‘We should go to Limoges,’ Denisot declared.

‘Fuck your mother!’ Fulk declared. ‘You think we want to put our heads on the block for the headsman’s sword? If we go there, we will be killed for sure.’

‘Where else can we go? You need a physician,’ Denisot said, looking at Loys and Berenger.

‘We will not go to Limoges. Is there nowhere else?’ Berenger asked.

Eventually, on the recommendation of Denisot, they decided to make their way to the Abbaye de St Jacques. It was a small abbey some fifteen miles east of Limoges, Denisot explained, and from what he had heard, they had an expert infirmarer.

‘What will they make of us there?’ Saul demanded.

Denisot held out his hands expressively. ‘Look at your comrades, my friend. Will they survive if you do not get them to a physician soon? Your younger companion has a hole in his breast that could go foul at any time; your leader has a terrible injury in his flank and back, and you yourself have injuries that should be seen to.’

‘There must be other physicians.’

‘Not many. The best is a man in Uzerche. You want to return there?’

‘He’s right,’ Berenger said. ‘We cannot go back, and we have to travel to Guyenne, in any case. This abbey will not be far from our path. I don’t want to go south in case we meet up with some of Will’s men.’

Loys gave a low whimper of pain. That settled the matter.

Berenger felt sickly. He was cold even in the sunlight, and his back was appallingly painful. Fulk had a look at it, and said that there was plenty of watery blood and a little weak pus, but nothing to worry about. Still, with the chill in his bones and the shaking, as well as his desperate need for a cup of strong wine, Berenger felt nearer death than life. However, he would not leave Alazaïs and her two boys to the attention of crows and wild dogs. He insisted that they should all be loaded onto the spare horses and taken to the nearest church.

It delayed them, but Denisot brought them to a small church in a village some miles from Chamberet, where the priest was known to him. When they clattered to a halt before his church, the father was working in a small vegetable patch at the side of the cemetery. He straightened and leaned on his spade, watching the men as Denisot called to him and explained what had happened. After a brief discussion the priest agreed to accept the mother and her sons. He was happy to accept Denisot’s word as bayle that they were Christian, and Fulk carried the three little bundles into the church with Saul.

‘I will look after them,’ the priest said.

Berenger looked into his eyes. He felt no gratitude, only a fierce, feverish rage at the world for allowing Will to destroy Alazaïs. ‘Do so! They were dear to me. I will return to see that you have treated them well, and it will go evilly for you if you have abused them!’

The priest stared up at him. ‘I will pray for you too.’

Berenger spat at the ground. It was tempting to pull out his dagger and mark the man’s face for his effrontery, but before he could match action to thought, Fulk returned and mounted his horse between them.

Suddenly Berenger felt an unaccountable misery. It struck him that he would never see Alazaïs again and it was his own fault. This was not the responsibility of others: this was his, and he must bear it for the rest of his days. She was dead because he had taken his company of men to her town. He had invested Will with rank in the company, and that error of judgement had allowed Will to take over the men. It was his arrogance and attempt to enrich himself that had directly led to Alazaïs’s death. He had not molested her, let alone raped her, for there had been something about her that kept him away, a warmth in her soul that looked almost angelic, and which it would have been heresy to harm. It could perhaps have soothed his soul, had he grown to know her better. Only that morning he had seen a different side to her character as she smiled at him in genuine gratitude when he offered her his horse.

And now she was dead, and that smile had died with her.

All because of him.

Saturday 23 July

The two English centaines had stopped for the night, and were draped over the side of a hill like a badly laid table-cloth. Camp fires were already burning and the faces of the vintaine were lit with a healthy golden glow as they waited for their pottage to warm through.

Robin approached with the weight of command lying on him like an ingot of lead.

It was a relief to see that the men looked more comfortable with each other than they had. When they had set off, Clip and Dogbreath looked on him accusingly as though suspecting him of being a spy for Sir John. The two appeared to have formed an unholy alliance: the two experienced members of the vintaine against all others. Robin would have to try to do something to meld them and the other members. He would have considered making them both sergeants under him, each responsible for eight of the men, but that would lead to additional friction, he was sure. Neither man would be ideal. Both were too self-obsessed and keen on their own safety to be reliable commanders of others.

