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looking at the Duke of Orléans’s troops, whom he had presumed were about to attack the Earl of Salisbury’s men on the English right, but to his bemusement those enemy troops were heading even farther north. Some had mounted their horses, some walked, and some lingered in the valley’s bed as though uncertain what they should do. ‘Jean!’ the prince called. ‘My lord!’
    Jean de Grailly, Captal de Buch, who had stayed close to the prince for much of the battle, nudged his horse closer. ‘Sire?’
    ‘What are those devils doing?’
    ‘A mounted attack?’ the captal suggested, but he sounded very uncertain. If the French did plan a charge of mounted knights then they were taking their horses a long way from the English line. Some had already vanished over the distant skyline. ‘Or perhaps they want to be first into the whorehouses of Poitiers?’ the captal suggested.
    ‘What sensible fellows they are,’ the prince said. He frowned, watching the receding troops. About half of the Duke of Orléans’s battle were going northwards, the other half had stayed where they were to be joined by the dauphin’s men who had already fought. Then some of those began to follow the Duke of Orléans’s banner northward. That banner, instead of being carried towards the right of the English line, was heading steadily north and westwards. ‘By God,’ the prince said in astonishment, ‘I do believe you’re right. They’re racing to get the best whores! Giddy-up, fellows!’ he shouted the encouragement towards the disappearing enemy, then patted his horse, ‘Not you, old fellow. You have to stay here.’ He looked back to the French king’s troops who were now advancing towards him. ‘He must be very confident,’ he said, ‘to send troops away?’
    ‘Or very foolish,’ the Earl of Warwick said.
    There were a dozen horsemen about the prince. They were the wise men, the experienced men, their eyes creased from staring at distant enemies, their skin darkened by the sun, their armour scratched and dented, and their weapon hilts worn smooth from use. They had fought in Normandy, Brittany, Gascony, France, and Scotland, and they trusted each other, and, more importantly, the prince trusted them. ‘And to think,’ the prince said, ‘that this morning I was expecting to be a hostage.’
    ‘I’m sure Jean de Valois would accept the offer now, sire,’ the Earl of Warwick said, refusing to call Jean the King of France, a title claimed by Edward of England.
    ‘I don’t believe what I think I’m watching,’ the prince said. He was frowning at the retreating French troops, who really did seem to be leaving the battlefield, not just the dauphin’s tired men, but the Duke of Orléans’s fresh troops as well. Some had remained on the field, and those men were joining the king’s battle. ‘I suppose they think those fellows are sufficient.’ He pointed at the approaching men-at-arms. The king’s great standard, flamboyant in blue and gold, had reached the valley’s bottom and now the great spread of armoured men began to climb. ‘My lord,’ the prince turned to the captal, ‘you have horsemen?’
    ‘I have sixty men mounted, sire. The rest are in the line.’
    ‘Sixty,’ the prince said thoughtfully. He glanced back at the approaching French. Sixty was not enough. His battered army might have around the same number of men as the King of France’s approaching battle, but the enemy was fresh, the
prince’s men were tired, and he did not want to weaken his exhausted line by taking men-at-arms from the ranks. But then a happy thought occurred. ‘Take a hundred archers with you. All mounted.’
    ‘Sire?’ the Earl of Warwick asked, wondering what the prince was thinking.
    ‘They plan to strike us hard,’ the prince said, ‘so let’s see how they like being struck themselves?’ He turned back to the captal. ‘Let them engage us first, my lord, then strike from the rear.’
    The captal was smiling. It was not a pleasant smile. ‘I need an English flag, sire.’
    ‘So they know who’s killing them?’
    ‘So your archers don’t use our horses for target practice, sire.’
    ‘My God,’ Warwick said, ‘you’re going to charge an army with a hundred and sixty men!’
    ‘No, we’re going to slaughter an army,’ the prince said, ‘with the help of God, Saint George, and Gascony!’ The prince leaned from the saddle and clasped the captal’s hand. ‘Go with God, my lord, and fight like the