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rank, and that column hammered through the French line like a nail driven through a sheet of vellum. Scottish lances crashed into shields, Frenchmen were thrown back onto their saddles’ high cantles, and the column sliced through the line to strike hard against the second smaller group of French riders, who, not expecting to be involved in the fight’s opening, were not ready for the impact. A lance caught a Frenchman at the base of his helmet and, though blunted, it cracked the helmet and threw the man back over his cantle. A horse screamed. The Scots in the following ranks had discarded their lances and drawn swords or else carried brutal lead-weighted maces, and they now moved outwards. Most were now behind their opponents who were blind to their attacks. Another Frenchman went down, dragged by his stirrup-trapped boot out of the melee.
    So far as the cardinal could see it was sheer chaos, but it was clear the Scots were winning. Two more Frenchmen fell, and Sculley, conspicuous because he wore no helmet, was hammering his mace down on a magnificently plumed helm, hammering again and again, grimacing as he stood in his stirrups, and the horseman, plainly stunned, slid down to the turf as Sculley turned on another man, this time swinging the mace so that it slammed straight into the helmet’s eye-slits. That man went, felled in an instant, and the Scotsmen were now seeking new enemies, getting in each other’s way in their eagerness to finish off the French knights. Joscelyn of Berat was backing his horse, fighting off Robbie Douglas and another man. Joscelyn’s swordplay was fast and dangerous, but Sculley came behind him and slammed the mace into the small of his back, and Joscelyn, knowing he could not fight off three men, shouted that he yielded, and Robbie Douglas had to drive his horse between Joscelyn and Sculley to stop the mace coming again in a blow that threatened to snap the Frenchman’s spine.
    Sculley wheeled away, saw a Frenchmen staggering to his feet with a drawn sword, so kicked him in the face and raised the mace to finish the man off, but the heralds were running to intervene and the trumpets were shrilling and another Scotsman stilled Sculley’s blow. The crowd was utterly silent. Sculley was growling, twitching, flicking his head from side to side in search of another man to hit, but of the Frenchmen only Joscelyn of Berat was still in his saddle, and he had yielded. The fight had been fast, brutal and one-sided, and the cardinal discovered he had been holding his breath. ‘A demonstration of Scottish prowess, my lord?’ he enquired of the Lord of Douglas.
    ‘Just imagine they had been fighting the English,’ Douglas growled.
    ‘That is a cheering thought, my lord,’ the cardinal said, watching as servants ran to rescue the fallen French knights, one of whom was not moving at all. His helm was battered and there was blood seeping from the visor’s eye-slits. ‘The sooner we release you against the English,’ Bessières went on, ‘the better.’
    Douglas turned to look at the cardinal. ‘The king listens to you?’ he asked.
    ‘I give him advice,’ Bessières said airily.
    ‘Then tell him to send us south.’
    ‘Not to Normandy?’
    ‘Edward’s pup is in the south,’ Douglas said.
    ‘The Prince of Wales?’
    ‘Edward’s pup,’ Douglas said, ‘and I want him. I want him yielding to me. I want him on his damned knees whimpering for mercy.’
    ‘And will you grant it?’ Bessières asked, amused at the passion in the Scotsman’s voice.
    ‘You know our king is prisoner in England?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘And the ransom will break our backs. I want Edward’s pup.’
    ‘Ah!’ Bessières understood. ‘So your king’s ransom will be the Prince of Wales?’
    ‘Exactly.’
    Bessières reached out and touched a gloved finger to the Scotsman’s hand. ‘I shall do as you ask,’ he promised warmly, ‘but first I want you to introduce me to your nephew.’
    ‘To Robbie?’
    ‘To Robbie,’ the cardinal said.
    Bessières and Robbie met that evening as the survivors of the tourney feasted with the French court. They ate eels seethed in wine, mutton dressed with figs, roasted songbirds, venison, and a score of other dishes brought into a hall where minstrels played behind a screen. The Scottish warriors ate together, clustered at a table as if protecting themselves from the vengeful French, who had suggested that some strange pagan magic, born of the wild northern