Pierre and Felix, the father and son, didn’t look up as he took his seat. Imbert gave him a sidelong glance: he suspected that Robin was the cause of his headache and foiled escape. The father and son seemed to think that they were safe so long as they avoided his gaze. That was fine by Robin. Clip was picking at his teeth with a sharpened stick while eyeing the rest of the vintaine with mixed contempt and disdain.

‘All I was saying was,’ Dogbreath said, ‘if you want to see how to lead men, you only have to look to Sir John.’

‘What is this?’ Robin asked.

‘Imbert was saying he didn’t understand why half the men here were fighting for a cause they don’t understand,’ Dogbreath said. He snorted contemptuously.

Clip sneered and threw his stick away. ‘It’s not fair on us. The knights get all the rewards, and we just get to slog our way through the mud and get gutted on a field.’

‘You haven’t yet,’ Gilles said, smiling. He looked like a twenty-year-old, always cheerful and happy as though this was just a great adventure he was embarked on. ‘You told me you have been fighting for most of your life, and look at you! Not even a scratch.’

‘He has scratches, but only where the women fought him off,’ Dogbreath muttered.

‘Fought me off? They wouldn’t want to. Not when they see the size of my oak,’ Clip said.

Felix leaned forward and picked up Clip’s discarded stick. ‘You dropped your oak,’ he said mildly. His father guffawed with laughter, soon joined by Gilles and Nick.

‘Swyve a goat!’ Clip swore, scowling at them all. He turned to Felix. ‘You haven’t any tarse to speak of. When you’ve proved yourself in a battle, then you can take the piss. Until then, remember who’s the most experienced fighter in this vintaine.’

Gilles chuckled. ‘You mean Robin?’

Robin smiled to himself.

Clip shook his head. His voice, usually so whining, took on a self-satisfied tone. ‘You think you’re so clever, but I warn you, you’ll all get killed. The knights won’t give a shit for any of you. They’ll trample you into the dirt, just like the French did to their men at Crécy. They rode them down and killed them because they couldn’t fight our arrow-storm, and when it suits our lot, they’ll do the same.’

‘You talk nonsense, Clip,’ Robin said.

‘Oh yeah? How many battles have you fought in, then?’

‘I couldn’t count.’

‘I can, though, and I’ve been in more than all this lot put together!’ Clip sat back, contentedly, snorting his derision.

‘I fought at Espagnols-sur-Mer,’ Robin said reflectively. ‘And I was at the siege of Calais, and I fought in many of the chevauchées in the early years of the war. So I have some experience. More than that, I can use a bow, so I think I am superior to you.’

‘You reckon you can beat me in a trial with bows and arrows?’ Clip said.

‘Any day.’

Imbert eyed him. ‘That would be a trial worth watching.’

Robin met his look but before he could comment, Dogbreath nodded his head towards Grandarse. ‘What did the man tell the centener?’

They had captured several peasants and merchants in the last few days, but none who had the inbuilt arrogance of the man limping along behind Hawkwood’s vintaine. His name, they soon learned, was Thomas de Ladit, but that told none of them much. However, Grandarse had refused to let them hurt him. There was something about his demeanour that spoke of wealth and position, and to Grandarse that meant he could be worth money.

‘Nothing. Only that he was travelling to Bordeaux.’

‘I think I ought to speak to him,’ Dogbreath said.

‘He is not to be hurt. Grandarse thinks he could be useful.’

‘I wouldn’t hurt him. Just let him think he could be hurt,’ Dogbreath said.

It was at best twenty miles to the abbey, heading both west and north, but that was as the raven flew. In reality the road climbed and turned, taking them over small ridges and hills between the trees, and at each high point Berenger stopped and gazed back the way they had come, fearing to see a cloud of dust that might indicate pursuit. When darkness fell, they encamped in woods near a river and munched on some bread and cold meats before settling for the night. At dawn, they continued west and north.

Denisot watched the men with a feeling of distinct nervousness. The men were quiet, and for the most part their journey was silent but for the clattering of hoofs on stones, yet Denisot was anxious. These were clearly trained mercenaries, and any Frenchman would be fearful of them. These were the very men who slit the throats of Frenchmen and women, and who threw children onto fires. They had ravaged all the way from Burgundy across the south of France, and up to the north. They were fearful of no man, and many believed that they were the personification of evil, and worshipped the Devil.

