Wednesday 17 August

The English camp was in turmoil when Berenger and the others arrived. Sentries forced them to stop on their way in, and even when they had passed inside the camp, they had the feeling that they were being watched suspiciously as they sought the pavilion of Sir John de Sully.

‘Eh, this is a bugger! I feel like a spy, even though I’m as innocent as the day I was born,’ Grandarse said.

‘If that’s true, you must have been a remarkable babe,’ Berenger said.

‘I was that. I was noted for my intelligence and skills.’

‘At eating and thieving?’ Hawkwood said with a grin.

‘Aye. And clipping saucy bastards from far-off parts round the head, too, ye ignorant git!’

Berenger smiled, but only fleetingly. He felt curiously ill at ease here in the midst of the English army. It was so familiar, so much a part of his past: all the noises, the smells, the scenes, were engraved on his mind from a dozen campaigns: the ringing and clattering of hammers from the smiths and armourers, the coarse bellowing and swearing from vinteners trying to urge on recalcitrant recruits new to marching and fighting, the smell of baking clay as new-made bread ovens dried, the all-pervasive odours of ten thousand men urinating, sweating and defecating in the warm air. It was all so poignantly familiar, and yet it was foreign too. It had been so long since Berenger had felt a part of a campaign like this; to return to it now made him wary and nervous, like a pup waiting for a kick.

‘Come, Fripper,’ Grandarse said.

Sir John’s pavilion was easy to find. Grandarse and Berenger walked to it and announced themselves to the steward at the door.

‘My friends, I am glad to see you!’ Sir John exclaimed when he saw them. ‘Fripper, it does my heart good to see you well. I had heard you were dead!’

It took little time to tell him what had happened to them since Grandarse and Hawkwood had left in search of Berenger. Sir John’s face grew serious as he heard of the sacking of the abbey. ‘These men are not serving the Prince or our King. They are making war on their own account. If we find them, they can expect little sympathy from me or any of my men here,’ he said.

‘There is no justification,’ Berenger said. ‘They murdered the Abbot of St Jacques, just as they murdered many others about Uzerche.’ He didn’t want to mention Alazaïs. Not yet. He had a natural reluctance to talk about her murder. There was always the risk that Sir John might think he had a personal feud with Will over the woman. ‘If I find them, I will kill their commander,’ he said.

‘Quite so.’ Sir John turned away.

Berenger looked at him as Sir John filled his mazer from a jug, waving a hand towards Berenger and Grandarse so that his steward would serve them too. Berenger took the cup and sniffed the heady odour of strong wine. He set it down untouched.

He could remember the battles in which he had served this knight: many battles, most of them victories, and some few disasters. But in his mind still all he could see were the faces of Alazaïs and her two boys as Sir John spoke once more.

‘Now, to cheerier matters. Grandarse, I assume you will happily command Fripper again as a vintener?’

‘Aye. Gladly.’

‘Then I think that the men he has brought with him shall be a benefit to all of us. Please take him to the fellows he will command and introduce him.’

‘There is another matter, Sir John,’ Berenger said.

‘Yes?’

‘I must take my men to find the company who were guilty of these crimes.’

Sir John peered at him over his cup. ‘I do not think that the Prince would be happy to learn that I had agreed to deplete my forces just as our campaign begins.’

‘It is essential, Sir John. My friend’s wife is held captive with the company.’

‘Then it may be better if he doesn’t win her back, don’t you think?’ Sir John said. ‘If she has been raped and assaulted for the last week or so, I doubt whether she will be the same woman.’

‘He must win her back,’ Berenger said. ‘It is a matter of honour.’

‘Well, I can admire his determination, but to lose a vintaine would be difficult. We do not have the manpower to fritter away our forces.’

‘It would have to be more than one vintaine,’ Grandarse said. ‘They have a force of over a hundred.’

‘So you’d want five or six vintaines? I don’t think . . .’

‘Then I must go back alone. I owe this man my life. I will not leave him when he needs my aid.’

‘Berenger, you are part of the Prince’s army now.’

‘I have no contract, I’ve accepted no money, and I have not even taken provisions from you. I am a free agent.’

Sir John rubbed his chin and contemplated the man. Berenger looked pale-faced and fretful, which was unexpected. In the past he had always been determined and firm, but he had a core of obedience that had remained unshaken. Now he looked like a man who was willing to risk all in order to help this man he called a friend. ‘How far are they?’

‘Perhaps forty miles yesternight. Now? Maybe another twenty. They have many on foot still, and those must slow the march of the entire column.’

Sir John considered. Berenger was a useful leader, but to send him and a force of men after this company may well cost more than a few of their own troops. The English could ill afford to lose more men. They were short enough as it was.

‘Grandarse?’

‘Aye, well, I think Fripper is keen, Sir John,’ the centener said.

‘It was one thing to allow two vintaines to make a reconnaissance, but different to have a centaine riding off in force,’ Sir John said.

His squire leaned forward and whispered in the knight’s ear.

