Saturday 6 August

Berenger was quick to heal. At the end of the first week his back had been a mass of scabs; already now the flesh had healed well, and the Infirmarer declared himself delighted with the quality of his handiwork when he prodded and poked, before bending to the altar and giving thanks for his success, while his rosary and golden crucifix rattled and tapped at the side of Berenger’s cot.

The healing chamber was like a chapel. Each bed was positioned carefully to give a clear view of the altar with the crucifix, for naturally it was the prayers and the nearness of the holy altar that cured men of their ills here.

It was hard to like a man whose sole interest in life appeared to be making his wounds still more painful, but Berenger appreciated the depth of his knowledge, and grew to look forward to his visits. The Infirmarer had a caustic wit and an unsympathetic manner.

‘Ouch! That hurts!’ Berenger said.

‘You haven’t lost your sense of feeling then.’

‘What do you do when you have no patients to hurt? Go and find a baby to torture?’

‘No. That would involve travelling. I find it easier to hurt little puppies and kittens.’

‘You are a sick man, Infirmarer.’

‘So my patients tell me.’

Loys recovered more slowly. Some splinters of wood were left when the bolt was removed, and there came a day when the Infirmarer discovered a thick, green pus leaking from behind the clot, and Loys became feverish, giggling, and then shouting like a drunkard.

Suddenly the Infirmary was invaded by assistants to the Infirmarer. One brought a charcoal brazier and lit it, while others brought cloths and hot water. Berenger watched as they used a scorched knife to reopen the wound. Then a hot brand was used to sear the wound while Loys arched his back in agony, the pain so intense he could make no sound. When the Infirmarer finally settled back, there was sweat running down his face.

He left the room and returned a little later with a skin of wine and some cups. He poured for Berenger and Saul and another for himself, and then drank deeply. ‘There are some parts of this work I hate.’

‘You did well,’ Berenger said grudgingly.

‘I hope I cleaned the wound sufficiently.’ He glanced towards Loys. ‘I fear that the boy is weak. The next day will tell us whether our prayers have been answered.’

‘You can only do your best. Is there more wine?’

The Infirmarer nodded and passed the jug. Berenger poured a large cup and drank deeply. It was a powerful wine and he could feel his troubles lifting. It brought an atmosphere with it, an odour and sense of sunshine and happiness. With another draught he could almost remember her face, the little figure held so gently in her arms, the warmth and pain of such a strong affection in his heart. The world had been a jolly, kindly place then, ten years ago.

But the world had changed, and he had changed with it.

The Infirmarer saw the change in his expression. ‘Do you want to talk about it, my friend?’

‘What?’ Berenger said. ‘There’s nothing to discuss.’

The Infirmarer glanced at Saul, who sat on the next cot watching Berenger warily. He looked back at Berenger and said softly, ‘One day you will want to talk to a friend. When you are ready, I am happy to listen. And if I am not, there is always another who will.’

‘Who would listen to an old soldier’s story?’

The Infirmarer nodded towards the altar. ‘I think you know who will listen, my friend.’

‘Him? He never listened to me before when I was a religious man and only sought to help others. Why would He help me now?’ Berenger said.

Sunday 7 August

They had been riding for too long. Peter was weary after his long reconnaissance, and as he came round the last curve in the road, he was thinking only of the wine and the women who were waiting back in Uzerche. Will and the other members of the company would be having a marvellous time there, drinking their way through the barrels in the storehouses during the day and spending their evenings whoring, while Peter and his men were riding all about the area ensuring that they were safe from attack.

It was enough. He had ridden hard and there was little enough to show for it. A cart with a box of furs taken from two merchants riding to market, some food and plate from a small manor. It was not enough to justify the length of their journey.

‘We’ll return today,’ he said to Ulric, a glowering Saxon with a scar that ran from his right temple to his chin.

‘About focking time,’ Ulric said in his thick accent. ‘I want to get to a seat that does not rock under me all the day long.’

