They were ready early the next morning. As dawn broke, Berenger was already leading the men to the eastern shores, where Sir John had told him to meet the vessel that was to take them over the Channel.

‘Sir John,’ Berenger greeted him as they walked into the little harbour.

‘Fripper, I hope I see you well. Godspeed with this mission.’

Sir John was not happy to be leaving Berenger like this. It felt too much like throwing a good man to the wolves, but the knight knew that he had little choice in the matter: Fripper had been selected. However, Sir John noticed that Sir Peter had taken a strong dislike to the vintener, and Sir John had no idea why. ‘You will take every precaution, Fripper. Look after this messenger as though he possesses your own life.’

‘I don’t understand . . .’ Berenger began, but then there came the sound of marching feet and the men all stood up straight in respect.

The King, Edward III, was no youngster. He had been born in November 1312, but for a man in his middle thirties, he showed little of the paunch most would own by then. His pale blue eyes were restless, as though there were too many other duties which called on his attention. And yet he had come here, Sir John thought. It was a proof of how important the King considered this mission to be.

‘Master Fripper,’ the King said, walking straight over to Berenger.

Berenger bowed.

‘Rise, my friend. We are all comrades here. You have been briefed about this? Good. I would speak with your men.’

Standing aside, Berenger called to his vintaine to listen.

‘My friends, you have a most urgent and important task. In the last two days, a fleet of French ships have slipped their moorings and sailed north. There can be no doubt where they are heading: they are aiming for Scotland. They hope, so we hear, to bring fire and bloodshed to the Northern Marches. By these means, they believe they can break the back of our men here in France. Imagine! They think that a campaign of terror on our northern borders will check our advance here, and that we will wish to depart this shore, to defend our wives and children at home. And indeed, if there was a need for us to get back home and see to our families, we would do so. But, my friends, there is no need. So long as the good Archbishop of York and others set to defend our realm are given due warning, our English levies will stop the Scottish advance and turn them around, sending those who still have legs to walk on back to their hills and bogs without halting for breath!

‘My message to those craven souls who think that any news of an attack in the north must force us to abandon this siege is: it will not. For were we to try to escape here, what would be the result? The French army would inevitably attack our rear as we boarded our vessels. The enemy waits only for a moment’s weakness. In that instant they will fall on us in force.

‘So we must remain here. And remember that the Scottish are a weak force. They do not have the strong men who once could lead them against we English. All you need do is hurry there, warn those who guard the north, and let them battle their foes.’

Berenger watched the eyes of his vintaine as the King spoke, and now that there seemed to be a pause, he nodded meaningfully to Jack, who began to cheer and cry ‘Huzzah!’ Falteringly, the others joined in.

‘And now, I wish you all Godspeed. I pray that you have a safe journey, and that you return here in good time to join in the sack of Calais when we capture the town!’

Aye, thought Berenger sourly. Unless all goes to the Devil in Scotland, in which case best not to return at all, except carried on a shield.

The King nodded to the men, and as he left, Jack kept up his frantic applause until Edward was out of sight and earshot.

‘Phew, that was rare. Not many have the King himself come to send them off,’ Berenger heard Dogbreath say.

‘Aye, rare enough,’ Clip said, adding, ‘but it would be even better if he’d given us a reward for agreeing to help in this way.’

‘Ye’re always looking to your next profit,’ Aletaster said with disgust. ‘There are some things that have their own reward.’

‘Have their own . . .’ Clip’s face was a picture of mingled bafflement and disgust. ‘Give me one example of a reward that is worth starving and dying for? You can keep it. Me, I’ll stick to the clink of cash in my purse and a full belly every time.’

‘Besides,’ Pardoner said, ‘why would the King come here to speak with us unless it was to emphasise how important and dangerous this message is?’

There was a sudden hush at that. Men who, until that moment, had thought only of the wenches and ales between the south coast and Durham, were thinking of all the threats that lay on the open road.

Berenger interrupted their musings. ‘There are risks to ordinary travellers, my friends. We, however, are an armed vintaine. How many are likely to try to assault us or block our path? Wherever we go, we shall be the more fearsome and daunting. Have no concerns about footpads or those who would like to break your pates. They will walk warily around you.’

