and they outnumber you! They will crush you, and I beg you, I beg you, sire, to allow me to seek another answer. Why fight a battle? Why die for pride? I promise you, sire, by the crucified Christ and by the Blessed Virgin that I will do all that I can to satisfy your wishes! I speak for the church, for the Holy Father, for Christ himself, who does not wish to see men die here. Let us parley, sire. Let us sit down and reason together. This is Sunday, a day unfit for slaughter, a day for men of goodwill to talk. In the name of the living Christ I beg this of you, sire.’
The prince was silent. There was a murmur in the English ranks as men translated the cardinal’s words. The prince raised a hand for quiet, then just gazed at the cardinal without speaking for what seemed a long while. Then he shrugged. ‘Do you speak for France, Your Eminence?’
‘No, sire. I speak for the church and for the Holy Father. The Holy Father desires peace, in the name of Christ, I swear it. He has beseeched me to prevent bloodshed, to end this senseless warfare and to make peace.’
‘And will our enemy keep a truce this day?’
‘King Jean has promised as much,’ Talleyrand said. ‘He has sworn to give this day to the church in the prayerful hope that we can forge an everlasting peace.’
The prince nodded, then again sat silent for a while. The high clouds drifted to unveil the sun, which blazed in the pale sky, promising a warm day. ‘I shall keep the truce this day,’ the prince finally spoke, ‘and send emissaries to treat with you. They can talk there.’ He pointed to where the remaining churchmen waited at the foot of the slope. ‘But the truce is for this day only,’ the prince added.
‘Then I declare this day to be the Truce of God,’ Talleyrand said grandly. There was an awkward pause as if he felt he should say something more, but then he just nodded to the prince, turned his horse, and spurred back down the long sunlit slope.
And the prince let out a long sigh of relief.
‘Truce of God.’ Sir Reginald Cobham said the words sourly.
‘They’ll keep it, won’t they?’ Thomas asked.
‘Oh, they’ll keep it. They’d like the whole of next week to be a Truce of God,’ Sir Reginald said, ‘the bastards would love that.’ He kicked his horse down the slope towards the River Miosson. The mist had burned away under the September sun so that Thomas could see the river winding in the valley. It was a small river, scarcely more than thirty feet across at its widest, but as he followed Sir Reginald down the steep slope he could see that the valley bottom was marshy, which suggested the river flooded often. ‘They’d like us to stay here,’ Sir Reginald said, ‘and exhaust our supplies. Then we’d be hungry, thirsty, and vulnerable. Which we are already. Nothing to eat, no water on the hill, and we’re outnumbered.’
‘We were outnumbered at Crecy,’ Thomas said.
‘Which doesn’t make it a good thing,’ Sir Reginald said. He had summoned Thomas with a curt, ‘You’ll do. Get on your horse and bring a half-dozen archers,’ then led him to the southernmost end of the English line where the Earl of Warwick’s banner stirred in the light breeze. Sir Reginald kept going, leading Thomas and his archers down the steep hill into the marshy valley of the Miosson. The English baggage train, a mass of carts and wagons, was parked under the trees. ‘They could cross the river by the bridge,’ Sir Reginald explained, gesturing east towards the monastery that was hidden by the big trees growing in the lush land about the river, ‘but the village streets are narrow and you can wager your last penny that some bloody idiot will break a wagon wheel on a house corner. It will be quicker if they can get across the ford here. So that’s what we’re doing. Seeing if the ford is passable.’
‘Because we’re retreating?’
‘The prince would like that. He’d like to get over the river and head south as fast as we can. He’d like us to sprout wings and fly to Bordeaux.’ Sir Reginald stopped close to the river where he turned and looked at Thomas’s six archers. ‘All right, boys, just stay here. If any bastard Frenchman comes near just sing out. Don’t shoot. Just sing out, but make sure your bows are strung.’
