Robbie shrugged. ‘I stay with Thomas, I think.’
‘You won’t go home?’
‘I doubt there’ll be a welcome for me in Liddesdale, not any more. I’ll have to make a new home.’
Roland nodded. He still watched the approaching battle. ‘And I shall have to make my peace with France,’ he said wistfully.
Robbie patted the neck of his horse, a piebald destrier that had been a gift from Thomas. ‘I thought your lands were in Gascony?’
‘They are.’
‘Then do homage to the Prince of Wales. He’ll restore your lands.’
Roland shook his head. ‘I’m French,’ he said, ‘and I will ask France’s forgiveness.’ He sighed. ‘I suppose it will cost money, but anything is possible with money.’
‘Just make sure you kill him quickly,’ Robbie said. ‘I’ll help you.’
Roland did not respond at once. He had seen a flash of green in the enemy ranks and was watching the place. Was it a green horse? ‘Quickly?’ he asked after a while, still staring. ‘Did you think I would torment Labrouillade to death?’ He sounded offended. ‘He might deserve torment, but his death will be quick.’
‘I mean kill him before he has a chance to surrender.’
Roland at last turned from the approaching French. His visor was lifted and he was frowning. ‘Surrender?’
‘Labrouillade’s worth a fortune,’ Robbie said. ‘If the battle goes badly for him he’ll surrender. He’d much rather pay a ransom than be buried. Wouldn’t you?’
‘My God,’ Roland said. He had never thought of that possibility, but it was so obvious! He had dreamed of freeing Bertille with the sword, but Robbie was right. Labrouillade would never fight. He would yield.
‘So kill him very quickly,’ Robbie said. ‘Don’t give him a chance to say anything. Get in fast, ignore his pleas for mercy, and kill him.’ He paused, watching Roland, who had looked back to the advancing enemy. ‘If he’s even there,’ Robbie added.
‘He’s there,’ Roland said bitterly. He had seen the green horse now. It was on the left of the French line at the back of the king’s battle. Somehow he would need to cut his way through that line if he was ever to free Bertille, and he knew that would be hopeless. He would have to kill too many men, and even if he succeeded he would give Labrouillade far too much time to see his death approaching. Robbie was right, he needed to do the killing fast and he did not see how that could be done.
And just then there was a crash of hooves. He turned and saw horsemen assembling beneath the trees and he guessed they were readying to make a charge. ‘I need a lance,’ he said.
‘We need two lances!’ Robbie said.
They turned their horses and went to find lances.
The Count of Labrouillade tripped on something. He still had his visor lifted, but it was difficult to look down because his helmet’s lower rim, which covered his jaw, grated on his mail aventail and against the top of his thick breastplate, but he caught a glimpse of a discarded mace, smeared with blood and human hair. His bowels lurched. There was more blood on the ground, evidently left by a wounded man limping or crawling back from the first assault on the English line. He slowed his pace, making certain he was at the very back of the king’s battle. The drums were close behind him, the drummers making a huge, ear-pummelling noise as their clubbed sticks thumped on the stretched goatskins. Armour clinked. The count was soaked in sweat; it was running down his face and stinging his eyes. He was tired from the long walk down from the flat hilltop and it was worse now because he was going gently uphill, every step an effort, his leg muscles nothing but ache, and his stomach was churning while his bowels had turned to water. He stumbled on a trampled vine, but managed to keep his footing. Trumpets called.
‘No arrows!’ someone shouted.
‘The bastards have run out of arrows!’
‘You can keep your visors up!’ another man called, and just then an arrow flashed in from the left, slashing down into the ranks and glancing off a vambrace to bury its bodkin point in the earth. More arrows came, and all through the French ranks men fumbled to close their visors. The sound of arrows striking armour was like metal hail. A drummer was hit and he fell back, his vast drum on top of his bleeding stomach as he threw up a mixture of vomit and blood.
‘Oh God,’ the Count of Labrouillade moaned. The wine slopped in his belly. He felt sick. So many men had drunk their way to courage and now the wine was sour, and he stumbled as he struggled onwards. He could see almost nothing through the narrow slits of his visor. All he wanted was to keep his bowels closed and for this hell to be over. Pray God that the enthusiastic fools at the front of the attack surged through the English line and killed the enemy fools. With any luck he would take a prisoner worth a large ransom, but in truth he did not really care. He just wanted this to be finished.
The arrows dwindled. The archers on the right of the English line had only a handful left, and most of them discarded their bows and picked up poleaxes or maces, then watched the enemy close on the hedge.
The King of France was walking towards the widest gap in the hedge where he could see the great banner that proclaimed the presence of the Prince of Wales. His son Philippe was beside him and his bodyguard all around him. Seventeen other men were dressed in the king’s colours, dressed to deceive the English. They were all renowned knights, members of the king’s Order of the Star, and the hope was that the English would die in attacking them and so weaken themselves. ‘You stay close beside me, Philippe,’ the king said to his son.
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Tonight we’ll feast in Poitiers,’ the king said. ‘We’ll have music!’
‘And prisoners?’
‘Dozens of prisoners,’ King Jean said. ‘Hundreds of prisoners! And we’ll make you a nightshirt from the Prince of Wales’s jupon.’
Philippe laughed. He carried a sword and a shield, though no one expected him to fight, and four Knights of the Star were detailed to protect him.
The front ranks of the French were converging on the gap in the hedge now. ‘Montjoie Saint Denis!’ they shouted, ‘Montjoie Saint Denis!’ The attacking line was ragged. The enthusiastic had forged ahead, the reluctant had deliberately slowed, and the French line was misshapen. The English were silent. The king had a glimpse of them through the ranks in front of him and saw a grey line
of battered steel beneath tattered flags. ‘Saint Denis,’ he shouted, ‘Montjoie Saint Denis!’
The Cardinal Bessieres was a hundred paces behind the French attack. He was still mounted and escorted by Father Marchant and three men-at-arms. The cardinal was livid. The French army was supposedly led by men who knew their business, men experienced in warfare, yet the first attacks by horsemen had failed utterly, the second attack had been repulsed, and now at least half of the army had left the field, some without even trying to fight. What should have been an easy victory was being weighed in the balance, yet despite his anger he was still confident. The king’s battle was the strongest of the three and filled with men of high reputation. They were fresh, the enemy was tired, and with God’s help the king should prevail. The oriflamme still flew. The cardinal considered saying a prayer, but he had never been confident of God’s help, preferring to rely on his own intelligence and cunning. ‘When this debacle is over,’ he said to Father Marchant, ‘make sure you retrieve
‘Of course, Your Eminence.’
And to the cardinal’s surprise the recollection of Saint Peter’s sword gave him a sudden surge of hope. He, above all men, knew the tawdry nature of most relics and the deceit that such things played on the credulous. Any scrap of old bone, whether from a goat, a bullock, or an executed thief, could be palmed off as the knuckle of a martyr, yet despite his scepticism he felt a certainty that
‘Now go!’ the cardinal called to the men in front, though they were too far away to hear him.
And the French charged. ‘Montjoie Saint Denis!’