Surely it was men such as these who were the murderers of the poor child crucified in the woods? The girl with the wide eyes and supposedly empty brain called ‘Alicia’ who had been seen in Chamberet. These fellows were capable of any crime. Perhaps they would kill Denisot before they even reached the abbey? But that was not likely. Of them all, only Fulk appeared to be fit and well. The others were all nursing injuries of a greater or lesser form. Besides, while it was plain enough that these men were trained and expert killers, from the result of the little battle he had seen on the road, he did not get the impression that they were indiscriminate. And the anger came from their apparent betrayal by another man, and the murder of the woman and her children. They seemed unlikely murderers and rapists of a little girl.

There was another reason why he felt safer with them. He had saved their lives once already, and they did not know the way to the abbey.

They needed him.

It was late when Abbot Andry was, much to his surprise, called to the gates. The porter was usually more than capable of issuing such support as was necessary when travellers knocked on his doors, and it was with a degree of curiosity that the Abbot left his chamber and crossed the court to the main gates.

‘He says he is scared by the sight of them,’ the lay-brother sent to fetch him hissed as they went.

‘Scared, hmm?’ the Abbot repeated. ‘And why should that be, eh?’

At three-and-sixty, Abbot Andry had survived the trials of the last decade and more without obvious suffering. He was stooped, it was true, but his eyesight was still clear enough in full daylight, and although he looked thin and ill-fed, that was the result of his habit of eating sparingly. His knees bore the calluses of the religious life, and his joints ached more during Matins through the long winter nights than once they had, but he was hearty enough, which was more than could be said of so many of his friends.

The men at his gate were clearly men of war. There was one fellow at the front who looked like any other, but the others were all clearly soldiers, from the range of weapons they bore to their toughened leather braces and mail.

‘God give you peace,’ he said. ‘You are welcome here, my friends. Can we offer you any – hmm – assistance?’

‘If you would allow us inside, my Lord Abbot, we would be grateful for an evening under a roof. My name is Berenger Fripper, and we travel across to our folk in Guyenne, if we can. We are injured. An ambush by felons.’

‘You intend to travel without harming any of my compatriots? I wouldn’t wish to heal your injuries and make you whole again, if you then wish to go and kill my people,’ the Abbot said.

‘I swear on the Gospels that we have no intention to do harm to any on our way,’ Berenger said. ‘There are some who may intend harm to us, but if we fight them it will be more in defence.’

The Abbot studied him for a long moment, considering. He nodded to himself, shot a look towards his porter, and beckoned.

‘Give me the key. See, Master Fripper? I trust you to the extent of opening the gate myself, so that if you harm any, you will harm me first, eh? There! It is done. Enter, my sons, and peace be with you while you remain in my protection.’

‘I am grateful,’ Berenger said. As he reached the Abbot, he bent his knee and kissed the Abbot’s ring. ‘I have no wish to harm you or any of your folk, I swear.’

Rising again, he grunted with the pain of his back. The Abbot peered closer and saw the stain of blood. ‘My friend, you have a grievous injury. What is this?’

‘We were waylaid,’ Berenger said. ‘Like I said, felons assailed us on our way here.’

‘Was this an attack in response to your own assault, I wonder, hmm?’ the Abbot said. He gazed searchingly at Berenger as though seeking an answer in the lines of his face. ‘But it matters not. My abbey is fortunate to have an Infirmarer who is as keen to help the English as he is our own folk. I hope you will find healing here.’

‘I am truly grateful,’ Berenger said with a careful bow.

‘You are unwell, my son,’ the Abbot noted. It was hard not to see how the man suffered. He shook like a poplar in a wind, and his face was a yellowish-grey. There was an unwholesome sheen to it, as though he was sweating.

‘I feel the pain of my wounds, but I am also very thirsty.’

‘I see.’ The Abbot turned and began to walk back to his chamber, beckoning the lay-brother. ‘You will go to the infirmary and inform Brother Nicholas that he has patients. Tell him to come and fetch them as soon as he may, and then run to the vintner and ask for wine for our guests. Swiftly, now! Run as fast as the wind itself!’

