Sunday 18 September

They were clear of the woods before sunrise. All the men were aware that this could be the day that they met the French army at last, and the usual noise and ribald comments on each other’s cleanliness, appearance and ability to fight were notably lacking. Many of the men were nervous; not scared, after so many long miles of marching, but feeling that anxiety that fills a man’s belly and makes his hunger dissipate.

Other vintaines had been sent to scout, leaving Berenger and his men in the main column, a short distance in front of the Prince and his knights.

The vintaine had tried to keep all noise to a minimum, so as to avoid warning the French soldiery, and made their way with caution. Berenger was pleased to see the great abbey nestling in the hills and trees. The tower stood out proudly, and he could hear the Benedictines in their church. It would have stopped their music, had they realised how close by the English were marching, he thought, but then he was taken by another sound, and he dropped from his horse quickly, running to the chuckling river and filling his leather bottle before cupping his hands and drinking his fill. It was against the rules, but just now he didn’t care. He was not going to ignore the cardinal rule of a soldier, making sure that he had sufficient water.

He was not alone. Many other English archers and fighters who had likewise suffered a thirsty night were also there, their horses alongside them. It was good, Berenger reflected as he rose, dripping, to be full and have an appetite for meats satisfied, but it was a better feeling by far to have been thirsty, and to be able to drink until replete.

They continued past the abbey and along a curling road shaded by great trees on either side, until they came to a point where the road fell down to the river, and then rose up a hill on the farther side. This road they kept to, in a long, ragged column of men, horses and wagons, and they were riding up the hill when there came the clattering of hoofs and a man bellowing for space. He rode at the gallop straight towards Berenger, and hurtled past them on a horse that looked already blown, as though it had run a hard race.

They would soon learn why.

They marched on, and soon on their left there was a vast, thick hawthorn hedge. There were occasional breaks in the hedge, but for the most part it made a good, all-but-impregnable barrier to horses and men. Berenger nodded to himself. This was a good defensive position, he thought, and then he came to a gap and could look out. The sight made him pause. Up before the English, ranged along a hill in the plain between Poitiers and Savigny-Levescaut, was the entire French army.

‘God’s teeth, Frip!’ Grandarse said when they caught sight of them. ‘There must be fifteen thousand of them!’

Berenger could see the dark mass of glittering metal and gleaming flags. Banners moved in the wind, and the colours of the tunics and tabards was startlingly bright in the early morning sun. ‘Robin, how many are there?’ he asked.

‘From here, I wouldn’t want to guess, Frip. But I can see at least eighty banners. They must have every nobleman in France up there.’

‘Eighty?’ Clip said.

‘There’s a lot of money on that hill,’ Dogbreath said.

Saul sighed. ‘Do you never think of anything else?’

‘Aye,’ Clip responded. ‘Death. We’ll all get killed here, you see if we don’t.’

‘Shut up, Clip,’ Robin, Fripper and Fulk said.

The Prince had no intention of attacking an army placed in so strong a position. Instead he had the men form up on the hilltop where they stood, just a little north of Nouaille. It was not a bad position. To their left, the land fell away to the little river, the Miosson. Although the hill was not steep, it was severe enough to slow a galloping destrier or wind a battle of men trying to charge up it. To guard this, the Prince placed his first battle with the Earls of Oxford and Warwick in command. On the right he placed the Earl of Salisbury, while he himself took the centre. Berenger and the rest of Grandarse’s centaine were sent to the rear as a fighting reserve, along with three other centaines. From there they could be called to any point where they were needed.

It was a fortunate location. There was a slight knoll, and from the top Berenger and his men could see forward over the heads of the English troops before them. This was farming country, and there were many pastures, vineyards and woods. Before the English was a thick hawthorn hedge, no doubt placed there as a barrier to animals trying to escape their pasture, while behind them was the forbidding darkness of the Nouaillé woods. To the left were the marshes of the river, deep and impossible to cross for men and horses in armour.

‘This is where we’ll fight them, then,’ Berenger said. He touched the crucifix.

‘Aye, and it’ll be a bugger of a battle,’ Grandarse said grimly.

The men-at-arms were already dismounted. Spears were catching the sunlight, where the men were preparing to use them, butted on the ground, to deter cavalry, and men were moving about in front of the hedge with picks and shovels, digging one foot square holes to frustrate any charge.

Berenger could not help but think, as he stared across the hill, that this was a good place to be forced to fight. It would serve the English very well.

But before they could fight, they had some visitors.

The wagons clattered and creaked over the rough ground, but the oxen pulled with a will, and Ed led them down to the River Miosson at the ford, then up the pasture and fields to the brow of the hill. On his right was the thick forest of Nouaillé, and he glanced at it with approval. It would be hard for anyone to launch an attack through that.

A herald rode to them and addressed Archibald. ‘Master Gynour, this will be our place for the battle. I am asked, could you take your gonnes down there, to the far left flank?’

Archibald followed his pointing finger. Here there was a great barrier of thorns and thick boughs, and as the ground fell away towards the river, which looped nearer, giving the English a shorter line to defend, he could see a small contingent of archers preparing the ground for defence.

‘Aye, I can do that.’

