Their tale was soon told.

‘We were riding down the road only a couple of leagues from here, Sir John, when we rode straight into a sodding great force of militia. At least two thousand of them, I think. There was no time to string our bows or anything. It was a straightforward ballocks of a mess! Before we knew it, three men were down, and Paul was one of the first, with a bolt through the head. It was all we could do to pull the men out and get back here.’

‘Were they chasing you?’ Berenger asked.

‘They’re coming, yes, but they’re still over a league behind us, I think. We rode fast, but they have wagons and carts, and we slowed them anyway. I took the boys to a little copse, and we used our arrows from there for a while.’

‘Good!’ Grandarse said. He looked to Sir John, who was standing absorbing the news.

‘You only lost three?’

‘Four in all, sir. And two won’t be fit to hold a bow or sword for a week or two.’

‘Right, Grandarse, you will need to appoint them a new vintener.’

The older man nodded. ‘I’ll put John of Essex in charge. He’s a good commander.’

‘Tell him not to bugger off on any more private ventures, then,’ Sir John rumbled.

‘Yes, sir.’

Jean de Vervins looked distraught. ‘How can we hope to hold this place?’

Sir John set his head on one side. ‘You asked us to come here, man! We are still a strong force.’

‘But against twenty to your one?’

‘We also have the townspeople,’ Sir John said.

Jean looked away. ‘Some, perhaps.’

The Earl and a few of the vintaine were listening. At that, he gave a hollow laugh. ‘Some? That does not exactly inspire confidence, does it, not when our lives are at risk.’

‘Be quiet!’ Sir John snapped.

‘He’s right, Sir John,’ Pardoner said. ‘How can we be expected to guard the walls about this town? We’d be spread too thinly to guard even a quarter of the walkways.’

‘Many of the citizens would no doubt come to our aid,’ Jean de Vervins said.

‘Many? What is that supposed to mean?’ Now it was Sir John interrogating Jean de Vervins. ‘Enough to guard a whole wall or two? Speak!’

‘I had hoped to have more time here, to persuade others to our cause,’ Jean de Vervins said, his voice thick. ‘But this has all happened so swiftly. We have had no opportunity to speak to people. Some are already saying they should arrest you and your men, to save the city from the King’s vengeance.’

‘You asked us to travel all the way here and now you say we can do nothing?’ Berenger said angrily. ‘What is it you expect from us?’

‘If he’s right, we should get out of this poxy town and hurry back to Calais before that city falls and we lose all the pickings inside,’ Grandarse said.

‘Is that what you think?’ Berenger asked. ‘That we should flee?’

‘You cannot prevail here, if the population rises against us. They’ll know that if the army arrives, it’ll be only a matter of time before the city is taken,’ Jean de Vervins said.

‘So, there is indeed little point in our remaining here,’ Sir John said.

‘For safety, I can give you another, more defensible place,’ Jean said slowly. The panic was leaving him. Yes, this city was impossible to hold with so few men, but there was always his own little castle of Bosmont. He could take the English there, perhaps, and with these men hold the place. Otherwise, the first thing the French would do would be to capture it and he would have lost his inheritance – and that would be a bitter pill indeed to swallow.

‘Yes, there is a place we can go to, and then the English army can come to our aid, with good fortune.’

Grandarse was seated on his mount by the time Berenger arrived in the main square with Marguerite straggling behind him. ‘Make sure your boy is on his cart,’ Berenger told her curtly and went about the men, checking they had their equipment ready for a swift departure.

Sir John was already wheeling his horse about, his esquire Richard faithfully responding and bringing his own horse into position as though the two men were preparing to mount a charge immediately.

Berenger felt the mood of the men about him, and suddenly he realised that the city itself wasn’t threatening towards the archers; rather, the population felt threatened by the arrival of the English. They must know that the presence of English archers would surely precipitate a tumultuous reaction.

Grandarse suddenly dropped from his saddle and hurtled into a wine-shop. He was soon out, bearing a heavy goatskin. His horse was reluctant and peevish, and retreated before him. ‘Come here, you old sow,’ he shouted.

Marguerite was back in a moment, her eyes wide with terror.

‘Is the boy with the cart?’ Berenger asked her.

‘Fuck!’ Grandarse said as he struggled to get back into his saddle, while his horse moved skittishly.

‘Yes,’ she answered.

‘You look alarmed, maid,’ he observed.

‘The people . . . two of them spat at me,’ she said, her eyes welling. ‘They said I was a traitor and would be punished.’

Grandarse’s foot missed the stirrup as he again tried to remount. ‘Christ’s ballocks!’

‘We will soon be gone from here,’ Berenger said trying to conceal his own concern.

