As Berenger marched on, he glanced about him. The Earls of Warwick and Suffolk, Audley, Chandos and the King’s closest adviser, Sir Bartholomew Burghersh, were riding with them, as was the dark-clothed priest, Thomas de Ladit. That man walked, keeping a little apart from the rest of the men as though he felt he was separate from the Prince’s army, as he was – there to act as witness to the negotiations on behalf of Navarre.

It was curious to march down the plain towards the French, always aware of the eyes on them. Before him, Berenger could feel the hatred of the French as if it was vitriol flowing through the ground towards him, and behind him he could feel the English army staring at his back, some in hope of peace, others desperate for the battle that would end these wars forever. And one man, the Prince, who watched with the keen desire for a battle, but who must first give peace every opportunity.

The Earls stopped and waited for the French to come closer. Suffolk, the grey-haired veteran of a hundred fights, turned and pointed at the ground. ‘Archers! Remain here. Do not approach unless you are called.’

Berenger nodded, and the men spread out on his command. The French had a group of men-at-arms and Genoese crossbowmen with them, who were also detailed to wait some fifteen paces behind the negotiators, and then the Cardinal approached and stood between the two parties.

Berenger could hear the names of the English representatives being called out, and then the French side was introduced: the Count of Tancarville, Jean de Talaru, Charny, Boucicaut and even the Archbishop of Sens, along with some other men Berenger had not heard of.

The discussions began coolly, with the French disdainful and apparently determined to force through demeaning demands. The English remained calm but obdurate, until the Cardinal began to lose his temper. It was already close to evening when Talleyrand proposed resolutions to the problems. ‘This truce is to the advantage of the English. If we have a battle, the majority of the casualties must lie with the English. For peace, clearly the English must give back all the lands they have taken. I suggest that all the possessions they have taken in the last three years should be returned to the French crown. Further, the English should make reparations. Perhaps a quarter of a million nobles would suffice to compensate the French King?’

‘You want us to pay how much?’ Suffolk demanded. Always choleric, his face had become the colour of a ripe plum.

‘Perhaps less, then. Let us say two hundred thousand nobles. But in return, the Prince could marry the daughter of the King of France, thus sealing the peace for all time. She could bring Angouleme as her dowry.’

‘I would rather fight to keep the lands God has given us in battle!’ Chandos roared. He clenched his fist, adding, ‘And take Angouleme as well!’

Thomas de Ladit winced to hear the man’s hoarse bellow. This was no way to conduct talks to avoid war.

He was sure that he recognised an esquire on the other side. A slim fellow with mail habergeon and some cuir bouilli armour, he was instantly familiar, but Thomas was not sure where he had met, until a memory sparked and he realised that this was Martin de Rouen, the esquire who had been with him when King Charles of Navarre had been captured.

While the Lords bickered and squabbled, he edged his way around them all. He saw no reason not to talk to an old companion. Others in the two parties were mingling. So many were friends with men on the opposing side, and it was only natural that they should speak and discuss mutual friends while their Lords argued.

‘Martin? Esquire?’ he said.

‘Thomas de Ladit!’ the other responded, and the two smiled and clasped hands, for a moment without words.

‘I had thought you were captured,’ the esquire said.

‘And I you.’

‘I was fortunate. The King decided he had little use for an esquire to demonstrate his anger on, when he had so many others,’ the esquire said with some bitterness.

‘And what do you do here now?’ Thomas asked.

‘Oh, I am here to see that Rouen doesn’t suffer,’ Martin said.

‘And have you heard of our Lord?’ Thomas wondered. ‘I have heard nothing from him since his capture. I have myself been forced to wander about the lands, trying to work my way south. I was captured here by the English, and now serve that Navarre may have a record of what happens here.’

‘I am in much the same position,’ Martin said. ‘I hope that the two armies here can agree a sensible peace. Did you hear of Bernard of Rouen?’

Thomas told the esquire of the murders and the capture of the guilty man, and Martin nodded seriously. ‘I am glad to hear it. There were many rumours of the killings. The peasants barely dared to leave their children for a moment or two.’

They continued chatting, but the two groups of negotiators began to separate and draw apart. Martin and Thomas exchanged another hand clasp and wished each other Godspeed.

Later, Thomas would not know what prompted him. For some reason, as the two began to walk towards their joint parties, he asked, ‘What of the Dauphin and the King?

The reply was enough to make Thomas want to hurry from the field and speak to the Prince.

