Grandarse passed by the busy street smiling beatifically at the passers-by. His purse was deliciously heavy on his belt, and he had it bound at his side, where it rattled most intriguingly as he walked. Men eyed his purse more than they eyed his face. Not that it surprised him. Beneath his genial exterior, the portly man was fully aware of everyone about him.

Rather than his usual leather jerkin and stained old coif, Grandarse wore a rich cotte with long sleeves and a heavy cloak trimmed with fur. A thick, felt hat set the seal on the image he wanted to portray. He knew that these streets were dangerous. There were few enough cities in all Christendom that were safe. Thieves, cut-purses, club-men of all forms roamed the darker alleys in search of prey, and Grandarse was the ideal target for them.

He heard a step or two behind him as he entered an alley between two towering buildings. Making his way along it, he heard the soft footsteps following him. Many people would see a man with a belly as gross as Grandarse’s and assume he was an easy gull. Only a merchant would be so fat, and merchants rarely wanted to risk their own safety when confronted by a bold fellow with a knife. In the dark of an alleyway, a gleaming dagger’s edge would be enough to scare a rich man into handing over his wealth. It wouldn’t take much, not with a grossly fat merchant. And any cut-purse could content himself with the reflection that a man that rich must have used coercion or usury to acquire his wealth. He deserved to be divested of his money.

Grandarse suddenly put on a spurt of speed. His boots slapped into the puddles and ordure that lay on the alley’s floor, and then he whirled about and pulled back his cloak to show his sword.

Two men behind him hesitated and exchanged a look as he shed a little of his smile on them. ‘You want something?’ he asked cheerily.

‘Your purse. Just untie it and throw it to us,’ one of the men said. He was younger, from the look of him, and had an oval face with a narrow chin. He wore a green linen shirt and a dark coat. A hood over his head left his face in the dark, but Grandarse could see that his eyes flitted about the alley nervously. This boy was concerned that there might be a trick of some sort, but was not sure what form it might take.

‘What, this purse? You want to take coins from me?’

‘Just untie it and hurry up,’ the other said. He was built more heavily that the first, and had thick, greying hair held long. His clothes were worn, but neatly patched. Grandarse was certain he was a sailor who had fled his ship. Few soldiers could sew that well. Looking at them, they could be father and son. They were, he decided.

‘I’ll give you one each, and if you refuse, you will regret it all your lives,’ he said.

‘Untie the purse,’ the first said. His attention was focused on that leather bag as though it held inside all the secrets of eternal life and alchemy mixed.

‘Ah, I cannot,’ Grandarse said, drawing his sword regretfully. ‘But I will still give you your coins. You deserve your reward.’

He stepped forward as the two blows were struck.

‘You didn’t hit them too hard, did you?’ he asked of his accomplices. The two would-be robbers lay on the ground, the older snoring gently. ‘He sounds like a puppy after taking the teat, that one,’ he said, prodding the man with his boot.

Dogbreath and John of Essex glared at him.

‘Why, you think we’d bilk you of your fee?’ Dogbreath said.

He was a scrawny man with grey hair that matched his face. His voice was a whine that put Grandarse in mind of a nail running down a slate. He shivered. The man looked like a cur that had been kicked beyond submission and into rabid fury.

‘I have no doubt you’d do that if you thought you could get away with it,’ Grandarse said. He grinned. ‘But you know you wouldn’t, so you won’t, will you? Now, take these two scrotes back to the camp and get them ready. Hopefully they’ll still be able to walk after a while.’

‘Oh, aye. I’ll get them to dance for me if I like,’ Dogbreath muttered. He flourished his own knife. ‘I can tickle them up in a . . .’

‘Just help them up and get them back to camp,’ Grandarse said. He glowered at Dogbreath, then at the other man. ‘What are you grinning at?’

‘Nothing, Centener.’

‘Good. Then wipe that smirk off your face and get these shites back to camp.’

That evening Grandarse stood out in the drizzle and surveyed his new recruits.