‘We’ll get back as soon as we can,’ Peter said. He rose in his saddle and was about to call to the rest of the men, when one of his scouts came back at a fast trot.

‘There’s a town ahead.’

Peter spurred his mount and rode up to where the second scout sat on his mount staring ahead. ‘Well?’

The scout pointed. Peter saw a thin smear of smoke against the sky. ‘We will ride on. I want to know what size that place is before we return,’ he said.

What was it that bayle had said? He was the Bayle of Domps, he said, didn’t he? Perhaps this was his town, then. It meant nothing to Peter, although if there was an abbey nearby, perhaps this was where Fripper had gone when he escaped the ambush. That would interest Will.

Monday 8 August

Clip was riding before the column with a growing sense of grievance.

He should be back with the main army, not prancing around in the wrong direction like this, making his way through a thick forest. There were others who could be easily used for this kind of service, but no, it was him again, sent on a daft mission, in a direction where there were no decent manors to plunder, no monasteries, no nunneries, no rich merchants to deprive of their furs and gold. It was a waste of time. And meantime the army would have packed up and started to advance, if all he had heard was right. The men who were still with Sir John had opportunities to enrich themselves, to find wine and ale, to drink and whore and enjoy themselves . . . and he was here, scouting before Grandarse with Dogbreath, riding at the arrow’s tip with forty men behind him. He was the man in danger if they met the enemy, as usual.

‘How much further do you think it is?’ Dogbreath asked again.

‘How the fuck should I know?’ Clip snapped. ‘It’s just another town on this bleeding river. They all look the same to me. Who gives a shit about one more? Fucking Fripper, if he’s there, could have picked a better place. Why’d he come here? What’s the point of taking a town so far from anywhere? He could have stayed nearer Calais or gone south towards Bordeaux, but no, if the story’s right, he came all the way to this, the arse-end of the world. I don’t see it. I think we’re wasting our time.’

‘You don’t think he’s there?’

‘No. What, a little town around here? What sort of money can he win here? There’s nothing. I think that merchant, or whatever he was, was lying. He wanted to keep his head on his shoulders so he told Sir John a tale that would keep him alive.’

Dogbreath scowled. ‘I’ll tickle him up with my dagger next time I see him, then.’

‘You do that. Meantime, I’ll . . .’ He stopped, staring ahead, and his head dropped onto his chest as he peered fixedly.

Dogbreath sniggered. ‘It was a bird, Clip.’

His companion said nothing, but jerked his hand quickly to indicate silence, never once ceasing in his careful study of the road ahead. ‘Riders. Lots of them,’ he said, whirling his horse’s head about and cantering back.

‘Grandarse, there are men coming. Possibly two vintaines-worth, possibly more.’

‘You say so?’ Grandarse glanced over Clip at the road ahead. ‘I can’t see anything.’

‘The road turns in among those trees. I saw three flashes of reflected sun. When I looked, I could see shapes passing between the trees. I counted fifteen between one pair of trunks. I reckon they were men on horseback. Riding double file, that means thirty men. Could be I’m wrong. But if I’m right . . .’

Grandarse nodded. ‘Enough!’ He had never known Clip to make a mistake when scouting. It was why he was used so often. That and the fact that his whining grated on a man’s nerves after a few miles. Grandarse looked about him quickly. To his left the road fell down among the trees. It was a shallow incline, but enough.

The Centener turned to his men. ‘Hawkwood, take yours down there into the trees, dismount, and keep them aiming up here towards the roadway. We don’t have men the other side of the road, so any target is yours. Understand? Have the men string their bows, and be quick, but wait for my command. If there’s any trouble, take the rearmost first. Understand? Good. The rest of you, with me! Clip and Dogbreath, you too.’

In a few moments, the road was empty. Grandarse and the other men remained on their horses, while Hawkwood’s men crouched or stood behind trees, arrows nocked and ready. They did not have long to wait.