‘I hope so.’

Seeing a nervous watchman hurrying up the roadway, Berenger asked him, ‘How far are they?’

‘They will be here before noon,’ he said. He was a large man with protuberant eyes that looked close to tears, and a huge belly that put even Grandarse’s to shame. The mound of flesh under his chin wobbled as he spoke – the skin looked as smooth and soft as a baby’s.

‘Then, Sir John,’ Berenger said, ‘with your approval, I would send a vintaine of archers to engage the French. They can hold up the advance while we leave.’ When Sir John nodded, Berenger turned back to Jean de Vervins. ‘Where is this place?’

Jean answered dully, ‘A castle, not terribly far. A day’s ride at most.’

‘And you are sure we will be welcomed?’ Sir John cut in.

‘Oh, yes. I can personally guarantee—’

‘How did the French hear about us so quickly?’ Sir John interrupted.

Jean held out his hands, bewildered. ‘I have no idea. My friend was arranging matters for us here – a lawyer. I saw him in Berghes before we left, and he seemed confident that—’

‘Was there another who could have given away our plans?’ Sir John rasped. ‘We are clearly betrayed.’

Berenger threw him a look. His suspicion of Sir Peter of Bromley was growing into a certainty: the man was a traitor, his act of changing allegiance merely a ploy to gain the trust of the English.

‘Gauvain is no fool! He gave a letter to an accomplice to take to the King at Calais.’

‘Yet no such letter arrived,’ Sir John noted.

‘He gave his letter to a fool who got lost,’ the burgess Alan said. He was fretting as he stood. ‘Friends, we should not be here. This must lead to a catastrophe. What will happen to my children? My wife? Oh, dear God!’

‘Shut up,’ Berenger said. He had a duty to his men, above all. ‘Jean, you said that the city would rise in our support. Now you say it will not?’

Jean shook his head. ‘The plot was to begin to gather up all the supporters of King Philippe, and hold them. That way we would control the finances and military, but now all that is but a dream. The populace may help us, but if many refuse, well, we are lost.’

Alan wailed, ‘We are lost! Lost!’

Berenger said nothing, but John of Essex, who had already dismounted, took a cudgel and brought it down on the back of Alan’s head. Alan’s eyes rolled up and he crumpled. ‘Sorry, but he wasn’t adding anything to the discussion,’ John said.

‘We must ride to Bosmont. It is my own castle,’ Jean said. ‘We can hold that. Then people will come to us and support us under the flag of your King.’

‘Sir John, for my money we are too few,’ Grandarse said. He had managed to haul himself back into his saddle, and now sat there, red-faced and blowing. ‘With only a hundred men we can’t man a castle. We need food and drink to keep a stronghold for any length of time.’

‘You may be right, Grandarse, but we will need to look anyway. If we take over a castle here, it will force the French to contain us with a force that will otherwise go to Calais, so it will be worthwhile. Have the men prepare to move off. And now,’ the knight continued, ‘Jean, tell me all you can about this messenger of yours.’

‘He is a reliable friend, a lawyer named Gauvain de Bellemont. I have known him for years. Only a few days ago I met him in Berghes,’ Jean said with a frown. ‘He was about to leave then. Did they catch him? Has he been here yet?’

‘He may still be on the road,’ Simon said. ‘Perhaps he was held up?’

‘But the men of the King of France clearly know about your plot,’ said Simon de Metz, eyeing Alan’s protrate form, and glancing at John warily.

Berenger noted that this was now Jean de Vervins’ plot, not Alan’s. Jean also noticed, from the filthy look he gave his confederate.

‘So, as we expected, news of our arrival has precipitated a reaction,’ Sir John said. He pulled down the corners of his mouth so that it appeared like a drawn bow. ‘It changes nothing,’ he concluded, ‘other than to increase the urgency of our actions.’

‘But you don’t understand,’ Simon said. ‘Our city here is not ready! The walls are in disrepair, the populace has not been fully brought over to our side. We must have you send for the rest of your army immediately. We need a much greater force to protect us. Bring us into your King’s Peace and save us!’

‘I understand your concern,’ Sir John said, ‘but our King is fully engaged at Calais. He will not dissipate his forces into little packets here and there. If you are to keep this city and protect it, you must rely on your own abilities and skills. We shall ride to Jean’s castle.’

‘You will desert us?’

Sir John stared at the man. ‘If we stay here, you will die. Our presence will cause a battle, and if we are forced, we will fight to the last man. Do you think your city can cope with that? No? Then you had best ride with us if you do not wish to be captured by your King.’

