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they had listened as minstrels sang of ancient battles full of glory, and the king had become ever gloomier as he considered what was expected of him. Now, wanting to be alone and have time to think, he walked in the walled orchard of a fine stone house that had been commandeered for his quarters. All around him, spread through a village whose name he did not know, the fires of his army glowed in the darkness. He could hear men laughing or shouting in delight when their dice or cards were lucky. He had heard that Edward, Prince of Wales, was a gambler, but how would that prince gamble now? And was he lucky?
    The king walked to the northern wall of the orchard where, by standing on a bench, he could see the red glow of the English fires. They seemed to spread across the night sky, but the brightest glow outlined a long, high hill. How many men were there? And were they there at all? Perhaps they had lit the fires to persuade him they were staying and then marched away south, carrying their plunder with them. And if they had stayed should he fight them? It was his decision and he did not know how to make it. Some of his lords advised him to avoid battle, saying that the English archers were too deadly and their men-at-arms too feral, while others were confident that this gambling prince could be defeated easily. He growled to himself. He wished he were back in Paris where musicians would be entertaining him and dancers surrounding him; instead he was God knows where in his own country and he did not know what he should do.
    He sat on the bench. ‘Wine, Your Majesty?’ A servant spoke from the shadows.
    ‘Thank you, Luc, no.’
    ‘The Lord of Douglas is here, sire. He wishes to speak with you.’
    The king nodded tiredly. ‘Bring a lantern, Luc.’
    ‘You’ll speak with him, sire?’
    ‘I’ll speak with him,’ the king said, and wondered if the Scotsman would have anything new to say. He supposed not. Douglas would urge an attack. Fight now. Kill the bastards. Attack. Slaughter them. The Scotsman had been saying the same thing for weeks. He just wanted a battle. He wanted to kill Englishmen, and the king was sympathetic to that wish, but he was also haunted by the fear of failure. And now Douglas would harangue him again and King Jean sighed. He was frightened of Douglas and, though the man was never anything but respectful, the king suspected that the Scotsman despised him. But Douglas did not have the responsibility. He was a confident brute, a fighter, a man born for blood and steel and battle, but King Jean had a whole country to tend and he dared not lose a fight to the English. It had taken a huge effort to raise this army, the treasury was empty, and if the king suffered a defeat then God only knew what chaos would descend on poor France. And poor France was already raped. English armies roamed the country burning, plundering, destroying, killing. And this army, the prince’s army, was trapped. Or nearly trapped. And there was a chance to destroy it, to cut down the pride of the enemy, to give France a great victory, and King Jean allowed himself to imagine riding into Paris with the Prince of Wales as his captive. He imagined the cheers, the flowers being thrown in front of his horse, the fountains running with wine, and the
Te Deum
being sung in Notre-Dame. That was a beguiling dream, a wonderful dream, but its nightmare brother was the possibility of defeat.
    ‘Your Highness.’ Douglas appeared under the pear trees carrying the lantern. He went onto one knee and bowed his head. ‘You’re awake late, sire.’
    ‘As are you, my lord,’ the king said, ‘and please, my lord, stand.’ King Jean was wearing a blue velvet gown, fringed with gold, embroidered with golden fleurs-de-lys and draped with a thick collar of silver fur. He wished he was wearing something more martial because Douglas was impressive in mail and leather, all of it scarred and battered. He had a short jupon showing the faded red heart of his family, and a thick sword belt from which hung a monstrously heavy blade. He was also carrying an arrow. ‘Some wine, my lord?’ the king offered.
    ‘I’d prefer ale, your highness.’
    ‘Luc! Do we have ale?’
    ‘We do, Your Majesty!’ Luc called from the house.
    ‘Bring some for the Lord of Douglas,’ the king said, then made a great effort and smiled at the Scotsman. ‘I suspect, my lord, you have come to encourage me to attack?’
    ‘I trust you will, sire,’ Douglas said.