He was about to add more, when the messenger himself arrived. He was a slender fellow of perhaps fifteen years, with drab hair worn a little long. Although he had not shaved, like all the other men there, he had only a light fuzz of beard at his jawbone and chin, because he was so young. His pale, greenish eyes travelled over the vintaine with what looked like disdain. He arrived in the company of Sir Peter of Bromley with his clerk and three men-at-arms, as though he did not trust Berenger and the vintaine. His clerk stood and watched Berenger with a frown, as though studying an insect’s incomprehensible activities. Sir Peter, for his part, had a fixed glare, as if disgusted that a man of the vintener’s mean standing could be permitted to enjoy any status in the army. It was easy to see that he believed Berenger to be a traitor.

He really doesn’t like me, Berenger thought to himself. The feeling was mutual.

Berenger shot a look at Sir John, but the knight affected not to notice as Sir Peter approached.

‘Sir John, God protect you! This is Master Retford.’

‘Glad I am to meet him,’ Sir John said, but his tone told Berenger that he didn’t mean it. His feelings seemed reciprocated. Sir Peter hardly looked at him, and the glance he gave Berener now was so haughty that the vintener had a strong urge to hit him.

Sir John noticed his expression and Berenger saw a smile chase fleetingly across his face. ‘If I may address the vintaine? Thank you. Men, this is Andrew Retford. He is a King’s Messenger, and you will guard him with your lives. His message is vital. The whole kingdom’s future could rest upon the delivery of it.’

The boy put his left hand on the little message pouch that hung just above the hilt of his sword. It looked as though he was trying to keep tight hold of it and protect it from the coarse group of men set to guard him.

The vintaine looked collectively from Sir Peter to Retford. They were not impressed.

Sir John saw the reception and intervened. ‘Men, this lad has to get to Durham. It’ll be eight days’ travel to get him there. Perhaps you could cover the distance faster. You will have the King’s permission to hire mounts on the way at his expense. However, the main point is, you must deliver this boy and his message safely and bring them back here to Calais with any news. Is that clear?’

Berenger glared at Jack and Clip until the two reluctantly nodded and grunted agreement. With them giving their assent, the rest of the vintaine gave their own approval.

‘Good,’ said Sir John. He then turned and gazed at Sir Peter expectantly, as though politely dismissing him. Sir Peter took the hint, bowing and patting Andrew Retford on the upper arm before striding away with his men towards the camp.

‘Master Retford, I wish you Godspeed,’ Sir John said. ‘You may wish to acquaint yourself with the rest of the vintaine?’

The lad nodded, but Berenger thought to himself that the fellow looked like a rabbit surrounded by the hounds, unsure which way to turn. His eyes went first to the disappearing back of Sir Peter, before returning to Sir John. And although he walked in the direction of the vintaine, he didn’t join them, but stood instead staring out to sea.

It left Berenger wondering, So why does Sir Peter wish me to guard this messenger in particular? And why has he brought the lad here himself?

He could think of no solution to these questions.

After Sir Peter’s group had walked away, the Vidame went and waited for his spy.

It was hard to live as an intelligence gatherer, mingling with those who were his enemy, but the spy appeared to contain himself with skill. He had professed to detest all English, but he had so bound his hatred within him that, to see him, a man would believe him to be entirely devoted to the King of England. His true feelings were kept under the tightest of reins.

‘You know your part.’

The spy eyed him. ‘This is my life at risk. I will be as careful as I can be.’

‘It is not only your life, friend.’

‘Vidame, your risks are as nothing compared with mine. If you are uncovered, you will receive a quick decapitation. Me? I’ll suffer all the torments of hell a vengeful vintaine can think up. And they will be most inventive.’

‘You know to be cautious, then. Good.’

‘You look to yourself.’

The Vidame held his anger in check. There was no point in losing his temper with the spy. He did, as he said, run the higher risks.

‘Godspeed. I wish you safe passage. And remember your orders.’

At the third hour of the day, when the men filed past him to the plank that gave access to the ship, Berenger realised that Grandarse had appeared at his side. Sir John saw him and took his arrival as proof that it was time for him to leave.

‘Godspeed, Vintener. I will be praying for your safe return,’ the knight said. ‘And right swiftly, too.’

‘I’ll hope to be back very quickly, sir, thank you.’

