Sunday 28 August

They were up before the dawn.

Berenger felt light-headed, almost as though he had the start of a hangover at the back of his head when he climbed to his feet. The heavy dew overnight had sprinkled his blanket with moisture until it looked like frost. There was more in his beard, and when he rubbed his face, his hand came away wet.

They had ridden hard last afternoon, reaching this place just after dark, all the men weary, the ponies and rounseys exhausted, almost too tired to eat as they were rubbed down and set to crop the thick grasses. The men themselves muttered and complained about the location, the lack of decent firewood, the smell of the place – everything. But it was a quiet grumbling, not the whining of true bitterness. After some cold food, all had settled quickly.

He had an old felted cap, and he pulled this on now against the cool morning air. It was wet, but it kept the wind from his thinning hair, and he was grateful for it as he moved among his men, kicking a foot here or there and calling all to arms.

‘Oh, aye, we can’t expect a late morning on the day we’re to move north,’ Clip grumbled.

‘What, do you want the French King to get to Tours before we can sack the place?’ This was from Nick. His dark eyes had worn a perpetually nervous expression since the death of Gilles. The two had already been comrades when he first met them, Berenger recalled. Now he looked like a peasant who remembered he should have locked away the chickens, and it was too late. The fox had already got in among them.

‘When you’ve marched over as much of France as I have, and seen as many friends killed as I have, then you can take the piss, Nick. Till then, just hope that you’ll survive like I have.’

Nick’s face took on an alarmed horror as he absorbed the vision that was Clip. ‘Dear God in Heaven, you mean that is the best we can hope for?’

‘Go swyve a . . .’

Berenger was content. While the men were bickering and complaining about the food, the weather, their horses, the quality of their leadership, and making humorous comments about Clip, he knew that they were happy. It was when they became quiet and pliant that he knew there was a problem.

It struck him suddenly that this was the kind of thinking he would have known during the Crécy campaign. In those days he had been a professional soldier, he thought, and that made him realise just how far he had sunk in the intervening years. It had taken a decade for him to be broken. Once he had been a respected fighter. Now, he had gone through hard times, losing his wife and children, and had discovered a new life viewed from the bottom of a jug of wine.

But now he was himself again. He truly felt that.

Berenger and his men rode solidly that morning, and they were rewarded early in the afternoon by the sight of Sir James Audley’s column.

‘We’re English!’ he bellowed to the scouts sent to challenge him. They soon accepted him and allowed him to approach the main force.

There was a fierce excitement in Berenger’s breast at the sight of the force ahead of him. At last he felt as though he was close to Will and would be able to exact revenge. He could feel the flames of his rage licking up from his stomach to heat his chest and heart until his lungs themselves seemed clogged with it, and he thought that if he were to have any more anger in him his soul must be consumed.

He hunted all along the column as they rode past, looking for a face, a familiar slouch, a hat or cloak that reminded him of any of the men from his old company, but as he went he saw nothing. There was no one. He cast a glance back at Fulk and Saul. Fulk sat shaking his head as he jogged along on his pony, clearly disapproving of the venture, but Berenger would not allow any man to get in his way today.

He was determined to find Will.

As Berenger rode off to overhaul the English, there came a blast on a horn and then bellowed commands.

‘They want to talk to you, Frip,’ Fulk rumbled. ‘I think they want to know why we are in so much hurry to get in front.’

‘Shut up, Fulk,’ Berenger said. He looked about him. ‘Robin, Fulk, you will ride on. I’ll catch you up later.’

He turned his pony and trotted back to the main column.

Audley welcomed him. ‘I know you, don’t I?’

‘Berenger Fripper, sir. I’m vintener in Sir John de Sully’s force.’

‘I see. Where are you riding?’

‘I’ve been instructed to see if I can find a bridge over the river. I was attached to the Captal de Buch’s column, but I seem to have overtaken him, so I thought I should ride on here and see what I could learn about the enemy. There are tales of French cavalry ahead.’

‘I hope not,’ Chandos said. ‘We are riding to see if we can cross the river soon. With luck we’ll find a bridge or two that can still be used.’

‘I hope so, sir. If I find one I shall send men back to tell you and give you directions.’

‘That is good. Carry on, then, Fripper.’

‘Sir.’

