It was a relief for Berenger when he and the other men finally left the city.

His ride under the gatehouse was once more filled with the anticipation of danger; at any moment, he expected to find that the gates before them were shutting, those behind already bolted against them, trapping them – and that the citizens were all overhead on the inner walls, ready to rain down rocks and arrows on them. To his enormous relief, none of this happened. The people of Laon were as worried about the presence of the English as they were about being besieged by the French. It was the inevitable horror of the labouring classes throughout the centuries. Soldiers came and went, but the poor folk were always the lambs, doomed to be fleeced and slaughtered – no matter who the enemy.

As soon as they had made the decision to leave, two men were despatched to tell the outlying vintaines to prepare to depart. They had hurried back in short order, with the news that there was no sign of an army approaching yet, but that meant nothing. When the French did arrive, the English needed to be well away from here.

‘It’s really not far, Sir John,’ Jean was saying as they left the curving walls of Laon and took the road east. ‘We ride five leagues east, then another five north – and then we will be there. It’s a good castle, you’ll see. Strong, well-positioned, and sufficiently distant from here for us to feel secure, eh?’

Grandarse was riding a few horse-lengths behind Berenger, watching and listening. ‘Aye, Frip. D’ye see what I said, eh? Right dangerous mess, this. We’d have been better staying at Calais. Still, once we’ve made it to Jean’s castle, we can see what pickings there are about the place. Maybe a little manor or two to visit, and some plate and silver to take away with us? That would serve us well.’

‘The main thing is to patrol the countryside,’ John of Essex said. ‘We must know when the French are getting within a few leagues so we can be ready for them.’ He had joined Berenger, and his vintaine was riding in a parallel column alongside Berenger’s.

‘Aye, that would help,’ Grandarse said, but Berenger could see from the look in his eye what he was thinking: it would be safer still to be as far from Bosmont and Jean de Vervins as possible when the French did arrive. No English archer was welcome in France, especially not since Crécy, when so many noble lives had ended at the point of an English arrow.

‘Look at them,’ Mark Tyler said disgustedly, pointing to the huddle of merchants riding a little to their left. ‘What good will any of them be, Frip, when we get to the castle? They can hardly hold a staff, let alone a sword.’

‘They may show some courage,’ Berenger said shortly. ‘As matters stand, we couldn’t leave them at Laon. They would be killed for certain. Better to keep them with us.’

‘Why?’ Tyler grumbled. ‘So they can eat our food?’

‘I was thinking more because we can find out where they keep their money,’ Grandarse said comfortably.

‘And I was thinking that the King might be unhappy, were we to mislay his allies,’ Berenger said.

‘He won’t miss allies who failed to achieve the one thing he wanted,’ John commented.

‘He’ll miss any who have money and who could prove useful in the future. Look at Jean de Vervins himself,’ Berenger said. ‘He’s hardly the sort of man I’d expect our King to take to, but he seems to have wormed his way into the King’s favour. Not that it will necessarily continue when our King sees that he’s failed to bring in Laon. Still, he could work to the King’s benefit, if we can keep this castle of Bosmont secure and him with it.’

Grandarse eyed him doubtfully. ‘You think so?’

John of Essex was gazing about them as they rode, staring at the verdant pastures and the crops just appearing through the crust of the soil. They were passing a hamlet now, and in it were several pleasant houses and farm buildings. Horses and cattle grazed, and there was a bleating from over a hedge that spoke of lambs.

‘Someone will have to go to the King, to bring him up to date with developments,’ he said. ‘Not I, though. I’ll be staying here as long as I can.’

Berenger sighed as he recognised John’s expression: it was that of an English soldier who could smell, all about him, the sweet odour of plunder.

Archibald finished ramming the ball up the barrel, and threw himself over the parapet behind his safety ramp. In front he had caused some pavises to be built – large shields of wood so that he was safe from bolts and arrows aimed at him from the town’s walls as he worked his gonne. The clatter and thud of missiles hitting the pavises had grown to be a constant background noise, rather like the clatter of hail against a shingled roof.

He aimed along the length of the barrel, then used a heavy, lead-filled wooden maul to hit the breech.

‘You need to clobber that harder, if you want it to hit something, don’t you?’ a sentry asked. He was new here, and hadn’t worked with Archibald for long.

