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the living Christ I beg this of you, sire.’
    The prince was silent. There was a murmur in the English ranks as men translated the cardinal’s words. The prince raised a hand for quiet, then just gazed at the cardinal without speaking for what seemed a long while. Then he shrugged. ‘Do you speak for France, Your Eminence?’
    ‘No, sire. I speak for the church and for the Holy Father. The Holy Father desires peace, in the name of Christ, I swear it. He has beseeched me to prevent bloodshed, to end this senseless warfare and to make peace.’
    ‘And will our enemy keep a truce this day?’
    ‘King Jean has promised as much,’ Talleyrand said. ‘He has sworn to give this day to the church in the prayerful hope that we can forge an everlasting peace.’
    The prince nodded, then again sat silent for a while. The high clouds drifted to unveil the sun, which blazed in the pale sky, promising a warm day. ‘I shall keep the truce this day,’ the prince finally spoke, ‘and send emissaries to treat with you. They can talk there.’ He pointed to where the remaining churchmen waited at the foot of the slope. ‘But the truce is for this day only,’ the prince added.
    ‘Then I declare this day to be the Truce of God,’ Talleyrand said grandly. There was an awkward pause as if he felt he should say something more, but then he just nodded to the prince, turned his horse, and spurred back down the long sunlit slope.
    And the prince let out a long sigh of relief.

Thirteen
     
    ‘Truce of God.’ Sir Reginald Cobham said the words sourly.
    ‘They’ll keep it, won’t they?’ Thomas asked.
    ‘Oh, they’ll keep it. They’d like the whole of next week to be a Truce of God,’ Sir Reginald said, ‘the bastards would love that.’ He kicked his horse down the slope towards the River Miosson. The mist had burned away under the September sun so that Thomas could see the river winding in the valley. It was a small river, scarcely more than thirty feet across at its widest, but as he followed Sir Reginald down the steep slope he could see that the valley bottom was marshy, which suggested the river flooded often. ‘They’d like us to stay here,’ Sir Reginald said, ‘and exhaust our supplies. Then we’d be hungry, thirsty, and vulnerable. Which we are already. Nothing to eat, no water on the hill, and we’re outnumbered.’
    ‘We were outnumbered at Crécy,’ Thomas said.
    ‘Which doesn’t make it a good thing,’ Sir Reginald said. He had summoned Thomas with a curt, ‘You’ll do. Get on your horse and bring a half-dozen archers,’ then led him to the southernmost end of the English line where the Earl of Warwick’s banner stirred in the light breeze. Sir Reginald kept going, leading Thomas and his archers down the steep hill into the marshy valley of the Miosson. The English baggage train, a mass of carts and wagons, was parked under the trees. ‘They could cross the river by the bridge,’ Sir Reginald explained, gesturing east towards the monastery that was hidden by the big trees growing in the lush land about the river, ‘but the village streets are narrow and you can wager your last penny that some bloody idiot will break a wagon wheel on a house corner. It will be quicker if they can get across the ford here. So that’s what we’re doing. Seeing if the ford is passable.’
    ‘Because we’re retreating?’
    ‘The prince would like that. He’d like to get over the river and head south as fast as we can. He’d like us to sprout wings and fly to Bordeaux.’ Sir Reginald stopped close to the river where he turned and looked at Thomas’s six archers. ‘All right, boys, just stay here. If any bastard Frenchman comes near just sing out. Don’t shoot. Just sing out, but make sure your bows are strung.’
    A raised track curved through the marsh. The causeway was firm and rutted, showing that carts used the track, which dipped into the ford where both horses stopped to drink. Sir Reginald let his horse slake its thirst, then spurred into the river’s centre. ‘Splash about,’ he told Thomas. He was letting the horses feel the river bottom, looking for a treacherous dip or a marshy place that could trap a wagon, but the horses found firm footing all the way across.
    ‘Sir!’ Sam shouted, and Sir Reginald twisted in the saddle.
    A dozen horsemen were watching from the trees halfway down the western hill. They were in mail and helmets. Three wore jupons, though they were too far away for