Staring down at the city of Laon, Berenger wondered what their reception would be like. He expected it to be less enthusiastic than the cheering crowds at Berghes.

It had taken them four days to cover the distance, making more than thirty miles a day. Berenger had installed Georges on the wagon that his vintaine used for their heavier belongings, their food and sheaves of arrows and spare bow-staves. Marguerite was fitted on her own small pony. Luckily much of the landscape here was flat, and with little in the way of obstacles they could make good time without overtiring their mounts.

The sense of being hemmed in on all sides at Berghes had made Berenger uncomfortable, and to be back in the open, with clear views of the land all about, was a joy. He even found himself whistling as he rode along.

‘You seem happy, Fripper,’ Sir John said.

‘Well, the sun’s out, true, I’m warm enough, I’m dry, and I know there’s food in my bag. Why should I not be happy?’ Berenger said, smiling at Marguerite.

‘The sun is out, but clouds are gathering, I think,’ the knight replied gravely. ‘We are a hundred men, all told. And we’re being sent to support a city when it tries to defend itself against the might of the French army. They have siege engines, weapons that can destroy walls, they have miners to tunnel beneath the towers and undermine them, they have . . .’

‘I am aware of all this, Sir John. But for all we know, this city will fall into our hands with ease, and then we can return to our friends at Calais.’

‘Perhaps.’

Berenger looked across at him. The knight was serious, as though he was aware of dangers that Berenger could not conceive of. ‘What is it?’

‘When the King spoke with the Count of Flanders, it was clear that the little shit won’t forgive us for the death of his father, although it was his father who attacked us at Crécy! The man died honourably enough, but his whelp doesn’t want anything to do with us. He made that plain. King Edward was at last persuaded that polite blandishments wouldn’t serve, so he showed his own mettle instead: told the boy that without signing and sealing their contract and agreeing to demonstrate that commitment by marrying Edward’s daughter Isabella, he could find himself deposed by another more warlike fellow. The boy eventually agreed, and also said he would lead an army into France in support of the English.’

‘Then why do you sigh?’

Sir John glanced around. Grandarse was chatting to John of Essex and Jack about a woman he had known, while Jean de Vervins was at the rear, laughing uproariously at some sally of Pardoner and the Earl. The knight turned back to Berenger. ‘I dislike it because the boy was forced into it. You didn’t see the way his eyes glittered. Full of malevolence, that fellow, or I’m a Cornishman. He was forced to give his word about betrothing Princess Isabella, in front of the men who represented Ypres, Bruges and that other town . . . Ghent. Yes, he was happy enough to give his word in front of them, but I’d trust him about as far as I’d trust Tyler.’

‘What can he do? The people of his main cities demand that he obeys them.’

‘That is more than half the problem. He is not allowed to go for a piss without men watching to ensure he’s not trying to escape. He is in the same position as poor King Edward, the King’s father: when he was mistrusted by all his barons, they set spies on him. Every member of his household was removed and replaced, and he knew he had no one in whom he could confide. And what happened? He fretted at the shackles holding him until he decided to throw them off, and England was left with years of struggle and bloodshed. Putting a proud man under constant surveillance will lead to him doing something drastic to release himself from his captivity.’

‘You think he will attempt that?’

‘Think? No, I am certain of it! He’s a young man, a nobleman, and in his eyes, he is being held back. His inheritance was the control of his lands. Instead he is forced to submit to the English Crown, and if he marries the daughter of our King, he knows full well that he will lose all independence forever.’

Jean de Vervins was a short distance away.

‘You don’t trust him, do you?’ the knight said.

‘No.’

‘I heard he saved your life, however. Surely that is enough for a man?’

‘If you recall, until the fight outside Durham, he was the sworn vassal of the French King. He lied and fooled all his companions there. And now he is here, leading us to . . .’

‘To a glorious coup, perhaps.’

‘And perhaps not,’ Berenger said.

‘No. He may be a traitor, leading us into a trap.’

‘Is there anything we can do about it?’ Berenger had paused and was staring at the city ahead.

‘Us? No, nothing.’

‘Then we might as well enjoy the weather while we can,’ the vintener said easily, and persuaded his pony to trot onwards.

They were a half-mile away now. Berenger stopped and looked back at Grandarse, who he belched and waved a hand airily. ‘You tell ’em, Frip!’

