In the town, Clip had followed the man slowly along the main thoroughfare until the fellow came to an alehouse; here, he pushed past other early-morning drinkers and soon was back outside again, holding a pottery horn and a jug. He set the jug on a table and drained his horn, immediately refilling it. Clip sidled into a doorway as men hurried past, and he heard horns blowing and shouts. Turning his head, he could tell that the noise was all coming from the west, not from where his own vintaine was waiting. There was the crack and boom of the gonnes going off, and he shuddered. Even after all this time he hated the sound of Archibald’s horrible pots of war. Then he put the thought to one side, absentmindedly breaking off a piece of his hard cheese and chewing.

A soldier’s life was mostly made up of shit jobs and bastard duties, he reckoned. The worst of it was, you never knew when it was going to go to the Devil. Well, for now, no one was aiming a bolt at him or trying to see what colour his liver was by opening him with a knife, and for that, he was more than content.

Berenger roared at the others to prepare. At the bridge, a company of French horsemen had gathered, and now they began to canter towards the vintener and the archers.

‘They are scouting the land! We must hold our lines here!’ Berenger shouted, and was almost deafened by Grandarse’s exhortations to hold their positions.

‘Nock your arrows!’ Berenger said, and he was pleased to hear the swish of the missiles being taken from their quivers almost simultaneously. He nocked his own, and stood, the tab letting his fingers feel the string.

The men were approaching fast, and would soon be upon the archers. It was a shame that the stakes and holes had all been dug facing south, Berenger thought, before he shouted, ‘Archers, draw!’

He could see the horses building up their speed now; the lance-points were lowering, some gleaming with that wicked, oily sheen that spoke of dead men’s blood. Closer, closer . . .

‘Loose!’

A shudder ran down his arm, and he saw his own arrow fly true – and miss. It slipped over the shoulder of the lead rider, but then it went on and into the face of the man behind. He disappeared, a fine spray of blood in the air where he had been, and then the archers were drawing and loosing as quickly as they could.

‘Men on foot!’ Grandarse bellowed, and Berenger saw the French infantry running behind the horsemen. He let slip one more arrow, sending it into the breast of a destrier that crumpled, its legs folding beneath it as it galloped, throwing its rider and rolling in a jangle of metal and legs, making the horse behind try to slow, and then attempt a leap. Two arrows struck it in mid-air, and it fell squealing, rolling onto its back and waving its legs in the air, crushing its rider, who remained in the saddle.

A lance almost spitted Berenger, but he dodged aside just in time, and heard a gurgle and choking from behind him. A moment later, the body of an archer was at his feet, a hideous rent in his breast where the lance had ripped into him. He was still mouthing words but nothing would come as he tried in vain to staunch the blood flowing from his chest. The odour of faeces came to Berenger even as the man’s face sagged and his hands slipped to either side, his head lolling with his eyes half-shut.

There was no time to mourn. Only time to nock an arrow, draw, and send it into the mass of running, screaming men. He saw one hit in the head, who was knocked backwards so far he almost appeared to go horizontal before slamming to the ground. Another, who had a shaft run straight through his torso, appeared not to notice, but ran on at the English with a face filled with hatred and loathing, an axe held over his head. He brought it down with such force on the bascinet of the first Englishman he met that when he lifted it again, the bascinet of the now-dead archer was stuck to the axehead. Behind him, a man ran with eyes wide and filled with utter dread. In his shoulder, two arrows protruded; he could not use his right arm, nor dare he turn and flee, for that would be immediate death. Instead he ran on and on in among the English, ramming with his shield, hoping perhaps to make it past them and out to the lands beyond.

Two walls of men meeting men: Frenchmen running and panting, Englishmen grunting as they bore the brunt of the enemy slamming into them. A moment of tension, of terror, and then Berenger found himself borne backwards by the concussion of all the bodies. There was a feeling of dislocation, and then his feet found the ground again, and he screamed, ‘Archers, stand!’ as he gripped his sword and held it high, before bringing it down onto the head of a man who was trying to stab Aletaster.

Aletaster stood with his sword in his hands, staring at the body at his feet. Berenger clubbed him over the shoulder, saying hoarsely, ‘He’s dead – they aren’t! Protect yourself, you prick!’ and then he had to duck as a polearm whirled past his head. He stabbed, thrusting hard and feeling something yield: a leather jack. He twisted the blade, jerking it downwards quickly, hearing a scream but ignoring it, lifting his blade to stop another sword sending his slithering down to the hand at the hilt, forcing it up and out of the way before headbutting the owner, feeling the satisfying crunch as his brow hit a man’s nose and crushed it, then raising his knee and feeling a sudden pain as he hit a metal codpiece, and punching with his spare hand, before bringing his sword down again and feeling it slice into the man’s throat . . . pushing him aside as the blood sprayed, and stabbing at another man’s face – but the man wasn’t there any more, and suddenly there was no one left to fight, and he stood, panting with exertion, the scar on his face blazing like a bolt of red-hot iron, and his arms dangling as he watched for the next wave of men.

But for now, they were done.

Berenger was helping Aletaster to move a French body from the road when Clip arrived, leading a donkey and cart.

‘You took your time!’ Berenger shouted angrily. ‘Last time you were this late, I said—’

‘And I heard you, Frip,’ Clip interrupted, ‘but can I talk to you a while?’

