1356

Papal Legate and, the king knew, had hopes of becoming Pope. And perhaps Bessières would be a good choice because, despite his humble birth, the cardinal was fiercely supportive of the French monarchy and it never hurt to have God’s help, and so the king indulged him. ‘Our first battle is breaking the enemy.’ he explained.
    ‘God be praised,’ the cardinal said, then pointed to the Duke of Orléans’s banner, which flew above the second battle that waited in the shallow valley between the two hills. The duke had well over two thousand men-at-arms. They were on foot, but their horses were close behind their ranks in case they were needed to pursue a broken enemy. ‘Is there some reason,’ the cardinal asked, ‘why your brother is not advancing to do God’s business?’
    The king nearly lost his temper. He was nervous. He had hoped that the dauphin’s battle would be sufficient to break the English, but it was evident that the fight was harder than anyone had expected. He had been assured that the enemy was weakened by hunger and thirst, but they were still fighting. Desperation, he supposed. ‘My brother will advance when he is ordered to advance,’ he said curtly.
    ‘It is a question of space,’ the Count of Ventadour intervened. He was a young man who was a favourite of the king, and he had sensed his monarch’s irritation and moved to spare him from any further tedious explanations.
    ‘Space?’ the cardinal asked.
    ‘The enemy, Your Eminence, has a strong position,’ the count said, pointing. ‘You see the hedge? It restricts us.’
    ‘Ah,’ the cardinal said as if he had only just noticed the hedge. ‘But why not advance all our strength?’
    ‘Because even a king or a cardinal cannot pour a quart into a pint pot, Your Eminence,’ the count said.
    ‘So break the pot,’ the cardinal suggested.
    ‘They are attempting to do just that, Your Eminence,’ the count said patiently.
    It was difficult to determine what happened beyond the hedge. There was plainly fighting, but who was winning? There were still Frenchmen on the hedge’s western side, which suggested that they did not have space enough to fight on the farther side, or perhaps they were the fainthearts who did not want to risk their lives. A small trickle of wounded men retreated down the hill, and it seemed obvious to the cardinal that the French should send every man they had to put unbearable pressure on the enemy, but instead the king and his brother were waiting calmly, letting the dauphin’s troops do the work. Geoffrey de Charny, the royal standard bearer, was still holding the oriflamme aloft, indicating that no prisoners should be taken, and the cardinal understood enough to know that the great flag would fly until the enemy was broken. Only when that bright red pennant vanished could the French be confident that they had time to secure rich ransoms, and Bessières was frustrated that it still flew. King Jean, he thought, was being tentative. He had sent a third of his army to fight, but why not all? Yet he knew he could utter no criticism. When the next Pope was elected he needed King Jean’s influence.
    ‘Your Eminence?’ the Count of Ventadour broke into the cardinal’s thoughts.
    ‘My son?’ the cardinal responded grandly.
    ‘May I?’ The count reached up towards the cheap-looking blade that the cardinal held.
    ‘With reverence, my son,’ the cardinal said.
    The count touched
la Malice
, closed his eyes, and prayed. ‘There will be victory,’ he said when his prayer was finished.
    ‘It is God’s will,’ the cardinal said.
    Thirty paces away from the cardinal, the Count of Labrouillade stood in the ranks of the king’s men. He was sweating. He wore linen underclothes and above those a close-fitting leather jerkin and a pair of trews. A mail coat covered the leather, and strapped over the mail was a full suit of plate armour. He needed to piss. The wine he had been drinking all night was swelling his bladder, but he feared that if he released that pressure then his bowels would release as well. His belly was sour. Christ, he thought, but let the dauphin win this quickly! And why was it taking so long? He shifted his weight from foot to foot. At least the Duke of Orléans would be the next into battle. The Count of Labrouillade had paid gold to Marshal Clermont to have himself and his men-at-arms posted to the king’s battle, the last battle, and he fervently prayed that the king’s three thousand