Sir John de Sully listened as the letter was read out.

He was in the King’s hall, and King Edward was pacing the chamber while reading through the note that Berenger and the men had rescued from the water. As he read, the King chuckled.

‘Good gentlemen,’ he announced, ‘this is really excellent! Our men have managed to intercept a message being delivered to King Philippe. It is sent under the seal of the Commander, Jean de Vienne. Listen to this: “Right dear, dread Lord” – well, he’s not to be feared so much, is he? “Know that, although the men are all full of courage, the town is yet in dire need”. Yes, I dare say it is. He writes that they need wheat and wine and meat, ha! And that they have been eating all the dogs and cats for want of real food. There are no more horses either. He tells his King that there is nothing left but human flesh to eat!’

He broke off, then continued more pensively: ‘He writes that unless they receive some help soon, they will have no option but to resort to a final attack. They will sally forth and try to fight their way through the English lines. Well, they are welcome to have a go! They do not think that they can survive such an assault, clearly, but we should regard it as a warning in any case. Tell the archers at the gates to be vigilant, and ensure that the men-at-arms know that there could be an attempt to break free. I would not want a sudden assault by half-starved wraiths to take them by surprise!’

The King set the letter down and cast his gaze over the men with him. Sir John de Sully took a moment to study them too. Here in this chamber were gathered all the most powerful men of England – barons, knights and esquires – and all were listening intently.

Sir Walter Manny sucked at his teeth. ‘What will you do, now you know the condition of the men in the town?’

‘What should I do?’

The Earl of Warwick gave a low snigger. ‘For my part, it seems obvious: I would say that we should attack with all force. You have gathered more than twenty thousand men here. It would be a shame not to use them. We can batter their walls with your artillery – the stone-throwing machines will do good work there – and when we make a breach, storm it.’

‘Sir Walter?’ the King asked.

Sir Walter Manny smiled to himself, and then spoke reflectively. ‘It seems to me that you hold in your hand the key to all you want, sir.’

‘Is that so? Then how can we use it?’ an esquire asked with a satirical tone. There was some laughter in the room, but when the King held up his hand, it ceased on an instant.

‘Speak, Sir Walter.’

‘Sir, you have worked towards this end: that you might draw the French to attack you in order that you might crush their army. You worked for years to achieve that at Tournai and Sluys, and you succeeded at Crécy. But now, even though you have shown the valour of your arms and have destroyed the majority of the French army, still many men will think that your achievements are caused by mere good fortune, not by design or skill. However, if you could force the French King to come and meet you again, and you could destroy a second army of his, then you would be acclaimed as the most powerful, puissant king in all Christendom. Who could deny your authority?’

‘So?’ Warwick asked truculently. ‘How can we bring him to battle again?’

Manny indicated the letter. ‘How can any King ignore a letter of that nature? The writer pleads with his sovereign for support and aid, does he not? If the King of France will not respond to the heartfelt plea of his most loyal, devoted servant, who can doubt that his entire kingdom is equally at risk? And if that is the truth, then there is no peace in his realm, and every man needs must shift for his own safety.’

The Earl nodded and smiled broadly. ‘Yes! You must release that letter. Let it be broadcast all over the land so that everyone knows the French King can do nothing to protect his own realm. He’ll have to come to defend Calais or lose his crown.’

‘And how will you have all the churches announce this?’ Manny enquired mildly. ‘It would be difficult, for each will be looking over his shoulder to see what the French King will say or do to them. Better, sir, to merely reseal the letter. Let it go to the French King with your own appended note. Offer him the challenge. Tell him that his people are starving and dying, and that they beg for his aid. Tell him that if he doesn’t come to protect his people, he is no King. Tell him you sit here, outside his town, and await his arrival. Tell him all those things, and allow that news to be spread, and you will find that he dare not evade a second battle. And with a second Crécy, his reign will be ended.’

Sir John spoke up in favour of Sir Walter. ‘Your Majesty, I firmly agree. I believe Sir Walter has struck at the heart of the matter with his advice. If the French King comes – and is destroyed – he is finished; if he does not come, he will be derided by all and his reputation will lie in the mud, in tatters. Yes, send the letter on with your own seal, and we shall soon see him lose his kingdom!’

The King gazed at the other men in the room with a stern expression on his face, and then he suddenly broke into a guffaw of laughter.

‘Bring me my seal and wax!’

Chrestien de Grimault sipped cautiously at the wine. ‘It is not so bad,’ he conceded.

‘Better than the water the French gave us, you think?’ Berenger said.

‘I think I am grateful for any small mercy, my friend,’ Chrestien de Grimault said. He peered at Berenger. ‘That scar,’ he added, touching his own nose. ‘You did not have that when I set you free from my ship. Was that fighting about the town here?’

‘No, I gained this in my own country.’ Berenger explained about the battle to keep the Scots at bay. ‘I had thought I would die, when the fever took hold,’ he said soberly. ‘Yet here we both are, and still alive.’

‘It is a miracle when one considers how many others have died,’ the Genoese sighed. ‘There are some who are not so honourable.’