Berenger glanced over the donkey cart. On the bed were two barrels, and from the scent that wafted towards him, he could make out the odour of apples. ‘Cider’ll please Grandarse, anyway,’ he muttered as he followed Clip a short way off, to where they would not be overheard. ‘What is it?’

‘While I was in town, I happened to see a man I recognised. You remember the time I came back with a black eye? The man who did that was a big bastard. I remember him. Well, I saw him today.’

‘And?’

‘And he was with another man. One of the outlaws who attacked us on the way to Durham.’

‘What? But . . .’

‘It was the same man, Frip. Pale brown hair, sort of mousy-coloured but smelling of week-dead ferret, and a triangular face with blue eyes almost buried, they’re set so deep. He was there, talking to the big bastard from Sir Peter’s house.’

‘There are many outlaws who’ve been pardoned if they’ve come here.’

‘Aye, but this one I remember from before. I saw him here before we went to England.’

‘Some men have travelled back,’ Berenger said slowly.

‘No, Frip. That outlaw was there to lead the others to attack us – I guess to get us into trouble with the commanders by slowing our journey to Scotland. That’s what I think. And the fact he was with the other proves it.’

‘It shows that the two know each other, nothing more than that,’ Berenger said, but he knew it was too much of a coincidence for that. ‘Did you hear what they were talking about?’

‘I didn’t dare get too close. The outlaw and I had a talk a while ago, and—’

‘You saw him before and didn’t think to tell me?’ Berenger growled.

‘Frip, he was in the yard and jumped on me, right? I really thought I was going to get killed. That was the day I had the black eye, remember? Anyway, if I’d got too close he’d have recognised me, so I kept back, but they were muttering.’

‘Where did they go afterwards?’

‘The big man headed to the west, the other back towards the harbour. I went after the big man – he was easy to keep an eye on with his head standing up above the crowds. He went back to a shed out at the east of the town. And then I heard a bit of a rumpus from here, and thought you might appreciate my return.’

‘Can you find the place again?’ Berenger asked.

Clip gave him a sly look. An expert scavenger, he never forgot a place that could be of profit.

‘Well, there’s little enough we can do for now,’ Berenger said. But it did mean that there were still some members of the spying team in the English camp. He noted that. ‘You’ll have to tell Grandarse and possibly Sir John all about your little escapades, and what you saw and heard today. It’s just possible we’ll have to mount a closer guard on the King in future. In the meantime, as soon as we can, we’ll go to this room and see if we can catch the man.’

It was dark when Berenger, Jack and Dogbreath crept along the path behind Clip.

‘That’s the one,’ Clip whispered, pointing. ‘They’ll be sure to hear us, though. If they don’t run, they’ll kill us for sure.’

‘Shut up,’ Jack hissed automatically.

Berenger studied the place in the gloom. It was a simple shed standing alone at the edge of the marshes. In happier times it might have been a fisherman’s store, but now it was little more than a wreck, with the wooden shingles all broken and awry on the roof. A window was to the left of the entrance, a door that was reached by a pair of steps. The hut stood on piles to keep the floor away from the sodden sands all about.

‘Careful, lads,’ Berenger said. He motioned, and Jack slipped away around the side of the shed to the rear. Soon he was back.

‘There’s one window at the back. I don’t know if anyone’s inside. There’s no light.’

‘Go to the back and wait. If anyone hurries out, you know what to do.’

Jack nodded and was gone. After a count of sixty, which Berenger felt should give Jack enough time to get into position, he took a deep breath, pulled out his knife and stepped cautiously up the stairs to the door. He pushed at it, and it squeaked. As soon as it did, he shoved it wide, the door slamming against the wall inside. A startled grunt, and a man was sitting up on a bench. Berenger ran to him and gripped his shirt, holding his knife to his throat. ‘Shut up!’ he rasped as Clip and Dogbreath hurtled in behind him. There was one door to their right, and Berenger jerked his head towards it. Clip reached it as it was thrown wide, and the enormous bulk of Bertucat appeared.

‘Jesus save me!’ Clip yelped.

Berenger punched his prisoner to still him, and as he fell back, snuffling in pain, Berenger joined Clip and Dogbreath.

The man was not as massive as he first appeared, but he was enormously strong, and his long arms allowed him to punch or stab at men when he was still far from their reach. Clip was slapped about the cheek in a moment, and thrown to the ground. Berenger took his place, but even as he ducked and bobbed, he knew he would never get close enough to punch the man.

And then he heard a shrill squeal, and suddenly Dogbreath shoved him aside and threw himself at the man.

Briefly shocked into paralysis as the small noisome whirlwind materialised, fists flailing, Bertucat was pushed off-balance. Dogbreath sprang up and grabbed his throat, hauled hard, butted him in the face, dropped down, and kicked hard at his cods, then at his shin. Bertucat had never known such exquisite pain. He cradled his ballocks with both hands, his nose streaming, and as he did so, Dogbreath crouched low, and then exploded upwards like a rock from Archibald’s gonne, and struck Bertucat with his fist right on his already broken nose.

The man’s head was flung upwards by the force of the blow, and while Dogbreath gave a whistling cry, shaking his hand and dancing on one foot in pain, Bertucat tottered, took a step backwards, and then crashed to the floor.