Tuesday 13 September

Twenty miles. It was only twenty miles.

Berenger took the men at a leisurely pace to the south and east as he had been ordered, and soon they were in a large forest, with trees that rose on all sides. It was silent, and the wind seemed to miss them, but gusted over their heads. The clouds were bucketing past high overhead, and the sun flared and burned them for minutes at a time before fading as a fresh cloud smothered her. The path they followed was narrow, a mere peasant’s path through the woods, and there was thick undergrowth on either side at the line of trees; after some time the road began to climb gently into the hills. Berenger kept looking at the trees and recalling the ambush intended to distract the men that had nearly gone so badly for him and the vintaine. Where was that? On the march to one of the towns they had captured. He couldn’t remember which now. The assaults and towns all merged into one. An unending series of attacks and killings.

‘Keep your eyes open,’ he called quietly to Robin, who rode along behind him.

He heard the message pass back along his column of men, and he knew that to his left, Hawkwood was doing the same. Hawk was out of his line of sight on another track through the trees, and Berenger’s ears strained all the while to hear any sounds of a fight: shouts, ringing of steel on steel, the whinnying of a horse in agony – but there was nothing. Only an occasional burst of birdsong, the hiss of leaves catching a breeze, the irregular clatter of men and horses at a fast trot. The road climbed a little more steeply, and the land to the left fell away, the tops of the trees falling lower and lower until Berenger could look over them all.

‘Ah don’t like this. We’ll all get killed, you know.’

‘Shut up, Clip,’ Berenger said automatically. He didn’t need that sort of comment now. He was struck again by the conviction that no matter who else died in battle, it would never be Clip. The man carried his own defensive aura of impregnable certainty with him. There was nothing could penetrate his confidence, not even a bolt from a Genoese crossbow, and . . .

There was a sound up ahead, and Berenger held up his hand. The column halted; apart from the blowing of the ponies and the occasional pawing of hoofs at the dusty ground, Berenger could hear nothing.

‘What is it, Frip?’ Robin said. He had ridden to Berenger’s side and now sat on his own mount, listening intently.

Berenger shook his head, his eyes narrowed, and then he dropped from his saddle and took his bow. He strung it and took five arrows from his riding quiver, signalling to Robin to remain where he was, then Berenger trotted up the track, his shoes making little noise in the dusty roadway. There was a slight rise and then the road curved to the right, and Berenger crouched lower as he approached. Stopping a moment, he listened, and then he caught the noise again.

It was not a discernible sound, but a low grumble that almost seemed to come up from his feet. He knew at once what it was, but he edged forward carefully nonetheless, dropping to his hands and knees as he approached the edge of the road and could stare down at the plain.

‘Shit!’

Wednesday 14 September

The response to the vintaine’s news was instant. Berenger met with Hawkwood’s men on their way back to La Haye, and when Berenger had reported to Sir John, Hawkwood was able to corroborate the main facts: the French were hurrying south in an attempt to overhaul the English and block their path. If they succeeded, it would hold the English forces and the French could call on other levies to come and help crush the Prince’s army.

At dawn on the Wednesday Berenger and the vintaine were already on their horses, riding warily south and west and looking for any further sign of the French. They searched from the high ground, with Berenger grumpily sitting on his horse while Hawkwood and Robin, with their better eyesight, searched diligently for any flashes of armour, rising dust from a column of troops marching, or any other indications of movement. There was nothing they could see, and the English army soon reached Chatellerault. The town had the sense to surrender without a fight. It meant many would lose much, but at least most would remain alive.

Berenger stood at the town’s walls and stared at the land all about while the men about him dug pits and erected wooden barricades to break any assault in the lands before the town’s gate. The clatter of picks and hammers was everywhere.

The hills rose, rippling like giant waves, curling each on another, but in the town itself there were few vantage points to see the countryside around. It left him feeling enclosed: trapped. He longed to find a horse and escape this place.

‘Not happy, Fripper?’

‘Archibald! I didn’t hear you.’

‘No, well, I rarely hear much myself now,’ the old gynour commented. He poked a finger into his ear and wiggled it experimentally.

Berenger gave a grin. ‘I expect so,’ he said.