‘Yes? That is possible, certainly,’ Sir John said, frowning in concentration.

‘What?’ Berenger asked.

‘Since we left Périgueux we have had two forces of cavalry watching our line of march. They must be riding on to warn our enemies where we are. Perhaps you could find them and capture some of their men? Any of them brought back here would be worth a great deal in terms of information. And if you kill them all, that will leave the Compte de Poitiers blind until he finds a new force to track us. What do you think?’

Berenger nodded and glanced at Grandarse. ‘We should be able to do that. How strong are these French forces?’

‘Perhaps seventy men-at-arms. You will need to take a strong force.’ The knight gazed at him impassively. ‘Perhaps a centaine.’

Berenger grinned. ‘Thank you, Sir John.’

‘Bring my men back safely, Fripper. And if there are any good fellows in this man Will’s company, we could use them, too.’

Gaillarde was ready to collapse in a heap when they reached the latest camp, but first she must gather up sticks and twigs and make a fire while the men rested, the dark-haired man watching her from narrowed eyes.

His name, she had learned, was Bernard. He at least had little in the way of an accent. She could understand him. That was not the case with many of the other men in the company. More were like the fair-haired fellow called Owen, who had a dreadful cut in his cheek, and spoke in some guttural tongue she could barely understand. Perhaps it was the recent wound that was giving him his speech impediment, but she doubted it. His eye was horrible, too: it had a bruise that had turned the eyeball to a violent scarlet.

Even with those, she found Bernard was the more terrifying of the company. He was quiet, watchful, intense, like a hunter stalking a hart. Always at his side was another, nervous and terribly shy. This was Arnaud, a younger fellow who was so nervous, he barely dared to look at her. Whenever his eyes lit on her, he instantly reddened and looked away; Bernard was one of those men who was always looking at her as if he could see every line of her beneath her shift and tunic. His eyes were everywhere, all over her body. It made her feel as if slugs were crawling over her. He was terrible; he made her feel sick.

The younger fellow reminded her of a cousin who had got into trouble in Limoges when he went as apprentice to a saddler and got into the wrong company. Poor Guillaume! When there was a dispute between the apprentices and others, he joined a gang that ran about the town, hurling stones and getting into fights with sticks and clubs. At the end of their brief reign of terror, the apprentices were punished severely, and Guillaume was fortunate not to have been caught. From that evening onwards, he was a quieter, more peaceful man. He had settled and raised a small family, making all forms of leather purses, pouches and scabbards for local folk, vowing never to travel to the city again.

‘Mistress?’ It was the fair boy.

Gaillarde turned to him, giving an involuntary whimper as the skin on her cheek was pulled taut over her bruise. It was painful at all times, but when she moved her head without wariness, it was worst of all. ‘Yes?’

‘You want some pottage?’

Bernard stood and stepped between them. Gaillarde drew away as he leered at her, then turned his back and pushed the other back again. ‘Leave her, Arnaud. She doesn’t need anything from you.’

‘She likes me, and I want to feed her. You give her nothing.’

‘She is mine, Arnaud. Not yours. Leave her alone or you’ll answer to me.’

His voice was low, quiet, but there was no mistaking the menace in his tone. Arnaud looked past him at Gaillarde, and in his eyes she saw his soul as though it was stripped naked. He was no mercenary, not in truth. These thieves and murderers must have captured him and brought him here against his will. They seemed to keep a close eye on him at all times, so far as she could see. Bernard in particular seemed to think he might run away at any moment, and perhaps find friends to rescue her too, she thought.

Gaillarde had to fight to hold back a sob. The back of her throat felt tight and strained, and her breast was like a clenched fist. All the muscles were taut. She let her head hang.

‘He likes you,’ Bernard sneered. He took her arm and pulled her along to his bed. ‘He thinks he can take you like he’s taken others.’

‘He wouldn’t!’ she burst out. ‘He’s not like you!’

He pushed her suddenly. A heel caught a stone, and she fell back on her rump with a short squeal of pain as a sharp piece of rock bit into her buttock.

‘You listen to me well, woman. You are mine while you’re in this company, and you’d best remember that. I’ll have you keep your eyes downcast when you look at other men, else your life will grow painful.’

‘Why? So you can keep me in good condition for whenever you want to rape me?’ she snapped.

He slapped her face suddenly. It was not hard, but it caught the bruise where he had hit her before, and the sudden pain flared like a torch, scorching her face. ‘Don’t talk to me like that,’ he said, leaning close. ‘If I want to fuck you, I will, you whore. You have no one here will save you. Don’t forget that for a moment. I’m the only man here who’s keen to keep you alive.’

‘Why? Tell me that!’

‘Because . . . because I would see you safe.’

He wanted to keep her for himself, no doubt, but he had no affection for her. That was proved by his abuse.

‘You should be careful! I am wife to the bayle of my town!’