Archibald threw a meaningful look at Ed. Even the boy had not been as slow as this. ‘I clobber it hard to move it. As I hit it, the barrel turns,’ he said. One day, he would have to give some thought to an easier way of shifting the barrel. Perhaps putting it on a wheel, instead of a sledge or raft? He could have it on a trailer, but the massive shock of the detonation would shatter any wagon at the first shot.

‘That’ll do it,’ he said to Ed. The Donkey was hardly listening, he saw. Instead, he was peering over the parapet towards the flats west of the town. ‘Hey – Donkey! Shift yourself!’

The boy scurried down to the wooden boards at the bottom and ran to the brazier at the farther end of their trench. Here he grabbed the long coil of string Archibald had made, and thrust its end into the fire. The match blackened and singed, and Ed blew on it to keep it glowing, while Archibald tipped powder from the flask about his throat into the little hole. He stoppered his flask and reached for the match. ‘Stand back!’ he shouted, and shoved it down.

Béatrice, watching from the powder store, saw the high, inverted cone of smoke as the first powder sizzled in the vent, but then there was the brief pause – the tremble, almost – and the roar as the gonne belched out its flames in a thunderous cacophony.

Archibald danced around at the breech end, shouting, ‘Did I hit it? Did I hit it?’ as the smoke rolled greasily around. Gradually, as it cleared, and he could see again, he was struck by the sight of a cog bucketing in the sea at the harbourside. As he watched, he saw a new hole in its planking, and the cog began to move more sluggishly in the water, gradually tilting, while shipmen ran aloft on the ropes to try to release the sails, but all to no avail.

‘Look at that!’ Archibald cried triumphantly. The unmistakable sounds of rending wood came over the water as the vessel’s planks and beams began to break apart, torn asunder by the weight of the cargo inside.

But Donkey wasn’t watching. His attention was still fixed on the other bank of the river.

‘What on earth is it, boy?’

‘It’s that priest again. He’s spying on us, as he was before.’

Archibald poked his head over the parapet and stared. ‘Then we must do something about him, mustn’t we?’

The little castle of Bosmont rose on its own modest hillock in the bend of the River Serre. Standing on the eastern edge of the river, it loomed over them as they approached. Berenger considered it as they trotted up the narrow pathway.

With a gatehouse that had a strong, square gateway with a drawbridge, three small towers to protect each corner, and one larger tower that was also the donjon, all mounted on a rough outcrop of rock, it looked strong enough to survive an assault by even a very numerous army. The side facing the river was safe enough. Although it had no precipitous cliffs to deter assault, Jean said that the ground near the river was marshy and very damp, therefore unsuitable to position men, let alone siege engines.

‘And if you look behind the castle, there are woods. It would be extremely difficult to form a body of men at any distance from here in that direction,’ he said smugly. ‘If a man wishes to take my castle from me, he will find that I am a tough opponent!’ And he slapped his fist against his breast as he spoke.

Sir John nodded. ‘I require you to guide me all about your territory. I must view the lands and see where to place men to warn us of the advancing forces.’

Jean nodded. ‘I will come myself.’

‘Good. I shall take a cup of wine first and we must water the horses, but then I will want to get moving. We may have little time.’ The knight spurred his mount and rode on ahead, eyeing the road at either side for points of ambush.

‘You love this castle,’ Berenger noted.

‘Of course I do! It is mine – my birthright. I have little enough left, after my King’s betrayal.’

Berenger had the good sense to hold his tongue as they rode the last yards to the castle’s gates.

Jean said bleakly, ‘If it were not for King Philippe’s intolerable desire to honour those whom he loves, I would still be with him, you understand? I am not a natural traitor. It goes against my nature. But when he broke his oath to me, I could not maintain my own oath of fealty. What is chivalry, if the lord will not honour his part in the bargain?’

‘What happened?’

‘I was a knight in his service. In the first months of war, seven years ago, it was I who raised the army from local settlements, and we rode into the lands all about Chimay and put Jean de Hainault’s men to flight. Those were glorious days, those. Plunder, and the joy of battle and seeing your foes flee before you. But then, the Hainaulters returned the favour, and we were forced to run here, to my castle, where we could lick our wounds and prepare for the next fight.’

They were riding under the gatehouse now.

‘So,’ Berenger said, ‘what made you turn against the King?’

