'Yes. She is dead,' he said, remembering how her body had caved in when his knife entered her throat. The way she stared up at him as her eyes faded. All because of the ale; all because he was infatuated with a tart from a tavern. He had killed his wife while he was enraged, and the next morning he did not even remember until he found her body. And then the bodies of his sons. He had killed his entire family in his drunken rage and frustration. Perhaps he had reasoned with the logic of a drunkard that, if his family were all gone, he could take Edith for his own and could start a fresh life with her. He shuddered as a vision of Sarra and the boys returned to his mind, their faces blanched, lips blue, eyes dead and flat and instantly felt Beatrice's cool hand on his brow.

'I'm all right,' he gasped. 'Just remembering things.' Tears stood in his eyes.

'Why did you attack me?' she asked.

'I . . . I was desperate. Lonely. And then I saw you, and the sight inflamed me. I was mad, I think.'

There were calls and horns blown and the vintaine rose, ready for the afternoon's march.

'I must go,' she said.

'I thank you. My life is yours now.'

'Perhaps I will have need of it before long,' she said, and was gone.

21 August Berenger had spent an unsatisfactory day with his men, riding to and fro across the line of march of the army and now, at last, they were approaching the river.

The carts made a h.e.l.lish din as they rattled and crashed over the ruts and stones of the tracks. Every so often there would be a short scream as the injured inside them were thrown around, making broken bones move and wounds reopen. Two more men had died from their injuries, and three from a sickness that had spread to many in the army.

It was always the way. Berenger had never yet seen as many men killed in battle as had died from disease. This time, perhaps because the men were moving continually, the illnesses were fewer. It was an interesting thought.

Uppermost in his mind, however, was the whereabouts of the French.

Every day for the last three they had been attacked by groups of militia, but these were uncoordinated a.s.saults. It was the main force that Berenger feared, yet the French had not been sighted.

It was alarming. The English were suffering. Those marching on foot had boots that were worn through, and several men had given up on them, casting them aside or stuffing them in their packs in the hope of finding some leather to mend them with before too long.

In Berenger's mind, there was an ever-ready presence just over the horizon: the French King with his enormous army. And when the first troops of that mighty host appeared, the English had best be ready and waiting or, as Clip foretold, they would all be slaughtered.

He had no idea how many men the French could muster, but everyone knew that with King Philippe's funds, he could hire the most proficient mercenaries from Genoa, Saxony and beyond. There truly was no defence, unless the English could find a perfect piece of land for a battle: an area where they could install themselves to their own satisfaction.

Sir John had mentioned this himself. He had ridden up behind Berenger late yesterday morning, and the vintener had seen how the strain of the last few days was affecting the old knight.

'How are the men, Fripper?'

'Well enough, Sir John.'

'Good. Let's hope this nonsense will soon be over and done with. We need to cross this d.a.m.ned river. Once we are over the other side, then will I be content.'

Sir John cast an eye at Berenger. 'You reminded me of the land north of here. Once we're across the Somme, I recall the ideal place where we could settle and wait for the French to meet us. Do you remember a vill called Crecy? A broad plain, sweeping down from a curved hill. If the French were to ride into that horseshoe, and we were on the hill, few of them would make it to our lines.'

Berenger nodded thoughtfully. He recalled the place. 'Is the enemy far away?'

'No. Not far enough! We don't want to meet the French too soon. That could spell disaster.' Sir John's old eyes were fretful. 'If we are forced to a battle here, G.o.d Himself knows how it will go, and who will win the day. But once over there, then we shall be safe.'

Safe. It was a word that returned to Berenger now, as he led his vintaine at a brisk trot a mile in advance of the main body of the army.

The vintaine's scouting had been reduced after their mauling three days ago. Other men had been called to the front to take their place temporarily, to allow them a little peace and recovery time. Today they were back at the front again.

'It's wrong, that's all I'm saying. We'll all be slaughtered.'

Berenger didn't bother to look up. 'What is, Clip?'

'It's not right, that's all.'

'We've done our bit, haven't we? Why can't we ride at the back, or with the King and his bodyguard? We've lost too many men already do they want to see us wiped out?'

'Stop your blathering,' Jack said.

'It ain't blather, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d! You want to die here, you go ahead. It's fine by me. But I don't see why I should be stuck up here with-'

Jack bit his thumb at him, grinning.

'And that's your answer, is it?' Clip demanded shrilly. 'You reckon you can just insult me, and I won't-'

'Clip,' Berenger said wearily, 'Shut the f.u.c.k up! If you want to go and complain to the King back there, he'll be delighted to hear your comments, I'm sure. But for now, I'm tired of your whining.'

'It's not fair, that's all I'm saying,' Clip muttered. 'Why are we always riding ahead, scouting for the army?'

