impossible.
They were held for three days before they were taken out again. Three days of sitting in their own muck. No one came to empty their buckets, so they overflowed after the first night. The men
tried to dam the worst of it with the meagre supplies of straw that lay about the place, but it seeped through, and all of them had it impregnated in their clothing after the second night.
The stench, the lack of light, the manacles and chains they wore – all conspired to sap Berenger’s will. Their surrender had been shameful enough for English archers, but now,
languishing in this cell, he felt emasculated. As he looked about the faces of his men, he could see that most had given up all hope. Some, like Clip, sat sourly contemplating the ground before
them, muttering vile oaths against the fate that had brought them here, while others stared up at the single barred hole in the wall, through which the light entered to illuminate one corner of the
puddle of muck on the floor. Jack Fletcher sat with his back to the wall, gazing at Berenger as though with hope. Dogbreath was one of the only men who looked unconcerned. He squatted on his
haunches, throwing pebbles at a spider that was scrabbling up the wall.
Berenger looked away from Fletcher.
Hope!
There was no hope for them. They couldn’t expect to escape from a place like this, not with the whole of the French army about them.
When he was young, Berenger had lost his parents. The barons had detested King Edward II’s adviser and friend, Sir Hugh le Despenser, and bands of men-at-arms had invaded Despenser lands
up and down the country, burning, looting and killing. Berenger’s parents were slaughtered in the first wave, his father for his loyalty to Sir Hugh, and his mother too. After that, life had
lost all meaning and purpose. Berenger could remember it clearly. Only when the King himself heard of his plight and took him into his household did Berenger grow free of despair. He was young,
after all. With exercise and work, boys can cope with most disasters.
‘Frip?’ Jack Fletcher called softly. ‘What do we do?’
‘Wait,’ Berenger said. ‘What more
can
we do?’
Clip spat into the pool of ordure and whined, ‘They’re going to take our eyes! Take our fucking eyes!’
‘Shut up, Clip,’ Berenger said wearily.
‘So, do we just submit to them? They killed the other two, didn’t they?’ Jack said. ‘Shall we just go quietly like lambs to the slaughterman?’
‘If you have a better idea, tell me!’ Berenger snapped.
It was Tyler who spoke up. ‘We have to give them something. Tell them something they want to know.’
‘Like what?’ Clip sneered. ‘Where to get a chest of gold? Where to find wine and food? They have all they need already, you prickle!’
‘Then we tell them about the army. How many men there are, where they’ll—’
‘You want to give away the army?’ Dogbreath demanded with a low growl, shifting as if preparing to spring on Tyler. Berenger held up a hand to stop any risk of a fight breaking
out.
‘No, but if it’s something that could help them without harming our friends . . .’ Tyler began, but John of Essex cut across him.
‘If it’d save our skins, you mean. You’d give away your mother’s soul if it’d save you a little pain, wouldn’t you?’
‘I’d gladly—’
‘
Enough!
’ Berenger said, standing up. ‘We’ll give away nothing. Do you really think there’s anything you could tell them that would save you? We’re
English archers. They hate us for every French nobleman’s life we’ve taken. They don’t want to negotiate with us. You heard them! They want to make an example of us. There’s
nothing we can do to stop them.’
Then, just as if the gaoler had been listening, there came the sound of boots marching along the corridor outside. Jack and Clip stood, and Berenger glared across at John of Essex, as though
daring him to argue. John said nothing. His head hung low; he
They were held for three days before they were taken out again. Three days of sitting in their own muck. No one came to empty their buckets, so they overflowed after the first night. The men
tried to dam the worst of it with the meagre supplies of straw that lay about the place, but it seeped through, and all of them had it impregnated in their clothing after the second night.
The stench, the lack of light, the manacles and chains they wore – all conspired to sap Berenger’s will. Their surrender had been shameful enough for English archers, but now,
languishing in this cell, he felt emasculated. As he looked about the faces of his men, he could see that most had given up all hope. Some, like Clip, sat sourly contemplating the ground before
them, muttering vile oaths against the fate that had brought them here, while others stared up at the single barred hole in the wall, through which the light entered to illuminate one corner of the
puddle of muck on the floor. Jack Fletcher sat with his back to the wall, gazing at Berenger as though with hope. Dogbreath was one of the only men who looked unconcerned. He squatted on his
haunches, throwing pebbles at a spider that was scrabbling up the wall.
Berenger looked away from Fletcher.
Hope!
There was no hope for them. They couldn’t expect to escape from a place like this, not with the whole of the French army about them.
When he was young, Berenger had lost his parents. The barons had detested King Edward II’s adviser and friend, Sir Hugh le Despenser, and bands of men-at-arms had invaded Despenser lands
up and down the country, burning, looting and killing. Berenger’s parents were slaughtered in the first wave, his father for his loyalty to Sir Hugh, and his mother too. After that, life had
lost all meaning and purpose. Berenger could remember it clearly. Only when the King himself heard of his plight and took him into his household did Berenger grow free of despair. He was young,
after all. With exercise and work, boys can cope with most disasters.
‘Frip?’ Jack Fletcher called softly. ‘What do we do?’
‘Wait,’ Berenger said. ‘What more
can
we do?’
Clip spat into the pool of ordure and whined, ‘They’re going to take our eyes! Take our fucking eyes!’
‘Shut up, Clip,’ Berenger said wearily.
‘So, do we just submit to them? They killed the other two, didn’t they?’ Jack said. ‘Shall we just go quietly like lambs to the slaughterman?’
‘If you have a better idea, tell me!’ Berenger snapped.
It was Tyler who spoke up. ‘We have to give them something. Tell them something they want to know.’
‘Like what?’ Clip sneered. ‘Where to get a chest of gold? Where to find wine and food? They have all they need already, you prickle!’
‘Then we tell them about the army. How many men there are, where they’ll—’
‘You want to give away the army?’ Dogbreath demanded with a low growl, shifting as if preparing to spring on Tyler. Berenger held up a hand to stop any risk of a fight breaking
out.
‘No, but if it’s something that could help them without harming our friends . . .’ Tyler began, but John of Essex cut across him.
‘If it’d save our skins, you mean. You’d give away your mother’s soul if it’d save you a little pain, wouldn’t you?’
‘I’d gladly—’
‘
Enough!
’ Berenger said, standing up. ‘We’ll give away nothing. Do you really think there’s anything you could tell them that would save you? We’re
English archers. They hate us for every French nobleman’s life we’ve taken. They don’t want to negotiate with us. You heard them! They want to make an example of us. There’s
nothing we can do to stop them.’
Then, just as if the gaoler had been listening, there came the sound of boots marching along the corridor outside. Jack and Clip stood, and Berenger glared across at John of Essex, as though
daring him to argue. John said nothing. His head hung low; he
Similar Books
