'Maid, you are perfectly safe here,' Archibald said. 'No one will try to attack you, and if they do, I will protect you. Do you believe me?'

'Yes,' she said, to please him.

'Good. You stay near to me from now on, and you'll be fine. I have ways of protecting you that these fellows couldn't dream of.'

She nodded, but in her heart she knew he was wrong. There was nowhere in France where she could be safe again. She would have to create her own safety and only she knew how to do that.

15 August Berenger slept badly again that night. Ever and anon he would startle awake and stare about him, and each time he would see the figure of Geoff, sitting on a tree-trunk nearby, staring at the shapes of Beatrice and the Donkey, lying together for warmth under the gynour's cart.

That morning, the army rose early as usual, but as it was the Feast Day of the Virgin Mary and a day of truce, the men had fewer duties and could make the most of their leisure. Even as the vintaine stood-to with their weapons ready, there were raucous cries from other units where the men were already letting off steam.

The cheerful atmosphere spread to everyone except Geoff, who sat apart and did not join in. For the others there was a lightening of hearts at the thought that there was no risk to their lives today. Clip acted like an apprentice after consuming a gallon of ale, and playing tricks on the others. He spent much of the morning trying to pin a strip of parchment with a picture of a donkey badly etched in charcoal on Jack's back without success; then he attempted to persuade the other men that it would be amusing to pick up Berenger and dunk him in the river. He was fortunate to fail in that ambition too.

In the middle of the morning, a wagon rumbled into their encampment and a beaming archer on the bed waved a horn cup at the men, crying, 'Ale from the King!'

There was a rush to the wagon, the men carrying cups, mazers, horns, even two men with heavy goblets, filling them and drinking quickly before returning and refilling them. The man leading the wagon tried to draw away, but his stony expression eased once Clip and Oliver had pressed a cup on him and insisted on refilling it at intervals while he took up station by their fire and regaled the men with tales of the miserliness of other units who had held back with their ale allocations, refusing to whet his thirst.

Berenger saw Geoff standing and drinking near the cart. He was not actively shunned by the other men, but kept himself aloof. Probably all, at one time or another, had partic.i.p.ated in the rape of women in the towns through which they had pa.s.sed to get here, but Geoff's attempt to abuse Beatrice had offended their sense of hospitality. They had welcomed her as a guest in their midst, and she should have been safe.

'You all right?' he said as he pa.s.sed near Geoff.

'Aye, I'm well enough. I just wish she was far away from us, that's all.'

Not long after this Berenger saw the lumbering bulk of Archibald approaching.

'Vintener, I hope I see you well?' the gynour said pleasantly.

'I'm well enough.'

'Let me make your life easier. The maid she is terrified of your men after the attack on her. I'll keep her under my wing, as we agreed; this time, she will not leave my sight.'

'If she is content, that sounds a good idea.'

'But advise your men to keep away from my camp, eh? The powder I use is unstable stuff. If a man were to sneak over and try to molest the girl . . . well, the powder could react badly.'

'I understand. None of my men will try to harm her, I can swear, Gynour.'

'I am glad to hear it.' Archibald moved away, but not before darting a look at Geoff, an expression of loathing darkening his usually amiable features.

16 August It was a little past dawn the next morning when Sir John de Sully trotted up with his esquire.

'I hope I see you well, Master Fripper?' he called, reining in his horse and casting a glance along the men of the vintaine. 'Your fellows all look hale and hearty. I trust they are rested and ready for whatever the day might bring?'

There was a ripple of laughter along the line at that. Even Berenger allowed himself a smile. 'Aye, we'll do, Sir John. Is there news?'

'Yes, and all good. The French have moved. Last afternoon they marched through Paris to the south of the city. They are waiting for us now at the vineyards of Bourg-la-Reine.'

There was a muttering amongst the men at that. Some were excited; others who had hoped for a short, sharp raid and a quick return home afterwards, looked less happy.

'How many?' Berenger asked.

'Frenchmen? Oh, thousands, Fripper. Many more than us.'

'I see.' Berenger glanced at his men. Geoff stood alone; he remained sullen ashamed of his actions but convinced more than ever. Although several of the other men wore expressions of concern, there was no overt alarm. The vintaine had fought before. All the men knew the risks and rewards of battle.

Clip heaved a sigh. 'Aye, well, ye'll all get murdered. That's a fact.'

'Hit him, someone,' Eliot called, and Matt, who stood at Clip's side, clumped him over the head.

'Hoy! What was that for?' Clip demanded.