He never thought he would say it, but he was for once glad to have Clip and Dogbreath in his centaine. Clip was the same wizened little fellow, with that whine of dissatisfaction still nailed to his voice. Dogbreath was a scowling man with the complexion of someone who had been locked in a cell for too many years. Apart from that, the two had always been remarkable in that they were so similar, and yet had never fraternised during previous campaigns. However, now that they were the only two members whom Grandarse knew from past battles, he would have to rely on them more. Jack Fletcher, Matt and Geoff were all gone.

However, here he had his newest recruits lined up to inspect. It was not a sight to inspire a man.

‘You are now lucky men,’ he roared. ‘I have saved you from a life of brief pleasures and swift justice. All of you, every one, is a miserable shit who deserves to find a berth in the gaols of a dozen kingdoms, but I am giving you a chance of glory. Real glory! Your names will live forever, like Arthur and his knights!’

‘Who are—’ one man started. He was taller, a serious-looking, fair-haired man, but even as he spoke, Dogbreath appeared before him, grinning wickedly.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Er . . . Baz, I—’

‘Do you like taking a shit in the morning?’ he asked.

‘I . . . er . . .’ It occurred to the fellow that there was potentially no good answer.

‘Because if you like them so much, and you don’t want to listen to the centener there, then there’s always a job needs doing. Either digging a new pit or moving the shit from a full one,’ Dogbreath said nastily. ‘Sometimes, if you’re careless, you can fall in. And drown. Think of that!’ He licked his lips, displaying his foul gums and, from the expression on the young recruit’s face, exhaling. Dogbreath was well named, and it was rumoured that the air from his mouth was more noxious and poisonous than that which regularly emanated from his arse. No one who had smelled either would want to repeat the experience.

Grandarse looked at John of Essex, or John Hawkwood, he reminded himself. Hawkwood was chewing on a piece of dried meat, eyeing the men without enthusiasm.

‘I know,’ Grandarse said, ‘that you have had experience of the bow, and I can tell that a fair number of you have skills with knife or sword. Who has fought for the King before?’

He stared at a tall, lean man with mousy hair. This fellow had given his name as Robin of London, and from his build he had never suffered from hunger. He looked like many a poacher, in Grandarse’s experience. ‘You’ve been a fighter, haven’t you?’

Robin cast an eye along the others in the line with him and shook his head. ‘I know nothing about fighting, me. I’m just a trader in cloths. I was caught and brung ’ere without knowing what was goin’ on.’

‘Really?’ Grandarse walked closer and peered at him. The man’s accent was like none he had heard before. It sounded like a mixture, as if the man was trying to sound like a fellow from Suffolk. He took hold of Robin’s hands and studied his right hand. He saw that there were calluses on the first three fingers. On the left, there was a ridge of scarred skin on the side of the forefinger’s knuckle. Robin’s whole story, he decided, was a fabrication. It was common enough for men to avoid service by lying. ‘You’re an archer,’ he said. ‘Good. You can show us what you’re like.’

‘I’m no good with a bow,’ Robin said with his voice low and angry. He had given up the pretence and now sounded like a natural-born Londoner.

Grandarse stared at him. ‘You’ll be a fucking star with a bow with all that hard skin, lad,’ he said. ‘Or I’ll have to peel it off your fingers with a knife. Understand me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, Centener!’

Robin stared at him with real hatred. ‘Yes, Centener.’ In his voice it sounded like a curse.

‘Good!’ Grandarse said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together. ‘Now, who else have we got here?’

There was the father and son from Bordeaux who stood and shuffled unhappily. After questioning them when they had recovered from their headaches, Grandarse had learned that the father’s name was Pierre and his son was Felix. They declared that they were in Bordeaux for the market and had fallen on hard times when they had been robbed, but Grandarse could tell from the look in their eyes that there was more to them than that. He was sure that they had some experience of fighting, although both denied it, and the boy had the marks of shackles on his wrists and ankles. When Grandarse looked at them, both looked resigned to their fate. When he questioned them, they soon admitted that the boy had been accused of a felony and would have been hanged, but he had been offered the chance to join the Prince’s army in return for a pardon. Grandarse told himself to keep an eye on them.