The parties separated and returned to their armies to take counsel. Berenger and the archers marched back to the English lines and waited while the advisers told the Prince what had been discussed. To Berenger’s surprise, Thomas de Ladit insisted on talking to Sir John, and shortly afterwards he and Sir John hurried to the Prince’s pavilion. Thomas and Sir John were soon back, and Berenger was surprised to see a fresh excitement about Sir John. There was little disappointment to be seen in the faces of the negotiators either. The men strode back to the place of truce without a look back. Berenger was not sure how to take that. He had his archers stop at the same point as before, and the English delegation continued to the negotiation.

Soon the French and the Cardinal had arrived. Talleyrand looked pale, Berenger thought. The day’s efforts must have cost him dearly.

‘What does your Prince say to the Cardinal’s proposals?’ the Archbishop of Sens asked brusquely.

Suffolk glanced at his companions, and then said quietly, ‘He will accept the proposals.’

‘He will accept the fair demands of the French King?’ Talleyrand said, thunderstruck.

‘If they are sworn, yes.’

‘When the lands are returned, he will need to return all the prisoners captured in the last three years as well,’ the Archbishop said. ‘And furthermore, he must swear not to take up arms against France for seven years. We will not negotiate a truce for now, only for him to come with a fresh army as soon as one can be gathered.’

‘Very well.’

‘And you will swear to be bound to this?’ Charny asked.

‘Yes. Subject only to one condition.’

‘Which is?’ Talleyrand said.

‘That the treaty must be ratified by King Edward, his father.’

‘That is not possible,’ the Cardinal said with a smile. ‘We would have to wait for weeks to hear back from your King. We cannot accept that.’

‘That is the Prince’s firm determination. Without his father’s approval, the peace would hold no force. He has no right to agree to anything without his father’s agreement.’

Charny peered at him. ‘You are serious? He will agree to nothing?’

‘Perhaps a short truce. No more.’

‘There is nothing more to discuss,’ the Archbishop snapped. ‘This has been an exercise in bad faith!’

‘Bad faith?’ Suffolk growled.

Berenger’s hand moved towards the arrows at his belt. He glanced at Clip, who nodded.

‘You never had any intention of honourably negotiating,’ the Archbishop spat. ‘You wanted to hold us here and delay the battle. To rest your men, and give them the food you have looted from the farms about here!’

‘Whereas your men wanted to come and view our meagre forces,’ Chandos said.

The two groups separated with a bad grace, Talleyrand piteously pleading with both parties not to report the failure of the talks. Instead he begged that both sides should warn their leaders that he would return later with further ideas.

It was already late, and Berenger was glad to be marching back to the camp. With his eyesight he could see glowing balls of light at the French lines, but although he knew they were campfires, he could see nothing of the men who waited there for the moment when they would be sent into battle.

He found himself close to the priest, Thomas de Ladit. As the light faded, Thomas was walking nearer as though seeking comfort in companionship.

‘What do you do here?’ Berenger asked him.

‘Me? I represent my King, Charles of Navarre, and will seek to advise your Prince as well.’

‘What will you seek to advise him?’

‘If he asks me, I will say that nothing King John offers can be believed. I have seen his uncontrollable rages. He is ungovernable when in a fury, and now he is determined to crush you and your army. He will not negotiate your freedom lightly.’

The negotiators were soon back, and Berenger and his men were sent to find food for themselves. Later, Berenger saw a lone torch approaching, and the Prince once more met Talleyrand and his little entourage near Berenger and his men.

‘Sire, I have spoken to the French King and he does not accept your proposals.’

‘He does not?’

Talleyrand looked like a man close to the end of his tether. ‘The Bishop of Chalons is there, and I fear he spoke against you. He declared that the English would do all they could to link armies with the Duke of Lancaster, and then begin to assault French towns and cities once more. They believe you will not surrender any towns or people, but will continue until you are stopped, and your army is destroyed. He was able to persuade the others that the best time to fight you would be now, when you are already trapped.’

‘So all our promises were ignored?’ Suffolk said.

‘If you will not agree to terms on your honour, but continue to demand that everything must be approved by your father the King, Chalons will convince others that you do not negotiate in good faith,’ Talleyrand declared, and there were tears in his eyes.

‘So, it is all done. You can bear witness, along with all my Lords here, along with these good archers, that I have offered much. I accepted your proposals in good faith, and I offered my own assurances. It is he who has rejected the chance of peace, and so I confidently place myself in the protection of God. He must adjudicate, and I ask that you pray for Him to grant the victory to our side because ours has the most justice. Our cause is just, as He will decide, I am sure.’

‘Please, do not submit to war! Give me something to negotiate with, and I will see if I can change their minds!’

‘Such as what?’