There was an arrogance about the men riding towards them, as though they owned these woods, this road, and the whole of the land all about. It was enough to make Grandarse grimace. If any of his men were to behave so foolishly, they would deserve to be captured or slain. He lifted his hand. Hawkwood was staring at him, his own hand raised. As the first of the horsemen passed Hawkwood, Grandarse studied them carefully. There was no emblem on the men’s surcoats, no flag or banner to declare their allegiance. These fellows were outlaws, or he was an earl. He felt his belly clenching with the promise of battle and gripped his reins more tightly in his left hand, readying himself. Then, when the foremost riders were level with him, he dropped his hand.

There was a slew of arrows, a hissing terror that slammed into the horsemen from their flank, and he roared to his men as he slammed his spurs into the horse’s flanks, feeling the jolt as the brute was startled from his temporary torpor, muscles hurling Grandarse forward.

Shrieks, cries, bellows of defiance and alarm, and the column of men was thrown into confusion, but even as Grandarse burst from the woods he saw that they were recovering. There were some fools at the back who tried to ride to safety, but they were swiftly picked off by Robin and Imbert. Grandarse could see the commander of the little party, a sandy-haired man who bellowed at his men like a drunken ale-wife, trying to rally them. Older heads than his were already dropping from their mounts and attempting to string their bows; a few saw Grandarse and his companions and drew swords or grabbed lances to defend themselves, but Grandarse ignored them.

Bellowing, ‘Hold!’ at the top of his voice, Grandarse rode straight for the sandy-haired man. The fellow turned and saw his danger too late. He tried to spur away, but Grandarse’s horse rode hard into his flank, the stallion raised his head a moment before slamming into the other with his breast, and there was an audible crack. Rider and horse were thrown to the ground, both sliding on the gravel, the man’s leg beneath the horse, trapping him.

‘Put down your weapons!’ Grandarse roared. ‘All of you! Any man who clings to his sword will have his arm cut from his body! If you try to attack me or my men, you will be killed immediately!’

‘Who are you?’ a man called suspiciously.

Grandarse smiled evilly. ‘I’m the man who’s going to be your centener as soon as you join the army of the Prince of Wales.’

‘Prince of Wales?’ More than one of the men took on anxious expressions, as men will who realise that their past might be about to catch up with them. Some looked warily back the way they had come, as though estimating the distance to safety. The sight of the bodies of those who had already tried to flee was a sobering sight.

‘Any man who doesn’t want to serve his Prince can explain to him why that is,’ Grandarse said comfortably. ‘Who are you, and where are you from?’

The man whom he had barged to the ground remained there, yelping as his rounsey jerked and rolled upright, clambering to its feet. The fellow maintained his grip on the reins and tried to haul himself up, but gave a loud groan and collapsed as his leg gave way. He sat gaping at his twisted leg in disbelief.

‘You! What’s your name?’ Grandarse demanded. He had to repeat the question three times before the man seemed to hear.

‘Simon of Shoreditch,’ he managed. His face was pale, and now was growing green. ‘I am the captain. Shit, my leg, I—’

‘You’ll need a man to set it,’ Grandarse said dismissively as Simon’s eyes rolled up into his head and he toppled sideways. ‘Perhaps now would be a good idea.’

‘I had been told that you were healing, but I am pleased to see you so much improved.’

Berenger stopped and turned to face the Abbot. He had been walking in the orchard, enjoying the tranquillity. All was warm and clean here, with only the humid odour of soil and grass heating in the sun. The orchard felt as comforting as a secure room with a hot fire and a hound basking in the warmth. He almost expected to feel a rumble of contentment through his feet, as if the land itself was enjoying it.

‘I am glad to see you, my Lord Abbot.’

‘And I you.’ The Abbot fell into step beside Berenger, and the two walked in companionable silence for a space.

‘I used to think all smells had a sharpness to them,’ Berenger said at last, quietly.

‘Yes?’

‘I have fought too many battles. I thought everything smelled of blood and steel and burned houses, but here I am learning that there are still pleasant experiences – the world can continue without death.’

‘You have been a warrior for long?’

‘I started when I was a boy, fighting in Scotland. When the King came to France, it was natural that I should join him.’

