Geoff was tired. ‘Damn his cods!’ he muttered as he approached the town once more. ‘Fool should have stayed back, like I said. What was he doing coming up here?’

But he thought he understood. Ed knew nothing of life. He was alone at the sack of a town, a terrifying experience for anyone. No wonder he wanted to remain with his vintaine.

Geoff stopped under the gateway to the town and stared about him. It was a scene of horror. At his feet was a baby with a crushed head. On his left a heap of bodies, some soldiers, some citizens, a few older women. Three English soldiers were removing everything of value from the dead. One man with bare feet was hopping on one leg while he tried to pull on a shoe from a corpse, swearing and laughing in equal measure.

Bodies lay everywhere, and more dangling where they had been hanged. Farther off, a small boy, perhaps four or five years old, stood and screamed, his hands twisting a scrap of cloth. Men walked past, ignoring him and his despair. Near him lay a woman.

Geoff paced slowly, his eyes fixed on her body. The sight captivated him. She had hair the same colour as his wife’s; she had a similar build, and the wound in her throat looked like his wife Sarra’s – the wound he had seen that terrible morning when he found her corpse waiting for him downstairs.

His ears were assailed by harsh laughter, the crackle and rush of flames taking hold, occasional clattering of weapons.

It was scenes like this which had driven his brother, Henry, to despise him. When he thought of Henry, Geoff wanted to remember the youth with the smiling face, but instead he saw the priest with haunted eyes and thin, pale features. He had looked at Geoff with sadness and regret, as though Geoff was responsible for every death, every body tormented beyond pain.

‘All the Devils in Hell,’ Henry had said one day, ‘cannot butcher and torture so well as we poor souls.’

Not long after that, he had left, and Geoff had never seen him again. Once Geoff had heard from a friar that his brother sent his best wishes and prayed for him, but neither thought there was any hope for him.

Well, Geoff didn’t want his prayers. He was strong enough. He would shout at the Devil and curse him when he died. He had no need of a priest’s sympathy. Not even now, with his wife dead.

The thought made him stop, stock-still, in the road.

Two men ran from a house further up the street. They bore torches, and then stood watching the building with an eager glee, waiting. Soon a burst of flame rewarded their patience, and they began to dance, singing. Screams came from within.

It was suddenly too much. Geoff turned and hurried from the town. There was a stinging in his eyes, but not from the smoke.

He was almost at the bridge when something made him stop and look past the gates, along the line of the wall. There, he saw a familiar figure. ‘Donkey?’ he called.

The boy saw him, and suddenly he was pelting along the grass towards Geoff, a panicked boy who had seen too much, just like Henry all those years ago. He cannoned into Geoff like a rock from a trebuchet.

‘What is it, boy?’ the man said, not unkindly.

‘Geoff, I, I didn’t . . .’ he faltered, ‘I couldn’t . . .’

‘Was it the town? Now you know why I didn’t want you to see all that.’

‘No, it was out here. The Welshman.’

‘What Welshman? Don’t panic now,’ Geoff said, and he gripped the boy’s arms to calm him. ‘It’s all right, lad. You’re safe now.’

But the sobbing wouldn’t subside. Geoff could see how the shock overwhelmed him even as he carried Ed back over the bridge towards the wagons and Berenger.

Archibald the Gynour filled his water bottles and stood a while staring over the river at the fires, his mind empty. He had no sense of guilt or shame. This was not his city, and not his responsibility. He had taken no part in the sack.

He felt a fleeting regret. There would have been good stores of cash and plate in there, and along with all those lives, it was lost now forever. The enemy would suffer in any war, of course. Surely it was better that it was the French who suffered, rather than the English.

He was walking back to his wagon when he saw something lying in the debris at the side of the road. A body.

Old habits died hard with a man who had been a priest. He could contemplate with equanimity many deaths in the town over the water, but a body close to hand required his attention. Leaning down, Archibald pushed some of the rubbish from about the figure and felt a little pang when he saw the shock of hair. Turning the body over, he recognised the young groom who had helped him the other evening, and whom he had rewarded with a bowl of pottage.

The boy had a hoofprint on his breast. It looked as though he had been knocked down here in the rush to get to the bridge and attack the city. Possibly it was a destrier that struck him, and the rider didn’t realise what had happened.

Archibald was not outraged at the death. Boys were as liable to die in battle as any man. Yet he was stung by the thought that the lad would not share his fireside again. What was his name? He couldn’t remember.

He picked up the body and stared about him. He wanted to find him a suitable resting place – but where in this hell of fire and death was there somewhere for an innocent child?

Unaccountably, Archibald felt hot tears springing in his eyes as he stared down at the dead boy’s face. He looked as if he was sleeping.

26 July

For Ed the days passed in a welter of noise and terror.

The men marched with a joyous demeanour, all but Berenger, who hissed and glared at the French leech at every twinge of pain.

The army was spread over a huge front three or four leagues in breadth, swallowing the countryside like a glutton. Houses, villages, towns – all were engulfed and left smouldering. Any people discovered there were left dead. Before them was green, fertile land with hamlets dotted about, a scene of pastoral calm; behind them lay Hell.