He rode away, feeling a thrill of excitement deep in his bowels. It felt to him that God was determined to remove all impediments to his successful capture of Will.

But even God can have a change of heart.

They rode through a narrow defile and on up a valley, before finally breasting a hill; there they were presented with a series of fields, the crops ripening nicely. It was a scene of rich plenty. ‘I could live in a place like this,’ a man said, and Berenger thought, yes. This was a land worth winning. A land worth fighting for, a land worth dying for. Perhaps he would be able to come here and live with a monastery. A kindly abbot may allow him to live as a lay-brother, working to erase the stains he had earned on his soul.

They came to a lip, and before them they could see a wide plain leading to the river.

It was a strange place. Dykes criss-crossed it, the water in them gleaming silver in the sunshine; stands of coppiced willow dotted it, and alder, and reeds formed great green swathes. The reek of marshes came to them on the wind.

‘I hope there is a bridge,’ Fulk said.

‘Aye, shite, I can’t swim, Frip, you know that,’ Clip whined.

Berenger followed their eyes. The rains of the last days had filled the river so that where a meandering watercourse had once lazily idled, now a torrent raged.

He stared with encroaching despair to see the mad waters. It was thick, wide and brown with silt and sand, and it had broken over its banks and flooded large parts of the plain before him. At first he stared keenly, trying to strain his eyes to see the company of men which Will had taken from him, but as he peered at the view, he could see nothing. There was no sign of a group of men riding over that sodden landscape, no glint of steel in the sunshine, no rising dust from four hundred hoofs. Nothing.

He slumped back in his saddle struck dumb with the enormity of his disappointment. All the way here he had been convinced that he would encounter Will and that somehow, before the end of the day, Will would be dead. To be confronted with this emptiness was shattering.

‘Is that him?’ Fulk asked.

Berenger shot him a look, and then gazed in the same direction. There, over at the farthest extent of the plain, far over to the west, there was a thin line. Of course there was no dust, he told himself. The whole area was drenched in water from the rain and now the river, but that looked like a winding line of men making their way through an unfamiliar and rather dangerous landscape.

‘Yes! It must be them!’ he cried and spurred his horse.

The road took them down a slope and then on towards the Loire. It was not steep, but after all the rains, the road was slippery and treacherous, with shifting gravels making their beasts slide and slither uncomfortably. Soon they reached the bottom, and were thundering through the puddles and mud towards the little line of men in the distance.

Berenger cursed his eyesight. He was sure that Will was riding on at speed, but it was impossible to tell with his eyes. Normally it would be possible to gauge distances by the height and thickness of the plume of dirt and dust that were thrown up by the hoofs, and without that he felt oddly naked, as though he was being watched by hundreds of unseen eyes. There were few trees nearby, but as they rode, Berenger was aware of rows of small bushes and thick scrubland that could hide a hundred crossbowmen. It was daunting to ride along, expecting at any time to hear a screamed command and see ranks of archers rise with crossbows ready, hear that hideous thrumming of strings, and see the bolts flying at them. At close quarters like this there was little a man could do to protect himself from crossbows, apart from pray for safety and hope that the first wave of missiles missed him. If the first missed, there was always the hope that a man could ride in and hack at the archers before they could latch their strings to their belt hooks to span them a second time.

But blessedly there was no array of archers here and Berenger rode on with his unease dissipating. Not entirely leaving him, but at least losing some of its intensity. Soon he would be in front of Will, and then . . .

‘Frip, I don’t like this,’ Robin said.

‘What is there to like? We’ll ride to them and . . .’

‘They don’t look English. That looks to me more like a party of men-at-arms than English bowmen. They are all armoured, and I can see no bows. Can you?’

Berenger was not prepared to discuss the imperfections of his eyesight. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Shit!’

Clear on the air there came the sound of orders, a blast on a horn, and the whole line of men before them halted and began to turn to face them.

Berenger looked up at Robin. ‘You are sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure!’

Fulk peered ahead. ‘They all bear lances.’

Clip said. ‘Aye, well, we’re all going to get killed this day.’

‘Shut up, Clip,’ Berenger snapped. Now he could see them more clearly. They were turning in the narrow way. ‘Vintaine! Let’s get out of here! Retreat!’