‘But you have suffered much, eh?’

‘I have been injured. I’ve been struck by quarrels, stabbed, slashed, beaten . . . I have endured.’

‘Not only in battle.’

Berenger shook his head, but didn’t speak. That pain of his loss was still too raw.

The Abbot bent his head as he walked, staring at the small flowers in among the grasses. ‘I was here when the great pestilence appeared. Ten years ago, almost. It’s shocking, isn’t it, how so much has changed since then. We all suffered greatly, of course. When it hit us, I think there were some fifty men working here. We had the choir, of course, but there were all the lay-brothers too, and of all of us, only five survived. One tenth only.’

‘Who else lived?’

‘There was me, the Brother Infirmarer, the Salsarius and one of the lay-brothers who was responsible for the mill. It was a grave position to be in, for of course we could not maintain the estates afterwards. The villagers on whom we depended were themselves sorely depleted, and just holding services for the dead was a dreadful responsibility and took so much of our time. It was truly appalling. But you know that, of course.’

‘Yes.’

‘Where were you when you experienced it?’

Berenger shook his head, then: ‘In Calais.’

‘Alone?’

‘I was afterwards.’ Suddenly Berenger was aware of a thickness in his throat. He had to swallow before he could add: ‘And ever since.’

Grandarse glanced at Hawkwood as the vintaines rounded up their new recruits into a shuffling, embittered group. Hawkwood was watching the prisoners, but he was most carefully eyeing a younger fellow who had the sallow, anxious look of a man who was never too sure where his next meal would come from.

Hawkwood called Dogbreath over. ‘Take him,’ he said.

The youngster was clearly terrified to have been singled out. Dogbreath and Clip had to grab his arms and physically yank him from among his companions.

‘What are you doing? What do you want with me?’

Dogbreath chuckled hoarsely in the back of his throat, while Clip shoved him to the road’s edge and then down in among the trees.

‘What? What did I do? You’re going to kill me, aren’t you? Why? What have I done?’

‘Shut up,’ Clip said. ‘You were in the wrong place, that’s all. It’s just bad luck. Tough. Get used to it.’

‘What are you going to do to me?’

Dogbreath smiled evilly. ‘We’re going to have some fun, that’s what!’

The boy looked as though he was about to faint. There was a rising hubbub behind them from the road, where some of the other men were protesting at the way their young comrade had been taken away. Clip pushed the lad again and this time he caught his foot on a root and went sprawling, smashing his face on a fallen bough. He pushed himself up on all fours, and Clip kicked him hard in the flank. The lad gave a wailing gasp and collapsed, wheezing.

‘Listen, Prickle,’ Clip said quietly. ‘We want to know some things about you and your mates. If you answer honestly and quickly, you may live. But every time I think you’re lying, my friend here is going to encourage you with his dagger. Understand?’

‘I don’t know anything! You need to ask Simon. He knows what’s happening and things. I don’t, Will never tells us anything!’ He had rolled back to sit and now stared at them with wide, fearful eyes.

‘Who’s Will?’ Clip asked.

‘He’s the leader of our company. When he kicked out the old drunk, he was elected.’

Clip shook his head. ‘I don’t understand you,’ he said, and kicked again.

The lad curled into a ball, whining with a high keening as he cupped his ballocks, rocking back and forth.

‘I told you, I want the truth and that quickly. Who is this Will?’

‘He’s just the leader of our company, like I said.’

‘How long’s he been there?’

‘Since Fripper was kicked out. Two weeks since, I think. I don’t know!’

‘Fripper?’ Dogbreath snarled. ‘Who?’

‘Fripper! He was our captain, but he was drunk and Will kicked him out. I don’t know more than that!’

‘This Fripper – was he so tall?’ Clip asked, holding his hand out. ‘Big scar over his face like this?’ He matched gesture to words, indicating a line across his brow, nose, down across his cheek to his jaw.

‘Yes, yes, that’s him.’

‘What happened to him?’ Dogbreath demanded.