Not that the men displayed any concern about the destruction they had left in their wake. Grandarse sang his lewd songs, while Clip and Will joined in lustily with the choruses; Geoff grinned and murmured the refrains, but he kept near Ed, who felt comforted by his presence. The others were too taken with the pleasures of the moment to be worried about their Donkey.

They were moving towards Cormolain, where the French Marshal and his men had retreated. King Edward and his son were keen to find him and break his force, since with the Marshal’s men out of the way, they would have a clear route to Paris.

It was a continual grinding, misery for Ed. He staggered on, laden with loaves and some cheeses Grandarse and Clip had liberated. Farmsteads were put to the torch and fields of wheat burned, while cattle were brought to be slaughtered at night for all to eat. The French had killed many of them already, to deprive their enemy of food. Ed would never forget the sight of dead cattle in the fields, legs uppermost, bellies swollen with decay. Nor the stench of putrefaction. It would not leave him, but grew, so that he felt it was impregnated in his flesh, even unto his soul. The army was befouled. Each soldier carried the reek of death.

Last night they had reached this prominence and had slept a scant league or two from the great sprawl of Caen.

Ed lay awake, convinced that the following morning they would reach the city and repeat the scenes he had seen in St-Lô. It terrified him.

Just before dawn, the horns blared their command to rise and muster. The vintaine rose all about Ed, grunting, hawking, spitting, grumbling and cursing as only an English army could. Ed slowly climbed to his feet, and Clip, still half-asleep and looking for a tree to piss against, tripped over him. ‘Watch where you’re going,’ he snarled, before staggering to an oak and untying his braies.

Ed waited with the others while the darkness cleared to a bright daylight. The men stood, leaning on bowstaves or polearms, metal caps on their heads, leather or quilted jacks tight against the chill air, and as Ed looked about them, he hoped to see a glimmer of pity, a show of sadness in any of their eyes.

He shivered; he saw none.

Caen.

They reached an open space late in the morning that afforded them an uninterrupted view. Berenger gave a low whistle at the sight.

‘We won’t take that in a hurry,’ he said quietly.

It was a large city, lying in the curve of two rivers, with marshy land all about. The walls were formed from a gorgeous, pale cream-coloured rock that, in the early-morning sun, seemed to glow from within, like a city built for angels. To their left stood a great castle on a promontory, slightly above the city itself. The wall led from the castle around the city to the south and west, before meeting a strong abbey. A second abbey lay further beyond the castle. The yellow sun glinted from the rivers and streams that appeared to fill the space west of the city, beyond the abbeys. It was an enchanting sight.

Later, Ed would recall that first view and think that no city of angels deserved the rage of the English as this city would suffer it.

‘What will happen?’ he asked Berenger.

The vintener’s wound was considerably improved, and Grandarse, impressed, had hired the leech to be their own bone-setter and medical expert during their march. The fellow, Jacob, was not overly keen, but when he saw a little of Grandarse’s liberated wealth, his eyes grew round, and he exhibited more enthusiasm.

Berenger shrugged without thinking and winced. ‘The King sent a messenger offering terms, but the city’s thrown him in prison. That’s not honourable: messengers are supposed to be secure. Especially him – the poor sod was an Augustinian. It’s not right to treat a monk like that.’

Before the city walls, an army was forming. Ranks of men clad in drab tunics marched forward over the plain. Behind them came more, these with the symbols of their lords blazoned across their breasts, while their flags and banners fluttered gaily in the morning breeze.

‘It looks a bloody strong city,’ Geoff said doubtfully.

‘Aye, but the King knows his business, eh,’ Matt said. He was gazing at the fortifications with relish. ‘Aye, and think of the women in there!’

‘Are you so cunt-struck you can’t see how high the walls are?’ Clip demanded.

‘Or that it’s two cities,’ Berenger said. He rolled his shoulder again experimentally, then regretted it. ‘See? The nearer of the two is the old town, and behind it is the river, with a bridge to the new town beyond. That’s where the merchants and rich folk will have their houses: that’s where the money will be.’

‘Why do you think that?’ Ed asked.

‘It’s newer, boy. Only the rich can afford new houses.’ He pulled a face. ‘It’s a natural island, isn’t it? The rivers form a moat around that part of the city. Be a bastard to get to it, if not by the bridge.’

‘So we have to take the old town first and cross the river.’

‘That’s about it,’ Grandarse said. ‘One good thing: we can avoid that damned castle on our way. They say it was built by William the Bastard, and he built the abbeys in shame for what he did to the English. One for monks, one for nuns, just to pray for his stinking soul, the black-hearted git.’

‘Yeah,’ Clip said sarcastically. ‘We can avoid the castle. That’ll make life so much easier. So all we have to do is attack sheer walls and break into the town, kill everyone and get to the new town – job done. Yeah. Ye’ll all get slaughtered, you do understand that, don’t ye?’

Grandarse and Geoff said simultaneously, ‘Shut up, Clip.’

‘Don’t come whining to me when you’re dead,’ he said, unruffled. ‘I’ve warned ye.’