Archibald sat outside on his gonne’s barrel and stared up at the sun. With a small barrel of ale on the earth wall behind him, and a pewter goblet in his hand, life was sweet. The ale he had won in a game of Nine Men’s Morris, but the goblet, which had been liberated from a house on the way to Calais, had become his yesterday in exchange for a small charge of black powder encased in a wrap of parchment, sealed with pig’s fat. Later that evening, he had heard of a near riot in a house in the town when a somewhat morose captain, who was disliked by most of his men, had been dining with a woman, and for some reason his fire had exploded when the two were growing affectionate. Archibald saw no need to investigate. His ale was tasty, all the better for being served in a noble vessel such as this, and he sighed with content. It was all good.

The smell, however, was not. The town over there, across the little dribble of water, had a right stench coming off it. He had been near towns with bad odours in the past – for instance, who could forget Exeter in the high summer, when the reek from the tanners over to the west spread all over the city, enough to make a man’s eyes water . . . This was different, though. The smell had a bittersweet tang that caught in the throat like vomit. At least most of the time it was pleasant enough here. The wind tended to blow away from the little fort. And now, with the evening sun behind him lighting the town’s walls with a glorious golden hue, he could almost have felt himself to be back in England instead of here, and no longer at war. The stone looked like the golden rocks used in places like Evesham. That had been a lovely town, he remembered, and sighed.

He passed a pleasant evening. Rested, he ate a good meal and went to his palliasse at the rear of the fort, secure in the knowledge that the Donkey was keeping watch. A little while after sunset, he was deeply asleep.

Béatrice experienced a wave of relief on the day the vintaine returned, but her joy was short-lived when Berenger was nowhere to be seen.

‘What is it?’ Ed demanded.

‘He is not there!’ It was only when she realised that Berenger was there, and sitting up in the cart that she recovered her equanimity.

‘No, he’s gone,’ Ed was insisting.

‘Who?’

‘Tyler – Mark of London, of course. Why, who did you think?’

She said nothing, only blushed, but suddenly the boy’s face hardened when he saw Berenger too. But then she was running to greet the vintener – and quickly forgot the expression on his face.

It came back to her now though, as she approached Marguerite’s side, a look of mingled jealousy and hurt.

‘I am glad to see you back safely,’ she said.

‘I thank you,’ Marguerite replied, but there was no joy in her tone.

‘I have heard that you saved Berenger from death.’

‘I nursed him, but he has a hard head. It took little to save him, in truth. Only a little comforting.’

Béatrice forbore to ask how much comforting. ‘You seem concerned.’

The woman shot her a glance, and then she licked her lips. ‘Béatrice, you are a Frenchwoman. I am sure you are loyal to the men here, too, but you also have some feeling for our people, don’t you?’

‘I have no people,’ Béatrice said flatly.

‘But I am your friend?’

‘Yes, you are my friend.’

‘I am worried about my son,’ Marguerite burst out. ‘He is a good boy, but he is keeping something from me. He is working hard with the archers, but how can I entice him to open up to me?’

‘I have no children. I cannot advise.’

‘But you have Ed. He treats you as his mother.’

Béatrice shook her head. ‘No.’

Marguerite said nothing, but then her mouth formed a perfect ‘Oh’.

‘He is desperately jealous. Perhaps your Georges has also fallen in love?’

‘No, I feel sure it is something different.’

‘Then you must ask him, and do not stop until he explains.’

‘Béatrice, I am terrified of what his answer may be!’

‘You must. It is worse to wonder,’ Béatrice said. And then, with a great heave of resolution: ‘Speak to Berenger. See what he thinks. You can trust his advice.’

Ed sat by the wall of the fort and stared out at the view. There was not much to look at here, only a series of braziers installed on the walls of the town. The people were petrified that the English might attempt to take the place by force, he knew. That was why they had lights all along the walls, to make sure that there were no darkened routes by which the English might cross and climb to overrun the place.