‘You should come and see us,’ Archibald said. ‘We have a quiet little shed where the powders can be kept safe and dry, and Beatrice is proving to be a marvellous cook. She can work wonders with a couple of pigeons or conies.’

‘I have many duties.’

Archibald eyed him with a look of grim distaste. He looked like a father peering at a wayward son. ‘Oh, is that so, Master Fripper? What is it that scares you? In the past it was an irrational dislike of my powders that kept you away. Now it’s your tarse, isn’t it? Or is it that you fear your prickle would do nothing?’

Berenger felt the flash of anger like a torch in his breast. He took a step forward, and he scarcely realised that his hand was on his dagger until Archibald’s voice came to him.

‘Old friend, I didn’t mean to make you quite that angry. It wasn’t my intention. My apologies.’

Berenger looked down to see that his dagger was more than half-drawn. Archibald’s hand was on his, and as the gynour saw his glance, he gently removed his hand.

‘I . . . I’m sorry, Master Gynour,’ Berenger said. He thrust the dagger back into its sheath and suddenly felt enormously weary. A shudder convulsed his frame. ‘Come, let me buy you a cup or two of wine, my friend.’

‘What is it, Fripper?’ Archibald asked as they walked.

‘I am too old. When my wife died, when my children died, that was terrible. But then another woman was murdered for her growing affection for me – or perhaps because of her fear for her life if I had left – and her death brought me back to my senses. I saw the look in Béatrice’s eyes when we met again. She wants my love, but every woman I touch comes to harm, and I will not be responsible for another woman’s hurt and injury. I cannot.’

‘What will you do?’

‘I will find a monastery and install myself there as a corrodian. I will tell the novices all about my great history and make them excited and scared to hear that such an ancient old bastard could have had so exciting a life. And then I will die, shriven and content, and await the judgement in peace.’

‘You will go and rest? You? I never thought to see the day I would hear you say that!’

‘I have killed enough men already. I’ve been responsible for the deaths of too many, Archibald. That knowledge takes its toll of a man.’

‘You should see her, Fripper. She will have no man but you.’

‘What of Ed? The Donkey was a good fellow, as I recall.’

‘Well, he is a strong worker. So is an ox. It doesn’t make the ox any more attractive to a woman.’

Fripper grinned at that. ‘Perhaps not.’

‘Come and see her, Frip. She would like that.’

Berenger turned back to the hills and felt again that tight, anxious feeling of being imprisoned. ‘I will.’

The barn which Archibald had taken was near the southern part of the town. It was enormous, and it had been easy for him to manipulate the wagons into the space. Now, when Berenger walked in, there were fifteen men sitting at a fire outside the main wall. Archibald stalked inside quickly and cast his eyes about the room with a quick suspicion before turning to Berenger with a shrug of apology.

‘It’s my task to ensure that the powder is always safe,’ he explained. ‘It is so choleric that a man wearing the wrong type of boot can set it off. If he has studs, if he strikes a spark from a cobble, if a fellow grinds the powder too long and too hard, or any number of other problems will lead to its explosion.’

‘It is still dangerous, then?’ Berenger said, looking at the small barrels stored so close.

‘It is safe, my friend. Never forget, these are the very powders that will save our lives. It is these that will drive our missiles towards the enemy and ravage them, rending the limbs from their bodies.’

‘You speak most eloquently.’

‘And you speak like a fearful soldier,’ Archibald chuckled. ‘Come!’

He had a chamber created at the farther end of the barn. A doorway led to a small yard, and here Berenger met Beatrice once more. Archibald walked out, loudly calling to Ed, and in an instant Berenger was alone with her, silently cursing Archibald under his breath.

‘Maid, I hope I see you well?’ he ventured.

She nodded. Béatrice was wearing a simple tunic and chemise, and she stirred a pot of meaty broth that gave off a delicious odour.

He sat on the ground. ‘I am glad.’

‘I am content. You have ridden far while scouting, I hear tell?’

‘Aye. We have found the enemy’s army.’

‘Good. You said your wife died of the pestilence,’ she said.

‘She – and our boys,’ Berenger said. He felt the grief as a pin-prick to his heart, but he resolutely pushed it down. It was too long ago.

