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surely where much of the city’s wealth lay, was low-lying and ringed only by a shallow ditch and by a wooden wall that was broken in many places. The prince’s troops, hardened by war,
could cross that barrier in their sleep, except that the River Loire had overflowed its banks, and Tours was now protected by flooded fields, by farmland turned to marsh, and by thick mud. ‘Goddamned rain,’ the prince said again, and God answered with a peal of thunder so sudden and loud that every man in the tent flinched. A jagged sky-splitting lance of lightning slid down to the low hill on which the tent stood, making everything stark white and black for an instant, then a second crash of thunder echoed across the sky and, though it had seemed that it could not rain any harder, the intensity of the downpour was doubled. Rain bounced off the muddy ground, poured off the tent and made streams on the hill. ‘Jesus,’ the prince said, ‘Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!’
    ‘Saint Martin has his ear, sire,’ one of his companions remarked.
    ‘Saint Martin?’
    ‘Patron saint of Tours, sire.’
    ‘Did he drown to death?’
    ‘I believe he died in his bed, sire, but I’m not sure.’
    ‘The bloody man bloody deserved to bloody drown if he sent this bloody rain.’
    A horseman appeared at the foot of the hill. His horse was draped in a cloth showing a badge, but the cloth was so wet that the device could not be distinguished. The horse’s mane lay flat on its neck, dripping water. Its hooves slopped through the mud while the rider, who was wearing a mail hood beneath a bascinet, slumped in the saddle. He kicked the reluctant beast up the shallow slope and squinted towards the tent. ‘Is His Majesty there?’
    ‘That’s me!’ Edward called. ‘No, no, don’t dismount!’ The man had been about to get out of the saddle to kneel to the prince, but instead he just bowed. Rain bounced off his helmet.
    ‘I was sent to tell Your Majesty that we’re going to try again,’ the messenger shouted. He was only five paces away, but the rain was too loud for a normal voice.
    ‘You’re going to swim to the damned place?’ the prince called and waved to show he wanted no answer. ‘Tell him I’ll come!’ he shouted, then turned back into the tent and snapped his fingers towards a servant who waited in the shadows. ‘A cloak! A hat! Horse!’
    Another crash of thunder deafened the world. Lightning stabbed onto the ruined church of Saint Lidoire, the remnants of which had been pulled apart to provide stone to repair the Cité’s walls. ‘Sire,’ one of the men at the gaming table called, ‘you needn’t go!’
    ‘If they’re attacking then they need to see me!’
    ‘You’ve no armour, sire!’
    The prince ignored that, lifting his arms so a servant could attach the sword scabbard to the silver chains hanging from the belt. Another servant swathed Edward in a thick black cloak. ‘Not that one,’ the prince said, pushing the cloak away, ‘the red one! The one with gold fringes!’
    ‘The dye will run, sire.’
    ‘Damn the dye, they must see me. The red one! They need to recognise my pretty face. Give me that hat, the small one. Is a horse ready?’
    ‘Always, sire,’ a servant said.
    ‘Which horse is it?’
    ‘Foudre, sire.’
    The prince laughed. ‘That’s bloody apt, eh? Foudre!’
Foudre
was the French for lightning, and the prince, like his entourage, preferred to speak in French. It was only when he needed to speak with the common soldiers that he used English. He ran into the rain, cursing as he slipped on the wet grass. He steadied himself by grabbing the groom holding Foudre. ‘Help me up!’ He was already soaked through. ‘I’ll want dry clothes when I get back!’ he called to a servant inside the tent, then tugged on the reins.
    ‘Wait!’ someone shouted, but the prince was already spurring away, squinting because the rain was lashing into his eyes. The wind had risen, thrashing wet branches, and Foudre shied away from a low, heavy-leaved oak bough that shook in the gale. Lightning ripped across the sky, revealing the limestone bluffs beyond the river with a sudden brilliant white light and was followed a few seconds later by a crash of thunder that sounded as if the towers of heaven were collapsing.
    ‘You’re an idiot, sire!’ Another horseman had caught up with the prince, who was laughing.
    ‘I’m a wet idiot!’
    ‘We can’t attack in this!’
    ‘Maybe that’s what the bloody enemy