The Ill-Made Knight by Christian Cameron Page B

closeted with the French or hiding in his rooms.
    We sent messengers and scouts west, looking for Lancaster. It was no secret that the Prince was desperate. To the north, the King of France marched to Tours and joined forces with his son, the Dauphin, then turned south after us with four times our number. We retired on Le Haye – that’s a military way of saying we moved as fast as we could to get clear of the gathering French force, which wasn’t just behind us, now: there were small bands of Frenchmen in every ford and behind every hedge. Abelard took a wound ‘foraging’.
    I remember this part well, because now I was waiting on tables every night with the commanders. I heard it all – every squire did. The Prince wasn’t afraid, but he was deeply worried, and while he tried to watch his words, we all knew how important Lancaster’s army – and his reputation and experience – were to us.
    But the next morning, when I packed in darkness and left my favourite cup by the fire in my rush to get my knight on the road, the French were coming after us. As we marched out of the south of Le Haye, the French came in from the north. It was that close. Luckily, they missed us, and having marched all night, they halted for a rest, and it was noon before they knew how close we’d come.
    We took Chatellerault without too much effort the next day, and the rumour was we’d hold it until relieved by Lancaster – it was a bridge town, and with it in our hands we could whistle at the French and wait for Lancaster to come down from the north. It was a lucky capture, and all agreed we were saved – indeed, that now we held the whip hand.
    I curried horses. I had time to help Abelard. I made an early decision not to cut my ties with him or the company of archers. I was proud to be a squire, but I had no friends there. The squires had no love for me. While no one beat me or played tricks now, I had no friends among them. I seldom ate with them, and Richard and I were creeping back towards a fight. It was like a dance – and we were dancing towards a duel. We both knew it, and the other squires knew it, too. Since this was serious – sword in the guts serious – they didn’t torment me. They just waited for me to be dead.
    At any rate, I kept working with Abelard whenever I had time. We were in the same retinue, and now I knew everyone – not just Abelard and archer John, my former mentor, but John Hawkwood; Peter Trent, the master archer; Sir Edward Cressey, my master, and Thomas de Vere himself. As well as fifty other men – archers and men-at-arms and squires and servants.
    Everything was fine, except that Lancaster didn’t come. He couldn’t. He was the best soldier England ever grew, but he couldn’t get his army over the Loire. We waited three days for him, and there was more wine drunk at every dinner in the Prince’s pavilion, and by the third night, tempers were flaring and Boucicault, who was still with us, used the term ‘trapped’ in a sentence.
    That night, as I carved some questionable venison, a messenger came in and reported that the King of France was just east of us, at Chauvigny.
    All conversation died.
    The Prince was wearing black. He didn’t always – that’s just the sort of crap men say – but that night he wore black with his three white livery feathers embroidered in silk thread on his chest. He was the tallest man in the tent – or perhaps that’s just how I remember him. He stood.
    ‘Messieurs,’ he said. ‘If the King of France is really at Chauvigny,’ he looked around. I swear his eyes came to rest on me. He spoke in French, of course. ‘If he is at Chauvigny, then we have no choice. We must fight.’
    By God, they rose and cheered him.
    No one said, ‘Christ, they outnumber us four to one.’
    No one said, ‘Christ, they’ve cut our retreat, and if we lose, we’ll all be taken or killed.’
    But certes, I confess that every one of us thought those things.
    The next morning, we