1 June, late: a sleepless night

"Yes, go. Go," Janet urged. "I'll be right behind you." Looking over her shoulder to be sure the two soldiers were still occupied with killing each other, she darted towards a small, ungainly shadow. It might have been a rock, but she suspected otherwise and her suspicions were confirmed when she dropped to her knees beside it and her fumbling hands touched cloth. It was a pack.

With indiscriminate haste she dug through it, pawing blindly around what may have been extra clothes, mess equipment and God only knew what else. Finally her fingers brushed a small bundle and, unwrapping it encountered a familiar, crusty surface. Bread.

Tucking the food into her dress, Janet leapt up and started back towards the other prisoners.

The grip on his crossbelts was unpleasantly tight. Roux threw himself sharply backwards, hoping to pull Quentin off balance. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the two women hurrying away, and felt slightly relieved.

The tactic did drag Quentin off balance, but using the momentum, he drove forward, thrusting his shoulder against Roux's chest.

Meanwhile, reaching the comparative safety of the other prisoners, Janet cast about for the younger woman. She did not, she realized, even know the girl's name. "That you?" she asked softly, sinking down beside a familiar looking shadow.

"Helloooo," the shadow replied in silky French, wasting no time in wrapping an arm around her.

Oh, for God's sake! Turning into his embrace, Janet reached down between his legs and grabbed, digging in with her nails. "Hands off, Frog face," she hissed.

The man, for man it was, yelled out in startled surprise and released his grasp, shoving her away as quickly as he could.

Scrambling to her feet, Janet brushed herself off primly and moved off, keeping a wary eye out in case the fellow should try to follow her. "Oi, little one," she called softly, her eyes searching the nearby figures "Where'd you go?"

Polly was relieved to hear the other woman's call. She'd been beginning to feel a little lost among the large number of dark forms that she did not recognize. The last thing she wanted was to end up anywhere near any more French soldiers!

"'M righ' here," she called back, moving in Janet's direction.

Hurrying toward the sound of the voice, Janet took the girl's arm and drew her gently to the ground. "You alright?" she asked, peering at her through the darkness, "That bastard didn't hurt you?"

"'M fine," Polly said, bushing. "Mos'ly scared me, is all."

And he certainly had done that. Polly shuddered to think what would have happened to them if the two soldiers had not gotten into a fight.

"Are ye alrigh'?" she asked Janet, worriedly. "'E grabbed yer 'air an' threw ye."

"Oh," Janet made a dismissive noise, "That's nothing. Look!" She grinned, triumphantly holding up the piece of bread she had stolen. It was somewhat stale and the crust was hard, but she managed to tear it roughly in half and handed a piece to the younger woman. "Name's Janet, by the way."

Polly's eyes grew wide at the sight of the bread, and she accepted her piece gratefully.

"Thank ye," she said. Then, offered a shy smile. "'M Polly. 'S nice t' meet ye."

"Likewise," she responded cheerfully, cramming what remained of the bread into her mouth. The sounds of a scuffle, though distant, were still audible and Janet craned her neck, hoping to catch a glimpse, but could make out nothing beyond the nearby clusters of silhouettes. "I hope that lad ain't comin' off too badly..."

"Will 'e be alrigh', d'ye think?" Polly asked, worriedly. She did not like the idea of someone else getting hurt on their behalf. It certainly did not sound as though the fight were going well. Shivering, Polly drew closer in towards Janet.

She wanted to go home.

Janet sighed and put an arm around the girl's shoulders. "Oh, he'll be a'right," she said, trying to sound reassuring, "Don't you fret over it. 'Sides, it's allus the quiet ones like that you gotta watch out for. I reckon that other fella'll get more'n he bargained for."

Of course Janet reckoned no such thing. If past experience was anything to go by, the young Frenchman was going to lose, and badly at that unless someone stepped in to break it up.

(another room in the castle)

"—little shite!" Quentin spat, driving his fist into Roux's stomach.

The blow drove the breath from Roux's lungs. He lay still for a moment, gasping. Quentin was substantially larger than he was, and Roux had to admit that fighting the man was not his best idea. Still, he came to his senses in time to roll out of the way of the next punch.

He kicked desperately at Quentin's ankle, hoping to at least knock the man over long enough to get away.

With a yelp of pain, Quentin went down. He landed hard on his back, but managed to roll to his knees and half crawled, half threw himself at Roux, determined to pin the other man down. Then he could teach him a proper lesson.

"Oof!"

Roux stumbled back to the ground as Quentin collided with his back. He struggled to get out from underneath the other man, cursing. Now he was in serious trouble.

"Get offa me!" he growled, jerking his elbow back into Quentin's stomach.

Quentin's curse shattered into a groan as the other man's elbow caught him in the stomach, "Oh, but you're goin' to pay for that lad," he snarled, withdrawing just enough to yank Roux over onto his back, before pressing his advantage again.

Things had managed to go from bad to worse. Roux brought his arms up in an attempt to protect his face, for whatever good that might do. He was in very much the wrong spot to fight back effectively.

So much for sticking up for the English women, he thought bitterly.

Again and again Quentin struck at Roux's face and throat. " 'Bout time someone learned you some manners, boy," he vaunted. "You had--"

The final word lodged in his throat as his collar bit into his windpipe and he found himself being dragged up and back to land sprawling on his arse in the wet grass. Amid a torrent of curses, he managed to splutter, "The hell are you tryin' to do, snap my sodding head off?"

"What's goin' on?"

Quentin rubbed at his throat, recognizing both the voice and the tall shadow it belonged to as Kerjean.

"Just a bit of unfinished business," he growled, getting to his feet.

"Looks pretty well finished to me."

"Nearly, nearly..." Quentin muttered dismissively, aiming a kick at Roux just as a hand on his chest propelled him backwards once more. Not a good move.

Quentin's blow caught Paol by surprise; his head snapped to the side and he tasted blood as the other man thrust past him and made for Roux.

Paol sighed. Reaching out, he clamped a hand on Quentin's shoulder, spun him back sharply and swung, dropping him neatly with a blow to the jaw. It would buy him a few moments, at least, however much he might dislike the price.

"Roux?" he called, sinking to the ground beside the other figure.

Disoriented, Roux jerked away from Paol in surprise. He had a vague notion of Quentin not being on top of him anymore, and it gradually dawned on him that he was not being punched or kicked. Blinking, he managed to focus on the figure kneeling next to him.

"Kerjean?" he asked uncertainly. Though, he could not quite figure out where the other man had come from. Was he on watch tonight? Roux blinked again, shaking his head, and immediately regretted it as pain shot through his skull. He fell back with a groan and a curse.

"Aye, it's me. You alright?"