‘Abbot, again, I am grateful,’ Berenger called. ‘God bring you joy and peace.’

The Abbot turned to face him. There was a steely glitter in his eyes. ‘I will pray for you all, because that is my duty, but I will take no pleasure in it. I would have all of you healthy and well again, hmm, but only so that you are soon well enough to continue on your way. I know what sort of men you are. Do you think your kind bring joy? No, you may keep your gratitude and your money. I would have neither. My fear is that you will bring harm to our community here.’

‘If harm follows us, it was not brought by us,’ Berenger said. He swallowed and tottered until Denisot went to his side and held his arm. ‘We have been attacked and those with us were slain. A woman and her sons. All killed for no reason.’

‘No reason? Perhaps they were killed in order to make a point, a point only you could understand. In any case, it is not my concern. We will do all we can to help cure you and to make your recovery as swift as we know how.’

There was a tiny crackle. Robin heard it, but didn’t move. He remained rolled up in his blanket as though asleep, but his ears were suddenly attuned. It was the sort of quiet noise made by a man trying to move with extreme caution so as not to be heard. It was the sound of an assassin.

He had expected this. Ever since that first night, when he had heard Imbert rise and try to make his way off, he had known that Imbert would come for him. It was plain enough in Imbert’s face whenever the man looked at him. He had been ready and waiting for the last few days, but the fact was that even a man fearful of attack must sleep. Robin had been on edge, prepared, sleeping only fitfully, every night since he had hit Imbert, but now exhaustion had caught up with him. There was no reserve on which he could call.

There was an instant’s panic, but he knew that it was already too late to protect himself. In that fleeting moment he reviewed rolling away, somehow pulling his knife from its sheath, grabbing a rock, a tree-limb, anything, to defend himself. But all the while his brain was telling him that he couldn’t move in time. He had time to open an eye, to turn his head, but his arms and legs were sluggish from sleep, and the chance of escape was remote.

‘Do it, you prick!’ he muttered, levering himself up on hands and knees, and then he heard the thud and he was slammed against the ground with a vast weight on his back.

‘You all right?’ he heard Dogbreath say.

With some effort, Robin fought his way from beneath the comatose figure. It was Imbert, who lay with his mouth slackly open. For the second time in a few weeks he had been knocked cold.

‘I saw you the other night,’ Clip said. He was standing at Dogbreath’s side.

‘God preserve you, Clip,’ Robin managed. He eased himself upward. As he glanced about him, he saw that Pierre and Felix were both awake. He wondered if they would have tried to help him. Nick, beside them, looked more than half-asleep still.

‘Couldn’t see the new vintener murdered, could we?’ Clip said with that horrible smile of his that was so like a leer. ‘Can you imagine what Grandarse’d do if that happened? He might make me vintener. I don’t want that.’ He cast a glance at Imbert, who was stirring, and gave him a vicious kick in the stomach. ‘He’d have had us all digging the shit out of the latrines just so he could order us to fill them in again, too. I don’t like digging the shit out. I’ve done that before when he was pissed with me.’

‘Tie him up,’ Robin said. ‘He’ll be flogged in the morning.’

‘Flogged? It’s not enough,’ Dogbreath said. ‘If I see him try something like that again, I’ll skin the fucker myself and nail his hide to a church door.’ He kicked Imbert again. ‘Clip and me’ll keep an eye on him for you, Vintener. He won’t try it again, ‘less he wants to learn what real pain is.’

Sunday 24 July

Dogbreath woke before the dawn. He had always woken early, and today was just another day, so far as he was concerned.

He was glad that he’d seen Imbert and saved Robin from injury. In Dogbreath’s experience, when a vintener or sergeant was killed in his sleep, other men in the vintaine were likely to be punished, whether or not they had anything to do with the attack. Besides, he was growing to like Robin. The man had a quiet confidence about him that inspired trust, and there were not that many people whom Dogbreath had met who had similarly made him feel a kind of loyalty to them. Mostly he found that he was treated with contempt bordering on loathing, and he reciprocated. It was rare for him to feel anything other than hatred, but Robin made him feel wanted, and he wanted to reciprocate.

