There was something else I could see in the frosty light of dawn on that second day of February. A cold mist clung to the surrounding hills and in the east the sun was rising through its icy haze. As I watched, an awesome and alarming sight dazzled my eyes. Instead of a single sun climbing into the heavens there were three; one central golden sphere with rays of silver streaming out from its circumference, attended by two smaller orbs standing sentinel on either side. I had heard tell of such a phenomenon but never seen it for myself and those who had described it to me had not done justice to its power or conveyed the sense of fear and wonder it evoked. There was no denying the trembling of my limbs and the sheer terror that set my heart pumping like a smith’s bellows. Surely God was sending a portent but what message did it convey on this dawn of battle? Was it victory for one side or the other, and if so which? Or was it a sign of the Almighty’s disapproval of the brotherly blood that would be spilled that day? I made several panicky signs of the cross to fend off any evil omen but found I was unable to tear my gaze from the miraculous spectacle on the horizon.

The three suns remained suspended for as long as the mist lasted, which seemed like hours but could only have been minutes. When it lifted it took the two attendant sundogs with it and the world was left with one brilliant sun in a clear blue sky and what could only be described as perfect fighting weather. I blinked my eyes repeatedly but it was as if the image had seared itself on my eyelids and every time they closed I saw that portentous triumvirate burning fiercely before me again. Then my ears picked up the sound of singing; male voices raised in a familiar hymn, which seemed to be coming from an invisible choir. Almost blindly I pulled on my hose and brigandine and stumbled to the door where I could hear urgent hammering on the planking.

It was Maredudd, lugging the leather bag containing my armour. ‘Quick, my lord! You must arm and away to the camp. The enemy is making battle lines and our men need rallying. Some of the French are threatening to leave!’

I shook my head to clear it. ‘Did you see the three suns, Maredudd? Is that why they are leaving? Are they frightened?’ I watched him tip the armour parts onto the floor and sort through them for the first piece.

He glanced up at me, puzzled. ‘Frightened, my lord? No. They are complaining about their commander, their food and their conditions. They say they cannot fight in these circumstances.’