Berenger took half the vintaine with him when he strode to seek out Will and his men.

Will’s men were resting in a tavern that they had broken into, liberating casks of wine and some beer, and as Berenger stood in the doorway, he saw the men, many of them sprawled across tables and on benches. There was a soft, warm odour of a byre: bad breath, farts and the sourness of urine and spilled wine.

‘Where is Will?’ Berenger asked. The Donkey and Robin walked in with him to stand at his side, while Clip and Dogbreath sidled in as though looking for a purse to cut.

‘What do you want with me? Oh! Good God, it’s Fripper! Remember him, boys? He was the commander you used to have before me!’

Will was bleary-eyed after a night’s carousing, and his smile was twisted as though he was yet half-drunk. He had a green pottery drinking horn in one hand and he lifted it now in ironic salute. ‘This is the man you had to get rid of. Remember?’

Berenger had a clear vision of how he had appeared when he was still in command of the company. Will was drunk, yes, but so had Berenger been almost every day when he was leading the men. Now it was he who was sober, and Will who was embittered, miserable, sullen and steeped in wine and beer. ‘I have no quarrel with you, Will.’

‘Oh, but you do, I think.’

‘You’re drunk.’

‘You dare say that to me?’

Berenger looked into Will’s eyes and saw the desperation. Will had aspired to command, but now he had the position, he hated the solitude. He was no original thinker, and planning what to do with his company had taxed him. Suddenly Berenger realised why it was Will had joined the English army. It was because Will craved orders from above. Here he felt secure again.

Will continued, ‘You want your men back, don’t you? Not this rabble of pipsqueaks, but a real fighting company of mercenaries that will help you win treasure and glory.’

‘No. I never wanted either,’ Berenger said, but his eyes were roving over the floor. ‘Donkey, is that him?’

There was a man with a thick beard and black hair at the rear of the room, lying with a large woman and a younger, slim lad beside him. He glared back at Berenger with suspicion. Seeing Donkey and Berenger approach, he suddenly sprang to his feet and watched them with growing anger.

‘Is it, Donkey?’ Berenger said again.

Donkey nodded. ‘Let me take him, Frip.’

Will drank his wine and let the horn fall to the floor. It smashed. ‘What is this?

‘You’ve been harbouring a murderer,’ Berenger said, moving through the bodies on the floor and benches. ‘That man has killed women and girls all the way from Bordeaux.’

‘Don’t talk nonsense!’ Will said. He moved forward to try to grab Fripper’s cotte, but he stumbled and missed.

The younger fellow was standing now, and he gazed from Berenger to the black-haired man with fear. His hand was on his knife.

‘Don’t pull your dagger against me, boy,’ Berenger said. ‘You’ll be putting yourself between a King’s Officer and a felon, and that won’t work well for you.’

‘You can’t take Bernard!’ the younger man said.

‘Shut up, Arnaud,’ Bernard spat.

‘But, Bernard, what would I do? You’re my brother!’

‘Leave me, Arnaud,’ Bernard said. He reached down to the woman, who squeaked in alarm. ‘Come with me, Gaillarde,’ he said more gently, but she pulled away from him in terror.

‘Then die here, you bitch!’ he snarled, kicking at her, and then he was off. There was a door at the rear of the chamber, and he darted through it like a ferret into a warren.

‘Get him!’ Berenger shouted, and was after him as fast as he could go.

The room behind was a store room, filled with crates and bales and barrels. Berenger had only moved two paces when his shin caught the corner of a chest and he almost went down, but he was soon hurtling along through the dusty air, through to the door at the rear.

This gave out into a yard filled with firewood and the detritus of a tavern: shards of broken pottery, shit, old bones and rotting vegetables. A hound was lying dead at the far side, killed while guarding his owner’s tavern, no doubt, and there was a mess at the farther end of the yard that Berenger thought might be the owner himself, but then he was out and into a small lane. Up ahead he saw the black-haired man, and took off in pursuit, his men behind him. They raced through puddles of rainwater and urine, their boots thundering in the narrow corridor between buildings. There was barely space here for a handcart, let alone a wagon of any sort. A flailing tendril of bramble caught at his brow, the thorns ripping a ragged tear in his flesh that stung, but then he pulled his cap further over his head and hurried on.