When he had been younger, his parents owned and ran an alehouse near Chepe Street in London, but when some drinkers became rowdy one night, his father was killed in the ensuing brawl. Dogbreath and his mother kept the place going, but as money grew tighter and tighter, gradually the customers came to see his mother as an additional resource. At last, when Dogbreath was fourteen, he was taunted by children in the street calling out that his mother was a whore and he was a bastard. When he returned, angry and bitter, he found his mother drunk in the main chamber, while two men watched a companion serving her. It was enough. He took up his pack with his spare shirt, a bowl and a spoon, and left the alehouse. His mother didn’t even notice as he walked from the door.

He had never returned. Instead, he had gone to the port where he found a ship willing to take him on as a cabin boy. That had been a hard upbringing, and he had learned to loathe sailors and the sea before long, but it had given him a core of determination and self-confidence the first time he drew his knife on another man and forced him away. Few had tried to molest him at night after they saw the old sailor’s injury. Dogbreath had nearly taken his eye that night. It was the first time he had lost his temper, and the power and energy it gave him had excited and terrified him in equal measure. Not now, though. Now he relished the loss of all control as he threw himself into battle. Without that release, he sometimes thought he must explode, like one of Archibald’s gonnes when the spark caught the vent.

What he would do were there no more battles to fight, he did not know. He walked to fetch water, and on his way back from the stream, he caught sight of Thomas de Ladit, who sat huddled at a tree’s base, bound hand and foot.

The prisoner had been interrogated when they caught him, but he had refused to answer many of their questions. He was clearly nervous, but he appeared keen to be taken to their captain. All the men knew that rich men were anxious to be caught and keen to be taken to a commander who could accept a ransom and protect their hostage. This fellow looked like a man of that kind, and more than one of the men was growing restless. After all, although Hawkwood had claimed the right to hold Thomas under his protection, and said he wanted the man undamaged when they returned to the main column, many of the men would be happy to tickle him up a bit if they could win even a small ransom. They weren’t here to enjoy the views; most wanted money.

Dogbreath himself felt sure that Thomas had money or information that could be useful. He squatted in front of Thomas and nudged his foot with his dagger’s blade. ‘Wake!’

Thomas came to blearily. He had walked far yesterday before these murderous club-men caught him, and afterwards they had made him continue with them, no matter how much he complained about his poor feet. He fell once. Afterwards he was warned in no uncertain terms that if he were to fall again, they would not stop, but would drag him on with them. He had kept on his feet. Waking was no pleasure.

‘What?’ he said as he recognised one of his persecutors from the day before. His eyes moved to the dagger held negligently in Dogbreath’s hand. ‘What will you do with me?’

‘I don’t want to do anything to you,’ Dogbreath smiled. He balanced his weapon in his hand. ‘I do want to hear all you can tell me about the places you’ve come from, the money you’ve seen, the money buried for safety . . .’

‘I can’t tell you anything!’

‘What of your own money?’

‘I have nothing. My master is arrested,’ Thomas said without thinking.

‘So you have no value to us.’ Dogbreath shook his head in mock sadness, and then flicked his blade up. It span and he caught it by the tip as though about to hurl it at Thomas, who cringed at the sight.

‘Don’t!’

‘What can you tell me? Do you have money? Did you see any on your travels?’

‘No, they took it all. The soldiers.’

Dogbreath shrugged. ‘Did you meet with many soldiers? There were no French soldiers on the roads or in the towns as you passed?’

‘Only a few, and only in the towns,’ Thomas said. He was desperate to show himself keen to help now, his eyes fixed fearfully on the knife. ‘They were trying to reinforce the walls at Périgueux, and at Thiviers they were training the apprentices and peasants in how to fight. But there were no soldiers in the countryside. I saw no sign of an army or of any muster.’

Dogbreath nodded. ‘They have heard of our approach, then?’

Thomas allowed a little asperity to enter his voice. ‘Yes, since your army is already so close.’

‘We’re still many miles from the towns.’

‘Yes, but the men who took Uzerche have already terrorised the countryside. I left because I am not French. I am servant to the King of Navarre, as I said yesterday, and your ally, so . . .’

‘You say that the English are near? Where? Is it very close? I hadn’t heard that other men were sent to scout.’

‘Scout? No, they took the town four weeks ago.’

