didn’t like it, his esquire could damn well seek a new master.
‘Fripper, come, take a cup of wine with me,’ he said.
‘You asked to see me, Sir John?’
‘Yes,’ Sir John said. While Bakere poured them both wine, Sir John studied the fellow. He saw that Berenger’s face was haggard. That was natural. They were all tired, after
marching or riding all over the countryside without a proper bed. Although they had not been forced to endure the worst of the weather, marching in the heat was itself exhausting. A man trudged on,
thinking wistfully of ale and wine, while the sweat soaked his hat and clothing. Soon, straps for knapsacks would wear away a man’s shoulder, and blood would begin to ooze. Necks would be
rubbed raw, feet would develop blisters, and a man’s temper would fray. It was all too common, and no one was immune.
Still, there was something about this man that was familiar. He recalled that feeling from before, when he had visited Grandarse’s centaine.
‘I know you, don’t I?’ he said.
‘You and I walked together some years ago,’ Berenger said. ‘We crossed the sea and made our way on foot to Avignon.’
Sir John was still for a moment, then, ‘You were with me then?’
‘I was one of the party with the Welshman.’
‘In God’s name, that was a long time ago,’ Sir John breathed.
‘Sixteen years, I think.’
‘The years have not been kind to you.’
Berenger gave a grin. ‘Sir John, do you have a mirror?’
The knight gave a chuckle. ‘Aye. Every white hair has been earned.’
They were quiet for a while, both remembering: a long journey, walking to visit the Pope and deliver their charge into his care.
‘Do you ever hear from him?’ Berenger asked.
Sir John peered into his wine. ‘There was never anyone to hear from. The man didn’t exist, did he?’ he said quietly.
‘No.’ Berenger knew that their mission that year had been secret. No one could know of their companion, because he was officially dead. To talk of him had, for years, carried the
threat of execution.
‘But now, I think he is dead. You have heard that our King’s son has been created Prince of Wales, like the King’s father?’
‘The King never took the title for himself, did he?’ Berenger said.
‘His father never relinquished it,’ Sir John said.
Berenger nodded. Edward II had kept the Welsh title for his own. He had always been inordinately proud of his Principality, and the people who remained loyal to him even at the last, when the
rest of his realm crumbled and submitted to his adulterous wife and her lover.
Sir John took a deep breath and held up his drink. ‘To the health of a man who was already dead when he walked with us to Avignon,’ he said. The two toasted the memory, and then Sir
John frowned. ‘Talking of Welshmen, there are rumours of disharmony between them and your men.’
‘Sir?’
‘The Welsh say that you’ve started a feud with them. It will not do.’
‘That is untrue.’
‘Have you not come to blows with them?’
‘You want an answer?’
Sir John eyed him. ‘Not really, no. But be wary of them, Fripper. They are dangerous enemies to have. Stronger men have been ruined by them.’
Berenger’s face went hard for a moment as he remembered the woman murmuring, ‘Merci,’ to him in the town’s square. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll try to remember
that.’
‘Are your men bearing up?’
‘Yes. Well enough.’
‘We’ll see their mettle when we have a real fight.’
‘Yes, Sir John.’
‘Good. And keep away from the Welsh, if you can.’
‘We will try to.’
‘That will help. You must remember that the Prince has himself only recently been elevated to Prince of Wales. Like his grandfather, he is proud of his Principality and its
people.’
‘I understand,’ Berenger said. Then he added: ‘There is one among them, Erbin, who delights in trouble. At Barfleur he burned the town, killing many.’
‘So it
is
true about the feud,
‘Fripper, come, take a cup of wine with me,’ he said.
‘You asked to see me, Sir John?’
‘Yes,’ Sir John said. While Bakere poured them both wine, Sir John studied the fellow. He saw that Berenger’s face was haggard. That was natural. They were all tired, after
marching or riding all over the countryside without a proper bed. Although they had not been forced to endure the worst of the weather, marching in the heat was itself exhausting. A man trudged on,
thinking wistfully of ale and wine, while the sweat soaked his hat and clothing. Soon, straps for knapsacks would wear away a man’s shoulder, and blood would begin to ooze. Necks would be
rubbed raw, feet would develop blisters, and a man’s temper would fray. It was all too common, and no one was immune.
Still, there was something about this man that was familiar. He recalled that feeling from before, when he had visited Grandarse’s centaine.
‘I know you, don’t I?’ he said.
‘You and I walked together some years ago,’ Berenger said. ‘We crossed the sea and made our way on foot to Avignon.’
Sir John was still for a moment, then, ‘You were with me then?’
‘I was one of the party with the Welshman.’
‘In God’s name, that was a long time ago,’ Sir John breathed.
‘Sixteen years, I think.’
‘The years have not been kind to you.’
Berenger gave a grin. ‘Sir John, do you have a mirror?’
The knight gave a chuckle. ‘Aye. Every white hair has been earned.’
They were quiet for a while, both remembering: a long journey, walking to visit the Pope and deliver their charge into his care.
‘Do you ever hear from him?’ Berenger asked.
Sir John peered into his wine. ‘There was never anyone to hear from. The man didn’t exist, did he?’ he said quietly.
‘No.’ Berenger knew that their mission that year had been secret. No one could know of their companion, because he was officially dead. To talk of him had, for years, carried the
threat of execution.
‘But now, I think he is dead. You have heard that our King’s son has been created Prince of Wales, like the King’s father?’
‘The King never took the title for himself, did he?’ Berenger said.
‘His father never relinquished it,’ Sir John said.
Berenger nodded. Edward II had kept the Welsh title for his own. He had always been inordinately proud of his Principality, and the people who remained loyal to him even at the last, when the
rest of his realm crumbled and submitted to his adulterous wife and her lover.
Sir John took a deep breath and held up his drink. ‘To the health of a man who was already dead when he walked with us to Avignon,’ he said. The two toasted the memory, and then Sir
John frowned. ‘Talking of Welshmen, there are rumours of disharmony between them and your men.’
‘Sir?’
‘The Welsh say that you’ve started a feud with them. It will not do.’
‘That is untrue.’
‘Have you not come to blows with them?’
‘You want an answer?’
Sir John eyed him. ‘Not really, no. But be wary of them, Fripper. They are dangerous enemies to have. Stronger men have been ruined by them.’
Berenger’s face went hard for a moment as he remembered the woman murmuring, ‘Merci,’ to him in the town’s square. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll try to remember
that.’
‘Are your men bearing up?’
‘Yes. Well enough.’
‘We’ll see their mettle when we have a real fight.’
‘Yes, Sir John.’
‘Good. And keep away from the Welsh, if you can.’
‘We will try to.’
‘That will help. You must remember that the Prince has himself only recently been elevated to Prince of Wales. Like his grandfather, he is proud of his Principality and its
people.’
‘I understand,’ Berenger said. Then he added: ‘There is one among them, Erbin, who delights in trouble. At Barfleur he burned the town, killing many.’
‘So it
is
true about the feud,
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