They were moving off through the late afternoon. In among the trees no wind could ruffle the branches, and the men were soon sweating.

Berenger had taken an entry point into the woods some fifty yards away from the main column. As he sat on his mount, waiting, he could see the Captal de Buch and his men-at-arms on their beasts. The Captal was working his reins through his gauntlets, pulling them tight, loosening them, pulling them tight again, while his mount vigorously nodded his head up and down. The tension was getting to all of them, men and beasts. Berenger found himself touching the hilts of his sword, his dagger, the arrows stuffed into his belt, almost as though they each held talismanic qualities. But it was less that, more the fact that he wanted to know they were all there, in place still. He didn’t want to throw himself into a fight and discover that his weapons had disappeared.

There was a raised arm from the Captal, and then all the men were plunging into the woods.

All at once it was dark. There were cries and the crack of whips over to their left, but they could see nothing of the rest of the column. Only the sounds, the occasional crackle of a sapling being broken down, the rumble of the wagons’ wheels thundering over rocks and roots, the crackle and rustle of brambles and bushes being trampled into the mire.

Berenger and the men continued onwards. So limited was the line of sight, that even Berenger could see the trees at the edge of their vision. Beyond was a blur of tree trunks and thick vegetation. It felt at every pace that the trees were creeping closer and closer, as if they were sentient and determined to squash these intruders.

Usually Berenger would not be prey to such superstitions, but here in the woods it was easy to be struck by atavistic terrors, when any tree could conceal a Genoese archer or French man-at-arms with a hundred bowmen at his command. And still there was no stream.

Berenger had to snap at Imbert and Baz, who were engaged in a loud argument about the quality of French wine compared to good English Bordeaux (Baz hated both) and tell them to be silent.

He was very thirsty. The dust and warm weather were making him sweat in his thick, padded gambeson. The feeling of thickness in his throat was more due to the grit he had inhaled, and he could do with refilling his bottle as soon as possible. There had been no opportunity to refill it on the march, and now he looked about him for a stream running through the woods with increasing urgency but no success.

His men were making more and more noise as they went, but it was the noise of horses: rattles and clinks of chains, the creak of leather, the snapping of twigs and occasional whinnies or blowing of nostrils. At each sound, Berenger cringed, and he felt his back stiffen as if in preparation for a crossbow bolt or slingshot, but there was nothing. After the first mile, he began to relax a little. After the second, he was able to ride without ducking at every loud crack of a breaking branch, and by the third he was comfortable enough.

They had travelled four to five miles when he had a sudden shock. The trees began to thin, and through them he could see the sky at last. They were nearing the edge of the wood.

‘Hawkwood, take the left,’ Grandarse said. ‘Frip, we’re at the edge. You need to send someone to the Captal to warn him. Then you come with me. We’ll go and protect the right flank from attack that side.’

‘Yes, Centener. We should have more men.’

‘Will two more vintaines be enough?’

Berenger nodded and soon they had disposed the men. Now Berenger took his men to join the force of some fifty dismounted archers. Taking their bows in hand, their arrows in their belts, he led them to the thick vegetation that grew at the edge of the trees. He crouched, signalling to the others to do the same, and peered ahead, aware all the while of Grandarse’s stertorous breathing behind him. There was no sign of man nor beast on the road. He beckoned Robin and had him gaze along the road. Berenger looked at him, and was about to signal to the men to join him, when Robin grabbed his sleeve and shook his head.

‘There are at least five hundred of them, sir,’ Robin said. ‘At the edge of the woods, I could see them. It looks like they’re beginning to settle for the night.’

‘Where do they come from?’

‘I saw many flags, but I don’t know what they mean,’ Robin admitted. ‘I don’t know the heraldry of France.’

The Captal de Buch peered at him from those shrewd little eyes for a moment longer, before turning to Berenger. ‘You?’

‘You can trust Robin. He’s never been wrong before.’

‘I see. In that case, we shall attack. Gentlemen, we are evenly matched in numbers, but we have the weapons and the hearts of Guyenne. Ready yourselves.’

‘Guyenne? More bleeding England,’ Berenger heard Grandarse mutter as he hurried back to his own men, who grabbed additional arrows from their cart. As he looked along his own vintaine, Berenger could see the different emotions displayed. Robin was standing almost stock-still, head slightly back, gazing into the distance as he calmed himself, his fingers running along the fletchings of his arrows; Baz was fretfully working at the laces tying his hosen, as though they might fall in a fight and embarrass or entangle him; Imbert was thoughtfully swiping his sharpening stone up and down his sword in a meditative manner, as though he was considering the hordes of men whom he would slay; Clip was swearing to himself in a steady monotone.

‘What is it, Clip?’ Berenger asked.

‘Ach, we’re all going to die. What’s the point moaning? We’re all going to be killed.’

Berenger heard Saul mutter, ‘Shut up, Clip,’ and grinned.

For himself, he was aware of a fretfulness. There was an anxiety that would not leave him. Perhaps it was the atmosphere here in among the trees, or the thirst that was raging in his throat, but for some reason he felt as though his hearing and his sight were more keen than ever before. He felt as though he was soon to die, and that his body and soul were not ready yet.