‘Well, Sire, the King of France did offer you a truce for this night, if you swear not to use it to leave the field and retreat to Bordeaux. He is determined to give you battle.’

‘Is he? Well, you can assure him that I am also keen on a fight. But I will give him no assurances of remaining here, no. I didn’t come here with his permission, and I do not intend to ask it to leave either. I am here, and if the man calling himself King wishes to stop me from leaving, he must use his troops to do it.’

‘Sire, could you not give me space to negotiate? A truce in which you will not attack France again? That would at least give them some comfort!’

‘For how long?’

‘As long as is necessary!’

‘I will consider a truce,’ the Prince said. ‘You may tell the French that I will consider a truce.’

‘My Lord, I am glad!’ Talleyrand said, and in moments he was gone.

‘So, Fripper,’ the Prince said when the delegation was gone. ‘What do you think?’

‘Me, Sire? I think he is keen for a truce.’

‘Yes, but why, I wonder? Is it to save lives, or just to hold us here with no means of replenishing our stores of food, so that we can be more easily dealt with when it comes to battle later?’

‘I don’t pretend to understand the ways of negotiators,’ Berenger said. ‘It’s all over my head, Sire. My task is to serve you, and that I’ll do as best I may.’

‘Good. Then set guards about the camp and get your head down, Fripper. For in God’s name, I believe tomorrow we shall have our battle.’

Monday 19 September

Berenger and the men slept at their positions and were up and ready before dawn. He passed around his small sack and they began to make their oatcakes as the sun started to light the far hill. Campfires were lighted, and the men went to warm themselves occasionally, but for the most part the men stayed where they were. None of them had a satisfying sleep.

Then, as the sun rose, Berenger saw her light spread across the French lines. Their banners and flags moved sluggishly in the gentle dawn breeze, but that did not detract from the awesome sight of thousands of men in armour standing in the cool morning while tendrils of mist moved slowly.

‘Shite, Frip! There’s more than yesterday,’ Grandarse muttered.

Berenger was not convinced of that, but there was no doubt that it was a formidable army. It reached out in an arc before them, an enormous battle of men.

‘The buggers have learned from us, too,’ Hawkwood commented. ‘They’re all on foot.’

It had been a firm principle of English fighting that it was better to dismount and fight on foot from a defensive position, rather than send cavalry against men who possessed spears and lances. A man with a spear would always be able to break a charge and threaten the knight, if he was determined enough. As Berenger watched, he could see men dismounting, their horses being taken to the rear of the French battles.

‘This is going to get messy, right enough,’ Dogbreath said.

There was a shout from the front of the English lines and a body of men could be seen on horseback trotting towards them from their enemy.

‘Who’s that?’ Grandarse said.

It was Robin who answered. ‘The Cardinal.’

Clip looked over and sneered. ‘Perhaps he comes to say the French want to surrender?’

Berenger gave a dry chuckle, but then he was beckoned by Sir John, and he was sent with his vintaine to join the Prince. Talleyrand met them at the front of the English lines.

‘Sire, will you grant me one more favour?’ he asked as he stepped forward, a clerk holding his reins for him.

‘No. It is too late, Cardinal. I am grateful for your efforts in saving us bloodshed, but you have overstepped the bounds of convention now.’

‘I swear I have attempted to bring about peace. I have worked hard for that. I beg, just one more opportunity, please! To save all these lives, would you consider a truce for a year? Not an indefinite truce, but merely a truce for a year.’

‘So he decided to reject an indefinite peace?’ the Prince said. He cast a glance at Suffolk, who stood beside him, with Audley and Chandos behind. ‘Very well, you can offer him this, a peace until spring, but no later.’

‘But if you could—’

‘Until spring, Talleyrand. Return to him and see what his answer is.’

Berenger watched the crestfallen Cardinal remount and trot back to the opposing lines of men. As Talleyrand rode, a number of men in his group broke from his entourage and rode to places in the battles.

‘I know,’ the Prince said when this was pointed out to him. ‘The good Cardinal was keen to keep us here. He excited my suspicions last night. I believe he and his knights thought to aid the French King by keeping us here arrayed for war. After two or three days of starvation, they would attack. Although I told him we have supplies, they must know how limited our stocks are. Well, with luck the assault will come today. But we must not attack first. With all their troops, they can afford to attack us.’

Berenger went to celebrate Mass with a different attitude that morning, compared to all those other mornings before a battle.