Dogbreath’s face took on a terrifying aspect. He hated to think men could make fun of him. ‘You’re pulling my tarse, you fucking goat-fiddler! You’re telling me that there was a town captured a month ago? Our army was still in Bordeaux then. You’re lying to me and . . .’

‘No, no! I swear it! I’m an ally of the English. You have to take me to your commander, and let me explain. I keep telling you: I’m a friend! The men climbed over the walls at night, and by daybreak they had the whole place. It was taken almost without an injury. And their leader, he said that he was there to protect us all. Not that the townsfolk believed him. The priest, my friend, was beaten almost to death,’ he saw no reason not to embellish a little, ‘and I only escaped by the grace of God. Their leader was a terrible, fierce man.’

‘What did they call themselves, this gang?’

‘It was a company of men. More than a hundred, although not so many as two hundred. Their leader was a man called Berenger Fripper, but . . .’

‘What? Say that name again!’

In Uzerche, many of the mercenaries were growing bored with such diversions as were available. While the town itself had a good store of wine and beer, and provisions of all kinds sufficient to keep the men fed for some weeks, Will knew that their attractions would soon pall. There were women, but these were themselves a problem.

Some of the younger members of the company had early on formed friendships with the girls about the town, but others took their women without wooing. It was starting to lead to more and more fractious relations. The townsmen were determined to protect the honour of their wives, sisters and daughters, and more and more often men from the company were coming to blows with them. One member of the company had been found stabbed and beaten to death in a gutter, and Will had the men from the nearest house dragged into the street. Two were clubbed to a bloody mess in front of their women and the rest of the home-owners, the sound of thudding clubs dulled by the screams and wails of the wives and daughters watching. Both took a long time to die.

To try to maintain the peace, in recent days Will had sent all the vinteners out with their men. He recalled Berenger saying that a good commander would always keep his men busy, and the best activity for a fighter was to learn all he could about the territory on which he may have to fight. Besides, Will wanted them to scout for potential plunder. Merchants and others must want to use the bridge, and they would be called upon to pay for the privilege, but in the meantime it would be good to increase the mercenaries’ purses by finding travellers and charging ‘tolls’ for the use of the roads.

‘Simon, take your men south and then sweep around to the west,’ he said. He still had Simon and Peter as commanders of vintaines, but he had yet to replace Berenger. Several of his men had been slaughtered during the failed attempts to kill Berenger. It would take Will some time to find more men who were capable of fighting efficiently, but he would. For now, Simon and Peter would have to take on the duties of command. ‘If you find a large body against you, don’t offer a battle, but come back here.’

‘Why, don’t you think we could kill any French cockroaches who try to deny us our road?’ Simon said. He was a sandy-haired man of eight-and-twenty, who had already been a warrior for fourteen years. He stood an inch shorter than Will, but his shoulders were almost as broad as his height. He had a strongly muscled left arm, but two fingers on his right were gone: cut off in a battle.

‘I have every faith in you,’ Will said. ‘But if you don’t come and warn us of a large force gathering, I’ll personally cut your ballocks off. Take what you can that’s easy, but if there’s a risk to the town, come here and help us defend it.’

Simon sneered, but finally agreed and left to give his men their orders.

‘What of me?’ Peter asked.

‘Take your fellows up to the north. There’s a town up there called Chamberet. See whether there’s anything worth taking. If you have any trouble, burn the place.’

There was no fanfare. That sort of pretentiousness was not the Prince’s way. He was happy with the regalia of his rank, but he didn’t flaunt it unnecessarily. Just now he wore a suit of armour that gleamed in the sunlight, but he was bareheaded. With him were the commanders of his army: Oxford, Warwick, Suffolk, all of them veterans of the Scottish wars as well as numerous chevauchées in France both here to the south and along the north. With them were the centeners, and one or two of the senior vinteners who had ambled over to listen.

Sir John stood and watched the Prince and his entourage march forward to the middle of the square. All the commanders of the army were gathered there, and their cheers rose as their commander took his place in the centre. He lifted his hands, grinning, palms out in a gesture of silence, and waited until the noise died down.

‘Captains, I thank you for attending to me. Can you all hear me? My Lords, knights, men-at-arms, we have been wasting away here for too long, I fear. Here at Bergerac we have been kept comfortably, but I think that now we are come into August it is perhaps time to make a move. Do you agree?’