‘So you’re the wife to the bayle? That is good to know. I know much you don’t realise, woman. I know a bayle’s wife is worth money. So I’ll keep you alive and I’ll sell you back to him when I get the chance. But if you make my life hard, I may just think that it’s not worth the fight. I may decide to leave you to the others to be gang-raped and killed. If you want that, you go on making sheep’s eyes at Arnaud back there. Otherwise, if you want to live and see your husband again, you’d best learn to be nice to the one man here who’s protecting you.’

She turned her face away while he glared down at her, and then he was gone. She dared not move for a few moments, thinking that he might still be there, but he had stalked off, and was seeing to his pony. Carefully, fearfully, she turned her head a little further and saw Arnaud. He was standing a short distance away, and as his glance caught hers, he slowly dropped an eyelid in an elaborate wink. She felt relief course through her veins. It was as intoxicating as a draught of strong wine.

At least she had one friend here.

Berenger and Grandarse took their leave of the knight, walking back into the sunlight. Saul was sitting on the grass with his back against a trestle; Fulk and Loys looked up hopefully from a bench they had commandeered for their own use, and rose to follow Grandarse when he beckoned them.

He led them between carts and wagons, past men gambling on barrel-tops with dice, and out past the butchers slaughtering captured cattle. The noise here was deafening. There were hawkers bellowing their wares, women offering themselves, armourers clattering and hammering in an irregular timpani, smiths beating out horses’ shoes, while others were spinning the grinding stones, sharpening blades ready for the coming battles, sending sparks flying in all directions.

‘This is a vast army!’ Loys said breathlessly. Working men stretched away in all directions.

Grandarse looked about him dispassionately. ‘Not so large as we had ten year ago, eh, Frip?’

‘No. Then we had twelve or thirteen thousand, I think.’

‘Half as much again as this, then,’ Grandarse said. ‘Still, at least there are some folk here who’re useful.’

He led them around a series of smaller, lighter wagons, and at the other side Berenger’s face broke into a grin. ‘Master Gynour!’ he bellowed, and hurried to meet Archibald.

Archibald smiled and grasped his arm, but even as he did so, he thought how unwell Berenger looked. ‘You are well, Master Fripper?’

‘Never better,’ Berenger declared.

Not so, by my troth, Archibald thought. He could see the bloodshot eyes, the pallor of the skin, and he could tell that Berenger was thinner than he had been when they had last met. ‘Come, have a little cider with me.’

‘You have cider still?’ Berenger chuckled. He knew only an overwhelming pleasure to see this old friend again. ‘You always preferred cider to ale, didn’t you?’

‘Sometimes, yes. Today I am very thirsty. Do you have water?’

He poured the drink, and saw how Berenger’s hand shook slightly as he took the cup. That explained much.

‘So how is your collection of toys?’ Berenger said when they were sitting.

‘My gonnes? I have command of a small company now. We have four great gonnes and some ribauldequins.’

‘What are they?’

‘Small barrels set on a frame like a handcart. I have two that Ed and I serve, each with three barrels. We can set them off one after another, so that they cut down more men. They are the way of the future, Frip! The great guns are good for knocking down walls, but these little ribauldequins, if we had one for every ten archers, would revolutionise warfare.’

His eyes took on a dreamy look. Berenger smiled to himself. He knew how Archibald’s mind worked. In his mind, he was seeing massed ranks of these handcarts, all belching smoke and flame like an army of dragons, and before them, swathes of French knights and men-at-arms falling like sheaves of corn before the scythe.

‘So Ed is still with you.’

Archibald’s attention came back to Berenger, reluctantly, from his dream. ‘Him? Oh, yes. And Béatrice, too.’

Grandarse left Berenger and the others to return to Sir John. He was standing near a fire, and his shrewd glance fixed on Grandarse when the centener appeared. Grandarse thought it was like being spitted on an ash spear three yards long.

‘Grandarse, will Fripper be well?’

‘He’ll be fine, Sir John. Just give ’im a few days and he’ll be the same Fripper you knew before.’

‘You’ve seen as many men like that as I have,’ Sir John said. He stared down at the ground by his feet. ‘It is sad to see a man who was once so hearty and eager changed. Don’t deny it, Grandarse. His spirit is broken, isn’t it? I saw how he set his cup of wine down, as did you, I dare say. He has fought in one battle too many.’

‘He’ll be fine. Give him a chance. It’ll only take the first action to bring back the old Fripper,’ Grandarse said as reassuringly as he could.

Sir John cast a glance at him and was rewarded with the shifty look of a thief with the purse still in his hands. ‘Really?’

‘I’m sure of it, on my ballocks,’ Grandarse said. ‘He’ll be fine. He was the best vintener I ever had, and he will be again.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Sir John said. ‘Because if there is any doubt about his skills, his judgement or his abilities, you will leave him. We have a long ride ahead of us, and I will not endanger our task because of one feeble-minded fool who depends too much on wine for his courage.’

‘You question his courage?’

‘I question everything about him, Grandarse. Keep him with you, then, and ensure that he is safe. I want no man who is not safe and firm in the line.’