‘Good. From there you can harry the flank of any men sent to attack us, and protect our line.’

Archibald nodded and turned the wagon to the loop of the river, but it was soon obvious that the land here was not ideal. It was marshy and the ground was treacherous. However, it meant that the archers had their own defence. Archibald took his own position a little further up the hill, where the ground was at least solid. With the archers to his left and the beginning of the English line on his right, he felt sure that his precious gonnes would be safe enough.

He halted his wagon and began to put together the arms of his hoist so that they could remove the trestle on which would rest the largest barrel from the bed of the wagon and set it up, while Ed and Béatrice brought the two carts which held the three-barrelled ribauldequins. With them, Archibald was happy that he could hold off a large force for a while.

It was only when he sprang down from his wagon that he realised his mistake. Here, the ground rose slightly. It meant that there was a lip in the ground some eighty yards away, Until the French were that close, they would effectively be hidden from him. While any surprise to him would be matched by the surprise of the French to meet him, that was little consolation. They would have to charge him, but after he had fired his gonnes, they would be able to overrun his position with ease.

He glanced to his left to where the archers waited. At least he was protected by them, he reflected.

Berenger was standing and peering over the heads of the King and first battle when he saw the approach of the Cardinal of Périgord with a large complement of clerks supporting him. He had been with the French forces, and now passed between the two armies, trotting on their valuable horses until they were in hailing distance.

‘My Lords, Sire, I have urgent messages from the King of France!’ the Cardinal called as he came nearer.

‘Let him pass! Let him through to see the Prince!’ was bellowed from the Prince’s battle, and Berenger heard the sudden creaking as taut bows were relieved of their pressure safely, the arrows taken from the strings and replaced in their quivers. The Cardinal rode forward. As he came nearer, the Prince and senior advisers left the battle and walked behind it so they were between Berenger’s reserve and the main centre.

The Cardinal reached the space a short time after the Prince. About him the Prince had a number of his household knights, and with the Cardinal there were lawyers as well as the clerks, Berenger saw. However, more interesting to him was the appearance of Talleyrand. The Cardinal had tears streaming down his face.

‘What’s up with him?’ Grandarse muttered.

‘He’s had his ballocks in the French King’s vice too long,’ was Dogbreath’s unsympathetic view.

‘Perhaps he really wants to stop a fight?’ Baz said. There was an optimistic tone to his voice.

‘Who’s that?’ Robin asked.

Berenger saw him pointing to an ordained priest. ‘Him? He was there at the trial of Bernard, you remember? Thomas de Ladit.’

‘Why’s he there?’

‘Because he is keen to prevent a fight too?’ Berenger guessed.

Clip snorted. ‘Why would he want to stop a fight? It wouldn’t earn him another estate or money, would it? No, don’t get your hopes up, Bazzer. We’ll have our fight. And we’ll all . . .’

‘Don’t say it,’ Robin said.

‘What?’

‘We all knew what you were going to say, Clip. Just don’t, that’s all.’

‘I was going to say we’ll all have a fight today or tomorrow.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. And we’ll all get killed!’ Clip added with an evil grin, ducking under Robin’s fist and running away, laughing.

‘Sire, look at the men all about here! How many must die for this quarrel to be ended?’

‘Good Cardinal, if you have any proposals, please speak them quickly. I would prefer to spend the day in battle than in preaching.’

‘Sire, you can see that the King of France has a mighty army. He will do battle with you today, and he intends to wipe out your army and kill you, too. He is the most powerful King on Earth, and he has called together all the most notable Lords in his land! Look on his banners! Look on his men! Their armour shines so brightly, it would dazzle the eyes of any attempting to fight him.’

‘Good.’

‘Sire?’

‘My Lord Cardinal, I have been seeking to bring this army to battle for weeks. All too often the French avoid battle when they might have held their honour by daring to challenge us. If they will now seek to prove their mettle against us, that is good.’

‘But look at all these men about you! How many noble souls will you see destroyed in your search for victory?’

‘I am keen to allow the King of Heaven to show His justice in the matter,’ the Prince said. ‘He will show today perfectly clearly who is the rightful claimant to the inheritance of this country. I place my faith in Him.’

‘But He would prefer that England and France should join forces to throw the unbelievers from the Holy Land. You could go on Crusade with him and save Jerusalem, or . . .’

‘You think the French would allow us to negotiate and leave here?’

‘With my good offices, Sire, yes! You are both noblemen, and if you would work with fairness and honour to negotiate, who knows what might be achieved? After all, you can see the strength of the French positions. They hold the land before you, and you cannot spread out, can you? You are hemmed in by woods and rivers on all sides. Consider: the King of France has an enviable position. If he wishes, he can hold you here and starve you out. You dare not flee now, for as soon as you do, he will fall upon you like a wolf upon lambs, and tear your army to pieces! You must remain here, hoping that he will attack you, but the King is no fool. It will give him a cheap victory if he merely remains where he is and lets you starve into submission.’

The Prince shook his head. ‘You think we have a weak position? I tell you plainly, Cardinal, we have supplies to last us days.’

