So it was good news that the Scottish action had taken Edward back to England and it was only his son they had to face. It was true that the Black Prince was earning a reputation to match that of his father. It had been attached to him after Crécy, though he might so easily have been killed or taken prisoner there. What a triumph that would have been. But fate had been kind to him and he had lived to win a great victory and the English had beaten the French, and what made it so much more galling was the fact that they had done so with fewer men. It must not happen again.

Jean was always eager to know what Edward was doing. When Edward had instituted the Order of the Garter he had imitated him by forming a brotherhood called Our Lady of the Noble Star. To this he admitted five hundred knights who must take the oath never to yield to the enemy more than four acres of ground and to die in battle rather than retreat.

He believed that now was his great chance. The Black Prince was marching through the country, ravaging it as he went and finding it an easy conquest. He took up his position outside Poitiers and there awaited the arrival of the English army. There the decisive battle should take place.

Jean was certain of success. He had to face the Prince—not the legend which was Edward the Third. He had forty thousand men—a far greater number than the English could possibly put into the field. Almost the whole of the nobility of France was with him and there were twenty-six dukes and counts. His four sons marched with him; his youngest Philip was only twelve years old and he had commanded the boy not to stray from his side, for this boy was his favourite among all his children and he loved him dearly.

There was some consternation in the English camp when it was realized what a great disparity there was in the numbers of the opposing armies. Even the Prince felt an inward qualm. Not that he would show it. As he said to his close friend and constant companion, Sir John Chandos, who was now at his side : ‘Battles are often decided before they begin. The last thing that must handicap our men is fear of greater numbers.’

‘And you, my lord?’

‘The difference is great,’ said the Prince. ‘But I must show my father that I am worthy to be his son.’

‘You have done that again and again.’

‘And shall continue to do so. I shall talk to the men before battle. I shall tell them that it is the English way to win a battle when the opposing numbers exceed their own. If they had thought of defeat they cannot do so now. Regard the might of the French. It means certain victory for us. Remember Crécy, Helvoetsluys, Les Espagnols sur Mer. It is an English tradition. Face great odds ... and win.’

Chandos nodded.

‘It is good to remind them of that.’

But at the same time Sir John had seen the doubts in the Prince’s eyes.

If a truce was offered ...’ began Sir John.

If I could make it with honour, well, my friend, I should consider it. Should I not be a fool to ignore it?’

That was enough for Sir John. The Prince was uneasy about the size of the French army.

In his tent the King of France talked to young Philip. ‘What say you my boy, shall we take the Black Prince prisoner or shall we slay him on the field?’

‘Let us take him prisoner,’ cried the boy. ‘We shall have more sport that way.’

‘You are a bright fellow,’ said the King placing a hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘It would be a real feather in our caps if we took that one to Paris with us, eh?’

‘May I ride beside you when you do, my lord?’

‘You shall be there, I promise you.’

The boy looked at his father with shining eyes; he believed him to be the greatest man that ever lived. There was no doubt in young Philip’s mind that they would ride back to Paris with the Black Prince.

They went together into the royal tent, a glorious affair of vermilion samite as became the King of France. In the tent a table had been set up and over this had been hung the Oriflamme of France.

They feasted sumptuously while they discussed the action which should be taken.

It was different in the English camp. There was no feasting there. It was impossible to forage for food for the French surrounded them. And what were ten thousand men against forty? The Prince could not forget that the superiority in numbers meant that the French King could split his army into four and each one would be the size of the entire English force.

‘When the battle is won we shall feast,’ said the Prince. But first that which with every passing hour seemed to be more and more like a miracle must come to pass.

Meanwhile in the town of Poitiers the Cardinal Talleiran de Perigord called together certain of his clergy and declared that he was going to do everything he could to stop the battle. The town might well be laid waste if it took place and the surrounding country would be devastated. God had recently shown his displeasure by inflicting the pestilence upon them. Now God was beginning to smile on them but if this war continued the fair land of France would be laid waste and that was something it could not afford having already faced one enemy in the dreadful scourge.

There was great support for this and as a result the Cardinal came riding to the French King.

Jean received him with mixed feelings. He wanted desperately to beat the English but even equipped as he was he had his doubts of achieving this. He feared those English archers who had devasted the French army at Crécy, and, although at first he thrust aside the Cardinal’s suggestions, at length he agreed to wait and see what terms could be arranged.

The Cardinal then went to the Black Prince and talked to him.

The Prince listened and while he did so he was thinking quickly. He was outnumbered. Any student of military matters would say that the victory for the French was inevitable. As a great general he knew that if he could avert this battle with honour he must do so.

‘Sire,’ pleaded the Cardinal, ‘have pity on those fine men who this day will die on this field if the battle should go forth. You know that the King of France has a great army which outnumbers yours four to one.’

‘I know it well, good and gentle Father,’ said the Prince. ‘But our quarrel is just. My father, King Edward, is the lawful King of France and should possess this land. Yet I would not have it said that good youth was slain through my pride. I cannot though settle this matter without the King, my father. But I will give my men respite and if my honour and that of my army be saved I am ready to listen to any reasonable terms.’

‘You say well, fair son,’ replied the Cardinal. ‘I shall do my best to bring about peace.’

The Cardinal went back to the French camp and as a result a day’s truce was declared while negotiations took place.

A delegation of English headed by the Prince, and the Earls of Warwick and Suffolk went into the French King’s camp. Jean and Edward regarded each other steadily. Jean had seen the determination in the Prince’s eyes which made him uneasy. Here was another of those leaders. Why had God not sent another Edward the Second? If that had been the case this war could be finished now and for ever.

What would the Prince offer for his side of the bargain? asked the Cardinal.

The Prince said that he would dismiss all his prisoners free of ransom, give up the towns and castles he had taken during the campaign and agree to peace for seven years.

Jean pondered this. It seemed reasonable enough. He looked around at those of his nobles who were attending the council. He saw disgust in many of their faces. Here we are, they were telling him, with four times the men that the English have. Victory is in our hands. This is not the time to parley with them. This is the time to go in and annihilate them.

‘I demand the surrender of the Prince into my hands with a hundred of his leading knights,’ said the King.

The Prince laughed aloud. So Jean had no intention of making a truce. Edward would have thought him a fool if he had, with an army four times the size of his enemy’s.

‘Your countrymen think highly of you, my lord Prince,’ said the King. ‘Methinks it would not be long before they raised your ransom.’

‘What sort of knight do you think I am!’ cried the Prince hotly. ‘I will rather die sword in hand than be guilty of deeds so opposed to mine honour and the glory of England. Englishmen shall never pay ransom of mine.’

The Earl of Warwick unable to suppress his indignation cried out. ‘You French have no intention of making a truce. Why should you? You have four times more men than we have. We care not for that. Here is the field and the place. Let each do his best and may God defend the right.’

The Prince smiled with approval. The conference was over and the battle of Poitiers would soon be fought.

At sunrise on that fateful day the nineteenth of September 1356 the Prince was astir. He must be prepared for a dawn attack. He was going to need every bit of his military skill on this day. Oddly enough he felt exhilarated by the fact that his army was so small. He had talked to his men during the night, visiting them after dark, inspiring them, telling them that so it had been at Crécy and as one Englishman was worth five French they had the great chance of victory. Every one of them would give of his best. If he would do that then they could not fail to win.

‘By God,’ he cried to Chandos, ‘we are going to win this field. I feel it. I want messengers ready to go to my father when the day is won. There must be rejoicing in England, Chandos, for I intend to make this not only a victory over the French but a decisive one.’