Charles said excitedly: “Then we may catch them tomorrow. After what they have done to Normandy, every one of them should die – knights, noblemen, even Edward himself!”
King Philippe put a hand on Charles’s arm, silencing him. “Our brother’s anger is understandable,” he said. “The crimes of the English are disgusting. But remember: when we encounter the enemy, the most important thing is to put aside any differences there may be between us – forget our quarrels and grudges – and trust one another, at least for the course of the battle. We outnumber the English, and we should vanquish them easily – but we must fight together, as one army. Let us drink to unity.”
That was an interesting toast, Caris decided as she discreetly withdrew. Clearly the king could not take it for granted that his allies would act as a team. But what worried her about the conversation was the likelihood that there would be a battle soon, perhaps tomorrow. She and Mair would have to take care not to get mixed up in it.
As they returned to the refectory, Martin said quietly: “Like the king, you have an unruly brother.”
Caris saw that Mair was getting drunk. She was overplaying her boyish role, sitting with her legs splayed and her elbows on the table. “By the saints, that was a good stew, but it’s making me fart like the devil,” said the sweet-faced nun in men’s clothing. “Sorry about the stink, lads.” She refilled her wine cup and drank deeply.
The men laughed at her indulgently, amused by the sight of a boy getting drunk for the first time, doubtless remembering embarrassing incidents in their own pasts.
Caris took her arm. “Time you were in bed, baby brother,” she said. “Off we go.”
Mair went willingly enough. “My big brother acts like an old woman,” she said to the company. “But he loves me – don’t you, Christophe?”
“Yes, Michel, I love you,” Caris said, and the men laughed again.
Mair held on tightly to her. Caris walked her back to the church and found the spot in the nave where they had left their blankets. She made Mair lie down, and covered her with her blanket.
“Kiss me goodnight, Christophe,” said Mair.
Caris kissed her lips, then said: “You’re drunk. Go to sleep. We have to start early in the morning.”
Caris lay awake for some time, worrying. She felt she had had terribly bad luck. She and Mair had almost caught up with the English army and Bishop Richard – but at exactly the same moment the French had also caught up with them. She should keep well away from the battlefield. On the other hand, if she and Mair got stuck in the rear of the French army they might never catch the English.
On balance she thought she had better set off first thing in the morning, and try to get ahead of the French. An army this big could not move fast – it would take hours just to form up into marching order. If she and Mair were nimble they should be able to stay ahead. It was risky – but they had done nothing but take risks since leaving Portsmouth.
She drifted off to sleep, and woke when the bell rang for Matins soon after three o’clock in the morning. She roused Mair, and was unsympathetic when she complained of a headache. While the monks sang psalms in the church, Caris and Mair went to the stables and found their horses. The sky was clear, and they could see by starlight.
The town’s bakers had been working all night, so they were able to buy loaves for their journey. But the city gates were still closed: they had to wait impatiently until dawn, shivering in the cool air, eating the new bread.
At about half past four they at last left Abbeville and headed northwest along the right bank of the Somme, the direction the English army was said to be taking.
They were only a quarter of a mile away when the trumpets sounded a reveille on the walls of the town. Like Caris, King Philippe had decided on an early start. In the fields, the soldiers and men-at-arms began to stir. The marshals must have got their orders last night, for they seemed to know what to do, and before long some of the army joined Caris and Mair on the road.
Caris still hoped to reach the Enghsh ahead of these troops. The French would obviously have to stop and regroup before joining battle. That ought to give Caris and Mair time to reach their countrymen and find some safe place beyond the battlefield. She did not want to get caught between the two sides. She was beginning to think she had been foolhardy to set out on this mission. Knowing nothing of war, she had not been able to imagine the difficulties and dangers. But it was too late now for regrets. And they had got this far without coming to harm.
The soldiers on the road were not French but Italian. They carried steel crossbows and sheaves of iron arrows. They were friendly, and Caris chatted to them in a mixture of Norman French, Latin, and the Italian she had picked up from Buonaventura Caroli. They told her that in battle they always formed the front line, and fired from behind their heavy wooden pavises, which at the moment were in wagons somewhere behind them. They grumbled about their hasty breakfast, disparaged French knights as impulsive and quarrelsome, and spoke with admiration of their leader, Ottone Doria, who could be seen a few yards ahead.
The sun climbed in the sky and everyone got hot. Because the crossbowmen knew they might do battle today, they were wearing heavy quilted coats and carrying iron helmets and knee guards as well as their bows and arrows. Towards noon, Mair declared that she would faint unless they stopped for a break. Caris, too, felt exhausted – they had been riding since dawn – and she knew their horses also needed rest. So, against her inclination, she was forced to stop while thousands of crossbowmen overtook them.
Caris and Mair watered their ponies in the Somme and ate some more bread. When they set off again, they found themselves marching with French knights and men-at-arms. Caris recognized Philippe’s choleric brother Charles at the head of the group. She was in the thick of the French army, but there was nothing to do but keep moving and hope for a chance to get ahead.
Soon after midday an order came down the line. The English were not west of here, as previously believed, but north; and the French king had ordered that his army should swing in that direction – not in a column, but all at the same time. The men around Caris and Mair, led by Count Charles, turned off the riverside road down a narrow path through the fields. Caris followed with a sinking heart.
A familiar voice hailed her, and Martin Chirurgien came alongside. “This is chaos,” he said grimly. “The marching order has completely broken down.”
A small group of men on fast horses appeared across the fields and hailed Count Charles. “Scouts,” said Martin, and he went forward to hear what they had to say. Caris and Mair’s ponies went too, with the natural instinct of horses to stick together.
“The English have halted,” they heard. “They’ve taken up a defensive position on a ridge near the town of Crécy.”
Martin said: “That’s Henri le Moine, an old comrade of the king of Bohemia.”
Charles was pleased by the news. “Then we shall have battle today!” he said, and the knights around him gave a ragged cheer.
Henri raised a hand in caution. “We’re suggesting that all units stop and regroup,” he said.
“Stop now?” Charles roared. “When the English are at last willing to stand and fight? Let’s get at them!”
“Our men and horses need rest,” Henri said quietly. “The king is far in the rear. Give him a chance to catch up and look at the battlefield. He can make his dispositions today for an attack tomorrow, when the men will be fresh.”
“To hell with dispositions. There are only a few thousand English. We’ll just overrun them.”
Henri made a helpless gesture. “It is not for me to command you, my lord. But I will ask your brother the king for his orders.”
“Ask him! Ask him!” said Charles, and he rode on.