1356

The wind was still strong enough to spread the colourful flags; a flaunting of lions and crosses, harts and stars, stripes and gryphons, the barony of France gathered for the attack. Priests walked in front of the men, offering blessings, assuring them that God favoured France, that the Navarrese scum were doomed to hell, and that Christ would aid the assault. Then a new banner appeared, a blue banner blazoned with golden fleurs-de-lys, and the men-at-arms cheered as their king rode between their lines. He wore plate armour that had been polished to brilliance, and around his neck was a cloak of red velvet that lifted in the wind. His helmet glittered, and about it was a gold crown set with diamonds. His horse, a white destrier, lifted its feet high as Jean of France rode between his soldiers, looking neither right nor left, and then he reached the long poles waiting for the peasants who would thrust the tower forward, and there he turned. He curbed the horse and men thought he was about to say something and silence spread across the field, but the king merely raised his left hand as if offering a blessing, and the cheers began again. Some men knelt, others looked in awe at the king’s long, pale face, which was framed by his polished helmet. Jean the Good, he was called, not because he was good, but because he enjoyed the worldly pleasures that were a king’s prerogative. He was not a great warrior, and he had a famous temper, and he was reputed to be indecisive, yet at this moment the chivalry of France was ready to die for him.
    ‘Not much point in the man riding a bloody horse,’ the Lord of Douglas grumbled. He was waiting with a half-dozen of his Scotsmen behind the tower. He was dressed in a simple leather haubergeon, for he had no intention of joining the attack. He had brought his company to kill Englishmen, not swat a few Navarrese. ‘You can’t ride a bloody horse up stone walls.’
    His men growled agreement, then stiffened as the king, followed by his courtiers, rode towards them. ‘Kneel, you bastards,’ Douglas ordered them.
    King Jean curbed his horse close to Douglas. ‘Your nephew fights today?’ he asked.
    ‘He does, Your Majesty,’ Douglas said.
    ‘We are grateful to him,’ King Jean said.
    ‘You’d be more grateful if you led us south, sire,’ Douglas said, ‘south to kill that puppy Edward of Wales.’
    The king blinked. Douglas, who alone among the Scotsmen had not gone down on one knee, was publicly reprimanding him, but the king smiled to show no offence had been taken. ‘We shall go south when this business is settled,’ the king said. He had a thin voice with a tone of petulance.
    ‘I’m glad of it, sire,’ the Lord of Douglas said fiercely.
    ‘Unless other business intrudes,’ the king qualified his first remark. He raised a hand in a gesture of vague benediction and rode on. The rain became more insistent.
    ‘Unless other business intrudes,’ the Lord of Douglas said savagely. ‘He’s got Englishmen harrowing his lands, and he thinks other business might intrude?’ He spat, then turned as a cheer from the waiting men-at-arms announced that the tower was at last being pushed towards the high walls. Trumpets blared. A great banner showing Saint Denis had been unfurled from the tower’s top. The flag displayed the martyred Denis holding his own severed head.
    The great siege tower lurched as it was shoved forward, and Robbie needed to hold on to one of the stanchions that held the drawbridge in place. The long poles had been pushed clean through the tower’s base so they protruded on either side and scores of men were thrusting on them, encouraged by men with whips and by drummers who beat a steady rhythm on nakers, great goatskin tubs that boomed like cannon.
    ‘We should have had cannon,’ the Lord of Douglas grumbled.
    ‘Too expensive.’ Geoffrey de Charny, one of King Jean’s greatest warlords, had come to stand beside the Scottish lord. ‘Cannons cost money, my friend, and gunpowder costs money, and France has no money.’
    ‘It’s richer than Scotland.’
    ‘The taxes are not collected,’ Geoffrey said bleakly. ‘Who will pay these men?’ He gestured at the waiting soldiers.
    ‘Send them to collect the taxes.’
    ‘They would keep the taxes.’ Geoffrey made the sign of the cross. ‘Pray there is a pot of gold inside Breteuil.’
    ‘There’s nothing but a pack of bloody Navarese inside Breteuil. We should be marching south!’
    ‘I