‘I am sorry.’

‘It was a long time ago. There’s no need to be.’

Berenger looked up at her and as he did so, she was looking at him. All at once he felt the pain in his breast again, that poignant sensation of loss and grief and hope and despair all thrown together and carefully mingled like Archibald’s serpentine. ‘Béatrice, I . . .’

He got no further. There was a scuffling of feet outside, and then the steady trot of a company of men on horseback, and even as he looked up, he saw the gynour and Ed return. Then, through the open gateway he saw the men riding. In the front was Will, then a line of other men from his company. ‘What is it?’ he snapped.

‘Ed’s gone mad, that’s all!’

‘No, I swear it was him, Master. It was the man from Bordeaux!’

‘What man from Bordeaux?’ Berenger asked.

‘The man I saw crucify and murder a young child,’ Ed said. ‘He was there, that big, black-haired bastard. I want to see him pay for that!’

Thursday 15 September

‘So, Fripper, you wanted to speak with me?’ Sir John said. He was breaking his fast with a slab of cheese and a pot of wine. He had a small round loaf of peasant bread on his plate, and was chewing hard. ‘I don’t know how the peasants here keep their teeth,’ he grumbled. ‘There is more stone in this than flour. Even the peas seem hard as gravel. Come, Fripper, what is it?’

‘We have discovered who the murderer was.’

Sir John leaned back in his chair and stared at him. ‘You are still pursuing this feud when I told you to desist? I think I said to you that I would not stand in your path, were you to leave the army, but that you were to be silent on the subject.’

‘And I have been. But last evening the Donkey saw a man whom he recognised from his time in Bordeaux. He saw this fellow kill a young maid in the city, and when he saw the man again yesterday, he could not hold his rage. The man crucified his victim in Bordeaux and then sat down to watch her suffer before stabbing her.’

‘As I said to you before, this matter is closed.’

‘Sir John, the Donkey is enraged to find the man. He will not rest until he sees this man punished.’

‘And let me guess, it is Will, is it not? Your personal feelings are getting the better of you, Fripper, and will undo you.’

‘No, Sir John. It’s not him. It’s one who was not long in the company when I left. A black-haired man with the look of a Breton or Cornishman. You know the sort of fellow: black hair, blue eyes, strong build, not too tall. This was the man who has murdered children and young women all the way from Bordeaux to Uzerche and now with the Prince’s army. He is evil, Sir John.’

‘In which case half the army is evil, and—’

Berenger lost his temper finally. He brought his fist down onto the knight’s trestle table, making the cheese leap up and wine slosh over the cup’s rim. ‘In God’s name! Will you not listen to any man who talks sense to you? Should I demand that Paul the priest come here to advise you? Should I bring in the Donkey that you may interrogate him? It took us an hour of the evening to calm him when he saw the man, and if you do nothing to slay this murderer, you will find that you will lose me and the Donkey and others because we will see him pay for his manifest crimes!’

‘For the sweet love of Jesus, man, do you not realise what is happening out there?’ Sir John bellowed in his turn. He swept his arm out, encompassing the town and environs. ‘A matter of miles away to the south, the French have set up camp in Chauvigny. That was why Will came back to us here, to warn us that we run the risk of being blocked. If the French have scouts watching us, and you can be very certain that they do, they will be able to tear into our columns in force while we are on the march once we leave here. But you would have me accuse and arrest a man who is a most competent fighter and archer, because you feel sadness for a few women raped and slain? Are you mad? We need every strong warrior we can field just now. We need to protect this town, and if the French do not come, we will need every soul ready to fight as we march away. If I were to worry about this one fellow, the rest of the army will suffer!’

‘Sir John, if you do nothing, the men will take matters into their own hands,’ Berenger said.

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘If the men see a man getting away with this, they will lose respect for discipline. It is different when they capture a town and are set loose on the women there. This is a man who takes pleasure from crucifying and slaying children. They do not want to be about him. He will be slain, whether you like it or no. And when that happens, you will have a matter of military discipline to resolve. Instead of only that man, you will have one, maybe two more to execute, and the army will be three men fewer when we have to face the French.’

‘You drive a hard bargain.’

‘It is no bargain. This is a deal with the Devil.’