Jack laughed. 'What are you complaining about? Look over your shoulder, man. There are fifteen thousand Englishmen at your back, and when you meet a Frenchman, all he's going to see is the number of men here to protect you: a king's host, with knights and English archers. He'll take one look at that lot, c.r.a.p himself, drop his sword and flee.'

'At least it's not much further,' Berenger said appeasingly.

'How do we know that?' Clip moaned. 'It could be another hundred miles, for all we know.'

'No. We've been travelling too long already. The river isn't too far now.'

'How do you know that?' Clip said, his tone tempered by hope.

'I have been here before. Many years ago.'

'Oh. So how long will it be?'

'Enough, Clip! We'll be at the river in less than a day, I think. Now shut your trap you're giving me earache.'

He did recall this land. The plains were familiar. It was a long time ago that he had last been here, but with the journey the memories flooded back. He recognised a village, now smouldering where English troops had set fire to the houses.

'When?'

'Eh?' Berenger was jerked back to the present.

'When were you here last?' Clip said.

'Sixteen years ago. Last time I saw it, people were working in the fields; the horses were set to pasture. There were children laughing, darting in among the trees at the edge, playing catch-as-catch-can.'

Yes. And King Edward II had thrown a coin to them, and the children had scurried for it gleefully. It was a happy scene.

'See? I can inspire joy in the hearts of the innocent,' the King had said sadly. 'Even if I have lost wife, son, throne and realm.'

Sixteen years ago, Berenger had been what? Twenty? That was when he had fled England, travelling first to Avignon, thence to Italy.

'So long as we make it there,' Clip said gloomily.

Berenger frowned. 'What now?'

'I doubt many of us will ever reach home. Not with the witch still among us.'

'Without her nursing, Geoff would be dead by now.'

'He's dying anyway,' Clip said. 'He won't make it to England. You've seen how his face is. He's got a fever.'

'It'll break. He'll recover,' Berenger said.

'You think so?'

It hadn't crossed his mind that Geoff could die. Geoff was always there, an essential cog in the machine that was the vintaine. Without him, Berenger thought, the team would fall apart.

'He'll be fine,' he repeated, but he glanced over his shoulder towards the cart in which Geoff bounced. He could see that Beatrice was sitting in the cart still, her long hair concealed beneath a coif. It was tempting to go back and check on him, just to make sure that Geoff was truly all right.

He needed the miller's son alive.

'The river!'

The army straggled over a wide area as they ambled onwards, like men walking or riding in their sleep. On hearing the cry, Berenger saw Jack lurch, startled, and Clip almost tumbled from his mount.

Ahead, a scout was pointing and waving urgently.

'See that, Jack?' Berenger said. 'What is it?'

Jack peered through the dust that the rider had stirred; beyond was a sparkling and glinting. 'I don't know.'

The gleams were so faint, they could have been the sun sparkling on water, Berenger thought. Perhaps that was it: they had reached the river at last! With a quick thrill of fear, something struck him: the sun was behind them. Surely if it were a river, there would be less glittering? Besides, these glimmers looked to be too high. Any water would be low against the land.

That was when he realised what he could see, and recognised their danger. In that instant, he felt his bowels must empty.

'VINTAINE, TO ME!' he bellowed. 'It's the French, and they're coming straight at us!'

There was a sudden hush, and his men paused and looked at him, then back at the greyness ahead. 'Where?' someone asked.

Later, Berenger could have sworn that they sat stationary on their mounts for an age. Once, long ago, he had sat at the side of his village's pond and observed a strange, repulsive brown creature that climbed from the slime and ooze, to pause, gripping the reeds. Then, fascinated, he watched as the skin split, and gradually a brilliant, colourful body appeared. The wings were crumpled and useless, he saw, and he thought that they must somehow have been crushed, but then they gradually expanded, their appearance flattened and became shaped, and he realised that this was a magnificent dragonfly.

It had taken an age before the creature was able to fly away, and today he measured the time between the appearance of the rider and the sight of the men approaching them in a similar manner. In truth, he knew they came quickly. He saw men-at-arms in armour, lance-points shining in the afternoon sun . . . and then suddenly they were ploughing through the vintaine, and the air was full of the shouts of the wounded, and screams and bellows as men tried to escape from the enemy. Berenger saw Jack avoid one lance, and then slam his bow at the face of another rider. He ducked too, but his aim was thrown off and he missed his own mark.

Berenger felt a lance-tip cut along his ribs but by a miracle, beyond the fine razor's slash, there was no damage. He looked up, just in time to see a second horse pounding towards him. He tried to jerk his mount out of the way, but the pony appeared spellbound by the terrifying sight of the other beast and the lance, and froze. Berenger yanked at the reins with such gusto that he fell half from the saddle. He felt a great shudder run through the horse, then heard a loud crack. The lance, aiming for him, had dropped when he fell, and speared his mount instead, the lance snapping as the rider galloped on.

