1356

Philippe,’ the king said to his son.
    ‘Yes, Father.’
    ‘Tonight we’ll feast in Poitiers,’ the king said. ‘We’ll have music!’
    ‘And prisoners?’
    ‘Dozens of prisoners,’ King Jean said. ‘Hundreds of prisoners! And we’ll make you a nightshirt from the Prince of Wales’s jupon.’
    Philippe laughed. He carried a sword and a shield, though no one expected him to fight, and four Knights of the Star were detailed to protect him.
    The front ranks of the French were converging on the gap in the hedge now. ‘Montjoie Saint Denis!’ they shouted, ‘Montjoie Saint Denis!’ The attacking line was ragged. The enthusiastic had forged ahead, the reluctant had deliberately slowed, and the French line was misshapen. The English were silent. The king had a glimpse of them through the ranks in front of him and saw a grey line
of battered steel beneath tattered flags. ‘Saint Denis,’ he shouted, ‘Montjoie Saint Denis!’
    The Cardinal Bessières was a hundred paces behind the French attack. He was still mounted and escorted by Father Marchant and three men-at-arms. The cardinal was livid. The French army was supposedly led by men who knew their business, men experienced in warfare, yet the first attacks by horsemen had failed utterly, the second attack had been repulsed, and now at least half of the army had left the field, some without even trying to fight. What should have been an easy victory was being weighed in the balance, yet despite his anger he was still confident. The king’s battle was the strongest of the three and filled with men of high reputation. They were fresh, the enemy was tired, and with God’s help the king should prevail. The oriflamme still flew. The cardinal considered saying a prayer, but he had never been confident of God’s help, preferring to rely on his own intelligence and cunning. ‘When this debacle is over,’ he said to Father Marchant, ‘make sure you retrieve
la Malice
from that Scottish animal.’
    ‘Of course, Your Eminence.’
    And to the cardinal’s surprise the recollection of Saint Peter’s sword gave him a sudden surge of hope. He, above all men, knew the tawdry nature of most relics and the deceit that such things played on the credulous. Any scrap of old bone, whether from a goat, a bullock, or an executed thief, could be palmed off as the knuckle of a martyr, yet despite his scepticism he felt a certainty that
la Malice
was indeed the sword of the fisherman. It could not fail. The angels themselves would fight for France, and victory would propel Louis Bessières onto the throne of Saint Peter.
    ‘Now go!’ the cardinal called to the men in front, though they were too far away to hear him.
    And the French charged. ‘Montjoie Saint Denis!’
     
    Thomas rode north along the English line. He could hear the French approaching, their big drums pounding the air, and he was curious to discover what was happening. So far his battle had been the short, vicious repulse of the horsemen by the ford, and then the equally short and savage battle inside the hedge. What had happened on the rest of the field was a mystery, and so he rode to find out and he saw, through the widest gap in the hedge, another French attack surging forward. What was strange was that there were no more Frenchmen on the distant skyline, except for a scatter of horsemen who appeared, like him, to be watching the battle.
    He was about to turn back to tell his men what he had discovered and to warn them to be ready for another fight along the hedge when a voice shouted. ‘Are you an archer?’
    Thomas assumed the question was directed at someone else and ignored it, then it struck him as strange that the question should have been asked in French. He turned and saw a man in black livery on which a yellow shield was decorated with silver scallops. The man was staring straight at Thomas.
    ‘I’m an archer,’ Thomas called back.
    ‘I need mounted archers!’ The man was young, but had an unmistakable air of confidence and authority. ‘Bring hand weapons!’
    ‘I can give you at least sixty archers,’ Thomas called back.
    ‘Be quick!’
    The French came through the gap, screaming their war cry and, just as before, they crashed into the English line and, just as before, steel met steel. ‘Hold fast!’ a man bellowed in English. ‘Hold the line!’ Trumpets raked the sky with noise, the drummers hammered their skins, the war cries were shouted, and Thomas rode, only stopping when