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archers and men-at-arms struggle back through the watery mud. ‘Sir Bartholomew!’ he called to Burghersh, who had ridden a few paces closer to the wading men.
    ‘Sire?’
    ‘The bastard who told you they’d retreated. Where is he?’
    ‘At my quarters, sire.’
    ‘Hang him. Hang him slowly. Make it very slow.’
    A crossbow bolt struck the marshland just in front of Foudre and tumbled in a spray of water past the horse’s hooves. Two more missiles came close, but still the prince would not move. ‘They can’t see me running away,’ he told the captal.
    ‘Better to run away than die, sire.’
    ‘Not always,’ the prince said. ‘Reputation, my lord, reputation.’
    ‘Being dead before your time isn’t the way to great reputation,’ the captal said.
    ‘My time isn’t now,’ the prince said. ‘I had my fortune told in Argenton.’
    ‘You did?’
    ‘A filthy crone, she was, but folk said she sees the future. She smelled like a cesspit.’
    ‘And what did she say?’
    ‘She said I was destined for marvellous things,’ the prince said.
    ‘Did she know you were the Prince of Wales, sire?’
    ‘Oh yes.’
    ‘Then she’d hardly say you were going to die in a mucky rainstorm a week later, would she? The better the fortune they give the better you pay them. And I’ll wager you were generous?’
    ‘I think I was, yes.’
    ‘And most likely one of your courtiers told the crone what to say. Did she say you’d be lucky in love?’
    ‘Oh yes.’
    ‘That’s an easy prophecy to give a prince. A prince can look like a toad and they’ll still spread their legs.’
    ‘God is indeed good,’ the prince said happily. Scarlet dye was leaking from his hat and making faint trickles on his face so that he looked as if he was bleeding.
    ‘Come away, sire,’ the captal pleaded.
    ‘In a moment, my lord,’ the prince said. He was determined to wait until the last Englishman or Welshman had retreated past his horse.
    A crossbowman on the upper floor of a leather-worker’s house that lay close to the southern gate had seen the two horsemen’s rich cloaks. He wound the handles of his weapon, drawing the cord back inch by slow inch, tensioning the wood and metal bow that creaked as it took the enormous strain of the thick cord. He felt the cord click over the pawl that held it, then searched through his bolts to find one that looked sharp and clean. He laid it in the groove, then rested the weapon on the casement sill. He sighted it. He noted that the wind was gusting hard from left to right and so he edged the weapon slightly leftwards. He put the stock against his shoulder, took a breath and felt for the trigger with his right hand. He waited. The horsemen were not moving. The foot soldiers were fleeing, some were falling as the bolts struck through leather or mail to pierce bone and flesh, but the crossbowman ignored them. He sighted on the red cloak again, raised his aim very slightly to allow for the missile’s fall, steadied himself, held his breath, and pulled the trigger. The crossbow thumped into his shoulder as the bolt sped away, a black streak in the torrential silver rain.
    ‘Maybe the rain will stop tonight,’ the prince said wistfully.
    The crossbow bolt went between his right thigh and the saddle. It cut the fine cloth of his hose without scratching his skin, it pierced the saddle’s thick leather, was slowed by the wooden frame and finally jarred against one of Foudre’s ribs. The horse whinnied and shied away from the pain. The prince calmed the stallion. ‘Christ,’ he said, ‘two inches higher and I’d be singing in the front row of the choir.’
    ‘Sire,’ the captal said, ‘you can punish me for this, but I don’t want to lose you.’ He leaned over, took hold of Foudre’s bridle, and dragged the prince back towards the willows. The prince called encouragement to the defeated foot soldiers as he allowed himself to be pulled out of danger.
    ‘Tomorrow,’ he called, ‘tomorrow we’ll have our revenge! Tomorrow we’ll sack Tours!’
    Yet the next dawn brought no reprieve. The wind still howled across the wet land and the rain fell and the thunder bellowed and lightning tore the sky. God, it seemed, wanted Tours to be safe. He wanted to trap the English and their Gascon allies south of the River Loire. And the next day after that, because to remain still was to invite the French to surround them, the prince’s army turned back towards the south.
    The retreat had