mace into his enemy’s groin. He rammed it again. Thomas heard a squeal. He was holding onto his enemy. The flail scraped down his back, tearing mail and leather. More Frenchmen were coming, but so were more Hellequin. The man with the poleaxe was bent double, and that was an invitation to Karyl, who took it gratefully. He held his mace close to its head, shortening the swing, and slammed it onto the nape of the Frenchman’s neck. Once, twice, and the man went down in silence, and Karyl drew a dagger and prised up the lower rim of the breastplate worn by the huge man clasped in Thomas’s arms. Karyl slid the dagger up under the man’s ribs.
‘Jesus! Jesus!’ the man screamed. Thomas tightened the embrace. The big man should have let go of the morningstar and tried to break Thomas’s neck, but he stubbornly held the weapon as Karyl wriggled his long, thin blade, and the man screamed louder. Thomas smelt shit. He was squeezing as hard as he could and Karyl thrust the dagger again, ramming it up under the breastplate’s edge so that his bloodied gauntlet vanished under the steel and into the mangled mail and wool.
‘You can drop him now,’ Karyl said.
The man fell heavily. He was jerking, gasping.
‘Poor bastard,’ Karyl said. ‘Should have known better.’ He picked up his mace, put a foot on the squirming man’s chest and slammed the mace down hard onto his helmet. ‘Good luck in hell,’ Karyl said. ‘Say hello to the devil for us.’
The French were pulling back. Step by step, watching their enemy, but going back along the hedge or else trying to force a way through the tangling brambles. The English and Gascons did not follow. Men on horseback behind the line were bellowing at them. ‘Keep the line! No pursuit! Let them go!’
The temptation was to pursue the French and capture rich prisoners, but such a pursuit would break the line open, and if the French had failed to do that with steel then the English would not do it to themselves with greed. They stayed in line.
‘You should try fighting with a weapon,’ Karyl said to Thomas, amused.
Thomas was dry-mouthed. He could hardly speak, but as the French went, so the women from the English baggage came with wineskins filled with river-water. There was not enough for everyone to slake their thirst, but men drank what they could.
And trumpets sounded in the valley.
The enemy was coming again.
The first messenger to reach the king was dusty. Sweat had made channels through the dust on his face. His horse was white with sweat. He dismounted and knelt. ‘My liege,’ he said, ‘the prince your son requests reinforcements.’
The king was gazing at the far hill. He could see the English banners through the widest gap in the hedge. ‘What happened?’ he asked.
‘The enemy is weakened, sire. Very weakened.’
‘But not broken.’
‘No, sire.’
Two more messengers came and the king pieced together an account of what had happened so far that morning. The messengers heaped praise on his eldest son, saying the dauphin had fought magnificently, stories that the king disbelieved but pretended to accept. What did seem true was that the English had indeed been weakened, but had kept their discipline and held their line intact. ‘They are stubborn, sire,’ one of the messengers said.
‘Ah yes, stubborn,’ the king said vaguely. He watched his eldest son’s troops come back down the far hill. They came slowly. They must have been weary because it had been a long fight. Most clashes of men-at-arms were over in minutes, but the two armies must have fought for at least an hour.
The king watched a wounded man limp up the hill, using a sword as a stave to support his weight. ‘My son is unwounded?’ he asked the messenger.
‘Yes, sire, thank God, sire.’
‘Thank God indeed,’ the king said, then beckoned to the Count of Ventadour. ‘Go to the dauphin,’ he ordered him, ‘and tell him he is to leave the field.’
‘Leave the field?’ The count was not certain he had heard correctly.
‘He is the heir. He has fought enough. He has proved his courage, and now he must be kept safe. Tell him he is to ride to Poitiers with his entourage. I shall join him there this evening.’
‘Yes, sire,’ the count said, and called for his horse. He knew he was being sent with the message because the dauphin would distrust such a command unless it was brought by a man close to the king. And the count decided the king was right. The heir to the throne must be kept safe.
‘And tell the Duke of Orleans to take up the fight,’ the king commanded.
‘He is to advance, sire?’
‘He is to advance, he is to fight and he is to win!’ the king said. He looked at his youngest son, just fourteen. ‘You will not leave with Charles,’ he said.
‘I don’t want to leave, Father!’
‘You will witness victory, Philippe.’
‘Shall we fight, Father?’ the boy asked eagerly.
‘Your uncle will fight next. We shall join him if we’re needed.’
‘I hope he needs us!’ Philippe said.
King Jean smiled. He did not want to deprive his youngest son of any of the day’s excitement, though he desperately wanted him kept safe. Perhaps, he thought, he would advance his three thousand men at the battle’s end to join in the destruction of the English. His men were among the finest knights and men-at-arms that France possessed, which was why they served in the king’s battle. ‘You will see some fighting,’ he promised his son, ‘but you must swear not to leave my side!’
‘I swear it, Father.’
The Count of Ventadour had ridden his horse through the mass of men commanded by the king’s brother. That was the shortest way to the dauphin. The king saw him deliver the message to the duke, then ride on to find the dauphin who was now halfway down the far slope. The English had not pursued him. They just waited behind the hedge, a sign, the king hoped, that they truly were weakened.
‘When the duke attacks,’ the king called to Marshal Clermont, ‘we will advance our battle to his present position.’
‘Yes, sire.’
The first hammer blow had weakened the English. Two more waited.
And then only one waited.
Because, as the king watched in disbelief, his brother decided to leave the field with the dauphin. The Duke of Orleans had not fought, his sword was unstained by enemy blood, yet he called for his horses and led his troops northwards. ‘What the devil?’ the king asked the morning air.
‘What in Christ’s name is he doing?’ Marshal Clermont asked.
‘Sweet Jesus,’ a man said.
‘He’s leaving!’
‘You fool!’ the king screamed at his brother, who was much too far away to hear. ‘You spavined fool, you coward! You cretinous bastard! You gutless turd!’ His face was red, spittle flying from his mouth. ‘Advance the banners!’ the king shouted. He dismounted and gave the reins of his horse to a groom. If his brother would not fight, then the king’s battle, the finest in the army, would have to decide the day. ‘Trumpets!’ the king shouted, still angrily. ‘Give me that damned axe! Sound the trumpets! Sound the advance! Forward!’
The trumpets sounded, the drums beat, and the oriflamme was carried towards the enemy.
‘What are they doing?’ The Prince of Wales had mounted his horse so that he could see the enemy better, and what he saw was worrying. The French second battle was going northwards. ‘They plan to attack our right flank?’ he suggested.
‘And our centre at the same time, sire,’ Sir Reginald Cobham, old in war, was watching the last French battle advance. This was the battle that flew the oriflamme and the royal standard. Sir Reginald leaned forward and slapped at a horsefly that had settled on his destrier’s neck. ‘Maybe someone over there has some sense at last?’
