suitable structure on which to punish them.’
Berenger and the others found themselves being shoved unceremoniously towards the door through which the two sailors had recently been taken. The door gave out onto a staircase of stone, which
led down to a paved yard. Pushed and beaten, they were forced towards a gateway in the encircling wall. From here they could see the church and, before it, a large tree. As they were taken out,
they saw two men throwing ropes up to where a boy had climbed onto a strong branch. He caught the ropes and passed them over two projecting limbs of the tree, letting the other ends fall to the
ground. Enthusiastic townspeople took hold of them.
The young sailor was gibbering, kneeling and pleading with his hands clasped, while his companion glared at him with contempt. As Berenger and the others approached, their guards stopped so that
they could enjoy the spectacle.
Ignoring the weeping, petrified sailor, men grabbed the other man and set the rope about his throat. Then four men hauled him up into the air. His legs kicking wildly, eyes bulging, the sailor
slowly throttled, trying with every jerk and lunge of his legs to snap his own neck and bring about a quicker end. But he could not. He was still thrashing, ever more feebly, as the French, joking
with each other, tied the second rope about the kneeling man and lifted him still higher, laughing and running away as the man’s legs flicked ordure over the crowds with each spasmodic
kick.
At the sight Berenger felt sick in his belly. This was not justice, but from the gleeful response of the crowds, he knew that he could expect nothing better when it was his turn to stand on a
platform and be blinded and crippled with the others. There would be no sympathy here for the men who had inspired so much fear and loathing throughout France.
A blow in the small of his back almost drove him to his knees, but he stumbled onwards, his thoughts directed at escape.
‘Not here, my friend.’
He looked around and found himself staring at Jean de Vervins. ‘What?’
‘You will have no easy escape here.’
Berenger had the unpleasant certainty that this man had read his mind. ‘Who are you?’
‘Me? A mere country-living knight, used to life far from the King’s court,’ Jean de Vervins said with a quiet melancholy. ‘I am nothing. But you: you think you can drive
a path through all these guards? No, for that you will need a miracle, yes?’ Jean smiled sadly, turned, and was gone.
‘A miracle,’ Berenger said to himself. ‘That’s all. Just a fucking miracle.’
Sir John de Sully was standing eating his lunch when the gynour appeared in his doorway. Like his archers, Sir John had no chair, only a worn three-legged stool filched from a
house on their march, although he was five-and-sixty years old, and had enough wounds to prove that he had never run from a battle.
‘Well?’ he demanded as Archibald stood, coif in hand, looking nervous.
‘Sir, have you heard about the vintaine?’
Sir John was a rural knight from Iddesleigh and Rookford. Whereas many knights were uninterested in their men, the banneret had shown himself keen to look after their interests during the long
campaign of recent weeks. His hair might be grizzled, but his eyes were as clear as they had been when he sat on his mount at Bannockburn thirty and more years ago now and witnessed the disaster
befall the English cavalry. It had affected him to see the men slaughtered so, and since then he had made every effort to protect his men. ‘What about them?’
Archibald told him the news. He knew Sir John would be upset to hear of the loss of so many of his men at one fell swoop – but the knight’s rage surprised even him.
‘Damn those pirates’ black souls to hell,’ Sir John swore bitterly, hurling his food from his table. He kicked his stool away and raked his fingers agitatedly through his hair.
‘Berenger Fripper is one of the most competent vinteners
Berenger and the others found themselves being shoved unceremoniously towards the door through which the two sailors had recently been taken. The door gave out onto a staircase of stone, which
led down to a paved yard. Pushed and beaten, they were forced towards a gateway in the encircling wall. From here they could see the church and, before it, a large tree. As they were taken out,
they saw two men throwing ropes up to where a boy had climbed onto a strong branch. He caught the ropes and passed them over two projecting limbs of the tree, letting the other ends fall to the
ground. Enthusiastic townspeople took hold of them.
The young sailor was gibbering, kneeling and pleading with his hands clasped, while his companion glared at him with contempt. As Berenger and the others approached, their guards stopped so that
they could enjoy the spectacle.
Ignoring the weeping, petrified sailor, men grabbed the other man and set the rope about his throat. Then four men hauled him up into the air. His legs kicking wildly, eyes bulging, the sailor
slowly throttled, trying with every jerk and lunge of his legs to snap his own neck and bring about a quicker end. But he could not. He was still thrashing, ever more feebly, as the French, joking
with each other, tied the second rope about the kneeling man and lifted him still higher, laughing and running away as the man’s legs flicked ordure over the crowds with each spasmodic
kick.
At the sight Berenger felt sick in his belly. This was not justice, but from the gleeful response of the crowds, he knew that he could expect nothing better when it was his turn to stand on a
platform and be blinded and crippled with the others. There would be no sympathy here for the men who had inspired so much fear and loathing throughout France.
A blow in the small of his back almost drove him to his knees, but he stumbled onwards, his thoughts directed at escape.
‘Not here, my friend.’
He looked around and found himself staring at Jean de Vervins. ‘What?’
‘You will have no easy escape here.’
Berenger had the unpleasant certainty that this man had read his mind. ‘Who are you?’
‘Me? A mere country-living knight, used to life far from the King’s court,’ Jean de Vervins said with a quiet melancholy. ‘I am nothing. But you: you think you can drive
a path through all these guards? No, for that you will need a miracle, yes?’ Jean smiled sadly, turned, and was gone.
‘A miracle,’ Berenger said to himself. ‘That’s all. Just a fucking miracle.’
Sir John de Sully was standing eating his lunch when the gynour appeared in his doorway. Like his archers, Sir John had no chair, only a worn three-legged stool filched from a
house on their march, although he was five-and-sixty years old, and had enough wounds to prove that he had never run from a battle.
‘Well?’ he demanded as Archibald stood, coif in hand, looking nervous.
‘Sir, have you heard about the vintaine?’
Sir John was a rural knight from Iddesleigh and Rookford. Whereas many knights were uninterested in their men, the banneret had shown himself keen to look after their interests during the long
campaign of recent weeks. His hair might be grizzled, but his eyes were as clear as they had been when he sat on his mount at Bannockburn thirty and more years ago now and witnessed the disaster
befall the English cavalry. It had affected him to see the men slaughtered so, and since then he had made every effort to protect his men. ‘What about them?’
Archibald told him the news. He knew Sir John would be upset to hear of the loss of so many of his men at one fell swoop – but the knight’s rage surprised even him.
‘Damn those pirates’ black souls to hell,’ Sir John swore bitterly, hurling his food from his table. He kicked his stool away and raked his fingers agitatedly through his hair.
‘Berenger Fripper is one of the most competent vinteners
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