Gauvain de Bellemont had ridden hard all the way to Rheims and now, under the protection of his new clothing, he felt invisible as he walked about the city. He stood now in the great square before the cathedral, and stared up at the building filled with a sense of confusion at the latest turn of events.

It was bizarre. The act of treachery in which he had indulged would certainly lead to his destruction. All he had built in a lifetime of study and sheer hard effort, was now lost. His family, his properties in Laon and Metz, his treasure, all were gone. It was hard indeed to believe that he had suffered such a catastrophe, but there it was: he would be fortunate to escape with his life and the clothes on his back.

A woman stopped him. ‘Excuse me, Brother. Please, I must speak my confession.’

‘Madam, I am sorry,’ he said, trying to hold his frustration at bay. This was the third woman today, in God’s name! Was the entire female population of Rheims so sexually incontinent that they must confess their sins to any passing man?

‘Brother, I am desperate for your help.’

‘Woman, please, go to your priest.’

‘But he knows me! The shame! Brother, you must hear me.’

A watchman was observing them with interest and unconcealed amusement. Gauvain set his teeth. ‘Yes, of course. But where can we go?’

‘We can sit by that wall,’ she said, pointing to a bench. ‘No one will interrupt us when they see me talking to you.’

‘Very well,’ he said moodily. It was his own fault. The idea of putting on a Carmelite’s robes had seemed inspired at the time. Only now did he see the disadvantages.

They went and sat, and she began to speak. At first, Gauvain’s attention was split as he tried to keep an eye on the watchman, but surreptitiously, for fear of exciting the man’s interest.

‘So, Brother, I was drinking with my brother-in-law and sister, and although I knew it was a terrible thing, I was horribly drunk and all excited, and when Hélène passed out, well, I had to ease the itching in my groin, so I went to Jacques, and . . . and . . . what I did then was . . .’ and she whispered in his ear.

Gauvain snapped his head away, threw back his hood and stared at her. ‘Woman, that is disgraceful!’

‘Hush,’ she entreated. ‘That is why I had to ask you to listen to my—’

‘Christ’s bones!’ he cried. ‘You think I want to listen to this sort of filth? My God, you are a shameless slut – a wanton of the worst sort. Words do not do justice to . . .’

He fell silent as he became aware that not only the woman, but the others all about him in the street, especially the watchman, were observing him and hanging on to every word.

‘You should, er . . .’ What kind of penance should he give her? To have done that to her brother-in-law, while her own sister was vomiting and drowning in her sleep . . . the woman was a disgrace. But he had no idea how to give her a punishment. What form should it take? A hundred pater nosters, two hundred? A thousand? And the watchman was staring at him now, a doubtful expression on his face.

‘Begone! You are innocent in this,’ he tried desperately. ‘Go to your priest and tell him that you were tempted by a devil and that he must pray for you.’

‘But you are a monk, Brother, and if I tell him this story, he will be always on at me to go and swyve him. I know what he’s like!’

‘You must go,’ Gauvain hissed, but already it was too late.

The watchman, his suspicions fully roused, was purposefully making his way across the square towards the couple. Panicked, Gauvain shoved at her and she fell on her rump with a squawk. There was a moment’s hush, as though the whole world was holding its breath, and then Gauvain began to run, the robes flapping wildly about his ankles, until he was forced to lift them, like a woman hurrying after a mislaid child.

There was a street, and he dodged down it. The crowd parted as he flew past as though inspired by some celestial hand to make way for this Man of God. A loose cobble almost made him tumble to the ground, but then he was back on his feet and hurtling on again, the blood pounding in his temples, the air rasping in his throat, aware of light-headedness and a sense of near suffocation as he tried to breathe faster and faster with this unaccustomed exercise. He could feel the strain in his chest as he began to labour up a slight incline.

Risking a glance over his shoulder, he saw that his pursuer was flagging. Thank God, Gauvain thought, and turned back round – just in time to see the cart being thrust into his path from a side-alley.

He could not hope to stop. Holding out his hands, he tried to halt his onward rush, but the cart’s movement prevented his manoeuvre from working. One fist missed the cart altogether, while the other was caught on a plank, and he felt the splinters stabbing viciously into his palm. Then his hip struck the wheel, and the wheel ran over his foot, and then he was spinning and the cart carried on, but he was falling and looking up at the cart, and his head struck the ground with a crack that made him think he must have broken his pate, and for a moment or two the world lost focus and he was only aware of the pain in his flank and hand and head.

But a moment later, the angry and reddened face of the watchman appeared, and as the man’s sword rested on his belly to hold him there while his pursuer panted and coughed, Gauvain suddenly realised again how grim was his peril. He tried to rise, but a boot caught his chin, and he fell back, spitting out a tooth and groaning with the pain and the grief.