It was midnight. Berenger sniffed the air. There was a chill that seemed to impregnate a man’s skin, seeping in like oil into a cloth until it had laid hold of a man’s bones. He stood, studying the town’s bulk in the distance, his cloak wrapped tight about him, a figure of deeper darkness in the gloom of night.

It was called Uzerche, he had learned. They had found a young goatherd in the hills before the town, and he had been eager to help them. In exchange they had swiftly ended his troubles with a knife. Berenger had seen to it that it was swift. There had already been too much suffering in this sorry land.

The men were rested. It was time.

Berenger signalled with his hand to his sergeant, Will, who called out quietly, and the men climbed to their feet. Will was tall and elegant. Many thought him effete, with his bright, little-boy-blue eyes and wistful grin under his unkempt thatch of fair hair. Women adored him, and men sneered at him, until they saw him fighting. He was as brave and heedless of danger as a berserker in battle.

The horses and ponies were left with the boys, and the whole party of almost a hundred men formed a column and began to tramp onwards.

There were few lights. At this time of night in a small town, there would be some watchmen, but the larger part of the citizens would be asleep. The curfew would be in place, and all fires damped and smothered while the people slumbered. It was the ideal time for the assault.

They were at the bridge. Four men with scaling ladders went to the tower. There was one figure at the wall, but as he peered down, Will pointed him out. Will’s man Alex loosed his arrow, striking the sentry in the head at the same time as two others hit him in the breast and throat. He was dead before he could cry out. Berenger had feared that the noise of the arrows slamming into his mail would itself wake the garrison, yet there was no sound from inside.

The four men were followed by another four, and soon Berenger heard the cry of an owl on the evening air, and knew that the tower was theirs.

More men, more ladders, now crossing the bridge to the main town beyond.

There were sentinels on the walls, but as the English quietly scrambled up the rungs, it became clear that the guards were dozing. Not one cried out in alarm.

To his left, Will led one group; further on, Simon was first to breast the wall with another section; beyond him Peter: all of them courageous and bold leaders, each with their own contingent of twenty men. With men like this it was hard to fail.

Berenger’s men bore their scaling ladder to the wall and leaned it quietly. He was beaten to the rungs by Loys, who sprang up it with the agility of a monkey. Berenger felt the familiar excitement roiling in his belly as he set his foot to the first rung.

There was no fear, such as he had known when he was new to his business, only a firm determination to win the town. He hurried up the ladder to the battlements and climbed over, landing quietly on the packed stones of the inner walkway. There, he stood gazing about him.

Two guards had been dispatched by Simon on the walkway, both dying where they slept. Loys was stabbing them again, just to be certain. One looked as though he was still sleeping, but he had been stabbed by three of Simon’s men already, none wishing to risk his waking, and now Loys opened his throat from ear to ear, grinning all the while as if in imitation of the appalling wound.

Already the English were scattering. Some went left with Peter, to the nearer guard tower. More pulled a ladder up after them and lowered it inside the town before making their way down and quietly scurrying to the gates. Berenger followed them, and nodded to Will.

Seeing Berenger’s approval, Will hissed to the others, and Simon with three of his men set themselves at the massive baulks of timber holding the gates. They slid back into their sockets in the walls, and willing hands hauled at the gates, pulling them wide. With a groan from the iron hinges, the gates were drawn inwards, and the men began to cheer. With whoops of glee the remaining routiers burst in through the gates with an infernal clamour. Their boots thundered like waves crashing heavily on a shingle shore, but then their bellows and howls were overwhelmed by the cries of dismay from the population.

Their attack was a surprise. Men and women who had been slumbering in their beds were woken to the shrieks of their neighbours, to the sound of doors being smashed with axes and great hammers, the timbers broken and rent asunder, and blood-crazed English fighters leaping over them to ransack, rape and kill.

Berenger saw his men pelting up the main street and stood watching. His heart once would have felt pity, but not now. These people were the cause of his emptiness inside. Their terror fed his vengeful nature. He felt like a demon watching sinners herded to pits of flames. There was no compassion – only urgency to get this over with.

In the roadway up ahead he saw a tavern. His blood craved wine and he crossed to it. On either side the houses were broken open and men poured into them. He heard a scream, a rising ululation of terror, and as he glanced up he saw a figure fly through a window. It span, emitting a mewling noise, and in its wake he heard a cry like the last horrified squeal of a soul in torment. Looking up, he saw a woman with long, dark hair, her mouth wide, her eyes staring at her child as it hurtled to the ground. Her face was jerked from the window, and he saw her no more, although her screaming continued.

The child was only perhaps one year old. Its neck was broken now, and its struggle for life was over. Berenger stared at it for a moment. He wanted to feel something, to have some sorrow for the life ended, but there was nothing. His heart was as empty as an up-ended jug. No: a broken jug. His heart was shattered and broken. It could no longer contain anything like mercy.

There was only one creature for which he could feel sadness, and that was himself. He had already lost everything he loved or valued.

Wednesday 6 July

On the first day after their assault, Berenger held court in the market square. Some fires still raged over to the east of the town, but Berenger had ordered that the houses near them should be torn down, and while the populace whimpered and wrung their hands, his men eagerly despoiled the buildings and then used some of their scarce resources of serpentine powder to detonate them. One of his men was struck by a flying splinter two feet long, and all but cut in half, but he was the only fatality.

