‘The Earl of Salisbury has archers?’ the prince asked.
‘Plenty, but does he have enough arrows?’
The prince grunted. A servant brought him a pitcher of wine diluted with water, but the prince shook his head. ‘Make sure every other man drinks before I do,’ he ordered in a voice loud enough to be heard thirty or forty paces away.
‘A carter brought ten barrels of water up the hill, sire,’ the Earl of Warwick said.
‘He did? Good man!’ The prince looked at a servant. ‘Find him! Give him a mark!’ The silver mark was a valuable coin. ‘No, give him two! They’re not very eager, are they?’ He was looking at the Duke of Orleans’s troops, whom he had presumed were about to attack the Earl of Salisbury’s men on the English right, but to his bemusement those enemy troops were heading even farther north. Some had mounted their horses, some walked, and some lingered in the valley’s bed as though uncertain what they should do. ‘Jean!’ the prince called. ‘My lord!’
Jean de Grailly, Captal de Buch, who had stayed close to the prince for much of the battle, nudged his horse closer. ‘Sire?’
‘What are those devils doing?’
‘A mounted attack?’ the captal suggested, but he sounded very uncertain. If the French did plan a charge of mounted knights then they were taking their horses a long way from the English line. Some had already vanished over the distant skyline. ‘Or perhaps they want to be first into the whorehouses of Poitiers?’ the captal suggested.
‘What sensible fellows they are,’ the prince said. He frowned, watching the receding troops. About half of the Duke of Orleans’s battle were going northwards, the other half had stayed where they were to be joined by the dauphin’s men who had already fought. Then some of those began to follow the Duke of Orleans’s banner northward. That banner, instead of being carried towards the right of the English line, was heading steadily north and westwards. ‘By God,’ the prince said in astonishment, ‘I do believe you’re right. They’re racing to get the best whores! Giddy-up, fellows!’ he shouted the encouragement towards the disappearing enemy, then patted his horse, ‘Not you, old fellow. You have to stay here.’ He looked back to the French king’s troops who were now advancing towards him. ‘He must be very confident,’ he said, ‘to send troops away?’
‘Or very foolish,’ the Earl of Warwick said.
There were a dozen horsemen about the prince. They were the wise men, the experienced men, their eyes creased from staring at distant enemies, their skin darkened by the sun, their armour scratched and dented, and their weapon hilts worn smooth from use. They had fought in Normandy, Brittany, Gascony, France, and Scotland, and they trusted each other, and, more importantly, the prince trusted them. ‘And to think,’ the prince said, ‘that this morning I was expecting to be a hostage.’
‘I’m sure Jean de Valois would accept the offer now, sire,’ the Earl of Warwick said, refusing to call Jean the King of France, a title claimed by Edward of England.
‘I don’t believe what I think I’m watching,’ the prince said. He was frowning at the retreating French troops, who really did seem to be leaving the battlefield, not just the dauphin’s tired men, but the Duke of Orleans’s fresh troops as well. Some had remained on the field, and those men were joining the king’s battle. ‘I suppose they think those fellows are sufficient.’ He pointed at the approaching men-at-arms. The king’s great standard, flamboyant in blue and gold, had reached the valley’s bottom and now the great spread of armoured men began to climb. ‘My lord,’ the prince turned to the captal, ‘you have horsemen?’
‘I have sixty men mounted, sire. The rest are in the line.’
‘Sixty,’ the prince said thoughtfully. He glanced back at the approaching French. Sixty was not enough. His battered army might have around the same number of men as the King of France’s approaching battle, but the enemy was fresh, the
prince’s men were tired, and he did not want to weaken his exhausted line by taking men-at-arms from the ranks. But then a happy thought occurred. ‘Take a hundred archers with you. All mounted.’
‘Sire?’ the Earl of Warwick asked, wondering what the prince was thinking.
‘They plan to strike us hard,’ the prince said, ‘so let’s see how they like being struck themselves?’ He turned back to the captal. ‘Let them engage us first, my lord, then strike from the rear.’
The captal was smiling. It was not a pleasant smile. ‘I need an English flag, sire.’
‘So they know who’s killing them?’
‘So your archers don’t use our horses for target practice, sire.’
‘My God,’ Warwick said, ‘you’re going to charge an army with a hundred and sixty men!’
‘No, we’re going to slaughter an army,’ the prince said, ‘with the help of God, Saint George, and Gascony!’ The prince leaned from the saddle and clasped the captal’s hand. ‘Go with God, my lord, and fight like the devil.’
‘Even the devil doesn’t fight like a Gascon, sire.’
The prince laughed.
He smelt victory.
Roland de Verrec had spent the battle on horseback. He would have felt uncomfortable fighting on foot, not because he had no skills at such combat, but because he had no close friends in the battle line. Men fought in pairs or in groups, united by kinship or friendship, and sworn to each other’s defence. Roland de Verrec had no kin in this army, and his friendships were tenuous, and besides, he wanted to find his enemy. When the French had first burst through the gaps in the hedge to drive the English line backwards, Roland had searched the banners for the green horse of Labrouillade and had not seen it. So he had stood his destrier close to the Prince of Wales, though not so close that he would be noticed, and he had gazed through the hedge’s widest gap trying to find the green horse among the two battles waiting to attack, and still he had not spied it. That was hardly surprising. The waiting battles were flamboyant with banners, flags, and pennants and there was little wind to spread them, so little wind that the man holding the oriflamme was waving it from side to side so it would be noticed. That pennant was a ripple of bright red that was drawing ever closer to the English hill.
Robbie had joined him. The Scotsman, like Roland, was friendless in this army. It was true that he counted Thomas as a friend, but that friendship was marked by generosity on one side and ingratitude on the other, and Robbie felt shamed. In time the friendship could be mended, but for now Robbie did not think Thomas would trust him as a neighbour in battle and so, like Roland, he had watched the fight from behind the line. He had watched the English take the French charge, stop it, and repel it. He had heard the misery of battle, the screams of men being mangled by steel; he had watched the French try again and again to break the line and seen them lose heart. They had retreated. They left bodies behind, more bodies than the English, many more, but then it was always easier to defend. The English had to hold their line. Men who were reluctant to fight had small choice but to stay with their neighbours; they did not need to step forward and initiate battle, but the French had to advance. The more timid would hang back, leaving the bravest to fight, which meant the bravest were often isolated, set upon by half a dozen defenders, and it had been the French who had suffered most through their bravery. Now it would all start again.
‘What happens now?’ Roland asked suddenly.
Robbie gazed at the approaching French. ‘They come, they fight, who knows?’
‘I didn’t mean that,’ Roland said. He too watched the approaching French. ‘They saved their best to last,’ he added.
‘Their best?’
Roland could see some of the banners now because the standard bearers were waving them to and fro. ‘Ventadour,’ he said, ‘Dammartin, Brienne, Eu, Bourbon, Pommiers. And the royal standard too.’
‘So what did you mean?’
‘I mean what happens after the battle?’
‘You marry Bertille.’
‘With God’s help, yes.’ Roland said, touching the blue silk scarf at his neck. ‘And you?’