In his youth and adult life he had attacked many towns and pillaged them. He had taken part in a number of assaults and fought in pitched battles from Crécy to Neville’s Cross and beyond, but each time he had found the prayers to be routine and little more than a ritual based on the necessity of the moment: they were important because he might be killed, and the Mass could protect his soul. That was worth taking a few minutes to pray, but much of the time, while pleading his case at the feet of God, his mind had been elsewhere, thinking about the disposition of his troops, thinking about getting some food, thinking about sharpening his blades. Rarely had he, like today, considered deeply what he was about to do: kill many men.

It was a wrenching realisation, to know that he was here planning the destruction of as many men as he could achieve. And all for little reason, other than to support his Prince. It was not that he distrusted his Prince, nor that he felt the Prince’s cause was not just. That had been proved to his satisfaction several times in the last weeks. However, it was strange. He had a feeling now that his presence here was not right.

He had been imbued with the desire to fight from an early age. As a loyal soldier of his King, he had thought that coming here to win back his Lord’s lands was a worthwhile cause. And since then, killing had been a part of his life. Now, visions rose in his mind of the monastery, of the kindly Abbot Andry, the Infirmarer, the monks who laboured in the kitchens with their sleeves rolled up, those who toiled in the fields and the stews, those who smiled and nodded at him even when he had been sick all night after drinking too much, and their faces seemed more real to him now than the faces of his own vintaine.

‘What’s your trouble, Frip? You look like a frog who’s eaten a dragonfly too big to swallow!’ Grandarse said.

‘I’m fine,’ Berenger said. He could not allow his men to hear that he had any doubts. No matter what God might think, if his men realised he had doubts about the battle to come, they would lose all faith in him, and that could make some of them run. He would not do that to them.

He stood resolutely with his men at the rear of the Prince’s battle and searched the landscape in pursuit of any symbol or sign from God that fighting today was a good act. Because it would be a fight today, of that he was sure.

As he left the Mass and walked back to his men, he saw Will.

His successor had a haggard look about him. Will stared at him, and there was a look of reluctant respect in the way he nodded slowly. Berenger was suddenly put in mind of Abbot Andry and the way that he would study a man with seriousness.

‘Will,’ he said, and bent his steps towards the man. Owen stood in his path, his hand on his sword, but Will called him to move aside, and Berenger walked to him. ‘Will, I will do you no harm this day. Today we fight for England,’ Berenger said. ‘We can neither of us risk the battle because of our dispute.’

‘Good,’ Will said. ‘But after the fighting here is done?’

‘I made an oath before God,’ Berenger said.

‘Then we will fight afterwards,’ Will said. He stared out over the fields and pastures before them. ‘You know, I thought that after I’d taken control, the company would move to greater and greater feats. That we’d become the strongest force in Christendom, perhaps hold our own land, and I would become a great Lord. But the men bicker and argue over every decision and never pay my views any heed.’

‘Commanding a company is not easy,’ Berenger said.

‘I swear, I wish I’d never taken it,’ Will said quietly.

‘We have peace for this day,’ Berenger said, and held out his hand in a sign of faith.

‘We do. God preserve you, Fripper.’

‘And you, Will,’ Berenger said as he returned to his men.

In his mind, he wandered again amid the orchards of the abbey with the Abbot. He saw again that kind man’s simple delight in the countryside and in the abbey he served. And he saw the Abbot smile as though delighted by his act of peace with Will.

After the battle, he and Will would have to fight, he thought. ‘God, if I could avoid my oath, I would,’ he murmured under his breath.

The idea of life as a monk had never seemed so appealing.

Returning to his men counting the rosary beads, he almost bumped into Thomas de Ladit.

‘My apologies, Vintener,’ Thomas said, and was about to hurry on when Berenger asked him to wait a moment.

‘Yesterday, you looked like a man with an urgent message. I saw you talking to a French esquire. What was that about?’

Thomas hesitated, but then he could not restrain his glee. ‘I spoke with an old friend. Martin de Rouen told me something that may help us today. You know that the King of France captured my Lord during a feast being hosted by the King’s son, the Dauphin?’

‘Yes.’

‘The Dauphin, so I have heard, is still bitterly angry about that. He will do nothing that will honour his father, it is said, and his father will not wish to help him. In the battle, the plan is that the Dauphin will lead the first battle to let him win his spurs. If he wins, it will strengthen his position, and the King will find it harder to restrain him. But if he does not succeed, he will be withdrawn and a third of the army will go with him. That means the English will have only to hold on for the first stage, and then the forces will be more evenly balanced.’

‘They will still be stronger than us,’ Berenger said.

‘Yes – but they will have to cross that field with your archers raining arrows on their heads the whole way. If the English army can hold fast, I think the day will be yours.’