Clip saw him fingering his dagger. Both knew the most common manner in which a captain would lose his command. ‘Did this Will kill him?’

‘No! He was allowed to go. He had friends with him, and they left.’

Clip shot a look at Dogbreath. Dogbreath nodded slowly, and said, ‘That was it? This Will just let him go? Doesn’t sound like any leader I’ve known.’

‘He didn’t mean to,’ the lad said tearfully. He curled into still more of a ball as though, if he could, he would have pushed himself into the soil and away from the two. ‘He had his men try to ambush Fripper, but Fripper saw them and killed them all before they could hurt him.’

‘Not such a drunk, then,’ Clip said.

‘I suppose.’

‘Were you there to help kill him?’

‘No! I was back at the town, waiting with the others.’

‘So you knew he was going to be attacked?’

The boy’s mouth moved, but while his eyes went from one to the other, guessing at the answer they wanted to hear, no sound came.

‘You didn’t think to warn him, did you?’ Dogbreath hissed.

‘He was a commander! What else would he think would happen? It’s the way of things! I didn’t do it, though. I wasn’t there!’

Clip bared his teeth in a snarl, then lunged down, grabbed the squawking lad by the jerkin, and pulled him to his feet.

‘Come, boy. If we’re going to get anywhere tonight, we’ll need you ready to march.’

‘You let them go?’ Will demanded. He stood and began to pace the room. ‘They could have taken you straight to Fripper and let us catch him! In Christ’s name, do you not realise what an opportunity you’ve let fall through your fingers? Are you so moon-struck you didn’t see how important these two men were?’

Peter watched him with his thumbs stuck in his belt, sucking at his teeth while his commander ranted.

Will was a brave man, but his temper could always get the better of him when he thought his own will was being thwarted. Like many who were unsure of their own competence, he would deride the opinions of others when they disagreed with his own. He disliked any problems or interruptions, especially if he felt that they affected his reputation. He was very fond of his reputation.

When Will had first made moves to remove Berenger, it had been enormously popular with the men. On a show of hands in the tavern among Will’s men, there were none who disputed his main contention that Berenger was old and past it. No one who saw his red-rimmed eyes and smelled his acrid breath in the morning could have doubted that. He was growing ridiculous, and no company of fighters could rely on a man who was thought ridiculous by his own fellows. A mercenary army was effective only for so long as the commander was trusted by his men. If he became unpredictable or capricious, the men would lose faith in his ability to win them plunder. Usually the exit for such a man was a rope or a knife. After all, effective discipline was a key requirement of a commander. Without that, mutiny was natural. Not that it was called mutiny. It was the natural order of men, that the strongest would take over for as long as he was strongest.

With Will, the men had put in place a man whom all admired. He had been brave in battle, bold and most important, very lucky. All the targets which engaged his interest had fallen to him. His one failing recently had been the matter of the execution of his predecessor. He had tried, but both attempts had failed. First the attack in town, and then the ambush that had succeeded in killing the woman and her children, leaving a dangerous man in search of revenge. Now Peter had lost the opportunity of finding Fripper when all he had to do was bring this peasant to him.

Peter eased his shoulders as Will ranted. He had plenty of time. After all, Peter was in a strong position. Many of Will’s men had been in his vintaine, and they mostly died in the costly attempts to kill Berenger. Now he relied on Simon and three others to maintain his position. His own power within the Company was reduced.

‘Have you finished yet?’ Peter asked.

‘Don’t you speak to me like that!’

‘I’ll speak how I like,’ Peter said. There was a touch of ice in his voice now. He would not bow to Will here in the hall. He would show respect before the rest of the company, as was natural for discipline, but in private there was no need. As mercenaries they were equals; no, Peter had more men than Will now. He was superior in force. He walked to the table and poured himself a mazer of wine.

Will was filled with rage. ‘You come here and tell me you’ve allowed the link to Fripper to slip through your fingers and expect me to be pleased?’

‘Yes, because if you listen, I can tell you where Berenger is.’