'Purely personal enjoyment,' Matt replied.

'Shut up, lads,' Berenger said flatly. 'So, Sir John, are we to march to the city?'

'The French have chosen a marvellous site, with rising land leading to their position. It is protected on both flanks, I hear, with trees and thick undergrowth to prevent a charge, and they have Genoese mercenaries to bring down all our men from a great distance.'

Berenger pulled a face. The thought of charging into the Genoese arrow-storm did not appeal. He had fought in battles like that. Invariably it was better to be on the defensive than the attacking side.

Sir John gave a loud chuckle at his expression. 'You think our King was joking when he said he would not meet the French at a time and place of their choosing? No, Fripper. We do not fight today. Instead, we are to cross the river and march north.'

'I thought we were here to fight the French, Sir John,' Geoff called out, frowning.

'Aye, but at a time of our choosing not theirs,' Sir John replied. He nodded to Berenger and spurred away.

It took little time to strike camp. After the last weeks they were well-practised at packing their belongings and stowing cookpots and bedrolls, blankets and bags into the back of the cart, along with the bows and arrows.

'Wonder how the Donkey is,' Clip said as he threw his little haversack in with the others.

'Why? You never cared about him while he was here,' Geoff said.

'He had his uses. Good at fetching and carrying, he was, so long as there weren't any Welsh around.'

'Did you see the Welshman's face?' Geoff said quietly. 'After she flung the powder into the fire. I've never seen anything like it.'

Matt nodded. He was on her side. He liked women. Always had. 'She was in the right. That b.a.s.t.a.r.d was going to rape her our maid, the girl who saved our Donkey. Then all the other men would take their turn. The Welsh b.a.s.t.a.r.d deserved all he got!'

'She stole that powder from Archibald,' Geoff persisted. 'Those d.a.m.ned gynours are more in league with the Devil than His own demons! I hate the smell of brimstone. That poor Welshman. He had no eyes left, did he?'

'He should have left Beatrice alone,' Matt said unsympathetically. 'They were all planning to have their fun with her. It's one thing to take a wench from a town after an a.s.sault, but they knew she was with us. I wouldn't see her molested by a bunch of hairy-a.r.s.ed sheep-swivers. It makes them worse than the French!'

'I'm just glad the wench isn't here any more,' Geoff grumbled on. 'She's a witch. She threatens all our-'

'Oh, change the song, Master Millerson,' Matt sighed. 'I've heard that refrain too often. She's no more a witch than I am!'

'She is bringing bad fortune.'

'Ballocks! She helped the leech to nurse our vintener. Look at him! You can hardly see he was injured.'

'Yes and isn't that proof enough?' Geoff snarled.

'No,' Matt said. He leaned against the cart's wheel and studied Geoff. 'The fact is, the girl is innocent. We're not suffering disaster. Our army is safe still, and when we meet the French, G.o.d willing, we shall carry the field.'

'Why do you protect her?' Clip intervened. 'She's only another little wench with a plump a.r.s.e.'

'Why? Because she came to us freely. She didn't come to bargain her safety. When she saw us first, it was to save the Donkey, and after that, she stayed because she trusted us,' Matt said, looking meaningfully at Geoff.

Geoff coloured. 'Are you saying I-'

'I'm saying nothing, Geoff. But you did betray her trust, didn't you?'

'She would have been worth a tumble though,' Clip said with a sidelong glance at Geoff.

'Shut up!' he rasped.

'Go on! We all saw her t.i.t!' Clip taunted him. 'How was she? Did you only get a quick fondle, or was she keen enough as well?'

Geoff's bitterness and frustration boiled over. In a moment he had spun about, grabbed Clip's cotte and shoved hard, thrusting the other man up against the wagon, Geoff's elbow at his throat. Eyes wild, Clip saw Geoff's fist clench, ready to pound his face, and felt for his knife to defend himself.

'Enough! Enough!' Berenger bellowed, shoving Geoff away. 'There are thousands of Frenchmen waiting to kill us do you want to do their work for them? Geoff, back! Back! Clip, take your hand off your knife right now. I won't have fighting in my vintaine!'

'He went mental,' Clip said, rubbing at his throat. 'Just because he got his hand up that French tart's skirt, he tried to kill me!'

'Get moving!' Berenger said, pushing him forwards. 'We're supposed to be marching.'

He turned to face Geoff, who wouldn't meet his look, but mumbled, 'I'm sorry, Frip. It won't happen again.'

'f.u.c.king right it won't, Geoff. Because if it does, I'll have you flogged!'