There was a low growl of assent from the men listening, and the Prince bared his teeth. He was a good-looking man, Edward of Woodstock. Tall, fair-haired, with a moustache and beard neatly trimmed in preparation for the campaign, he looked every part the young warlord preparing for action.

‘My friends, for we are all friends here, I do not march into France from any desire to harm people, but purely to bring order into the world. If a tyrant can steal a throne that is not rightfully his, which kingdom will be safe? It is not to be borne that a man can steal a kingdom. I will not permit it. I will lead you into France, where we shall, with God’s good grace, meet with this John who calls himself King, and there we shall beat him so thoroughly that he will be forced to surrender his crown to us. God will smile upon our deeds, for God knows that the crown is rightfully mine in line from my father. It was his mother who was sister to the French King, and were she not most cruelly robbed of her inheritance by the Valois and his kin, she would have seen the crown passed to her son, my father by right of descent. But no! This false John sought to enrich himself, as did his predecessor. Now he must be shaking in his cordovan leather boots! No matter how expensive and well made his boots, they will not serve to help him! Unless he wishes to turn and flee in them!’

Prince Edward stopped and peered at the men about him as a ripple of laughter ran around them.

‘I see bold Englishmen here surrounding me. I see courageous knights and squires who have fought and struggled with me over many years. We are grown in power and might since my first battles here. Now we make up the strongest army in Christendom, because we fight with God on our side, and against Him, none may succeed.

‘We came here to Bergerac because I wanted to leave my options open to the last. From here we could advance in any direction. However, there is only one direction that makes sense. That is in the direction where the false French King lies quaking at our advance. My friends, we shall attack to the north.’

There was a roar then, of men bellowing their approval and excitement. Steel gauntlets clattered against steel breastplates, sword and dagger pommels hammered on shields, and from hundreds of throats there were cheers.

The Prince held up his hand for silence. ‘Friends, I fear that there are concerns that the Duke of Armagnac might take it into his head to enter our lands and attack Bordeaux. We cannot afford to risk that. So I will send back three thousand men. It is a hard decision, but we shall have enough men to ensure our victory even with fewer than ten thousand. Unless the French can field thirty thousand against us, I fear the battles will all be a little too easy for us to win!’

There was a louder cheer then. He continued, ‘This is the best way to end the wars. We have been fighting for many years already. Now, we may bring it to an end at last. My father has tried to bring about the key battle with the French army for some twenty years already. Now we have a possibility of success. Not only do we savage the peasants in a war of dampnum, bringing the taste of horror and defeat to the people of the lands so that all may see that their King cannot succeed even to protect the most lowly in his realm, we also ride through some of the French King’s most valuable lands. With our ride, we shall destroy the lands on which he depends for his taxes. Without his taxes, he must suffer.’

Again he paused and eyed his audience. Then a grin broke over his face. It was the sheer joy of the pirate. ‘And that of which we shall deprive him, we may take home. If you have a wife, a sweetheart, or even a mother – not you, Jed, I know you could not have one!’ he said, pointing to a young squire to the right, who instantly coloured with embarrassment. ‘Any person you love and whom you would have love you, for them you will bring the wealth of this land. We will visit Limoges, Châteauroux, Bourges, and on up to Chârtres, all of them vastly wealthy towns, and we shall take them all and despoil them of their wealth. Any abbots, any merchants, any knights or noblemen whom we can capture, we shall hold to ransom, as is the custom, and you will all benefit! There is no reason why we should not make money from their errors, after all!’

A loud cry of delight greeted this announcement, and he gave that piratical grin once more. He took a moment to glance at the men at his side, and then gazed about his commanders once more. Sir John felt sure that he had been about to say something else, and had decided that this was not the time. It made him wonder what the Prince could have been considering.

‘So, my friends, now is the time to prepare. We have need of all equipment to be ready for our departure in two days. I want the wagons loaded and prepared, carts filled, arrow sheaves loaded and ready for immediate use. Check the bow staves, check the strings, you who are responsible for the archers. Gynours, make sure your gonnes are loaded carefully against any sudden downpours. Ensure that the powder is secured against the damp. And above all, ensure that your men are ready. We march in two days!’