They came out into a thoroughfare. On a normal day this would have been filled with people visiting the market, but today it was almost deserted. So many of the inhabitants had fled on hearing of the approach of the English. Now Berenger saw the fleeing figure heading towards the church with its two towers. ‘Robin! Don’t let him inside!’

His archer squinted at the figure, then took up an arrow, nocked, bent his bow and let fly all in one easy movement. Berenger saw the arrow climb into the sky, swoop like a hawk, and then plummet. It fell into the man’s upper thigh, and he was thrown flat on his face, stunned as his forehead struck the cobbles.

Berenger and the others ran after him, and as though suddenly realising his danger, Bernard clambered to his hands and knees, shaking his head. He stood, tottering, and as Berenger reached him, he saw how pale and blanched the man’s face had grown.

‘It’s easy to murder children, but you don’t like pain yourself, though, do you?’ Berenger snarled through gritted teeth.

Gaillarde had fallen onto some old pots, and now she sat up, nursing her forearm where a shard of pottery from Will’s drinking horn had torn a long cut.

‘Are you all right?’ Arnaud asked, his handsome young features anxious.

‘Yes, nothing that won’t heal,’ she said.

‘You must be careful of things like that,’ he said. ‘You are a woman, and you have so much to atone for.’

‘Me?’

‘The Fall, the temptation of Adam with the apple. Women are responsible for so much.’

‘I don’t think we—’

‘You are lucky. I will protect you,’ he said. But then he held her hand tightly. ‘But you must stay with me. I can’t protect you if you leave me.’

‘I don’t need any protection. I can go to my husband.’

‘You would leave me here alone?’

She looked into his face and saw his devastation. ‘Perhaps I will stay here for a little while.’

After all, she thought, Denisot may not want her back after her rejection of him. He wouldn’t realise that Bernard had been threatening her with death, were she to leave him.

Sir John listened to the evidence in the hall of his own building. The owners had been successful merchants of some sort, from the look of the tapestries and wall paintings. Biblical scenes were portrayed on all sides, and Berenger thought it was a most incongruous scene, with Sir John sitting on a throne-like seat with his sword in his lap, while the vintaine stood behind him, apart from Robin and Imbert, who stood on either side of their captive as if to emphasise how much shorter he was than they.

Will and his men were grouped near the door facing Sir John as he began. ‘What is your full name?’

‘Bernard of Rouen.’

‘You have been accused of the rape and murder of a number of girls and women. What do you say?’

‘I’m innocent.’

‘Very well. This is not an English court of law, but a martial court. I am judge here. Who will speak against him?’

Donkey stepped up first, and stood staring at the knight.

‘Come on, Donkey. Give us your name.’

‘Ed of Southampton.’

‘What do you say?’

‘It was when I was in Bordeaux, before I made my way here. I saw a girl hanging from a wall. It was only as I got closer that I saw she was a child, little more. Her hands had been nailed to the wall of a building, and there was blood, you know, between her legs.’

‘You guessed she was raped?’

‘Yes, Sir John. She was only a child. Perhaps nine years? No more. And in front of her, I saw this man,’ he said, pointing. ‘He heard me and ran away, but not until he’d stabbed her. She was dead when I reached her.’

‘I see. What else?’

‘That is all, Sir John.’

He was allowed to return to the ranks of the vintaine, while more men were called. One was Denisot, who stood and told of the bodies he had found.

‘Did you see the man who was said to be guilty?’

‘No, sir, but the herdsman who saw the men rape the girl outside her parents’ house described the man he saw return and kill her. It was the image of this fellow, sir.’

‘Wait, Sir John,’ Will said. ‘Will you not have any dispute of the facts?’

‘This is a martial court. There are no pleaders and justices of gaol delivery here,’ Sir John said. ‘Is there anyone else who has something to add?’

‘I do,’ said Thomas de Ladit. He had been at the back of the crowd and now he was glad to be able to speak. He recalled the stories of all the girls killed in such despicable ways all those years ago and glared sternly at Bernard. ‘I am named Thomas de Ladit, and I am the Chancellor to his Royal Highness, King Charles of Navarre. I know this man.’

‘What do you have to say?’

‘I knew Bernard and his brother when they were in the entourage of my King, before his illegal capture by King John of France, and they were, I thought, good, loyal men. However, when I was myself caught and brought here to the English army to help with your Prince’s war, I met Bernard. He told me I should not talk to anyone about certain deaths about Rouen.’