‘I told you. Philippe de Valois wanted to honour his friend, Sieur Henri du Bos. So Henri and I were to joust at Paris. And when the day came, the King commanded me to lose. Henri tilted well, and he could have beaten me in a fair fight, but I had no choice: I had promised to lose. It was a moment of utter horror, for of course I would have to give him my armour and my horse, my noble destrier. But du Bos did not unhorse me. I refused to be bested and lose everything. The King was furious and ordered me to submit my horse and armour because I had cheated. It was nonsense. I had stuck to the code of chivalry as a knight must. So instead of obeying, I gathered my possessions and left Paris that same afternoon, resolved that I would have my revenge on the knight and the King. I went straightway to the coast. I was determined to go to Edward. I exchanged messages with your King, who was pleased to accept my offer of support. And now, after my efforts in Scotland and in Laon, when he hears of my plight, he will send more men to support me. It is one thing for me to fail to win over the populace of Laon, but another for him to allow me to lose my castle. He would not want to see me suffer in that way. My humiliation would reflect badly upon him.’

‘Don’t forget, the King has other matters on his mind,’ Berenger cautioned. ‘With the siege of Calais uppermost, and the marriage of his daughter to the Count of Flanders, there is plenty to occupy him.’

‘This is important though, no? He will see the importance of supporting me and saving my castle. It will become a small bastide in the heart of France.’

Berenger said nothing. He had his doubts. There were times when Edward of England could be thoroughly helpful and generous, but when he was at war, he became focused on that, to the exclusion of all else. But perhaps Jean was correct. After all, the King had sent men down here: a token force, granted, but a force nonetheless. And he was concentrating all his efforts on destroying the French, which was the reason for his daughter’s marriage: to ally the Count of Flanders to his cause. If he could see this little castle as helping his cause, perhaps he would consider sending support troops.

He looked about him as the archers dropped from their horses, rubbing sore backsides and thighs, complaining as only English archers would, about the heat, and their thirst for women and wine, preferably at the same time, and he felt that they might be able to hold this place.

Yes, they just might.

‘Gauvain de Bellemont, you have been found guilty of conspiracy to treason, of conspiring to overthrow the community of this city, and of plotting with confederates to bring the town under the control of the treacherous Sir Edward of England. You are sentenced to life imprisonment.’

Gauvain had been captured in Rheims, and brought here to Laon in the afternoon of the same day. This trial was a surprise. He had not expected to survive so long. But the officials here had declared his sentence, and it would be a thoroughly hideous existence. He had seen the gaols here and at Metz; the ones at Laon were more comfortable than those at Metz – the innermost rings of Hell would be more comfortable than them. They were wet, with green slime on the walls where the poor light at least permitted some colour to be observed, and with a stinking stream that flowed along the middle of the floor, full of turds. When the rains came and the stream rose, men sleeping on the floor could be smothered in fecal deposits floating in the floodwaters. At least Laon had a bucket.

He was hustled from the officer’s hall, and out into the sunshine. Here he was chained and locked to a cart for the shameful ride to the prison. He was forced to sit facing backwards to emphasise his humiliation. As he waited for the cart to start on its journey, he saw people gathering, unsmiling, hostile. He had been promised incarceration, but these good citizens did not approve of such an easy escape for him. He had been willing to put their lives at risk, after all. If he had succeeded, he would have allowed English soldiers into their city. Colluding with the enemy to give away their city, he would have carelessly sentenced many of them to their deaths.

They knew that. And now they wanted their revenge.

‘Driver! Carter!’ he shouted. ‘Take me to the gaol, I beg!’

There was no sound, and when he looked over his shoulder, he saw that the carter was nowhere to be seen. This was clearly a spontaneous mob, desiring to show him their contempt, and the carter, fearing for his life, had fled.

‘You’re all brave enough now, I see,’ he shouted. ‘You’ll come out to show your courage now, eh?’

He could see the first men and women hefting stones. At the sight he felt his bowels loosen and he could not hold his bladder. All his powers of persuasion failed him now as the trickle of pungent urine ran down his hosen, and he began to sob. He wanted to shout for the official, to plead for his life, but when he glanced at the steps leading to the hall, he saw the man standing at the top of them, watching silently. He obviously knew all about this gathering – had probably organised it. An extra punishment for the man who would have seen the city laid waste and besieged. The man who would willingly have seen the official himself slain.

A howl of rage, a roar of disapproval, a woman screeching at him . . . and then a heavy stone crashed against the side of the cart near his left forearm. He stared down at the mark on the wood where the stone had struck. It had left a massive dent. The wagon shuddered as another rock hit the cart-bed on his right side, and then a cobble smacked into his knee and he screamed.

He screamed for a long time, until the last rock crushed his skull and he could scream no more.