barons, dukes and counts, but how many fighting men? After all, you Flemings showed the world at Courtrai that men with pikes and lances can beat even the most determined horsemen. England has knights, but King Edward’s knights fight alongside their men, on foot. I have seen them. They are terrible.’

‘You are with them now?’

‘No!’ Jean laughed. ‘I joined their party because it was sensible to travel with so mighty a band, rather than put myself at the risk of footpads and outlaws, but I am not a part of them. I travel on southwards to the land of my fathers.’

As he spoke, the tall, cloaked figure appeared in the doorway. The man pulled off his outer garments. Beneath, he was a cadaverous-looking fellow in the dark attire of a pleader at court. He gazed about the room before making his way to the bar, nodding to the tavern-keeper. ‘A pot of wine, friend. I would gladly wash away the dust and dirt of the road. Jean, it is . . .’

Jean shot him a look, and his friend subsided. ‘Messire, would you like to sit? My arse is sore from the miles here from Calais.’

His new companion assented and they were soon sitting at a bench, and speaking quietly so that the tavern-keeper might not hear them.

‘How go things?’ Jean asked.

His friend, Gauvain de Bellemont, sipped the wine and grimaced. ‘I hate cheap rotgut. My belly turns to acid when I drink this sort of piss.’

‘And?’ Jean asked with poisonous politeness.

‘It all appears to be going in our favour. I have spoken with the town’s leading merchants, and they are supporting the move. The feeling is that good King Philippe has lost his grip. No one can forgive him for refusing to join battle with the English. All those frightful campaigns that King Edward led over French soil, polluting it with the blood of nuns and of monks, slaughtering all who crossed his path, all those terrible chevauchées, and not once did our King dare to make a move to stop him! Is it any surprise that waves of sedition are even now lapping at the walls of major towns? And then to lose at Crécy! It was the most catastrophic disaster ever to strike France. And all because of King Philippe.’

‘What about the town’s watch and the garrison?’ Jean wanted to know.

His friend sat back contemplatively, replying, ‘They will do as they are told. For the most part, they are all local men, and will obey the town’s council. If the guild goes with us, the people will too.’

‘What now, then?’

‘I have a messenger,’ Gauvain said, sipping and grimacing once more. ‘He took the message to the English King as soon as he could. He arrived at Calais a day or two ago.’

Jean de Vervins gave a fleeting scowl. ‘I have heard nothing of a messenger yet. I have prepared the way, but I expected your man to arrive sooner than this. It is cutting the cake a little too finely. You are sure he left on time?’

‘I was there when he left. He was grumpy about the journey, but he understood the urgency. You should have no concern on that. Still, if you prepared for his message, the timing is less important. Are men to be sent to Laon?’

‘Yes. I have arranged for eighty or more,’ Jean said thoughtfully. ‘And yet, I would have expected him to have arrived before I left Calais. Certainly I would have expected him by now.’

They rose and walked to the door. As they left, Jean de Vervins cast a frown at his companion. ‘Who is this messenger?’

‘Just a smith from Metz. But he has his own grievance and is a keen supporter of us. He was born a Laonese, and he wants to return to his home, but he cannot do so under the King of France. I have explained the law to him,’ he added smugly. ‘He knows that Laon will allow him to go home if the city changes allegiance, and he will be keen to have this come about. He badly wants to see his wife again and will be as persuasive as he knows how in demanding that the town goes over to King Edward and renounces King Philippe.’

‘You have no doubt, then, that the people will follow us when they hear the proposal?’

‘No. They should do.’

‘Should?’ Jean allowed his tone to become tart. ‘I should prefer more certainty.’

‘Then you needs must live with dissatisfaction, messire,’ his companion said curtly. ‘You will not have certainty. We live in dangerous times, Jean, and that means we live with risk. The rewards will be great, but there is a rule in gambling: for the highest reward you must wager against the greatest risk. I risk all in this. All!’

Jean nodded. Gauvain de Bellemont was always nervous. It came from his job as an advocate in the Parlement in Paris. He patted his friend’s arm. ‘Do not fear. I already have the men to come and aid us. With a hundred English archers at our back, the whole city will soon submit to the inevitable. And then, afterwards, we can look to other cities in the area, and as more and more accept the fact of King Edward’s reign, his most trusted advisers and confidants will reap the greatest rewards. We are looking ahead to a glorious time, my friend.’

‘That is the one hand of the scale,’ Gauvain said. He held out his hands, palms uppermost as though weighing an argument, but then he drew his right hand down and his left up and looked at Jean. ‘But on the other hand, we have the risk. And the risk is, being flayed alive, broken on the wheel, and quartered. If we fail, my friend, do not wait to be discovered. End your life immediately.’

Jean would come to recall those words.

The spy remained in the doorway as the two men hurried along the street.

