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the mace and the snout-visor was knocked free, dangling from one hinge, and the Frenchman still would not abandon the lance. He was snarling, screaming insults, and Karyl slammed his mace into the moustached face, crushing the nose and breaking teeth, and now the man, his face a mask of blood, tried to ram the lance forward again, but Karyl punched the mace a second time and Arnaldus brought his axe down onto the man’s shoulder, splitting his espalier, and the enemy went down onto his knees, spitting blood and teeth, and Arnaldus finished him with a mighty swing of the axe and kicked the kneeling body back towards the French.
    The battle was now shrunken to the distance a man’s weapon could reach. Enemy could smell enemy, smell the shit as bowels emptied in terror, smell the wine and ale on their breath, smell the blood that slicked the grass. There would be a brutal bout of fighting, then a pause as men pulled back and caught their breath. Thomas had picked up the shortened lance. He had no idea where his own weapons were, presumably on a packhorse that might have been brought up the hill. The lance must do for now. The French, of whom he could see perhaps a hundred close by, were watching through closed visors. Most wore a livery of pale blue with two red stars. He wondered which lord they served and whether the lord was among them. They watched, they judged, they were readying for another charge. Thomas’s archers were holding poleaxes or maces. The Welsh archers were singing a battle song in their own language. Thomas assumed it celebrated a victory over the English, but if it helped them break the French then they could sing of English defeats till hell froze over.
    ‘The line’s holding!’ the Earl of Oxford called from horseback. ‘Don’t let them break us!’
    A big man carrying a morningstar pushed his way to the front of the enemy line. He wore plate armour, and had no jupon, while his helmet was a visored bascinet spattered with blood. He wore a heavy sword in a belted scabbard. Most men abandoned their scabbards in battle, fearing it might trip them, but this enemy needed the scabbard to hold his sword while he wielded the monstrous morningstar, which was fouled with blood.
    The morningstar had a haft almost as long as a bow stave, while the head was an iron ball the size of a baby’s skull. A long steel spike protruded from the tip of the ball, while a dozen shorter spikes surrounded it. The man hefted the weapon. The snout of his visor moved from side to side as he looked along the line of the Hellequin. Two companions, both carrying small battered tournament shields, joined him; one was armed with a poleaxe, the other with a
goupillon
, which had a short wooden handle connected by a thick chain to a spiked metal ball. It was a flail. ‘They came here to die,’ the tall man with the morningstar said loudly enough for Thomas to hear, ‘so let’s oblige the bastards.’
    ‘Kill the poleaxe first,’ Karyl said softly. The man carrying that weapon also had a shield, which meant he could not use the big hooked axe with full strength.
    ‘You want to die?’ the tall man shouted.
    From somewhere to the north came the din of sudden frenzy: shouts, metal clashing, screams. The enemy must be making a frantic effort to pierce the line, Thomas thought, and he prayed the English and their Gascon allies held, then he could spare no thought for prayer because the huge man with the spiked morningstar was charging. He was charging straight at Thomas who, alone among the men-at-arms in the English line, wore no plate armour.
    ‘Saint Denis!’ the tall man bellowed.
    And Saint Denis met Saint George.
     
    Cardinal Bessières watched the battle from the French hill. He was mounted on a stout and patient horse, and wore his cardinal’s robes though, incongruously, he had a bascinet perched on his head. He was a few yards from King Jean, who was also mounted, though the cardinal noted that the king had discarded his spurs, which suggested that if he fought he would fight on foot. The king’s youngest son, Philippe, and the rest of the knights and men-at-arms were all dismounted. ‘What is happening, Your Majesty?’ the cardinal enquired.
    The king was not entirely certain of the answer and he was irritated that the cardinal, with his ridiculous helmet, was staying so close. He did not like Bessières. The man was the son of a merchant, for God’s sake, but he had risen in the church and was now a