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be sure?’
    ‘I am sure, Majesty. The monks of Saint Junien were given guard of it, and they delivered it to us as a sign from God.’
    ‘It has been missing these many years,’ the Bishop of Châlons had said reverently, then knelt to the relic and kissed the pitted blade.
    ‘So it is real?’ the king had asked, amazed.
    ‘It is real,’ Bessières had replied, ‘and God has sent it to you. This is the sword that protected our Saviour and the man who possesses this sword cannot know defeat.’
    ‘Then God and Saint Denis be praised,’ the king had said, and he had taken the sword from the cardinal and touched it to his lips. The cardinal had watched, hiding his pleasure. The sword would bring victory, and victory would raise King Jean to be the mightiest monarch of Christendom, and when the Pope died the King of France would add his persuasion to the men who would advocate Bessières’s candidacy for the throne of Saint Peter. The king closed his eyes momentarily and kissed the blade a second time before returning it to the cardinal’s gloved hands.
    ‘With Your Highness’s permission,’ the cardinal had said, ‘I shall give this holy blade to a deserving champion so he can cut down your enemies.’
    ‘You have my permission,’ the king had said. ‘Give it to a man who will use it well!’ His voice was firm because the sight of the blade had given him a new confidence. He had been wanting a sign, some hint that God would grant France a victory, and now he had that sign. Victory was his. God had decreed it.
    Yet now, as dawn edged the world, the king felt his old doubts return. Was it wise to fight? The English prince had accepted humiliating terms, so perhaps France should impose those terms? Yet victory would yield much greater riches. Victory would bring glory as well as treasure. The king made the sign of the cross and told himself that God would prosper France this day. He had confessed his sins, he had been forgiven, and he had been sent a sign from heaven. Today, he thought, Crécy will be avenged.
    ‘What if the cardinal arranges a truce, sire?’ d’Audrehem interrupted his thoughts.
    ‘The cardinal can fart for all I care,’ King Jean said.
    Because he had made his choice. The English were trapped, and he would slaughter them.
    He led the way from the house into a world made grey by the day’s first wolfish light. He put an arm around the shoulder of his youngest son, the fourteen-year-old Philippe. ‘Today, my son, you will fight at my side,’ he said. The boy had been equipped like his father, head to toe in steel. ‘And today, my son, you will see God and Saint Denis shower glory upon France.’ The king lifted his arms so an armourer could strap a great sword’s belt about his waist. A squire held a war axe with a haft decorated with golden hoops, while a groom led a handsome grey stallion that the king now mounted. He would fight on foot like his men, but at this moment, as the dawn promised a bright new day, it was important that men should see their king. He pushed up his helmet’s visor, then drew his polished sword and held it high above his blue-plumed helmet. ‘Advance the banners,’ he ordered, ‘and unfurl the oriflamme.’
    Because France was going to fight.
     
    The Prince of Wales, like the King of France, had spent most of the night being armoured. His men had spent it in their lines, beneath their banners. They had been drawn up in battle order for twenty-four hours, and now, in the dawn, they grumbled because they were thirsty, hungry, and uncomfortable. They knew a battle had been unlikely the previous day; it had been a Sunday and the churchmen had proclaimed a Truce of God, though still they had waited in line in case the treacherous enemy broke the truce, but now it was Monday. Rumours flickered through the army. The French numbered twelve thousand, fifteen thousand, twenty thousand. The prince had surrendered them to the French, or the prince had arranged a truce, but despite the rumours there were no orders to relax their vigilance. They waited in line, all but those who went back to the woods to empty their bowels. They watched the skyline to the north and west, looking for an enemy, but it was dark and unmoving there.
    Priests moved among the waiting men. They said mass, they gave men crumbs of bread and absolution. Some men ate scraps of earth. From earth they came, to earth they would go, and eating the soil was an old superstition before battle.