‘What deaths?’

Thomas grimaced. ‘Many young women, some children, were tortured and murdered: they were crucified. These deaths shocked all in the area. The peasants were alarmed and anxious, wondering what kind of a Devil could commit such offences.’

‘And this Bernard commanded you to hold your tongue on such matters?’

‘Yes. On pain of death.’

Sir John looked again at the man standing between Robin and Imbert. ‘You, Bernard of Rouen. What do you have to say to all this?’

The man stared back at the knight, then nodded with his lip curled. ‘It was me, aye. I did them.’

Sir John shrugged towards Thomas. ‘Then let justice take its course. Fripper, you see to it.’

‘Sir John.’

There was a great oak out by the main gate to the town. Berenger walked out from Sir John’s hall to where a cart was waiting. He held the pony’s halter while the priest came out. He began to intone the Pater Noster as the men helped Bernard up onto a cart. The captive’s hands were bound to a ring in the cart’s body, and the vintaine took up position all about the cart before they began the slow march to the execution site. Behind them, some few of Will’s company stood and then straggled along in their wake. Arnaud was there, his face downcast, his hat in his hands like a man before an altar, but Will himself merely spat at the ground as his man was pushed onto the cart, and then made his way back to the tavern with most of his men. Berenger thought that they would be spending the rest of the day with wine and women, rather than helping with the town’s defences. That was good. He wanted to see as little of the man who had tried to kill him as possible.

His bitterness was undimmed, but now, having seen Will, he was surprised to find his feelings had altered. Where he had once been enraged to think of the death of Alazais and her boys, now he felt mere contempt for the cowardice and deceit of the man who had caused her murder.

Will had once been a proud, competent fighter, an ideal sergeant and second-in-command, but now he was a husk of his former self. The loneliness of authority had sapped his confidence. He had once been the darling of the men, but once he was placed in command, he had learned that the loyalty and affection of the troops was as reliable as marsh gas. From the moment he began to give his commands, he would have found how much more hard it was to lead a group of other vinteners and men, rather than the twenty he was used to commanding. He had learned the sad truth of command. A commander has no real friends, only willing servants. If a commander tried to ingratiate himself with his men, they would no longer respect him. Berenger had learned that early on, and it was a lesson he would not forget.

Their path took them along a broad thoroughfare, and as they reached the gates, Berenger glanced back. Bernard and Arnaud were staring at each other, Bernard with a fixed determination in his cold, dark eyes, Arnaud with a reluctant misery.

‘They were brothers, you remember?’ Saul said.

‘I’d forgotten, but yes. Now I recall.’

It was an added burden, Berenger thought, to know that you were leaving a brother alone in the world. Arnaud looked like a boy who could hardly remember to tie his laces, let alone fight in a battle. He would have to take care of the lad.

They reached the tree. The priest stood beside the cart as Clip sprang up into it and flung a rope at the nearest limb. It struck the limb itself and he cowered with his hands over his head as it fell back on top of him, to the ribald amusement of the men all around. Clip glared at them, looped the rope once more and hurled it with similar lack of success. Robin pushed him from the cart and made a large knot, gathered up the coils, gazed up thoughtfully, and then threw it. The knot ran over the limb, but stayed tangled in the branches. In the end, Dogbreath climbed up the oak and crawled out along the limb, dropping the rope to the cart.

Eager hands untied Robin’s knot and fashioned a loose running knot. It was tied off at the base of the tree, and the noose placed over Bernard’s neck. He breathed in as the knot was tightened, while two men gripped his wrists to stop him trying to remove it. The priest asked if he had any comment to make, but he shook his head. His eyes were still fixed on his brother.

Berenger waited until the men on the cart nodded to him, before smacking the rump of the pony. The beast moved, startled, and the cart was pulled away. Bernard fell from the back, his hands going to his throat as the desperate fight for life began, his heels jerking spasmodically while his eyes bulged. His mouth opened to release a guttural, bestial sound, but nothing else came. Gradually, over some minutes, the movements eased and grew more gentle, as if he was only going to sleep, and instead of the creaking and crackling of the rope, all Berenger could hear was the soft sobbing of Arnaud.