He watched as Sir John walked away between the barrels and bales left on the harbour, dodging the stevedores as they tramped back and forth, the heavy sacks and baskets bowing them so they could scarcely lift their heads to see before them. ‘Well?’ he said to Grandarse.

‘I heard today you were set upon, Frip. It’s a bad business when a man can’t walk to his home.’

‘We found out who they were,’ Berenger said.

‘I know. Interesting that the men were from Sir Peter.’

‘Do you think he has something against me?’

Grandarse looked at him owlishly. ‘How so?’

‘The men who attacked me swore they were from Sir Peter. It is plain as the beard on your chin what is going through his mind. He has started to raise the idea that there could be a spy. Do you think he really believes there’s a traitor in the vintaine?’

‘What do you think?’ Grandarse asked slowly.

‘I think it’s a load of ballocks! Look at my boys: Clip, Jack, the others. Apart from the eight new lads we’ve had to take on board, the vintaine has been fighting for the King for longer than that pretty popinjay Peter! Why in God’s name should we listen to what he says or thinks?’

‘Because, Frip, you moon-addled gull, the man has the ear of the King and his son. What Peter of Bromley thinks today, the King will be thinking tomorrow. It’s the way of these royals: they make their choices about advisers, and you won’t change them. If Peter of Bromley is pissing sweet nothings about some hairy-arsed vintener who’s got a traitor in his ranks, the King will believe him. Oh, he may try to ignore it for a day or so, and then he’ll try to find arguments against it, but with a man like Sir Peter, persistent and consistent, the King won’t be able to argue too long. Confusion and focus.’

‘What?’ Berenger said.

‘Aye, Frip, I may be an old fart, but I know some things you never learned for all your cleverness. Like: if you’re a king, you have people mithering at you all day long. You have peasants pleading for alms, merchants haggling for custom, priests demanding plots of land for new churches or abbeys, pleaders asking you to look at their poor clients’ claims – and advisers advising. All through the day. You get a moment or two for every decision. Is it any wonder you start to rely on the men you think you can trust? Is it any surprise that so many decisions could be better made by a poxed whore from the Winchester stews?’

He spat accurately at a stick, making it jump. With a satisfied belch, he hoicked his belt northwards again and went on: ‘Aye, Frip, I’ve seen it often enough. Best, usually, just to keep your head down when this kind of ballocks is going on. Leave politics and all that shite to the arses who can actually win power for themselves. For you an’ me, it’s enough to know that at the end of the day, you’re still around with a pot of ale in your fist, a good meal inside you, and a strumpet to fondle. Because the alternative means rotting under the ground, and that’s not much fun, is it?’

‘No.’

‘So ride like the Devil for the north and show you’ll do all you can to serve the King by protecting his interests, and then hurry back so you can prove you’re not interested in running away. Up and back, swift as you can.’

‘Grandarse, did you see the messenger we’re to protect?’

‘The boy? Yes.’

‘Why such a youngster? Who is he?’

‘You’ll need to find out for yourself. I don’t know. But you’d best make sure the little prickle makes it back here safely, too.’

‘Yes,’ Berenger said. But even as he spoke, his mind was moving in a different direction. ‘Grandarse, there is another way to look at all this.’

‘Is there? What? How?’

‘What if Sir Peter was secretly intending to lead the King into an impossible position, perhaps even into a trap, so that he could turn his coat to the French and act the traitor? Perhaps he would try to alienate the King from his own troops. He might begin by sowing discord and disaffection with me and my men. Tarnish our reputation with the King. He must know the King respects us. If he could damage us and make us seem treacherous . . .’

Grandarse scoffed at that. ‘You think one vintener is going to harm the army? Surely you don’t reckon you’ve such a strong reputation that your death or humiliation will affect the course of the siege?’

‘No, of course not, but if he could sow enough discord within different vintaines here, he might bring about dissatisfaction with the leadership of the army – and that in itself could lead to barons deciding to desert the King. Whatever he says about me or the men, he could well be saying about others too. He could even imply that venerable centeners were as guilty, couldn’t he?’

Grandarse stopped and stared. ‘That booger!’ He gazed into the distance with a frown creasing his brow. ‘Look, Frip, you give the Scotch bastards hell, and come back safe. And whatever you do, don’t lose that poxy git of a messenger.’