A raised track curved through the marsh. The causeway was firm and rutted, showing that carts used the track, which dipped into the ford where both horses stopped to drink. Sir Reginald let his horse slake its thirst, then spurred into the river’s centre. ‘Splash about,’ he told Thomas. He was letting the horses feel the river bottom, looking for a treacherous dip or a marshy place that could trap a wagon, but the horses found firm footing all the way across.
‘Sir!’ Sam shouted, and Sir Reginald twisted in the saddle.
A dozen horsemen were watching from the trees halfway down the western hill. They were in mail and helmets. Three wore jupons, though they were too far away for Thomas to see what badge they bore. One carried a small banner, red against the green and yellow of the trees.
‘Le Champ d’Alexandre,’ Sir Reginald said and, when Thomas looked at him quizzically, he pointed to the flat-topped western hill. ‘That’s what the local folk call it, Alexander’s Field, and my guess is that those bastards are exploring the whole damned hill.’ The Frenchmen, they had to be French if they were on that western slope, were well out of bowshot. Thomas wondered if they had even seen the archers, who were in the shadow of the willows growing close to the ford. ‘I didn’t want to bring a score of men,’ Sir Reginald said, ‘because I don’t want the bastards to think we’re interested in the ford. And I certainly don’t want the goddam bastards to see our wagons.’ Those wagons were parked on the Miosson’s northern bank, hidden from le Champ d’Alexandre by trees and by the high shoulder of the hill on which the forest of Nouaille grew and where the prince had formed his line of battle. Sir Reginald frowned as he watched the Frenchmen who, in turn, gazed back at the two horsemen in the river. ‘It might be a truce,’ Sir Reginald went on, ‘but they still could be tempted by us.’
The Frenchmen were indeed tempted. Their job was to probe the English position and, as far as they could see, the two horsemen were a long way from the rest of the prince’s troops and so they spurred forward, not charging, just coming slowly and deliberately towards the river. ‘They want to have a chat with us,’ Sir Reginald said sourly. ‘How good are your archers?’
‘As good as any.’
‘Boys! Have some target practice! Kill some trees, all right? Don’t aim at the men or horses, just frighten the bastards away.’
The French had divided into two files, which were now coming faster down the hill, picking their way through the thick trees as the riders ducked under branches. Sam shot the first arrow. The fledging flickered white against the leaves, then buried itself in the trunk of an oak. Five more arrows followed. One struck a branch and tumbled, the others slammed hard into bark, and the closest was no more than two paces from a French horseman.
Who abruptly curbed his horse.
‘Another shot each!’ Sir Reginald called. ‘Just a few paces short of them, boys. Let them know you’re here and you’re hungry!’
The bows shot again, the arrows flew to thud into trees with appalling force and the Frenchmen turned away. One waved genially towards Sir Reginald, who waved back. ‘Thank God for archers,’ he said. He watched the Frenchmen push back up the hill until they were out of sight.
‘Sam,’ Thomas called, ‘fetch the arrows back.’ He had resupplied his men with arrows from the prince’s baggage train, but there were never enough.
‘I want you to stay here,’ Sir Reginald said. ‘All night. I’ll send the rest of your men down to join you. Do you have a trumpeter?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll send one. Stay here, and sound the alarm if the French come back in force. But keep them away if they do come. If they see the wagons close to the ford they’ll guess what we’re doing.’
‘Retreating?’ Thomas asked.
Sir Reginald shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ He frowned and gazed blankly northwards as if trying to gauge what the enemy might do. ‘The prince thinks we should keep marching. He’s given orders that tomorrow morning, first thing, we cross the river and march south as if the devil himself was at our heels. A French attack would stop that, of course, but my guess is they won’t attack at first light. They’ll need at least two hours to draw their army up, and I want the wagons gone before they even know we were here, and then the rest of the army can slip over the river and steal a day’s march.’ He kicked his horse out of the ford, back onto the track that crossed the marsh. ‘But who knows what those goddamned churchmen are proposing? If we could have joined Lancaster …’ He let that thought