He had heard their discussion at the entrance of the inn. So there was a smith from Metz who would take the demand to Laon: surrender to the English and see the rewards you will win. Yes, he could all too easily imagine that.

It was with a spring in his step that he bent his way back to the vintaine. Now he knew about this smith, this messenger from Metz, all he need do was ensure that the French got to learn about him too.

Simplicity itself.

Berenger waited with Grandarse outside the hall. With the King’s personal bodyguard and the knights all inside, there was no need for still more men, and the vintaine had dispersed to the small taverns about the square. It was unlikely that there was a single hall in the whole of Berghes that could accommodate all the English.

‘Eh, I could just about eat a horse and come back for the rider,’ Grandarse muttered.

‘If we were to wander off to find a meal—’ John of Essex began, but Berenger cut him off.

‘Not now. You stay here with us. Can you not sense the atmosphere?’

To him, the growing danger was tangible. Yes, there were plenty of smiling, happy people, but there were many others who showed distinct animosity, and he kept catching glimpses of men on rooftops. He knew that although riots often started in the streets when apprentices with a grievance, usually drunk, started to run amok, for a serious battle the first place to look for danger was on the roofs, with men hurling bricks or rocks at the poor devils beneath. He had experienced enough of that in the last year, when they were marching down to Paris.

‘The place looks quiet enough,’ Grandarse grumbled. ‘All we need is a good pot of cider or something to wash down a meal of fresh bread and a capon or two.’

Berenger looked down at Marguerite. She had unconsciously moved closer to him. It gave him a quick sense of warmth in his breast to see that she trusted him so much. Sensing his gaze, she looked up at him. A hand rose to a stray wisp of hair and tucked it away. She coloured slightly and averted her gaze. He felt a tingle of pleasure to see her reaction.

‘We will stay here then, Centener, while you go and look for it,’ he said, his eyes still on her.

Grandarse glared at him mutinously. ‘Ye’re not Captain any more, Frip.’

‘But I will remain here nonetheless.’

‘Aye, have it that way if you insist,’ the other man muttered. ‘Ach, but there was a nasty shop back down the way there, with a table full of the best breads you could hope to find. And a maiden at the counter with a wicked gleam in her eye. She’d be a good one to snuggle up to on a cool night like tonight will be.’

‘Then she’ll never know her good fortune in staying at the shop today and not missing Grandarse of the giant tarse!’ Berenger said with a grin. His eyes were still scanning the rooftops. So far he had seen little to alarm him, but that didn’t mean they were safe. His senses were on full alert.

‘Where did you disappear to?’ he said when he saw Jean de Vervins approaching.

‘Me? I went to find a glass of good red wine, Vintener. Why, did you miss me?’ the man sneered.

Berenger was about to give him a piece of his mind, when the doors to the hall suddenly opened and the King came out, followed by his guard. Sir John de Sully came behind looking about him warily. He shot a look at Berenger, who shook his head to show he had seen nothing to cause concern. Soon all the townspeople were gathering, and Sir John made his way to Berenger.

‘Gather up the men and prepare to leave,’ he said. ‘We are to ride to Laon.’

Archibald was delighted to hear that the English had at last taken the Rysbank. Now, with fifteen labourers, he was setting out a new fortification on the sands.

It was not ideal. Every trench that was dug quickly began to fill with water, but for all that, he had designed a strong little fortress. The gonnes would sit on large wooden rafts, secure behind a broad rampart strengthened with timbers taken from the woods at Sangatte. Behind the rampart, Archibald would be able to stand and fire the gonnes at any ships attempting the harbour both as they sailed towards Calais, when they entered the narrow way between the town and Rysbank, and when they attempted to moor. All the while they would be under his gonnes and running the risk of being hit.

He whistled as he worked, occasionally pulling off his worn leather cowl and wiping away the sweat, for the weather was surely turning at last to spring.

‘Are you full of sack, that you stand there instead of working?’ he bellowed.

Ed the Donkey was peering out over the embankment, a frown marring his brow. ‘I’m sorry, Gynour. There’s a man there. I don’t like him.’

‘Where?’

‘There, the priest.’

Archibald tensed, then stared intently. Once, Archibald had been a monk, but had run away. Now he had a permanent fear of being captured and taken back to be punished. Still, this man did not strike him as an immediate threat. ‘Him?’

‘He was watching you when you had the gonnes at the other end of town, and now he’s back here again. I don’t like him. He was keen to speak to me and to Georges before, but now he always seems to be hanging around nearby.’

‘Well, then, boy. We shall have to keep an eye on him, won’t we?’ Archibald said pleasantly.

The spy was back at the tavern with the archers before they were called to regroup and prepare to leave. He drained the cup of wine proffered to him, and hurried to the horses.

He had passed on his message. The King of France would be warned. This foolish enterprise of capturing Laon would be stopped before it had started.