Behind them was a taller man with lowered brows and suspicious, deep-set eyes. He had a beard and hair that was as black as a Celt’s.

Grandarse pointed at him. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Imbert.’

‘Have you used a bow?’

‘Sometimes.’

The man looked away as though that was the end of his interview, and Grandarse sighed to himself, walking along the rest of the line of recruits. Dogbreath gave him a sneering smile; beside him Clip ducked his head in imitation of respect, and looked up at him with wary suspicion. Beyond them were another pair: one a short, grinning fellow of perhaps five-and-twenty, and a taller, slimmer, more serious fellow who listened carefully and with apparent concern.

‘Who are you?’

The shorter man was almost as fat as Grandarse himself, and his smile was as expansive as the sky. ‘I am called Gilles, Centener,’ he said. ‘I know I’ll be good here.’

‘Why are you here?’ Grandarse asked.

‘Well, I’ve heard how much money others have made from the raids. I lived in a small vill in Oxfordshire, you see, and I thought I might as well come see the world, make some money, save a bit for when I settle down.’

Grandarse looked him up and down. The lad was well dressed, with soft woollen hosen, a shirt of fine muslin, his cotte hardy cut from strong but soft linen. ‘You’re the son of a rich man,’ he said.

‘Nay, only a hardworking freeman.’

‘Then you robbed him, eh? If not, someone else. Keep an eye on your purses, boys, while this one’s around. Who are you?’

This to the last recruit, a grinning, wiry fellow with black hair and clear, grey eyes. ‘I’m Nick, Centener.’

‘God’s ballocks, but was there ever such a collection of short-arsed, fat little wastrels gathered all together in one place,’ Grandarse wondered aloud as if astonished that he could have collected so many. He walked back to the top of the line shaking his head.

In among the fifteen men he had collected there were probably more gaolbirds than free men, but then that was the way of things when a man went to the town to recruit. Most of those who would put their name forward would do so in the hope of earning a pardon, or of winning some kind of renown and being given their freedom. In the case of these men, none had volunteered. Grandarse had captured them with Dogbreath and Clip, and they were reluctant fighters at best, although all would appreciate their pay when they could pocket it.

‘Well?’ he said later, when he was sitting with his feet towards the fire, his fist gripping a large jug of cider. ‘What do you think of them, Essex?’

‘I think they’d sooner stab your paunch than your enemy’s,’ Hawkwood said.

‘You could be right there.’

‘And if you want my advice—’

‘I’ve been at this job a while, boy,’ Grandarse growled.

‘Of course,’ Hawkwood said, and closed his mouth, staring into the fire.

‘Well?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t wish to insult you. You know your job as well as any, after all,’ Hawkwood added.

Grandarse squirmed a little. ‘Aye. True enough,’ he said at last. ‘But I need to know if you’re the right sort of material, too. So, what were you thinking?’

Hawkwood threw him a look. ‘First, I think you should use my name.’

‘John?’

‘Hawkwood. Remember that name, Grandarse. It’ll be famous one day.’

‘And I’ll be the King’s sergeant in charge of the royal whores! Well?’

‘If I were you, I’d have some men keep an eye for a group of five to ten men trying to escape the camp.’

‘Ballocks! You’re probably right.’

Thomas de Ladit had run from the terror of the north and sought peace down here, far away from the King’s men, only to throw himself into this lunacy. He could have wept from frustration and fear as he helped the old priest away from the square.

There were many there who knew their priest, but no one moved to help the two as they hobbled down the lane.

‘No, no, not here. Take me to the physician,’ the priest mumbled through broken teeth and mashed lips.

‘Père Albert, you need to rest. Let me take you to your bed and then I’ll send a boy to bring a physician.’

