They returned to the camp late in the evening, and Berenger was glad to be able to sit down and warm his hands at a fire.

All the way back they had seen fires in the distance, and now smoke was rising like scars on the sky to south and west. Berenger knew what was happening. English and Welsh opportunists were slaughtering cattle, sheep and people, before the stores of food and fields of wheat were burned. That was why they were here: for wholesale destruction.

But he wasn’t thinking about the fires. On the way back, they had passed a group of Welsh knifemen, and one of them called out: ‘Glad to see someone took on the brat. Hey, boy, thanks for the ale!’

Berenger turned. The speaker was a thin-featured Welshman with a scar over his left cheek that left a white mark in his sideburn. The top of his ear had been removed with the same slash.

Ed lifted his head, and at the sight of the Welshmen, he seemed to shrink into himself, as though he was petrified. His hand rested on his knife’s hilt.

‘You know our Donkey? He’s a good worker. You should have used him yourself,’ Berenger said.

There was some ribald laughter at this, which seemed to hold an edge of contempt.

‘What is your name?’ he asked.

‘I am called Erbin. I am leader of these men,’ the man said.

‘Know that I am called Berenger. I am in charge of this vintaine under Sir John de Sully.’

‘We are under the command of the Prince of Wales,’ Erbin said sneeringly. ‘That beats a poxed knight.’

Berenger held up his hand when he saw Geoff and Eliot bristling. ‘Leave them, lads. You, Erbin, had best watch your tongue. You have the ear of the Prince. I have the ear of his father, so go swyve a goat!’

‘You offering me your mother?’ Erbin called back.

Berenger felt his jaw tighten. ‘If you want, we can test which of us is the stronger.’

‘Maybe we should put that to the trial!’

‘Carry on,’ Grandarse said. ‘Enough of this ballocks! Welshman, keep a civil tongue or the Prince will hear of it. Come on, Frip, and the rest of you!’

They carried on, ignoring the mocking laughter behind them, but Berenger threw a curious glance at the Donkey, wondering what was going on in his mind. ‘Boy, do you know them?’

‘Yes. What of it?’ the lad snapped. ‘They don’t scare me!’ But his eyes held an unmistakable fear.

Berenger decided he would find out more when he could. Just now he had other things to think about. Wisp looked as though a carthorse had kicked him in the cods. It was unnerving to see a usually reliable member of their vintaine in such a strange taking.

Jack was standing nearby, whittling a stick into a sharp spike. Berenger called to him.

‘Jack, speak to Wisp. Something’s upset him. Find out what’s wrong, eh? It’s not like him.’

Jack nodded and ambled over to Wisp as Berenger returned to his seat at the tree. He had hardly settled when Grandarse came back from reporting their findings to Sir John de Sully.

‘Well?’ Berenger said, looking up.

‘All’s well enough,’ Grandarse replied, levering his massive bulk onto a log. ‘The King’s men are at the next town away over there – Morsalleen or somesuch. Suppose they’ll all be sleeping in warm cots the night.’

‘Knights and nobles always get the better lodgings,’ Berenger said.

‘Aye. Not that I have to like it though.’ Grandarse scowled resentfully up at the trees. ‘Did you check for widow-makers?’

‘There are no limbs about to fall from this tree,’ Berenger said.

‘Aye,’ Grandarse continued. ‘I could just do with a warm bed, a fire roaring on the hearth, and a saucy little French maid to liven my evening.’ He sighed hopefully. ‘Not that we won’t be able to win such soon, with luck.’

‘Any news of the French?’

‘No sign to east or south. There are Welsh fighters searching, and the King’s already in a rage with them.’

‘Why?’

In answer, Grandarse jerked a thumb towards the columns of smoke. ‘Look! The King made a proclamation: all would be safe if they came into his peace – does it look like the French can trust his word, do you reckon? We’re supposed to wage dampnum against those who reject our King, but if he offers protection to those who accept his rule and the Welsh still go ahead and slaughter them, the French will support Philippe. The King isn’t best pleased.’

The Donkey returned with two water pails and squatted nearby. At Grandarse’s words, he stirred. ‘The French need to be ruled with an iron fist. They are a wicked people.’

‘Oh, aye?’ Grandarse threw him a glance of amused interest. ‘What, like the English, are they?’

‘The English only defend what is theirs.’

‘You think we are any better than them?’ Geoff put in harshly.

Grandarse ignored him. ‘He’s right, eh, Frip? Ballocks, boy!’ he said, giving a broad smile. His hands behind his head, closing his eyes, he muttered dreamily, ‘You ought to be back in England if you want to defend things. We’re here to take what we want, and I’m going to make the most of it. And then get home and make a wife of the naughtiest little wriggle-arsed wench I can find. Ah! That’ll be the life. Ale whenever I want it, a good house, and a bad little wife who’ll adore me in my bed each night.’

‘So you’ll want her blind as well, then?’ Berenger asked mildly.

Grandarse opened a bright blue eye and grinned wickedly. ‘Wouldn’t hurt, Frip. Wouldn’t hurt.’

‘Why do they call you Fripper?’ the Donkey said.

Berenger cast him a look. ‘What is a Fripper, boy?’

‘A man who sells second-hand clothes.’

‘Aye, boy,’ Grandarse said, and suddenly opened both eyes, glaring. ‘And this dangerous man is known for stripping the dead and selling their clothes after a battle, see? It’s not every man’s job, but it keeps him in ale.’

Ed stared at him, then at Berenger, who sighed.

‘My friends here reckon my clothing is old and worn, Donkey. Listen to Grandarse about fighting and warfare, but not about women, the characters of other men, or the ways of the world.’

‘That’s what I want: to learn how to fight the French.’

‘Aye, well, you’ve come to the right place to learn,’ Grandarse said. He stretched and broke wind flamboyantly, an expression of pained concentration twisting his features. ‘Aye, that’s better,’ he grunted. ‘And for now, boy, you can bugger off and fetch us some wine. You see, that’s how you support your King: you look after his men, eh?’

Jack beckoned Berenger as Grandarse began to snore. Jack’s expression didn’t bode well.

‘What have you found out?’ Berenger asked quietly.

Jack’s grey eyes were serious. ‘Wisp’s convinced himself we’re heading for disaster. He reckons the cat was an omen.’

Berenger looked past Jack’s shoulder at Wisp, who sat wretchedly plucking at tufts of grass. ‘I’ll have a word,’ he said, and got up and walked over to Wisp, dropping to sit beside him. ‘So?’

‘I told Jack already. I may as well tell you.’

‘Tell me what?’

‘This whole enterprise is going to fail. We’ll not make it home again. None of us.’

Berenger said gently, ‘Look, you’re taking this cat business for too seriously, my friend.’

Wisp looked up and met his eyes. ‘I’ve never felt like that before, but I did at that cottage – when I saw that witch’s cat hanging. The folks about there knew the woman who’d been inside. They saw that she was evil. It wasn’t done by someone who dislikes cats, Frip. It was done by people who hate witches.’

‘You don’t know any of this for sure, Wisp. You saw a cat.’

‘And the dead priest outside?’

‘He could have been killed by our scouts. It wasn’t magic killed him, I know that much.’

‘This chevauchée is going to fail, Frip. We should get away while we can.’

‘No one’s going to run away from the King’s host, lad. You know the penalty for desertion.’

‘I know we’ll all die. I can see it just as if it’s already happened. I’m dead. We all are. I won’t see home again, just as you won’t.’

Wisp gave a sob. ‘The chevauchée is doomed. And so are we.’