‘Why did you help us to escape?’

‘I said at the time: I had given you my word that I would treat you as comrades. I promised you your lives. There was no need to execute you. I despised that decision, so I bethought myself that I would set you free.’

‘We were most grateful for your help.’

Chrestien de Grimault shrugged. ‘It was my pleasure. It saved my honour.’

‘I am glad the arrow missed you on the deck of your galley,’ Berenger said.

‘It was the fortune of war. I was safe, while you have suffered greatly.’ The man toyed with his mazer. ‘I feel I should not drink more. I may be tempted to speak my mind, and that is not always a good idea with an enemy.’

‘I don’t think we are enemies,’ Berenger said. He poured from the jug and refilled their cups. ‘We are just on opposite sides in a war. And I think it a foolish dispute.’

‘It is not mine to defend.’

‘Nor mine. It is a battle between kings, and when such wars are declared, it is men like you and me who are made to suffer. Not many nobles lose their lives.’

Chrestien disagreed. ‘I had heard that the French nobility lost many men on the field at Crécy.’

‘Yes, but that was different. Usually it’s the poor foot-sloggers who get slain. And those who seek to protect people are often punished.’ For some reason, a picture of Jean de Vervins’s face appeared in his mind. ‘A lot of men have lost everything in this war.’

‘True enough.’

Both were silent for a while, drinking companionably. Every so often, Berenger felt the Genoese’s eye upon him, but he thought it was merely the appraising glance of a man who wondered what his fate would be. It was hard for someone who had been captured not to feel the concern: what is going to happen to me?

‘You will be well looked after, I swear,’ he said at last. ‘You can remain here with my men, if you wish. I doubt anyone will want to keep you. You served your master, the French King, well.’

‘I am only a mere mercenary, when all is said and done, my friend,’ Chrestien said. ‘But I thank you for your kindness. Hopefully there is no firebrand of a bishop amongst your King’s host.’

Berenger thought of the Archbishop of York and the Bishop of Durham. ‘If you see one, keep well away,’ he advised.

The Genoese laughed, but his laugh was stilled as the door opened and Sir John de Sully entered.

‘Sir John,’ Berenger said, rising.

‘This is the Genoese? Good, you are to come with me. Fripper, you come too.’

‘Sir John, I have given this man my word that he will not be mistreated,’ Berenger said.

The knight stopped and looked at him. ‘That was foolish. If the King decides a different fate, what will you do then? Fight the King to free him? Would you fight me, Fripper? You should not make promises you cannot fulfil.’

‘He saved my life, Sir John, and the lives of all my men. At the least we were to be blinded and have our fingers cut off. This man rescued us.’

‘He also attacked our fleet and almost sank the ship under you, and tried to take a secret message to the French King. He will receive his just reward.’

Berenger frowned. There was no reading the knight’s expression. It was carefully blank, as though Sir John was keeping his calmness with an effort. His eyes looked bright, perhaps with anger, but Berenger had no choice; he walked with the knight and the Genoese through the streets until they reached the King’s hall, where Sir John spoke with the two men at the door, and led the way inside.

‘Your Royal Highness,’ he said, bowing before the King.

King Edward III stood at a long table poring over papers with two clerks and the Bishop of Durham. All looked at Chrestien de Grimault with disapproval bordering on loathing.

‘You are the Genoese who was taking this message to the French King?’ the Bishop demanded.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, take it – and begone!’

Chrestien de Grimault stared at him, then at the letter. ‘Me? Take it?’

The King gave a thin smile. ‘Yes, man! I command you to take this letter and transport it to your King. I have ordered a horse to be readied for you. However, when you see the King, you will also give him this note from me.’ He passed over a second sealed message. ‘And you will say to him these words: I challenge you to come to the aid of your town.’

‘Very well. I understand,’ Chrestien managed, taking both packets and thrusting them inside his shirt.

‘You had best take this too,’ the Bishop said. ‘A safe-conduct throughout the English lines. If you are stopped by our forces anywhere, this will protect you.’

Outside, Chrestien and Berenger stared at each other, and then burst out laughing. Within an hour, the Genoese was mounted on a fresh, fiery rounsey, and he looked down at Berenger, holding out his hand. ‘Farewell, my friend. I swear, next time I see you, I will not try to sink you.’

‘I will probably try to sink you, though,’ Berenger joked.

Chrestien held onto his hand for a little longer. ‘Do not trust your companions entirely. Not all are what they seem.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Only this: there is a spy for the French King in your camp. One of your friends is determined to bring down your army.’

‘So you knew about Jean de Vervins? Well, he is safe enough now – he’s dead. But he spied for both sides. He was a most democratic spy!’ Berenger grinned.

‘No, not him, you fool. There is another, one who is close to you.’

‘He, too, is dead. Mark Tyler was not a very effective spy.’

‘I don’t know of him. The spy I speak of is back here in the camp – right now. And he is not only spying. There is a plot to kill your King!’

And with that, he let go, dug his heels into the rounsey’s flanks, and was off at a canter.