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letting the question hang.
    ‘I negotiate,’ Bessières said airily, ‘and I shall give France the peace that the Holy Father wants, but even he knows that the only way to give France peace is by defeating the English. So yes, my lord, the road to peace lies through war. More almonds?’
    A trumpet sounded, calling the two groups of knights to go to the ends of the tilting ground. Marshals were inspecting lances, making certain they were tipped with wooden blocks so they could not pierce shields or armour.
    ‘There will be war,’ Douglas said, ‘yet here we are playing games.’
    ‘His Majesty is nervous of England,’ Bessières said frankly. ‘He fears their archers.’
    ‘Archers can be beaten,’ Douglas said vehemently.
    ‘They can?’
    ‘They can. There is a way.’
    ‘No one has found it,’ the cardinal observed.
    ‘Because they’re fools. Because they think that playing on horseback is the only way to make war. My father was at the Bannock burn; you know of that battle?’
    ‘Alas, no,’ the cardinal said.
    ‘We crushed the English bastards, tore them to pieces, archers and all. It can be done. It has been done. It must be done.’
    The cardinal watched the French knights form a line of ten men. The remaining five would charge a few paces behind to take advantage of the chaos created by the impact of the ten. ‘The one to fear,’ Bessières said, gesturing with an almond, ‘is the brute with the gaudy shield.’ He pointed to a big man on a big horse, a man arrayed in shining plate armour and holding a shield that displayed a clenched red fist against a field of orange and white stripes. ‘His name is Joscelyn of Berat,’ the cardinal said, ‘and he is a fool, but a great fighter. He is undefeated these last five years except, of course, by Roland de Verrec, and he, alas, is not here.’
    Joscelyn of Berat was the man Robbie Douglas had been talking with before the knights withdrew to the ends of the field. ‘Where’s Berat?’ Douglas asked.
    ‘South,’ Bessières said vaguely.
    ‘How would my nephew know him?’
    Bessières shrugged. ‘I cannot tell you, my lord.’
    ‘My nephew was in the south,’ Douglas said, ‘before the pestilence arrived. He travelled with an Englishman.’ He spat. ‘Some damn archer,’ he added.
    The cardinal shuddered. He knew the tale, knew it only too well. The damn archer was Thomas of Hookton whom Bessières blamed for the loss of both the Grail and of Saint Peter’s throne. The cardinal also knew of Robbie Douglas, indeed that was why he had come to the tourney. ‘Your nephew is here?’ he asked.
    ‘Piebald horse,’ Douglas said, nodding towards the Scots who looked so ill armed compared to their rivals.
    ‘I would like to talk with him,’ the cardinal said. ‘Would you be so kind as to send him to me?’ But before the Lord of Douglas could answer, the king waved, a herald lowered his banner, and the horsemen dug in their spurs.
    Bessières immediately regretted his wager. The Scots’ horses looked so scrawny compared to the magnificent destriers that the French rode, and the French rode tight, knee to knee, as knights should, while the Scotsmen, slower off the mark, spread out instantly to leave gaps through which their opponents could ride. They had chosen to ride in a single wide line, all fifteen abreast, but they also rode faster, increasing their disarray, while the French came slowly, keeping station, only spurring into the canter when the two groups were about fifty paces apart. The cardinal glanced at the Lord of Douglas to see if the Scotsman shared his apprehensions, but Douglas was smiling sardonically as though he knew what was coming.
    The hoofbeats were loud, but drowned by the shouts of the crowd. The king, who was exceptionally fond of jousting, leaned forward expectantly in his chair, and the cardinal looked back to see the leading Frenchmen raise their shields and couch their lances, bracing for the impact, and the crowd went suddenly quiet, as if it held its breath, waiting for the crash of armoured men and horses.
    The cardinal never quite understood what happened next, or rather he did not understand until it was explained to him at the feast where cruets were used to represent the horsemen, but when he was watching, when the crash came, he did not understand it at all.
    The Scots had seemed so ragged, yet at the last second they suddenly swerved inwards to make a column of horsemen, three riders in the front