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hawthorn hedge. ‘Is he just going to stay there?’ Keane asked.
    ‘He’s waiting for an English herald,’ Thomas guessed, but before any of the prince’s heralds had a chance to meet his French colleague, a group of horsemen showed on the far skyline. They were dressed in red or black and they spurred their horses down the long slope to where the vines began. ‘Three cardinals!’ Thomas exclaimed. There were six men-at-arms in plate armour, but the riders were mostly churchmen: priests and monks in black, brown or white being led by three men in cardinal’s bright red robes. One of them was Bessières. Thomas recognised the bulk of the man and pitied the horse that had to carry him.
    The horsemen, all but one, stopped in the dip of the land, while one cardinal came up the slope alone. He threaded the vines on a narrow track, watched by scores of Englishmen and Gascons who were crowding into the hedge’s wide gaps.
    ‘Make way! Make way!’ voices shouted behind Thomas. Men-at-arms wearing royal livery were ploughing through the crowd, dividing it to make a space for the Prince of Wales. Men went on their knees.
    The prince, mounted on a grey stallion and wearing a jupon with his coat of arms above a mail coat, and with a helmet surrounded by a gold coronet, frowned in puzzlement as the cardinal came closer. ‘It’s Sunday, isn’t it?’ he asked loudly.
    ‘Yes, sire.’
    ‘Perhaps he’s come to give us a blessing, boys!’
    Men laughed. The prince, not wanting the approaching cardinal to see too much of what lay behind the hedge, walked his horse a few paces forward. He waited, his right hand resting on the gilded hilt of his sword. ‘Anyone recognise him?’ he called.
    ‘That’s Talleyrand,’ one of the prince’s older companions grunted.
    ‘Talleyrand of Périgord?’ the prince sounded surprised.
    ‘The same, sire.’
    ‘We are honoured,’ the prince said sarcastically. ‘Stand up!’ he called to the men behind him. ‘We don’t want the cardinal to think we’re worshipping him.’
    ‘He’d like us to worship him,’ the Earl of Warwick growled.
    The cardinal reined in his mare. The horse was bridled in red leather that was trimmed with silver. The saddlecloth was scarlet with gold fringes, the saddle’s pommel and cantle were edged with gold. Even the stirrups were gold. Talleyrand of Périgord was the richest churchman in all France. He had been born into the nobility and had never taken to heart his church’s preaching on humility, though he respectfully bowed low in his saddle when he reached the waiting prince. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said.
    ‘Your Eminence,’ the prince replied.
    Talleyrand glanced at the archers and men-at-arms, and they gazed back, seeing a tall, thin-faced man with haughty dark eyes. He leaned forward and patted his horse’s neck with a red-gloved hand on which a thick gold ring, set with a ruby, glowed bright. ‘Your Majesty,’ he said again. ‘I come with a plea.’
    The prince shrugged, but said nothing.
    Cardinal Talleyrand looked up at the sky as if seeking inspiration, and when he looked back to the prince there were tears in his eyes. He stretched out his arms. ‘I pray you will listen to me, sire. I beseech you to hear my words!’
    He had looked to where the sun was burning through a layer of thin cloud, Thomas thought, to make his eyes water.
    ‘This is no time for a sermon!’ the prince said brusquely. ‘Say what you have to say and say it quickly.’
    The cardinal flinched at the prince’s tone, but then recovered his sorrowful look and, gazing into the prince’s eyes, declared that a battle would be a sinful waste of human life. ‘Hundreds must die, sire, hundreds will die, and they will die far from their homes to be buried in unconsecrated ground. Have you marched this far just to gain a shallow grave in France? For you are in peril, Your Majesty, you are in dreadful peril! The might of France is close, and they outnumber you! They will crush you, and I beg you, I beg you, sire, to allow me to seek another answer. Why fight a battle? Why die for pride? I promise you, sire, by the crucified Christ and by the Blessed Virgin that I will do all that I can to satisfy your wishes! I speak for the church, for the Holy Father, for Christ himself, who does not wish to see men die here. Let us parley, sire. Let us sit down and reason together. This is Sunday, a day unfit for slaughter, a day for men of goodwill to talk. In the name of