Neither Blackbourne nor Sir John Fastolf had any idea they were still alive by an accident. That only a stroke of luck had saved them. That were it not for that stroke of luck they wouldn’t have seen the dawn. Count Jean of Dunois, the Bastard of Orléans, had learned about the transport of herring a few days before. His thousand and a half horse from Orléans, along with La Hire, Xantrailles and the Scot John Stuart were waiting in an ambuscade at Rouvray, in order to attack the English column just before dawn and rout it. But, although he had been strongly advised against it, Dunois had based his plan on Count Clermont, who was encamped at Rouvray. Count Clermont was meant to strike first. Count Clermont was a comely young man, as fair as a maid. Who always surrounded himself with other fair young men. He had no warcraft. But he was Charles VII’s cousin and therefore had to be taken into account.

Boy Clermont, as La Hire called him, naturally failed miserably. He missed the moment, squandering the element of surprise. He didn’t give the order to attack, for he had been busy. Breaking his fast. After breakfast, his hair had been pomaded and curled. During this procedure, the count smiled at one of the young men in his retinue, blowing him kisses and fluttering his eyelashes. The count ignored the envoys sent by Dunois. And forgot about the English. He had more important affairs and plans.

In the confusion and bedlam, when it became clear that the moment was lost, that the English would not be taken by surprise, as Dunois swore, as La Hire and Xantrailles stood idly by waiting helplessly for their orders, John Stuart had been unable to contain himself. Along with the Scottish knighthood, he assailed the English wagons on his own initiative. Some of the impatient French charged into battle after them.

“Take aim!” yelled Dickon Wilby, the commander of the archers, seeing the armoured wedge hurtling towards them. “Take aim! Remember Agincourt!”

The archers grunted as they bent their longbows. Bowstrings creaked as they were tautened. Sir John Fastolf removed his helmet, his crest of flaming red hair gleaming like a pennant.

“Now!” he bellowed like an aurochs. “Fuck them good, lads! Fuck the buggers!”

Three salvos, three showers of arrows were all it took to send the Scots fleeing in confusion. Some managed to gallop up to the wagons, only to meet their deaths there. Javelins and gisarmes stabbed them, halberds and Lochaber axes cut them to pieces. The screams of dying men rose up into the winter sky.