‘Archers! We are here to work with the local people to make their city safe from French attack. In a matter of days they will declare themselves in full support of our King, and will renounce their own cowardly monarch, Philippe. They will need our help to keep the city calm, and to help hold it in case of a siege. But we aren’t strong enough to hold it against the will of the people. You understand me? This is not a city we have conquered. We haven’t had to bring scaling ladders and ropes to take the place. We are here as comrades, and you will behave in like manner. No brawling with the people, no fighting, and above all, no raping or murdering! Any man found to have committed rape will be castrated and then hanged. Any man found guilty of murder or theft will be hanged. These people are our friends and we will not have that put at risk. Do any of you have any questions?’

There was a low rumble of denial.

‘Good. Now, archers! Onward!’

Gauvain de Bellemont had ridden hard and managed to reach Metz before dark on that same evening. First, he needed to rest, and then he would speak to his messenger about the arrival of the English. After that he would hasten to Laon, so that the city could be prepared. Colin should be back by now, and he wanted to speak with the smith and make sure that the English King’s reaction was favourable.

Colin Thommelin, a rough man with the build of a greyhound, was about thirty years old, with a face square as a block, small, suspicious eyes and a permanently sullen expression. It was an embarrassment to acknowledge that he hailed from the same native city as Gauvain. But where Gauvain had moved to Metz in response to preferment from the Crown itself, Colin had moved there more urgently as a result of a slaying after too many cups of wine. It was one of those everyday little matters: Colin had insulted a man, the man had remonstrated, knives were drawn with the courage and enthusiasm of men well into their third pints of wine, and a little later there was more than wine spilled on the floor.

He had never conquered his aggressive nature. It was common enough with all men, it was true, but Colin Thommelin should have learned to control his rages and anger better, or conceal them beneath a calmer exterior. The problem was, he had never learned common courtesy. He had lost his first wife, but he still had two sons, and he could have found a new woman to warm his bed, had he displayed even a little commonsense. But the man lacked all charm. He was a forgeron, a smith of sorts, and that was what he would remain. A man who lived alone with his sons, who went to the wineshop every evening and stayed while he had money; a man who had no ambition and no hopes of advancement.

And yet, the man had a use. He was, like Gauvain, from Laon, and he was the ideal messenger. Smiths could travel easily. That was why Gauvain had chosen him to take the letter that Gauvain had painstakingly written out with his companions in treachery.

Treachery! It was a harsh word. Connotations of fire and agony came with it. To be judged a traitor would result in the most painful of deaths, that was certain. Still, with Colin delivering his letter, Laon would soon become English territory, and Gauvain could return to his ancestral home with the knowledge that his life would become secure. The English were always generous with their payments to men who aided them, and no one could aid them more than he who gave them Laon and the cities of the region. Colin knew that he was barred from Laon while the city remained under the suzerainty of King Philippe, but once it became English, he could appeal to King Edward for his conviction to be quashed. His only wish was to return to the city where he had been born, and this was his means of achieving that.

Gauvain entered the city as the bells were pealing, and slowed at the sight of a party of watchmen marching along the roadway ahead of him. Idly, he followed them, walking his horse homewards. He would go there first, and rinse the worst of the dust from his face, brush some of the mud from his hosen, and once he had partaken of a little food, he could go to speak with the other merchants of the city and let them know that the English were on their way. There would be celebration at the news, he was sure. Everyone had been working to this end for so long, and now their plans were coming to fruition.

A spark of anxiety flashed in his breast and he almost lost his footing in fear. A man laughed at him, telling him to mind his step on the loose cobbles, but it was not that which had made him trip: he had distinctly heard one of the watchmen mention his name. Gauvain slowed and listened intently as the men continued. The sergeant of the watchmen was giving orders: they were to break into the house of the lawyer, three men at the front, two at the back in case he tried to flee, and capture him.

‘You know what you have to do. That letter tells us what’s been happening here.’

It was only then that he saw the familiar shape of Colin Thommelin up there with the watchmen, and he suddenly realised that if Colin could gain his pardon from the English King by helping bring about the delivery of Laon, he could expect at least a pardon from King Philippe for warning him about a plot to hand the city over to the English. So that was why his messenger had never reached the English King. He had not tried to. Instead he had taken Gauvain’s letter to the French King.

‘Shit, shit, shit,’ he murmured to himself as he turned along a separate street. His horse was reluctant, and tried to jerk his head free of the reins to hurry to their home and a manger of good hay, but Gauvain smacked his rump and spurred him until the recalcitrant beast complied.

‘I have to warn them,’ he said to himself, but that was a secondary consideration. Right now, he had to protect himself. He must escape.

He had a friend in Reims. That was where he would go. He would be safe there.