They were within sight of the great cathedral town of Beauvais when they stopped for the night. Berenger set the guards and took a turn around the perimeter before he went to the fires and hunkered down at the side of Geoff and Matt.

'All well?' Matt asked.

'I hope so,' Berenger said, glancing at Geoff. 'You all right now?'

Geoff sighed. 'It won't happen again, Frip, like I said. I'm sorry, but he kept on needling me.'

'About the maid?'

'Yes. And I won't have it.'

'You'll b.l.o.o.d.y have to, Geoff. If you don't, the King will see you dangle! This is an army, man! You need to contain your anger.'

'So you said.'

'I'll say it again and again if I think there's any risk of another outburst like that,' Berenger said.

Matt snorted and hawked. 'Any news?'

'The smoke behind us was the bridge going up in flames,' Berenger told him. 'The French won't be able to follow us that way. They'll have to march through Paris to come out this side of the Seine, and then they'll head straight for us, I suppose. They won't want us to harm any more towns or cities.'

'Do you think they'll actually come to blows with us this time?' Matt said. He felt for his sword's hilt with an antic.i.p.atory grin. 'This hanging about is hard on a man. I want to get the fight over with so we can concentrate on plunder!'

'I think we've tugged the French King's beard so hard, it's made his eyes water,' Berenger said.

'Beard? I think it was his short and curlies, Frip.' Matt laughed.

'Well, he's bound to take action now. If he doesn't, none of his people will respect him ever again.'

They were sitting on a little hillock, next to a small stand of beech trees. From here they could see in the far distance a darkening grey cloud where the smoke from the town rose. As the light began to fade, Matt got up, rubbing his a.r.s.e.

'I'm off to find a small skin of wine and take my ease. After all, if you're right, I may not have many more chances, eh?'

As he wandered off back down towards their camp, Berenger looked over at Geoff, sitting moodily nearby.

'What is it, Geoff? You can tell me. This chevauchee has brought you low.'

'It's just that Frenchwoman,' Geoff said. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. Remembering.

There were so many regrets when a man reached his age. So many opportunities lost, so many hollow challenges that could have been better ignored, so many dreams that had been discarded as reality came and thrust them away.

'You just want to go home, old friend. When you get there and see your woman again, you'll be content,' Berenger said soothingly.

'Aye.'

Geoff thought of her now: Sarra, his wife.

'She was a grubby young thing when I met her, you know,' he said. 'A peasant-daughter from the next vill lean, potent, with a pair of b.r.e.a.s.t.s that swung at every step, and an a.r.s.e like puppies in a sack. And so pretty: an oval face with catlike hazel eyes, and a wicked, beckoning look to her. I fell in love with her the first moment I saw her.'

'You married her a long time ago.'

'It was the Feast of Saint John the Baptist, fourteen, fifteen years ago. Her father wouldn't let me near, so we met in a little leaf-strewn clearing in the trees, and there we straightway made love. There was no discussion, no lengthy negotiation. We both knew that we were meant to be married.

'After that, things moved swiftly. We made our vows there in the leaves, in front of friends, before visiting the doddery old fool of a priest, who blessed us at the church door. Afterwards, he declared that it was the first wedding he had legitimised for a couple in love.'

He remembered it all. 'You know, when I was told to go and fight the Scots, I was dead keen. And when I returned Christ's pains! Sarra was so glad to have me return, it was a day before she allowed me from our bed!'

'You are lucky, Geoff. I've never found a woman like that.'

'I never had reason to doubt her affection.' Never, in all those years, he told himself wonderingly.

Berenger was called away by Matt, and when he was alone, Geoff remained, staring into the distance.

She had always been there to look after him: the one fixed point of his life. Until the beginning of summer, when he met Edith.

Young, fresh, wriggling and gorgeous as a summer's morning, she worked in the tavern, and all the men adored her. Her ivory skin, her rich auburn hair, the perfect roses of her lips. She was sweet and taut and soft and bitter, and he longed for her when he was away from her in a way that tormented his soul. Sarra, in comparison, looked like a worn-out drudge.

At his neglect, Sarra grew sharp, with a poisonous tongue that could slay a saint. It made his visits to the tavern to see Edith all the more delightful. Until that day when he wandered home drunk, after spending the day with her, and Sarra tore into him. She shouldn't have done that. It wasn't her place to demand, to insult him and say that he was whoring with all the s.l.u.ts in the alehouses. She shouldn't have spoken to him like that. No man could keep his anger under control, when provoked like that.