‘Holy Father,’ he began, but then stopped. He had no idea how to frame a question or request of God. It was impossible to know how to start. In truth, the only prayer he knew was the Pater Noster, after long familiarisation. He was about to start reciting it, but then lifted the Infirmarer’s crucifix to his lips and kissed it. Just then, Grandarse farted and pointed forward with a grin.

‘They’re over there, lads! Let’s go and get stuck into them!’

With a crash and roar from two hundred voices, the Gascons spurred their great mounts forward. Berenger and his men darted across the road and waited while the Captal de Buch and his men-at-arms thundered along the track.

They had come to a farmstead in the trees, and now the men were pounding along the track at a fast canter; as they approached the French, they spurred their destriers to the gallop as the horns blew, and their gay lance-pennons dipped in unison as the men couched them for the first clash.

It was a slaughter. The French had been settling for the evening, preparing their cooking fires and pots, and had never thought that the English could appear behind them. The idea of passing through the forest had not occurred to them, and to suddenly be confronted with a glittering array of lance-points threw the entire camp into confusion. Men scattered wildly, struck with terror, throwing down pots and pans in their mad rush, while only a few tried to rally and grabbed swords or lances for their defence.

‘Archers! Ready!’ Berenger bellowed, and the archers moved with him to follow the men-at-arms.

There were three wealthy noblemen who had moved to join each other and stood now with a handful of squires and sergeants, all gripping swords and preparing to sell their lives dearly. Behind them Berenger could see men running. Already a number were lying dead, trampled or stabbed and flung aside.

‘Nock!’ he called. There were others moving up already. It would be useful to have some archers held in reserve to avert a fresh attack.

‘Frip, you’re joking, aren’t you?’ Clip said. ‘There’re good hostages up there! Look, there’s no one else coming!’

Berenger was about to argue, but as he looked about, he could see Clip was right. ‘Men! Take what you can!’

A bolt hurtled past Berenger’s ear, and he was startled into a run, the others with him.

Clip had been right. The other archers and men-at-arms were already congregating around small knots of men, some risking their own lives, throwing themselves onto the richer, better armoured men in the hope of winning a valuable prize, while those with more common sense and foresight fetched stones or ropes, and tripped or stunned their victims to make them safe.

Not all the French were worthwhile catches. The peasants, grooms and others were of little or no importance and thus pointless prisoners. Those who submitted might be fortunate and left alive. All those who challenged the Gascons were put to death as swiftly as possible, with an arrow or two from close range, or simply overwhelmed by numbers and stabbed when down.

Berenger headed for a knot of soldiers about a bearded man in a thick padded coat. He was roaring at his tormentors, a hand-and-a-half sword in his hands, which he whirled about before him and behind as the men advanced. Berenger pushed the men aside, taking off his gambeson as he walked, and then wrapped it swiftly about his left arm. When the man’s sword next passed before him, Berenger took hold of his arm, pulled, and held the man’s sword against his protected arm as he threw the man bodily over his shoulder and onto the ground. ‘Yield!’

‘Not to a damned peasant!’ the man spat. Berenger nodded understandingly, and then slammed his elbow into the man’s face with as much force as he could muster. He felt the man’s nose break, and in the momentary peace, he wrenched the sword from his hands and held it at the man’s throat. ‘Fuck you!’ he said.

He had an argument with two of the men who had been ringing his captive about, but he knelt on the man’s back and bound his hands with a cord, ignoring the complaints and commentary about his ancestry. ‘Grandarse! You want a share?’

The older man walked to him, kicking and shoving the arguing men aside as he came, and agreed to share in a third of the value of the man. With his agreement, Berenger rose and helped Grandarse lead their prisoner away.

‘Well?’ Grandarse said.

‘He was a knight,’ Berenger said. ‘With luck he’ll bring in some money.’

‘Aye, not a bad day’s work,’ Grandarse said.

He was lying on his side near their fire. The English had taken the booty and prisoners and left the farmstead to the dead, retreating back deep into the forest, and now with a strong party of sentries surrounding their camp, the English were resting after their labours.

‘Not bad at all. We killed or captured some two hundred and fifty, and there were two Counts in among the prisoners, as well as another important French courtier. There will be some fortunes made today.’

‘All to the good. And hopefully, tomorrow we will be away from here before the Frenchies notice. Ach! I love this life,’ Grandarse said with satisfaction, rolling over. ‘Just as a man thinks all is going to shite, we catch some French monkeys and get the chance of a decent night’s sleep.’

Berenger nodded, but he had one thought uppermost in his mind just now: the whole vintaine needed water. He and others had looted the French camp for whatever they could find, but now he was thirsty again. With luck they would find water on the morrow.

They ate biscuits and some meat they had liberated from the French camp, and a few of the men were already snoring when a boy came through the trees. He was wearing the particoloured hosen and tunic of a King’s Messenger, and every so often would call out. ‘Centener? Centener?’

‘Aye, boy, I’m here,’ Grandarse grumbled, rolling over until he was sitting up again. ‘What is it, lad?’

‘You are to have your men ready before dawn, Centener. The captured French have told us where the French army is to be found, and we expect to fight them tomorrow.’

Grandarse cast a look at Berenger. ‘Ballocks! Into the fire again, Frip.’