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men would not be needed. And why were they fighting on foot? Everyone knew that a nobleman fought on horseback! Yet some damned Scotsman had persuaded the king to fight on foot as the English did. If the English and the Scots wanted to fight like peasants that was their business, but a noble of France should be in the saddle! How could a man run away if he was on foot? Labrouillade groaned.
    ‘My lord?’ His standard bearer thought the count had spoken.
    ‘Be quiet,’ Labrouillade said, then sighed with relief as he pissed. The urine soaked warm down his legs and dripped from under the steel-plated skirt that protected his groin. He clenched his bowels and, blessedly, stayed clean. He looked to his right to see that the oriflamme still flew, and he prayed for the moment when it would be furled and his men could be released to find Roland de Verrec, who had sent his insulting and threatening message with the man whose horse he had killed in full view of the French army. The count had vowed to do to Roland what he had done to the impudent Villon. He would geld him for his treachery. That prospect consoled the count. ‘Messengers,’ someone said, and he looked towards the distant fighting and saw that two horsemen were riding back across the valley. They brought news, he thought, and prayed that it was good and that he would not have to fight, but merely take prisoners.
    Sculley, the frightening Scotsman, walked past Labrouillade, who thought he resembled a creature from nightmare. Blood had soaked his jupon so that the red heart of Douglas looked as though it had burst. There was blood on his gauntlets and on the vambraces that covered his forearms. His visor was up. He gave the count a feral look, then stalked on towards the cardinal.
    ‘I want the magic sword,’ Sculley said to the cardinal.
    ‘What is the animal saying?’ the cardinal asked Father Marchant, who was mounted on a mare that stood close behind Bessières’s horse. Sculley had spoken in English and even if the cardinal had understood that language he would never have penetrated the Scotsman’s accent.
    ‘What is it?’ Father Marchant asked Sculley.
    ‘Tell your man to give me the magic sword!’
    ‘
La Malice
?’
    ‘Give it to me! The bastards have hurt my lord and I’m going to kill the bastards!’ He spat the words out, glaring at the cardinal as though he wanted to begin his revenge by slicing open Bessières’s huge stomach. ‘That archer,’ Sculley went on, ‘he’s a dead man. I watched the bastard! Shooting at my lord when he was on the ground! Just give me the magic sword!’
    ‘Your Eminence,’ Father Marchant spoke in French again, ‘the creature wants
la Malice
. He expresses a desire to slaughter the enemy.’
    ‘Thank God someone does,’ the cardinal said. He had been wondering which man might best use the relic, but it seemed the man had chosen for him. He glanced at the Scotsman and shuddered at the crudity of his appearance, then he smiled, sketched a blessing, and gave the sword to Sculley.
    And somewhere a trumpet called.
     
    The Prince of Wales appeared in the English front line, his bright flag, the largest on the English side, behind and above him, and the French responded with a roar as they renewed their attack, but the English matched the war shout and surged forward themselves. Shield met shield with a crash, the weapons fell and thrust, and it was the English who forged ahead. The men trusted to guard the Prince of Wales were among the most experienced and savage in all the army. They had fought a score of battles, from Crécy to minor skirmishes, and they fought with cold-blooded ruthlessness. The two Frenchmen closest to the prince were felled instantly. Neither was killed. One was half stunned by a mace blow, and he collapsed to his knees, and the other took an axe blow to his right elbow that shattered the bone and left him weaponless. He was dragged backwards by his companions, and that rearward movement spread to the neighbouring Frenchmen. The half-stunned man tried to stand, but the prince kicked him backwards onto the ground and trod on his armoured wrist. ‘Finish him,’ he said to the man behind him, who used a steel-shod foot to push up the fallen man’s visor and rammed down with a sword point. Blood sprayed on the prince.
    ‘Give me room!’ the prince bellowed. He stepped forward and swung the axe, feeling the impact jar up his arms as the blade chopped into a man’s waist. He