Berenger had breakfasted in a tavern with a flagon of wine and bread. He had taken the house of a widow, but her cold anger made him prefer to eat elsewhere. Her name was Alazaïs, and he liked her slanted eyes and the fixed resentment in them, but he had not raped her or tried to take her with subterfuge. His attraction to her lay in the location of her house: nothing more.

His men had pushed, cajoled or bullied all the townspeople to the square, and now held them back with lance-staves or shields as he trudged past them along the cleared corridor, his jug and goblet in his hands, still chewing. At the far end of the square stood a wagon, and Berenger drank more wine as he peered at the boxes set like steps beside it, before climbing up and surveying the scene before him.

The townsfolk were a poor lot. Behind the fence of lances they stood downcast, many of the women standing a little apart from their men, shivering, blood marking their skirts just as the shame marked their souls. Three women had been segregated: one stood and tried to scream, but her voice was broken after the horrors of the night; two others sat on the cobbles and wailed, one with her arms tightly wrapped around herself as though she was a ball of wool and feared she might unravel entirely.

Berenger let his eyes pass over the rest of the town. Men and husbands stood despondent, their hands resting on women and children, not daring to meet his or any of his men’s eyes; some gazed about them defiantly or with contempt in their eyes. One of the priests glowered like a boy thrashed unfairly, while some had their faces in their hands. Boys and men had pulled hoods or hats over their features to hide from the stares of the soldiers.

‘People of Uzerche,’ Berenger said. ‘I am named Berenger Fripper. I am the captain of this company. We are not your enemies. We are your friends. We are not here to rob and harm you, but to protect you. There are many fellows about the roads and woods who would destroy your town for the pleasure of it. We are not like them. Think of us as your guardians.’

He could taste that word. It had the flavour, sharp and unsavoury, of copper. Once, he would have scorned such a speech, but then life had been different. He could see Will below him at the wall of the nearest building, eating an apple while he watched the crowd with amusement.

Berenger looked out over the people again. ‘Your King cannot help you. Your Lord is dead and his son is a child still. There is no one else who can serve you and your interests. We are here to protect the bridge and ensure the safety of all the citizens here. We shall stay here a little while. I am sure you will want to support us in our efforts.’

‘We don’t need protection!’ an old man said.

Will motioned with his chin and the nearest soldier to the fellow reached for him, but Berenger gave a curt command and the man fell back again.

‘You may not realise you need protection, but we have a clearer idea of the risks you run here. We can guard you and the bridge so that you come to no harm.’

The eyes stared up at him, dulled with the horrors of the last few hours. Through the watches of the night, these people had been beaten and robbed, their daughters and women raped and many slain.

Berenger forced a smile to his lips. It felt like a sneer. ‘We look forward to a peaceful stay with you while we look after you all.’

‘You are sent from the Devil himself!’

This was from another voice. Berenger scoured the crowd and finally saw who had spoken: the town’s priest. He stood, bent with a crook back, his hand gripping a staff. He must have been in his late sixties from the look of his sunken cheeks, sallow complexion and washed-out blue eyes. Beside him another man in clerical garb tried to shush him, but seeing Berenger staring down at them, the cleric was still with fear.

‘You think so?’ Berenger said. ‘If you were more holy, perhaps your town would have been saved. Perhaps, old fool, if you were more pious you could have saved people from the plague when that coursed through these lands and destroyed all that was beautiful and worthy. But you were no doubt suckling on the tits of your personal whore when good men and women and boys saw their loved ones die slowly and horribly!’

‘I have no whore! I am a man of God!’

‘You are a man. No better and no worse than any other. God has forsaken us all. We are here to wallow in our shame and guilt, while the good people we knew are taken.’ In his mind’s eye he saw her again: Marguerite. His resolve was stiffened.

‘You are a heretic! You will burn in—’

Berenger pointed at him. ‘Did you see all the people who died when the plague came here? Did you lose all those you loved? We did! Did you see the suppurating buboes, see the women and children coughing and succumbing to that horror? I did! Do you dare to tell me that God was responsible for that, because if you do, I’ll swear on the Devil that no God who could do that was a God of love or mercy, and I’ll curse you to the Devil if you dare naysay it!’

The priest opened his mouth, but the guard had heard enough. He lifted his lance and thrust once, hard, hitting the priest in the face with the butt-end. The priest’s mouth was ripped open, and a spray of blood appeared as he was thrown backwards. His companion gave a yelp and bent to him, helping him sit up again.

‘Does anyone else have any questions?’ Berenger demanded. He poured from his jug and gulped the wine. It was good. The wine hit his belly like a burning torch striking dry thatch: he could feel the flames licking upwards through his entire body. He made his way down the rickety steps and drained the wine. The cleric was helping the priest to his feet.

‘What shall we do with them?’ Will asked, indicating the crowd.

‘You can send them all to Hell for all I care,’ Berenger said. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and peered round at them as he refilled his goblet.

Yes. Wine was good. It filled the space where love had once thrilled him, and numbed the senses that had known happiness, removing those memories that otherwise would have softened him to the suffering of others. It removed the sight of the dead. All those whom he had known and loved, all those with whom he had fought, and whose faces invaded his every dream.

He didn’t want to feel their pain. He didn’t want to feel anything.