Friday 8 July

Berenger was up early that morning. He rose quietly, as was his wont, and made his way out from the building where he had established his command centre, a widow’s house just off the square near the middle of the town.

He had no fears of the townspeople here; he had no fear of anyone living. No weapon could hurt him. Weapons were only a means to end his suffering in this miserable world. With a sword at his side and his padded coat with hardened leather breastplate, he felt as safe as he would anywhere in the world.

But the dead: the dead were different. In his dreams he saw them again, all those whose lives he had ended or seen ended. Young boys slain because they tried to protect their father’s farm; a young girl decapitated because a jumpy member of Berenger’s company had caught a fleeting glimpse of a moving figure and thought it was a man trying to kill him. All those dead; all the mutilated. They came to him at night. It was only the wine that protected him from them. And from her. From the memory of his wife.

There was a woman’s body in the corner of a building, and he slowed slightly as he took in the sight of her torn skirts, bared breast and spread legs. Another woman dead. Too many were dying. Men in mercenary companies did not join because they were kind or gentle, and those in the towns where they stayed did not feel warmth and comradeship towards those who raped their wives and daughters and left them for dead. He lengthened his stride as he approached the gate, and hardly slowed as he mounted the stairs to the walkway.

‘You can go,’ he said to the yawning guard.

A young fighter, Loys had joined the English in Guyenne. He had shown himself to be hardy, but he was not the brightest of the men, in Berenger’s opinion, and his pale, thin face was growing haggard. English and Low Countries fighters laughed at his pale hair, gangling limbs and credulity, and he had often been the butt of their malicious jokes.

Loys nodded gratefully and stretched his back, then spread his hands. Long hours gripping his spear shaft had turned his fingers into claws. He jerked his head over the surrounding landscape. ‘Nothing moving there, Frip.’

‘Thanks. Go and sleep.’

The man turned and lumbered down the stone steps, leaving Berenger alone over the gate. From here he could see the bridge clearly, the small stone tower defending the approach standing a little more than a bowshot away over the river. It was the river that defined this little town. It had slashed through the ground here like a surgeon’s knife, although not so neatly. Here, about Uzerche, it had gouged a long finger from the land pointing northwards, with the bridge at the tip of the fingernail. Although the weather had been mild, the river was still full and its thunder and roar could be heard from almost everywhere in the town.

Beyond the tower, trees broke the line of the landscape as it rolled away. Berenger stood at the town’s gate, and behind him the town rose on tier upon tier of rock, with wealthy houses bearing turrets and castellations like so many castles. This place was wealthy, and much of the wealth came from that little timber bridge.

‘Frip?’

He turned to see his second-in-command, Will. The fair-haired Englishman came up the stairs in a rush and stood staring about him. ‘A fine morning.’

‘No trouble?’

‘A couple of my boys got frisky with a young maid, but she wasn’t badly injured,’ Will said easily. ‘I had her sent home.’

‘Did you check to see she was safe?’

‘Why would I? She was only a French maid.’

‘Not the woman who lies dead not a bowshot from here, then?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You should keep your men under tighter control,’ Berenger snapped. His head felt heavy, and the thoughts moved sluggishly in his mind. ‘We don’t want the townspeople to rise against us.’

‘They’ll regret it if they do, won’t they?’ Will said. ‘We have men enough and weapons to keep them all down.’

‘Perhaps. But it would be better if we didn’t have to. If we stick to keeping them safe from robbers and thieves, we can stay here for a long time and enjoy some peace ourselves.’

‘Perhaps,’ Will said. He was smiling again. ‘But too much peace will make the men sloppy and lazy.’

Berenger wanted to argue. There had been a time ten years before when he would have made it a point to correct Will. It was futile to inflict more violence and suffering on a town than was entirely necessary; the consequence would be revolt and the need to use even more force to quash it. Berenger had no compunction about using violence on those who tried to thwart him, but he deprecated using it unnecessarily.

‘The men need their releases, Frip. You know that as well as any.’

Berenger stared away, over the landscape. His back was injured, his face bore a ragged scar, his shoulder had a hideous star-shaped wound where a bolt had passed through him. Yes, he had endured enough of battle to know that men must have their relaxation. Soldiers needed women for sex and comfort, just as they needed their wine and ale. And the latter inspired a desire for the former.

But that was not enough to justify further destruction for no reason.

‘If you find another man raping a woman in the town, you will have him handed over to the woman’s family for them to take their revenge according to the customs of the land,’ he said. ‘I won’t have our position here threatened by one or two men’s greed.’

‘You may find that the men are not satisfied with that.’

‘Then they can see me. They know where I am.’

Berenger felt his back stiffen as he turned back to stare at the view again. Below him, some trees waved in the faint breeze. A cool air, filled with the scent of fish and refuse, rose from the river below, and he sniffed it like a hound tasting the odour of a hart in the wind. For a moment his memories faded and he could feel only the satisfaction of emptiness. No pain, no joy, only a calmness. He closed his eyes. At any moment he expected to hear Will draw his sword, and then he knew that he would feel that one stab and at last find the embrace of eternity. It would bring peace at last.

He longed for that blow.

When he heard Will turn and leave the wall, he felt desolation to be still alive.