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at him, and would have answered, but just then there was a rattle of bolts and the sound of a key in the lock, and the door swung open.
    Béatrice was in the camp when she heard that there had been a battle at sea. She would never forget that day. Her morning had started calm and happy, with her helping
the Donkey to look after their oxen, chatting and laughing with him and Georges, his new friend. There were always a thousand and one things to do. Ed was keen to help, but he would keep getting
under her feet, and whenever she looked at him, he would duck away. She was perplexed. He did not try to leave her, so he didn’t seem annoyed or angry, and yet there was that curious shyness.
Perhaps he was merely upset because the vintaine had gone away, and he thought he should have gone with them.
    From then, her morning soured. Béatrice wanted to get on with things, and the Donkey kept dawdling. And then she suddenly realised what was wrong. She had been standing and stretching her
arms after bending for a long time collecting some nuts, and had turned to see him staring at her breasts. Letting her arms fall immediately, she felt the blood drain from her face. She did not see
Ed the Donkey, the young lad of whom she was fond. Instead she saw only a man exhibiting the same lascivious desire as all those who had tried to rape her over the last, traumatic weeks.
    ‘What is it? You think you are old enough to bed me, boy?’ she snapped.
    He coloured a violent puce, span around and fled. Instantly she was struck with shame. Ed was no lustful man desiring her body, but a child on the cusp of manhood, a boy confused about his
urges.
    ‘
Ed!
’ she called, full of remorse, but it was too late. He was already gone. Georges gave her a black look and flew off in pursuit of his friend, while Béatrice stood,
cursing her quick temper. She had made many mistakes in her life, but few as foolish as this, she thought. The poor boy had only snatched a glimpse of her body through her clothes. It was her
fault, surely, for giving him the opportunity to view her in that light. She should have been more careful. After the last months she knew how dangerous it was to tempt men.
    Perhaps Archibald was right, she thought. Perhaps she ought to leave the camp and go away, far away, and find another place to live. Here, she was a constant source of dissension. Wherever she
went she brought arguments and fights. If she could even disturb poor Donkey, it was time to look elsewhere.
    There was one man with whom she felt content to discuss the matter. Berenger Fripper. He would be rational and sensible, she knew. She could trust his judgement. When he was back, she would take
him aside and ask his advice.
    With that, she made sure that the oxen were tethered securely, and then made her way back to their camp.
    Archibald was already there, and had seated himself on an old wine cask before the fire. He scowled at the flames thoughtfully, nodding his head occasionally as if to some inner argument only he
could hear.
    ‘Archibald! Archibald!’
    ‘What’s the matter with the boy now?’ the gynour grumbled as the Donkey came pelting down the road, Georges close behind him like his personal spaniel.
    Béatrice laughed to herself to see the old fellow looking so put out. ‘Donkey, what is it?’ she called.
    Ed glanced at her shamefacedly, but came to a halt before Archibald. Suddenly, his eyes filled with tears. ‘It’s the vintaine!’ he choked. ‘They’ve been taken. All
of them!’

Berenger and the other captives were shoved and clubbed forward by the town’s militia. This gaggle of disreputable brutes had no discernible uniforms, not even the
town’s crest. To Berenger’s jaundiced eye, they looked like men who had been pulled from the fields about the town that very morning and selected for their ability to drive cattle.
Either that, or they had been emptied, like dregs, from the lowest dungeon in the town. The one closest to