The priest looked down at his hands as though confused. ‘My staff! In the name of all that is holy, I left my staff in the square when that godless, murderous swine hit me. He’s lucky I’m not ten years younger! I’d break his face for him!’ He looked up at Thomas with quick decisiveness. ‘Take me to the physician, and then take the road south. There’s nothing for you here, Thomas. This is not your battle. Go south and seek your Lord’s lands. You should be safe in Navarre.’

‘What of you? You have shown me kindness these last weeks.’

‘I will live unless I die, and if I die, I will die cursing these heathens to Hell and back until they all know the terror that everlasting damnation can bring,’ Père Albert said, as firmly as his ravaged mouth would allow.

‘Let me take you home.’

The priest stopped and gripped his arm fiercely. ‘Those men do not care whether we live or die, Thomas. These people here are my people. I have lived here with them all my life. They look up to me. You have no place here, though. You must take yourself away. If they ever learn you are the Chancellor of King Charles of Navarre, you will be captured and held until they can force a ransom from someone. And if they get nothing, they will torture you to death for the fun of it! You have heard what these men are like. Mercenaries who would cut off your fingers to take your rings. They have no feelings for other human beings. All they care about is gold and silver. You have to flee.’

Thomas stared at him. He wanted to say, ‘Flee? Flee where?’ After all, he was one of the few men who knew the truth about the negotiations Charles of Navarre had held with the English, offering to split France between them both, half to King Edward, half to Charles.

The old priest continued, ‘I should take the road west, head towards Pèrigueux first, then south by degrees. If you go to the English at Bordeaux, you may be able to find a ship to take you to Galicia and avoid the mountains. The English are friends to your King, are they not?’

Thomas de Ladit gave a brief laugh but there was no humour in it. ‘They were.’

‘Why, surely they are still allies?’

‘My Lord is a very competent politician. He has always used his position to gain power. At first, he thought that he could win back lands by intrigue. When King John took away his territories to reward others, my Lord fought back as he could. He made friends at court, he courted the Dauphin and finally he sent for help from the English. But when his threats worked, he turned against the English. They are in Normandy now, but if they have learned the truth about his duplicity, I think that they would be very keen to speak with me.’

‘Then all the more reason to head south as speedily as you may. Escape while you can! Find yourself a place of sanctuary.’

‘There is no sanctuary for me,’ Thomas said, and he felt as though his heart would break as he admitted it to himself.

Clip snored and mumbled, then rolled over. A tree root stuck in his back and he moved away, trying to get comfortable. It wasn’t easy. He had slept on sandy beaches, he had slept on ploughed fields, he had slept on roadways, but he had always found it difficult to sleep where there were too many roots.

He’d picked this spot because it looked so soft and inviting, and safe underneath the oak, too. But no matter where he tried to go, this patch of grass concealed lumps and bumps that would have tested a drunken man-at-arms in full armour. Clip had no chance. He opened his eyes and was about to sit up when he saw a large shape against the sky.

It was a man, moving carefully and silently between the various recumbent figures on the ground. As Clip watched, he saw the man lift his leg high in an elaborate step over one fellow, then pause and rest when another nearby grunted and muttered in his sleep.

Where are you going? Clip wondered. He considered calling out, but then thought better of it as he recognised that it was Imbert. Imbert was a big man, and he was close enough to reach Clip and clobber him before any of the others had woken. Clip quickly closed his eyes in case Imbert should see a glint in the dark.

Thus it was that when there was a sudden movement, a thud like a lead maul striking a log, and a soft sound like a body collapsing gently, aided by a man’s supportive hands, Clip saw none of it. When he opened his eyes, there was no sign of Imbert. However, there was a louder snore from the direction in which he had been walking. Clip sat up, peering in that direction. He saw a new body lying on the grass with no blanket. When he glanced about him, he saw Imbert’s blanket where he had settled, supposedly for the night. Grandarse was apparently asleep some yards away, farting and chuckling in a dream, while the others seemed to be content too. Only one man seemed to be awake. When Clip glanced over at Robin, he was sure he caught a brief glimpse, as though an eye had been open and watching him.