He kicked his feet free from the stirrups as the little pony collapsed to its knees, blood gushing from its nostrils, and dodged swiftly aside as the beast collapsed, rolling, hooves flailing in the air.

Berenger could not afford to spend time to put the brute out of its misery. His sword in his fist, he stared about him. It seemed that the French were already gone. They had ridden through the midst of the scouts, killing many, and then continued on for a short distance, but when they caught sight of the main body of the army, they turned about and returned northwards.

Unknowing, Berenger knelt and gave thanks, his forehead resting on his sword's cross.

'You'd better hurry,' Jack said. 'They'll be back soon.'

'Back?' Berenger said, still dazed.

'Aye. And here are the first of them.'

Berenger looked, and saw a ma.s.s of men. Some on horseback, others running on foot. He took a deep breath.

'Tell the men to prepare.'

There was little time for the army to respond, but as Berenger bellowed to the men nearby to dismount and string their bows, he was aware of movements behind him as more men rode to his side and flanks. In a surprisingly short time, there were two hundred or more archers, bows strung and ready, their arrows near to hand.

'Frip, take these!' he heard, and turned to see the Donkey carrying an armload of arrows.

'Dump them here, lad,' Berenger said gratefully.

'You think I have time to clean your mess for you?' the Donkey responded with a grin. 'Take them and be d.a.m.ned. I have to take these to other men.'

Ed dropped the arrows, and Berenger quickly stabbed them into the ground a short way away so he could s.n.a.t.c.h them up in a hurry. It wasn't as efficient as having them in a wicker quiver before him as he preferred, but it was a great deal better than nothing. He counted quickly. Three-and-twenty arrows. Not enough, but they would suffice, with luck.

The enemy were coming on still. There were perhaps a thousand of them, and from the way they approached, they were reluctant to come to blows. Not trained men-at-arms, then, like the group which had first appeared and killed his pony. These were likely local levies, or perhaps just men from about the plain who were distraught at the devastation inflicted on their lands. Albeit unused to war, their anger and despair were enough to make them a force to reckon with.

'ARCHERS!' Berenger recognised Granda.r.s.e's stentorian bellow. 'Hold your ground!'

It was good advice. Some had considered moving forward to try to pick off the occasional Frenchman as they came into range, but by so doing they would weaken the force's impact.

Berenger's blood was thundering in his head like a horse's hooves in full gallop. His training told him that he was safe, for there were more archers appearing at his sides, and he knew that with so many bowmen, only a ma.s.sive army could reach them . . . but still there was this dread antic.i.p.ation of battle. He looked over to where his pony had been rolling, and saw that he was quite dead, his legs curved over his body. One eye appeared to stare at him reproachfully. The broken spear still projected from his breast, and the ground about him was black with his blood.

'Sorry,' he said, and felt unaccountably sad. Tears threatened his eyes and he dashed them away irritably. It was nothing: a pony. He was only sad because it had been a comfortable little thing, and he would miss the brute's broad back for the rest of the march.

'Archers! Nock!' Granda.r.s.e bawled.

Berenger took the nearest arrow and flicked the dirt from the tip. These were bodkins: sharp, pointed arrows, designed to penetrate mail and leather and stab the body beneath. A p.r.i.c.k from one of these would be enough to pin a man to his horse, or to the ground.

'Archers! Draw!'

The enemy were approaching quickly now. A few bolder spirits had egged on the rest to throw themselves on the invaders, and now men raced towards them, seven or eight on ponies, but the rest on foot, hurtling towards the English with savage determination.

'Archers! LOOSE!'

Berenger felt the jerk as the string snapped forward, and saw the arrow bend and twist as it leaped up, the fletchings catching the air and coming alive. He saw it rise as he reached for his second and nocked the horn to the string, and saw it plummet as he drew again, feeling his eyelashes catch the string as he blinked . . . and then that arrow was flying, and he was reaching for the next.

An archer like Berenger could loose six arrows a minute easily. Three hundred men meant eighteen hundred arrows. And all those arrows would strike in the midst of the men coming towards them. Even as he watched, he saw the first arrows find their marks, and a rank of men disappeared. One moment they were running at full tilt, the next they were fallen. Unconsciously, the Frenchmen clumped together as their companions died, bunching up for comfort in the face of this hideous airborne onslaught, but by doing so, they made themselves into easy targets. The next flight of arrows slammed into them and more men tumbled and fell. They gathered together again, and the next flight reduced their numbers yet further.

Few Frenchmen succeeded in reaching the English. Those who did, exhausted by their long race, were easily overwhelmed and dispatched, and as Berenger stared out over the plain, he suddenly had the feeling that things would improve. They would win. They would return to England.

But then the shrill cries and sobs reminded him of his duty, and he and the other men drew their long knives and went to end the suffering of the men on the field.