Béatrice was in love with Berenger. The truth was plain, and it hurt to know it, but at least now he could see it. She was a solid, unyielding woman, but she was comforting. He couldn’t blame Berenger. Whenever Ed himself had been injured or merely alarmed, it was Béatrice who had come to give him sympathy and support. She was that sort of woman. But right at this moment, it felt as though Ed had lost her. And without her, he was bereft.

There was a brief flare of light. Nothing much, but he thought it came from down at the water’s edge – not at the English shore, but on the Calesian side. He squinted in the dark, trying to see something that could have caused the flash, but decided it must merely have been the light reflecting on the sea from a brazier up on the walls. And yet, when he looked at the walls again, he realised that some of the lights were extinguished. There was a gap of some yards where no flares at all were lit. There was no movement, no indication of men. All was perfectly still, dark and calm. There was nothing for him to grow excited about.

And yet . . .

He was young, he knew, but after living with the soldiers for so many months, some vestiges of their training must have been absorbed into his soul. The thought of waking Archibald filled him with dread, for the gynour could be a terror when his sleep was disturbed, but that was less alarming than the thought that a force could have slipped over the Calesian wall and even now be hurrying to the English fortress to slaughter the inhabitants. He knew what he must do.

Slowly and full of trepidation, he crossed to the rear of the fortress and called to Archibald. ‘Sir?’

‘What is it?’ the gynour demanded. ‘There’s something wrong – I can smell it.’

The Donkey was only grateful that he hadn’t already been beaten. ‘Sir, they have put out some lights at the fortress and now I can’t see anything.’

‘Show me.’

They returned to the wall and the two peered out.

‘You’re right,’ Archibald said. ‘They’ve shut out some of their lights. Why would they do that, I wonder?’

‘I thought they could be crossing to attack us here.’

Archibald’s eyes flitted over the water. There was no sign of men crossing the water, and yet . . . ‘There, boy! Can you see that?’

‘What?’ the Donkey said, but Archibald was already turning and bellowing.

‘Boats! Boats from Calais escaping! Guards!’

Archibald scrambled to the top of the wall, thinking hard. What could the guards do? Nothing – it was too late. Yet he had his gonnes here. And what was more, he had time to use them.

Archibald grabbed the lamb’swool swab and ran to the mouth of the nearest gonne. He rammed it into the barrel, turning it to remove any dampness from the cool evening air. Then he hurried back and snatched up the powder measure. Wrenching the top from one of the powder barrels, he scooped up a good quantity. Curtly telling Donkey to put the lid back on, he went to the gonne and carefully loaded it. Then he took a bag of stones and pushed it into the barrel. Ramming it with the stave of the powder measure, he ensured that the bag was well seated before hurrying to the firing hole. There was some charcloth in his tinderbox, and he struck flint and his knife to make a spark, blowing gently on the cloth as it caught the spark and began to smoulder.

‘Get back, boy!’ he roared to Ed. ‘Stay out there and you may lose your head!’

Over the barrel, he took a long spike and cleared the vent hole, then tipped out a little fine powder from his neck-flask. He took the match and stick, and blew on his charcloth until it was glowing nicely, and set that to the match, blowing steadily but gently until the match was red and spitting – and then he rammed it into the vent. There was a whoomph, a flash of blinding yellow-red light, and then a fizzing cone of smoke and flame leaped up from the vent as, with an earth-jarring roar, the gonne fired. It lighted the whole area of sea, including the two small boats which were rowing as quickly as they could away from Calais.

Through the clouds this fleeting glimpse was enough. Now the English camp was all astir, and cries and horn blasts at the waterside showed that the boats had been spotted.

‘Boy,’ Archibald said, his big bearded face grinning from ear to ear, ‘there is nothing so satisfying as waking an entire army before dawn!’

‘Yes, Gynour.’

‘But don’t make a habit of it, eh? I can be real grouchy without my sleep – and you can see how dangerous that is!’