‘And what then? After those days are passed? Will you then demand a truce to negotiate? You cannot retreat before such an army. And King John has supplies and fresh troops arriving hourly. Look how his banners catch the wind! There are so many groups from all over France, that it would be difficult to name them all. I must say plainly, Sire, to remain here and fight must expose you to ridicule. Noblemen would look at you and wonder whether this was only a prideful escapade, smacking of presumption on your part.’

‘You dare to say to me that—‘

‘I speak only of how others could interpret your behaviour, Sire,’ Talleyrand said. He held out his hands in supplication. ‘Please! I beg you, allow a truce, agree to send negotiators to meet with the King’s own in the land between the two armies. Come and discuss peace. You will be honoured by all the angels in Heaven if you do so, and your place will be guaranteed. If you refuse even to discuss peace, God will judge against you when you come before Him. But if you agree to talks, God will bless you!’

‘I do not fear battle, but I have a responsibility to my men. I will not reject peace,’ Prince Edward said. ‘Ride back and ask the French to send their negotiators. I will send my own men to meet them between the armies.’

The marching wives were all kept at the rear of the English battles, detailed to bring food to the men through the long day, but their most important duty was to fetch water.

As the heat of the day rose, Gaillarde bore her yoke with two buckets down to the Miosson and filled them repeatedly. She went with the other women, enjoying the walk down the hill before trudging back with full loads of water. The men gratefully filled leather pottles or drank from cupped hands as the women walked past, trying to ensure that both buckets emptied at the same rate. It was hard work to carry one full, one empty.

By the time the sun was overhead, she was already exhausted. She continued up the ranks of the men, and as she reached Berenger’s men, she saw her husband.

Denisot caught sight of her at the same moment. He ducked his head and looked away. She was reminded of him when she first met him, when he was a gangling youth, fearful of rejection, terrified that any advances would be thrown back in his face. He had always been anxious and fretful, she recalled, until they had their children. The children made him grow, made him mature. They gave him confidence, and it was largely because of the man he became that he was elected as bayle in their town. Men respected him, and his confidence grew as a result. It made her heart sing with love for him to see him like this once more.

Gaillarde smiled haltingly in the face of his anxiety, unsure how to speak to him. The years since their children’s death, the hurt she had given him in the last weeks, the hurt she had given him by allowing him to think she wanted to stay with Bernard. He looked desperate, his eyes full of melancholy, but she took her buckets to him. ‘Drink, husband,’ she said. ‘Please.’

‘You should return to your man.’

‘Denisot, when I refused you, I had no choice. I was held by that man for weeks. I feared for my life at all times with him. When you appeared, I thought he would kill you – and me as well. You don’t know what he was capable of.’

Denisot nodded. ‘I saw the girls he killed. He butchered them, just for the pleasure of seeing them die.’

‘His brother was kind to me,’ she said. ‘But if you would have me, I would gladly return to you, husband.’

Denisot felt as though he was being choked. ‘You are sure?’

Her buckets were empty again. She reached forward and touched his cheek, bringing him closer, and kissed him. ‘I am your wife, Denisot. Even Bernard could not take that away.’

Further along, in the line of trees, Arnaud’s face paled. ‘But you are mine!’ he whispered. ‘You promised!’

Berenger felt the Prince’s eyes on him even as the Cardinal hurried away, puffing and blowing with the urgency of his mission. He beckoned Berenger to him.

‘I know you. Your name is Fripper. I remember you from Crécy and Calais. Many years have passed since those days, eh?’

He looked as though the weight of the lives that depended on him had just fallen onto his shoulders. ‘Fripper, a man cannot fight when the Host of God stands against him. If we fight now, without seeking a peace, I will be damned for all time. Any death will be laid at my door.’

Berenger was unsure what to say. He nodded as though in understanding.

The Prince turned and faced him. ‘Go with the negotiators, Fripper. Take your vintaine, and stand away with your bows ready. If there is any sign of bad faith, any sign at all, you will protect the English negotiators. You understand me?’

‘Yes, Sire,’ Berenger said.

Messengers were sent and returned, the primary negotiation being who should take part, and where. As soon as that was agreed, Berenger had his archers formed in a column. As he and the men waited, they could see a similar body of men forming in front of the French army, and when they began to march towards the English, Grandarse hoicked up his belt. ‘You be careful, Frip. Keep your bow in your hand and an arrow ready to nock, but in God’s name, don’t let fly until you are certain there’s a need. If you do, you’ll take on all the guilt of Judas for starting a battle that wasn’t needed. Mind you, if you do, we’ll thrash these Frenchies. Never have any doubts about that.’

Berenger nodded.

Clip shook his head. ‘Aye, ye know, we’ll all . . .’

Berenger grasped his shirt and pulled him to him. ‘Clip. If you say it, I’ll knock your teeth so far down your throat, you’ll be shitting them for a week. Leave it.’

There was no humour in his words. Berenger was aware of the responsibility the Prince had settled on his shoulders. If he misread the signs and precipitated a fight, he would be one of the first to pay for it, but it could also cost the rest of the English army dearly.

Clip nodded, shocked, and when he was released he returned to his place and stood silently.

‘Archers!’ Berenger called. ‘March!’