‘Where no one can find it, of course.’

‘Sir Thomas,’ Sir Reginald Cobham called from the far end of the nave, ‘you’re coming with us!’

Fra Ferdinand put a hand on Thomas’s arm to stop him leaving. ‘Do you promise me?’

‘Promise you what?’

‘You’ll hide it?’

‘I swear on Saint Junien,’ Thomas said. He turned and put his right hand on the dead saint’s forehead. The skin felt like smoothed vellum beneath his fingers. ‘I swear I will lose la Malice for ever,’ he said, ‘I swear it by Saint Junien, and may he intercede with God to send me to everlasting hell if I break this solemn promise.’

The friar nodded, satisfied. ‘Then I’ll help you.’

‘By praying?’

The Black Friar smiled. ‘By praying,’ he said. ‘And if you keep your oath my work is done. I’ll return to Mouthoumet. It’s as good a place to die as any.’ He touched Thomas’s shoulder. ‘You have my blessing,’ he said.

‘Sir Thomas!’

‘Coming, Sir Reginald!’

Sir Reginald led Thomas briskly down the abbey steps to the cobbled street where two wagons were being loaded with beans, grain, cheese, and dried fish from the monastery stores. ‘We’re the rearguard,’ Sir Reginald explained, ‘which means goddamned nothing because we’re ahead of the prince’s army right now. But he’s up on the hill.’ He pointed north to where Thomas could see the tree-fringed loom of a high hill dark in the wan moonlight. ‘The French are somewhere beyond, God knows where, but not far.’

‘We’ll be fighting them?’

‘Christ only knows. I think the prince would like to get closer to Gascony? We’re short of food. If we stay here more than a couple of days we’ll strip the country bare, but if we keep going south the bloody French might get ahead of us. They march fast.’ He said all this as he paced beside the wagons, which were being loaded by archers. ‘But it’ll be the devil’s own job to get away from here. They’re close, and we’ll need to get the wagons and packhorses across the river without the bastards attacking us. We’ll see what the morning brings. Is that wine?’ He called the question to an archer heaving a barrel onto a cart.

‘Yes, Sir Reginald!’

‘How much is there?’

‘Six barrels like this.’

‘Keep your thieving hands off it!’

‘Yes, Sir Reginald!’

‘They won’t, of course,’ Sir Reginald said to Thomas, ‘but we need it for the horses.’

‘For the horses?’ Thomas asked.

‘There’s no water on the hill; poor beasts are thirsty. So we give them wine instead. They’ll be wobbly in the morning, but we fight on foot so it doesn’t matter.’ He stopped suddenly. ‘God, that’s a pretty woman.’ Thomas thought he was talking of Bertille who was standing with Genevieve, but then Sir Reginald frowned. ‘What happened to her eye?’

‘One of the cardinal’s priests tried to gouge it.’

‘Jesus God! There are some evil bastards in the church. And he’s been sent to make peace?’

‘I think the Pope would rather see the prince surrender,’ Thomas said.

‘Ha! I hope we fight.’ He said those four words grimly. ‘And I think we will, I think we’ll have to, I think they’ll make us fight, and I think we’ll win. I want to see our archers cut the bastards down.’

And Thomas remembered the bodkin striking Sculley’s breastplate. The arrows were made in their hundreds of thousands in England, but were they well made? He had seen too many crumple. And Sir Reginald thought there would be a battle.

And the steel of the arrowheads was weak.

The king could not sleep.

He had dined with his eldest son, the dauphin, and with his youngest boy, Philippe, and they had listened as minstrels sang of ancient battles full of glory, and the king had become ever gloomier as he considered what was expected of him. Now, wanting to be alone and have time to think, he walked in the walled orchard of a fine stone house that had been commandeered for his quarters. All around him, spread through a village whose name he did not know, the fires of his army glowed in the darkness. He could hear men laughing or shouting in delight when their dice or cards were lucky. He had heard that Edward, Prince of Wales, was a gambler, but how would that prince gamble now? And was he lucky?

The king walked to the northern wall of the orchard where, by standing on a bench, he could see the red glow of the English fires. They seemed to spread across the night sky, but the brightest glow outlined a long, high hill. How many men were there? And were they there at all? Perhaps they had lit the fires to persuade him they were staying and then marched away south, carrying their plunder with them. And if they had stayed should he fight them? It was his decision and he did not know how to make it. Some of his lords advised him to avoid battle, saying that the English archers were too deadly and their men-at-arms too feral, while others were confident that this gambling prince could be defeated easily. He growled to himself. He wished he were back in Paris where musicians would be entertaining him and dancers surrounding him; instead he was God knows where in his own country and he did not know what he should do.

He sat on the bench. ‘Wine, Your Majesty?’ A servant spoke from the shadows.

‘Thank you, Luc, no.’

‘The Lord of Douglas is here, sire. He wishes to speak with you.’

The king nodded tiredly. ‘Bring a lantern, Luc.’

‘You’ll speak with him, sire?’

‘I’ll speak with him,’ the king said, and wondered if the Scotsman would have anything new to say. He supposed not. Douglas would urge an attack. Fight now. Kill the bastards. Attack. Slaughter them. The Scotsman had been saying the same thing for weeks. He just wanted a battle. He wanted to kill Englishmen, and the king was sympathetic to that wish, but he was also haunted by the fear of failure. And now Douglas would harangue him again and King Jean sighed. He was frightened of Douglas and, though the man was never anything but respectful, the king suspected that the Scotsman despised him. But Douglas did not have the responsibility. He was a confident brute, a fighter, a man born for blood and steel and battle, but King Jean had a whole country to tend and he dared not lose a fight to the English. It had taken a huge effort to raise this army, the treasury was empty, and if the king suffered a defeat then God only knew what chaos would descend on poor France. And poor France was already raped. English armies roamed the country burning, plundering, destroying, killing. And this army, the prince’s army, was trapped. Or nearly trapped. And there was a chance to destroy it, to cut down the pride of the enemy, to give France a great victory, and King Jean allowed himself to imagine riding into Paris with the Prince of Wales as his captive. He imagined the cheers, the flowers being thrown in front of his horse, the fountains running with wine, and the Te Deum being sung in Notre-Dame. That was a beguiling dream, a wonderful dream, but its nightmare brother was the possibility of defeat.

‘Your Highness.’ Douglas appeared under the pear trees carrying the lantern. He went onto one knee and bowed his head. ‘You’re awake late, sire.’

‘As are you, my lord,’ the king said, ‘and please, my lord, stand.’ King Jean was wearing a blue velvet gown, fringed with gold, embroidered with golden fleurs-de-lys and draped with a thick collar of silver fur. He wished he was wearing something more martial because Douglas was impressive in mail and leather, all of it scarred and battered. He had a short jupon showing the faded red heart of his family, and a thick sword belt from which hung a monstrously heavy blade. He was also carrying an arrow. ‘Some wine, my lord?’ the king offered.

‘I’d prefer ale, your highness.’

‘Luc! Do we have ale?’

‘We do, Your Majesty!’ Luc called from the house.

‘Bring some for the Lord of Douglas,’ the king said, then made a great effort and smiled at the Scotsman. ‘I suspect, my lord, you have come to encourage me to attack?’

‘I trust you will, sire,’ Douglas said. ‘If the bastards stay on that hill we’ll have a rare chance to crush

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